by Tom Fletcher
‘I’ll ring Jennifer,’ Erin says. ‘See what she thinks about the name and the theme and everything.’
I have to try really hard not to shout out. I’ll do it, I nearly shout. Let me ring her. But I know it’s not a good idea. I wouldn’t talk about the party at all. Just scramble my desperate words and fuck it up. Erin’s dialling already. She leaves the room.
‘There,’ Graham says. ‘Invites sent. I’ve made it an open event as well, so guests can invite other people.’
‘You reckon Jack’s going to go for this?’ Taylor says. He looks at me and purses his lips.
‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘Maybe it should be a closed event, Graham. No viral invites. No legitimised gatecrashers.’
‘Gatecrashers are important to a party,’ Graham says. ‘Everybody else pulls together, like antibodies in the face of cancer. Or something.’
‘Not sure that’s quite what happens when people get cancer, Graham,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah,’ he says. ‘Your dad. Dude. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’
‘Maybe that’s why I’ve got it on the brain, hey?’ he says. ‘Anyway. It might mean we get a few dicks turning up from work – I saw Kenny on somebody’s friends list before – but that always happens. And this place of theirs is so out of the way that they probably won’t bother. They’d need a real good reason. Which reminds me – transport. I need to do more work on the transport side of things.’
‘I doubt Kenny will show up,’ I say.
‘Kenny wasn’t so bad anyway,’ Taylor says. ‘Although I didn’t know him that well, I suppose. He just seems a bit sad. A bit lonely. A bit fucked-up.’
‘He was a dick,’ Graham says. ‘Come on. Just say it. Some people are just dicks. You don’t have to justify it. That’s what they are, through and through. Solid dick.’
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘He’s missing, isn’t he? Doubt he’ll show up at some party for people he doesn’t really know.’
‘Hey,’ Erin says, coming back into the room. ‘Jennifer’s going to come down to get some drink and decorations and stuff. She’s going to drive down and tell Jack that she’s visiting a friend.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘She’s coming here?’
‘Yeah,’ Erin says. ‘I said she could stay here for one night. Jack’s room is still spare, after all.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Of course. That makes sense. Yeah. Oh right.’ I nod in a way that’s supposed to be thoughtful. ‘When? When, um, when is she coming?’
‘A week tomorrow. Next Thursday.’
‘Cool,’ I say. I nod again. I can’t stop nodding. Stop nodding. Try to appear only mildly interested. ‘Excuse me,’ I say. ‘Back in a moment.’
I leave the room and stand outside the door. Not sure where to go.
JACK
I knelt on the floor, looking at the skirting-boards that ran around the bottom of the living-room walls. It was Wednesday evening, and I was ashamed of myself for missing TV, just for the sound of some other voices in the house. I was glad that Jennifer had ordered a little portable one, and wished that it had arrived before she’d gone visiting Teresa.
Outside, the wind was high and strong, and every now and again something spattered against the windows, as if there were small pockets of rain caught up in the knot of gales and gusts that had settled over the fell.
‘That was Teresa,’ Jennifer said, re-entering the living-room and dropping her mobile phone on to the sofa. ‘I’ve arranged to go and see her next Thursday. That’s good, hey?’ She smiled and stood over me. ‘I’m dead excited. Haven’t seen her in ages.’
‘Teresa?’ I said. ‘Who’s Teresa?’
‘A friend!’ she said. ‘I must have mentioned her before. Maybe not. I don’t know. Jack. What are you doing?’
‘Look at this.’ I ran my fingers along some grooves in the skirting-board. ‘All these scratches.’ There were deep gouges in the wood – scattered groups of three or four regularly spaced scratches, but the groups were all around the room, at frantic angles to each other. ‘They must have had a dog here once.’
‘Yeah,’ Jennifer said. ‘A big one. Jesus. They’re really deep.’
‘We used to have a dog,’ I said. ‘It would try and dig its way out of the room if it wanted to get out. They must have just kept it shut in here sometimes.’ I stood up. ‘Sorry, Jennifer. You’re going to stay with Teresa?’
‘Yeah.’
‘On Thursday?’
‘Not tomorrow, next week. Why? Do you have a problem with that?’
‘No!’ I said. ‘Not at all. I think it’s a good idea. She doesn’t live in Manchester, though, does she?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘You know. All that stuff with Kenny. I know he hasn’t been in work, but he might still be lurking around.’ And all that stuff with Francis, I thought.
‘Teresa lives in Leeds.’
‘Oh, right then.’ As long as it was nowhere near Francis. Unless – no, she wouldn’t have been going to see Francis and telling me she was going elsewhere, would she?
‘I know what it is.’ She smiled the smile that shot bolts through my body. ‘I know what the problem is. You don’t want to be up here on your own, do you?’
‘Well.’ I smiled sheepishly. ‘That’s kind of it.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’ll just be the one night. And you’ll be safe as anything up here, with these big thick walls looking after you.’ She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me. ‘You’re a sweet thing.’
I didn’t want to be a sweet thing, though, I wanted to be the thing that drew her hottest breath, coloured her cheeks, the thing that she found irresistible, that she clung to as she quivered and came, the thing that surprised her, the passionate thing. The thing that I wasn’t. We held each other.
‘What shall we do for my birthday?’ I said.
‘What would you like to do?’
‘I don’t know. We could see if there’s anywhere good round here to go for a meal. I’m sure there is. Or we could maybe go camping!’
‘That’s a good idea,’ she said. ‘Or – what about if we ask Taylor and Erin and the others up? Your friends from Manchester? Would you like it if they came to visit?’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Yeah, that would be good.’ And I did want to see Taylor and Erin and maybe even Graham, and I wanted to see Francis too, but not with Jennifer around. How could I say that?
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well, I can sort that out. And we can have a nice meal here maybe, and some drinks and stuff. How does that sound?’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thank you. Yeah.’
‘And what do you want for your birthday, anyway?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Thought as much,’ she said. ‘Not to worry though. I’ve got some ideas. Some very good ideas.’
Jennifer fell asleep before me again. The wind had died down a little and, restless, I got up and went over to the window. The sky was clear tonight and full of stars in a way that you didn’t see in the city, or even in any towns. A slim crescent moon hung up there too, indecently luminous, and the whole scene had an old kind of beauty, like Jennifer’s, and like all those old kinds of beauty, it was intimidating, awesome, terrifying, irresistible.
From the horizon to directly above the house, the stars lay across the sky like granules of bright powder. Some of them were fatter and brighter than others and when you looked at the black in between, you just started to see more and more and more, further away, until you had to stop for fear of seeing the whole night sky as white light.
The valley was silent and blue-grey and seemed completely still. I wanted to open the window and breathe the air, but the windows were old and heavy and it would have woken Jennifer. I thought about going outside. I turned around and looked at her and she was almost completely motionless, like a wooden thing.
I got dressed as silently as possible and wrote out a small note on a page of my n
otebook, explaining that I was going for a walk, but rather than tearing the page out, which might have woken her, I left the notebook itself open on the pillow.
I put my parka on in the hallway, and also a thick scarf, hat and gloves set that my sister had knitted for me a couple of Christmases before, and my Wellingtons. It was only five weeks until Christmas. Should Jennifer and I see Christmas in in our new house, I wondered, maybe invite my family over? The thought of being there, Fell House, at Christmas, with the draughts and the damp and the feral cats outside … although it could be wonderful. We could get a big fire going, we could get a huge tree in that living-room, and besides, five weeks was plenty of time to get some builders in, or whoever it was that fixed draughts and damp and cold, naked stones. Was five weeks long enough? I didn’t know anything about these things. The following year, we might even be able to have a fully home-reared Christmas dinner, with our own turkeys, our own vegetables.
The hallway was dark and I was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. When I looked up and behind me, the top of the very steep-looking staircase and the landing seemed to be a very long way away. Each banister had one corner picked out in pale blue light, but they were otherwise just regimental shadows that marched on down. The wall to my left was covered in coats and in the dark they looked like weird, humanoid moss-things. I desperately wanted to turn the light on, but didn’t dare risk some shard of it spiking through into the bedroom and waking Jennifer; I wanted to go outside on my own.
The cold was severe enough to have thickened the car windscreen with a layer of ice, and I was tempted to take the car for a moment, but decided against it, partly because I didn’t have the keys on me, partly because I wanted the air, and partly because getting in the car would mean stepping into the shadow cast by the barn, which I really didn’t want to do.
The barn was a great, hard-lined monolith against the sky.
I turned and walked away, lifted the gate gently, swung it open, and carried on towards the road, having to stop myself from running. I didn’t know if it was my childish excitement that was driving me onwards or the fear of the barn, but something was picking my feet up faster and faster until I was actually running, and it was OK because nobody could see me, and the road was a wound in the skin of the fell and my feet pounded into it, again and again and again. On either side of the road, grassy banks looked like mounds of blue hair. The sky above was just black now that I was moving too fast to focus on it, and somewhere in the valley something that sounded like a cow bellowed and groaned, accompanied by the shaking and scraping of metal and the barking of dogs. Before me and below me, and getting slowly closer as the road curved towards it, was the great dark lake. Wastwater.
I stopped running, out of breath, and put my hands on my knees. Parkas weren’t made for running in. I looked at the lake again, and it didn’t look like something made out of water, it looked like a hole in the surface of the earth, a surface which was thin and fragile. Wastwater looked like an absence; that’s what it looked like, as if something important had been rubbed out, cut out, removed. Something important, or maybe something dangerous. There was this persistent idea that we existed, lived out our entire lives, on the surface of an empty, hollow earth. Looking down at the lake, it was almost impossible not to believe it.
I started walking again, but then stopped immediately and took a slow step backwards.
Just as I had moved, I had caught sight of something by the lake. I could see it again, now I had moved back a little; somebody had lit a fire down there, at the far end. I could see how it flickered and jumped, despite the fact that it was only really a tiny orange light to me. The air up there must have been incredibly clear. I smiled to myself and breathed deeply, hoping to catch a scent of wood-smoke, and it was there, just about, or maybe it was wishful thinking. I looked up at the stars again and listened, and could not hear much beyond the tender movements of small things through the world, and the docile wanderings of nearby ancient sheep. The air was still, and there were no cars. I kept my eyes on the far flame, put my hands in my parka pockets and set off towards the nearest patch of woodland I could think of, which was a little further down the road. I became aware of sheep standing at the tops of the grassy banks, staring down at me with their glass eyes and sliding their lower jaws violently against their upper jaws.
I started to run again.
Beneath the trees the starlight did not penetrate, and I had to pick my way slowly through the fallen branches and head-height mounds of moss and evergreen needles that were swaddled around rocks and tree-stumps.
The trees were close to each other and the spaces between them were dark and all appeared to be still, although I could hear more movement there than I could from the road. I could also hear the mournful calling of the sheep, although what they were trying to communicate to each other I didn’t know. Every now and again something, some night-bird, rustled through the foliage above and stopped me dead.
I couldn’t help thinking of the Robert Frost poem, ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’, and the last stanza ran round and around in my head.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
And miles to go before I sleep.
Except those woods were not deep; the depth was an illusion, created by the density and the darkness. Maybe once upon a time they had been extensive, but judging from the fresh tree-stumps I was starting to find, and the orange crosses spray-painted on to the bark, the trees were being felled.
I found a high stack of tree-trunks on the outskirts of the copse, piled up so that if you stood facing their ends the pale circles appeared to form a kind of huge triangle pointing upwards. Not one hewn-down tree, but several. There were a few single trunks lying about as well. I rested my hand on the exposed flesh of the end of one of them, probing in between two of its inner rings. It felt slightly rotten. Those trunks must have been cut down and forgotten about, and I felt a wave of anger, nausea almost, at the waste. In the future, our era would be defined by how much we threw away.
On the way back, I turned around and looked at the lake again to see if I could still see the fire. I could, but it seemed to keep blinking in and out of existence, as if somebody kept moving in front of it, maybe walking around it, again and again.
I wanted to be these mountains at night, for Jennifer. I wanted to be the strength and the wilderness. Rocks and snow and wind.
FRANCIS
Jennifer’s visit comes round in no time at all. Job-hunting swallows up the days. As if they were never yours to start with. And before you know it, it’s next week.
It’s another dry day, but windy. We wait for her to arrive. I imagine my nerves as long strings, all knotted up. Each nerve sparks something off in those with which it’s in contact. I’m full of excited chain reactions.
I give her a hug when she arrives and so does everyone else. Everybody’s hair is blowing around. We all smile like idiots. Jennifer is wearing a layered dark-green skirt and a brown shirt. And that red bandana. She says hello to everybody, locks Jack’s car up. We go inside.
‘Francis,’ Erin says, quietly. We are the last to go in. ‘You’re staring at her.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘No, I … I’m sorry. I mean, I wasn’t.’ I make eye contact with Erin. ‘I wasn’t,’ I say, again.
‘Hey,’ Graham says, later. In the kitchen. We’re making White Russians. Jennifer, Erin and Taylor are upstairs in the living-room. The strip-light flickers and buzzes. ‘You know what Erin told me a couple of days ago? That that Jennifer bird is well into free love, all that kind of crap.’
‘Oh really?’ I go to the fridge for more milk so that he can’t see my face. ‘Then why has she bought a house with Jack?’
‘She hasn’t, has she?’ Graham wraps some ice cubes up in a tea-towel. He starts opening and closing drawers. Looking for the rolling-pin. ‘She’s just bought it on her own, straight from
whoever owned it before. Not even a fucking mortgage or anything! And she just happened to be with Jack at the time, maybe. Maybe she wants to start a big hippy commune or something.’ He finds the rolling-pin and brings it down. Hard. On the ice cubes. ‘Imagine that,’ he says. ‘Imagine fucking her. Jennifer. What would you give for that?’ The worktop judders under the blows of the pin. I can hear the ice cracking. So Jennifer and Jack have an arrangement. That makes a little more sense now. I close the fridge.
Imagine it. I turn around and watch Graham. I put the four-pint bottle on the worktop. It jumps and skitters. Imagine it. I’d give everything. But I want more than her body. I want her mind. I want her fearlessness. I want her freedom. I want her time. I want her all.
Upstairs now we are all two or three White Russians to the wind. Taylor and Erin are sitting together in one armchair. Jennifer is sitting in the other.
We are listening to Hot Fuss, the album by The Killers. Graham’s party plan is spread out on the floor.
‘When did this album come out?’ I ask.
‘It was our first year at university,’ Taylor says. ‘Three or four years ago, maybe.’
‘No,’ Erin says. Laughing. ‘Try six or seven years ago.’
‘I don’t believe that,’ I say.
‘It’s not as if we’re old, though,’ Jennifer says. ‘How’s your dad now, anyway, Francis?’
‘He’s OK, thank you,’ I say. Grateful for the opportunity to look at her openly. ‘Well. He’s been better. But he’s not, um, he’s not dying, anyway. The operation went well. He’s still having treatment.’ Her eyes invite me to be honest. ‘I should give him a ring, but he’ll just go on and on about UFOs.’
‘Ha,’ Jennifer says. ‘Jack’s like that with his folklore. He loves it up there, though. It’s like he’s found another world. That’s what he keeps saying. Like he’s found another world where his stories might be true.’
