The Pull of the Moon

by Diane Janes

  ‘Come on now,’ I said, affecting a motherly bossiness. ‘Take these aspirin and have your anti-hangover medicine.’

  He was surprisingly biddable. He took the first couple of aspirin – Big Man, you see, taking them two at a time – placed them in his mouth and washed them down with a slug of my concoction. This made him grimace and emit a noise of distaste but I ignored this, impassively handing him the second pair of pills, which went down the same way. Only after this second gulp did he hold up the glass, eyeing the opaque purplish-pink liquid.

  ‘This stuffs disgusting,’ he said. ‘What the hell is it?’

  ‘Hangover cure,’ I said. ‘Secret recipe. It’s got Ribena in it for vitamin C. Come on, drink up.’

  He didn’t comply; instead he cradled the glass in both hands, smiling at me foolishly. ‘You’re not angry with me any more?’

  ‘No,’ I said, maintaining my fixed smile. It was the truth. I was beyond anger. I had moved further than that, into uncharted extremes of emotion, for which there were no familiar labels. ‘Look out, Danny. You’re going to spill it.’

  This reminded him to take another drink – two or three sips which didn’t reduce the level in the glass by very much.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ he protested. ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘You’ll be sorry in the morning,’ I said playfully. ‘Go on – be a man, drink it all down.’

  The challenge to his masculinity won the day. He drained the glass, coughing and spluttering but getting it down. I relieved him of it before he had the opportunity to get interested in the gritty residue which hung on the sides of the glass and coated the bottom.

  ‘It’s foul,’ he complained.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you something to take the taste away.’

  ‘Kiss me first.’ He made a half-hearted lunge in my direction but I was too quick.

  ‘No thanks,’ I laughed the moment off. ‘I don’t want the taste of that stuff in my mouth.’ I was no Juliet, to kiss his lips in the hope of sharing her Romeo’s fate.

  I went back into the kitchen and put together another aspirin and Ribena cocktail. I counted the pills this time – ten of them: the mix wasn’t so dense as before. This only left a handful of tablets in the bottle. There must have been more pills in the first dose than I thought.

  When I got back to Danny he was half asleep. He struggled to open his eyes and say something. I wasn’t sure if this was just the normal effects of alcohol-induced slumber, or whether his hangover cure had already kicked in. I didn’t want to leave it to chance.

  ‘Danny – wake up – come on. You need to take some more medicine.’

  He mumbled a protest and flopped his hand ineffectually in my direction, but I lifted his head into a more upright position and put the glass to his lips. He was too dopey to cooperate, so a lot of the liquid dribbled out of the corners of his mouth and on to his T-shirt. Lucky it was a purple shirt, I noted irrationally. That way the Ribena wouldn’t stain it. I coaxed and persevered until the glass was empty. When I let go of his head it slipped to one side. His eyes were shut. I wondered how long it would take.

  I took the glass back to the kitchen planning to wash it out, but the sight of Simon diverted me. Ought I to do something for him? It seemed wrong somehow to just leave him there. On the other hand what could I possibly do? I couldn’t lift him on my own. I couldn’t summon help, because there wasn’t a phone.

  Then it hit me – with Simon and Danny dead, how was I going to get away? I couldn’t summon a taxi. I had no idea how to work the car. The rain had stopped, but the idea of walking out into the night terrified me. Everything beyond the kitchen window was inky black. The night transformed the window into a mirror, through which I could see a picture of Simon’s body slumped at the table, surrounded by a composition entitled Still Life Arranged by a Suicide. I averted my eyes, because the scene reflected in the glass was somehow even more horrible than the reality inside. The strange calm which had driven me until now began to dissipate as swiftly as it had arrived. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere, with two corpses on my hands.

  This reminded me that I ought to check on Danny. I had expected to find him sleeping peacefully or better still already dead, but he wasn’t. He had shifted his position on the sofa and, as I watched, his fingers clenched and unclenched and his body twitched. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Instead of sounding slow and sleepy his breathing was faster than normal, as if he was running in a race.

  I began to panic. Surely an overdose of aspirin sent you quickly off to sleep. Had I messed it up – maybe by mixing in the Ribena? I watched in horror. Why wasn’t he just sleeping? Why wasn’t he dead? I must have given him enough to stun a rhino.

  To my alarm he began to exhibit more signs of movement, make low moaning noises – as if in pain. Then he opened his eyes. He was looking straight at me – and he knew.

  Perhaps I should have made a brief speech; told him how he deserved to suffer for what he had inflicted on others: but I couldn’t say a word. I couldn’t move, not with those bloodshot eyes on me, paralysing every muscle.

  He suddenly lunged forward, whether seized by another spasm or in an attempt to reach me I wasn’t sure. He fell forwards off the sofa, crashing to the floor with enough force to set the nearby bric-a-brac dancing. His foot caught the guitar which hit the deck in a discordant clang. He reached out a hand but I sidestepped, leaving him to flounder, gasping and jerking like a fish out of water. I was sickened by the sight of him – but not remorseful.

  I thought of Trudie dancing for rain on Hergest Ridge, of Simon singing at the wheel of the car. ‘Murdering bastard,’ I whispered.

  It was that word that did it. The M word. I’m a murderess, I thought. I have killed Danny. Except that I hadn’t. He made a crablike movement across the carpet, bringing himself close to my feet. Before I could step back his hand closed around my ankle. I screamed and bent down to wrestle him away. For a millisecond those angry red eyes met mine, then I deliberately looked away, concentrating all my attention on prising his fingers from my ankle. He attempted to swing his free hand into the contest but I saw it coming and jerked backwards so hard that he was dragged across the carpet, still clinging on with one hand while the other sought to steady himself. I straightened up and kicked wildly, managing to lunge back another step so that he was at full stretch, his grip loosened sufficiently that another kick saw me free. I ran for my life, across the hall and up the stairs back to my bedroom where I barricaded the door with my faithful armchair. I fell on to it, my heart beating so loudly that I was afraid I wouldn’t hear Danny when he came for me.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  I had gone to pieces again now the deed was done – and yet I was not sorry. I could not give him the death he had given Trudie, or put him through the agony of mind which had persuaded Simon to take his own life, but I had settled his account. An eye for an eye – isn’t that what God advocated, somewhere along the line? But although I had forced Danny to pay in full, I think I knew even then, that in doing so I had committed myself to a gruelling long-term instalment plan.

  Wherever I am, I’m always walking with you.

  I lay back in the chair, limp with exhaustion. Twice I caught myself nodding. Sleep beckoned – tempting me to relinquish the chair in favour of the bed; but at the forefront of my mind was the idea that Danny might be on his way. I compromised by sliding on to the floor and laying my head on the seat of the chair, using my arms as pillows. That way, if anyone did try to gain entry, my weight ought to impede their progress long enough for me to resume station on the chair.

  I slept fitfully, retreating from moments of wakefulness as a prisoner kept long in darkness shrinks before the light. Eventually I woke to find the sun shining into the room. I sensed however that it was not the state of the day which had roused me. Something had changed. Some alien sound had intruded to alert me. I lifted my head and listened intently.

  A voice called from somewh
ere inside the house. ‘Hello – is anybody home?’ It was a man’s voice. A strange voice – one I had never heard before. ‘Hello -Hello-o-o.’

  I dragged my chair out of the way and dodged across the landing. Dust motes floated in the sunlight, as if the whole of the stairwell was inhabited by a million tiny spectral beings. From the head of the stairs, I could see the top of the man’s head. It showed pink through thinning pale gold hair. He was a bulky man, tall and rather overweight, wearing a creased linen jacket over a collar and tie and corduroy trousers. Older than my parents. He had let himself in through the front door, which was now standing wide open.

  He must have spotted my arrival out of the corner of his eye, because he paused in the act of walking down the hall to look up and say: ‘Oh, there you are’ – a pleasantry cut short by an exclamation as he caught sight of what awaited him at the far end of the hall. ‘Oh my God.’ He hastened out of my sight towards the kitchen.

  I began to descend warily, one reluctant step at a time. I could hear him repeating the words over and over: ‘Oh my God. Oh my God.’

  When I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned to face the kitchen, I saw what he had seen. Danny was lying face down on the floor just inside the kitchen door. In my mind I saw him crawling there, inch by inch, his eyes blazing.

  The newcomer was out of sight. He had evidently gone further into the kitchen: no doubt he was looking at Simon, taking in the whisky and the aspirin. ‘Oh God,’ I heard him say again.

  He reappeared in the doorway. His face was bright pink and he was sweating. ‘Katy – Katy, is it? What on earth has happened here?’

  I stared at him. Eventually I stammered out that I didn’t know – I’d been asleep.

  Danny was lying on the floor at his feet. I couldn’t stop visualizing him dragging himself across the floor, maybe over a period of many hours. I ran outside and retched violently. Nothing much happened. I hadn’t eaten for almost twenty-four hours.

  ‘Katy!’ The stranger’s voice came from inside, alive with urgency. ‘Come quickly.’

  Something in the tone of his summons made me obey. From the front step I could see that he was down on one knee, bending over Danny.

  ‘Over here,’ he said. ‘He’s still alive. You stay with him, while I drive to the phone box and call an ambulance.’

  ‘No!’ I almost screamed it.

  I retreated to the doorstep. He must have thought me too afraid to go anywhere near the other body. He only paused for a millisecond before giving way. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t stay on your own. You’d better come in the car, with me.’

  He guided me round the side of his car, holding open the passenger door. ‘As quick as you can, Katy,’ he said. He’d had a shock himself, but he assumed mine was the greater. He got into the driving seat and started the engine. ‘It’s too late for Simon,’ he said grimly, ‘but we may be in time to save Danny. That is who it is, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed.

  Next minute I was holding on to the edge of the leather seat with both hands as we tore along the lanes. It only took us about two minutes to reach the phone box – one of those isolated boxes which stand at a junction in the middle of nowhere, little used except by the occasional motorist who has broken down. While my companion was making his call, I assessed the situation. There hadn’t been much time for explanations so far, but I was going to need one and sooner rather than later. The easiest lie to maintain is always the simplest one. I would say I had been tired the night before and gone to bed early – leaving Simon and Danny downstairs in the kitchen. I’d been so tired in fact that I had fallen asleep on the top of the bed, still in my clothes – no other way to account for my dishevelled appearance – and I had only woken up when this man arrived.

  At this point it dawned on me that the man must be Simon’s uncle. How else would he have keys to the door and know all our names? It also came to me that it must be the ninth – the day Simon’s uncle had warned us he was coming home. I forced myself to concentrate on more important issues. Danny was still alive. Danny was going to tell them everything – well, everything at least about how he came to be sprawled half dead on the kitchen floor. I could try denying it, but my fingerprints were all over everything. Nor would it do any good, me belatedly telling them what I knew about Trudie Finch and Rachel Hewitt. In fact Danny would probably find some clever way out of it, some story that landed me and Simon with sole responsibility for everything.

  ‘Help is on its way,’ Simon’s uncle announced, as he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  I sat dumbly alongside him, not uttering a word on the return journey (which we accomplished only marginally more slowly than the outward one). He seemed to understand from my silence that I didn’t want to go back into the house.

  ‘Would you like to stay here?’ he asked, when the car stopped outside the front door.

  When I nodded he went in alone. I sat contemplating the dashboard. It was faced in polished wood, with a series of little black switches encircled with chrome. I committed it to memory, like a diagram required for a maths test. This seemed more important than wondering what my parents were going to say about me being arrested for murder.

  It felt like an age before the ambulance came roaring up, scraping between the lilac and the rhododendron as it turned in at the gate. The ambulance crew glanced briefly in my direction, but Simon’s uncle was beckoning from the front step so they left me alone. After a while they brought out the first stretcher. I deliberately didn’t look. I heard the ambulance doors being closed and the vehicle racing off into the distance.

  Simon’s uncle came over to stand beside the car. ‘They’re sending a separate ambulance for Simon,’ he said. ‘And also one for you. I’ve told them you’re in shock.’

  After a short silence I asked meekly, ‘Is Danny still alive?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t worry. They’ll do everything they can for him.’

  The police car came next – travelling at a higher speed than the ambulance, arriving in a cloud of dust. They spoke to Simon’s uncle first, then to me. I gave them my name and address and said I didn’t know what had happened. I was aware of some sort of consultation nearby but I didn’t turn my head. The dashboard occupied most of my attention. The little symbols perplexed me – I was never going to get full marks when it came to the test. I caught the words ‘suicide’, ‘asleep’ and ‘shock’. After that I lost track a bit. I think the next arrival was another police car, but maybe it was another ambulance. I knew it was just the calm before the storm. They might think it was suicide now, but once they took a few fingerprints . . . once Danny woke up . . .

  ‘They were very close – friends since school. . .’ The words floated at me from out of a dream. ‘Yes, yes – here with my full permission – they have been constructing a garden pond . . .’

  The attention turned to me. ‘I don’t want to go to hospital,’ I protested. ‘I’ve got to catch a train to France.’

  I found myself in hospital all the same. I slept for a long time. Then I woke up and wished I hadn’t. My mother and father had appeared at the bedside. My father said, ‘You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young lady.’

  I was about to say that I was saving it all for the judge when my mother cut in to ask how I was feeling. I decided it would be better to close my eyes and feign sleep until visiting hours were over.

  Next day the doctor said I could be discharged. The ward sister rang my parents to give them the glad tidings and it was arranged that they would drive down from Birmingham to collect me that afternoon. A kind of peace descended on the ward after that, with the doctors’ rounds completed and the visitors still to come. I plucked up courage and buttonholed one of the nurses – a kindly one with a dark blue uniform, whose voice had a distinctive Welsh lilt.

  ‘The boy who was brought in the same day as me – Danny Ivanisovic – is he still alive?’

  She looked at me sadly. ‘He’s in a coma, Katy.
’

  ‘Would he be able to recognize me?’

  ‘No, dear. He can’t recognize anyone. Would you like me to take you to see him?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I said. It wasn’t sentiment which motivated me, so much as the need to embark on a fact-finding mission.

  The kindly nurse insisted that I travel by wheelchair. She pushed me along the corridor, through some swing doors then into a side room. Danny was lying in a hospital bed with his eyes closed. A monitor beside the bed registered his hold on life with a steady series of audible beeps. He looked surprisingly clean and tidy. Someone had washed him and combed his dark curls into place.

  ‘His mother and father have been sitting with him,’ the Welsh nurse said. ‘But they must have popped out for a breath of air.’

  I was deeply thankful for that. I didn’t want to run into Danny’s parents.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said slowly. ‘How was it that Simon died but Danny is still alive?’

  ‘This is much more usual,’ she said. ‘Overdoses are a very unreliable way of trying to kill yourself

  ‘I thought you just fell asleep and – and sort of died.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ she said. ‘Quite a lot of them do only sort of die. They finish up in a coma like this.’

  ‘Do they recover?’

  ‘Some do,’ she said.

  ‘Is Danny going to?’

  ‘That’s not for me to say, my pet. Come on now, we’d better get you back to the ward.’

  My parents arrived an hour later. The doctor had prescribed some tranquillizers and I was grateful to retreat into the sanctuary they provided; able to ignore the questions, the resentful glances. They withheld direct censure because officially I was ‘ill’. But I was in no doubt about their true feelings. I was ‘their’ Katy after all – the one who had always been a bit of a nuisance.