by Unknown
I hesitated. I looked at the winter sunlight making stars of the condensation on the window. Angeline was out there in the garden. She'd come down to London with me, waiting until they found Malachi's body and the probate began. I knew it was a mistake. I'd given her the front room with the fold-out guest futon, the one printed with the bright orange flowers that Lexie had been nuts about, and she stayed in there day after day, the door closed tight, coming out only to cook or to go into the garden. She spent hours outside, digging and planting vegetables, sometimes even in the dark. But most of all she spent time watching me. She would sit at the kitchen table, her chin in her hands, and stare at me, like she was expecting me to say something. It'd got so I didn't look at her. I knew if I did I'd have to go into a part of my head I didn't want to open.
'Well?' Finn said. 'Have you got an interview with the kid? Without an interview it comes across like you've taken your eye off the ball. It comes across sloppy.'
'Then you know what?'
'What?'
'That's probably because I am sloppy. In fact, you know what? I'm so sloppy that right now I'm pissing in my bath-water. It's gone cold, so I'm pissing in it while I'm talking to you.'
There was a pause. Then he said, 'No, you're not. Don't talk sick.'
'I am.' I closed my eyes, relaxed my muscles and the urine leaked out of me across my thighs. 'Told you.'
'Jesus, Oakes. What's happening to you? What's happening? You've got to pull yourself together ...'
I dropped the phone on the floor and lay back in the bath. The condensation hung like teardrops from the ceiling – the whole bathroom was soaked with steam. No wonder it's cold: the bathroom is stealing my heat, I thought, and suddenly I was crying. I was trembling and crying and holding my hands up to my face, shaking my head and crying like a baby. I got up, sobbing angrily. You just pissed yourself, for fuck's sake. Where's this going to end? I unplugged the bath, turned on the shower and stood under it, exhausted, self-pitying sobs jerking out of me while the cold water rained down on me and the pissy water disappeared down the plug-hole between my toes.
2
Me and Lex had lived in that house just off the Harrow Road for almost four years. The Victorian semis round there all had driveways and side entrances and were highly desirable, according to the local estate agents, who kept poking their leaflets through the letterbox. But I knew my house let the neighbourhood down, with its peeling windows and the cellar stuffed full of crap the previous owner had left: paint pots, kitchen tiles, a rusting old fridge-freezer I'd never had the guts to open. When me and Angeline got back from Scotland in December – after four months of the house being locked up – you could smell the cellar coming up through the floorboards. The first thing I did, while she put on the heating and swept dead flies from the windowsills, was go down there and open the door to the garden just to let some air in. That was five weeks ago and I hadn't thought about it again. I'd opened it and never got round to closing it.
It was Tuesday. The day after Finn called. I sat under the diseased old apple tree, hunched against the cold in my thin sweater, and stared at the cellar door, trying to find the energy to get up and do something about it. In the corner of the garden Angeline was forking over the hard clay, her breath hanging in the air. When I came out to the garden to be with her like this we almost never spoke, and in spite of the small sounds of her breathing and the fork clicking against a pebble, a silence had come down over the garden that felt like it belonged to the darkest part of winter. If this had been the weekend the neighbours would be out in the alley that ran along the bottom of the fences, wheel-barrowing bags of mushroom compost and topsoil down to their gardens, but today the neighbourhood was deserted. We were the only people outside and all the windows looking down at us were blank sockets, bare branches reflecting back from the panes.
Angeline worked intently, jamming the fork into the ground, making small grunts, occasionally stooping to pull out a root or a piece of stone and throw it into a pile. She wore a scarf, mud-congealed boots and a thick hemp skirt. Her hair had grown in, very dark and curly. Whenever she bent, the extra limb strained against the fabric of the skirt in shadowy outlines.
'What?' she said, straightening up. The work and the cold had brought the blood to her face and against the stony colours of the garden her skin was vivid. She pushed some stray strands of hair back into the scarf. 'What're you staring at?'
'Nothing,' I said.
'You're staring at me. What's wrong? You know what's under my coat – you saw it – so why are you staring now?'
I let all my breath out at once. My pulse began to move a bit. So today was the day we were going to talk about it.
'Well?'
'Well what?'
'You saw it, but you've never once said what you really think.' She was flushed now. Her knuckles, where she was pressing the fork into the ground, had gone white. 'Joe? What did you think? Of my twin? My twin?'
I stared at her, not blinking. I couldn't answer. Just couldn't get a single word out. I didn't know what I thought. I'd read Lexie's letters. I'd spoken to Guy Picot and somewhere I had a vague idea I'd dealt with it, fitted it somehow into my head. But I was finding good ways of not thinking about it. It was locked away somewhere. Just locked in a place I didn't want to go.
'Well?'
I stood, avoiding her eyes. I crossed the frozen ground to where the wind had opened the gate to the alley just a fraction, so a section of shingled ground was visible through the crack. I waited for a second or two, wondering if I could say anything. Nothing came to me. I pulled the gate closed, kicking a stone against it to jam it there. I looked at the gate, at the stone wedged at the bottom, then turned back to Angeline.
'You know something? You know when I'll feel better?'
'No. When will you feel better?'
'When they've found your dad's body.' I went and closed the cellar door and stood, brushing my hands off, looking up at the featureless blanket of cloud above us. 'But I suppose you know that already.'
In the kitchen I opened a bottle of Newkie Brown and sat at the table. Outside it was getting dark and the clouds had that heavy look, like they might start spitting out hailstones any minute. I sat on the chair, upright, my hands on my knees, my heart thudding. I tried to read the paper. But I couldn't. On the wall the clock was ticking dead loud.
After about ten minutes the door opened. At first I thought it was the wind, but then she came in, bringing rain and dead leaves. She didn't see me sitting there in the dark. She stopped on the mat and stamped the mud off her feet, so hard you'd think she was pissed off with the floor. She levered one boot off with her heel and was about to start on the other when she realized I was there. She froze, one boot on, one off. Her eyes rolled round to me.
'What?' I said, guilty of being in my own kitchen. 'What?'
She shook her head. She began to say something, but instead closed her eyes and suddenly she was breathing very fast and hard, like she was ill. Then all these tears came out of her eyes and dribbled down her face and on to her chin.
'Oh, Christ.' I was on my feet next to her, not knowing what to do. I kind of patted her shoulder cautiously, not leaving my hand there for too long. The way you'd pat an animal you thought might bite. 'Oh, Christ. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I really am.'
She turned away from me so her face was against the wall, put her hands over her ears and just cried and cried, like she was crying for everything that had ever happened to her. We stood there, me kind of shocked, useless, without the guts to put my arms round her; her with her forehead pressed into the wall, her shoulders jerking up and down.
'When's it going to be over, Joe? When?'
'When's what going to be over?'
'This. This – this ...' She could hardly get the words out, she was trembling so much. 'You're paralysed, Joe, just paralysed, and I don't know why. I mean, you read the letter. You know what she did.'
'What who did? Lexie, you mean?'
&nbs
p; 'Yes, Lexie. You know what she did. Why c-can't you forget her?'
'Why can't I... ? No. It's not just her – not just her any more.'
'Then it's my dad. It's about him.'
'Yeah, him,' I said. 'Him too. It's about lots of—'
'And that's just as bad. Can't you see – can't you see? If you let him stop you writing then he's won. He's won again and you're just sitting there and letting the world go past us both.'
'Yes, but – hey, hang on –'
She lurched past me, out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into her room. I stood for a second, listening, not knowing if I was supposed to go after her. I could hear her moving things around, and after a couple of minutes I went into the hallway, following the trail of mud from her single boot up the stairs. On the landing I stopped. The bedroom door was open. She was in there, hobbling around, pulling things off the shelves in big handfuls. I hadn't been in her room for weeks. She'd filled it with library books and notebooks. Sheets of paper printed off the Internet.
'James Poro.' The moment she saw me on the landing she flung a book on the floor. It was open at a black-and-white photo. I didn't have time to register it before another book came down. And another. 'Lazarus-Joannes Baptist Colloredo, Betty Lou Williams ...' She turned to the shelves, sorting through the other books, leaving me to blink at the one on the floor. It showed a photo of a traffic-stoppingly pretty girl in a frilled prayer-meeting dress. Arranged in her lap were four small limbs, plump and black against the white dress. If there was a head you couldn't see it: it was buried in the girl's stomach. I went from the limbs to her face and back again.
'Betty Lou.' Angeline limped over to me, holding more books. She squatted down, the books wedged between her knees and her chest, and put her hand on the girl's face. She wasn't crying any more. The tears had dried on her cheeks and there was a fixed look in her eye. 'Betty Lou's twin was epigastrus. Do you know what that means? No. Why would you? It means the twin is attached here. To your chest.' She opened another of the books and slammed it down. 'Most of them are epigastrus, but some are like me. Look at this – Frank Lentini. He was just like me, an extra leg. Look, Joe, look where it's attached.'
I held up a hand, stalling her. I couldn't process it all, this science fiction, this Victorian bestiary she was showing me. 'This isn't real. This isn't real.'
' "The deeper aspect of the parasite is composed of large, cystic and tubular structures."' She picked up a piece of paper and read, her voice fierce: ' "And solid organs resembling liver and—"'
'Angeline—'
'"Resembling liver and spleen. There are rudimentary gastrointestinal structures, some bowel sac, for example, a rudimentary genito-urinary system, severe skeletal anomalies compromising the autosite's vertebrae ..."' She held up another book, pushing it in front of my eyes so I had to look. 'It's real, Joe. It's real.'
This book showed a young man with a small pagri on his head. He was smiling graciously into the camera and holding up two tiny limp arms protruding from the front of his embroidered tunic. A matching pair of legs dangled below, reaching just below his belt. '© Barnum and Bailey collection', said the photo tag line. 'Until the era of prenatal scans and microscience, circuses were littered with parasitic twins.'
'That's Laloo. He was famous. Made a fortune. But you know the worst thing for him? For Laloo?'
I pushed the book away. I sat down with my back to the doorpost, my hands on my ankles. I couldn't look any more.
'The worst thing was he couldn't stop his twin urinating.'
'Please—'
'He never knew when it was going to happen. He couldn't stop it happening. And you think I've got problems.'
She stood in the doorway above me, breathing hard, the colour darkening in parts of her face: the tips of her ears, her nose, her mouth. The shadow of a branch outside the window moved back and forward across her face. It struck me that I'd never really studied her face before, never taken it in, never noticed she was pretty. All I'd ever thought about was her body. I dropped my eyes, heart thumping. Couldn't look at her.
'Joe,' she said, in a low voice. 'Joe, you can't let me keep this secret any more. I can't not talk about it. I can't be on my own with it any more.'
I sat there, my face hot and rigid, staring at the fabric of her skirt, fighting the feeling that this moment had been crashing towards me all my life. Face it, old man. Do it. Do or die. I cleared my throat and knelt up, tipping forward so the change in my jacket pockets jangled softly on the floor. I reached across and put my hand under the hem of her skirt. She stiffened, but I didn't take my hand away. I found her small warm calf and circled it with my thumb and forefinger. The cuff of her boot pressed against my wrists. We stayed in that weird position for a long time, not looking at each other, the only noise the wind blowing in the attic over our heads.
'You're not on your own,' I said, after what seemed like for ever. 'Can't you tell?'
3
'Well, isn't this the arsehole of London?' Finn came in, flicking the rain off his coat, like Kilburn rain came out of the sewers instead of the bottled Evian stuff they got in Chiswick. It was Thursday. He'd come over because I'd told him I was ready to talk. 'I'd forgotten how crap it was. I mean, the sheer turdiness of it is awesome.'
He pulled off his coat, dropped it over the chair. He wore a suit, but hints of the subversive Finn lingered – ironic 1970s sideys almost to his jawline, a shiny kipper tie fixed with a Playboy pin. A Zenner symbol stud in his ear and his vague out-of-season suntan. He bent to check his reflection in the hall mirror, swiping at the raindrops scattered in his hair. Then he paused and looked sideways at me.
'You don't look as bad as I expected.' He patted my arm. He wasn't going to say it, but he was worried about me. He's my cousin. Some things don't need to be said. 'I mean, you look crap 'n' all, but not as crap as I expected.'
'You don't have to stay long,' I said, checking my watch with great deliberation. 'I'll kick you out at eleven.'
'Yup.' He held up his hand. 'Good to see you too.'
We went into the living room. Angeline was standing near the kitchen door pulling on her gardening coat and fastening the scarf round her head. When she saw Finn she came forward, smiling, one hand extended in greeting, the other pushing the stray curls off her forehead. She moved smoothly, coming across so regal, so weirdly at ease, her brown eyes focused and serious, that I was a shabby coach tourist next to her, in my fading shirt and chinos.
'Finn, this is Angeline.'
'Angeline. Hey!' Finn said, holding up his hand to salute her. He took her in, her hair, curly and dark, her small nose, kind of moulded-looking, like it was made of china. There was even a bit of lipstick on her mouth. 'How's it going?'
'Fine, thanks.'
Wicked, Angeline,' he said. 'Wicked to meet you.'
'Angeline was just going into the garden,' I said. 'Weren't you?'
She held up her gardening gloves. 'I'm afraid I'm an addict.' She went into the kitchen calmly and out of the back door. When she'd gone, there was a pause. Then he turned and stared at me, a look of amazement on his face.
'What?'
'What?' he mouthed. 'You never said a word about her. She's totally fit.' He went into the kitchen and drew back the curtain. He stood on tiptoe, his nose against the glass so he could see her moving round the garden. 'What's wrong with her? She got a limp or something?' He turned to look at me. 'Is she hurt?'
I stood silently, looking at him without expression.
'What?' he said. 'What you looking at me like that for? The girl's got a limp, I'm asking you about it. Don't get PC on me here.'
'Come upstairs. I've got something to show you.'
'What?' He dropped the curtain and followed me bad-temperedly to the staircase. 'You going to seduce me?'
In the study I switched on the light and fired up the laptop. 'I've got the proposal. A proposal and the first ten chapters.'
'So you've seen the light. You're really ready to go?'
I hesitated. I drummed my fingers on the desk. Didn't meet his eyes.
There was a pause, then Finn seemed to read my mind. He shook his head and sighed. 'Dude, the man is dead. Dead and gone. If he wasn't we'd have heard.'
'Yeah. Yeah, I know.' I paused. I kept trying to imagine Dove's body – somewhere up in the Highlands. 'If we do it, how long've we got before publication?'
'Depends on which house takes it. If they're really pushing ... three, four months?'
'Three months?'
He sighed. 'Oakes, pardon my rudeness, but you get me over here because you say you're ready.'
'I am. I am ready. I've thought about it. You're both right. You and—' I nodded towards the window. 'You and Angeline. You're right.'
'She pulling your strings for you? What's she got to do with anything?'
I was silent for a moment, holding his eyes steadily. Then I swivelled the chair round to face the computer, clicked on the media-player icon and found the tourist video. 'Ever seen this? Did I ever show you this?'
'Sure.' He leaned forward and watched Angeline's hazy figure crossing the beach. 'It's weird as all fuck. Knobhead kids. Have you spoken to him yet? Like I said?'
'It's not a kid.'
He turned his eyes to me. 'What?'
'Not a kid.'
'Oakesy,' he said, smiling cautiously, 'you told me it was a kid.'
'I lied.'
'Then who was it?'
I looked back at him, then turned my eyes slowly to the video.
'What?' he said. The video played again, Angeline walked across the beach. The colours from the screen moved over Finn's puzzled face. He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at me and I could see the beginnings of something dawning. Slowly, almost woodenly, he put his hands on the desk and peered closer at the video, watched it for a moment or two, then turned and let his eyes drift out of the window to the garden.
'No,' he whispered. 'No fucking way...' He was suddenly pale under his tan. 'You're kidding me.' Slowly, moving like in a dream, he went to the window and stared into the garden for a long time. Angeline was out there, tapping a plank into place beneath the gate, edging it under the cross-bar to keep the gate firmly closed. Then he turned and looked at the computer screen, licking his lips, a look of half revulsion, half excitement in his eyes. 'What the fuck is it?' There was a line of sweat on his forehead. 'What the fuck has she got down there?'
