‘It’s too early to say,’ Thomas said.
‘Keep it up. The way it works is by dragging your thoughts away from what has become their default setting of worry and stress and focusing on the things that are actually in front of you. So whilst your thoughts are trying to burrow deeper into darkness and anxiety, you’ve been pulling them up by their roots and saying, “But look at this, now, in front of me. This is a good thing. I can see it and I’m making a note of it.” By doing that every day, by looking for and noticing the positives, you are reprogramming your brain. Meditation can help with that. At the moment your brain is constantly dreading what might happen in the future, is it not? You are worrying almost every second about what happened in the past and what might happen next, yes?’
‘Yes,’ said Thomas, ‘it feels exactly like that.’
‘What meditation can do is strip that away. It places you in the present, it involves you in the day and anchors you in reality. It can tear you away from the worry storms in your head.’
Dr Barbour leant forward to take a drink from her glass of water.
Thomas looked at the neat woman in front of him and felt angry. Had her house been invaded? Had she worried about the safety of her family for twelve hours? Had the person she loved been attacked? He’d come to her for help and she’d had him writing lists and numbers and now her next suggestion was meditation. A resistance inside him broke.
‘But it can’t change what happened, can it?’ Thomas said before Dr Barbour had the chance to start talking again. ‘And it can’t change what might happen in the future. Me meditating isn’t going to stop men coming into my house with guns. They burst in and find me sitting with my legs crossed, bloody humming. What good is that to anyone?’
He’d spoken with feeling and was embarrassed, but Dr Barbour didn’t look slighted or surprised.
‘We come back to this, Thomas, what could happen, over and over, and what I’m trying to make clear is that we don’t have control over many things. You are right – a frightening thing happened and could happen again to you and your family, and there might be nothing you can do about it. Car crash, cancer, mugging, rape, murder, all of these things happen to someone, somewhere, every day. And the brutal truth is everyone we love is going to die and there is nothing we can do about it. But is that what you want to spend the rest of your life focused on? The terrible, black, sickening aspects of life? Or would you rather take control where you can and stop wasting all of your energy on the things you can’t affect? What we can have some control over, if we try, is how we are living now. So you aren’t constantly worried about what might, or could, happen, because you are engaged with the present. You are living now.’
Dr Barbour looked at Thomas intently. ‘You are only ever alive now, Thomas. No matter who you are, where you are or what you are doing, you are only ever alive now. Right now you are in this room with me and right now there is no catastrophe. Do you want to waste all those “nows” feeling haunted, stressed and worried?’
She stopped speaking. There was an angle of uplift to her chin. Thomas didn’t respond.
‘Meditation’, she continued, calmer in tone, ‘helps you to live moment by moment, and in that way, hopefully, you will be less plagued by the future or the past. But what I want you to understand, Thomas, is that meditation is a practical tool. It’s not some wishy-washy escape into half-thought-out mysticism, it’s about getting closer to reality.’
She looked around the room and her eyes fell on the water in front of her. She picked up the glass and held it up. ‘Meditation is as useful and functional as the glass that is holding this water.’
Thomas looked at her, holding the glass aloft.
‘You don’t happen to meditate yourself, do you, Dr Barbour?’ he asked.
‘What makes you think that?’ she said, smiling and carefully lowering the glass to the table.
Fifteen
Ann returned from taking the children to school and her visit into town. She stepped out from the car and looked up to the blue sky. It was still early but already there was warmth in the day. She leant back as far as she could and let the sun work on her skin. Half an hour before, Ann had spoken to Conner Ryan, the first time she’d seen him in more than ten years. A man had stepped out of a shop in front of her and Ann hadn’t given him a second glance, would never have recognised him if he hadn’t turned as she passed and said, ‘Ann?’ She stopped and looked at the man. When she lingered over the mouth and eyes a spark fired in the far corner of her memory but it didn’t lead her anywhere conclusive.
‘Conner,’ he said, finally.
‘Conner!’ Ann said, not believing, still looking for more clues. ‘How are you?’
Ann drove home slowly, hardly bothering to change gear. She’d thought of Conner over the years and occasionally let her imagination consider other paths her life could have taken. In these imaginings she was poor and living with Conner in a tiny house, no children. He was still riding his motorbike, still as ridiculously handsome and as energetic and exciting as he always had been. In Ann’s imaginings they lived a busy life without responsibility. But the man stood in front of her didn’t look busy or excited, and even as he was talking, confirming who he was, Ann couldn’t accept it was Conner. Not Conner Ryan. There were no remnants of his looks left. His stomach burst out from under his ribcage as pronounced as a beach ball. His hair, which had always been falling forward into his eyes or ruffling its way over his collar, was shaved to the bone of a bumpy, red skull. And his face, the face that had made her laugh with shock at its beauty the first time she saw it, was swollen, the ruthless cheekbones buried under bloated flesh. None of this should matter of course, Ann was thinking as she tried to disguise her shock at the state of him, but it did matter. It was tragic. This was the man every woman in Maltham had wanted. The man who drew women to the pub when he was working, who could choose any woman in the town, any woman in the north of the country probably. The man who tore around on his orange and black motorbike, breaking hearts and then refusing to talk. Ann wanted to ask Conner if he missed his looks – if he was aware of how beautiful he had been, how adored he was back then. Instead they spoke about their children, smiled at each other, said it was nice to see one another, and parted. Ann walked away thinking: that was Conner Ryan? That was Conner Ryan? The beautiful young man who’d broken her heart, who’d set her on the course of the rest of her life, was a lost-looking man holding a plastic bag, wearing a pair of jeans and a baggy T-shirt.
Ann closed the car door. The trees rustled noisily as if they were being shaken at their roots and a warm breeze ran over her body. She arched her back again and pushed herself up, closer to the sun. Life is impossible, she thought, and was suddenly filled with hard, uncomplicated joy. She sensed tears coming, good tears, but she pushed them away and laughed instead, focusing on the happiness she felt. The happiness was real, like a material injected into her and she wanted to savour it. She looked at the house, the house that had refused to welcome her, the house where they had been invaded by men in masks, where she had been punched and the children terrified. The house where she lived with maddening, infuriating Thomas. The house that was, for no reason Ann could understand, finally beginning to feel like home. Life was impossible. She gathered her bags and walked to the front door, her legs steady and strong underneath her. This was living, she thought, the dark and the glory. Sometimes together. Ann smiled at the wickedness of it. It was then she decided – Thomas’s birthday was approaching. They were going to have a party.
Sixteen
Thomas drove to Raymond’s caravan. Ann was preparing for the party and demanded he remove himself and not return before six. He still hated leaving Ann and the children at the house, but he didn’t want to be accused of ruining the party before it began. He tried to remember Dr Barbour’s advice: catastrophes happen very rarely, live in the present, focus on the now, but when he passed a battered white van heading in the direction of the house, all Thomas want
ed to do was turn and follow. He made himself continue to Raymond’s, hating the easy certitude of the woman who’d never been held hostage. He collected Raymond and they drove to the foot of Parlick. As they began the climb he said to Raymond, ‘You don’t mind this party, do you? I know it’s not come at the best time.’
Raymond shook his head. ‘But I haven’t had chance to pick up a present, I’m sorry.’
Thomas laughed. ‘I’m too old for presents, Raymond. I can’t think of a single thing I want anyway.’
They walked slowly and spoke little. They stopped when they reached a wooden gate in a stone wall and turned and looked behind them, at how far they’d come. In the distance the southern fells of Abbeystead ran in a proud line, fencing the valley in.
‘I don’t know what it is about hills,’ Thomas said. ‘I’ve always liked hills, climbing up them, walking down them, even just looking at them. I’ve no idea why, but I could look at them for hours. Somebody should write something about the psychology of hills, if they haven’t already.’
He laughed at his words, but they brought back a memory from childhood.
‘I went on holiday with my mum and dad when I was about ten. We went to Suffolk and I’d never seen anything like it. I knew it would be flat, they’d told me that, but it was just so eerie, for a lad used to hill country. I didn’t understand how you were supposed to know where you were – there were no landmarks, nothing to gauge your progress by. We were staying in this cottage down a track with a huge back garden and I climbed a tree to see if anything was out there, but it was just endless fields to the horizon. It sounds silly but I became panicky. It seemed to me the kind of countryside that would exist after a nuclear war – faceless and flat – nothing remaining. You could see the sun go right down behind the low horizon, like it was dropping away and never coming back. When my parents sensed there was something wrong I told them I felt unwell, but really I was terrified that the world was ending. I wanted to get home to check that the hills were still there, to check that the whole world hadn’t been flattened down.’
‘I’ve never been anywhere without hills,’ Raymond said. ‘I find it hard to imagine.’
Thomas leant into the wall and said, ‘But I suppose people who grow up in flat places find it unusual to be confronted by hills and fells at every turn. That’s probably as strange to them as the flatness is to us.’
‘I don’t think anyone could ever find Abbeystead strange,’ Raymond replied. ‘It seems the most natural place on the planet to me. The first time I saw it, I thought – there it is, that’s what you’ve been looking for.’
Raymond looked unbearably sad and Thomas was grateful when a strong gust of wind blew in and prompted them to walk on. They turned their backs on the view and kept moving slowly up the climb.
Seventeen
Keith had been drinking in Etherton from eleven. He went to the quieter pubs on the edge of town where he could drink alone in neglected corners and gather himself. He’d been drinking heavily for days and felt ill, but despite this he looked back at his recent sobriety through the eyes of a disbeliever. He couldn’t understand what he thought he was doing then, who that person was. Keith knew that whatever happened from now on, he would always be a drinker. At two, weary and drunk, he went home to sleep. After a rest he would get on with it, he would climb into the car and drive out to the posh country house. Then he could think about finding Rose. But first he needed sleep. He dropped into bed and slept a black sleep. He woke a couple of hours later feeling worse than ever. Pains in his neck shot into his jaw and he was still exhausted. He decided then that he wouldn’t go; he would have to wait a little longer for the money. But he began to shiver. Why was he so cold? It was summer and he was freezing. At least the car would be warm, he thought. He would crank up the heater and drive out to the country. Then, if he felt up to it, he would do it.
Eighteen
Ann prepared for the party. Harriet wanted to help, she always wanted to help, but Ann needed to work quickly, so she encouraged her to watch a favourite film, and now she was sat on the couch with knees up in front of her, cushion grasped tightly, thumb in mouth. Daniel was, of course, in his room, probably having already forgotten they were having a party. Ann made sandwiches, poured crisps into bowls, pulled drinks and glasses from cupboards and arranged them on the table. She quickly tidied the house and pinned banners up.
Happy Birthday! was stuck to the banister, It’s your Birthday! to the kitchen wall, Time to Party! went up in the front room.
Ann smiled when she shoved the pins into that one. She was sure Thomas didn’t think it was time to party. She blew up the balloons sitting on the couch with Harriet, watching a few minutes of a film she’d seen hundreds of times before. When the balloons were inflated and tied Ann walked with them bouncing around her and opened the front door to tie them to the handle. Before she had a chance to begin the knot she noticed a small man walking slowly across the lane towards her, he looked lost. Ann turned to greet him. She laughed as the balloons bobbled around her, obscuring her view. She pulled them to one side and said, ‘Hello?’
The man stared at Ann and then at the balloons and frowned.
‘Are you lost?’ Ann asked.
‘I’ve got a knife,’ the man said, quietly.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ann said. ‘What did you say?’
The man was sweating. He looked like he might be sick. He gripped himself and crouched down. Ann stepped forward.
‘Are you alright?’ she asked. ‘Do you want some water?’
The man shook his head.
‘I think you need to sit down,’ Ann said, and the man dropped with a thump to the doorstep. Ann rushed to the kitchen, letting the balloons go in the hallway. She filled a glass with water. Should she call an ambulance? she wondered. She was still considering if this would be an overreaction when she returned to the front door with the water. Stepping outside she heard a car approach. It was their car, Thomas had returned early, that was good – they could decide what to do together. Ann handed the glass of water to the slumped figure, but he shook his head. He was staring at the car and Thomas, who was clambering out as quickly as he could.
‘Who’s this?’ Thomas asked, striding forward. ‘What’s going on?’ Alarm was ratcheted across his face and Ann was immediately annoyed. He always had to look for disaster.
‘He’s lost, I think. But he’s not very well.’
Raymond was out of the car too now. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked the sitting figure.
The man pulled himself up and stared at Raymond.
‘I’ve got a knife,’ he said, almost shouting it this time.
The words spread out around them and into the trees. Nobody moved from where they were stood. The silence reached its pinnacle and then Harriet stepped out from behind Ann and said, ‘Why is everyone out here?’
The man moved his hand to his pocket and Raymond charged at him.
The little man shot across the road and burst into the trees. Behind him, as quickly as he could propel his large body, followed Raymond.
Keith had no idea where he was heading and didn’t feel well enough to run, but once he was up and off he moved quickly. He’d forgotten how fast his legs could work. He tore through the trees, jumping over streams, ripping through bushes, pushing himself as hard as he could. He heard the clumsy giant, grunting and thrashing, as threatening as a chasing earthquake. Keith wondered how long he could keep ahead of those massive legs, but then he heard a cry of pain and looked over his shoulder to see his neighbour crash to the forest floor. He felt the sweet kick of victory. His robbery attempt was a disaster, Rose was gone and never coming back, he was fat, ill and broke, but he’d outrun the gormless giant from next door. Keith didn’t slow; he pushed himself harder in celebration. He would get to his car and drive for miles. Keith felt joy at this realisation. He could just go. There was a world where people didn’t know who he was, what he’d done, how he’d failed. There were thousands of places
he could go. All those towns and cities. All that opportunity. Keith skipped elegantly over a fallen branch and smiled. There were people worse off than him, there always would be. He still had his spirit. His verve. Ahead he saw the track leading to his car. A new path, he thought, that was all he needed. Keith stopped and looked around, making sure nobody was following. Why the fuck would someone live all the way out here? he wondered. Particularly if you had all that money? Why wouldn’t you choose to be somewhere there was some life? Some pubs? Keith’s new home would have to be close to a good pub, that was a certainty. He set off walking again but only moved forward two steps before he was brought to a halt. It felt like an aeroplane was landing on his chest. He tried to suck in air but air refused to be drawn. His body was crushing itself from the inside. Keith felt more pain than he’d felt in his life, but only briefly. He fell to his knees, rocked forward onto his head and dropped to his side. He was almost dead before he knew he was dying, but not quite. Keith experienced moments of terror as he realised what was happening to him, alone in a forest, in the middle of nowhere. Then he lay there, dead on the forest floor, like a shrew frozen in a frost.
Nineteen
Thomas’s eyes itched and he felt sick. He was in the kitchen in Abbeystead, but he needed to be somewhere else. He pored over the map in front of him. Thurso, Lairg, Lochinver, Tongue. Those places (were they towns? Villages even?) must be at least four hundred miles away. His eyes scoured the map of the Highlands – a few thin roads but mainly empty. Open country. The kind of landscape you would see a man coming. Thomas needed clear ground around him, he needed to be able to see what was coming next.
Into the Trees Page 17
