I say, ‘Put them down.’
She grabs a clump of her hair. Opens the scissors.
‘No!’ I reach forwards but she cuts a clump of her hair off, just below her jaw.
‘You got any rememberings of this, then?’ she whispers, her voice hollow.
‘Stop it. Please.’ The tears in my eyes blur her up till she’s not there any more.
I sit on the bed. A picture of Mam and Da leaps up and sticks in my thoughts. This picture isn’t my memory, but I’m in it. It’s come loose from Shadow Mary.
In my bedroom at home, Mam stands by the door, holding Barney, when him were just new. Me, three years younger, sat on my bed, Da sitting next to me, cutting my hair. Cutting it off, short, to my jaw. Stepping back, saying, ‘She’ll be wanting to be outside again soon enough. Like you said, we dun want anyone—’
Mam says, ‘Dun, Ned. I’ll do it. Said I would. Mary, it’s for the best, you know that. Only us what knows, and only us what will. If you dun look nice, no man’ll try anything you dun want them to. You know that.’
Da says, ‘Kelmar’ll talk.’
Mam says, ‘She’ll not.’ She holds Barney close to her, her tears fall on hims head. Mam rocks him, says, ‘It’s best this way, Ned. I’ve got more of the tincture from Valmarie. I’ll keep on giving it her.’
I watch myself, sitting on the bed in my bedroom. Not speaking. Looking just like Shadow Mary.
Da steps back, nods at her hair. ‘Well, I’d best finish. Can’t leave it half-done.’ Steps up to her, cuts the rest of it. Him steps back again. ‘It’ll grow.’
‘And be cut again,’ Mam says, her face sad.
Mam and Da are stood by the door with thems new baby.
Shadow Mary sits on the bed in her pale blue bed dress, staring out of the window.
Them are frozen in a picture.
This picture makes my legs shake. I pull the moppet out of my bag. Whisper in its raggedy ear, ‘Mary dun make up rememberings.’
Barney’s voice says, ‘Mary, it’s too dark. Cradle me …’ and the sound of him stings me right across the chest, as waves wash through the shell and carry hims voice away.
I bury the moppet in my bag and my hand touches one of the basement keys. I stare at it while I cry away the sound of Barney’s voice. I think of Grandmam. Her arms around me, my eyes closed, feeling her soft shawl on my cheek.
I started thieving keys not long after Grandmam came to live with us, for she’d told me she liked thieving bits of broken plates. She had a locked-up box under her bed, and she kept her growing collection in there. My hands had wanted metal, so the first thing I stole were the key to her box. She thought it were a good game, but made me give that one back to her. When I did, she told me about thieving. This is what she said:
When you’re a thief and you believe what you’re doing is right, you can get away with it, without anything bad happening by way of consequence. If all you ever thieve is keys, and you believe that keys are belonging things for you and you alone; no trouble will come your way. You remember what I’ve told you about believing you are right in whatever you do. Watch out for the call of the Thrashing House.
Others seek out guilt like spiders darting after a tangled-up fly. So watch you never let yourself feel guilt about what you’re thieving. Guilt gets tangled, and that will be that. You’ll get blamed for sure, and the tangles will tie you in knots – you’ll believe you’re guilty, so you’ll be punished. And all you needed to do from the start were – to believe you were not.
So, if you’re a thief of keys, believe that the keys belong to you and only you. You’re only taking back what’s already yours. And if it’s already yours, you’re not doing wrong and have no room for guilt.
Keys unlock things, so if that’s the thing you’ve chosen to thieve, know there’s something in you what calls out to be unlocked. Whatever folk choose to thieve, it is something to do with what is missing in them. So if you meet a thief who steals everything them comes across, and them are indiscriminate with thems thieving, it means them believe them have nothing of worth in themselves. If you meet a thief who only steals tokens of love – rings and posies and jewels – it is because them needs to be loved, and has either not enough, or too much, love to bear. Think careful about what it is you thieve, because that will tell you what is important to you, and that is the truth of all thievery.
Thinking of Grandmam’s voice reminds me that I’ve got good memories what’ve been stitched so firm them can push away anything from Shadow Mary. Grandmam said:
We live on an island of thieves, Mary. No one else will tell you that, but that is the truth of this place. So, watch what is precious to you, keep it close by and thieve only what belongs to you.
Me and Grandmam talked, then I rested my head on her shoulder and picked at the threads in her shawl.
‘Keys unlock things.’
‘Them do that, Mary.’
‘I want to keep them so I can unlock things with them.’
‘What kind of things, pet?’
‘Doors. Hidden things.’
‘What’s to be unlocked in you? Think on that, pet. Might make sense when you’re older. But you got to believe in what you thieve. If keys are what you want, mind you think loud an’ clear them all belong to you.’
‘No guilt, Grandmam?’
‘No guilt, pet.’
She showed me all her bits of broken plates. We spread them out all over the floor, some were painted with flowers and some were blue, green or white. Mam got back from her walk and looked at them all as well. We decided Grandmam liked thieving broken bits because she’d spent so many of her years fixing and mending things. Mam made the three of us valerian tea and told Grandmam not to break her cup.
I asked Mam what she liked to thieve. She said she dun ever remember thieving anything, apart from the last spoonful of honey in each jar. Grandmam said that meant that Mam wanted some sweetness just for herself, but it had to be a sweetness what dun last too long, so it’d be special each time. Mam said she thought Grandmam might be right.
I look through the keyhole. Morgan’s Mam and Da have left the key in the lock on the other side. Well, that were careless. I take the basement keys out of my bag. Lie them all on the floor. The longest key should do it.
I find the book with the biggest pages. The first page has a picture of a great black shaggy dog what’s drooling blood. ‘Sorry Morgan, I know this is yours,’ I whisper, ‘but you thieved the Thrashing House key from me, so this makes us even.’ I tear out the picture of the dog, and another page, and another.
I push the torn-out pages under the door and shove the longest of the keys into the lock. It bashes against the key what’s in there, pushes it out, it clanks on the floor. I lie down and pull on the first piece of paper, but it comes through empty. I use both my hands and slide the other two pieces towards me and feel a bump as the key hits the bottom of the door. I slide the paper along, towards the hinged side, where there’s a bigger gap. The key passes through, on the picture of the dog. I grasp it in my hand and unlock the bedroom door.
I step outside into the night and close the front door behind me. The moon is a grey glow, trapped in a cloud. The clouds scrumple up to the north, thickening. This fence is too tall to climb over. The earth is thick with grass roots so I can’t dig under it. I look round the garden for a stone to smash the padlock. No stones. No rocks. Nothing sharp or heavy. Someone’s already thought of this.
My hands are swollen with cold. At the gate, I pick at the thick iron padlock with a broiderie needle. The workings inside of it click twice. The needle sticks on the next one. I ease the needle to the left, down, up, right. Can’t find the next clack. The metal of the padlock hums in my hand.
Behind me, the windows of the house stare at my back. My shoulder feels frozen, sharp, from holding the needle so tight and firm. The padlock sends a pulse through my fingers.
‘Go on, tell me,’ I whisper. I can feel the touch of Morgan’s Mam in
the padlock, feel that she comes and goes through this gate. Often. But the metal sends a sharp zing through my fingers. It dun want me to know.
There’s a bitter smell caught in the cold still air. A smell of metal. Like blood. I move the needle, listen close for the next click in the padlock, and the next one. Just a couple more clacks will unlock it. I listen, my hands numb, white. My hand feels like a fat moon, my fingers grip the needle like it’s going to pull down the stars.
Right up, left down, click. Further in.
This smell of metal in the still air.
Blue eyes opposite me, between the slats in the gate.
A round face hangs there, pale in the dark. Her black coat locks away the rest of her body in shadows. I let go of the needle and lose all the clicks.
I gasp out, ‘I dun have the Thrashing House key!’
Kelmar says, ‘I know.’
I step back from the gate. ‘Murderer.’
She whispers, ‘You could only be here. I’ve looked everywhere else.’
I’m here face to face with her, the gate between us, but I’m somewhere else, locked in a room, ice all around me. Somewhere inside me, not yet in my mouth, a scream is storming up … only my hand reaches out, wants to touch hers. I pull it down.
I whisper, ‘There’s something you want to say. So say it.’ I put my hands over my mouth.
She stands like a tree, her feet planted like them have roots. ‘I’m the only one what knows, Mary. Know more than you do, an’ that’s not right—’
‘No, stop it …’
‘It were too hard.’
I stare at her face, a pale moon behind the fence. She can help me. I pinch my hand and can’t feel it. I want her to go away. I want her to keep talking. I want to grip her hand, for her to pull me out of here. Kelmar’s face is a floating moon, it’s the only real thing I can see in this dark. Flashes of pictures flicker in my mind. Ice in the cold room. Soot on the walls. Pictures from Shadow Mary. Barney, newborn, screaming in Kelmar’s arms.
My voice says, ‘Help me.’
‘Mary, I know.’ She reaches a finger between the slats in the gate.
‘This is … no … no … dun want this.’ I shake my head. ‘Dun … just say it.’ I put my hands over my ears.
‘It’s best you remember.’
‘Why?’
She leans her hands on the fence, her mouth talks in the gap. ‘Because it were that tall man and him got out. I saw Barney in hims eyes when we took him to the Thrashing House. I saw, as well, you dun remember him.’
‘Dun say …’
‘I’ve searched east and west for you …’
Clouds pile up high. Black underneath.
Kelmar says, ‘Come on.’ She draws out a bright metal knife from her coat. Sticks it in the gate hinge. ‘You’re coming home with me.’ She twists the knife. Wood cracks.
I sink down in wet grass. Look up at the clouds what bunch, scrumple, bundle, spin. The gate splinters, cracks, her knife twists it open, the planks break, crack.
Kelmar, in the garden, with me. Her voice, ‘Can you stand?’
She pulls me up on my feet. The ground shifts. Ice through my legs and hips. Kelmar’s strong hands pull me through the broken gate, my bag knock knocks, the keys inside clunk.
Kelmar pulls me, fast walking.
Keys unlock. Rattle. Turn in my head.
Fast uphill, her arm, strong under my shoulder.
The cold air unravels twin hairdo.
Red ribbon, child’s play, falls away.
She pulls me along. Her mouth talking, telling me Mam said I were contagious, she took everyone in. She says, ‘I know what the shape of a baby is like, and her belly, it just weren’t the right shape.’
Unlocked.
A picture from Shadow Mary. Mam makes cushion bump, stitches it for her belly. Ties wadding around, makes belly big, bigger. Wears bump dress. Pretends pregnant. Me indoors for months. Belly swollen like moon. Not allowed outside. Doors locked up. Mam saying, ‘Mary’s terrible sick, get away, you’ll catch it.’
Kelmar’s voice, saying Mam locked us in the cold room so I’d be numbed with ice and not scream. Her words scratch the inside of my head. I’m remembering screams, trapped in my throat. My voice whispers, ‘The blank dark. Full of your blue eyes.’
Kelmar pulls me up the hill. The ground is too fast under my feet.
‘Stop.’ I stand still. ‘I’m not here.’
Kelmar lets go of me. ‘It’s shock. It’ll pass.’
I stand dead.
The lie I’ve been telling myself for three years …
‘Move!’ Kelmar’s arm around my shoulders.
I fall. The grass tilts. Washes me down a hill and up another in Kelmar’s arms. Track cuts through grass. Sand path. Low gate. Pebbles.
Front door opening.
Indoors.
Blanket chair softness. Think warm, but shaking cold. More blankets. Kelmar’s hands wrap and wrap and wrap. Her voice, saying there and there and there.
Kelmar’s blue eyes in the cold room.
The screech of a baby.
Mam saying him were hers.
Him were only ever mine.
Not my brother, my son.
Morgan
The clouds pile up in the night sky above the rocky island in the distance. Every hair on my body is raised. My fingers are covered in dirt and scratches.
At the edge of the water I reach out my hands to rinse them, but the water glows bright blue. Too bright. I snatch back my hands. Just beneath the surface there’s seaweed, entwined and tangled. The seaweed is threaded through skeletons of fish, their eyes dissolved away to blank holes. The seaweed frays on the surface, the ends of it are dead strands. The small waves wash over it, fizz and bubble, change colour from blue to white to cream to brown. Strands of the seaweed move, coming out of the water, rippling over the stones, the strands are moving towards my feet, thickening …
I step back. The seaweed twists and coils, thickens, advancing towards me. I back away, clamber over broken rocks, my heart thudding, towards the caves, over sharp stones and cracked rocks. This is a poisoned shore. The broken rocks around me gleam along the waterline. A decomposing gannet lies in a rock-pool of green water. Streaks of bright colours, the algae is stained pink. I lean down to lift out the dead bird, I want to bury it. But something pulls my gaze away, to a path next to the caves.
A tall male figure stands at the top of the path on the hill. I blink, and he’s gone.
I climb the path, wipe my boots on the grass, which lightens in colour, thins and withers underneath them. I reach the top of the path. No cottages huddle near this shore. Just scrubland. I can’t see the man anywhere.
The Thrashing House stands tall in the distance. A long walk, but from there I can find my way back to Mary’s cottage. Perhaps it’s just the stillness in the air, perhaps it’s relief that I saw the seaweed before it reached my feet and dragged me into the poisoned waters, but my breathing has slowed, and as I look up at the sky I have this feeling that something’s changed. That Mary might have come home.
My hair glows so brightly, I must look like a walking candle as I step along a narrow path in between two peat pits, mounds of peat stacked like bricks, and gashes in the earth. A couple of wooden sleds lean against a stone wall. The air is thick and
still.
I hear distant voices, I take off the coat and use it to cover my hair.
Too late.
A woman’s voice calls out, ‘You. Hidden daughter.’
Walking towards me is the woman who asked my father for the plank, wrapped in a warm coat, a ragged grey shawl over her hair. There’s a younger woman with dark eyes with her. They both have empty round baskets strapped to their backs. They stop, blocking the narrow path.
The plank woman says, ‘I’m Camery. This one’s Chanty. Where you going?’
Chanty folds her arms. ‘Dun you mean, where’s she come from?
I say, ‘Let me pass.’
‘Where?’
‘Thrashing House, ‘ent it,’ says Chanty.
‘You’ve got the key,’ says Camery, holding out her hand. ‘Give it to us.’
Chanty says, ‘How’d you get out?’
I open my mouth to say, Through a door, down a hole. Digging. Then tunnels. Caves. But my voice doesn’t speak. I try again. I look over my shoulder at the clouds thickening, closer still. ‘I can’t say. Let me pass. There’s a storm coming.’ I step towards them.
‘Give us the key.’
‘I don’t have it.’
‘Well, where—’ says Camery.
Chanty glances at my coat, still over my hair. ‘Course she’s got it.’
I try to say, I left it inside the lock, but I can’t. ‘It won’t let me say.’
Camery says, ‘No—’
‘How do you know I was in there?’
‘Kelmar tried to stop you going in, only you slammed the door in her face.’
‘That was Kelmar? Running at me through fog, I thought—’
Chanty yanks my coat off my hair. Both of them step back, stare at my glowing hair, their eyes wide.
‘Must’ve been fearful in there, to do that to you. And you not able to speak of it,’ whispers Camery.
Chanty rummages in the coat pockets. ‘Nothing. What about her dress?’
‘It’s not in my dress.’ I snatch back the coat.
‘We need that key.’
I try to say, It’s inside the Thrashing House, still in the lock. But all I can choke out is, ‘I haven’t got it.’
‘We need it.’
I say, ‘You can always go in—’ and my voice won’t say, the way I came out.
‘Dun talk chicken shit,’ says Camery. ‘Not going in there. Not done anything wrong.’
‘Neither have I. Well, if you want the key back that badly, maybe you should take—’ My mouth opens and closes – I think, the door off its hinges.
They’re both frowning. ‘What’s she trying to say?’
Camery puts her hand on my arm and whispers, ‘What did you see in there? Were it paddles and bats, knives – all them kinds of things?’
Snake Ropes Page 23
