It was in honour of the memory of that never-to-be-born boy that one day after sitting by the brook I set myself the task of fashioning a little commemorative cross. I'd watched my mother making them out of rushes, in the long ago when I too was very small. Before she had died like an angel in the chapel.
But I couldn't bear to think about that any more. All I wanted to do was lay my cross on the cemetery grass, in honour of the sweet little 'neverborn'. To kneel on that grass and whisper a silent prayer. So I made my memorial and set off on my mission.
It had already begun to snow as I drifted across the valley. It swept in flurries as I placed the cross on the cold stony ground. Marking the spot where nothing would ever be.
Because, of course, Ned Strange never did have a son. No, no 'baby Owen' was ever to be delivered of Annamarie Gordon, for Ned Strange or anyone else.
Or of Catherine Courtney for Redmond Hatch either. No babies for couples whose love had turned to dust.
Which was why I had hand-lettered across the cross's centre:
Little Rose of the Outlands: we'd have loved you so much
RIP 00 AD-00 AD
—The most wanted of all that never was to be: a love that died before it truly lived. Baby Owen. Redmond Hatch and Catherine Courtney.
I whisper those words to myself in the nights. As I lie here listening to his tense, covetous breathing. The breathing of who?
Why, His Eminence Ned Strange: the Son of Perdition, King of the Air. Who now — and for ever, apparently — is to be my nearest neighbour. Something which ought not to come as a surprise to anyone. Not in a community celebrated for being close-knit. Not in a place that's been called 'Incest Mountain'.
Which, as it turns out, is most apt indeed. With Ned and I being so close now that he's aware of practically every one of my thoughts. Generally before I am myself. After all, he's a very powerful man. Why he can even, you know, predict the future.
—What exactly did you expect? he says to me. You can't say I didn't warn you. Something dreadful's what I promised, something dreadful's what you got. It's nothing more than you ought to have expected.
Eternity
Seventeen: Little Red, the Outland Rose
IT WAS THE 22ND of February 2004 and there could be no doubt about it — Redmond Hatch was just about the happiest man alive. He was positively glowing with happiness as he boarded the tube train that would take him to Kilburn, an inner suburb of North London. And proceeded to walk the streets where once upon a time he had resided for three wonderfully happy and fruitful years. Whistling absent-mindedly as he strolled along the main thoroughfare of Kilburn High Road and sat on a wooden bench in Queen's Park to feed the pigeons. Just as he'd once done with his beloved daughter Imogen.
—Tell me about winterwood, he heard her say, tell me about it again, Daddy. And Redmond Hatch described it in detail. Right down to the Princess of Winter in her white satin gown. And the robins who guarded its snow-speckled portals.
—Did you ever see a robin cry? his daughter had asked him.
—No, he replied, because in winterwood they're happy.
But no sooner had he said it than Redmond Hatch found himself shivering, for an idiotic reason - he'd imagined a bearded tramp going by had looked like, why, like Ned Strange, of all people. It had momentarily troubled him that he should think such a thing. At this point, now - after all this time. But he succeeded in persuading himself that the idea was nothing short of idiotic. Belonging to a distant, long-forgotten time. A time of irrational stress and tension. When he'd been locked in a struggle with someone, above all, who didn't even exist. He looked again and, predictably of course, the tramp was gone, nowhere to be seen. Redmond shook his head, reflecting quite good-humouredly on the absurdity of it all.
It had been a long journey, he told himself, as he made his way back to Kilburn station, the rattling tube speeding onwards across North London. And, at times, a difficult one. But, in spite of everything, it had been worth it. A face distorted in the window opposite suddenly caught his eye. Almost aggressively, he lifted his head and stared directly at it, apprehending it for nothing more or less than what it was: the weary and weather-beaten countenance of an elderly female vagrant, grinding her gums beneath a plastic hood. He released a soft and contented private laugh, thinking to himself how such a fleeting and commonplace banality would once upon a time have been invested with significance, resulting in unsettling and perhaps even dangerous consequences. He rested his palms on his thighs and stared at the old lady, once more experiencing the most luxurious, even delirious calm, just as the train began to slow, making its approach towards Bond Street.
For it was a time of great personal triumph for Redmond Hatch, of positively enviable achievement and success. A trend now set to continue that very night, as his documentary film These Are My Mountains had been nominated in four different categories of the Celtic Film and Television Awards which were to be presented that evening at a grand gala function in the Grosvenor House Hotel. He would have been overjoyed if Casey could have accompanied him. But she'd been acting a little strangely of late. Pressure of work, she'd explained when he asked her.
—These Are My Mountains, he heard the judges declare, is an anatomy of a society in flux, a magnificently detailed view of the journey from the almost medieval atmosphere of 1930s rural Ireland to the buoyant postmodern European country it is today, and must be considered a uniquely seminal and passionate work.
Redmond was deeply moved by this praise, and also by the analysis of the adjudicators, which he found simultaneously informative and perceptive. Consequently he was somewhat taken aback when, on his return from the men's room, he found himself gripped by a panic attack of such severity that it blurred his vision and weakened his limbs to such an extent that he had no choice but to return to the toilet stall. Sitting there, as cold perspiration broke out on his skin, he heard an unmistakable voice:
—Redmond, it's me, Edmund. I'm waiting for you, Redmond. Soon we'll be together. In the hills.
He fervently prayed the attack would pass. But then, even more tantalisingly, to his ears came drifting the softest of whispers:
—What can I do, my love fond and true, but shield you from wind and weather?
His teeth were clenched and his heart was pounding. His shirt, he realised, was soaking too. He tried to get up but remained in the cubicle for some considerable time, his head clutched in his hands. He began to fear that these feelings might not only fail to pass after a reasonable passage of time, but conceivably, in fact, might never do so! Thankfully, however, this did not prove to be the case - the attack, eventually, began to recede and gradually his courage began to reassert itself.
And when, once more, he appeared in the magnificent banqueting hall, no one would ever have suspected that anything at all untoward had occurred. He helped himself to a glass of champagne and, as he sipped it, quite on the spur of the moment, decided to place a telephone call home, to Casey. To his surprise, he received no reply. With repeated attempts proving equally unsatisfactory. What of it, he explained to himself, she's probably just fallen asleep. He swanned back into the centre of the hall and committed himself to enjoying to the full what remained of a very special evening.
—I can call her later from the hotel, he said to himself.
Nonetheless, the source of his agitation subtly refused to go away, and he found himself once more becoming irascible, finding fault, first with the drinks and then with the food, to the bored dismay of passing waiters. No matter how he tried, he could not, for the life of him, understand why she might be asleep. He checked his watch again. It wasn't late - just after eleven. Casey rarely retired before twelve. He looked up to see one of the judges hastening towards him.
—This is Sinclair Evans, he was told, he absolutely adores your work. A fellow Celt, of course, Mr Tiernan.
It was a wonderful stroke of luck, meeting someone like Sinclair Evans: one of the most singular and knowledgable men Redmond h
ad encountered. His knowledge, not just of cinema, but of the world of art in general, was most impressive. Redmond could have listened to him all night. And did. They were both quite tipsy when the evening, at last, began drawing to a close. But it had been terrific. An absolutely wonderful night, thought Redmond to himself. He could barely even remember the 'anxiety attack', or however you might choose to describe the irritating inconvenience, which was all it really amounted to now.
With the result that, in spite of the driving rain, he simply couldn't have been more contented as he stood with his award in a plastic bag outside the Metropole Hotel in Edgware Road, generously tipping the African cab driver. He paused for a moment to pocket his change. A clap of thunder rumbled sullenly in the distance, followed by the sound of sharp clipped footsteps. The hooded youth who suddenly appeared hesitated momentarily before breaking into a run.
—Can't you get out of the way? Redmond heard him cry, stumbling awkwardly, the coins rolling from his hand. He bawled after him:
—What's your problem? I said, what's your fucking problem!
He was taken aback when the youth stopped, staring menacingly back at him. Then, out of nowhere, another youth appeared.
—He giving you trouble? he called out to his mate. This fucking cunt, he giving you trouble?
The youth turned and spat at him, swearing loudly before taking off. A truck roared by, soaking Redmond's suit as he haplessly gathered up his change.
He made his way through the revolving door. The night porter gave him a reassuring smile.
—Bad night, he said. Much thunder.
—Much thunder, agreed Redmond, still clutching the handful of wet coins in his fist. More likely than not he'd exaggerated the potential threat, he told himself, sighing contentedly as he crossed the lobby floor. Probably the nerves of the prize-giving and everything, and that unfortunate business in the toilet stall. In any case, he realised, it made no difference for any minute he'd be talking to Casey and that was all he cared about now. He saw himself sitting on the bed as he said:
—They really loved it. They loved the film, Casey.
He pressed the elevator button. On the third floor he was joined by another late-night reveller, a fellow countryman as it turned out.
—What is it you have in the bag? Batman, the Irishman laughed, staggering slightly as he stared at Redmond's award pushing its way out of its plastic confinement. It was a bronze figure with spreading wings.
—The Death of Nuada, brave warrior of the Celts, he told him, it was specially cast.
—Oh! said the Irishman, a little disappointed, I thought 'twas fucking Batman! The Irishman belched and said:
—Too much Kronenbourg again, I'm afraid!
Redmond smiled and nodded sympathetically.
—I've had quite a few myself tonight! he laughed.
The thunder was still audible, but fainter now. The Irishman looked at him stupidly and staggered on one foot, raising his thumb for no apparent reason. In spite of himself, Redmond couldn't stop thinking about the incident outside. Stupid as it was, his thoughts kept on returning to it.
—He giving you trouble? This fucking cunt, he giving you trouble?
He stepped through the parting elevator doors. The Irishman was calling something after him but he couldn't hear him. He pushed his key card into the slot. As soon as he got in, he tore off his drenched suit bottoms and made straight for the telephone. He lifted the receiver and dialled the number. It was just at that moment he heard the faint murmurs of a fragile, plaintive, almost heart-breaking voice. It sounded too sweet to have been alarming. But it was. In fact it was so alarming that there aren't any words which might, with any degree of accuracy at least, even begin to describe it.
—Please help me, Daddy. It's me, Pinkie Pie.
For the briefest of moments he was tempted to laugh. Attributing this absurd turn of events, yet again, to his infuriatingly overactive imagination, the product of another unfortunate and extremely stressful night. He relaxed somewhat as the silence began to return. Then, even softer than before, he heard his daughter - for it was unmistakably her - plead once more:
—Daddy? Please, Daddy. Can you hear me?
He shot upright and stood there, primed. The voice was coming from the direction of the bathroom.
—Daddy, will you come to me? I need you, Daddy. Please come to me.
His heart was beating furiously as he approached the bathroom door. Standing there in his boxer shorts, the worst fear he had ever experienced numbed his entire body.
—It's cold out here in winterwood, Daddy.
—Jesus! he cried aloud.
—Daddy, is that you? Daddy, will you come in?
He stood in the bathroom doorway, chafing helplessly at his knuckles. He could see her clearly behind the shower curtain, her little helpless, shivering silhouette reaching out to him.
—Imogen darling! Immy, it's OK!
He flung himself forward and tore frantically at the plastic curtain, the brass rings skittering dissonantly as he found himself embracing - not his daughter, but a cold stiff figure covered in excrement, its neck looped in a cord, its curling lip frozen in a rictus of cruel malignity.
—Like I said, whispered Ned, when it happened, Redmond, you'd know.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to allow Redmond Hatch to conclude his own story. Regrettably, however, that is impossible. There are times, it has to be acknowledged, when he will make the most valiant efforts. But somehow he never seems to transcend a certain point. When he finds himself in a certain hotel bathroom, standing mutely beside a torn shower curtain.
After that, I'm afraid, he appears to lose the power of speech, just sits there staring, uttering sounds which are quite indecipherable. Certainly making no sense. Poor fellow. It really is dreadful. It must have been quite an ordeal.
Which is why it must inevitably come to me to finish his story, me, his oldest friend and neighbour on the mountain. A task for which I hope I am adequately equipped. Which I ought to be, of course. Although, given my reputation, one runs the risk of certain liberties being taken with what, after all, is a straightforward narrative. Of my inserting certain 'flourishes' of a certain 'fanciful' nature perhaps. As us old mountain fiddlers have been known to do.
But not this time. For, after all, there is hardly any need. There being quite enough drama, one might suggest, in his private little 'melodrama' already.
After arriving back earlier than had been expected from London, Redmond Hatch spent some hours waiting across the street from his home in the north Dublin suburb of Sutton. Presently the front door opened and he saw James Ingram the broadcaster emerge. He was pulling on his jacket and laughing. He chatted with Casey for a moment before kissing her, then swung off, turning one last time to bid her goodbye.
—Love you, he called.
—Love you, Casey replied, blowing him a kiss. She was wearing her dressing gown over her negligee. There were little blue ribbons all down its front. Redmond knew because he had bought it for her. Had purchased it - quite coincidentally - in Harrods of London, the very same place where Catherine and he had got the coat for Immy. He watched Casey now as she pulled the dressing gown around her.
—Love you, called James Ingram, leaning out of the car window. I'll ring you later, yeah? Ciao!
Before rolling up the window and driving off, happily, like any man would. Any man lucky enough to be in love.
Redmond's subsequent departure from RTE proved rather sudden indeed, with something quite spectacularly incoherent mumbled to a perplexed Head of Programmes regarding a certain 'job offer with the BBC.
A tall tale indeed, a fanciful yarn and make no mistake. In its lack of verisimilitude and sheer implausibility rivalled only perhaps by the suggestion of a grown man driving his car nightly to a copse of pine on the outskirts of the city to read at length from both Raymond Briggs's The Snowman and the Scandinavian Maurice Sendak's Where the Wild Things Are for the benefit of his
adored darling wife and child.
And in no way comparable to the rather underwhelming nature of his own actual demise, surrounded by the policemen who'd taken a hatchet to his door, with a bottle of the clear lying empty in his lap and on the floor beside him, the Sunday Independent, with its headline 'THE INNOCENTS: A NATION MOURNS', just above a photo of Catherine Courtney and her daughter.
The rest being history, as the storytellers are fond of saying.
With the remains of Redmond Hatch being ferried back to Slievenageeha Cemetery, his dying wishes laudably being respected, before, with the minimum of ceremony, being conveniently delivered — into whose uncommonly patient and tender loving arms, do you suppose?
Why mine, of course, the extended extremities of Auld Ned Strange, to whom they had been promised a long time ago, and who in turn had promised to shield his charge from the vagaries of wind and weather. Outside a church one otherwise entirely unremarkable day, on Harold's Cross Road, to the south of Dublin city.
Redmond's eyes, when they opened, registered the most pleasant surprise - as he realised, to his delight, that he was not being confronted by some unspeakable, unimaginable horror as might reasonably have been expected, but by a frosted light refracting through the intersecting branches of the trees and a radiant vision of the woman he had loved, attired in the most beautiful long dress of the whitest satin, with a glittering silver tiara on her head, parting her lace veil as she emerged from the pines. Approaching him, she softly murmured: 'May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold', then lowered herself on to him ever so gently, whispering sweetly into his ear. Calling him 'darling' as she stroked his hair, before touching his neck with her tender 'sugar lips'.
At which point the blood began to comprehensively drain from his face, as he emitted his first sad, pitiable whimper.
Realising just who his companion was, as I flashed my incisors and drew him towards me: Little Red.
Winterwood Page 16
