Shadows

by Thorne Moore

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. Where to begin?

  Al came to my rescue. ‘Fancy a walk?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sprang up, a little too eagerly. ‘Yes, why not?’

  ‘Tread the path.’ Molly nodded. ‘Get your balance right.’

  ‘Up to the stones?’ suggested Al as we set off, the air heavy with the smell of wet leaves, damp earth and wood smoke. ‘If you don’t mind passing the spring.’

  ‘I don’t mind; it’s cleaner now. And the stones will do just fine.’ I followed him. ‘Where’s Kim?’

  ‘Off, without big brother breathing down her neck.’ Al smiled thinly. ‘I’m in the dog house for throwing my weight around yesterday.’ He turned to face me. ‘Where’s Christian?’

  ‘When I left, still in bed. Completely out of it.’

  ‘Is he staying?’

  ‘Not if Michael pays him off again. What was he was asking for, this time?’

  ‘Fifteen thousand.’ Al picked up a twig and snapped it.

  ‘An opening gambit. Michael won’t have promised him anything like that.’

  ‘The doc shouldn’t have promised him anything at all.’

  ‘I know. Everyone knows. But—’

  ‘He should smack him back into the gutter where he belongs. I’ll do it for him, if you like.’ Al’s smile was grim and meaningful.

  I shrugged, helplessly. ‘What can we do? It’s Sylvia. Sometimes she screams at Chris, sometimes she throws things at him, but she can’t stop being his mother, and Michael will shift heaven and earth to keep her happy.’

  Al shook his head. ‘Does it keep her happy?’

  ‘No. Nothing about Christian will ever make her happy. He just gets worse. First it was verbal abuse, then vandalism, then stealing, then drugs, then blackmail. What’s the next step? Violence?’ I said it with disdain, then blushed. Why did violence in someone like Christian strike me as contemptible, irrational, wrong, whereas, with Al, I felt strangely equivocal? My willingness to bend in his favour was worrying; my principles were getting in a twist.

  Al wasn’t affected by similar moral qualms. ‘He’d better be careful who he sets out to hurt. There are people out there more than happy to get violent with him, and they’re not just spiteful little bullies. They mean business and they won’t have any compunction about crushing an insignificant worm like him. He’s got a lot less friends in that world than he needs.’

  ‘Have you been investigating him?’

  ‘I know people,’ said Al darkly.

  ‘Then you probably know more about his squalid life than we do. But look, let’s forget my horrible nephew. That wasn’t why I wanted to talk with you.’

  ‘Ah. You wanted to talk with me.’ Al smiled. ‘Your husband’s back.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. You know he really didn’t realise how stupid he was, telling Ronnie about the bog. I was so furious with him for doing it—’

  ‘I know you were.’ He laughed softly. ‘And now you’re not?’

  ‘Now – I don’t know. He and I need to talk things through.’

  ‘Yes, of course you do.’

  Was Al’s cheerful resignation a subtle way of fighting his own corner? I could have sworn he’d relished outshining my husband at the Fayre. But relationships are not built on an ability to look sexy in doublet and hose.

  I was letting myself be diverted again. ‘I didn’t come to talk about Peter either. At least, not directly. I’ve had a letter from Planning. The police must have reported the round house.’

  Al clasped his hands behind his head and took a deep breath.

  ‘They said it has to be…,’ I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.

  ‘I can guess.’ He snatched off a leafy wand and thrashed the undergrowth that had thickened as we emerged from the trees.

  ‘I haven’t told Sylvia yet, but I’ve discussed it with Michael. He’s furious, but he thinks he can talk some sense into them.’

  Al laughed.

  ‘He’s going to see them. We should have sorted something out, but if the archaeologists hadn’t started messing in the bog, no one would ever have noticed it.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. It was just an experiment.’

  ‘I’d hate to see all that effort come to nothing.’

  ‘It’s designed to be reabsorbed into the earth. Not quite so soon, maybe, but that was the idea. I didn’t intend it as my Ozymandias moment.’

  ‘Yes, but you’re living in it.’

  ‘So, we have the yurt. And the yurt moves. I doubt if we’ll be around here much longer. Can’t stand still, can we?’

  ‘But – what about the hall?’ I asked weakly.

  Al laughed at my absurdly inane response. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll see the summer out, I expect. And I’ll make sure the hall gets finished.’ He casually gathered me in to kiss me. Just to demonstrate what I’d be missing.

  What was I supposed to do, give them marks out of ten?

  Chapter 17

  Christian woke. Not quite the Kraken. He emerged, in the evening, surprisingly subdued and even, by his standards, polite.

  ‘Hi.’ He flopped down on the chaise longue, as we were having coffee. ‘Christ, I’m shattered.’ He groped for his cigarettes, then stopped. ‘Oh, not in the house, right?’

  ‘But it’s a lovely evening,’ said Sylvia. ‘We could all go out and sit on the terrace.’ No matter what had passed before, the smallest word or gesture of goodwill from her son had her desperate to preserve the moment of grace.

  The rest of us were less impressed. Peter and I regarded him in stony silence, but Michael, with a visible effort, responded to Sylvia’s aching wishes and did his best. ‘Yes, let’s get the chairs out.’

  So we all trooped out onto the terrace. Christian even obliged by carrying a couple of cushions for the slightly damp chairs that stood on the gravel. I decided that the mossy parapet was preferable and my husband sat by me, protective and alert for the first hint of malice. His gallantry was both touching and irritating.

  Christian lit his cigarette. ‘Suppose I missed dinner. Anything to eat?’

  ‘Oh of course! You must be starving.’ Sylvia jumped up. ‘I could make you a sandwich. Would you like that?’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Ham? Or ham and cheese? Would you like it toasted? Or there’s some beef—’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Christian.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Michael, pushing Sylvia firmly back into her seat.

  Christian glanced at us and I felt Peter stiffen. ‘So you’ve got your fair out of the way, then.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Must have taken some organising.’

  ‘Oh it did!’ Sylvia smiled coyly at her son. ‘But Kate was wonderful. She had everything sorted out and under control. Things I wouldn’t even have thought about.’

  He nodded with a grin. ‘But you have to admit, you did look a bunch of wankers.’ He laughed, but it wasn’t malicious, more a schoolboy snigger, and I suppose, to a schoolboy, we had looked absurd.

  ‘I never mind making a fool of myself,’ beamed Sylvia.

  I looked at her fondly. ‘We live only to make sport for our neighbours.’

  Christian flicked his ash onto the gravel. ‘I suppose Tam’s in Spain?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sylvia hesitated. She couldn’t leave that offence entirely unrebuked. ‘You know she was very upset, Chris, when you left her behind.’

  ‘Left her behind?’ He looked surprised. It was a look he’d been preparing. Over-rehearsed. ‘She got all excited about some rabbit or something. When she jumped out, I waited for her, but she wouldn’t come back to the car. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘All her things were in your car. Her phone—’

  ‘Yeah, well I realised that, didn’t I? So I dumped them all on the roadside. I thought if she wouldn’t get back in the car, at least she’d come and pick them up, call a taxi or something. She did, didn’t she?’

  ‘No. Well, it was all a great muddle and very unfortu
nate, but it can’t be helped now.’

  Michael returned with the sandwich and handed it to Christian with an inscrutable expression.

  ‘Thanks, Mike.’ Christian responded with a sardonic twitch of an eyebrow and an innocent smile.

  I understood that this pleasant humour would last until the second Michael gave Christian what he wanted. I was on edge. I felt much safer when Christian was showing his true colours.

  *

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ I suggested to Peter, the following lunchtime. ‘Down to the pub.’

  ‘Yes!’ He was just as eager to escape. Whichever way we turned, there was Christian, waiting for his tête a tête with Michael. But Michael had gone out, probably to withdraw the protection money and hunt down a planning officer, so Christian had to behave for another day. I could feel the gnawing boredom and frustration, oozing through that innocent façade. How much longer would he be able to keep it up? Constructive occupation was beyond him so he loafed around, doing nothing. His mother descended on him whenever he settled for five minutes, offering him drinks, biscuits, attempts at conversation, plans for a proper apartment, up in the attics ‘so you can move in permanently, if you like.’

  She was too busy worrying over him, like a warbler tending a fledgling cuckoo, to notice my horror. The thought of Christian in permanent residence made me desperate – but mine wasn’t the only desperation. I could feel it swilling around the house. Sylvia’s, desperate to redeem her relationship with her son? Or Chris’s? I didn’t want to think what he might be desperate about.

  ‘I prefer it when he’s being outrageous,’ I said, as Peter and I strolled down the drive. ‘Then at least I can scream at him.’

  ‘What did happen with Tamsin?’ he asked.

  I told him.

  ‘And Sylvia lets him back in the house?’

  ‘You know how it is with them. Sylvia can’t let go.’

  ‘All right, he’s her son. But Tammy’s her daughter.’

  ‘The conundrum of parenthood?’

  ‘Yes…’ We both fell silent.

  As we started down the lane towards the village, I took his arm resolutely. ‘We need to talk about the conundrum of our non-parenthood, don’t we?’

  ‘Kate—’

  ‘We lost a baby, Peter, and that’s at the heart of all our problems. Not the beginning or the end of them, but it’s at the heart. Everything that was wrong with us was there. If you really want to discuss things properly, we have to start with the one issue we’ve always avoided.’

  He steeled himself. ‘All right. I just want you to know – the last time I was here, what you said – I have never blamed you. I know you wanted the baby as much as I did.’

  I was determined to be honest. ‘No, you didn’t know. You couldn’t know, because I wouldn’t let you. Every day you showed how much you wanted a child, but I showed nothing. I kept it all inside me. I felt the baby die, just like I felt my mother die, and all I could think was that if I didn’t hold myself together, keep it under lock and key, a tidal wave would come down on me. So when I told you the baby was dead, I looked as if I didn’t care.’

  ‘Yes, but I knew—’

  ‘You hoped, Peter. You hoped I cared. But because I seemed so callous, there was a moment when you thought, “She’s done this thing.” You can’t deny it, Peter. Don’t deny it. Because there have been terrible, dark moments when I’ve wondered it myself.’ I studied the road ahead of me. ‘Not if I wanted my child dead, but if death was all I had to give.’

  ‘No!’ said Peter. ‘That’s not true. That was depression talking. I never seriously thought you’d done anything bad. You couldn’t.’

  ‘But the thought came to you, Peter. I watched you fight against it, I watched you do everything right, comfort me, grieve for me, and I couldn’t respond. I’d frozen everything out of me.’

  I could feel his arm trembling. ‘You’re always telling me you’re not a clairvoyant, and yet you say you know what I was thinking?’

  ‘Only because I know you so well. Just like later, when you were pouring your heart out to Gabrielle. The more she sympathised, the guiltier you felt. I could read it in every smile and gesture you gave me. All women recognise guilt.’

  Peter snorted. He always did, when he wanted to deny the truth. ‘I still say it’s witchcraft.’

  I laughed. ‘Womancraft.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘That’s what men have always said.’

  He sighed. ‘Even if I did have stupid moments, it didn’t mean I stopped loving you.’

  ‘I know. That’s what made it so awful. You were trying so hard and I still couldn’t respond. The more I faced the awfulness of it, the more I froze. The more you reached out, the lonelier I felt.’

  ‘I failed you.’

  ‘Good God, no. Neither of us could cope with the way I am – was. I have to change. I can’t deal with life, or death, by sealing myself up inside an iceberg. That’s why I came here: to force a thaw. I came to learn how to feel, to respond, to block out the shadows and embrace the light, the positive, get on with life, like a normal person.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I am learning the art of balance. Getting my rational self back. Perhaps I’ve learned not to freeze up quite so completely.’

  ‘Why don’t you just talk about your odd feelings honestly? If you’re among friends, how could it hurt?’

  ‘I told you about my odd feelings at the bog,’ I reminded him, and he grimaced. ‘You didn’t think it could possibly hurt to pass it on, but I know that to open my mouth is to release bedlam. There’s no predicting and no controlling what happens.’

  ‘Are you so desperate to be in control?’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Maybe not so much.’

  I thought about it. ‘I’m surrounded by the chaos of the universe. There seem so many more dimensions than people realise. Control is the only way I can deal with it.’

  ‘What you need is one person you can confide in, without fear. One person who promises never to repeat a word of it, to anyone. Not even to professors met once at a conference. Absolute silence.’

  ‘My God, Peter, you make marriage to me sound like membership of a secret sect.’

  He laughed. ‘I could build a chapel, I suppose, with all your mysterious revelations encoded in cryptic carvings.’

  ‘You see, you’re itching to leave clues already.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me one small thing that I can safely pass on; what do you want to drink?’ We’d reached the Cemaes Arms and he gestured to the door. The low, dark, beamed interior was packed, and the larch-shaded beer garden was heaving too.

  ‘You do the valiant thing and fight to the bar. I’ll sit on the bridge and fan myself like a lady. And a mineral water, please.’

  Peter smiled. ‘Because alcohol weakens your defences? Loosen your control a little.’

  ‘All right, then. A white wine.’

  We sat, with a dozen others, on the parapet of the old bridge that arched over the shallow river. The low Welsh murmurs of the somnolent low season were buried under a babble of English, Dutch, Japanese, probably Martian. One world superimposed on another. In a month or so the tourists would be gone and this deep valley would be a silent, forgotten backwater, the rain falling on sodden yellow leaves, the roads deserted but for an occasional tractor, the bar of the Cemaes Arms empty of all but a couple of farmers watching football over a lunchtime pint. The solid reality beneath the raucous trivia of the present.

  Was there a solid reality underlying the raucous trivia of my marriage? ‘You want to try again, don’t you?’ I watched ducks circling under us, ready to pounce on falling crisps.

  Peter gasped. ‘You see. Clairvoyance!’

  ‘All right.’ I laughed. ‘Yes, you want to try again.’

  ‘I don’t like giving up so easily.’

  ‘Nothing easy about me though, is there?’

  ‘Nothing is easy if it’s worth
trying for.’

  ‘You’ve been reading cracker mottoes again.’

  ‘Just because I found it in a cracker, doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Yes, I want us to – to think about trying again.’ He stopped me before I could interrupt. ‘I’m not asking you to say yes and swoon into my arms, this very moment. I just want you to think about it. Reverently, discreetly, soberly.’

  ‘Soberly? And he gives me wine?’

  ‘Tipsily then.’

  ‘Tipsy or sober, yes, I am thinking about it.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’

  We finished our drinks and started back along the valley, up the wooded lane towards Llys y Garn. ‘If we were to start again, we’d need to sort out some house rules first,’ I said.

  ‘Of course. I promise that in future I won’t—’

  ‘No! Rules for me. I’m the problem.’ As the perfect bullet point, a distant shotgun shattered the green silence of the lane. Rooks cawed in indignation.

  ‘You’re not a problem,’ Peter insisted. He took my hands. ‘Kate, you’re—’

  Two more booms of the gun and another wild flutter of outraged birds.

  ‘It’s the peace of the country.’ I laughed at his exasperated frown. ‘Farmers red in tooth and claw.’

  ‘Couldn’t they choose another moment to slaughter the local rabbit population? What I was trying to say—’

  More shots. A cacophony of birds erupted from the trees. ‘Those are our woods.’

  Peter looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Dewi wouldn’t be shooting in our woods!’ My stomach tightened. ‘Let’s get back. Find out what’s happening.’

  We hurried, our footsteps punctuated by continuing booms. The valley reverberated.

  ‘Kate!’ Sylvia was out on the drive, as we hurried up. ‘There you are. I don’t suppose Christian’s with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I couldn’t find him. I thought maybe he’d gone with you.’ She flinched at the sound of another double shot.

  I seized her arm. ‘Sylvia, have you checked the gun locker?’

  ‘I thought maybe Michael had taken it. He was talking about getting rid of it.’

  I spelled it out. ‘Christian’s got hold of the shotgun!’