Red Shift

by Alan Garner

  “It’s far enough,” said Tom: “and parky. Let’s have a warm.”

  He took Jan’s arm and led her into a furniture shop. It was sombre with rolled carpets on end. Kitchens were laid out for breakfasts. Tom stepped between the carpets into the window display of three-piece suites and sat down in deep chintz. He pulled Jan next to him and stretched his legs to the glass where the fire would have been. He smiled in the spotlights.

  “You’re showing off,” said Jan.

  “In comfort, though. And if you keep your voice down we shan’t be noticed. They’re not bothered in the street, are they? I’ve brought sandwiches.” He took a packet from his anorak and unwrapped it on the carpet. “Spam,” he said. “And banana.”

  “Mind the floor.”

  “The maids will clear.”

  They ate the sandwiches, cupping their hands to catch crumbs.

  “Not my father’s, I’m afraid.”

  “I miss him. Those Sunday teas.”

  “He is strangely civilised.”

  “How’s your mother?”

  “She misses him, too: if he’s quick.”

  “Idiot.” Jan gathered up the remains of the food.

  “He’s a good cook,” said Tom.

  “Is that all?”

  “Take your coat off. You’ll feel the cold if you don’t.” They nestled in the sofa. The crowd shopped, passed by.

  “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re here,” said Tom.

  “Your mother’s written to me once or twice.”

  “She never said.” He unclipped a price ticket and fastened it to his jeans. “Do you think they’ll believe in us now? I’m Twenty Guineas To Clear. What’ll you be? An Uncut Moquette?”

  “You’re crackly. Why?”

  “I think our taste is lacking. That rug isn’t quite us. But then this can never be a room for anybody else. We’re bits of other futures.”

  “What is it?”

  “Crackly. Spiders under my skin.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m out of my mind for you, and the instant you step off that train it’s the beginning of parting. Time runs out on us. I’m not living. I’m one Crewe station. I wake each morning hoping the day’s the dream and the night real. You don’t send letters very often—”

  “I do—”

  “—and I’m so futile and lonely and miserable and awash with self-pity without you, and I’ve no money, and I’ve ridden sixteen miles on my mother’s bike to get here, and we sit in this public privacy, and it’s what I live for, it’s the real time, but as soon as we reach it, it starts to go, and all our living and working and doing is apart and time-between, and if this is what it’s like after eight weeks—”

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked a salesman.

  “I doubt it.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “You might, if you didn’t ask rhetorical questions.”

  “Thank you,” said Jan. “We’re going.”

  “There was no need for me to be rude to that man, either,” said Tom on the pavement. The wind gusted his white face.

  “I haven’t waited all this time, and come all this way, to be miserable,” said Jan in the British Home Stores.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You always are.”

  “I see everything at once.”

  “Try not to be so clever, for a change. Be more positive. Nothing’s ever wasted. When we’re apart, think of the next time getting nearer.”

  “Yes, nurse.”

  “The bottle’s half full, not half empty.”

  “It used to be up to the neck and brimming over.”

  “It still is, if you think straight.”

  “This cafeteria’s a cattle-pen.”

  “I’ll thump you.”

  “Still, it’s not bad. In evolutionary terms, Olduvai Gorge to Crewe in two million years is knocking on.”

  “And you are changing the subject.”

  “No. Your argument is impeccable. My attitude was negative.”

  “Why do you give in without a fuss?”

  “When you’re wrong, and rumbled, it’s better to be the first to say so.”

  “That’s still dodging the issue.”

  “I know.”

  They moved from shop to shop, resting for as long as they were unnoticed, until they found a crowded Bingo room, so busy and full of smoke that they were able to sit in peace. They watched whole families ranged intent on their illuminated panels, while prams and children rolled about the floor.

  “Parents’ Day at Cape Kennedy,” said Tom. “Watch their concentration.”

  “All over nothing.”

  “There’s something to be said for random selection in a causal universe.” Tom was looking at the coloured numbered balls as they danced in the air jet before being sucked into choice. “You and I met with as much reason.”

  The Bingo litany was intoned through loudspeakers.

  “That woman has a lump of coal in front of her,” said Jan.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s primitive! She’s behaving as though talismans change things.”

  “Perhaps they do.”

  “A lump of coal?”

  “There may be a fossil in it,” said Tom.

  The day went.

  They walked back towards the station in the early dark.

  “Have you remembered Orion? Ten o’clock?”

  “Every night,” said Jan. “The girls must think I’m barmy.”

  “It’ll be well up by the time you reach Euston.” He bought a platform ticket. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. There are no good-byes, are there? As soon as the train comes. I’ll not wait. The train’s the beginning of meeting.”

  “Yes.”

  “Smile, then.”

  The train snaked across the points. Tom opened a door.

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Hello.”

  “Is not my word like a fire? saith the Lord; and like a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces—”

  “I should’ve smashed it,” said Thomas. “Rector’s telling me.”

  “You big lummox,” said Margery. “He’s talking about the Irish.”

  “Let us pray,” said the Rector.

  “There wanted a Tempter, and Thou wast the cause that he was wanting. There wanted time and place, and Thou wast the cause that they wanted. The Tempter was present, and there wanted neither places nor time, but Thou heldest me back, that I should not consent.

  “The Tempter came full of darkness, as he is, and Thou didest harden me, that I might despise him.

  “The Tempter came armed and strongly, but to the intent he should not overcome me, Thou didest restrain him and strengthen me.

  “The Tempter came transformed into an Angel of Light, and to the intent he should not deceive me, Thou didest rebuke him, and to the intent I should know him Thou didest enlighten me.

  “For he is the great red dragon, the old serpent—”

  “Eh up,” said Margery, “he’s not taken breath yet.”

  “—which draweth down the third part of the stars of Heaven with his tail, and casteth them to the ground—”

  “Mister Fowler,” said Dick Steele, “you’ll not mind if we get on, will you?”

  “You must do as you please,” said the Rector.

  “I doubt prayers won’t keep muskets off, and there’s that bank to be finished yet.”

  “You’re welcome in this church,” said the Rector. “But leave the dead to their rest.”

  “There’s none as’ll worry if they’re thrutched before doomsday.”

  “If you’re for war, send to the garrison at Crewe.”

  “They know already,” said John. “But do you think they’d come? And if they did?”

  “A horse eats its share, choose what the rider’s coat,” said Dick Steele.

  “It’s all one to me,” said Randal Hassall. “It doesn’t matter what a man calls his bloody self when he’s taking m
y cows. They’ve still bloody went.”

  “They trample us,” said John.

  “ ‘Us’?” said the Rector.

  “They’ve trampled, and spoilt—and they’ll not do it again.”

  “Thatch burns without taking sides, Rector.”

  “Mine bloody did. Twice. Once for King, once for Parliament. And no bloody harvest, neither.”

  “I have called you here for safety,” said the Rector. “The Irish are starved and naked, with years of fighting in their bellies. We are not their concern. Is it not better to lose food and cloth than life and house and land? Show Christmas in your hearts.”

  “The prayer you started,” said John. “Doesn’t it end, ‘But Thou, O Lord, deliver us from the net of the Fowler’?”

  “That’s bloody telling him.”

  “Watch your tongue, Mister,” the Rector said to John. “Especially in the company you’ve chosen.”

  “You reckon?”

  “ ‘Those who refuse to rule must be ruled by those inferior to themselves,“’ the Rector said in Greek.

  “ ‘But who will rule the rulers?’ ” John answered in Latin.

  “I like to hear old church talk again,” said Jim Boughey. “Services aren’t what they were now we understand them.”

  “Go back to sleep,” said John. “Dick, we’ll leave the bank. Set watch from the tower. Margery, help with the women. Thomas, fetch the cows by the North Door and tether them. Settle down. Clear two rows of pews for firewood, but mind the rushes don’t catch. Father—if you’ve prayers—I’m sorry—”

  The Rector looked down from the pulpit. “I’ve prayers,” he said. “And faith. What more can you achieve?”

  “Whatever I will to do,” said John.

  “Oh?” The Rector’s voice was cold. ” ‘Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades, or loose the cords of Orion?’ ”

  “That’s Job thirty-eight thirty-one. But I’ll find my own words. You say your prayers.”

  “Cop hold of this,” said Margery. She gave Thomas a bundle from under her shawl. “And don’t you harm it while I get back.”

  “Right, Madge.”

  Sparks echoed, and a thin line of smoke strung to the roof. Thomas packed the bundle inside his shirt, opened the North Door and brought in the cows from the graveyard. Children were beginning to organise their games. The men of the watch who were not on the tower played dice by the spiral stair. John moved among the groups. The smell of living filled the church.

  “It’s her petticoat,” said Thomas, pleased and furtive as he opened his shirt for John to look. “From when we were handseled. We went getting alder bark all along the Wulvarn one Sunday for dye it.”

  “Keep it safe, then, you heathen,” said John. “And the thunderstone. She’s set a lot by both, think on. Don’t smash it.”

  “The lesson is taken from the sixtieth book of Isaiah,” said the Rector, “beginning to read at the first verse. ‘Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you. For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples.’ ”

  “I’d not smash it. Not now. Really. Not with the petticoat and that.”

  “You’re fond, Thomas Rowley. Let’s be doing.”

  “Any mail?”

  “Aunty Evelyn and Uncle Peter, Aunty Marina, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison: one from London. Father’ll be home shortly. And I don’t want you in the kitchen. It’ll spoil the treat.”

  “I’ll revise my Greek,” said Tom. He lay on his bed and put the cans over his ears.

  The caravan dipped as Tom’s father came up the steps from the carport. He was holding a square box against his chest. Tom felt his parents move about the kitchen. He gave them five minutes, then closed his book.

  “Ready?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He went into the kitchen. They were sitting at the table.

  “ ‘—Happy Birthday, dear To-hom;

  “ ‘Happy Birthday to you!’ ”

  He looked at the cake in the middle of the table. “Did you make that?”

  “Is it all right?” said his father.

  “It’s incredible.”

  The cake was the shape of a railway engine, the icing meticulous and coloured, with his father’s regimental crest on the side.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It’s—”

  “I was plundering my mind for a theme,” said his father, “a motif: I thought we needed to show—”

  “It’s—”

  “—We needed to show you were going far.”

  “It’s great.”

  “He thinks a lot of you,” said Tom’s mother. “You don’t like it, do you?”

  “It must have taken ages—”

  “Oh, an hour here and there—”

  “He was up all times last week. Didn’t come home till three this morning.”

  “Thanks,” said Tom. “Thanks very much. Thanks.”

  “Presents next,” said his mother.

  “We didn’t know what to give you—”

  “They’re only odds and ends—”

  “You shouldn’t have bothered—”

  “And you’re growing so fast—”

  “Am I?”

  “We couldn’t think—”

  “Anyway—”

  “It’s all right,” said Tom.

  “Well, open them.”

  The first packet was a tie and two pairs of socks.

  “You can change them if they’re no use.”

  “No. They’re great. Thanks.”

  “Or I’ll have ’em,” said his father.

  “You won’t!” said Tom. He unfastened his mother’s present. It was a notebook with a padded binding, and the title in gold leaf: “Books I Have Read.”

  “It’s got columns for Dates, Names and Comments,” said his mother.

  “Yes. Yes. Smashing. Thanks.”

  “That’s all,” said his father. “We didn’t know what would do for, for, well, what you might call a real present.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Tom.

  “But we’re getting one: later, like.”

  “Actually,” said Tom, “the money would do.”

  “It would not!” said his mother. “You’d only spend it.”

  “It’s like gift tokens,” said his father. “There’s no thought behind them.”

  “We’re saving up,” said his mother. “You’ll have a special one for Christmas.”

  “Now then.” His father cleared the wrapping paper away. He folded each piece, and arranged the presents either side of the cake, propping the book against a plate. Buns, trifle, jam tarts and two different flavours of jelly: and lemonade. “Now then.” He checked the camera. “Pretend to cut the cake. Ready? Hold it.”

  Flash.

  “One more.”

  Tom sat and looked at the table. “I’m very grateful—”

  “Of course, love,” said his mother. “Now have some trifle. It’s your favourite.”

  “What’s Janet sent?” said his father.

  “A card.”

  “No present?” said his mother.

  “We’d arranged—”

  “Nursing’s not well salaried,” said his father. “It’s more what you might call a vocation.”

  “She’ll have means.”

  “She’s living off her pay,” said Tom.

  “Still, she might’ve sent something,” said his mother. “She could afford to go wherever it was she went this year.”

  “Parcel post’s often delayed—”

  “Give over,” said Tom’s mother. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?”

  “When did the god come to you?” she said.

  “Did he?” said Macey.

  He sat with her by the fire. She painted him again with alder. Autumn was over. Logan had made them build huts among the crags, empty deployments of strength. No tribe had been seen, and in that time they had grown their hair, and tattooed their skins, to cover the
sear of armour.

  “The god attacked Barthomley in you, and you couldn’t be killed.”

  “I’m outside when Macey’s killing.”

  “Then the god is in you.”

  “Not any more.”

  She marked his brow with the red juice. “What god is he?”

  “I don’t remember. My father wasn’t told to me. Only the axe. I was seven when the Romans came, and I lay by a chariot while the huts were burning, and I looked at the flames in the thatch through the spokes. The wheel was going round— Then I was in a Roman tent. They said I’d killed eleven men. Logan stopped me. That’s how it’s been. I can’t fight. He knows about the axe. Sometimes Logan makes me go. Macey kills. That’s why they keep him. He’s good at it.”

  “Close your eyes.”

  He nestled and reached for her ear. “That’s what I want.”

  “Feel safe?”

  “Safer.”

  “Still scared?”

  He burrowed against her.

  “What of?”

  “Same. Blue silver. And red. And. And the thing I see.”

  “Tell me,” she said. “Don’t be scared.”

  “Sometimes. When I’m on watch, and I’m scared, and blue silver—there’s no camp—just empty—no you. No you. Edge of the rock, I see—a tower. It scares me. Are you scared?”

  “I’m not the one who has to see it.”

  “There’s more. When I went blue silver at Barthomley, I saw a tower among the huts on the grave mound. There was a door in the tower, and I ran to hide from Macey while he was killing. I ran through a big door, into a stone forest, very dark, but sun shining down between the trees, all different colours, and I know it was night. But Macey wasn’t killing. I was. I killed your men under the tower in the stone forest, but there wasn’t one.”

  “What else? You killed the men: why shouldn’t the rest be true?”

  “Things.”

  “What things?”

  “All sorts. I can’t tell you. Things. No names. Things. Not real. Never before. Are they? These things. I see.”

  “Close your eyes,” she said. “Forget about them.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “I do believe you. We’re the ones who can’t see. Happen we’re lucky. Why does the blue silver come?”

  “Dunno. It came. When. I killed the man. I use the axe. Macey doesn’t kill him. Macey doesn’t kill him. Macey’s gone away. I’m scared. Axe and Macey don’t like me killing. They leave me. But I can’t look after my mates. I need Macey and stone axe.”