by Neil Cross
‘And you.’
Phil smiled.
‘I didn’t know Frank was married.’
‘Well,’ said Frank. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I do,’ said Phil. ‘I really do.’
He threw the Daily Star on to the front seat of the Aston Martin.
‘So,’ he said, and made a sweeping gesture. ‘If you’d like to follow me.’
He pointed to a track that led yet further into the woods. They had taken only a few steps towards it when they heard a loud crack, like the clapping of a giant hand. It was followed by a second of utter stillness. Then birds erupted from the trees. There was the sound of slow, gentle applause and mutters of approval, like the sound of a village green cricket match.
‘Oh,’ said Phil. He looked at them over his shoulder. ‘You’re lucky. He’ll be in a good mood. I think he got one.’
The trail was narrow and steep, muddy at the edges. They ascended in single file, Sam bringing up the rear. After a few minutes of this, Phil paused, leaning against a tree.
‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘I hate the country.’
Frank clapped him on the shoulder.
‘Too much time at the wheel, mate,’ he said. ‘You need to get out more.’
Phil said, ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m too old. I’ve worked too hard. Look at my shoes.’
Frank looked down.
‘They’ll scrub up nice,’ he said. ‘With a bit of effort.’
Phil looked him up and down.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Like you’d know.’
Frank flicked his ponytail from his shoulder.
He said, ‘Shall we press on?’
Presently, the track reached a plateau. Shafts of light penetrated the leafy canopy, lighting thousands of tiny, flying bugs. They heard another loud crack, and more amiable laughter.
They stepped into a clearing. Two large picnic baskets had been arranged on a gingham sheet. There were three empty bottles of champagne, and three half-empty flûtes. Close to the picnic, a wooden frame had been erected. It creaked like a boat. Four large mammals hung from it, twisting slowly in the breeze. Their fur was spiked with blood and their lips pulled back in rigor. At first, Sam thought they might be badgers. They were big enough, but they were the wrong colour. And they looked feline.
Three men were on the brow of the low hill. One seemed to be an attendant. Dressed like Phil, he was lugging a fifth animal corpse towards the picnic. The other two men were dressed for shooting. They carried shotguns across their forearms. One was very tall, with long, white-blond hair. The other man was smaller, cropped, with a stance like a boxer.
Phil stopped and held up a warning hand, like a Cherokee scout. Frank and Sam halted at his shoulder.
Phil coughed into his fist. The cropped man turned to face them. The barrel of his gun was smoking. The edges of Sam’s nose were tickled by cordite. Even from a distance, the man looked physically powerful, with a much-broken pugilist’s nose. But he moved with a cultivated, assured grace.
He saw Phil and smiled. He had tiny teeth, like little ivory pegs.
He cracked the gun over his forearm and strolled towards them. He might have been sixty, lean and strong and weathered like hardwood.
The man with white hair wandered over the brow of the hill, followed by the attendant, leaving the dead prey to attract flies in the grass.
The cropped man stood before Frank. His eyes were periwinkle blue.
‘Carnie Frank,’ he said. His voice was deep, edged with accent and irony. ‘You look like a whatsit. A Village Person.’
Frank laughed and scratched the back of his head. He glanced at the ground.
‘Where did you get that hat?’
Frank removed the greasy Stetson and passed it through his hands like a steering wheel.
‘I like it,’ he said.
The man made a face.
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like it,’ he said. ‘It suits you. A man should have a hat.’
The man handed the shotgun to Phil, who took it without a word. He appeared to have no idea what to do with it. In the end, he propped the weapon against the frame from which swung the feline, badger-sized mammals.
The man glanced at Sam. His briefest scrutiny seemed jocular and inclusive. He was letting Sam in on the joke.
He looked at Frank and said, ‘So?’
‘Christ,’ said Unka Frank. ‘I’m sorry. I’m forgetting myself. Bill, this is Sam.’
Bill smiled. His eyes sparkled pleasantly. Sam found his grip, strong and restrained, oddly reassuring.
Sam said, ‘I hear you share a tattooist.’
Bill stepped back and put his head at an angle.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You hear that, do you?’
Bill looked at Frank.
There was a long, still moment.
‘It was a joke,’ said Frank.
‘I’ll bet it was,’ said Bill. ‘You cheeky monkey.’
His eyes were dead in his face.
The moment passed. Bill smiled again, and it was like the sun coming out. He turned that inclusive, intimate grin on Sam and said, ‘I was sorry to hear about your trouble.’
Phil came strolling back, his hands buried in his pockets.
‘Thank you,’ said Sam.
‘And Carnie Frank here tells me you’d like something done about it.’
Sam hesitated.
‘Listen,’ said Bill, pleasantly. ‘You’ve come here today because you’ve already made a decision.’
Sam lowered his eyes.
‘I’m sorry if I cut to the chase,’ said Bill. ‘But this is my day off.’
Sam looked around.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Right. I’m sorry. I thought you lived here.’
Bill examined the vast horizon, the unbroken forests stretching away in all directions.
‘Good God no,’ he said. ‘I’m not one for the country. I just pay the occasional visit. For the constitution.’
Sam nodded, as though he understood. He had the peculiar impression that Bill was far, far older than he appeared.
Bill came closer. Sam could feel his force field.
‘I never had children,’ said Bill. ‘Never needed them. But I understand a father’s love.’
Sam said nothing.
Bill looked at him.
He said, ‘And you love your boy? Jamie, is it?’
‘Yes,’ said Sam.
Alongside him, Unka Frank shuffled, uncomfortable.
Bill smiled, fascinated.
‘And is it a fierce thing, that love?’
Sam blinked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
Nobody spoke. Sam watched a murder of crows describe a loose spiral in the air.
Bill said, ‘All right then.’
Sam hesitated, fearing that he didn’t understand. But the meeting was over. Bill turned his back and wandered towards the frame, to get his gun. He paused on the way, to sip champagne.
Phil took Sam by the elbow and guided him back towards the canopy of trees. Without speaking, the three of them made their way back down to the clearing where the cars were parked. Halfway down, Phil lost his footing. They watched him toboggan on his arse, smearing his trousers with a broad, muddy stripe. He stood up and, disgusted, dusted himself down.
He said, ‘Fucking typical.’
Sam and Unka Frank waited, without looking at each other, while Phil collected himself.
When they reached the cars, Phil opened the boot of the Aston Martin and took out a suit-holder. He laid it on the low roof-of the car and unzipped it. Inside was a clean, pressed suit identical to the one he wore.
Loosening his belt, he said, ‘I told you he’d be in a good mood.’
Unka Frank touched an index finger to the brim of his
Stetson.
He said, ‘Nice one, Phil.’
Phil looked distracted. He was pulling his belt free of its loops.
‘No problem,’ he said. He placed the belt in a coil on the roof of the car and began to remove his trousers. Then he stood in jacket, shirt, tie, socks and shoes and held the muddy trousers up to the sun. His legs were white and hairy.
‘Look at that,’ he said.
Frank tutted and nodded his head.
‘Bad news,’ he said.
‘Do you know how much this cost?’
‘No,’ said Frank.
‘Well,’ said Phil, ‘I didn’t buy it at M&S, if you know what I mean. We can’t all be New Age travellers, mate.’
Frank chuckled.
He said, ‘I’ll see you in a bit, then.’
‘Yeah,’ said Phil. ‘See you, then.’
Frank beckoned Sam to get in the car. He remained silent until they reached the gates, which swung slowly open on creaky hinges, allowing them access to the public, if empty, highway.
Then Sam said, ‘What the fuck was that all about?’
Frank shrugged. He was chewing the beard that sprouted beneath his lower lip.
He said, ‘I think he wanted to see if he liked you.’
‘If he liked me? What does that have to do with it?’
Frank shrugged.
‘He’s that kind of bloke.’
‘What kind of bloke,’ said Sam, ‘exactly?’
‘The kind of bloke,’ said Frank, ‘whose tattoos you don’t mention.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sam. ‘I was just being friendly. I didn’t even see any tattoos.’
‘That’s not the bloody point,’ said Frank. ‘Jesus Christ. Didn’t I ask you to be careful what you said?’
Sam watched the blue sky flickering through the leaves overhead.
Quietly, he said, ‘You’re really scared of this man, aren’t you?’
‘Too bloody right I’m scared of him,’ said Frank. ‘And so should you be.’
They arrived at a junction. There was no traffic, but Frank paused there anyway. He took a series of slow, deep breaths.
‘Anyway,’ he said, turning right. ‘No harm done. He liked you. Let that be an end to it.’
Sam lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking.
He said, ‘So, what happens now?’
‘They’ll call you,’ said Frank.
He put on another tape. They didn’t speak again until they were back at Balaarat Street.
18
On Monday, Sam took delivery of the Chrysler.
Jamie saw the shining globular form hunkered down behind the hedge. He ran from the house. He was in the passenger seat, pushing buttons, before Sam had signed the delivery chit. Then he joined Jamie in the front seat. They looked at the empty road, hooking away from them.
Jamie said, ‘Can I drive it?’
‘No.’
‘Go on. Let me.’
‘You can’t.’
‘Yes, I can.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve watched you do it.’
‘It’s not as easy as it looks.’
Jamie sighed.
‘There’s the brake,’ he said, ‘and there’s the clutch. And there’s the accelerator.’
‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘Like what?’
Sam looked inside the glove compartment. Then he adjusted the driver’s seating position. He toyed with the steering wheel.
He said, ‘Do you fancy going somewhere?’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. Let’s go for a drive.’
‘Where to?’
‘Surprise. Go and pack.’
‘Don’t you need to?’
‘Need to what?’
‘Pack.’
‘Look behind the sofa.’
Sam had already booked them a room in a seaside hotel, and he’d packed an overnight bag the day before. It was hidden behind the sofa. While Jamie went in to pack, Sam flicked through the driver’s manual. His eyes slid down the words without purchase. He put the manual back in the glove compartment and searched for the indicators, the windscreen wipers, the horn. He looked up to see Jamie lugging both their bags down the garden path.
They drove with the windows open and the radio on, hardly bothering to speak. Sometimes, Jamie passed comment on the car’s performance and Sam’s occasional slips—several times he forgot where the indicators were, and twice he stalled at a junction. They both cheered when they saw the first distant sliver of ocean, glinting like a knife on the horizon.
Sam had booked them into a white-washed bed and breakfast hotel. It stood on a hill that dipped steeply into the cobbled centre of town. The day was at its highest and they were lazy with the baked heat of the car’s interior. Sam parked up and registered them at the desk. They ascended the musty stairs and dumped their bags at the foot of two monastically taut single beds, and went straight out. They lingered in the narrow streets, window shopping at rather baroque tourist shops. Sam bought them each a pair of sunglasses, cheap Rayban copies, and a Cornetto. They sat on the sea wall and watched fishing boats bob on the receding tide.
‘So,’ said Sam. ‘How are you feeling?’
Jamie shrugged and took a bite from the last quarter of his ice cream.
‘Are you feeling any better?’
Another shrug.
Sam put his hands down behind him, taking his weight. He kicked his heels against the wall.
‘You’re going to have to think about going back, pretty soon.’
They watched a flock of gulls gathering in the sky. Individual birds broke away and dived, white and silver flashes. Others crowded and cawed at a faded boat chugging in against the tide. Sunlight reflected on broken water. A low bank of cloud lay on the horizon, coloured like the gulls.
‘How do you feel about that?’
‘About what? Going back?’
‘Yeah.’
Jamie dropped the ice cream’s wrapper. It went helicoptering down, landing in the shallow, oily water that lapped at the slick harbour wall.
‘Don’t know.’
They watched the birds.
‘You don’t have to.’
‘Don’t have to what?’
‘Go back.’
Jamie brushed the hair from his eyes. The wind ballooned his jacket.
‘I’ve got to go somewhere,’ he said.
‘Somewhere, yes. But not back there. Not if you don’t want to.’
Jamie hugged his knees.
‘Everywhere’s the same,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Sam wanted to answer him, but no answer presented itself. He laid a hand on Jamie’s back, between his shoulders. He felt the delicate, bony knobs of his spine.
He said, ‘Do you like the car?’
Still hugging his knees, Jamie grabbed the scuffed suede toes of his trainers and rocked on the fulcrum of his coccyx.
‘It’s great,’ he said, without looking up from the water.
Two days later, Sam went back to work. He was about to leave for home after finishing his Thursday shift when his mobile rang in his briefcase. He dug for it urgently, fearing an emergency.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Sam?’
‘Yes?’
‘Phil.’
‘Phil?’
‘Phil. We met.’
There was a pause.
‘In the country,’ said Phil.
‘Oh,’ said Sam.
He turned away and cupped the phone close to his mouth, like a soldier lighting a cigarette.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said Phil. ‘Six-thirty a.m.’
‘Look,’ said Sam. ‘I’m not too sure about this
. You know.’
‘No,’ said Phil. ‘I don’t know.’
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.
He said, ‘Where do I meet you?’
When Phil had finished issuing instructions, Sam gathered his things and walked to the car, the Batmobile shape in the gathering darkness. He didn’t imagine that Dave Hooper was squatting like a troll behind the cars and in the corners. Instead, he imagined Dave Hooper at home, in front of the TV with a beer in his hand.
Without making a conscious decision, he consulted the A-Z that he kept, new and unused, in the glove compartment. He kept it there for much the same reason that one might bake bread in a new house. On the way home, he took a detour and parked outside Dave Hooper’s house. The street was quiet and narrow. Cars were parked half on the pavement. Sam had to double-park. He crossed his forearms on the steering wheel and stared at Dave Hooper’s house. It was much the same as the houses either side of it. Much the same as Mel’s, and Janet’s.
Much the same as the house Sam had grown up in. There was a scrap of front garden, bordered by a low hedge. The lights were on in every room.
He sat there for perhaps an hour, without knowing what he was waiting for. The Hoopers didn’t reward him with as much as a shadow passing across a window. Possibly nobody was home.
Eventually, he turned the key in the ignition and pulled away. There was no movement in the Hooper household. The combination of illumination and stillness was eerie. He glanced in the rearview mirror, as if looking for a passenger on the back seat.
He took a second detour, this time past Mel’s house. Again, all the lights were on. He thought about calling her—Where are you? Outside. In the car.—she would laugh and invite him in. Or perhaps she would be afraid the neighbours would see, and draw the wrong conclusion. For the same reason, he didn’t want to be seen staring at his sister’s house, disconsolate as a lover, so he stayed for only a moment. But he had the strong impression that Mel’s house too was empty. Then it seemed to him that all the houses on the estate were empty, and all the houses in the city beyond it. The city spread, a patchwork of hills and roads and rivers and estates, to every horizon. It was empty of all life, except the foxes and the rats and the pigeons. Houses stared at him as he passed. Only he and Jamie remained, and their memory of Justine. And he knew that even that connection was insubstantial and fading fast. It wasn’t enough to keep them together. Whatever joined them was dissolving. Soon it would rupture and they would fall separately into different worlds. Perhaps it had already happened and only Jamie knew it. Perhaps that accounted for the pitying looks Sam sometimes caught coming from his son’s direction. The mildness of that pity was terrible and debilitating. Jamie looking at him as if something were over.
