He wasn’t going to risk the shortest route to the school—he couldn’t afford a broken bone or even a sprain just now, if ever—and so he settled for the least hazardous. From the top of a mound the school blocked his view of the playing field. The next time it rose into sight, only the roof was visible above the high thick hedge that boxed the grounds in. He had to find his way around a copse webbed with ivy before he was able to reach the hedge.
A track led beside it, or at least a penumbra of mud that fringed the shadow of the forest. The hedge was several times Fraith’s height and at least twice as thick as the width of his rotund stomach. It was far too thoroughly entangled for even the smallest child to squeeze through, and not just full of vicious thorns but bristling with them. Surely nothing like it would be allowed on school property these days, and he wondered how long ago it had been planted to have grown so much.
Since he couldn’t see the school gates, he made his way along the soggy track towards the field. The windows he glimpsed through the hedge were as dark as the depths of the woods. Either the woman with the microphone hadn’t often used one or her shrillness was distorting the transmission. Perhaps she was pretending to be excited, because Fraith couldn’t see much to inspire her as he came in sight of the field.
The sack race was over. Several man-sized bags were propped against the schoolyard wall. Fraith’s head was swimming with exertion, and he might have imagined that the contestants had stayed in their sacks, which were jerking with the wind. In fact the bags couldn’t have been used in the race—they must be full of rubbish, given how stained they were. He was glad to see that the sports day wasn’t too rigorously organised; some of the young spectators on the far side of the field were playing a game of their own, throwing a ragged rugby ball or baseball to one another. Perhaps the amplified voice had grown shrill in a bid to reclaim their attention for the official event, such as it was. Fraith could see just one runner on the field, dashing along a track composed of muddy footprints in the not especially neat grass. Whatever kind of competition this might be, Fraith hadn’t time to wait for it to finish. “Excuse me,” he shouted through the widest gap—thinner than his thumb—he could find in the hedge. “Can you help?”
Perhaps nobody could see him, but none of the spectators facing away from him turned to look. Surely the hedge couldn’t have made him inaudible. Perhaps the children had been told to ignore anyone outside the grounds. In any case he would do better talking to an adult, and he advanced along the unofficial track. He hadn’t identified a single grown-up, not even the one with the microphone or loudhailer, when he caught sight of the gates past the front of the school.
They were open, though not fully. He would have to make his way around two sides of the grounds to them, but at least he wouldn’t be yelling through the hedge. As he turned away he glimpsed the solitary runner stumble and fall. Half a dozen spectators ran to help him up, quite the opposite of how Fraith would have been treated at school. Fraith was alongside the brick wing that enclosed the schoolyard when he thought he heard the amplified voice calling him back.
It was saying somebody was back at school, although surely not the competitors. Now that Fraith thought about it, the lone runner hadn’t looked too youthful. Might that explain what Fraith had heard earlier? Perhaps this was a special day, the kind schools sometimes put on, where roles were reversed and it was the teachers’ turn to compete. Even the amplified voice might belong to an adolescent boy, since Fraith heard it crack as it enthused about a game of catch.
Sunlight poked jagged holes in the hedge as he came abreast of the front of the school. A drive led through the woods to the gates, but it was blocked by fallen trees. In any case the gap between the spiky wrought-iron gates was too cramped for any vehicle to pass through. Twigs were entangled around the hinges, and the ground was stained rusty where the gates had settled into the mud. Fraith was wondering if he’d chanced upon a reunion at a defunct school, in which case the spectators might well be the children of the pupils, when he was distracted by a rhythmic clatter and a terse shriek that resounded across the field.
It had to be the railway. So it was beyond the far side of the playing field, but he still didn’t know the way to the station. Someone must, and Fraith hurried through the lockjawed gates and up the weedy gravel drive. The low sunlight met him with such a fierce glare that all the windows through which it was shining looked unglazed. Once he was past the front of the school he had to fend off the light with his hand. Even shading his eyes didn’t give him much of his sight back. He blinked like an animal just rousted from its lair as he stumbled alongside the school.
He could almost have fancied the commentator was talking about trains—about laying the track. Perhaps his confusion had lent the voice a mocking quality unless, since it was speaking of teachers now, that was how it actually sounded. Fraith dabbed at his eyes and then held the hand in front of them, but had to raise it to see the field, where another isolated runner was sprinting across the grass. He was heading for a gap between the spectators, some of whom appeared to be edging towards it; no doubt they were preparing to welcome the competitor. Fraith raised his hand beside his face and turned to peer along the schoolyard edge of the field.
He couldn’t see a single adult among the spectators, insofar as he could make them out at all. The large sacks tied up with frayed cord and propped against the schoolyard wall were continuing to twitch, although he couldn’t feel a wind. Not just the sacks but the untended turf around them were stained a colour that he did his best to find autumnal, and he was surprised if not uneasy that the watchers hadn’t moved away from them. He was straining his eyes to distinguish even one face when all the onlookers leaned forward to gaze across the field.
Fraith peered under his hand into the sunlight and still had to narrow his eyes. There was no longer a gap in the mass of spectators along the far side of the field. At first he couldn’t locate the runner, and then he saw a figure sprawled on the muddy grass, apparently having veered towards one corner of the hedge. In a moment several onlookers converged to haul him to his feet and march him out of competition, so enthusiastically that Fraith thought he glimpsed the man’s feet attempting to run in the air.
Were they presenting him with a trophy just for joining in? Someone by the distant hedge stepped forward, holding up a slim item against the sun. A dismayingly familiar sound greeted the gesture—a rhythmic clatter somewhere in the audience. Fraith had to peer about to locate a group of boys who were knocking cricket stumps together in a salute that seemed not merely improvised but primitive. The clatter continued as the pointed object rose high and parted its hefty blades before swooping at the figure held by spectators. The savage drumming ceased, isolating another sound—an exhausted shriek that was cut off at once. Spectators closed around the activity, which appeared to involve a good deal of exertion and repetition. Perhaps Fraith hadn’t been wholly mistaken in thinking of a trophy, because in a while a group of boys darted away, lobbing their prize to one another. It was about as rounded as the other ragged ball had been.
Fraith tried to concentrate on just one thought in the hope it was the truth: that all the onlookers were so intent on the spectacle they hadn’t noticed him. His mouth tasted sour and dusty, every heartbeat seemed to make his entire body quiver, but as two boys dragged a limp incomplete shape to join several more beside the far hedge he managed to free himself of his appalled fascination and set about backing towards the school. He was still in the open when he saw movement by the schoolyard wall.
The metal object glinted as it rose to shoulder height and higher. It was an old loudspeaker held by someone halfway along the line of figures beside the wall. The sunlight must be interfering with Fraith’s vision, since the face behind the built-in microphone had a distinctly makeshift look. Its words were plain enough, despite a shrillness that sounded no less senile than childish. “Teach them,” it screeched while the megaphone added a rusty distortion. “Pay them back.”
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At once too much else that Fraith had heard it saying became clearer. Perhaps it was the school rather than the day that was special, though he would rather not learn how. If he’d chanced upon some kind of reunion or revival, it was best left uninvestigated until he could alert the authorities. The sun had started to hide its face behind a forest mound beyond the playing field, and he could have wished it weren’t restoring his eyesight as the figures by the schoolyard grew more distinct. He even had the grotesque fancy that the harsh shrill voice belonged to the megaphone itself, give how temporary the commentator’s mouth looked. As if provoked by the thought, the figure swung the megaphone towards him. “There’s another,” it cried in a voice that seemed to scrape the loudspeaker.
All the spectators along the wall turned to find Fraith, who struggled not to see their ramshackle faces clear, because he had a sense that doing so would leave him unable to move. “I’m not,” he protested, having understood too much. “I’m like you. I was, I promise.”
This earned him a response, not just from all the onlookers beside the wall. He’d never heard anyone laugh in unison before, a piercing noise that sounded as much like a chant as mirth. It almost blotted out the answer of the megaphone. “Aren’t now,” the strident voice said.
Fraith thought he had one chance to run for it, and swung around. Half a dozen former pupils of the school had made their stealthy way behind him. Whoever used to look after the grounds must have had quite a collection of implements, from which the figures waiting for Fraith had brought an impressive selection. If this wasn’t daunting enough, he could see the figures in detail now—their torn muddy clothes, their toothless childish faces that put him in mind of rotten fruit. They weren’t simply in danger of wizening; wrinkles kept appearing and being swallowed up like ripples in a pool, along with patches of discolouration. He backed away, almost falling in his haste not merely to keep his distance but to make a last appeal to the organiser of the events. “I’m only looking for the train,” he pleaded.
He was afraid to hear the laughter again, but silence answered him—how eager or expectant he couldn’t tell. The figure lifted the megaphone without speaking and thrust it forward, indicating the farther left-hand corner of the field. Perhaps that concealed a short cut to the station, invisible at such a distance. Fraith knew only that he mustn’t run, or they might think he was like all those who had. He took a breath that pumped up his heartbeat and parched his mouth, and then he set off along the trampled course across the field. He mustn’t look at the spectators—mustn’t meet whatever they might have for eyes—but he found himself wondering whether Carla’s daughters would have cheered him on if he’d given in to running. If he’d ever been too harsh with them, he prayed he could take it back, supposing that would save him. Then the sun went out, and he felt as if the world had.
Recently Used
Tunstall thought he hadn’t slept when the phone rang. He clutched it and sat up on the bed, which felt too bare and wide by half. On the bedside table the photograph of him with Gwyneth in the sunlit mountains far away was waiting to be seen once more, and beyond it the curtains framed a solitary feeble midnight star. He rubbed his aching eyes to help them focus on the mobile as he thumbed the keypad. “Hello?” he said before he’d finished lifting the phone to his face.
“Forgive me, is this Charlie?”
The sight of Gwyneth’s name on the midget screen had raised his hopes, but the voice belonged to somebody he’d never met. “Charles Tunstall,” he had to say, “yes.”
“Excuse me, Mr Tunstall. Your name is showing up on this phone as the last person called.”
“I know.” He couldn’t leave it at that, and he said “It’s my wife’s.”
“We hoped so.” While the pause after the first word was close to imperceptible, the woman seemed to have to get ready to add “I’m afraid Mrs Tunstall—”
“What? Go on, for God’s sake.”
Why did he need to interrupt? It only delayed her saying “Your wife has had an accident, Mr Tunstall.”
He felt as if they were rehearsing a script whose triteness simply made it more painful. “What’s happened?” he said and was unable to go on.
“We believe she missed her footing on the escalator at the shopping precinct.”
He knew it all too well. He’d always stood in front of her or held her hand to keep her steady as the metal steps bore them eighty feet down. Why couldn’t the friends with whom she’d been dining have looked after her as he did? If she’d wanted to demonstrate her independence by setting off home on her own, why couldn’t she at least have held tight to the banisters? Tunstall tried to take a breath before saying his next overused line. “How is she?”
“She’s on her way to the hospital. Do you know where that is?”
He resented the question almost as much as the lack of information. “Of course I know.”
“You might want to make your way over as soon as possible. Can you drive, or is there somebody who can?”
“I’m not that far gone yet. I can drive myself.”
“How close are you?”
Though he was desperate to reduce the answer, he had to say “Fifteen minutes.”
“That should do it, Mr Tunstall.”
Tunstall struggled not to demand what she meant. “I’m on my way,” he said.
He was. As he’d dashed across the bedroom Gwyneth’s wardrobe had crept open with a jangle of hangers like the sound of a deadened alarm. Her bathrobe had slipped from the hook on the bathroom door to lie white and motionless beside the shower. The dormant beds in the next room had put him in mind of goodnights, of Gwyneth stooping to kiss the grandchildren. He’d taken the stairs two precarious treads at a time, so clumsily the house had seemed to shake. The kitchen calendar was scrawled with notes by him and Gwyneth, reminders large enough to read along the hall if their handwriting hadn’t grown so vague. The dining-table was set for the weekend’s family dinner, utensils glimmering in the dimness, and in the front room he might have glimpsed a crossword Gwyneth had begun, frowning at the clues or at fitting the letters into their boxes. As he ended the phone call he lurched out of the house.
The terraced side street was as deserted as his mind was attempting to be. He didn’t need to think, he only had to drive. Beyond the bijou front gardens all the houses were silent enough for a stage set awaiting a performance. On both sides of the road parked cars glittered with November frost like a hint of Christmas. At least it hadn’t blotted out his windscreen. Tunstall hauled the door open and jabbed the key into the ignition, and felt as if crouching into the driver’s seat had shrunk or even crippled him. When he swung the car out of the meagre space between its neighbours, Gwyneth’s water bottle from the gym trundled across the floor beside him.
He was driving almost faster than he dared, especially once he turned along the promenade. Now that the summer illuminations had been taken down, the seafront felt like a reminiscence of a holiday resort—the lightless fairground, the shuttered arcades, the hotels closed for the winter. Although a few faint stars glittered intermittently above the flat black sea, the darkness stretching to the horizon looked capable of going on for ever. He mustn’t think about that—mustn’t think anything other than that he would be in time, which made him tread on the accelerator as if he could outrun the dark.
Beyond the last hotels the buildings dwindled. The road left the side streets behind as it bent inland, where it was flanked by fields darker than the sky. No doubt they helped ice crawl over his windscreen, which made him feel as if his eyes were growing cataracts. Even once he turned the heater up to maximum and raised the headlight beams, he appeared to be speeding into blurred emptiness, defined only by a strip of illuminated tarmac so uniform it mightn’t have been moving. When he saw an indistinct light ahead he braked for fear of an oncoming vehicle. He had to scrape the windscreen with his nails to be sure he was seeing the hospital.
He was praying, although wordlessly, by the time
it came into focus. Clumps of floodlights towered above the concrete grounds, blanching flowers around scattered patches of turf, so that the vegetation looked artificial if not dead. The light robbed the long low unadorned buildings not just of any colour, but of depth. As the car sped through the gates with a slither of tyres he was desperately tempted to leave it outside the main block, in one of the spaces for ambulances. He would only have to come back and move it before he went to Gwyneth, and he drove fast to the car park.
The metal arm at the entrance must have repeated its actions so often that it was practically lifeless. The hospital buildings were no longer in his mirrors when he found a space among the inert vehicles. Every windscreen was a white slab, and every roof sparkled like a festive decoration. As Tunstall limped breathlessly back to the reception area, he saw the breath he was leaving behind, an ephemeral ghost in the icy air. “Why can’t I know where to go?” he pleaded without wishing for an answer, and tried to put all of himself into tramping faster to the hospital.
Before the automatic doors succeeded in crawling apart he was close to digging his fingers between them. Beyond them a glassed-in counter faced several dozen chairs, in some of which figures sat as if they feared any movement would disturb their injuries or ailments. As Tunstall hastened to the reception counter he heard an ambulance reiterate, probably to nobody, that it was reversing. “Excuse me,” he said louder than the mechanical voice and tapped on the glass.
The receptionist took some moments to raise her round smooth nondescript face, but not enough to find much of an expression. “You’ve just brought my wife in,” Tunstall was already saying. “She fell on an escalator.”
The woman gazed at his lips as if to make certain he’d finished. He couldn’t help parting them again, which only silenced her. At last she said “Did we tell you we had?”
“Not you. Whoever rang me did.” The need to go through all this brought Tunstall close to clawing at the window. “The name’s Tunstall,” he blurted. “Hers and mine. It has been since before you were thought of.”
Holes for Faces Page 14
