Gabriel could see that the hooded creatures holding on to Michael were just some of the boys from school with their blazers pulled over their heads. He wanted to tell Michael this to make him feel better, but Michael would not look at him.
‘All right; bring the first prisoner forward.’
If only, Gabriel thought, as he was pulled forward towards the basin, they had not been so trapped in the fog; if only he could see the sky and hear the river, he would be able to let a part of himself slip away and fly against the sun, across the heath and into the trees. Then his head was pushed down over the basin, where he saw his own eyes mirrored in the still surface. He saw in that standing pool his own dark eyes, so deep with dread, and the new scar running from under his nose like a zip fastener, ready at any time to be pulled open.
Jim came forward, the knife terrible in his hands. Its steel hard and dull in the damp, dirty light. So cold where it touched his neck and pressed against his skin. And the warmth of the vomit that came out of him into the basin – not blood, but vomit – smelling sour and sticking to the inside of his nose, making him cry and choke, and all the time Michael’s voice in his ears, screaming.
Screaming, ‘Let him go! Don’t hurt him! I’ll give you anything you want. You can have my brand new Captain Marvel poster – he’s from America and much cooler than Superman.’
The steel of the blade was still cold against the goosebumps: aching, shaving.
‘Just say what you want – I’ll give you anything!’
‘Really?’
‘Anything.’
‘Okay, Fluffy, you will give me anything I want at any time – and you’re not allowed to deny me.’
‘Yes, yes; just let him go!’ Sobbing now. ‘And the Captain Marvel poster.’
Just a nod.
‘Well, you can have your filthy Bunny-boy to yourself, then. A deal is a deal.’
The icy blade no longer chafing and the others gone – just the two of them, as usual. He knew it was all his fault. None of this would have happened if it had not been for him – if it hadn’t been for him being a freak.
‘I’m sorry.’
Michael shrugged. ‘I’ll get you a new Captain Marvel poster. I’ll ask Uncle Gerry—’
‘Can’t you see it’s not about the stupid poster? I don’t care about the bloody poster. It’s about so much more.’
And, although he knew in his heart that from now on it would never be quite enough, he said it again: ‘I’m sorry.’
*
I am remembering too much, Mr Askew thought to himself. Is this really necessary? I had managed to forget so well. He looked around. The basin was no longer a sacrificial pool, the red lava on the rocks no longer thickly flowing blood, and the fog had cleared over the years. There was no longer anything to see – and yet he shivered. He looked out across the gentle heath, where the setting sun was painting its last impressions of the day. He slept badly these days, afraid to be dragged down into those nightmares where bright faces flashed in the dark, and more afraid still to be swooped back from the depths of sleep and wake into a dawn of dirty light. For a while, since his arrival in Mortford, he had assured himself that the forgetfulness of old age would filter his dreams and protect him from the worst of it. But, whilst looking for his reading glasses or fretting over escaped names in the crosswords on a Sunday, he knew that he was only safe as long as he managed to keep his mind above the surface of the pool of memory.
For the irony of an ageing mind is that it opens itself as brutally and unflinchingly to the hidden depths of its own past as the eye of a snowy owl to the night’s prey.
4
There were days when Doris Ludgate felt a little low. Nothing much would improve things and she might allow herself to lie down on the couch for a moment and be a bit dizzy. She would never try to question or explore this melancholia. Once the heavy feeling around her head had passed, she would brush it away, as one might a fly, because she must go on being what she was – the person she had become. It was no use to fancy otherwise. If a brief nap did not help, daytime television certainly would. There was so much to learn from it. The talk shows alone were so improving. Sometimes, when there was a number to ring, she would call up to offer her opinions. She liked chatting to the operator. She did not like to be on her own – she had always been a sociable person. But circumstances had made her lonely.
On other days, she would arrange ornaments on the mantelpiece – there were two Royal Doulton Bunnykins and a row of hand-painted plaster kittens – and dust the china that was displayed on the Welsh dresser. The dinner set was one of the better things that had come from her husband’s side, collected by his mother. It was Wedgwood, although not one of the better patterns. However, one of the more recent pieces, a side plate displayed in the centre, bore the signature of the Duchess of York on the back. These objects would cheer her up, even on the days when bittersweet memories of life before marriage would make her mouth go long and ugly.
She had grown up on the coast to the north, an only child in a cold house. Her bedroom window faced the sea. All year round the changing light in that room would help her understand the world outside – it whispered of the hurt blue of winter, the blush of spring, the heavy green of summer and the harmony, the symmetry of autumn. Sometimes, she would sit for hours looking out of the window; her reflection stared back at her then, so that she looked double. When she was little, she would imagine that there was somebody sitting next to her, in silence. A sister, perhaps.
Even now, she would sometimes dream about being back in that room. Her feelings in the dream were very different: light and warm. When she slept, the room came back and, when she woke, she had to start looking for it all over again.
After school, she had gone straight to the Harbour Front Café to work as a waitress. She had wanted to do this for as long as she could remember – that and be married. The waitresses all wore pink frocks with American-style pink-and-white checked aprons. It suited her complexion, as she had always known it would. She met her husband in the café. He walked in one summer afternoon with a group of friends and put his hand on her bum as she leant over to place his order in front of him. It was fish ’n’ chips and a pint of cider. So she married him shortly after her eighteenth birthday and went away to live at his farm, where her parents-in-law still lurked in the corners and she had a baby who grew up and went away.
Her husband had always maintained that her arse was her greatest asset, but then he had never really got to know her properly, and rarely from the front. She recognised that this was not his fault; she had never fully opened up to anyone, let alone herself. She had enough trouble trying to find out what other people were thinking and doing; she began to thrive on their embarrassments and misfortunes, as they would lessen her own.
But when it came to her new employer, the professor up at Oakstone, however much she prodded, she could not get to the information she wanted. He remained closed to her and, for this reason, she felt she must defend herself against him – or even begin to attack, as she did that day in May.
He had not been at home when she called in for duty and she had waited outside the front door, feeling hot and bothered. When he finally turned up, he did not seem at all perturbed but bumbled on in his usual manner about some blue poppies in his allotment garden.
‘Poppies are red,’ she informed him, ‘or possibly pink.’ She was determined not to let him know that she had minded being made to wait.
‘These ones are special; they are Himalayan poppies and the most beautiful, tender things you have ever seen. Mrs Sarobi says …’ But he stopped himself in time.
Her smile was more like the grimace of a gargoyle than an expression of a human emotion – but she smiled and smiled.
He looked at her strangely. ‘Are you all right?’ There might have been actual concern in his voice, if he had cared.
‘Why should I not be fine? Anyway, perhaps you could open up so that I could get on with my work?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered and fumbled with the keys in his pocket.
He held open the door for her and she went inside. The white trainers squeaked her contempt on his tiled floor.
‘Who’s this Mrs Sarobi, anyway?’ she probed.
He winced. ‘Nobody … Somebody I have met at the allotments.’
‘Ah, that colourful one. What is she, anyway? Indian?’
‘I believe she’s Afghani.’
She sucked her teeth thoughtfully.
‘She grows vegetables for that young man at Wilkinson’s – she’s his main supplier.’ Why did he feel the need to justify?
‘Supplier,’ Mrs Ludgate murmured. It was a hateful word. ‘That might be useful, of course, but an Indian one is never quite as refined, is it?’
‘Afghani,’ he corrected.
‘Anyway, the foreign lady isn’t the point here; the point is that my husband told me once about this other guy who used to live here – some oddball called Bradley,’ she hinted, her voice casual enough.
‘Did he, now?’
‘By the way, why are all these boxes standing here in the hall? They are really in the way.’
‘In whose way?’
‘In my way. It’s very difficult to clean a house full of boxes. Why haven’t you unpacked them yet?’
‘It didn’t feel necessary.’ He no longer noticed them; the shadows had their furry arms around them.
She let out a sniff of disapproval. ‘Anyway, this Bradley person used to play the organ in the Moor Cross Inn. But that’s not all of it—’
‘Look, I’m not interested. Hadn’t you better get to work?’ He could hear his own unnatural voice – and the tremor in it. He was beginning to feel sick, in spite of the blue poppies. She looked at him with searching eyes, her bosom heaving in its fleecy folds. He was relieved she was not literate enough to read his face. But she caught the look in his eye and sensed that she had the upper hand.
‘Mr Ludgate told me him and Bradley were quite friendly, growing up. The Bradley boy would do anything he asked. Anything at all,’ she affirmed.
‘I would prefer to be left alone – in there.’ He pointed towards the door to the study at the other side of the hall.
‘Suit yourself. You’re used to being alone, aren’t you? No change there, then.’ She laughed so that he almost missed the insinuation in those last words.
But, just as he opened the door to the study, he remembered: ‘What is your husband’s Christian name?’ There were a couple of dead flies on the floor inside the door. He pushed at them carefully with the toe of his shoe, sweeping them to one side.
‘Jim. But he called himself Jim of Blackaton, after the farm.’
The light in the hall seemed hard, metallic almost, as he stared at the woman he had brought into his house.
‘Ah, well. No more dilly-dallying. Time to muck out this pigsty – you’d better stay out of my way,’ advised the ardent cleaner.
*
‘You said you would do anything I asked.’
Gabriel could see that Michael was in serious trouble but did not know what to do. He stood a few feet away, paralysed like an animal presented with a threat, as the boys gathered around his only friend.
‘You got my Captain Marvel poster, didn’t you? It’s from America – my dad brought it back.’
Gabriel heard a dull thump, like when a satchel is dropped on grass, and then a choked cry from Michael.
‘You think I care about a silly poster? I burnt it.’
‘No!’
There was a new pitch in Michael’s voice, a tone that Gabriel had never heard before. It was more like something he had once seen in the upturned eye of a rabbit, caught under the claws of a Harris hawk. And still he could not move.
‘Anyway, I’ll only ask you one last time, Fluffy – or I’ll pull at your fingers and break them all again, got it?’
No reply.
‘OK, this is the last time I ask you: eat this toad.’
Through the guard of bodies, Gabriel could see Michael shaking his head furiously whilst pressing his mouth shut. Billy was standing in front of him with a dead toad in his hand. Long legs were hanging limp from its warty body and its stomach was swelling with post-mortem gas. Gabriel was sweating now. What should he do? What would Michael have done if the situation had been reversed – like it used to be? Michael would have done something, but Gabriel was unable to move. Always unable to move. He opened his mouth. His throat was dry, choking with fear. ‘Stop!’ he squawked. But nobody seemed to hear – or, if they did, they no longer cared.
*
He was watching a snail make its way across the kitchen window. There was something vaguely perverse about the way it pressed itself on to the glass, leaving a slimy trail in its slow wake. Something lighter flickered past at the edge of his vision – a moth, perhaps, or a butterfly – and was lost. The snail, in the meantime, hadn’t progressed. Pathetic. Disgusting. With some force, he opened the back door and pulled on his boots. Outside, he threw the snail to the ground and crushed it under the heel of his boot. There! It was done. Fragments of hard shell squashed into the pale flesh. He was breathing hard, satisfied with the virtues of this tiny murder. Satisfied, yes. And then, once more, he felt the pain in his heart and looked away.
*
From then on, they would not leave Michael alone. There were to be countless other times over the years, like the day Mr Bradley had given them each five shillings to spend at the travelling fair, which had come to the banks of the river. They were still the best of friends, but they were both taller now, Gabriel’s scar was no more than a pale parenthesis over his lip and Michael’s damaged hand was strong again. But Michael had changed in more ways. The river-green glint of mischief was no longer in his eyes; he had been wearing himself to a shadow. Where before he would have asked why, he was now gravely accepting. And whereas only a few years previously he would have tossed the sun out of his hair and laughed bravely at the open skies, his smile suddenly seemed as brittle as glass. And, more importantly, he was no longer able to conjure up that parallel, imagined world which had been their own, the world that had protected them – in the beginning. But then all best friends – friends of a certain age – must lose something along the way.
On that day of the fair, at the hour of sunset, when the fairy lights turned their backs on everything that was grey and porridgy and opened the door to a world of mystery and strangeness, even Michael seemed to regain something of his old self.
‘Look, Gabe – look at that!’
Illuminated dragonflies, as large as cows’ heads, were hovering over the reeds at the riverbank and, standing amongst them, dressed only in a black corset, a young woman was swallowing arrows lipped with fire. A tattoo of a snake curled around her upper body.
‘Wow!’ said Michael, but Gabriel, impatient for more, pulled him along towards the main entrance of the fair. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the wonder of it all, they strolled along to the cheerful tunes of the fairground organs. People from villages as far away as Ramland swarmed around them, their bodies hidden in the shadows, their faces weirdly brightened and clown-like amongst the colourful lanterns suspended overhead.
There were a couple of rides with gaily painted horses or flying saucers going round in a circle, but those were for kids and the boys quickly ignored them in favour of the games. At one stall, you could throw balls at the china on an oak dresser, the plates scattering in heaps at the feet of the small, dark man behind the counter. The boys liked to watch the destruction, but would not spend their own coins, as there were no prizes to be won. Mainly grown men would come up to throw balls at the china, their faces red and furious. The little swarthy man would laugh and call out in an accented voice, ‘Come along and relieve your frustration. Only threepence for some longed-for peace of mind. Yes, sir, that’s it! Give it to them! Better than hitting the wife, eh?’
Michael had stopped in front of a cork-rifle stall. The background was a pai
nted desert landscape with scattered cone-shaped hills and cacti. When the game started, Red Indians on horseback would pop up and disappear and, if you hit enough of them, you got to choose a trophy. Michael was staring hard at the row of trophies at the top of the stall.
‘Look at that, Gabe,’ he said in a husky voice and pointed towards a small vase in blue glass with little forget-me-nots painted on it. ‘Isn’t that pretty?’ His eyes were strangely intense as he looked back at Gabriel.
‘Yeah, it’s okay, I suppose …’
‘I’ll try to win it for my mum.’
Gabriel had almost forgotten Michael’s mother. He had not been around to Oakstone much for a couple of years and Michael’s parents were rarely seen in the village; they had a maid to do their shopping. But now he recalled her doe’s eyes and soft hands and felt a warmth spreading from his stomach. ‘Yeah, we can take turns.’ He too wanted to win the trophy for Mrs Bradley.
Michael looked at him feverishly and said, ‘No, I want to win it myself,’ and each word was rolled into a perfect marble in his mouth, knotted inside with all the things he did not say.
‘All right.’ What did he care, anyway?
Michael paid his threepence, took aim, shot – and missed. The rifle looked real enough, the Red Indians were bright and fierce, but the dull pop of the wasted cork was disappointing. But Michael was not deterred. His eyes were fixed on the painted desert where the Indians would appear out of its single dimension. He did not miss again, but he needed a full score to win the blue vase.
‘Come on, Michael; let’s move on. Don’t waste more money on that silly game. The Indians don’t even look real.’
But Michael was calm now. ‘I need to win it,’ he said, ‘but you don’t have to wait – I’ll catch up.’
There was something about the situation and Michael’s determination that made Gabriel stay. And suddenly he too wanted Michael to win the trophy. He saw quite clearly why his friend needed to present his mother with the cheap blue vase – the grail that cupped all the joys and all the sorrows of his childhood as he left those enchanted, cruel years behind and climbed the first step of adulthood.
Breaking Light Page 8
