The Man Who Built the World

by Chris Ward

  Daddy found me later, and took me home. He looked terribly worried, his eyes red as though he had been crying, and he scooped me into his arms and hugged me and scolded me at the same time, told me never to go there again. He told me he loved me and that he didn’t want anything to happen to me.

  We went back to the house, and he made me some tea. Matty wouldn’t speak to me, even when I went into his bedroom and sat at the end of his bed. He looked like he had been crying again too, and just turned away and stared out of the window. I felt real sad, I think Daddy gave him a hiding.

  Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, I followed Mummy’s footprints up to the chapel, trying to find where Mummy went. They stopped by the piece of stone sticking out of the ground, and someone was sat in front of it. I started to cry out ‘Mummy!’ but then realised it wasn’t her at all. It was Daddy instead. He was sitting up against it, his gun in his hands, staring out into the forest. It was a good job I recognised him in the dark before I shouted out, because he might have shot at me by mistake.

  I didn’t know what he was doing there, so I watched him for a while from the trees. Once or twice, he stood up, cocked his gun, and made as if to shoot something, but stopped at the last moment, and pulled his gun away. I don’t know what he was aiming at, probably foxes or badgers. Don’t know why he would want to shoot them all the way out here. And in the middle of the night, too.

  After a while, I started to get cold. My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I saw Daddy had a thick coat on, but I only wore my pajamas so got really cold really quick. It didn’t look as though Daddy was going to leave, so I left him there and went back and curled up into bed.

  From the look of the new footprints underneath my bedroom window, it seemed that Mummy had been. I was so sad to have missed her.

  16

  Red came in through the back door and found Ian in the lounge, sipping a brandy. Red motioned with his hand and Ian nodded.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing Red a glass.

  Red took a seat near the window. He glanced over his shoulder at the drizzly Sunday morning outside, and sighed. ‘Ian, I –’

  He recounted his meeting with Matthew.

  Afterwards, Ian just shook his head and pointed towards Red’s glass.

  ‘Don’t you think you’re being just a little hypocritical?’ Ian sipped a little of his own drink. He didn’t blame Matt at all; on tough days like these oblivion often seemed the best answer.

  ‘Ian, the boy had drunk a barrelful. He could hardly stand. In fact, he didn’t for long.’

  ‘I can’t believe you hit him. I know how you feel about him, but he’s still my son.’

  Red grimaced and looked away.

  ‘For Heaven’s sake, Red. I told you, just let it go! It’s been almost fifteen years –’

  ‘He’s a big boy now, Ian. He can take it. Shit, I doubt he’ll feel it over the hangover.’

  ‘He’s my son!’

  Red stood up, flushed. ‘After the way he left you he doesn’t deserve your sympathy. And anyway, when he started bad–mouthing Bethany, I . . . I lost my temper a little. I’m sorry.’

  ‘I know how you felt about her. But she’s gone, and he’s entitled to his opinion. They were never close. You know that.’

  ‘You’re far too forgiving, Ian. He out and out insulted her. That boy deserves everything that comes to him, and whatever you say, I’m glad I hit him.’ He ground his right fist into his other palm. ‘I wanted to do it again.’

  Ian sighed, shook his head. ‘He’s not changed in all this time. He still sees everything only as he wants to see it, the same way he did when he left here.’

  ‘You mean, after he beat you into a bloody ruin and left you to the crows?’

  Ian’s eyes closed. His face tensed for a moment. ‘He’s still my son, Red. Whatever he did.’

  ‘You know how much that cost us, Ian.’ He shook his head. ‘You know just how much damage he caused. He ruined both our lives.’

  ‘I know, Red. I’m . . . sorry.’

  Red downed the last of his drink. He walked towards Ian, hands apart, like a beggar pleading for change.

  ‘Just for once can’t you feel something for what he did? Why can’t you hate him?’ He lifted a hand, looked about to throw his glass down, then forced himself to stop and place it calmly down on the top of Ian’s liquor cabinet. ‘And yet you brought him back here. You still brought him back here.’

  For a moment Ian said nothing, just stared back, eyes defeated, heart cracking beneath so many accusations. Matthew was just part of a bigger picture. He had hurt a lot of people, but his hate and the damage he had caused had been as a result of larger revolutions of the wheel of which he was just a part. Ian knew some things were unavoidable, and perhaps what Matthew had done that day with a piece of wood in his hands was one of those things.

  He looked at Red, standing in the centre of the room, huge, barrel chest heaving, thick, tree–like arms tensed against his checked shirt. He met the gaze of his oldest and closest friend and held it.

  ‘He’s my son,’ he said at last.

  17

  A large proportion of the village had arrived at the church for the funeral, decked out in black suits and dresses, hats and veils, filing into the pews and taking their seats ready for the service to begin. Some held each other’s hands, some wiped noses and eyes with tissues, and some even cried real tears.

  God, Matt thought bitterly from his place near the back. They really know how to put on a show. In a town like this, a funeral is one hell of an event.

  He wondered just how many of the assorted elderly, middle–aged couples and groups of bored-looking children present had actually known his sister. For that matter had actually ever seen her. She had hardly paraded about town when he had lived with her, in fact barely coming out of her room.

  Only at night, God, why only at night?

  He shivered, swallowed a cough, felt bile climbing a stepladder into his throat. After Red had gone, Matt had thrown up several times, the vomit hot and sticky, the remains of the whiskey burning him until he felt like he had swallowed a firebrand.

  After five more minutes with his head down the toilet, he had got back into the shower and washed the puke off his face. Only then, as he stumbled out of the bathroom, did he realize that Red had brought him back to his room at the Bed & Breakfast. Matt had looked at his unmade bed longingly, desperately wanting to crawl under the covers and hide there until the whole sorry affair was done, and his sister was finally buried. Only Red’s threat, echoing in his mind, had compelled him to pull on some dry clothes, slap himself hard across the face, and get over to the church in time for the service.

  He looked around him. People were still filing in. Christ, Bethany had been popular. It was as though the moment he had left she had become the life and soul of the whole fucking town.

  His father sat alongside Uncle Red at the front. He occasionally glanced back, his face unreadable over this distance, but Matt felt sure it was a look of disappointment. He had declined his father’s polite invitation to join them, instead opting for the back row, leaving a couple of empty rows between himself and the rest of the mourners. It didn’t bother him how conspicuous he looked. He had received enough stares already to tell him most of the village knew about his little altercation with Red earlier in the pub. In small towns, gossip traveled faster than most commercial airlines.

  As the last mourners took their seats, the vicar began his sermon. Matt watched with disinterest as first his father, then Uncle Red got up to say a few brief words of mourning from the pulpit, then engaged the rest of the congregation in a couple of hymns. It was the usual fare; he had been to the funeral of Rachel’s grandmother, and although he hated to say it, he had felt more emotional then than he did now, at his own sister’s. Having a crying wife leaning on his shoulder the whole time had helped, but even so.

  Bethany had been eight years old when he left, a living, breathing wraith, the silence that so restric
ted her the very thing that terrified him so much. Who ever knew what went on behind those eyes? Who knew what she saw, what she thought of everything? He had spent many a night lying awake in horror as he listened to her feet softly padding up and down the landing outside. What she did and where she went was a mystery, but he could be certain that something functioned behind those terrifying, all–seeing eyes.

  If he were honest, he hadn’t been sad to leave at all. Grateful, in fact. At last he could sleep properly, though even now, years later, that ghostly little girl occasionally haunted his dreams.

  He sighed, bored, and scratched idly at the tatty varnish on the back of the pew in front of him, wanting to get on with it.

  The sooner the service finished, the sooner they could get up to the old chapel and see Bethany off at last. It was only a dirt trail, over thick surface roots and slippery humus earth, hardly accessible for the sixty or seventy mourners he estimated to be present. At least half were what Matt classed as “doddery”: septuagenarians and better, incapable of making their seats without assistance. No, after this ceremony was over they would slowly hobble up towards his father’s house for the reception, and later this afternoon there would be a small, private ceremony up at the old chapel, for Bethany to be laid to rest.

  Just himself, his father, and Red. Matt could hardly wait.

  He assumed the gravediggers must be up there now, preparing the grave for Bethany’s body.

  He shivered. It chilled his heart to think of it, so close to his mother.

  A woman Matt recognised as Mrs. Baxter, Bethany’s old sign–language teacher, now stooped and graying rather than the straight–backed prude he remembered, had stood up and begun to say a few words. She had failed completely, Matt remembered, in her attempt to help Bethany to communicate. In three years all she had achieved was to get Bethany to sign right back at her, duplicate her teacher’s actions as though she were looking into a mirror at a much younger version of herself.

  Bethany, yes, despite her unfortunate disability, had so much going for her, Mrs. Baxter was saying. And such beauty, such precious beauty.

  Matt dug at a spot along the edge of his jaw. Come on get it over with. I want to be out of here.

  If he didn’t get too drunk at the reception afterwards, he would be gone by tonight. He had managed to drive while intoxicated before, though of course he never told Rachel. It was easy really, if you could keep your vision and the majority of your balance, and although he was reluctant, tonight he would make an exception. The problem was the half bottle of whiskey on his bedside table that would tease him and tempt him as he tried to pack away his things. He could already see himself sitting down, picking it up, feeling the comforting burn of the liquid as it coursed down his throat.

  When it came down to it, he would probably find himself leaving it until morning before driving back. It was easier to focus in the mornings, anyhow.

  Once upon a time, he had done the majority of his work in the mornings. They had always brought the best out of him: the most inventive characters, the cleverest storylines, the most inspired plot twists. Not anymore. In reality, Matt felt like he had run out of best bits about four years ago, and it depressed him to think that his editor probably felt the same.

  People had begun to stand up and file out. He had been so lost in a private reverie that he barely noticed until they were walking past him, the children with their heads lowered, the elderly leaning on each other for support. A couple of older ladies flashed him regretful smiles, one even patted him on the shoulder. After the amount he had drunk that morning, he must look terrible. They had obviously mistaken sickness for sadness. Oh well, let them think what they like.

  Matt made his way out with the other mourners and waited in the churchyard for his father. Many of the mourners were gathered around in small groups, talking in hushed tones. No one made a move to come over and talk to him so Matt wandered off, following a gravel path around the side of the church, then out across the grass and through the gravestones towards the far side of the churchyard. A grey sky watched him, but so far had kept its own tears to itself.

  Father’s for a bit, then we’ll put Beth in the ground. Then I’m gone, and thank fuck for that.

  God, he needed a drink.

  He heard a door thud closed from around the front of the church. The last of the mourners must be out, so Matt started to head back to find his father, stepping between the graves, careful not to tread on any of the mounds of earth.

  He looked up as he reached the front corner of the church, and stopped in surprise. A distant figure, standing quite still beneath the eaves of a two storey house across the road from the churchyard, was watching him.

  He stopped, squinting his eyes to see clearly, still feeling the last effects of the whiskey.

  A woman. He knew instinctively that she didn’t live there, that she wasn’t just watching the proceedings from afar, too busy to attend the funeral herself. No, she was standing there to keep out of sight. Keep out of sight while she watched him.

  It was one of them, he knew. The Meredith sisters. Which one, he couldn’t tell from this distance, didn’t even know if it was the same one from last night. He had only ever seen them clearly once, and although from up close he had noticed the slight difference in the curve of their chins, the angle of their cheekbones, the terrible hardness in the eyes of one, and the soft compassion in the eyes of the other, from a distance they were identical.

  Why she was watching him, he didn’t know. Did she even remember him?

  Unnerved, he stepped backwards, away from her, but a piece of cracked paving stone caught his foot, and he stumbled. Normally he would have righted himself easily enough, but the whiskey had left his balance unsteady and he fell to the ground, his knees and fingers sinking into grassy earth, damp and mushy after so much rain. He cursed and pushed himself back to his feet, looking for the Meredith woman.

  She was gone.

  He cursed again, and headed back around the church to join his father, eyes searching every face for one of them, hiding there, eyes casting him with their judgment.

  ###

  Bethany’s Diary, February 28th, 1985

  It’s been such nasty weather. Tonight I sneaked out, for the first time in ages sure I wouldn’t catch cold, and went down into the forest, following the path. I wanted to know what Daddy was doing that night. For some reason I keep thinking about it, as though it’s important. I don’t know. I went up to the old church place. I looked for Daddy, but Daddy wasn’t there this time, not with his gun, I was glad. I looked at the stone sticking out of the earth, and wondered what it was. I sat against it for a while and thought about it. It reminded me a little of the ones down in the village. I’ve seen them out of the car window when Daddy’s been driving me places. They’re gravestones, but they have writing on them, not like this one. And I don’t know who would be buried up here anyway.

  I don’t know of anyone who’s dead.

  18

  In the kitchen, lounge and study, groups of people hung around talking in hushed tones, drinking wine and eating buffet food Matthew’s father had ordered from a restaurant in the village and lain out on the big dining table. The gentle tones of a Marvin Gaye compilation played in the background. It was apparently one of Bethany’s favorites, though Matt could never remember her listening to anything, least of all music. Painted over everything like a coat of mildew was the smell of age; of old buildings, old people – now that most of the children had been dispersed back to the village – and old memories.

  Just what did these people remember of Bethany? Clearly so much more than he did. Eight years old when he left, she was now a twenty–two-year-old woman lying cold and lifeless in a coffin. More than half her life had passed since he had last seen her. Matt knew there was a possibility she had even begun to talk, perhaps go to school and youth clubs, have sleepovers with her friends. Maybe she had even got herself a job. It didn’t seem likely though, and his father would
surely have said.

  She had taken her own life with sleeping pills. Swallowed an entire packet, his father had told him, and then lain down to rest for the last time. Even now, after it had had time to sink in, it sounded ridiculous. It was far too clinical for a girl who had always seemed away from her mind, drifting somewhere else perhaps, among the trees in the forest.

  Earlier, Mrs. Carter had approached him to whisper a few brief condolences, but she seemed the only person unaware of his newfound hated–celebrity status, for most of the others present treated him like a leper, eyeing him warily and turning away whenever he came near. It made him angry. Anyone would think this whole sorry mess was his fault.

  He had struggled too, with so much drink on offer. Uncle Red had pulled him aside and warned him again to keep his drinking beast locked away, and although Matthew had been loath to listen to him, he had tried hard just in case Red had been serious about his threats.

  For a while he had done okay.

  Eventually the bars of his resolve had cracked and the beast had broken free. Inside his jacket he had stashed a quart of brandy stolen from his father’s cabinet. As he slipped up the stairs towards the upper levels of the house, feigning the desire for a little privacy, he felt it pressing against his chest like a pacemaker. Just the thing for a little quiet introspection.

  He made his way up to the third floor. The second level seemed to be where his father lived now, having moved down from the fourth in the years since Matt left. From the foot of the staircase leading up to the third he could smell dust, feel it fall around his shoulders like a veil, its dryness almost choking him. The upper floors felt untouched for years, and he made his way up there for that very reason. Once, he and Bethany had lived on the third floor, amongst a jumble of unused bedrooms and function rooms, most stinking of dust and disuse even in those days.