The Summer We All Ran Away

by Cassandra Parkin

  “Want a go?” Tom was holding out the axe towards him. Davey took it warily. “You’ll be fine as long as you’re careful. Hold it there, and there. No, further up the handle. Swing with your whole upper body, not just your arms. Now try.”

  Davey swung the axe. It went in, but stuck halfway down the log. He pushed down hard on the handle to force the log to split.

  “Careful, you’ll wreck the blade.” Tom levered it carefully out. “Let me show you again.” Thunk. The log split effortlessly in two halves that showed their creamy insides as they fell. Davey watched in frank admiration. “So, do you want to try again? Or do you want to tell me what you came down here to ask?”

  Davey looked at him miserably. “I just - ” he began. “I just - ”

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to, I wanted to, I just thought I ought to - ” The guilt compressed his tongue like a scold’s bridle. How could he accuse Tom of committing a crime? “Oh, God - ”

  “Can I give you some advice?” said Tom. “Confession is overrated. It really is. There’s no point going over the mistakes of the past. We do the things we do, and we live with the consequences, and then we move on. That’s it. That’s all there is. Looking back, trying to find answers, it’ll drive you mad.” He placed a log on the block. The axe swung. The log fell in two perfectly bisected halves. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “Is this your house?” Davey blurted out.

  Tom looked at him for a long time. Davey noticed how silent the garden was, how sharp the blade of the axe as it whistled through the air. How Tom was between him and the door.

  “For what it’s worth,” said Tom at last, “that’s a consequence I’m living with. I gave up all my rights to ownership a long, long time ago. I don’t think I’ll ever really own anything ever again.”

  Outside, the drizzling rain continued to drench the gardens.

  “That was amazing,” said Davey, sighing. “And we’ve eaten all the bread, sorry - ”

  “Cooks like people to eat what they make,” said Kate. “Don’t apologise.”

  “But it’s not fair on you,” said Davey. “You cook for us all the time.”

  “I like to cook.”

  “No-one likes to wash up,” Tom pointed out. “But half the time you won’t even let us do that.”

  “I like looking after people.” Her smile, Davey thought, was the warmest he had ever seen. Kate, when happy, could light up an entire room.

  “You should make me and Davey do it,” said Priss. She had been quiet this evening, and half her bread was rolled into meticulous little grey-white pills arranged around the border of her plate.

  “I don’t mind,” said Kate, and began to clear the plates. Isaac, looking guilty, tried to help her, but she slapped his hands away and pushed him back into his chair. Isaac glanced at Tom and shrugged. I tried. Priss was fumbling with something underneath the table.

  “Look what I found,” she announced, dropping a long, flat cardboard box on the table. “Cluedo. Who wants to play?”

  No-one other than Priss seemed desperately keen, but she was already unpacking the box, dropping weapons into rooms and sorting through the character cards. “Who d’you all want to be?”

  “The yellow one,” said Tom. Priss flicked over the Colonel Mustard pawn.

  “Have I got to?” asked Davey.

  “Yes you have. Pick one or I’ll make you be Miss Scarlett.”

  Davey muttered something inaudible, but obediently took the pawn for Reverend Green. Isaac, who had shed his fisherman’s jumper, revealing a faded lilac t-shirt with a ragged hem, took Professor Plum.

  “I’ll be Mrs Peacock if you like,” said Kate.

  “No-one’s picked Miss Scarlett yet.”

  “Mrs Peacock’s fine.”

  “Okay. So I’ll be Mrs White.”

  “Why?” asked Kate.

  “’Cos she’s got a nasty, mean face and she looks like a horrible person,” said Priss. Davey saw she had bitten the nail of her left thumb down far beyond the quick, and the skin was ragged with dried blood. Glancing round the table, he saw Isaac noticing the same thing. Davey picked up the dice hastily.

  “Who goes first?”

  The game got under way. To his surprise, Davey found himself enjoying it. The kitchen was warm and the pawns made a pleasing click against the board. Tom was going out of his way to be friendly towards him. Their conversation that afternoon might never have happened.

  “It’s strange,” Davey said as he counted out squares, “to be playing a game about a murder in a country house, while I’m actually in a country house. Ow!” He looked at Priss reproachfully. “What was that for?”

  “Nothing,” said Priss. “Foot slipped. Make a suggestion.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Davey stared blankly at the board. “Okay, I think it was Reverend Green, in the conservatory, with the candlestick.”

  “Why?” asked Priss.

  “What?”

  “Why pick that person in that room?”

  “Because it’s a game of deduction,” said Davey. “You’ve got to start somewhere.”

  “You know you just accused yourself of murder?”

  “Well, it might have been me just as much as anyone else.”

  Priss sniffed. “He looks alright on the card.”

  “It’s a game of chance, it’s got nothing to do with how anyone - look, have you got anything to disprove it or not?”

  “You go clockwise round the board,” said Priss, looking smug. Kate shook her head. Isaac held the candlestick card out to Davey. Kate threw a two and inched towards the conservatory. Isaac threw a six and made it into the study.

  “Suggestion,” said Priss.

  Isaac was scribbling on his notepad. Everyone tried not to stare. After a few moments, he laid the paper down on the table. In the library, Miss Scarlett loomed over the prone body of a man, clutching a piece of lead piping in her hand. Her face was savage and beautiful. Priss laughed in delight.

  “That’s brilliant,” said Davey reluctantly.

  “He is brilliant,” said Kate, and reached behind Davey to ruffle Isaac’s hair. Isaac looked modest. Everyone sorted through their cards. Kate showed him something from her hand. Isaac nodded. Tom threw a five. Colonel Mustard made it into the lounge.

  “Reverend Green,” said Tom, yawning. “In the ballroom. With the dagger.”

  Priss held out a card under the table. “Why have you all got it in for the vicar?”

  “It’s a game of deduction,” repeated Davey. “It could just as well be Reverend Green as - ow, will you stop kicking me!”

  “I’m just interested,” said Priss. Her ravishing face was a picture of innocence as she gazed at Tom. “Why are you all picking on the man of the cloth?”

  “Why are you defending him?” asked Tom. “Are those Catholic roots showing?”

  “How’d you know I was raised Catholic?”

  “Lucky guess.”

  “Well, I don’t believe,” said Priss, frowning.

  “In lucky guesses?”

  “In God. In the church. Anything. It’s all bullshit.” Kate looked scandalised. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be, like, disrespectful or anything, but that’s what I think.”

  “I agree,” said Tom. “We’re responsible for our own actions. All there is, is what there is now. We shouldn’t waste a second of it.”

  “So can we stop playing this game then?” asked Davey. No-one took any notice.

  “Doesn’t that make you sad?” asked Kate. “Thinking there’s nothing after we die?”

  “Death isn’t frightening,” said Tom. “It’s programmed in. When the time comes, our bodies know what to do. But truly, what an obscene waste, worrying that some magical eye-in-the-sky’s judging us and everything we do - ”

  Davey realised he was staring.

  “Okay,” said Tom. “Sorry, Davey. Rant over. Priss, your throw.”

  Mrs White took the secret passage.

  “Why is ther
e a secret passage from the kitchen to the study?” Priss asked. “Professor Plum, in the study, with the lead piping.”

  “Because they’re at opposite corners of the board,” said Davey. “Here.”

  Priss glanced at the card he held out, and crossed study off her list. “But why connect those two rooms?”

  “Maybe Dr Black liked to snack in the middle of his experiments,” said Kate.

  “What experiments?”

  “Well, he’s called Dr Black and he lives in the middle of nowhere. I’m thinking Bond Villain. Something pointless, insane and spectacular.” Isaac passed a sketch to Kate, who laughed and held it up. “Something like that.”

  A man in a black suit wrestled a triffid-like plant with the face of a beautiful woman.

  “So if Dr Black was evil,” said Priss, “should we even be trying to find out who killed him? Maybe the murder was, like, for the good of society.”

  “It’s never okay to kill someone,” said Kate.

  “Not even if it was, like, Hitler or someone? What?”

  “I was just invoking Godwin’s Law,” said Davey smugly.

  “Alright, then, Slobodan Milosevic. Would it be okay to kill Slobodan Milosevic?”

  “Is this before or after the massacres?” asked Tom.

  “Does it make a difference?”

  “Well, it’s a different proposition. If you kill someone before they do something terrible, you’re assuming you’re infallibly right and they were definitely going to. And if you kill them after they did it, you’re just punishing them.”

  “So is it ever alright to do it?” Priss persisted.

  Tom shrugged. “What do you think?”

  “I want to know what you think.”

  “You’re young. You’re supposed to have all the answers.”

  “That’s a really shitty thing to say,” said Priss. “I know I’m only sixteen but I’m not so fuckin’ dumb I think I know everything yet. Don’t treat me like an idiot, okay?”

  Tom was very carefully not making eye contact with anyone. “Alright,” he said slowly. “For what it’s worth, I think sometimes you have to make a choice and live with it. And if your best judgement is you absolutely need to kill someone, you accept you’ll live with it hanging over you for the rest of your life, and if you get caught, you’ll probably go to jail for it. Good enough?”

  Davey’s spine felt like a rod of ice. He didn’t dare move or look at anyone. Priss nodded thoughtfully, and turned to Kate.

  “What do you think?”

  Kate moved Mrs Peacock into the dining room. “I think,” she said, “I’m ready to make an accusation.”

  “You can’t be,” Davey protested. “We’ve only played three rounds, there are hundreds of combinations - ”

  “I’m ready,” Kate insisted. “I think it was Miss Scarlett, in the hall, with the dagger. Right, I’m having a look.” She opened up the envelope, and smiled. “Told you.” She spread the three cards out so the rest of the players could see them.

  “How did you know that?” asked Davey in disbelief.

  “Because it’s always Miss Scarlett,” said Kate, shrugging. “Cherchez la femme.”

  Dear Joshua,

  The beans are ripe now, and the tomatoes are finally starting to ripen. If I’m still here next year, I think I’ll put in some raspberry canes. The soil’s good for it, nice and light and sandy. Good for everything, really. I’ll put in some potatoes for next year too. West Country potatoes are famous, apparently. Kate tells me people sell them by the sackful at the roadside, and tourists take them home with them along with their dirty washing.

  I’m writing nonsense about the garden because I’m still nervous. In fact, I’m still frightened. Weeks and weeks and weeks since I ran for it, and I’m still looking over my shoulder the whole time. I get nervous when I’m inside. I don’t like the door being shut just in case I can’t get it open again. If I saw a doctor, it’s possible he’d have a name for it. Claustrophobia, maybe? Post-traumatic stress disorder? Those decades in a cell have taken their toll.

  I ought to say I’m sorry, I suppose. When I started writing this letter, that’s what I meant to do. It was a terrible thing I did. But I had a chance, and I had to take it.

  I don’t deserve any of what I’ve got now. And believe me, I’ve got a lot. I don’t have any money, or even a real name, but that’s okay. I’ve got a roof over my head and food in my belly, people I can more or less call friends, and a garden I can call my own.

  I don’t deserve any of it, but I’m grateful. I didn’t deserve the chance to escape either, but I got it.

  You know, I’ve written so many letters to you, but this is the one I might actually post. It’s been a whole summer, and the world hasn’t ended because one man escaped prison. I’ll travel a bit so the postmark won’t match and you won’t have the dilemma of coming to look for me, and then I’ll post it.

  I hope all’s well with you.

  Tom

  chapter eight (then)

  “Why does he sleep in a tent when we’ve got so many bedrooms?” asked Jack.

  Mathilda was lying on the rug by the open window in the library, basking in the late afternoon sunshine, her eyes tightly shut, a dog-eared copy of Hamlet beside her. Jack, tired with the thankless effort of composing, thought she had never looked so beautiful as in this moment of uncharacteristic laziness. But then he had this thought at least twenty times a day. Her face, far too arresting for the commonplace nothingness of “pretty”, fascinated him from every angle. He’d seen Isaac watching her too, on golden afternoons where the two men lay around the lawns or the veranda, juggling pencils and beer and guitars and paper as Mathilda, as unselfconscious as if she were utterly alone, experimented with incarnations of Nora.

  “He said permanent structures made him uneasy.” A breeze ruffled Mathilda’s hair and blew a strand across her mouth. She blew it back impatiently.

  “How could he possibly tell you that?”

  “Oh, you know Isaac. He’s good at getting his point across.”

  “I suppose.”

  He glanced at his notepad. He didn’t like any of the words or any of the music. Was it always this difficult to start? Landmark had been a picnic compared to this new project, but then, Violet Hour had seemed that way compared to Landmark.

  He looked at Mathilda again. He longed to lie beside her and peel off her rainbow-patterned t-shirt and faded bell-bottoms, to kiss her stomach and her long thighs and make slow, clumsy love to her in the sunshine. Today, and unusually for the last few weeks, they were alone. Isaac was the most perfect house guest imaginable. Although he spent hours every day with them, watching and listening as Jack desultorily experimented with words and melodies and Mathilda transformed herself into other people, Jack rarely felt his presence as intrusive. But today he’d disappeared entirely, leaving a note on the kitchen table consisting of a child’s sketch of a boat with a triangular sail and a clock with a moon drawn next to it.

  Mathilda’s cool white skin had borrowed the gold of the sunlight. Jack considered the word Baltic, crossed it out and replaced it with frozen, reconsidered, put Baltic back in again. Neither word said what he really wanted. He looked again at Mathilda, felt his heart squeeze tight.

  Did Isaac lie awake on these warm scented nights and dream of her? Did he strain his ears for the sound of Jack making love to her, stroking himself to a silent climax, fantasising it was him instead?

  “He gave me a present yesterday,” he said out loud.

  “What was it?”

  “A painting.”

  “That’s nice. What of?”

  “He said it was a whale’s pancreas. Apparently I’ll understand what he means one day.” Mathilda snorted with laughter. “It’s sort of great, in a weird way. I was going to hang it in the bedroom. If that’s alright with you.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Apparently some people find it hard to sleep in rooms containing the internal organs o
f large aquatic mammals.”

  “Really?”

  “They did a study. It was in the paper the other day. I should have saved it.”

  She turned over onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands. “I want to ask you something.”

  “If you want my whale’s pancreas, it’ll cost you.”

  “Isaac wants to paint me.”

  Jack felt as if every muscle in his body had winced. He forced a casual shrug. “Okay.”

  He was insane to be worried. Neither Isaac nor Mathilda had done anything to give him reason to be jealous.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Would it matter if I wasn’t?”

  “Well, of course it matters. I love you,” she continued, as if this was obvious, “so obviously what you think counts. I mean, if it was a role where I had to be naked, well, that’s different, that’s my job, but this is just for a friend. Are you alright?”

  “Could you possibly say that again, please?”

  “It’s just for a friend.”

  “No, the first bit - ”

  “Oh!” She smiled. “Why? Do you need reassurance?”

  “Please.”

  “I love you,” she said, with a shrug. “Do the words make such a difference? You knew anyway.”

  “No, I didn’t know, of course I didn’t, how could I possibly know? I had no idea - ”

  “How could you not know?”

  “Because you never said!”

  “I’m living here with you, aren’t I? I get into your bed every night, don’t I? I gave my agent your phone number, that’s about as committed as actors get.”

  “How can you be so calm about this?”

  “It’s just three words.”

  “Describing the most important emotion on earth!”

  “Why are you so angry?”

  “I’m not angry, I’m - ”

  “Yes?”

  Frantic, he thought. Lost. Ecstatic. Bewildered. Besotted. Adoring. Crazy for you.

  He put his arms around her. Words weren’t enough, words were tricky and confusing, he was tangled and lost in words. He could only show her with his body, with his fingers and his tongue and his cock, with the slow rhythm and melody of two bodies perfectly in tune. The sofa seemed too impossibly far away to even contemplate. He loved her on the sun-warmed floor instead, oblivious to the hard surface beneath them, the words beating in his blood. I love you. I love you. I love you, so -