He could recall nothing else, but he knew that, in time, it would come to him.
Standing up, he stuffed the owl under his arm and walked toward the glowing hills.
***
He walked for what felt like a full day this time, and drew closer to the hills. Sweat hung heavy on his brow, despite the coolness of the air. Still no sign of dawn. Nothing but endless night and an ongoing desire to reach the far side of the vertebra hills.
He had a sense that his desire was to be avoided, but he couldn’t control it. Somehow, he knew it would be more trouble than anything, but he had always been weak in the face of his longings.
Another few hours, and the graves had started to thin out. Finally, there was nothing between himself and the hills but a vast meadow, laced here and there with apple trees. He wondered if this related to his memory.
Have I been here before? Will I be back again?
Why did he think that? It made no sense. Nothing made any sense.
Who was he? Where was he, and where was he going?
The vertebral hills lay ahead, much closer now. The light behind them was brighter. It was a soft, pearl-like colour, with traces of red and black around the edges. Like no light he had ever seen before.
“Don’t. Stop. Don’t stop.”
It sounded like Caitlin again. She seemed a fair distance away. Somewhere in the hills, up near the ridgeline. He pressed on, determined to find the source of the voice.
He reached the end of the meadow. The apple and cherry trees had given way to silver birch. Sparse patches of shrubs poked up above the grass here and there. The hill itself, the third from the left in the range, seemed made of rounded, strangely-uniform white rocks.
It was only when he got close to where the grass ended that he saw what the hill was really composed of.
Skulls.
Thousands, tens of thousands, maybe even millions of skulls. The hill was a pile of bone two hundred metres high. He looked left and right, but the other hills in the range seemed normal. They were covered in grass, and the silver birch continued up the slopes. This hill, the one he needed to climb, was a barren pile of skulls.
Interlaced within the pile were other bones: long, thick femurs; delicately curved ribs; flat, axe-like shoulder blades; and stumpy spinal vertebrae. Millions of bones, piled high enough to contain every skeletal structure from every grave in the endless cemetery he had walked through to get here.
“Don’t stop. Keep going. Climb and achieve knowledge. Face the truth that lies within.”
Again, that voice called out to him. Again, the compulsion pulsed though him, an almost sexual feeling that stirred his loins and raised the hairs on his back and neck.
“Keep going and you shall find the meaning and the memory. Don’t forget the owl.”
He still held the stuffed toy in his hand. He’d almost forgotten it was there, but he’d managed to keep hold of it.
He looked up toward the crest of the hill. There seemed to be a large white box there, the size of a coffin. On it, a white figure reclined.
“Keep going.”
He stepped onto the first of the bones, expecting them to shift beneath his feet, but they proved more solid than he expected. It was as though they were firmly fixed in the ground underneath; purely a decorative layer.
“That’s it. Come to me. Don’t stop.”
“Who are you?” he cried out.
“I am temptation and punishment. I am your weakness and your desire. I am what lies within. I am innocence lost and the child of stolen dreams. I am diminished by lust.”
A hidden memory surged forward at these words.
[flash] Stalking her, stealing her, taking her amongst the budding apple trees.
He came closer to remembering what he had done. The details still escaped him, yet he was nearer to the truth. He dropped to his knees, shame and regret warring inside.
What am I? How could I?
After a while, he came back to his senses. He had to make amends. He had to make things right. He had to find Caitlin.
“Where am I?”
“Where you need to be.”
“That answers nothing,” he said. “Where do you lead me?”
There came no reply, and the figure stood up from what he now saw to be another grave. It turned away and walked down the other side of the bone-hill. The last he saw, her fine golden hair was billowing as though wind-blown, yet there was no breeze.
“Caitlin,” he called.
There was no response as the figure disappeared over the crest.
“Caitlin!” he called louder. Nothing. She was gone.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
He increased his pace, and soon enough he reached the tomb she had been sitting on. A square of white stone, large enough to hold a coffin and protect it from the elements. There was no headstone; just one word engraved on the top slab.
Tu
‘You’
Me?
Beneath the word was a carven symbol - a serpent, in the form of a circle that was swallowing its own tail. He had seen it before, but had no idea what it signified.
Rebirth? A cycle?
The tomb was sealed. He had no desire to open it. The very idea terrified him even more than he already was, if that were possible. He turned to follow the girl. He reached the crest of the hill and stopped, staring in wonder at what lay before him.
A massive city, marbled and lit throughout by what appeared to be torchlight, lay in the valley past the hills. It went for what seemed to be miles; houses made of stone interwoven with crenelated towers and castle-like fortresses built of massive basalt blocks. He could see movement in the distant streets. Crowds washed through them like water moving through a series of creeks; fluid and full of motion. Surrounding the city was a towering wall, segmented by gates that stood at least thirty feet high. All seemed closed except one, which stood at the termination of a snaky road that led from the base of the bone-hill to the city itself. It was lined with torches and strange-looking trees.
Necropolis. City of the Dead.
He didn’t know how he could be sure, but he was still certain this was the city’s name.
A breeze lifted the hairs on his head, cooled the sweat on his brow. It carried with it the scent of vanilla and old sweat. Somehow, it seemed both arousing and abhorrent now.
He started down to where the road began at the bottom of the hill. He was close now — he could almost feel the possibility of resolution. The toy owl dangled from his hand as he scrabbled down the bone-hill.
Soon, I will know who I am and accept what I have done. Soon I will be whole again. Soon, I will live again. Soon, I will say I’m sorry, and she will know I have found the way.
He reached the base of the bone-hill, and looked along the road. What he had taken for trees were actually poles, wrapped around with barbed wire that held up many childrens’ toys. The poles were spaced about a hundred feet apart, all the way to the city.
A voice whispered in his ear.
“Look at me. I’m bleeding.”
He whirled, trying to find who had spoken.
“I’m bleeding for you!”
He dropped the owl and clutched at his ears, spinning again, but there was no-one around. The breeze picked up, strengthening the smell of vanilla and sweat, but this time it was laced with the tang of copper and old blood. Still, it managed to arouse him once again. His penis grew erect, and sweat sprang from his pores.
He stumbled along the road for a few metres before he remembered the owl. He went back to grab it. It looked different. He couldn’t work out what it was for a second, and then noticed the eyes. Before they had been old buttons, but they were now tarnished pennies, sewn on with metallic thread.
Pennies for eyes, or to pay the Ferryman?
He walked toward Necropolis. Not far now. I’ll be there soon. I’ll find out what lies beneath the bones and the blood and the dreams and the graves. What lies beneath the earth. I’ll reme
mber what happened, and I’ll find a way to change it all.
“Soon. You’ll have it all very soon. This time, things will be different.”
There was that voice again, but this time he ignored it. He cared for nothing but to reach the gates and find that which he sought. Knowledge.
He walked past the barbed toy-trees and the lit torches; he walked until he reached the city gates. They were closed, although he was sure they had been open when he had gazed down from the bone-hill. Old and worn, the wood they were made from looked ancient, yet they seemed solid. The gates were black and arched, and were graven with one phrase repeated in many different fonts.
Virginis Portam
‘The Virgin’s Gate’
He pushed against them once, and then again, but there was no give. He took a step back and kicked at them. Nothing.
“If you want to enter, you must take them by force! The city does not want you to enter. I don’t want you to enter. I want you to not want to enter.”
Caitlin’s voice, saying those words, brought back everything in stark detail. He recalled walking through an orchard. He remembered seeing her walking alone one row away from him, maybe on the way home from school. He remembered his lust, and he remembered what followed. He remembered . . . God, he remembered.
Anger and shame ripped through him. This was a lie. He would never do that, would he?
He charged the gates with all of his strength, uninvited yet undaunted. Angry and suddenly unrepentant.
At the last second, just as he reached them, he heard the voice once more.
“We all must bear the burden of the choices we make.”
He tried to pull back.
No! I won’t do this, he thought, but it was too late. The gates flew open. He fell through them, into darkness.
***
Darkness and dirt.
After he’d woken in the small, muddy cavern, he’d scrabbled uselessly for what felt like hours, but it was all still darkness and dirt.
His fingertips scraped against something in the earth as he strived in the direction he hoped was up. Smooth and rounded, it came free as he pulled at it.
Caitlin? Why did that name spring to mind?
He placed it on the floor, and continued his journey to the surface.
Soon enough, he broke through to the world above.
Still, the darkness reigned.
Behind him was a headstone. Words were engraved upon it.
Fatum Circuli
‘Fate Circles’
He leaned forward and laid the stuffed owl at its base.
He didn’t want to die again, and hoped this time would be different.
redemption (n). The act or process of redeeming or of being redeemed.
21 BROOKLANDS: NEXT TO OLD WESTERN, OPPOSITE THE BURNT OUT RED LION
—CAROLE JOHNSTONE—
We’re rarely all in the house together. Not even to sleep. Whenever we are it’s by accident; none of us mean to be. Families aren’t supposed to like each other, are they? I don’t see how they can. They save the worst of themselves for themselves because everyone needs a break from pretending. I wrote that in an essay last year and Mr Ingles gave it a B plus before making me stay behind after class to ask if I was alright. I said yes, why wouldn’t I be?
I only came back at all to pick up some stuff before going back to Julie’s: underwear, some food, more smokes, because she’s been getting a bit pissy about stuff like that lately, and I like staying over at her bit. It’s as shit as mine, as all the houses around here are—wooden two bedroom bungalows that started out as holiday chalets for rich people—but it’s just her and her mum. And as far as families go, they’ve more energy for pretending. And they’ve got cable.
Mum caught me stealing the food because I rooted about in the fridge for ages—there wasn’t much in there worth stealing—and I forgot about the beep it makes when you’ve left the door open too long. She didn’t get up, she never gets up, but her thin scream forced me into the front room. She made me sit down and wait for Dad. I could’ve just left, I guess, it’s not like she’s ever going to be able to stop me, but I knew I’d pay for it later if I did.
Me and Mum don’t speak. We must have done once, I suppose. On days when I’m pretending that she’s not pretending, I blame her drowning lungs. I sat on the sofa, she sat in her armchair opposite Dad’s, and some five o’clock quiz show buzzed and applauded between us. She watched me for a bit, but I didn’t look at her because I don’t do that anymore either. It’s not just that she’s all sucked in and wrinkled like a deflating balloon now, it’s more than that. I’m scared to look. When she does speak to me at all, even in those two or three word breaths that rattle in their beginning and end, I can hear the bile in her. She hates me and I don’t know why.
The back door bangs, creaks open—squeals open—and then bangs harder again as it shuts. We never use the front door; I don’t even know if it works. The back door you could hear working from three or four streets away. I think it’s Dad, but it isn’t, and I’m nearly disappointed. A stay of execution isn’t much better. Sometimes it’s worse.
It’s Wendy, which is nearly as bad. “Hey, Mum. Where’s Dad?”
A dry and rustling shrug as familiar as bad breathing.
Wendy tuts. “Pub then, shit. Shit!”
Silence apart from the applause, and then, “Thought you was . . . stayin . . . with Mick to—”
“Well I fucking was, but his shitheap got a flat on the Sands and we need a spare.” Wendy comes into the front room, stands in the middle of it. “Think Dad’s got a spare?”
Mum swallows hard. It’s a dry, noisy click. “Might have.” Mum doesn’t like Wendy much more than me I don’t think, but it’s enough to speak to her. It’s enough to say might have when we all know that even if he does Wendy won’t be getting it.
The door bangs open, bangs shut. Mick’s heavy footsteps fill the quiet and then his bulk fills the doorway. He winks, he grins, scratches at the big black tattoo on his shoulder. “Evening ladies. Where’s the man of the house then?”
Wendy tosses him a look. Her hands stay on her hips. “Pub.”
He comes in and sits on the arm of the sofa furthest from me. Grins. “Haven’t seen you here in a bit, gel. What’s up?”
I’m grateful that someone is finally looking at me, but not enough to answer.
“She’s waitin . . . for her dad.”
“Oh yeah?” Another wink, another grin. “What you done then, gel?”
“She’ll have been stealing,” Wendy says. “That what you’ve been doing?” She stays in the middle of the front room, shaking her ugly hair like a prize stallion, not even looking down on me because that would mean looking. Wendy calls herself a hairdresser, but all she does is put rollers in cauliflower heads in the back room of Bobby’s Bingo. Mick’s a drug dealer but everyone pretends he’s a fisherman.
“I was just getting food out the fucking fridge,” I mutter.
“Stealing it more like,” Wendy says.
Can you steal food out of the fridge in the house you live in? It doesn’t matter that I was doing exactly that, not really.
Mick gets up. “Jimmy’s not goin’ to give us a tyre, Wends. C’mon, I’ll pick one up tomorrow.”
“And how are we going to get back to yours, eh? If you think I’m walkin’ back through this estate in the middle of the fucking night, you’re thicker than you look. I keep tellin’ you to sell that shitheap for scrap and buy something that’ll actually go. It’s not like you don’t have the money, Mick.”
“The Baron is not a fucking shitheap. And it wasn’t a fucking flat. You leave anythin’ on the Broadway more than five minutes these days and it’s nicked, fucked or slashed dependin’ on the weather.” He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s ever said.
I believe him though. It probably wasn’t a flat. It isn’t the middle of the night either; it’s five p.m. But the Baron is a shitheap. Occasionally Wendy has to be right
about something.
The back door bangs, screams open, bangs again. We all hold our breath, Mick included—in that we have about as much choice as Mum does.
Dad takes a long time getting to the front room; I hear him swear at the kitchen table when he walks into it. “Ah, what the fuck is all this? What the fuck you all doin’ here?”
Like I said, we’re rarely all in the house together, and whenever we are none of us mean to be. None of us want to be.
“Mick got a flat on the Sands, Dad. You got a spare that—”
“It wasn’t a fuckin’ flat, Wendy, Christ! You know what the Broadway’s like, Jimmy. Some bastard -”
Dad staggers through the door, past Wendy and into his beat up armchair. I can smell him: lager, sweat, chilli and the cold. When I get brave enough to look up, I’m relieved that his red-faced, thin-lipped rage is only for Mick.
“Fuck off, Michael Whitney. If someone did for you or your fuckin’ beat up Beamer, lit up red as the fuckin sky at night, then it’s for good fuckin’ reason.” He closes one eye, but its neighbour stays half open. “Fuck off out my house.”
Dad’s like all the olds around here: he doesn’t care that he lives in England’s povviest town; he revels in it. Mr Ingles calls it the Indices of Multiple Deprivation. He showed us a spreadsheet once with entries for income, employment, health, disability, crime and living standards. Of nearly thirty three thousand neighbourhoods, we were (in his words, and with one of his sad chuckles) literally streets ahead. Dad doesn’t see it that way. When they tried to bulldoze the chalets before I was born, he went to court with all the other residents and won. I think it’s the only thing he’s proud of. I can’t ever remember a time when any of the shops on the Broadway were anything more than shuttered, graffitied spaces with names I can’t read, or when a new burnt out anything made me stop and look, or a winter where our wooden houses didn’t flood; our walls are patterned with varying tidemarks and Mum knows the year of every one of them. Dad’s still proud of it all. He calls it self reliance. But he needs a lot of drink to say so.
For The Night Is Dark Page 2
