The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  ‘You needed to tell me something. Well, I…’ Her mother hesitated. ‘I need to tell you something too.’

  Irina’s insides dropped. She knew. Her mother knew. How long had she known? Had she dragged around the knowledge for years? Had she looked over at Irina every time she visited and loathed her for it? Now that the moment was here, Irina wanted to cry ‘Stop!’, to insist on pushing the genie back into the bottle, locking the box, hiding the key. It had seemed urgent before, when she was fired up by Andrew’s questions, the discoveries in Devon, the need to cleanse herself. She hadn’t thought then that her mother already knew. She dropped her head, stared at the floor, waiting for her mother to tell her how much she resented her.

  ‘This isn’t easy,’ her mother said, a small laugh escaping, a bubble of nervousness. ‘I’ve been remembering the last time we were at a hospital together, and it got me thinking.’

  Irina hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she felt herself go light-headed, a nauseous sensation, bile in the back of her throat.

  Her mother coughed. ‘You won’t remember, I imagine? You were in the hospital after…’ She indicated Irina’s face with one hand. ‘They had to dress your face twice a day.’ Her voice broke as she continued. ‘You were being so brave. Biting down on your lip to stop yourself from calling out, and you just kept asking after your brother…’

  ‘Joshua,’ Irina whispered.

  Her mother swallowed and nodded. ‘Joshua.’

  It was her saying his name. That was the moment when she began to cry, and once she had begun she found she couldn’t stem it. Her body shook as the tears fell. Years of tears for Joshua, for her baby brother, the brother she should have protected. Her dad, her lovely dad, who used to growl at her from behind cereal boxes, tickle her as she raced squealing up the stairs. Her mother was crying too, slow, steady tears that leaked out of the corner of her eyes, pooled along the rims, then streamed down the sides of her face, tearing pale scars through her make-up, track marks as they fell.

  ‘He was precious,’ Irina said, smiling now, a half-smile, bittersweet. ‘I never thought…’ The pain was filling her up, burning her face all over again, moving down her arms as if she was on fire, pain coursing through her veins into every limb, making her ache with it, doubling over. ‘It was my fault,’ she sobbed through her hands. ‘My fault.’

  Her mother reached out for her hand again, stroking the skin in small rhythmic circles, and Irina hated her for it, for showing her pity. ‘No, no, I have… I have to tell you…’

  Her mother drew back, something like fear in her eyes and Irina wiped at her face, straightened up, took a breath. ‘The fire,’ Irina said in a wobbly voice. ‘The fire…’ She swallowed, twisted the bottom of her jersey in one hand, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Was all because of me.’

  MARY

  Richard left quickly, following his friend, his hair already flattened by the rain as he hurried down the path to the street. They’d turned the lights on at 4 p.m., the sky a strange colour, a large grey cloud tinged with red hanging stubbornly over the village, the rain insistent. She’d stood in the garden, her hands sinking deep into the pockets of her cardigan, feeling the rain on her face, clinging to her eyelashes. It had got worse since then, fat droplets that slid down the roof, filled the drainpipes, rattled the windows and streaked the glass so that the outside was a moving-picture show, nothing solid, everything slipping away and re-forming before her eyes.

  Martin had strained his eyes at the blackness outside. ‘Absurd. It’s August.’

  This was her third night in the cottage. It seemed strange that only a couple of evenings ago they’d been sitting in the small garden watching the sun sink lower, turning the sky to a dusky pink, a pale grey, and the clock had told them it was nearly nine o’clock. Now it felt like a winter’s night, both of them sitting in the armchairs by the fire. Mary was playing solitaire, fascinated by the simple game, enjoying removing the marbles, hearing them roll around the edges of the board as Martin read, looking up to comment once in a while.

  Mary wondered what it might have been like if her father had never left for the war, if he’d never had to come back a different person. He had once been like Martin, able to look her in the eye when she spoke, amused by her stories, offering words of appraisal in a low, steady patter. She knew she would have to make plans to move on, couldn’t stay in this house for long. She’d tried to pull her weight since Richard had brought her down there, a pie, the pastry neatly pierced, ready to go in the oven for dinner.

  Richard was Abigail’s, she knew that immediately; his eyes grew softer when he spoke about her. She’d been to the pictures and watched the love stories and she imagined them on a blustery hilltop, Richard holding her face in his hands, leaning down to bring his mouth to hers. She didn’t tell him about Larry; Abigail had made her promise not to share the hints and whispered words of her postcards. Mary hated knowing the truth.

  Richard to her was the older brother, someone to look up to, to please. She’d helped him bring in logs earlier, stacking them up for a fire they couldn’t believe they would need in August, gutting the fish he’d brought back in a basket, laughing at the relief on his face when she’d offered, renewing the water in the teapot.

  They hadn’t worried at first. The rain was loud, the thunder ominous, and the first flash of lightning had made her start, the two of them glancing at each other with nervous smiles. She went to the front door, looked out into the darkening evening, the lights of the Lyndale Hotel a little way along a comfort.

  ‘It must be the wettest summer on record,’ Martin said, wanting her help to move him around so that he could see out of the window.

  ‘It isn’t half loud,’ she said, hating the relentless drumming of the rain, the flare of lightning that seemed to light up their small room, and the noise of the rivers rushing past the house, normally a gentle sound but tonight overwhelming.

  Martin looked at her, his worn face creased with worry as they both heard a louder noise in the distance. Then the lights failed, everything sputtering and then out. The room suddenly a black space, vague outlines fooling them. Mary made a surprised yelp and then Martin’s voice drifted out of the dark.

  ‘There’s matches,’ he said, ‘on the mantelpiece, on the left there.’

  She moved across, feeling her way, arms outstretched, wondering for a moment which direction she was facing. A bolt of lightning, firing up the room and their startled faces for a second so that she giggled, she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Careful,’ he said as her calf hit something. A coal scuttle, metal; her skin would be marked. ‘Go slow.’

  ‘Oh darn this. Sorry,’ she said, patting at the mantelpiece, feeling round ornaments, framed photographs, worried that she might bring something precious crashing to the floor. She wouldn’t want to break anything; it would be so embarrassing.

  She found the box, careful to slide out the drawer and take a match out, feeling the end and drawing it quickly along the side. She held it up for a second, caught Martin trying to get out of his chair. The surprise made her drop the match and start forward, burning her fingers, the smell instant, then she stood on the red outline so that she wouldn’t start a fire.

  ‘I wanted to get the candles.’

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘No, don’t you worry, I can manage.’

  He had reached for his stick; she could make out his outline as her eyes adjusted. He sat back down abruptly as another rumble took them by surprise.

  ‘There are candles in the hall, in the table.’

  ‘I’ll get them.’ She turned to grope her way back across the room, matches clutched in one hand, body stooped, feeling for the velvet of the armchair, straightening up as she took a step towards the door.

  ‘Give me the matches.’

  She held them out, squinting to try
and make out his hand, side-stepping towards him inch by inch. They desperately needed light. She felt his fingers close over them, the rough skin, the hand bigger than hers.

  ‘Take care,’ he said as she turned in the direction of the door, bending down slightly to feel her way around the furniture, blushing as she realized she had hold of his knee.

  ‘Alright!’ He laughed.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, giggling again.

  She made it to the door, pulled it open. The table should be straight on and to her left. She walked straight into a pool of water, stepped backwards and smacked her elbow on the doorframe, crying out with the pain and the surprise of the water, which had already soaked her feet.

  ‘You alright?’ came Martin’s voice.

  ‘There’s water—’

  Another roar froze her to the ground, a deafening crash from outside and she couldn’t help the sounds that came out of her mouth. She imagined the house being circled by a giant. She thought back to the fairy tales. He was stomping through the valley now, one foot planted, lifting another, tearing things up in his path. She felt her heart racing faster. She had to stop the water; she could find things to put in the gap under the door. She moved towards the table, alarmed by the size of the puddle, more water seeping under the door, faster. She tried the drawers, feeling past pencils, paper, until her hands came up against the waxy smoothness of a candle. She seized it and turned back around, both hands on the table behind her so that she could get her bearings.

  ‘The holder’s in here.’ Martin sounded different now, more urgent, and she tried to stay composed. She made her way back to him, her feet sopping, and handed him the candle. He lit it as he sat in his chair and the sudden warmth of the circle of light calmed both of them down; in that moment she thought she had never seen anything more welcoming. Their eyes met in the orange glow; respite for a second.

  ‘Get the holder.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard, pointed to a table. She popped the candle inside, cupping the flame as if it were the most precious thing in the world. ‘You’re going to have to help me up.’

  ‘Let me try blocking the door,’ she said.

  ‘I can help.’

  She could hear the frustration in his voice and saw him smack a hand on the arm of his chair as she moved quickly to try and shore up the front door. The candlelight revealed an ever-widening puddle that was moving towards the living room and to the bedroom opposite, where Martin slept.

  ‘We need to go upstairs,’ Mary said in a voice that she didn’t recognize as her own.

  She had seen Richard do this ten times and yet now she felt the awful awkwardness of their situation.

  ‘I can’t…’

  ‘You have to. I can manage,’ she said, trying to swallow down her embarrassment and help him to the door.

  He leant all his weight on her, trying to keep hold of the candle. It felt strangely familiar, to have a man’s body leaning heavily on her, as if she were turfing out one of their customers from the pub. He smelt of spice and tobacco. She coughed and chattered until she had to fall silent, concentrating on every step, the light wobbling, throwing up strange shadows around the room. The water had leaked into the living room now and when they got into the hall it had got deeper, up to their ankles, swilling around their calves, the rug beneath it ruined, a shoe bumping gently into her. Her breathing was heavy, her body struggling to take Martin’s weight; they stopped on the stairs, him twisting down, his back against the wall, a pained expression on his face. She took the candle higher up, leaving him at the bottom in darkness, surrounded by a black, glittering pool, as if he were sitting on the stair about to fish.

  He managed to move up the stairs without help, hauling himself up with his hands on his bottom, moving backwards slowly. The water had reached the first stair and he protested when Mary moved quickly back down to the living room with the candle, wading now, up to her calves in water.

  ‘What can I move? What will be ruined?’ she shouted up.

  He protested for another moment and then started calling out to her from the top stair, directing her until she had collected a small pile of items: the photographs from the mantelpiece, the letters from the right-hand drawer of the dresser, the photograph album from the left-hand drawer, the carriage clock on the table behind his chair, his sheepskin slippers.

  ‘It will ease off,’ she said, one hand on his arm as he sifted sadly through the album, not able to see the details in the soft light. ‘Come on,’ she urged, ‘let’s get settled.’

  She helped him onto the bed, bent to remove his shoes, dripping onto the rug, his socks sticking to his skin, a hole at the top where one of his toes poked through. She helped him shift so his back was resting against the bed frame, tucked his feet under the woollen rug.

  ‘I haven’t been up here for two years,’ he said softly, his expression calmer for a moment. ‘This used to be our bedroom.’

  ‘Richard told me.’ She nodded, glad they were talking normally, worried about the sounds from outside.

  She put the candle in the window of the bedroom, embarrassed by the sight of her underthings draped on a chair in the corner. She discreetly moved to put them in her bag, wishing she had tidied up better that morning. They perched on the edge of the bed. The lights from the hotel had gone out too and they could hear shouts and voices in the darkness.

  ‘Richard will come back and help us,’ she said, her voice high and bright.

  Martin was quiet for a few seconds. ‘You must go, Mary, get to the hotel. Get help.’

  ‘I won’t leave you, and anyway, Richard will be back soon, we’ll be safe here till then.’

  ‘Go to the hotel, they’ll have a ladder, they’ll have men who can help.’

  She agreed, a terrible part of her knowing she wanted to get out of the bedroom; she wanted the security of more people, wanted to be herded and instructed. She lit the gas lamp by her bed, the room now suffused with light.

  She took the candle, walking slowly, her face lit up from below as she looked back over at him. ‘I won’t be long. I’ll be back with help,’ she said, stepping into the corridor, turning slowly and heading down the first short flight of stairs.

  She returned moments later in silence, her face pale even in the candlelight. She didn’t tell him that the water had reached the landing just below them, that the whole of the ground floor was submerged. She simply returned the candle to the window and sat back down on the bed, trying to reassure him with a smile. She could feel it on her face, wonky. She couldn’t jump from the window and they didn’t have a ladder, and anyway, Martin wouldn’t be able to get out. The water wouldn’t come any higher, they needed to wait for help, someone would come.

  ‘The river’s changed course, that isn’t right,’ Martin said, looking out into the darkness as another flash of lightning illuminated the outside. He turned back to her, his face different now, steel in his eyes. ‘We have to get help.’

  ‘People will see the light; they’ll know we’re here.’

  ‘No, you have—’

  ‘And Richard will come,’ she assured him, feeling better as she said the words aloud.

  More voices then, in between the roar and screeching from outside, someone calling, persistent, closer. Mary stood up, straining to hear, moving towards the small square of window. There was a figure in the cottage next door, silhouetted by a weak light behind him. It was Tom, shouting something across the gap between their cottages. Mary fumbled to open the catch on the window. She could make out Beth behind him, pacing the room, the baby in her arms. The noises seemed to enter the room then, swirl around them, screaming, thudding, tearing. Mary took a step back, frightened of the tumult outside. She couldn’t make out what Tom was saying, he was waving an arm at her. She wanted to lean out, reassure, but she felt frozen to the floor now, the curtains lifting with the wind, his
shouts merging with the other sounds in the darkness.

  ‘We… help… the house… going…’

  ‘Who is it?’ Martin asked from the bed.

  His question seemed to rally her. She shook her head as if she had water in her ears, her mind clogged with the din. Then, as she turned, an enormous crash came from somewhere behind the house and she whipped back round, unable to see Tom’s outline in the darkness anymore, unable to see the cottage at all.

  ‘Oh my God.’ She squinted into the night, unable to believe the gap that had opened up in front of her.

  Martin had twisted round on the bed as water started seeping into the room, a terrible slow puddle oozing over the wooden floorboards.

  ‘Mary, go! Get away, try to climb down. You could go to the school, it’s higher up…’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Go!’ His voice rose, fist hitting the mattress. ‘You must. You need to get out.’

  ‘I wo—’

  They both looked to the side as the most enormous noise seemed to hurtle towards them from the valley. A wrenching, screeching, terrible sound and then they couldn’t see each other and they couldn’t hear each other and the candle went out.

  IRINA

  Her mother had been looking at her for the longest time. Irina was waiting now, waiting for the moment when she would turn, swear at her, scream, tell her to get out: do something. Her mother stood up, her mouth opening and shutting, no words coming out, her arms slack at her side as Irina gabbled again. ‘I caused the fire: it was my fault.’

  She couldn’t look at her mother, babbling now to herself. ‘If I hadn’t tried to make pancakes, if I hadn’t left the hob on, they’d… still…’ She couldn’t say it, even now, she couldn’t finish that sentence. She felt her body tearing into a thousand parts as she replayed that day, over and over.

  She had woken early to make pancakes for her dad. It was his birthday. He was going to be forty, totally ancient. They were his favourite breakfast and he always had them with syrup. Joshua was meant to help, but when she pushed open the door to his room he was fast asleep with his mouth wide open, diagonal on the bed. He had kicked off his dinosaur duvet cover and was almost dangling off the edge. She didn’t wake him, crept down to the kitchen on her own.