Furnace

by Wayne Price

  He nodded drowsily. You’ve read Coleridge? The philosophy, I mean.

  She shook her head.

  Ah, he said.

  V

  On the Wednesday she took a bus into town. Outside the drug store an alarmingly thin, middle-aged man with a gentle but distracted manner was handing out flyers to anyone who would take them. He wore sandals, baggy linen shorts and a spotless sky-blue T-shirt. On the bus ride back to the campus she read through the leaflet.

  My name is PAUL. In 1971 after a bad experience with hallucinogenic drugs I developed mental difficulties. My medication BURNS the nerve-endings in my brain and prevents the NATURAL HEALING process taking place. If you can offer me SAFE HAVEN where I can stop my medication and allow NATURAL HEALING to take place please contact me on: 888-1359

  She read over it again in the kitchen of the summerhouse, then with a strawberry magnet fixed it to the fridge door.

  As evening came on she gave up on her books and sat outside with Charlie. She picked a handful of grapes but they seemed more bitter than before and after chewing the juice from them she spat the skins out onto the dirt path. Out on the water meadows she could see one of the Hearn kids, a young girl, walking two of the wolfhounds. In the distance, against the low sun, the great, loping dogs seemed weirdly gaunt and stylized, like cave paintings brought to a brief, twilight life. No sound carried from them and even Charlie seemed unaware of their passing.

  When it grew too dark to see the river she stood and stepped down to the path. Charlie, she said, and tossed him one of the grapes. He snapped at it and, to her surprise, not only gulped it down but lifted his head expectantly, eager for more. Amused, she lobbed another towards his muzzle, knowing that the next day she would study his stools for the skins.

  VI

  The next morning she woke at first light from a nightmare of vomiting up, wrenchingly, a long, burning stream of undigested grape skins. When she lifted her face away from the hot dent of her pillow she was astonished to see dry, unsoiled sheets surrounding her. Her stomach throbbed from the violence of retching and the stink of bile seemed real in her nostrils but when she touched her lips they were clean. She caught sight of the white dish still sitting by the side of the bed. The skins clinging to its rim were desiccated now: hard, waxy and smooth like fingernails.

  Dazed, she let her head fall back to the pillow and suddenly remembered helping her mother bring in washing from the clothesline in the big, windy backyard of her childhood home. The bed sheets needed folding and as they each took their corners a rain of tiny black beetles fell from the opened folds. They seemed to wake on landing and swarmed for new shelter in the cracked paving around her feet. Her mother, always so nervous, had jumped back, shrieking, and dropped her end of the sheet. Later that day, eyes wide with drama and disgust, her mother had kept saying to her over and over again: But what if we hadn’t noticed? My God, what if we’d put that sheet back on the bed with all those black bugs on it?

  And lying on her own bed now she heard the dog scratching and keening at the door and felt the skin of her bare legs crawl with tiny pincers and limbs. She clenched her thighs, her whole body rigid under the covers. She’d been nine or ten, but even at that age had known with an awful, childish sense of doom that it was a crazy thing for an adult to be saying, a crazy way to think.

  How could you not notice? shed demanded at last, and already her young throat had felt as if it might choke on fury and despair.

  THERE IS A SAVIOUR

  Leyden had seen her naked once, slipping out of his son’s room in the small dark hours of a winter’s morning, padding cat-like to the bathroom door. It was towards the end of the school term and he’d been working through the night, bleary-eyed and wired on caffeine at the kitchen table, marking exam scripts. She’d glanced up the long hall towards the light but hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared about him staring back at her over his stacks of papers. Embarrassed, he’d got up and moved out of sight of the hallway, then waited a while after the flush had been pulled to be sure she’d had time to flit back.

  That had been early in her stay, just a week or so after she’d moved in to share a room, and bed, with his nineteen-year-old student son, Matthew. After a long, bitter quarrel with the boy that had made him feel morally petty for objecting to the girl’s arrival, he’d finally given in, realising, even as they raged at one another, that a part of him was intrigued by the idea – was hungry for any change in their deadlocked, fierce life together. After saving face with a few petty rules and restrictions he’d allowed the two youngsters to get on with their arrangement, secretly fascinated.

  To his surprise, he’d soon found himself actually enjoying the extra presence in the roomy, unhomely Edinburgh flat. Though he rarely saw the girl, Emma, other than in passing, and even then never exchanged more than a few polite words with her, he sensed a contentment about her, a stability that seemed to make the flat a busier but much more placid space than it had been before. The ugly silences he’d often endured with just Matthew for company became almost a thing of the past, though the boy still communicated only when necessary, and never with warmth. Above all, Leyden enjoyed having the tokens of a woman’s presence around him after years of living without them: the bewildering toiletries in the bathroom, pastel buntings of underwear on the radiators, the scent of lotions or perfume sometimes lingering in the hallway.

  Then, after six peaceful months, without warning Matthew decided that Emma had to leave. Typically, the boy had explained nothing but asked Leyden, in a tersely written note pinned to his bedroom door, to drive her home to Kettick, a small fishing town on the east coast. It would be a four hundred mile round trip at least, Leyden knew, maybe half of it on slow country roads; but his son had never learned how to drive and over the winter months the girl had moved in much more than she could manage on a train or bus. Gripped by a fury he couldn’t fully explain to himself, Leyden had stalked through the flat, hoping to find the boy alone. But the couple were out or lying low behind their locked bedroom door and for the girl’s sake he resigned himself to a long, embarrassing journey.

  That Saturday morning, Leyden collected the hired van he’d booked and drove it back through a cold, light drizzle to the pile of luggage, boxes and plastic bags Matthew had brought down from the flat. The youngsters were standing watch over the boxes, careless of the rain. They stood hand in hand, Leyden noted, and a surge of distaste towards his son made him turn his face away as they approached the van. There was a bang against the side of the vehicle – the flat of a palm – and he heard Matthew shout for him to come and unlock the doors.

  Neither of the youngsters seemed willing to make eye contact with Leyden as he joined them on the pavement and hauled back the van’s big, sliding side-door. You should get in the cab out of the wet, he said to Emma. We’ll see to the loading.

  Ignoring him, she detached herself from Matthew and took hold of one of the suitcases. A freshening breeze was tugging at the plastic bags amongst the boxes, rustling them and flinging cold drops of heavier rain.

  Okay, Leyden said, as if to himself, and set to work alongside her. For a few moments the boy watched them, blankly, then followed their lead.

  Once the loading was done, Leyden climbed inside and waited at the wheel while they got through their goodbyes. The rain, strengthening all the time, had begun to drum onto the roof of the cab and when she heaved herself up into the passenger seat Emma’s long dark hair was lank and dripping. She gasped as she sat back, wiping the wetness from her forehead. There was a whiff of spirits on her breath and Leyden looked across at her, searching her face for signs of what to expect in the hours to come. Her smooth, pale, distracted face gave nothing away. As Leyden indicated to pull out from the kerb she squirmed to stare out at Matthew. Hunched and grimacing under the downpour he offered up a perfunctory wave, and Leyden again felt an upswell of exasperation and shame.

  Thanks for the lift, she said, turning from the window once they were out of sight of th
e tenement.

  He shrugged and cleared his throat. Listen, he said, I’m sorry about all this – the way he’s acted. He wet his lips. Getting you home safe and sound is the least I can do. The collars of his shirt and jacket were wet through after the loading and as he moved his head to address her he felt the cotton rub against his throat. She wasn’t looking at him, she was looking straight ahead. He turned his own eyes back to the road and shivered. The rain was washing down hard onto the windscreen and the inside of the glass was clouded with moisture from their wet skin and clothes. It was hard to see out into the traffic. He turned the fan heater to high and the cab filled with the sound of rushing air.

  Shifting in her seat she stared hard at him for a while. There’s no need to be sorry, she said, raising her voice to be heard over the fan. Matty just needs some time; then we’ll get married properly and be back together again for good.

  Surprised by the authority in her voice, Leyden glanced across at her. You think so?

  She nodded once, decisively.

  Well, that’s good. If you think you’re ready for all that.

  She made no reply and in the awkward lull Leyden was suddenly aware not just of the heater’s loud blast of air but also, behind it, the churning electric motor driving the windscreen wipers. He listened to it flailing the blades against each swill of rain. He knew without looking at her that he had made some mistake.

  You don’t believe me, do you? she said abruptly. You think I’m just being young and naïve.

  No, he said. I didn’t say that. He turned the fan down to a lower setting. He could feel his temperature beginning to rise and with a finger loosened the damp collar of his shirt where it stuck to his neck. She was still facing him, he realised, though he didn’t turn to make eye-contact. He caught another trace of alcohol on the stuffy air and wondered grimly how much she had drunk.

  Matty told me you don’t believe in anything, she said, as if noting the weather. He said you’re too bitter. He told me you’re the most cynical person I’ll ever meet.

  For a long, stunned moment, Leyden replayed the girl’s words in his head. He heard himself laugh, humourlessly. Heat was spreading over him now, prickling at his scalp and neck. Did he? he managed to say. He nodded as if in approval. And what does Matthew believe in then?

  She was doing something with her hair. Out of the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of her bare white forearm rising and sweeping back. She took her time answering, then said simply, Matty’s very spiritual.

  Spiritual! he almost blurted, but checked himself. He nodded again instead, labouring for some response that might put a quick stop to the conversation.

  That’s why we’ve got to be apart for a while, she went on.

  Leyden realised he was still nodding, and stopped himself. Matthew was always the… serious type, he managed at last.

  At noon he turned off into a service station and asked her if she was hungry, taking a close look at her face again. She had pulled her hair back tight over her scalp, knotting and pinning it above the nape of her neck. She looked very white and distant and shook her head when Leyden repeated the question.

  Well I’m getting a coffee at least, maybe something to eat, he told her.

  I’ll go to the Ladies, she said, opening her door.

  Okay. I’ll be in the Burger King. He followed her through the rain across the car park and into the foyer.

  He was already eating at one of the window tables by the time she came to find him. She eased herself into the cramped seating opposite him and smiled. She looked better, Leyden thought, now that there was colour in her cheeks.

  I was sick, she announced. I had a drink this morning before we left. She laid a hand over her stomach. I feel fine now, though. I’ll get a burger too.

  I’ll get it, he mumbled through a full mouth, but she was already freeing herself from the table.

  Across from him a burly, shaven-headed man was struggling into his seat. His thickly muscled arms and neck were blue with crudely drawn tattoos – a death’s-head, slogans in gothic script, swastikas. The man ate slowly, thoughtfully, staring straight ahead.

  Emma returned with two small plain burgers and a milk shake. She bolted them quickly but neatly, dispatching one after the other with just a few swift, precise bites. Once the food was gone she slowed down, dawdling over the drink. Twice Leyden caught her eyeing him as he turned from staring out at the rain. She smiled briefly each time and then looked down at her drink, or across at the skinhead’s tattooed arms and neck.

  Still feeling okay? Leyden asked finally.

  Much better. I just needed to be sick. She laughed self-deprecatingly.

  He smiled, glad that the silence was broken.

  For a while she stared at the skinhead again, then turned back to Leyden. How long were you married? she asked.

  Leyden frowned but managed to keep smiling. He reflected for a while, looking sidelong at her open, strangely impassive face, realising with some surprise that he felt a growing sense of pleasure at the thought of being open, perhaps a little vulnerable, with this peculiar, awkwardly mannered girl. Maybe somewhere inside her, underneath all the callowness, lay a seed of sympathy, even recognition. The thought pleased him, but in a way that made him shift nervously in his plastic seat. Fifteen years, he said.

  That’s a long time.

  He shrugged, faintly gratified by her response. It sounds a long time when you’re young.

  Her mouth twisted into a thin half-smile and once again he knew he had slipped. Sensing what was coming next, he braced himself.

  Why did it go wrong? She took a draw on her milkshake, her eyes fixing him. Do you mind me asking?

  No, he laughed. No, I don’t mind. It’s, ah, water under the bridge. He paused as if to reflect though he knew exactly what he was about to say. He cleared his throat. We just married too young, etcetera etcetera, you know. The old story. To his surprise he realised he was blushing and his chest had grown tight.

  She was nodding but her gaze was penetrating now, maybe puzzled, Leyden thought, or maybe critical. He shifted again in his tiny seat, wishing he’d never let the conversation happen.

  But if you’d been right for one another, then marrying young wouldn’t have mattered. She placed her milkshake on the table between them like a checkmate.

  Leyden regarded her. Well. She was kind to me at a bad time in my life, he said. That can mean a lot to you when you’re young. Too much, probably. He shrugged. Anyway, people make mistakes. And people change, he said, glad to have thought suddenly of that final, conclusive truth.

  She screwed her face into a quick sceptical grimace, then relaxed it. After a long pause she said, I think it’s good that Matty and me have broken up for a while now. We’ll be stronger because of it when we get back together. With her fingertips she shifted the tall paper beaker of milk across the table in small zigzags. Matty thinks so too. He said he never wants to do to me what you did to his mother.

  Leyden winced. So that’s it, he thought. That’s what it’s all about. Back to the boy. Of course – it should have been obvious to him. Well, I don’t know, he said. But we ought to get moving.

  Outside, the rain had eased and as he walked between the rows of parked cars to the van Leyden felt grateful for the fine, needling coolness it brought to his face. Ahead of him he recognised the shaved head of the tattooed man. He was covered by his jacket now and was getting into a white van like theirs. A sudden cold slap of wind made Leyden shiver and he jogged the last yards, hearing her footsteps keep pace on the wet tarmac behind.

  In the cab of the van he sat still for a few moments, gathering his thoughts while she rearranged her hair again, this time freeing it from its knot but then tying it back into a long, slack pony-tail. She half turned her head, eyeing him. I had alopecia when I was little. All my hair fell out. She was slicking her hands over her scalp now, over the tight wet strands.

  Oh, he said.

  It used to come away in clumps. I’d
be playing with my hair and stop to look and my hands would be full of all this long black hair. You never feel it coming out. She smiled oddly at him. I screamed the first time it happened.

  For a moment he met her gaze then turned back to face the windscreen, feeling suddenly too tired for words. But he had to speak, he supposed. What was the cure? he said at last.

  She shrugged, still smoothing around her skull. It was just nerves – it went away in the end. She yawned. Did you see the man at the table next to us? With the tattoos?

  Leyden nodded, finding himself yawning also, triggered by the girl. Shut up, he needed to tell her, but of course he couldnt. Shut up now, please, and for Christ’s sake just let me drive. He sighed.

  It’s really weird. Matty told me a story just last week about someone exactly like that – a skinhead, really violent and racist and everything. His minister told him about it.

  His minister?

  At his church.

  Leyden closed his eyes. Oh, Christ. What church? What minister? He listened to her voice tumbling on, light and life in her face for the first time that day, and wished he could get out into the cool rain; maybe lie under it; let it wash down and drown out all this embarrassing nonsense. Through a kind of daze he followed her story about a tattooed young skinhead cut out of a car wreck by a black fireman. The fireman saw his Nazi tattoos and witnessed to him about Jesus, she was saying, while he was cutting him out. He had to keep him talking to keep him alive, this black fireman. He was the only survivor – she’d forgotten to say that, at the start. And he was a minister now, in London, she was telling him, using his tattoos as a witness. He could have had them removed but he used them as a witness, now.

  Leyden grunted. There was silence for a while. Finally he slotted the key into the ignition.

  You don’t believe in any of that, do you? she said.

  He felt himself frown.

  I’m not saved either. But at least I’ve got an open mind. How can you explain what happens to people like that otherwise? If there isn’t a saviour?