The Invisible Ones

by Stef Penney

  “How’s your hand now?”

  Lulu is looking at my—still—nearly useless right hand, tucked beside me. I lift it and waggle it in front of her.

  “It’s okay. It’s getting better.”

  I flex the fingers with difficulty. They move slowly, like the limbs of some languid underwater creature.

  “Can you feel anything with it?”

  “Not very much.”

  “You have to be careful not to burn it.”

  “Yeah. They kept on about that at the hospital.”

  “That’s because it’s easy to forget.”

  Of course, she’s a pro at this. I think of David. How much can he feel? She’s the one who has to be careful of him. She looks at my hand but doesn’t touch it. I wonder if she’s thinking of him, too.

  I find myself telling her about my former ward mate, Mike, and his gangrenous feet. Wondering how he’s getting on now. Almost as though we’d finished with the messy family business of the Jankos, and could talk about normal things, like normal people. Except, as she said herself, it isn’t the end.

  “There’s something else I have to tell you.” I clear my throat, awkward. “When we talked to Rose, it . . . um, it turns out that Rose isn’t Christo’s mother.”

  Lulu stares at me.

  “What?”

  “She isn’t his mother.”

  “Of course she is!”

  Lulu smiles, trying to see the joke. Then she stops smiling.

  “What do you mean? That’s crazy.”

  “Rose said her marriage to Ivo was unconsummated. Rose had no child, either then or later.”

  Lulu stares at me accusingly. For holding this back. For making her feel sympathy for me first.

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s lying!”

  I shake my head.

  “How do you know she’s not?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “We didn’t. So we checked. Rose remarried less than a year after her marriage to Ivo. She left him in February of ’79.”

  “No! It was 1980. In the winter . . .”

  “She married her current husband on August the thirtieth of the same year—1979. Christo was born seven weeks later.”

  Lulu’s eyes are huge; the skin seems to be cracking around them. Her lips are dry.

  “That can’t be right! No.”

  “That’s what I thought, so I checked and double-checked. It is right. Christo was born in October of ’79, right?”

  Unwillingly, she nods.

  “I’ve spoken to people who were at the wedding, in August ’79. I’ve seen wedding photos. There is no doubt. She can’t be Christo’s mother.”

  She looks so lost that I wish I was wrong. I wish I could take it back. But I can’t.

  “I’m sorry, but I have to ask: do you know who is Christo’s mother?”

  She turns her eyes to me. Anger, disbelief, betrayal.

  “I’m so sorry about all this, Lulu. I wish . . .”

  Her head shakes slightly, more a tremor than an act of negation. An explosion of air escapes her throat. She puts her drink carefully down and puts her face in her hands.

  “I’ll get you another drink.”

  “No! I have to go.”

  The savagery in her voice makes me look away. When I look back, she is looking out over her fingers. She pulls her spine straight again with an effort.

  “When Tene had his accident, and I saw them again, in December ’79, Ivo said she was long gone—I thought he meant weeks.”

  “It didn’t occur to me, either. It should have—that there was a whole year missing.”

  “So who was it, then? You think whoever it is . . . is in the Black Patch?” She whispers it.

  “I don’t know.”

  Lulu excuses herself to go to the ladies’ room, taking her sack of secrets with her. I stare at the low table in front of us, the ashtray half full of lipstick-stained fag ends, the ring-marked beer mats. Her black jacket is still crumpled over the back of her chair, its cheap satin lining creased and warm from her body. I can’t bear it. Every time I see her, we are hijacked by the drama of the Jankos. I have to tell her things that cause her pain. But there is something, some thing—thin, delicate, stretched almost to the breaking point—between us. I am almost sure of it. But what can I do?

  On impulse, before she comes back, I pick up her glass, with its delicate red wax print, and drain it of the sweet ice melt. The scent of rum vanishingly faint. Just so that I can press my mouth to the ghost of hers.

  49.

  Ray

  Tene Janko is greatly changed. He seems small, his skin grayer, thinner, as though he hasn’t seen the sun since my last visit. I can’t believe my first impression was of a large man.

  “I have come because I owe you an apology,” I start.

  Tene looks up at me and waves for me to sit down.

  “How are you? Are you all right, Mr. Janko?”

  He shrugs. “I’m well enough.”

  “I have to tell you something. I would like to tell your son as well, but, well . . . We have found Rose Wood.”

  “I told you,” he says, quietly.

  “Yes . . . you did. And so my—implying that Ivo had something to do with her disappearance was wrong. I apologize, to you and to him. I’m very sorry for the distress I’ve caused you.”

  Tene seems to be staring down at the table. I wonder if he has taken in what I said. Why there isn’t more of a reaction—more self-righteousness, more anger . . . more something. Then he says, “Have you seen her?”

  “Yes. We saw her and talked to her. She told us how she had run away from . . . her marriage to Ivo. She said that you helped her. She was grateful for that.”

  I watch him. His face reveals nothing, staring down at the floor.

  “Well, then. It’s over.”

  “Not quite. Finding her poses more questions than it answers, as you must know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His voice is neutral.

  “She said that she never had a child.”

  Tene nods eventually—a minute movement, slow.

  “It’s as I thought. She could not accept what had happened. It was too much for her.”

  “No. She can’t have children. Never could. She is not Christo’s mother.”

  I tell him about the dates. The wedding photograph. The witnesses. His eyes are downcast—I can’t see his expression.

  “Your accident took place in December 1979. Rose didn’t leave Ivo weeks after Christo was born but many months before. A whole year had passed. She is not his mother.”

  He makes no movement. There is no sign, even of comprehension.

  “So who is?”

  No reply.

  “Why did you and Ivo tell people that it was Rose?”

  “Because she is his mother. I do not understand why you say these things.”

  I ride a surge of impatience.

  “Mr. Janko, I know that that is impossible! Are you listening to me? What happened in that year? Did Ivo have a girlfriend? What happened to her? Where is she now?”

  I am failing to keep my voice calm. I am leaning toward him, my face aggressively close to his.

  “Why are you keeping his secrets?”

  Tene lifts his head a little, but his gaze travels past mine, out through the window and beyond.

  “She is the boy’s mother.”

  I count to ten. My fist is balled on my thigh.

  “Mr. Janko, I know you know! And in case you’ve forgotten, the police are investigating the body that they have found at the Black Patch. They will identify it. They know that Ivo has disappeared, and they know what happened to me. If you are hiding something . . . If you are protecting him—”

  “Mr. Lovell, I am not protecting my son. He’s beyond my protection. I can only tell you what I remember . . .”

  He drifts off; his eyes stare at atoms of air in front of him. My leg flic
kers with irritation.

  “I can’t force you to talk, but the police may not be so accommodating.”

  He never says what he remembers. Not only does he not speak, he does not move. Even his breathing is imperceptible. He seems to have receded from here, to far within himself. The hyperactive tick-tock of the gilt clock fills the trailer. It’s maddening, hastening to remind me of all the time that is wasted, gone. That we are hurtling toward the end. I begin to get alarmed.

  “Mr. Janko . . . Mr. Janko? Are you all right? Mr. Janko . . .”

  Tentatively, my anger draining away, I put my hand on his shoulder. I shake him.

  “Tene . . . Can you hear me? Tene! Please . . . Can you hear me!”

  I don’t know that he’s not using some desperate ploy to avoid answering, but he is like a statue.

  I am on my feet, rush outside and hammer on the doors of the other trailers. And soon Sandra, JJ, and Kath are in Tene’s trailer with him, and I am squeezed out, like toothpaste from a tube, out into the sunshine. I stride from one end of the site to the other. I don’t know whether to be angrier with Tene or with myself. That he is a good actor I don’t doubt, but I was clumsy. Bad timing. Not a mistake, in this profession, that you can go back and rectify. Or am I guilty of worse than that?

  The voices inside are raised, anxious, argumentative.

  I begin to feel a cold dread. There is nothing I can do except stand and wait, since Hen has, at my insistence, discreetly left me alone, and is not due back for some time.

  Please, God, don’t let him die.

  After a few minutes, the door opens and JJ comes out, alone. He comes over to me. His face is worried and wary.

  “He’s all right now. Just a bit groggy. He hasn’t been all that well recently.”

  “Oh. Thank God. I’m sorry to hear he’s not well. He’s recovering, though, now?”

  “Yeah . . . He’s talking.”

  JJ shrugs, uncomfortable. Now Kath Smith bursts through the door and strides over to us. Her cheeks are mottled with blood, mercury-bead eyes vindictive.

  “What the bloody hell were you saying to him?”

  “I came to tell him that we have found Ivo’s wife . . .”

  Kath stares at me, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. I hear JJ’s sudden intake of breath.

  “Well! For fuck’s sake. And are you happy now? You’ve only gone and given him a stroke!”

  My blood stops in my veins. Please, no.

  “I’m terribly sorry that it was a shock, but he had to be told.”

  “Well, now you’ve told him and nearly killed him, so I think it’s about time you fucked off, don’t you?”

  Her hand, loaded with a lit cigarette, darts toward my face. I take a small step backward.

  She looks around for my car, is affronted that there isn’t one.

  “I’ll have to wait for my colleague to pick me up. He’ll be here soon. We could drive him to hospital if that would help . . .”

  “If he needs to go to hospital, we’ll take him, thank you very much. I think you’ve done enough damage.”

  “Gran, he’s been—”

  Kath swats him aside like a gnat.

  “And you—get inside.”

  “But we’ve—”

  She points her finger in his face.

  “Inside! Now! And wait till your granddad gets back . . .”

  JJ gives me a despairing look, filled with questions, then slinks off toward his trailer.

  Kath mutters something inaudible to me and slams back into Tene’s trailer. JJ turns to me, looking miserable.

  “Sorry about Gran. She’s upset.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  “No, but it’s . . . He hasn’t been well lately. Listen, do you want to come inside?”

  “I’m fine, honestly.”

  “Please . . .”

  Inside the trailer, we stand facing each other, a little awkward. He seems unsure what to do next. He fiddles with the dirty bandage on his arm.

  “When you said—you’d found Rose . . . Is she . . . ?”

  I suddenly realize I hadn’t finished the sentence.

  “Oh, no, no. Rose is alive. She’s fine!”

  His mouth falls open, his face works.

  “You mean . . . she’s all right?”

  “Yes.”

  A smile spreads over his face, and keeps spreading.

  “But that’s fantastic! That’s great . . . I thought it was bad news!”

  I smile, too; it’s infectious.

  “Yes, it is good news. I must say it’s . . .” For the first time, it seems that this part, at least, really is great. “It’s such a relief to know that she’s well, after all this time.”

  “Where is she? Where has she been?”

  “Um . . . she’s in this country. She’s remarried . . .”

  “So, then, Uncle Ivo didn’t . . . do anything.”

  “No one else was responsible for her disappearance. It’s usually the case, you know; when people disappear, it’s usually because they want to.”

  JJ looks at me shyly.

  “Would you like some tea, Mr. Lovell?”

  “Oh, no, thanks, I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to make some, anyway . . .”

  “Oh, well, if you’re making it . . . Thanks.”

  Relieved, he goes to the kitchen. I look outside and see a car driving away.

  “They must be taking him to the hospital. That’s good.”

  JJ drops tea bags into mugs.

  “How’s your arm getting on?” I ask.

  “All right. Itches like crazy.”

  “Good. Good sign.”

  Then, as he’s pouring in the milk, his face falls. He doesn’t speak for a minute, then turns to me, his face stricken.

  “Will she want Christo now?”

  “Want Christo?”

  “She’ll want him back, won’t she? I mean, she’s his mum . . . He was going to come to us, and we were going to get a house and everything, so we can look after him, me and Mum . . .”

  Momentarily, I am nonplussed, until I realize he’s talking about Rose.

  “No. No. She won’t. Not at all.”

  “But she’s his mum.”

  “Well, that’s the thing . . .”

  I hesitate. I suppose they’ll all know before too long. And so I tell him.

  50.

  JJ

  They sent Great-uncle home from the hospital yesterday after a few hours. They said there wasn’t anything badly wrong with him; apparently, he hadn’t had a stroke at all, but they gave him some pills, anyway, and told him to cut down on smoking—like that’s ever going to happen.

  Gran and Granddad drove off this morning in the lorry. They are being quite mysterious at the moment. And Mum has gone to work. She’s got a job delivering pizzas. I think she really hates it, but there’s nothing else around. She got the sack from delivering flowers, although she hadn’t done anything wrong. They said there wasn’t enough work to go around, although they didn’t sack anyone else. Normally I like it when there’s no one else about, but today I feel hollow, like there’s not enough of me to fill the trailer on my own. Anyway, Mum made me promise to go and check that Great-uncle is taking his pills and to cheer him up.

  When I go over, he is asleep in his chair. I tiptoe around and do a bit of silent washing up (Very good, JJ!), but although I’m really careful and make hardly any noise at all, when I’ve finished clearing and tidying the kitchen, I turn around to see that he’s looking at me. I nearly have a heart attack—it gives me quite a shock that he’s looking at me and he didn’t say anything. He smiles.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Hello, Great-uncle!” I say. My voice sounds loud and a bit hysterical. “JJ, my darling. Make yourself some tea.”

  “How are you feeling? You’ve got to take your pills about now, Mum said to say. Are these them?”

  I hold up a plastic bottle. He nods and takes it but doesn�
�t open it yet.

  “How are you, kid?”

  I smile at him, because it’s such a weird question. I literally don’t think he’s ever said that to me before—like he doesn’t really know me. Or I’m an adult. Or he really wants to know the answer.

  “Um . . .”

  I feel like saying, I’m JJ—you know how I am.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re a good boy, JJ.”

  I bury my face in the fridge so that I don’t have to look at him. Then I bring him his cup of tea, nice and stewed, with lots of sugar. I find the remains of a loaf of white sliced and make bread and butter as well.

  “Shall I put some music on?”

  “If you like, yes. Why don’t you do that.”

  I flip through his records—grateful to have something to do, to be honest—and pull out a Sammy Davis Jr. double album. It’s got some of my favorites on it. I put it on but turn the volume down low, since he hasn’t been well.

  “Look.” He pops a pill into his mouth and washes it down with the tea. “You can tell your mum.”

  I sit down with my tea, cradling the mug in both hands, even though it’s a bit too hot. I can’t think of anything to say. All I can think about is Rose. Then I wonder if maybe Great-uncle didn’t know about it, either. What if, say, Ivo had a secret girlfriend and she had a baby and didn’t want him, so Ivo brought him home and that was that. It doesn’t need to be so sinister. Maybe Great-uncle had never met her—after all, it was while Ivo was married to Rose. I mean, it may not be very nice, but it happens. Look at my so-called dad.

  I want to ask him, but I’m scared he’ll have another funny turn.

  Great-uncle clears his throat. It takes a while.

  “How’s school, kid?” he says.

  I look at him, really worried. Maybe he’s losing his mind.

  “It’s the holidays. We broke up on—”

  “I know, kid. I know. But I mean in general. How is it? Are you going back to do your exams?”

  “Um . . . yes. I think so.”

  “That’s good. You should. You really seem to be learning something. We need that.”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t know what to say. Although he does ask me about school now and again, he’s never seemed that interested.

  “Just don’t let them gorjify you too much.”