Water Shall Refuse Them

by Lucie McKnight Hardy

  ‘My real name’s Jennifer,’ I said, and suddenly I realised that I hadn’t called myself that for months. ‘Only the teachers call me that, though.’

  ‘Are you going back to school in September?’ he asked, rolling over onto his side and looking at me.

  ‘Dunno. Probably not. I don’t want to go but my teacher, Mr McPherson, thinks I should sit my O-Levels.’ I thought I’d said too much, that I might have to tell Mally about not going to school because of Petra, but he didn’t ask and rolled over onto his back again. ‘What about you,’ I said. ‘Where do you go to school?’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been to school in years. My mum’s taught me everything she knows. All the rest I get from books and telly and stuff. There’s no need for school. Pointless.’

  We sat in silence for a few moments, enduring the sun’s heat. It was the hottest part of the day. People said that midday was the hottest, when the sun was directly overhead and the rays were more direct and the light wasn’t diluted by the atmosphere as much. But I knew that it was now, in those couple of hours in the early afternoon, after the sun had spent the morning baking the ground and boiling the air, that was when it would get so hot that there was nothing else to do but stay as still as possible and wait for the sun to go down.

  Lorry knew this too, and he got out of the stream and came and lay on the grass with us, placing himself at a right angle to Mally, his head resting in the curve of Mally’s back, his clown doll lying on his stomach. I was dozing, when Mally’s voice dragged me back to consciousness.

  ‘I think I might get pissed tonight. You up for that?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  I’d been drunk before, of course. After Petra’s funeral, we’d had a wake at our house. My mother hadn’t been able to go to the funeral and had stayed at home, sedated, with one of the nuns to keep an eye on her. I remembered standing with my dad outside the church, him with one hand on my shoulder, the other on Lorry’s, none of us saying anything. I remembered Lorry, his bandages coming undone and trailing absurdly from the hems of his too-short trousers, the only trousers he had that were a vaguely dark colour. I remembered Father Declan muttering in Latin as the coffin was carried down the aisle, the sweet heady smell of incense furring up my nostrils. And I remembered the tiny coffin, white and impossibly small, being lowered into the ground.

  Mrs Akhar made fish paste sandwiches for the wake. It was mostly people from the church, and a couple of my teachers who’d turned up out of obligation and then sat around on the periphery, fidgeting and trying to think of something to say. Mr McPherson came and looked awkward, not knowing what to say to me or my dad. He hadn’t stayed long. My dad just wandered around, shaking hands and accepting condolences, all the time his mouth set in a blank line.

  There was a make-shift bar on the dining table, but no-one was really drinking much. I nicked a bottle of whisky and smuggled it up to my bedroom. I remembered sitting on the bed and twisting the lid, the tiny cracking sound as the metal tabs broke. At first the smell alone had made my stomach churn, and when I took a gulp I’d gagged on the taste, sweet yet bitter at the same time. But then I’d got used to it, and carried on swigging, throwing my head back and chucking the stuff down my neck. The last thing I remembered was Ziggy Stardust gazing down at me from my bedroom wall, and his lightning streak zooming in and out of focus.

  When I woke up the next morning I was lying on top of my bed. The sheets were rancid with vomit. That was the first time I had woken with a sense of déjà vu, that nagging feeling of having experienced something important while I slept, but not being able to pin it down.

  Much later, when I went downstairs, I knew I was red-eyed and stank of alcohol, but my dad didn’t notice anything different about me. He had my mother to look after.

  I half opened my eyes and looked at Mally through my eyelashes. ‘Go on then. Why not? Let’s get pissed.’

  He looked pleased, and shuffled forward conspiratorially.

  ‘So where are we going to get the booze from?’ he said, in a theatrical whisper.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘My dad drank the house dry last night, and I reckon your mum’s probably done the same thing at yours.’

  ‘Leave it to me. Mally the Marvellous will make some booze appear as if by magic.’ He clapped his hands and bizarrely, for a split second, I expected something to appear, a bottle or some cans or something.

  He sprang to his feet and grabbed his shirt.

  ‘See you tonight. Nine o’clock. At the plague cross. I’ll see if there’s anything in the house my mum hasn’t drunk.’

  He tied his shirt around his waist and ran off across the field without looking back.

  I recognised the car as soon as we got back to the cottage and saw it parked outside the chapel. A dark blue Austin Allegro, spotlessly clean and devoid of the dust that seemed to be everywhere, the chrome bumpers glinting blatantly in the sunlight. It had been the first car to arrive on Sunday when the villagers had congregated at the chapel. The little brown and white terrier was sitting on the back seat, and when it saw me and Lorry it jumped up, teeth bared, and made high-pitched yipping noises which escaped from the crack where the window had been left open. I went closer and tapped on the glass and the dog went berserk, throwing itself against the window, quivering with rage and frustration. Lorry started looking agitated, twisting his clown doll between his fingers, so I gave the dog a middle finger salute and we walked over to the cottage and down the stone steps.

  The sun was still high in the sky and sweat was trickling down my chest and pooling under my breasts. I was clammy and my throat was dry and parched. What was left of the lawn at the front of the house had been desiccated even more by the sun, and there were now little bare patches where it refused to grow at all. I made Lorry sit down on the patch of concrete and went to get him a drink of water.

  The front door was already open and there were voices coming from the kitchen. I stood in the hall and through the crack in the kitchen door I could just about make out the side of a man’s face. Clean-shaven, pale, a chin that disappeared into a wattled neck. The beetle man.

  ‘It’s not appropriate.’

  ‘With all due respect, I don’t think it has anything to do with you.’ My dad’s voice was quiet and calm but there was a waver in it, and I knew he was struggling to keep his temper under control.

  ‘But they’re impressionable. Especially your daughter. Who knows what ideas that boy’s filling her head with?’

  ‘She’s a sensible girl.’ Again, my dad was trying hard to keep his voice low and steady. ‘She won’t do anything silly.’

  ‘It’s not only her I worry about, Mr Allen.’ The beetle man’s voice, which had been pleasant and light, now took on an insistent tone. ‘There are others here who are in danger of…’ When he paused, his little pointed tongue darted out and licked his bulbous lower lip. ‘In danger of succumbing to certain…charms.’

  I heard my dad make a huffing sound, and then there was silence. A chair scraped and I could see my dad through the crack in the door. I guessed he was standing with his hand on the latch.

  Another chair scraped, slower this time, as if the occupant was taking their time standing up.

  ‘It’s just a friendly warning, Mr Allen, that’s all. Nothing more than that. I would hate for your time here to be spoilt by any…unfortunate circumstances.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Vaughan, but I’m sure we’ll all be fine.’ My dad’s voice was clipped, but the tremor was still there.

  ‘We’ll pray for you then. We’ll have our usual service on Sunday and our minister, Mr Beynon, will ask the congregation to hold you in their thoughts. To hold you in their hearts, to keep you safe. We’ll ask God to cherish you.’

  A third chair screeched and I realised with a start that there was another person in the kitchen. My mother. When she spoke, her voice was raw and brittle.

  ‘You’ll not ask your god for anything on our behalf, Mr Vaugha
n,’ she spat. ‘We don’t need your god. What use was he when my Petra died? Did he “cherish” us then? No, he did not. He took my daughter from me and gave me no comfort, nothing, so don’t you come here telling me about your god.’ My mother took a deep intake of breath, as though talking for so long had exhausted her of air. Through the crack in the door, I could see my dad raise his hand to his eyes and rub them. Then my mother spoke again, and her voice was cold and clear.

  ‘Get out of this house. And take your god with you. Neither of you are welcome here.’

  I only just managed to dart up the stairwell before Lyndon Vaughan marched out of the kitchen and into the hall. My dad went after him and caught him by the arm as he was stepping over the threshold. The beetle man swung round to face him. He was even paler than usual.

  ‘It’s the medication,’ my dad said. ‘It makes her say things, things she doesn’t mean. I’m sorry.’

  The beetle man stared at him for a few moments, then his little pink tongue darted out again and slid across his lower lip.

  ‘Mr Allen.’ I was surprised at how calm his voice was. ‘You’re new here and I can understand that there is a certain…naivety to your actions. However, we have a way of doing things that I think you should bear in mind. I’m sorry that I asked you to escort her home. That was foolish of me. I would strongly advise that you and your family have nothing to do with Janet White and her son.’

  My dad stood watching as Lyndon Vaughan left, the only sound in the stagnant air the squeal of the gate.

  A silence descended on the cottage. My mother put herself to bed, claiming that the confrontation had exhausted her. My dad escaped to his studio and didn’t appear until much later, his face grey and lined, his hands clagged with clay.

  I lay with Lorry on the patch of concrete and together we drifted off to sleep.

  Twelve.

  Petra had been dead for ten weeks before I decided what I was going to do. I had already spotted the blackbird. At first, I’d only heard it from my bedroom window which overlooked the long expanse of back garden, the bird’s fluting song drawing me to look for the source of the melody. After a few minutes I’d spotted it, a black, glossy flutter of feathers that hopped around on the dusty path, bright eyes ringed in the same sunshine yellow as its beak. It would inspect the ground, its head twisting on its neck, each eye focusing in turn on the dry soil. Sometimes, it would scratch at the ground, a cloud of dust would fly up, and if it had hit the jackpot it would scoop up a worm in its beak and disappear behind the shed. I watched it closely from then on.

  My mother was on the Valium all the time by then, and I rarely saw her. Mrs O’Riordan had said she couldn’t cope with Lorry anymore, on account of her arthritis, so my dad had him at home with us. In truth, my dad had his work cut out with trying to persuade my mother to eat and wash and occasionally get out of bed, so I was left in charge of Lorry. I didn’t mind.

  It was the spring bank holiday Monday when I decided to do it. It had seemed auspicious: it had been a bank holiday Monday when I’d found the duckling, relic number three, and already the incantation was forming in my mind, even though I didn’t know then what it was. It had a nice tempo to it, a rhythm that begged to be continued. Seeing the blackbird seemed like a good omen, one that I couldn’t afford to let slip by.

  I’d given Lorry his lunch and cleaned him up. He’d suddenly started using the toilet a couple of weeks before, and he wasn’t in nappies at all by then, so that was one less thing I had to do. I put him to bed for his nap and closed the door, aware that if my mother woke up and started screeching she’d wake him and that would be the end of it. She was Valiumed up to the eyeballs, though, so little chance of that.

  I let myself out into the garden and looked around for the blackbird. For a little while I felt sorry for it, but then something came over me, a burst of energy that drove me onwards. I know now that it was the Creed, telling me to go through with it.

  I’d hidden myself behind the shed, hunkering down on my haunches, and I waited for the bird to appear. The sun was high in the sky by then, and sharp needles of heat were piercing my scalp. The grass under my feet was brittle and stiff where it curled over my sandals. My legs were getting tired and I’d been considering giving up when the blackbird appeared, about twenty feet further down the garden, and oblivious to me. I stayed completely still, barely daring to breathe, and watched as it started strutting over the barren earth of the empty vegetable bed. The weight of my parents’ grief had meant that they had no desire to encourage new life and nothing had been planted that spring.

  After a few minutes of hopping and scratching, the blackbird must have spotted a worm, because it bent down and started tugging at something in the soil. Eventually it managed to free it from the earth and gave what I thought was a little celebratory dance, hopping on its brittle legs a couple of times, before fluttering off. I stayed still and silent, and watched as it flew towards the holly bush that sat next to the washing line. It settled on one of the branches and eased itself through the jagged leaves, and the worm caught on a spiked edge before the blackbird tugged it free and disappeared.

  The nest had been easy to spot, once I knew where to look for it. I parted the holly branches, spiking my fingers a couple of times but not really caring. The nest was tucked back towards the trunk of the bush and it sat balanced on the y-shape made where two branches joined. It was cup-shaped and the outside was a jumble of small twigs and grass. The blackbird was sitting on the edge, the worm still dangling from its beak. When it saw me, it flitted away, its wings bashing cruelly against the glossy green holly leaves. Another bird, brown and puffed up, regarded me warily from the inside of the nest, peering over the edge with furtive eyes.

  I reached forward and tipped the nest, and rolled it to one side so I could better see the inside. The mother bird took exception to this and jumped up, flapped, and squeezed through a gap in the holly leaves, abandoning whatever it was that was housed in the nest.

  Pink-slimed, a few small nubs of feather. Three chicks lay in the nest, their preposterously large heads swaying blindly on spindly necks, massive black orbs of eyes covered by a pink membrane. I drew my hand away, sickened at the sight of these monstrous creatures, and as I did so the nest tipped fully over, and sent the chicks sprawling into the maze of jagged leaves, falling through the narrow gaps that lay between the branches. They hit the floor, one by one, and each caused a tiny puff of dust to rise.

  I ran back to the house, my heart thumping in my chest and aghast at what I’d done. I locked myself in my bedroom and it was only later that I spotted the scratches on my arms where the holly leaves had made contact, deep red lines adorned with tiny crimson berries of blood.

  Over the course of the next couple of weeks, the idea of the Creed started to form in my head. It wasn’t something I consciously decided upon, rather it chose me. Gradually, it seemed, little pieces of information, ideas and suggestions, fluttered into my mind and melded together to create a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts.

  One morning I’d been sitting at the kitchen table, eating my Ready Brek, and flash—into my mind had popped the word ‘relic’, to describe the eggs and the duckling. A few days later I was lounging on the sofa with Lorry watching a news story about the IRA blowing up the Irish Ambassador, when the word ‘incantation’ had appeared, hovering in the air in front of me. It was inevitable; it had been decided that I was to discover the Creed and there was nothing I could do about it.

  The Creed chose me.

  It was the Creed that made me summon up the courage to go back to the blackbirds’ nest exactly two weeks after I’d found it. I had failed to obtain the fourth relic, the one that was needed to continue the rhythm of the incantation.

  I had read my dad’s book about British birds, and found out that blackbirds could have as many as three or four broods of young every year and I thought that there was a fair chance they would have another lot of chicks by then.

 
This time the birds weren’t there when I approached the nest. I’d made a bit of noise as I walked down the path, whistling, stamping, that sort of thing. I didn’t want to see the mother and father blackbird again, didn’t want those bright eyes glaring at me when I did what I knew I had to do.

  There were no chicks in the nest, but there were four eggs, blue and freckled, barely bigger than the tip of my finger. It would be easier this way.

  I’d lifted the eggs out carefully, one by one, conscious that the warmth of them meant that the mother was not far away. I thought of my own mother, catatonic in her bedroom, oblivious to all that was going on around her, shielded by her drugs from reality. And I thought of how she’d let Petra drown.

  I ran towards the shed, the eggs cupped in both hands and stopped about ten feet away from it. I picked up one of the eggs in my right hand. I drew my arm back and threw it with all my might at the side of the shed, thrilled at the minute explosion of reddened-yolk and slime as the tiny missile hit the wooden planks. I did the same with the second and the third.

  And then the fourth egg I very carefully carried to my bedroom and put in the shoe box with the other relics.

  Thirteen.

  ‘I had a sister,’ I said.

  Mally said nothing; he just picked up the bottle of gin he’d brought with him and made a little ‘hmm’ sound that might have meant ‘go on’.

  We were at the plague cross. It was late and the sun had long since sunk behind the high-sided valley walls, but a pale blue haze remained on the horizon as a clue to where it had disappeared and its heat still palpated in the air around us. Mally had sat down next to me on the steps, his thigh touching mine, the denim rubbing slightly against my bare leg whenever he moved.

  ‘She was called Petra and she was Lorry’s twin.’ I knew that my dad had told Janet about Petra—her approach to my mother in the pub had made that clear—but I didn’t know how many of the details he’d told her. Mally swallowed and I could see his Adam’s apple stick out for a moment before it receded again. We’d been drinking for half an hour or so and I felt light-headed but quite calm.