‘I don’t have time for this,’ said David.
‘Then get out.’ Arnie stared him down.
Mags called, ‘Come on, handsome, get up here and pick a colour before closing time. You can’t do any worse than Geoff, can you?’ She pointed to Geoff, who had retreated to a far table, slumped over, his chin in his hand. Still he watched Mags and the cubes. David got the feeling that if Geoff had been given the opportunity to guess again, he would have taken it, no matter what it cost him.
‘How much time do you think we have?’ said Mags.
David stood up. He walked over to Mags and the cubes. He had the strongest suspicion, from the way she held her chin high and grinned at him, that it wouldn’t matter what colour he picked. She already had the result planned, and, whatever it was, she was looking forward to it.
But the cubes were close now, and they exerted a pull that he hadn’t experienced before. He wanted to touch them. And he wanted to win. It was an exciting sensation, this desire to play. For the first time since Marianne had left he felt in control once more.
It was purely his decision – to play, to guess, to name the colour. He looked at each one in turn, and thought through his options, forcing himself to take his time.
The cubes had markings on them. Carvings. Intricate work. The red one bore a shield, the blue a short sword, or a knife perhaps. The green had one long straight line on it, and the yellow had a scroll. They looked heraldic, or maybe older. Classical in design.
It would be too obvious to go for green. Yellow or blue, perhaps? Blue was the colour of truth, of sunny skies and deep seas. Marianne loved blue. The night before she had left for Skein Island she had been wearing her favourite dark blue waistcoat.
Yellow, then – a scroll could contain answers. But the pull to the red cube was too strong to deny.
‘Red,’ he said.
Mags lifted her eyebrows and opened her mouth. It was such an artful expression of surprise that he felt sure it must be fake. ‘Sure?’ she said.
He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of changing his mind.
‘Yes.’
‘Right then. Bit of an action man, we’ve got here. No messing. Here you go.’
She picked up the red cube and he held out his palm for it, just as Geoff had done before. It was warm and wooden. He felt around the top, found a small depression and pushed it in, and the lid popped open.
Inside was one black marble.
David took it from the cube and held it up. The intense concentration of the men as they focused on the marble was overwhelming; he felt them lean forward, yearning for it.
‘First time lucky,’ said Mags. ‘Come on.’
‘Where?’
‘A trip to the back room,’ she said, as if he should have known. She adjusted the ruffles on her scarlet blouse and smacked her lips together, and a mixture of terror and sexual desire swept over him, horrified him. He was a prisoner to it.
‘No, I don’t need it. One of the others can go,’ he said. He put the marble back in the cube, closed it up, and put it back in line with the others.
‘Doesn’t work that way, dear.’ She grabbed his hand. He felt the points of her fingernails pressing into his skin. ‘You play, you pay.’
‘No, I—’
Arnie came up beside him, patted him on the back, and David found himself walking around the side entrance of the bar, the other men crowding around him, pushing him onwards.
‘You always win first time out,’ whispered Arnie, in his ear. ‘To give you the taste.’
‘Just relax and enjoy it,’ said Mags. She held out a shot glass, half-filled with a brown, viscose liquid. ‘A shot of brandy. To get you going.’
‘Going where?’ he said, and everyone laughed. Reality was fading; everything was moving more slowly. He couldn’t remember why he was afraid. He took the glass, drained it, said, ‘That wasn’t brandy,’ as he tasted oranges and something fresh, like mint. He was getting an erection.
One of the men said, close to his right cheek, ‘I don’t know anything about Skein Island. She never talked to us again. All she left was a note.’
‘But the letters,’ David said. Was it Arnie talking? ‘The cards. Birthday cards.’ His voice sounded deeper, like an echo in a cavern, the sound spreading low, through the muscles of his abdomen.
‘I’ve got a lady friend in Bedfordshire. I asked her to send them.’ There was a snort, and hot, beery breath filled David’s nose. The smell was unbearably potent and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. ‘Couldn’t let Marianne think she’d been deserted. But that’s what happened. Gone, she was. She wanted to be gone.’
Mags shoved Arnie and the other men back, flapping her hands, then led David down the corridor that ended in a windowless storage room, filled with orange crates of empty bottles, cardboard boxes and silver kegs.
Set in one wall was a small, white door with four coloured squares painted upon it: red, blue, yellow and green. Mags opened it with a large brass key, attached to a gold chain around her neck, and it swung back to reveal a total, consuming blackness from which palpable warmth emanated. From within the dark, David sensed a want, a need. Something called to him. It was as if Marianne had said his name; he felt his erection twitch in response.
He stepped through the doorway.
The men were cheering, very far away. A sweet smell enveloped him, like a cloud of perfume left behind by a beautiful woman at a party. He wanted to find her; he pushed through a crowd of faceless people to reach her. The cheering grew louder, ahead of him, becoming the rise and fall of many people. His legs were being pushed apart and he felt something large between his knees, under his buttocks. He fell backwards, ended up sitting astride it, and it began to move at speed, towards the thin, horizontal strip of intense blue daylight – the purest, cleanest sky he had ever seen. His body shook under the pressure, the sensation of speed, and the cheers became deafening, drowning out his own heartbeat as he crashed into the living picture at the end of the tunnel.
His hands were full; he looked down, and saw a long wooden pole and thin strips of leather. The horse upon which he sat had a black mane that was streaming in the wind, and when he looked up he saw the enemy, ahead, dressed in black and thundering towards him on an enormous charger. There was nothing else for it but to lean forward, brace himself for impact, and swing around the lance, aiming for the breastplate, trying to block out all other thoughts but to win.
The collision was the most intense delight of his life; he felt his lance crack into the chest of his opponent, who reeled back and fell to the ground. The crowd roared their approval, banging drums, clapping hands to make a cacophony of elation. He dropped his broken lance and saluted them, over and over. The cheers only grew louder. A pink haze filled his vision, then encased him in slick, warm wetness. It was her, his prize.
He was soaked in the ecstasy he had won, drowned in it, pulled down and through, for the longest time. Then the pink haze of her love withdrew, along with her scent, and that final loss caused a crescendo of intense pain. He was a hero no more. Just plain old David, abandoned. Lonely. It was more than he could bear.
After an age, the visions receded just enough to bring him back to his body. He got to his feet and staggered forward until he collided, hard, with a solid wall. The shock of it brought tears to his eyes. He put his hands against freezing brickwork and crouched down, making himself as small as he could manage, hoping she wouldn’t find him again and take away everything he had ever known, ever loved. He had been aware of that power in her, so much greater than his own, so different from the soft, tentative touches of women he had known.
Like Marianne – so tender, so hesitant to let him possess her, to find enjoyment in sex, at the beginning. Then that last night, when she had demanded pleasure. And he had given her what she wanted, but it had made him uncomfortable to be her object. That unsettled feeling had turned out to be the first tremors of the earthquake that now shook him to pieces, left him unsalvagea
ble.
The thought of Marianne flooded into his emptiness. He punched the wall – once, twice. Again. He felt the pain, the blood on his knuckles, but the pain was welcome. It reminded him of what he was, of his ability to protect himself, to overcome, as a man should. But the wall did not shrink away from his fists. There was no way out of the darkness.
A bright light switched on overhead.
David looked up, squinting, and made out the plastic casing of a security light. A cobweb was strung between it and the wall. A light film of drizzle hung on the strands of the cobweb. The banality of it was bewildering.
‘I told you not to come back,’ said a woman, near his right ear. He flinched away from her voice, and she said, ‘What have you done? Jesus.’ She knelt in front of him. He managed to stay still as she picked up his hand and examined his knuckles. ‘Can you get up?’ She was surprisingly strong, pulling him up to his feet, and her black jacket, white shirt, neat black hat, suddenly became familiar.
‘Sam.’
Under the security light she was as bright as an angel. ‘I told you he wouldn’t come back here.’
He couldn’t understand what she meant. Then, in a rush, he placed himself outside the library, and the confusion hit him hard, gave him an attack of shivers. How had he got there? He had no memory of leaving the pub. ‘I didn’t…’
‘Have you been drinking?’
He remembered the glass Mags gave to him, and nodded. ‘The Cornerhouse.’
‘Right, well, you’ve had enough.’ She tugged his arm, and he followed her to her car. During the drive, he kept getting traces of the distinctive perfume, but every time he turned his head towards it, it disappeared again. It hadn’t been real, not real in the way that Sam was. He began to understand that he’d had some sort of hallucination. Never had feelings been so intense, so painful, so pleasurable.
Sam pulled the car up outside her house, and he followed her inside. She motioned for him to follow her upstairs; he brushed the string of bells hanging from the banisters, and the tinkling noise was pleasant, restful. How amazingly tired he was, but Sam steered him into the bathroom, and got him to sit on the side of the bath as she dug out antiseptic, cotton wool and plasters from under her sink. She examined his knuckles, then began to dab at them with the antiseptic.
‘She’s not coming back,’ David said. He wasn’t sure if he was talking about Marianne or the woman who had encased him in the vision. He wanted them both.
‘Of course she is. It’s one week at a holiday camp. She’ll be back, and she’ll be so pleased to see you. That’s how a holiday works.’
‘Not this one.’
‘What makes you think Skein Island is any different?’ Sam peeled the backing from a large fabric plaster and smoothed it over his middle knuckle. ‘It’s just middle-class, middle-aged women discovering themselves. Am I doing the right things? Living the right life? Who the hell knows? Seven days on an island off the coast of Devon isn’t going to tell you, but it’s free and it’s better than getting drunk and punching walls.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, automatically, to the bitterness in her voice. He reached out and touched her face. She looked so angry, so young. How could she be so dismissive? She let him cup her chin, and the anger faded as he told her, ‘I’m so sorry that you found me like this. I don’t understand what’s happening. I’ve had some kind of… dream.’
‘I told you to stay away from The Cornerhouse. The men who come out of there are wasted, and they can’t wait to go back again. It was investigated a while back. We thought maybe they were drinking home brew, something really strong, but we didn’t find anything. You don’t want to end up like that. You’re freezing. Come on.’
‘No, I need to tell you—’
‘Come on,’ she told him, and he got up and trod along behind her, across the corridor to a darkened bedroom, warm from the radiator under the window. She drew the purple curtains and pulled back the duvet on the neat bed. ‘Take off your clothes and get in.’
‘No, I should go…’ But he couldn’t find the will to move, and when she crossed to him, crouched down and started to remove his shoes, he had the strongest desire to cry. It was all he could do to stand there and keep his face still, in case she looked up.
She put his shoes neatly against the skirting board, then took off his socks and slipped them into each shoe. Then she stood up and started on his shirt. He let her work the buttons, pull it from him, and when she put both hands against his chest the warmth of her was astounding. ‘Get into bed,’ she said.
‘No.’
He stared at her, watched her take in his denial. He couldn’t obey her instruction; he had to find control once more.
‘Get in.’
‘No.’
‘Please. I… Please, get warm.’
He put his hands over hers, then led her to the bed, and pulled her down with him. Underneath the duvet, he wrapped his arms around her; she moved back against him, her bottom pressed into his groin.
‘There,’ he said.
They didn’t talk. Although he was tired, he couldn’t get close to sleep. It evaded him every time he grew near to it. He matched his breathing to Sam’s, in and out, and he thought of how quickly everything had changed. He could not have imagined, only a week ago, that he would be in bed with another woman. Only terrible men did that, not men like him. And yet it did not feel wrong to be there. Sam was fully clothed, and he still had his trousers on, and it wasn’t even about who was wearing what. It was a comfort at a terrible time. It was as if a death had happened, and those left had to find a way to carry on. How they carried on mattered to nobody any more, nobody important.
‘This is really happening,’ she said. ‘Yes. It’s okay.’
‘You don’t get it. Nothing ever happens to me. I feel like I’m always waiting for something, a moment.’
He put his hand on her breast. He wanted to show her how easy it was to change fate. ‘I know how it feels. To want things to be different.’
‘No, you don’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t want things to be different. I want me to be different.’ She touched the back of his hand, and he took it as a sign that she wanted him to continue, to stroke her nipple, bring her to feeling. He touched her with the curiosity of exploration, without sexual thoughts in his head, and remembered the girl who had lived down the road when he was little, and the games they had played together – looking at each other, wondering how it all fit together. The delight in the fact that people fitted together at all; that was what came back to him through the night, and even the next morning, as he watched her make coffee and toast in her tiny kitchen, and realised he couldn’t wait for the end of the week. He had to see Marianne.
* * *
‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ said Sam, once they had eaten.
‘That’s not true. I’m just not sure what it does mean, that’s all.’
‘It means you were lonely and drunk.’
‘No, I wasn’t – listen, I have to go. God, that sounds awful, but I really do have to go.’
‘You’re going there, aren’t you? Skein Island? There’s no way to get on it. They don’t take men.’
‘I’ll find a way,’ David said. The thought of persevering, and accomplishing, was all that was keeping him going. He needed to see his wife, to tell her what he had learned last night. Maybe her mother had never gone to the island after all. Maybe she was dead, had been dead for years. That could be the starting point for solving the mystery together. The case of the disappearing mother, and the father that covered it up for years.
He could picture it clearly, and how it would play out. At the end they would be the triumphant husband and wife.
‘Go on then,’ Sam said. ‘Just forget about last night. That’ll be easier for everyone.’ She had curled in on herself, her lilac dressing gown pulled tight over her breasts, no strength visible in the dropping lines of her tiny body.
‘No, I don’t want to forget it, okay? I’ll come a
nd see you when I’m back. We’ll talk properly.’ But he did want to forget it, was already filing it away as a stupid mistake after some sort of hallucination that he never wanted to think about again. Except that the two things had become linked in his mind. Being wrapped up in his vision, and in her. Being the centre of a fresh, clean world.
He kissed her on the cheek, and she pushed him away. ‘I hope it all works out for you.’
‘You too.’
He let himself out of her house, and ran home, pumping cold, cold air into his lungs, calculating what he was going to pack and how much money he would need to find a way onto Skein Island.
* * *
Nobody would take him.
The afternoon sky began to darken, and the few fishermen left on the quay all told him the same thing: men weren’t allowed there; it wasn’t worth the money David was offering to break the rules; couldn’t he tell that a storm was coming? They were battening down the boats, and heading inside for the evening. But when David followed them into The Ship and Pilot, a small, grey pub set back from the harbour wall, he found a mass of old men with grizzled, suspicious faces, eyeing him as he stood in the doorway.
David took a few steps forward. The small fire in the grate was barely flickering, and the wood upon it hissed. Hanging from the ceiling, suspended with catgut, were dusty bottles containing delicate sailing ships built from matchsticks and tiny scraps of cloth. On the mantelpiece – one long stretch of dark, uneven wood – sat four small cubes. Red, blue, yellow, green. He felt the pull of them.
He stepped back, nearly fell over his own feet, and hurried outside, to their laughter.
In the harbour, the solitary boats were pulling at the hefty blue ropes that moored them, tossing their heads like horses at the approaching rain, visible over the channel. David stood against the thick sea wall and looked around, at the hills, pressing close. He couldn’t return to Wootton Bassett, not now he’d seen the cubes here. They were a secret that every other man somehow understood, and from which he had been excluded. Finding Marianne, conquering this adventure, was more important than ever. If he could solve one mystery, he could solve them all.
Skein Island Page 7
