The Blind Light

by Stuart Evers

  He was surprised that more children were not murdered; surprised that more parents did not lose their minds through lack of sleep, lack of control. Never touched her, never did, though once said he would, right up to her face, I’m going to fucking . . . and not getting further than that, but feeling the familiar urge to silence, to stop something in its steps. Carlie never knowing. Ever known, would not be here now, would not be laying down the child, tiptoeing away, hoping her to stay asleep.

  The door closed, he walked down the stairs, Carlie at their foot, looking at her phone, not meeting his eyes.

  ‘She’s down,’ he said.

  Carlie looked up from the phone; the hated phone. Dreams of smashing the thing, its rinky-dink colour screen, its compact distraction, its constant beeps and glitches. So many messages, so many people; the type too small to read over her shoulder.

  ‘She was good as gold,’ he said.

  The tap of her fingers, the speed of her typing, how quickly learned, how rapid the move up and down the keys. Couldn’t have been more than a few years since he bought her first one; the delight at the small box, at the removing of the clear plastic from the facia; the joke she did not hear – now I’ll know where you are at all times – and glad that she did not.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘See you next week.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. She looked up from the phone, held it in her hand as though weighing it, the candy-bar brick, the screen going grey, then black.

  ‘Take care,’ she said. ‘Hope tomorrow goes okay.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Your meeting,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Yes.’

  He opened the door, was not pushed out of it, did not have blood on his knuckles and wrists; there was no hole in the living room wall, filled now, plastered over.

  ‘See you, Carlie,’ he said.

  She took out her phone, and he closed the door as her fingers zipped the keypad.

  9

  She’d never heard a telephone ring in a bathroom before; she’d never felt the need to take one with her, and as it rang and danced on the copy of The Line of Beauty, it sounded like an alarm, a sonic panic, lighting up, flashing. She dried her hands and checked the phone; Ray’s name and number there, Ray’s name and number.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Thank God, I’ve been—’

  ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘Who is this?’ Gwen said.

  ‘It’s Mary,’ she said. ‘And you?’

  ‘Gwendoline,’ she said. ‘Gwendoline Moore. Why have you got Ray’s phone? Has something happened?’

  ‘We didn’t recognize the number. It’s not in his phone, you see. And you’ve called so many times.’

  ‘I’m an old friend,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We thought you might be a journalist.’

  ‘A journalist? I’ve been calling all day, what’s going on?’

  ‘You’re not from one of the papers?’

  ‘Listen,’ she said, realizing she was naked, feeling odd being naked, holding a phone, her body wet but hands dry. ‘I’ve known Ray for thirty-five years, we’re old friends and I want to know what’s happened, Mary.’

  There was a pause on the other end. Muttering in the background, a discussion had, several voices.

  ‘There’s been an accident,’ Mary said. ‘Nothing life-threatening, but an accident.’

  ‘He wasn’t on one of the trains?’

  ‘What?’ Mary said, perfectly neutral her accent, perfectly mannered and cultured. Wife perhaps, long-suffering girlfriend, never mentioned, never even in passing.

  ‘Oh, you mean the bombs?’ she said, almost mocking. ‘No, good God no, thankfully. He was knocked over. By a motorcycle of all things. He’s in the hospital now. He’s doing well.’

  ‘What happened?’ she said. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘A few broken bones, a cracked rib. Nothing serious, thankfully.’

  And Gwen felt thankful, to the motorcycle and the collision and the hospital and the reassurance.

  ‘Which hospital?’ she said. ‘I’d like to come and see him, see how he’s doing.’

  ‘Well,’ Mary said. ‘I’m afraid it’s just close family at the moment.’

  ‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘It’s important. Really important.’

  ‘Let me speak to him, and if he wants to see you, I’ll call you back.’

  Clever, Gwen thought. Clever. No chance of calling back, no chance of a polite message with an address and the visiting hours. No chance of that. Well played, Mary. Sounding reasonable, sounding helpful.

  ‘That would be most appreciated, Mary,’ she said. ‘I’d really like to see him.’

  ‘Well, we’ll let you know,’ she said. ‘But I really must go now.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I look forward to hearing from you. Give him my best.’

  Mary ended the call. Gwen wrapped herself in a towel and left footprints on the linoleum, on the carpet to the bedroom. She started packing a case, an overnight bag, then went to the computer, the sound of the television loud beneath her. The AA website told her how to drive to London. She checked hotels near Walthamstow. One she could just about afford about a mile from there. She dressed and went downstairs to Drum, no idea what she would say, what excuse she would use, how she would manage to make it there without him in tow.

  10

  Drum watched an interview he had seen before, an expert on suicide bombing, how many experts, how very niche their expertise.

  ‘I love you, Drum,’ Gwen said. He looked up from the television, her standing by the doorway in her dressing gown.

  ‘I love you too, Gwen,’ he said.

  ‘Are you happy?’ she said.

  ‘Happy?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Are you happy?’

  Instinctively, the answer should be yes, because what else to say but yes. Not something to consider, not something over which to pore. Yes. Happy. Actively, no; but in general, as a broad concept, not unhappy. But not something to say, not the way to respond to the woman you love. Of course happy, with you, of course happy. Not to say, I’ve not thought about it. Not to say, it’ll take me a while to reach a conclusion. Am I singing oh what a beautiful morning as I wake? No, but neither seething in anger, bitter in the chair, except when the politicians rankle, or another fool puts forward their foolish views. A simple binary: happy or not happy; no middle ground, no fair-to-middling.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m happy. You make me happy.’

  ‘Without me, you wouldn’t be happy?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t ask if I am happy?’

  ‘I assume you’d tell me if you weren’t.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I would.’

  He watched her fiddle with the sash of her robe, the constellations in her mind, unknowable, unseen, yet sometimes illuminated. Not then. No idea. The cool gust of strangers in the room, between them a gap, and a blank.

  ‘Don’t stay up too late watching this,’ she said. ‘It’s not good for you.’

  ‘I’ll be up in a bit,’ he said.

  She nodded. She blew him a kiss. Could not recall the last time she did that. He went to the drinks cupboard and poured himself a whisky; looked at the clock and drank the Scotch until it was time to call Carter.

  Carter had introduced Drum to a term he had recently read: retirony – a dirty little word, a gremlin portmanteau – the early death of those who had planned so long for the end of work. It seemed to them they were both ripe for it, the grip at the heart and the swan dive to the floor while looking over catalogues for cruises or brochures of the latest Ford motor cars. The article he’d read suggested new routines were important. Without routine, death. So he set routines, followed them to the letter. One of which their Thursday call. Not the same over the phone; not the same, but something nonetheless.

  The phone rang for a long, continental tone, then Carter pic
ked up. A background chorus of cicadas, water lapping at the pool, real or perhaps just in his head.

  ‘Quite the day,’ Carter said.

  ‘Glad to hear everyone’s safe,’ Drum said. ‘Daphne called this morning.’

  ‘Tommy never takes public transport these days,’ Carter said. ‘I wasn’t worried.’

  ‘This fucking country,’ Drum said.

  ‘This fucking world,’ Carter said.

  Spain suited Carter, Spain and the restoration of his money. They popped back in late August to see the autumn come, but mostly they stayed there, getting deeply tanned, swimming lengths, learning the language. Carter read El País of a morning, conversed like a native, replete with shrugs and little details, avoided any nearby English settlers. The perfect diplomat: a career Carter said he now realized he should have pursued.

  ‘A friend of Carlie’s was on one of the trains,’ Drum said. ‘He’s in hospital. Not serious though, I don’t think.’

  ‘Times like this I miss smoking.’

  What Drum wanted to say was I miss you. But so trite, so childish to say that. Already implicit, surely, no need to overexplain, overshow. But yes, I miss you, I miss watching your eyebrows rise when I say something you do not believe.

  ‘Fortunate, isn’t it?’ Carter said. ‘Seven/Seven. Has that ring to it, doesn’t it? Like Nine/Eleven? Do you think they chose it for that? And it works whether in American date form or British.’

  ‘You’ve been mulling this one all day?’

  ‘Numbers have always been important,’ he said. ‘Numbers at the heart of it all.’

  ‘Lucky seven?’

  ‘Something like that. In the States, a seven and seven is a whiskey drink, whiskey and 7-Up. It’s no wonder the world hates them.’

  ‘Hates us too, so it seems.’

  ‘They’ve always hated us,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s changed there.’

  He heard the rattle of the whisky glass, the ice in the drink. Missed the sound of the lighter, the suck of the cigarette, the hiss as the cigarette was extinguished.

  ‘How was Molly?’ Carter said.

  ‘She was fine. Must be confusing for her though.’

  ‘They’ll work it out.’

  ‘Nate doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Give it a year and she’ll be begging for him to come home.’

  ‘Give it a year, and I’ll be driving him round there myself.’

  Carter laughed, different the laugh without the toasting of the cigarettes.

  ‘Only you,’ he said, ‘could have one kid disappear and the other refuse to leave.’

  ‘Why only me?’

  ‘Because all you ever wanted was the simple life, and life just loves to shit in your kettle.’

  They laughed, miles and kilometres apart; laughed and drank their Scotch, their wives asleep, upstairs and away, the sun now down and the lights burning, the drowsing lights of an outgoing day.

  11

  Nate left before the lock-in, a wise move; drunk and knowing it, hiccups and gas. Not calling Carlie, not texting Carlie, just holding the phone in his fist. Not calling her, done that before, sometimes done that, repercussions from that, three weeks of no Molly, her number now stored under DO NOT CALL, and he did not call, though he would have called had he not needed to piss so bad. He pissed onto the road, a Stinger of piss, shredding the tyres of any passing cars.

  Bobby’s son in the Wolf, some of the farming lot. Joined them for a bit, talking of the bombs. You live in Scotland, you get rain and snow; you live London, you get bombs. What else you expect? Then foot and mouth, as always; rumours of another suicide, farmer’s son over Mow Cop way. Hanged heads at that. Always talk of a suicide, never anyone they knew. Nate had looked round the room and wondered who would come to his funeral. All of them, for the meat-paste sandwiches and the bar, and who else? No one knew of Billy. No one knew of Pete, wherever he was. There would be Carlie, distraught, forgiving him in death, him unable now to betray her. His parents. Molly wondering which farm he’d gone to this time. Anneka missing as usual.

  He let himself in quietly. No want for lecture, no reminder of early starts and keeping the right hours. So long as job done, job done, no? In the silent kitchen, he took out leftover chicken, piled it into bread. He carried it up the stairs, the light on in the spare room. His mother was sitting on the bed, her phone in her hand. She looked properly old, frail even. The wrinkles around her chin, around her eyes, deeper set. Perhaps the first time he’d noticed it, the age creeping on her. How low her breasts; how round the shoulders.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘A friend of mine, she’s in hospital.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘She okay?’

  ‘She’ll live,’ she said. ‘Nothing to worry about. I wanted to see her, but she said not to.’

  ‘You’ll see her when she’s better,’ he said. The words sounding fine, unslurred, unhurried, not too glassy.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Anyway, get to bed, you.’

  He kissed her on the top of head.

  ‘Night, night.’ He said.

  ‘I love you, Nate,’ she said.

  ‘I love you too, Mam,’ he said.

  12

  There were text messages on the phone. Ray’s name, Ray’s number.

  Message #1:

  I knew you’d be worried, so I went to her house. She was there. Femi too. All safe. Couldn’t see Robin but assume safe.

  Message #2:

  I walked onto main Rd & motorbike hit me. Didn’t see it coming. Cracked ribs. Broken shoulder.

  Message #3

  Don’t come. Please. Will explain when I see you. Don’t call.

  Message #4:

  The things I do for you x

  She would have liked to hear his voice, would have liked to see him, yes; but Anneka more. To hold her. To say all the things she’d been thinking, all the horrors she’d seen. All calm in her arms, all of it slipping, the years and the horrors. To say, I thought I’d lost you, properly lost you this time, and the look on Annie’s face, pure forgiveness, pure recognition.

  Ray had taken that from her. A deceitful man. A lying liar. The things he did for her. The things he did not do for her. The things he kept. And the thing he had now taken. The reunion she’d felt sure she could muster, could follow through with. Unneeded now, unwarranted. Needlessly taken from her.

  She curled up in the single bed, unable or unwilling to go to her own. She put the phone under the pillow, the messages now erased, gone from hers, gone from his, no doubt. Never having happened, never having been sent, or received, words never written, words never read.

  FORTY YEARS OF FRUM

  In the forty years since the publication of Frum, I have had little occasion to consider it in any great depth. It was well received at the time, the reviews respectable and encouraging, but it was hardly a bestseller, and, as with so many books, it fell out of print relatively quickly. Had it not been for a recent essay in the London Review of Books, which discussed the book at length, it would surely have stayed that way. Now, thanks to this reissue, it has a second life. Though, I must confess, this second life feels based upon a deception.

  In the LRB piece entitled ‘Frum Despair to Where’, William Atkins writes, ‘The true power of Frum comes from Porter’s absence, his erasure from the text. To modern readers, it is almost shocking: a traveller travelling for their own interest, rather than spurred on some quest by personal tragedy, romantic palaver or mental breakdown. If this book were published today, Porter would be implored, begged and pleaded with to add a more personal dimension, to give some biography, to let us know our guide the more. We would not be presented with a narrative that is sympathetic, anthropologically astute, or spiritually aware; we would be left with the tepid musings of a white man pushed to discover the Cargo Cultists of Vanuatu, rather than one drawn to them.’

  Mr Atkins is a sharp writer of the old school, resistant to the overbearing vogues of current trav
el writing, for which I admire him; but it is with heavy heart that I must confess that he is wrong about Frum. At least the Frum of the first draft – which is, in fact, the latter kind of book he describes. What finally appeared, and what is the basis of this volume, is both a truthful and utterly fabricated tale. What Atkins admires is little more than cowardice.

  Just before I began the long journey to Vanuatu, three major things occurred: my marriage dissolved, my mother died, and I fell in love with a married woman. In the first draft of Frum, these events are covered in obsessive detail; the nature of love, romantic, maternal, adulterous, are explored in more depth than the Cultists’ rituals and spiritual mores. It is full of digressive asides, about libraries, about death, about the souring of relationships, which, though provoked by the islanders, are wholly a distraction from the point of the journey.

  I remember the day I decided to delete myself from the book. It was a warm spring morning, my wife had long since left, my mother had been dead for two years and I had no idea where the woman I loved now lived. I felt that between the three losses, I no longer existed, and so decided to no longer exist on the page. I rewrote the book in a week, and the pages and pages on the affair – unconsummated, I must add – I eventually burned in a brazier while covering a strike action in Coventry. I wish I had it to hand; I wish I could see again how much I felt, how much I seethed with love for her.

  We all have our masks and guises, the public personas versus the private selves, and the two versions of Frum feel like two sides of myself: one that is available for others’ consumption, and one that is secret, dangerous and needs to be burned. I had not thought of this book for forty years, but it seems it was always waiting for me, reminding me, across the two versions, of the person I truly am.