by Stuart Evers
She kissed his cheek, surprising, cementing. Knew that would be enough. Sure it would be enough. Certainty the great modern curse, as Robin had it. To be sure and certain the perfect kind of stupidity, the last trait of the idiot.
But sure, yes. Saw in Kim and saw in Thomas a plan, a series of dreams she could scupper. Power requires certainty; those who rarely have it are doomed to prevaricate. Fated to worry of outcome, of what the consequence. Give me the power. Let me hold it, just this once. Let me feel it, revel in it. Let me make the right choice.
12
Carter had poured his son and himself a Scotch; Kim was standing by the window, caught in thought and trapped in house. Nate wheeled his mother through and sat her at the table as though able to join the consultation. Happy, he saw that. The thought of Annie back, the two of them, enough. Now at drool, muttering with closed eyes.
‘So?’ Anneka said.
‘Final offer,’ Carter said. ‘You take it and you leave within a week. I mean everything out. Gone.’
He passed a small square of paper across the table, folded over though there was no one there who did not already know, or wouldn’t soon know, the amount on the paper.
Anneka let Nate open it. He examined it, passed it to her. To be able to write that many zeros. To write them and mean it. The zeros angled, slanting right. So many of them, neat and straight, perfectly judged.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anneka said. ‘That isn’t enough.’
‘What?’ Tom said. ‘What?’
‘It’s not enough. Not nearly enough.’
‘Anneka, we should at least discuss it,’ Nate said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, it’s not enough and they know it.’
‘Final offer,’ Thomas said. ‘Not to be repeated. One-time shot. Think of what you could do with the money, Nate. Think of that.’
‘This is between me and my sister,’ Nate said. ‘Nothing to do with you.’
Nate looked at her. Could see the permutations whirring. Almost twice what the developers were offering. How much overage for the sweetness of revenge.
‘Anneka, are you sure?’ Nate said to her. ‘It’s a lot of—’
‘It’s not, and we won’t accept this offer,’ Anneka said. ‘It’s an insult.’
‘An insult?’ Nate said. He stood and knew how he looked. Same as he had looked before. A look like coming violence, a losing of control. The things he could say. The insult of her leaving. The insult of her not coming back. Wanting to say it all and knowing it futile.
He kicked the chair, which kicked the wheelchair, their mother jolting, looking up, looking round.
‘Sorry, Mam,’ he said. ‘You okay?’
‘Must have dozed off,’ she said. ‘Where are we?’
‘Still at the Carters’.’
‘Is Daphne here?’ she said.
‘No, Mam.’
‘In Spain, I expect.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re just talking about the farm. You remember?’
‘Have you sold it yet, Drum?’
‘Not yet, Mam.’
‘Well sell it,’ she said. ‘And get a move on.’
13
From her bag, Anneka took a pen and changed one of the digits on the paper-fold. She looked at it for a moment, the scruff added to the clean numbers. A strange digit to add, on a whim. She passed the fold back to Carter and to Thomas.
‘This we will accept,’ she said. ‘No less.’
They opened the fold. The two men huddled over it, a shared hand of cards. They muttered to each other. They looked to be doing sums.
Not what she wanted. Not the plan. Knew they would make an offer, knew it would be good. Knew that turning it down would be worth any amount of zeros. But Nate there. Her mother there. And something better than the plan. A line under it. All done. The victory of it, even if not the utter destruction she’d envisaged. Look at Nate. Do not regret. Do not look back and wish for the bomb. Do not wish for revenge. Do not look back and think you had him. You had him and you let him go. Do not think that. Think of the future, not the past.
Her offer was ratified with a nod. Simple and short, practised even. Just the nod. She stood and she shook hands with Carter. She did not shake the hand of Thomas, nor was it offered.
14
In Doom Town there is a jazz band playing. Gwen and Drum are getting dressed. Drum looks like Montgomery Clift and a writer she knows called Ray. He takes her hand and they dance through the terrorized cottage, dance on the pavements, the music lifting on the wind, the trumpets and trombones. They walk hand in hand, and head into a house. He is wearing overalls and two children are monkeying up his chest, there’s oil on his hands and face, and Gwen is saying please, off you two, and the kids come back from the brook, all muddy and wet, and later she and Drum share a bath, lit by candles, and descend into the earth and only ever partially return, coming up to an old farmhouse, cold of stone and with a stout door, and through that door, a bump and jive and her two children, old and young, young and old, jump like frogs, up and down, they jump, the two of them, right there, joy on their faces, jumping like frogs.
They are in the farmhouse kitchen, the three of them, Gwen and her two children. Her children are holding a piece of paper in the air and they are jumping up and down. She watches them jump and holler and whoop. She wishes she could join them, could join in their victory dance. Her children are dancing together, laughing together, holding up the piece of paper. They are together.
She is looking at her children and she sees them together, both safe, both free. They are their most together here, at their most together now.
She is joined by Drum. He is smiling. They are safe, my love, she says. They are safe and free, my love. We are all of us safe and free.
Acknowledgements
I am indebted to a number of people for their help, encouragement and wisdom over the course of writing The Blind Light.
My agent, Lucy Luck, who knows what to say and when to say it. Thank you for always going above and beyond.
My editor, Kris Doyle, whose belief, enthusiasm, perseverance and attention to detail made this the book that it is. I can’t thank you enough.
Jessica Cuthbert-Smith for her diligent and intelligent copy-edit.
Stuart Wilson for the UK cover; Lindsay Nash for the text design. Grace Harrison, Chloe May and all at Picador.
Tom Mayer, Nneoma Amadi-Obi and all at W. W. Norton in the US.
Harris the dog appears courtesy of Joe Cooney, who won the Authors for Grenfell auction to name a pet in The Blind Light. Thank you, Joe, for supporting such an important cause.
Kit Caless and Gary Budden from Influx Press for agreeing to publish fictional books.
Rowena Willard-Wright at Dover Castle gave me some wonderful insights into Cold War nuclear planning; while the staff at the Millom Discovery Centre provided wider understanding of the surrounding area.
Thank you to everyone at the Eccles British Library Writers Award, especially Catherine Eccles, Phil Hatfield and Jean Petrovitch.
Tom Cosson for his help with the Welsh. Diolch.
Kristina Radke, Natalie Fox, Lindsey Lochner, Tarah Theoret, Fran Toolan and all at NetGalley.
Oliver Shepherd for first-reading/best-friend duties.
William Atkins for advice, good humour, support, and appearing when needed.
Dawn Price for being there for everyone.
Gareth Evers and Megan Bond; Matthew Baker, Anna Herman and Pearl Baker.
My mother and father, Joyce and John Evers; Barbara Callender and Eugene Sorokin; Simon Baker and Hilda Breakspear for their incredible support over some difficult years.
Caleb and Max Evers. Lighting the years.
Lisa Baker. To the ends of the earth. Again and always.
About the Author
Stuart Evers’ debut, Ten Stories About Smoking, won the London Book Award in 2011; his highly acclaimed novel If This Is Home followed in 2012 and his collection Your Father Sends His Love was sho
rtlisted for the 2016 Edge Hill Short Story Prize. In 2017, Evers won the Eccles British Library Writer’s Award – one of Europe’s richest prizes for a work in progress. His work has appeared in three editions of the Best British Short Stories, as well as Granta, the White Review, Prospect and on Radio 4. Originally from the North West, he lives in London.
ALSO BY STUART EVERS
Your Father Sends His Love
If This Is Home
Ten Stories About Smoking
First published 2020 by Picador
This electronic edition first published 2020 by Picador
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
The Smithson, 6 Briset Street, London EC1M 5NR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5290-3099-0
Copyright © Stuart Evers 2020
FICTION
Cover image © ClassicStock / akg-images / H. Armstrong Roberts
Author photo © Lisa India Baker
The right of Stuart Evers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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