Before the Ruins

by Victoria Gosling

  “We can stay. You can plug your phone in. The power’s on, but they don’t want us using the lights.”

  “My legs are so tired.”

  “That’s what I told them. I said, la donna’s legs are tired. We’ll find somewhere to sleep.”

  We passed a long row of tills, then climbed a set of stairs. On the next level there were the model rooms, the kitchens and living rooms, bathrooms and bedrooms, built to show off the stock, so you could imagine your life improved by it. The light from the torch played over the cushions and cutlery holders, the bunk beds, the clever storage solutions. It was as if all human wishes for comfort had manifested themselves in one place, and the result was alarming, as though touched by unreliable magic, so that you knew anything you took away from here would come to possess you.

  I sat on a bed, too weary to think. David took off my shoes and socks. He held my feet in his hands. They were white and wet as fish.

  “Can you find somewhere to charge my phone?”

  “Sure.”

  I watched the torchlight bobbing away across the vast hall. When he came back, David switched off the torch and sat on the bed next to mine. He was eating the paprika crisps, rustling and crunching in the darkness.

  “Hey. Hey. I want some.”

  “You’re too tired to eat, Andy.”

  “I’m not!”

  David got up and shuffled round to the other side of the bed. I felt the mattress give as he lay down. The crisps were in the middle and we reached for them in turn.

  “I lost my nerve,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Like that day I couldn’t get up on the roof. But with everything.” It was true. Not only in work and relationships, but in all matters, I played it safe—but the consequence was not a feeling of safety. I thought of the episodes, the panicked hours in front of the screen with the curtains drawn and door bolted, and I saw in my mind’s eye a fly trapped in a jam jar. And then, I remembered how it had felt, with David, waist-deep in the floodwaters, the sensation of lightness and freedom.

  After a while David said, “Once, when I was about eight, we took the ferry to France and then we drove to Spain. It was the one time I ever remember my parents taking a risk, venturing into the unknown. God knows what inspired them. We had everything in the car including the kitchen sink, but Dad had underestimated the distances. I don’t think he even knew there were mountains in Spain. We drove and drove and drove. My mother went to sleep in the back and I was allowed to sit up front. We ended up driving over the Pyrenees. I’d never seen mountains and they went up and up, like something out of a fairy tale. It felt like it was just the two of us, alone in the whole world.

  “It was summer, but at some point it started snowing. These fat flakes falling in the darkness. I tried to stay awake. I wanted to be awake when the snow stopped falling. Other people want families or houses, maybe I do too. Not having to worry about money, now that’s a thing. You know that. All the other things I wanted, glory and success, the kind of success that means you can say fuck you to everyone. I’ve given up on it. I kept on, but that wasn’t it anymore. That’s not what I am after; I’m holding out for that very tiny moment. The moment when the snowing stops.”

  When he spoke again, his voice was lower so I had to lean in to hear him.

  “I’m not special, talented, or even particularly good at anything. Once it was like a terrible secret I had to conceal at all costs. Over the years, I did think of you, Andy. I had daydreams in which we saw one another again, and I was always climbing down the steps of my private jet. I wanted to see you, but on my terms. I wanted my life to be something I could show off. Pride, I suppose. But you’re here now and I can’t think of a thing to impress you with, and it doesn’t seem to matter.”

  “And what did I do? In these daydreams?”

  The bag rustled. I heard David chomping on the crisps. “They were fantasies, Andy. You forgave me everything and then you took your clothes off.”

  There had been the people I wanted to talk to, and people I wanted to touch. But with David it was both—one would lead to the next and back again, like a tidal river. I’d had one and now I wanted the other.

  I remembered now why I’d never thought he’d hurt Em. Why once, being touched by David had been my greatest good. I put my hand out and laid it flat against his chest. After a moment, he moved closer but turned away. I shifted so that I could put my arm around him and lie pressed against his back. For a moment my lips touched the cotton of his shirt. He smelled the same.

  I let my thoughts drift. It seemed quite possible that I would fall asleep.

  After a while, David turned onto his back and I moved till I was lying with my face against his chest, one leg resting over his.

  My stupid body was so happy. It had nerve for this, it seemed. Idly, I wondered what it would cost me this time and why lying down with David was different from lying down with anyone else. It was a mystery, a real one, and as I brought my fingertips to his face, as David’s arms came to hold me, I had the random and startling thought that everyone had them, one or two surprising and inexplicable things in their life, and that in such cases, should one show the doggedness of the detective of a certain kind, something might be revealed, a key of some sort.

  * * *

  I woke at first light and my first thought was that I would get myself a bedside table just like this one for the flat. David was sleeping, and I crept about among the furniture, trying to find my phone. When I found it, I had the urge to stuff it down the back of a sofa and be done with it forever. Instead, I turned it on reluctantly. Oliver had sent a string of increasingly irate texts and Hutchinson had called eleven times. There was also a message from a caller who’d withheld their number. I perched on the wing of an armchair and listened to the recording, waiting for the message. For the first few moments … nothing. Silence, an open line, and then, Peter’s voice.

  “Andy, it’s me. Please stop looking for me. Please. I’m fine. I just need some time. I’m in the States but I’ll be back in a few weeks. I’ll be in touch, okay?”

  I heard a faint sound in the background, faint but discernible. There was no mistaking it. Peter heard it too, because his voice changed, unmasked itself. “Please Andy. I got your message. None of it was your fault. I’ve done something. It’s a good thing but you mustn’t look for me anymore. Don’t … don’t come here.”

  But I had always looked after Peter. In my way. I couldn’t hear his warning, only registered the fact that Peter was scared. Peter was being threatened, and my heart roared, blocking out all reason.

  It was bells I heard. Church bells pealing, and among them that one booming flat. I would have known them anywhere. Clever Peter, but not clever enough.

  David opened his eyes as I was putting on my coat. Once I had liked waking him up, liked watching him swim back to me.

  “Popping out for a packet of cigarettes, Andy?”

  “Off to see a man about a dog.”

  “Don’t go—”

  “Peter called. He’s gone home. But there’s something wrong.”

  A pause. “I suppose it is your turn. To disappear.” I sat down for a moment and took up his hand. “I didn’t call it, but I remember it. I wish I had, you know, if it makes any difference,” David said.

  “What?”

  “The number. The red phone box. 4203417.”

  CHAPTER 18

  HOMECOMING

  At the airport, the floods had been cleared from the runways and planes were leaving again. The London flights were booked out, so I bought a seat on the next plane to Bristol. Once past security, I scurried to the gate to make it in time. As the flight attendant performed the pantomime with the life vest, my eyes were already closing. When I awoke, we were coming down through thick clouds.

  On the aircraft steps, I noticed it had finally stopped raining. I had been wearing the same clothes for two days. My socks and shoes had dried, but I smelled of river water, and when I c
losed my eyes, gritty from lack of sleep, I saw the deer swimming across the square, the pink of its panting tongue; I saw David sitting on the chair in the dark, his eyes closed, holding the drawing on his lap.

  I took the airport bus, then the train east to Swindon. There was a cab waiting in the taxi rank. As we drew away, I sat bolt upright in it, watching the familiar streets unfurl. The sun was breaking through as we took the road to Marlborough. The Downs were green, spring green. Beside the road, in the verges, the may, the elderflower, the cow parsley, all of it waiting for a single touch of sun to break into froths of white flowers.

  We came down the steep hill into town. Here it all was, the wide market square, the town hall and tearooms. In my neck, I could feel my pulse throbbing. The fear of being seen, of being judged. My eyes flitted from passerby to passerby, from the small line of shoppers waiting for the bus, to the teenagers clustered round the bench outside the bank. What could they say to hurt me now?

  One of the teenagers turned to throw his cigarette butt into the street and over his shoulder I caught a glimpse of a small face, thick dark hair. I could feel the daggers in her eyes even after we passed. In truth, I didn’t need to come here to meet her. I took her with me everywhere. I told her again, what I’d been trying to tell her for years. You did the best you could with the tools you had at the time. We did the best …

  The Sun had changed its name and become a restaurant. There was a Pizza Express. The Tudor Rose was no more. Waitrose and The Polly were as busy as ever.

  My phone rang and I picked up without checking to see who it was, hoping it would be Peter again, but it wasn’t; it was Hutchinson.

  “Where are you?” He sounded odd, like he had a cold or something, a rattle in the chest as he drew breath.

  “Back in England.”

  “In London? Can we meet? I might have found something out. It’s urgent. I can come to you. Wherever you are.”

  The driver asked if we should go left or right.

  “Right, up Church Lane. You’re looking for the vicarage.” I pointed up the hill and then turned back to the phone. “I’m not sure when I’m going to be back in London. I’ll call you later, but, the thing is, I think … I think I know where Peter is.”

  “I have to see you—”

  I hung up quickly, cutting him off, because we were pulling up alongside a yew tree hedge, the same hedge where Peter and I had once liked to hide in order to spy rapturously upon his parents.

  “Target One is hanging out the washing.”

  “Target Two is boiling the kettle and helping himself to biscuits.”

  But Peter wasn’t there now. I paid up and got out, then waited while the driver turned around and drove away. Beyond the hedge were the lawn and planted borders, as immaculate as ever. I wondered if Patricia still did them or if they got someone in. The vicarage looked no different, no different at all. I went up the path toward the front door, climbed the steps, and let fall the heavy knocker, just as I’d always done.

  Patricia was not smiling when she came to the door. Her hands were floury.

  “I’m in the middle of making a cake.”

  “What kind of cake?”

  “A Victoria sponge, dear. But it won’t be ready for a while yet.”

  “I came because I think I know where—”

  “Peter called, dear. He’s in America. I told him he had to call you to apologize. All that trouble you’ve been put to.”

  We looked at one another, as ever each taking the other’s measure. Underneath the apron, she had on a blue dress and pearls. Her hair was set in a wave. Her eyes, a duller blue now, fell on the creases in my trousers, the stain on my coat. It made me feel like an evacuee, standing there in my rumpled clothes, hoping to be taken in. And there had been a time when I’d wanted to be taken in, had my eye firmly set on the spare bedroom and a permanent place at the dinner table.

  “He’s not in the States. He’s here. Least he was.”

  Even the window cleaner got offered a cup of tea. As though reading my mind, Patricia said, “I’d invite you in, but I’m going out and Richard’s with a parishioner.” I hadn’t slept. My eyes started burning.

  “Did he say where he was? What he’s been playing at?”

  Patricia cleared her throat. “He’s been staying with some lay brothers in California. I think”—her voice went up at least an octave—“he didn’t say, not exactly, but I think he’s been having a spiritual crisis.”

  “Lay brothers?”

  “They’re unordained. Committed to the religious life but not priests themselves.”

  “Oh, you’re bloody clueless. Do you have any idea who Peter actually is?”

  “The cake is going to burn. It’s had over twenty minutes. I really must…”

  And, because she clearly wasn’t going to offer me a lift either, I turned tail and trudged off. I went down the hill toward the market square. If The Sun hadn’t gone gastro, I’d have gone for a pint or eight. Instead, I took a room over the Castle & Ball, where I had a shower and lay down on the bed. But I couldn’t sleep. I was burning. The anger was like petrol, and I lay there, sipping on it, fueling the fire, so that it grew, obliterating the hurt. Long ago, I had felt like this almost all the time. Anger had been my daily bread, but I had been capable of joy too. When I had shut one out, I had excluded the other.

  I replayed Peter’s message. The bells, distant as they were, belonged to Saint Helen’s. I recognized them, as Peter had known I would, and that was why he had told me not to come here. He was here, or had been, I was sure of it. But if he wasn’t with his parents, where else could he be? With whom? And whichever way I looked at it, I could only think of one name.

  * * *

  Marcus was married. He had a blond wife, Lisa, and two kids, a boy and a girl. Meeting Marcus was something I wanted to avoid, but I had wanted to see him, and as soon as technology made it possible, the spying began. I knew roughly where he lived, and with whom. I’d scrutinized his wedding pictures so often, I’m surprised they didn’t feel me there on the day, an invisible presence hanging over them like a giant, hungry eye.

  His son made his debut as a red-faced lump; within a few months he was a gap-toothed smiler in a Fireman Sam onesie. Marcus’s daughter was the image of him. In the latest photo, she was clutching a cuddly pink pig, her little face a rictus of delight. There was a lovely one from last summer of them all together at a barbecue. Lisa had the boy on her lap. She had a solid body, a mum’s body. Marcus was wearing a faded red T-shirt, paint-spattered shorts, and wielding tongs over the coals. Less hair, more muscle, a working man’s tan. His eyes were narrowed against the smoke, but he was smiling. The little girl was standing between her parents, ketchup spread over her face like war paint. At her feet, the pig lay in a heap like a slaughtered foe.

  The Facebook account was Lisa’s. Marcus didn’t have one as far as I knew. Her account was set to public, which I took to be a sign of a trusting nature, or ignorance. My own account was under the name Ay Cee. I didn’t have a profile picture or any friends. It was just an eye. Lots of people were like Lisa, and I liked to roam, looking at pictures of random Christmas office parties, following seams of outrage, throwing in names of old teachers and classmates and seeing what was thrown back.

  I lay on the bed in the room at the Castle & Ball cradling my phone, tapping on the screen with a finger. The window was open and from outside I could hear the traffic passing down the square, voices rising from the pavement outside where the smokers gathered. I felt that if I listened hard enough, I would hear us; piling out of the van to get fags and Coke at the shop, bickering over whose turn it was to pay. Not mine. Probably Marcus’s. Maybe Em’s, treating us with her earnings from the tearooms.

  As though I’d summoned her, Em appeared, in an album of photos called “School Days—Saint John’s 89–96.”

  Em is twelve. She stands among the choir wearing a toga made from a sheet while Joseph, decked out in a Technicolor dreamcoat run up b
y the teachers in the home ec department, belts out the song about having a dream.

  The stage lights shine on Em’s face. Her mouth is open in a perfect O, her hair parted in the middle, falling in two straight curtains.

  Memory is not the analog photograph that fades. Memory is a house, a castle with many rooms. Some of the rooms are deeper inside, honeycombed away. Each has a thousand keys—an image, a smell, a sound. Behind each door is a thousand other doors.

  On the bed, in the room over the pub, I made like Mrs. East, time traveling, reentering the past in reverie.

  Joseph is Tony Salter from the sixth form, who we all followed about that year. This year, the musical is the school’s Christmas production.

  Under cover of darkness, Em and I go out and cut down armfuls of mistletoe from the oaks in the paddock by her house. We smuggle it into school in carrier bags, waiting for our moment, stalking Tony Salter from football practice to his math class, to the ten minutes he spends wrapped up in the stage curtains with Amanda Walker at break.

  I volunteer as a stagehand so Em and I can share glances. The dress rehearsal is a triumph. Afterward, the boys change in the music room. The school is largely empty, the corridors in shadows. Tinsel has been stapled to the noticeboards. By the office, there’s a particle board manger and models of the holy family, the animals, shepherds, and kings. Carl Whitefoot earns himself a two-day suspension for his creative rearrangement involving empty beer cans, dog-ends, and multiple counts of bestiality.

  Tony Salter in Levi jeans and a white T-shirt, channeling James Dean at all times, makes his way to the boys’ bogs. We follow, but stop some feet distant beyond the evil-smelling miasma. Em’s hand is warm in mine. Can we hear Tony Salter peeing? We hear the door open and immediately stop laughing. It is him! He is coming! As Tony rounds the corner we leap out, garlanded in mistletoe, decked in mistletoe, brandishing bouquets of mistletoe.