The Seagulls Laughter

by Holly Bidgood

  ‘I wanted you to see the family you pulled apart,’ he said, without looking up.

  ‘But what did I ever do to you; to Judith?’

  His fingers came to rest on the parka-clad shape of a woman, black-haired, a child on her back. He paused for a moment, then in one swift movement he lifted the painting with both hands and roughly tore the paper in two. My fists clenched instinctively.

  ‘He never wanted to come back from that godforsaken place, your father.’ He spat the last word as though it were poison. ‘But he returned to his family all the same: I suppose he felt he had a sense of duty. Of course it would have been better for everyone if he had stayed there with her and the bastard child they had together.’ He turned his colourless eyes upon me: the bastard child. ‘But no, he came crawling back to Judith. The coward.’

  I was both shocked and intrigued by the hostility in his voice. He continued, ‘He didn’t love his wife as she deserved, not after that.’

  ‘But you did,’ I said. His eyes shot to meet mine, his gaze hard. Although my remark had been intended as a question I got the feeling that I had inadvertently made an accusation.

  ‘If she had any sense she would have left him,’ he hissed, jabbing a bony finger towards me as though I were to blame. ‘That ungrateful bastard didn’t deserve her. I told her as much when she married him, but did she listen? And look what he did to her.’ The finger pointed at me, directly now and unabashedly.

  ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I protested weakly. I was shaking; my anger seemed unsure of itself, tinged with an uncertain fear. My pulse was erratic. I no longer felt the soporific effect of the alcohol I had drunk, yet my perceptions seemed to be misplaced and my judgement skewed. The man appeared larger than the room itself, and his sudden, violent movements set my nerves on edge.

  ‘You,’ he spat. ‘You and your mother did everything. And that explorer did the rest: made Judith’s life with him a misery.’

  Was it my imagination or was he moving closer to me around the edge of the table?

  ‘You didn’t have to bring me here,’ I said, ‘you didn’t have to make Judith suffer more for his actions.’ I longed to defend Judith, to make the man acknowledge the wrong he had committed to her by unloading me into her care. She had been so kind to me, I did not want to let him hurt her more than he had done already.

  ‘He did not suffer enough for his actions,’ the man responded. His watery eyes darkened. ‘He went and died before he could really see the hurt he caused her. He only ever thought of himself. It was his selfishness that killed him, and he deserved it, deserved all the pain it caused him.’

  I did not understand. What did he mean, the selfishness killed him?

  ‘He had a heart attack –,’ I said uncertainly.

  ‘Heart attack!’ snorted the man with such suddenness that I leapt in my skin. He appeared to have moved even nearer; his face was uncomfortably close to mine, his beak loomed before me, threateningly, ready to strike.

  ‘It was you,’ I said. My voice shook. ‘You killed him. You killed him because you love Judith. But now she won’t have you, and for that you want to make her suffer.’

  He laughed darkly, his face contorted by the light of the lamp overhead. As I backed away from him in panic my hand brushed over a knife that lay on the table beside me. Before I knew what I was doing it was in my hand, and my hand was raised before me.

  Something changed in his eyes: a semblance of doubt, or perhaps fear.

  ‘And you’re going to kill me, now, are you?’ he laughed. I felt his hesitancy. ‘You never even met the man and yet you want retribution?’ He opened his arms wide; his full wingspan. ‘Go on, then.’

  My breathing was ragged; I was lightheaded, my vision swam. Of course I could not kill him. But my heart pounded with anger, and a terror that I could not contain. The world felt heavy around me – my whole body ached horribly. I raised my other hand, upturned, and rested the sharp edge of the knife on my wrist. The metal was cold against my skin.

  ‘This is what you want,’ I said, my voice low. ‘Isn’t it? You want to ruin me, too.’

  His eyes bore into mine, confidently now that the weapon was no longer pointed at him.

  ‘A drunk, just like your mother,’ he said. ‘And like your father you’ll take the easy way out.’

  I looked at him. I had never felt so scared and I did not know there existed such darkness within me. My hands shook violently.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ he said at length. ‘I didn’t have to. Coward saw to that himself.’ His lips curled. ‘But I’d have gladly tied that rope around his neck with my own hands.’

  A wave of nausea flooded through me as I struggled to comprehend what the man was saying.

  ‘He… he took his own life?’

  ‘His final cowardly act,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘And the last blow to his family. If he’d only done away with himself sooner it would have been better for everyone.’

  ‘Don’t you have any compassion?’ I said.

  He scoffed. ‘He brought it upon himself. He was a selfish man.’

  My head was swimming. With difficulty I tried to focus on the man’s face. ‘And now that he’s dead and you can’t make him suffer anymore, you’re hurting Judith instead?’

  With his lips pressed tightly together, his mouth fixed itself into a severe line. ‘I’m trying to make her realise just what he did to her,’ he hissed.

  ‘You’re punishing her for marrying him and not you,’ I said. I noticed that my voice was raised. ‘But she still won’t have you, of course she won’t have you.’

  ‘But she’ll keep you in her house,’ he shouted. ‘You – the cause of all this.’

  ‘I wasn’t here when he died! I’d never even met him, barely know anything about him – why did you pull me into this?’ I did not have to look down to see that the knife in my hands was once more pointed at the beak-nosed man. My hands were so unsteady I feared what they might do. He did not answer.

  My body rocked as I was hit by a sudden thought.

  ‘You must have already been on the ship when he… when you heard,’ I said, my voice lower now. ‘You didn’t come all the way to Angmagssalik to tell me that my father had died; you were already on the way there. You took me back with you just on a whim.’

  He raised his eyebrows, as though this had surely been obvious. ‘And you came with me on a whim,’ he said. Then he smiled wryly. ‘Could it have been the hand of fate crossing our paths together?’ He laughed; I did not like the way that he laughed, as though he were mocking me. It frightened me, this use of the word fate: I got the impression, ludicrous though it must surely be, that the path of my life was in his hands, that all this time I had been labouring under the illusion of free will and wrongly believing in the guidance of the ancestral spirits. Had I lived my entire life in the shadow of his wings, unaware? Sickness arose in my throat.

  I turned my head at the sound of the door opening. Judith stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide, fixed on the scene before her: the knife in my hands.

  ‘The boy’s drunk,’ the man said to her, in English. His cruel laughter seemed to echo around the room and reverberate inside my head; it sounded like the laughter of the gull.

  Wildly I glanced around the room, searching for Eqingaleq. He was nowhere to be seen. The walls seemed to be closing around me, the floor tilted dangerously. The man’s watery eyes were all that I could see. I could not breathe. I dropped the knife to the floor, and turning away from those grotesque eyes I stumbled from the room, passing Judith without a word.

  ◆◆◆

  In the sanctity of my tent I lay prostrate, while my imagination lurched sickeningly. The harder I tried not to think about my father’s death the more clearly I pictured him, the man I had never seen: his limp body, his glazed eyes and the rope around his neck.

  Where was Eqingaleq?

  My thoughts swerved to Judith. Perhaps she had been the one who discovered his lifeless body, saw wh
at he had done. Perhaps she, too, felt that I were to blame for what had happened. Perhaps I was to blame.

  Where was Eqingaleq?

  I remembered two of my childhood friends. When we were children we had run free together in the Arctic’s changing seasons, we had learnt how to drive the dog sleds and run a line through a hole in the ice to catch fish. But little by little the temptations and confusions of the modern world cast the light of uncertainty on our futures. One of my friends put a shotgun to his temple; the other, like my father, tightened a noose around his neck. He was my uncle’s son. He had hung in his home for days before I found his body. I should have gone round sooner.

  Where was Eqingaleq?

  These lives ended, caught between two worlds and two ways of life. No other way out. I feared that I might share the same fate.

  ◆◆◆

  When I lurched into consciousness in the cold light of early morning, I saw that Eqingaleq was sitting cross-legged beside me in the tent. Unmoving, his face half hidden in the night’s lingering shadows, he kept his usual silent vigil.

  Where were you? I asked. My voice was little more than a groan. He came last night. The man with the beak for a nose. He came for me, and you weren’t there.

  I was there, he answered calmly. But you had little use for me given the state you were in.

  Little use? He came for me: I needed you.

  He smiled grimly. What could I have done to help you? How could I have got through to you? You were drunk.

  I wasn’t drunk.

  He raised his eyebrows. Pathetically I fell silent.

  I could hear the sound of rain against the window pane: a morning chorus.

  He says my father took his own life.

  Yes, I heard.

  The rain fell heavier, pounded on the glass. Do you think it was because of… me? I whispered.

  Because of you? You never even met the man.

  I mean because of… me and Mother.

  I knew too well the pain of a father separated from his child – I felt it then in my chest. He had two families, but perhaps he felt that he did not belong to either of them.

  Eqingaleq’s eyelids drooped languidly, as though he were bored, but I knew that he was only deep in thought. Who can tell? He said quietly.

  I sat up and hugged my knees to my chest. My mother was never kind about him.

  The rain was the only sound as Eqingaleq waited, knowingly, for me to complete the thought. I don’t want to end up like either of them, I said at last, my voice low.

  The corners of Eqingaleq’s ancient eyes creased as he gave me a gentle, reassuring smile. Then don’t.

  23

  I had lost track of time.

  The long, dark nights and the bare trees by the street sides heralded the approach of winter; the strings of blinking lights and cardboard reindeer that Tony had draped around the shop suggested that Christmas would soon be upon us.

  It was cold: a damp, dreary sort of cold that seeped into my very bones and robbed me of spirit. I could not seem to warm up. I wrapped myself in blankets and extra pairs of socks, but the dampness sat steadfastly in my chest and lungs, spread a lethargy to my limbs.

  I had made up my mind: I was leaving. I had no idea where I would go or what I would do, I knew only that I should not have stayed so long in this house.

  Each day, however, I would tell myself that I was not ready, that I just needed one more day to prepare and to plan what I would say to Judith, for I could not simply walk away after all her kindness towards me.

  Each evening I crawled back into my blanket tent with heavy limbs; how could my legs carry me any further? I couldn’t possibly leave.

  We ate a stone-silent Christmas meal around the kitchen table, Judith, Michael and I. Judith had refused my help in preparing the food; instead I had lit a candle as a contribution to the absent festive atmosphere. I knew that I was not welcome here. I had heard Tony debating the topic of Christmas with a customer: that it was a time for celebration, for family. And family I certainly was not.

  A bottle of wine stood on the table. Michael poured himself a glass, full to the brim, but did not offer the bottle around. No toasts were made, no glasses tapped lightly together. Judith served slices of succulent-looking red meat but kept her eyes upon the meal. Michael emptied half a bottle of tomato sauce over his plate and began to eat.

  I was still trying to think of something I could say, in the spirit of things, when I noticed that Judith was crying. Her head turned down, silent tears fell over her vegetables, which she had not touched. I reached across the corner of the small table and laid my hand comfortingly on her shoulder. It rested there only for a moment before she pushed back her chair and half-ran from the room.

  Michael and I watched the door close behind her. For a few minutes we did not speak.

  ‘She thought she’d at least come home for Christmas,’ Michael said.

  I caught his eye.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Marianne.’

  He tucked back into his tomato-smothered portion, without another word.

  ◆◆◆

  A few days later, I came downstairs as darkness was falling to find the kitchen full of people. It was New Year’s Eve. I had heard the muffled voices from upstairs; the continued open and close of the front door, footsteps in the hallway. It was not long before the brazen sound of electric guitars and rhythmic bass overpowered the sound of these comings and goings and I crept downstairs to investigate.

  I pushed open the kitchen door and saw that Michael had brought the record player into the kitchen; it revolved at full volume on the table beside a pile of records and empty beer cans. A dense cloud of tobacco smoke hung above the heads of, I presumed, Michael’s friends. They milled about the room, beer cans and glasses in hand; long-haired boys in jeans and patterned shirts, girls in short skirts and tall shoes. Some danced, some laughed, while others made raucous conversation over the noise of the music. I peered through the throng, wondering if Michael were among them. He saw me first, came swaggering across the room and slapped me amicably on the back as though I were his best friend in the world. He handed me the can that he clutched in his other hand, and roared, ‘Party’s started, Mal! Get some of this down you.’

  I did not need persuading. I desired nothing more than a stiff drink to calm my nerves, dampen my inhibitions and help me to blend into the swelling crowd. I drank it quickly; I knew there would be more to come.

  People continued to arrive, and soon the party had spilled out into the hallway and the living room as well as into the garden. I remembered that Judith had gone away somewhere this weekend, I doubted that she had known of Michael’s intention to turn the house into a disco in her absence.

  I was nervous and overwhelmed. The more I drank, the more my nerves dissipated. The more I drank the easier it became. I recognised a few of Michael’s friends from our outings to the bar; they too clapped me on the back and gave me drinks when mine had run dry. Their conversation eluded me. I could not hope to understand when I could barely even hear their voices over the music.

  Soon the room began to spin. My feet were dangerously unsteady. I stumbled from the room, meaning to go upstairs to use the bathroom, and almost careered into a young couple who were leaning against the bannister with their arms wrapped around each other and their lips locked passionately together. They did not seem to notice my intrusion. I righted myself, and felt a painful tug in my stomach as I noticed that the young woman was the one I had found myself entangled with, alone in the park, on that drunken evening. I had not seen her since. A wave of nausea swept through me. Why did I care so much? In this place of strangers I thought perhaps I had formed some sort of a connection with her when we…

  I turned away, pulling myself onto the staircase and tripping up the steps into the darkness that awaited at their summit. The party did not appear to have progressed upstairs. It felt quiet, calmer, even though I could still hear the music and voices that raged in the rest
of the house. I staggered to the bathroom through the dark landing, and screwed my eyes shut momentarily as I turned on the bright bathroom light. I closed the door with an uncontrolled thud. After I had relieved myself, I leant upon the sink and ran my hands alternately under the cold tap. My eyes had grown used to the light. When I looked up, I was taken aback to see my reflection staring back at me – hair tousled, eyes bloodshot. I had forgotten that a mirror hung above the sink. Even more surprising was the appearance of the face of Eqingaleq behind me in the mirror, disturbingly disembodied for the rest of him could not be seen. His expression was blank but the contours of his face were grossly exaggerated by the electric light that was cast from above our heads.

  I’m not drunk, I said to his mirror image, then my voice broke out into empty laughter and I threw my hands up into the air in a gesture of acceptance. All right, I’m drunk!

  His expression did not change.

  My arms fell back down again like lead weights. In seriousness I studied his reflection. The depth of his dark eyes made me uneasy.

  Why does everyone drink so much? I wondered.

  He shrugged his shoulders, impassive still. To forget.

  I ran the tap once more over my hands. The cold water felt good on my skin; the rest of my body was numb. But in the morning it all comes back. You can’t forget everything for good.

  Eqingaleq’s voice bubbled above the sound of the running water. That’s why you drink so much, isn’t it? To forget. I imagine that’s the reason your mother drank so much, too.

  My eyes snapped up to meet his in the mirror. There’s no need to mention my mother every time I have a drink, I said sharply. I know what I’m doing.

  He raised his eyebrows, said nothing.

  My hands shook with anger as I turned off the tap. The soothing sound of running water stopped abruptly, and once more I could hear the mingled cacophony of music and loud voices from downstairs.