My Side of the Diamond

by Sally Gardner

Simon emailed Becky saying that he would always love her.

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Becky. ‘I hate him. And Ruth. At least you knew your mum was a messed-up cow pie. You weren’t under any illusion that she’d always be there for you, no matter what. I’d been sold the whole “perfect family” package. Only it was long past its use-by date.’ Her little bubble of anger burst. She said, in a small voice that I recognised from myself, the voice I use when my confidence has been eaten up, the voice that makes me feel six: ‘I don’t think Ruth cares about me at all.’

  I could never have been an actor. I said, with as much conviction as I could muster, ‘Of course Ruth loves you, she’s your mum.’

  But it sounded weak. Her loving mother was up a mountain with a guru and no internet connection. She did send one email, on the day she arrived. It was priceless that email, you couldn’t have made it up. It went something like: ‘When you are grown up, Becky, you will understand the pain I’m going through. And you will know why I had to leave.’

  Ironic, really, because Becky never got the chance to grow up. Ruth got a chance to grow up and decided not to take it. As my Auntie Karen would say, no one can agree on how many currants there should be in a bun.

  On Wednesday, I said to Becky that I was going to catch the bus into Woodbridge and did she want anything. She didn’t. What I couldn’t tell her was that I was going to put a load of money into my savings account. I could’ve paid it in at the Post Office in the shop in Orford, but knowing how they all nattered I thought I didn’t want news of my two thousand pounds spread, sticky as peanut butter, around the village.

  I was nearing the town when my phone had a meltdown. Alex had texted about thirty times since I’d last seen him.

  no i dont have a girlfriend

  do you have a boyfriend

  I want to see you

  come on speak to me

  give me a ring

  ARE YOU IGNORING ME

  On and on they went. My heart nearly flew out of my chest. The last texts were pretty pissed off because I hadn’t answered. I texted him that my phone hadn’t had any reception until I got to Woodbridge and he texted, straight away.

  meet me by the cafe near the train station

  I replied, saying I’d be there in fifteen minutes, but I spent thirty in the queue in the Post Office. I thought, why is everything so slow up here? In London, those old biddies going on about their roses to the man behind the counter would have been arrested for time-wasting.

  I ran to the station and couldn’t see Alex. Then there he was, coming towards me. I tried to look nonchalant. Like, so what? But I couldn’t pull it off. I beamed at him.

  He leaned over and kissed me, just like that.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I asked. ‘Did Simon find you?’

  ‘Message fifteen explained that I was staying with my mum because one of my kid brothers had chicken pox and Mum had to work. And yes, Simon did find me. And I don’t want to talk about it.’

  We walked along the river. We held hands and I became all girly and forgot that I’d ever been worried and wished that there were a hundred barns on the riverbank. Alex stopped by a Dutch barge.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Good,’ he said and hopped on the boat.

  ‘Wait – I’m not doing breaking and entering.’

  ‘You won’t be,’ said Alex. ‘The boat belongs to Tom, my stepfather. This is where I live in the summer.’

  It smelled of river and was much bigger inside than I thought it would be, with a table in the middle. Though to be honest, Mr Jones, I only became aware of all that later because one kiss led to another and another.

  I asked Alex what had happened when he took Icarus back to the prison. He said the minicab had stopped near the gate, Icarus had got out, said goodbye and disappeared into the night.

  ‘Do you think he went into the prison?’ I asked.

  ‘Maybe.’

  I told him about the group of people who’d been affected by the painting of Icarus, and the visions they have to this day.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it: hologram horses and wheel-less carriages.’

  Alex said, ‘Jaz – have you ever heard of the UFO sightings in Rendlesham Forest?’

  ‘No. When was that, then?’

  ‘Years ago. The time that Rex Muller’s brother Luke died of meningitis and came back from the dead as Lazarus.’

  ‘The Lazarus who Icarus pushed off St Paul’s?’

  ‘The same.’

  I wasn’t liking the sound of this but still I said, ‘Tell me about the UFOs.’

  ‘Mum remembers it, she was about fifteen at the time,’ said Alex. ‘The story was put about that a military plane had crashed in the forest near Bentwaters airbase. But strange lights were seen in the sky and rumours spread about UFO sightings. There was talk of aliens being taken from the craft. Military guys from the airbase went into the forest and against all the rules of keeping schtum they spoke out about what they saw.’

  ‘Little green men?’ I said.

  ‘A UFO,’ said Alex. ‘And there were civilians who saw stuff too – a farmer in Eyke swore he saw a triangular spacecraft. And white oblong things falling from the sky. It was all denied and the Rendlesham Forest UFO Walk was set up so that the whole thing would look childish. But there are a lot of people around here who believe that something landed in the forest, something from another world. And many believe that the aliens are still here.’

  ‘Do you think we could go back to kissing and cuddIing?’ I said. ‘It feels safer.’

  REX MULLER

  Chapter Twelve

  You’re not, by any chance, about to write a book on Lazarus and Skye, or Icarus, are you, Mr Jones? Last time I went to Foyles there was a whole section on them. Completely crazy.

  You want to talk about the meaning of love? That’s original. But I don’t quite see the connection with Icarus. The painting is of him, you know, not Lazarus.

  I must apologise – I thought it would be best if we viewed the painting in the gallery. To be quite honest with you, no one has looked at it since it was shown at the Royal Academy. It’s been in the gallery’s warehouse ever since. There were postcards but even they caused problems. People complained of headaches. I never had any trouble when I was painting it.

  I do appreciate that you’ve signed all the papers, it’s just that if anything happens when you’re looking at the painting, it’s not my responsibility or the gallery’s. Is that understood?

  Perhaps you’re right – keep your sunglasses on. I’ll turn my back to it. I have no wish to see the painting again.

  Icarus was nineteen when I did the portrait. The eyes I painted last because light troubled him and he had to wear dark glasses.

  No, it was my suggestion that I paint him.

  Why? That’s a good question. I suppose because he reminded me of an eighteenth-century gentleman. He stood out, he didn’t fit in. Come to think of it, neither did Lazarus or Skye.

  Finished? Good. I know that you want to ask me a few questions but I would prefer to talk at my studio rather than here, if you don’t mind. It’s just round the corner.

  I’m bad at dates … I must have met Icarus about a year before Lazarus and Skye jumped off the dome of St Paul’s.

  I don’t know if they were in love. They were a strange couple, it’s true, but then after Lazarus – you know he was my brother? My brother Luke? – after he rose from the dead he wasn’t the same. But I never really believed this Lazarus was my brother.

  Here we are. I told you it wasn’t far. Let me find my keys … You’re right, it’s an amazing space. I moved in just after that Summer Exhibition. It was one of the worst times in my career – in my life. I thought what happened to all those people would mean that nobody would ever buy my paintings. Then I received a letter from a man I call Mr Invisible. He became my benefactor. He’s never wanted to be named. All I know about him is that he likes my wor
k. It’s due to him that I have this studio.

  It was Luke who was obsessed with UFOs and aliens. He had every book and magazine that he could lay his hands on. Yet after he was born again, so to speak, he never looked at them. To me, that was proof that Lazarus was not my brother, no matter what anyone said. And you see, Luke had blue eyes and Lazarus’s were black. Black as black. Black as Icarus’s.

  I thought it was Icarus you were interested in rather than Lazarus.

  No, I don’t mind talking about him, not now. It all seems to belong to another life. But I’m not good with words. Paint and colour are my language. Words can be read and misconstrued. In an image lies an undeniable truth.

  Please sit down.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When I was fifteen we lived in a village called Eyke, outside Woodbridge, in a tumbledown house that my father was always in the process of doing up. Both my parents were teachers. Luke was younger than me by four years. I had trouble at school; he was the clever one. He used to do my homework for me. I loved him. If anyone said or did anything against him, they would have me to contend with.

  A week before Christmas, Luke came home from school feeling unwell and two days later he was dead from meningitis. We had the tree, lights, decorations and Christmas cards full of cheer, but as for us – we’d run out of words. Words were inadequate, incapable of describing the grief we felt. The funeral was to be on 29th December.

  That Christmas Day, we sat round the dining table wearing paper hats, staring at the turkey slowly congealing in its own fat. None of us ate a thing. The lights of the Christmas tree flashed until my dad couldn’t stand it any more and unplugged them. We moved from the table to the sofa in the lounge and sat there, staring at the dead television. It stood next to the sideboard where the family photos were displayed. Blue-eyed Luke stared back at us. Time seemed to spin into infinity; it slipped past unnoticed until the room became dark and I could hear Mum softly crying. Dad took her up to bed.

  I couldn’t let all that wordless grief defeat me. I felt someone had to stay strong and, seeing how my parents were, I knew it wasn’t going to be them. It must have been quite late and the house was in darkness when I took a torch and went outside. I remember seeing the red lights coming out of the sky. I tried to tell Mum and Dad about them the next day but their sadness was too thick a crust.

  It was the night of the 27th that Mari, a friend from school, came to see me. Her father brought her over. He wanted to see if there was anything he could do. It was a bit awkward in the house with Mum and Dad stuck in a groove, so Mari and I went out to the garden. It was bitterly cold.

  Then the lights were there again, dancing across the field opposite. We stood watching them, both of us memerised. Something about those lights made me feel that Luke was close to me. At one point a cloud seemed to come over us, blocking out the lights, and everything became dark. I realised I was looking up at the bottom of a huge craft hovering above our garden. We thought it must be from the airbase. But as we stood there, white objects began falling from it. One landed not far from us. It looked like a stone – white, oblong. Mari picked it up and handed it to me. I expected it to be hot but it was blood warm and unlike anything I’d ever touched before or since. She collected two more.

  Mari said that perhaps the stone, that piece of unknown rock, could perform miracles. I was desperate for some comfort. That idea was easier to accept than the reality that Luke was dead. We were about to go back into the house when two military cars drove past. We slipped the stones into our pockets. Guilty treasures.

  Mum was in a terrible state the following day. She said that Luke had to have his teddy bear, he couldn’t be buried without it. She begged Dad to take it to the funeral parlour. She wasn’t able to see her baby like that again.

  Dad was just as fragile as her but nevertheless he did the manly thing. I said I’d go with him. We hardly spoke as we drove to Woodbridge. The funeral director greeted us and, to spare Dad, suggested that he put the teddy bear in the coffin himself.

  It was only then that I knew what I was going to do. It was stupid, really, clinging to a stone, hoping for a Christmas miracle. I went with the funeral director to where Luke was lying in his coffin.

  The funeral director asked if I was all right and I asked if I could have a moment by myself. He said he would be outside if I needed anything. When I saw Luke I knew he was dead, his body empty, his soul gone. I put the teddy in the coffin beside him. Under the teddy I put the stone. It was feather-light.

  When we arrived home, Mum was sitting at the kitchen table with a man in a black suit. Another man, also in a black suit, was standing. Mum looked bewildered. They asked us questions, many questions. Had we seen anything out of the ordinary last night? Had we found anything unusual in our garden? Dad said no, Mum said she hadn’t any idea what they were talking about. She said she hadn’t seen any lights. The only person they didn’t ask was me. Dad lost his temper and told them to get lost.

  Early on the morning of the funeral, Mum was in the kitchen making egg sandwiches when the phone rang. She took the call and fainted, and when Dad picked up the receiver it looked as if he might go the same way. I took the phone off him and listened to the funeral director. He sounded pretty shaken. My brother Luke had returned from the dead. Dad phoned for a minicab to take them into Woodbridge. It was the wisest thing to do, as he didn’t look as if he’d be safe behind a wheel. I stayed home, phoned people to tell them the funeral was off and waited. I ate a lot of egg sandwiches. By four it was dark, pitch black, and I lit the fire. At seven I called the police. They seemed surprised to hear from me and said that my parents had been taken with Luke to the military airbase and would be returning home soon.

  It didn’t make any sense.

  The doorbell rang. l opened it to find a reporter asking me how it felt to have my brother back, a Lazarus risen from the dead.

  I slammed the door and sat on the bottom step of the stairs, feeling guilty, feeling the stone had had something to do with the ‘miracle’.

  When I read what happened to that girl, Becky Burns, I was certain it was connected in some way to Lazarus and Skye. I never went forward to say so though, not after I had seen how the witnesses were treated at Icarus’s trial.

  I felt truly sorry for Jazmin Little. I went to see her. A lovely girl made into a scapegoat. I read that the lawyers pulled her statement to pieces. God knows how you carry on after that. They did the same to the poor man who had looked after Icarus in prison. I can’t remember his name.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I knew that something was very wrong when the lights went off in the house and the telephone didn’t work.

  Our neighbour, Deirdre, came over. She’d heard the news about Luke and asked if I would like to go home with her until my parents returned. Deirdre and her husband Pete lived over the road and when we walked in, Pete was listening to the local radio.

  ‘It’s all over the news,’ he said.

  ‘What is?’ I said. ‘You mean Luke?’

  ‘No,’ said Pete. ‘The UFO sightings in Rendlesham Forest. They’ve been denied, of course. The official story is that the lights people saw came from the lighthouse at Orford. Who’s going to believe that?’

  ‘Would you like something to eat, Rex?’ said Deirdre.

  ‘They’ve blocked off the lane,’ said Pete. ‘There’s a black van parked at the bottom of the road and men in white boiler suits all over Mr Earle’s farm. I spoke to him yesterday. He said that the UFO hovered over his field, good as landed in it. He saw it with his own two eyes. Then oblong things – white – fell from the sky. That’s what those men are looking for. It’s all going to be hushed up, you wait and see. They did it with Roswell, they’ll do it with Rendlesham.’

  Not for the first time that day I had the feeling that Luke’s resurrection had something to do with that white stone. Much later I became convinced that everything that happened to Luke afterwards was my fault. I should never have put t
hat stone in his coffin.

  I was helping Deirdre in the kitchen when the headlights of two cars shone straight through the window. They pulled up outside my gate. For a moment I thought they’d brought my parents and Luke home but Deirdre and me watched silently as men in white boiler suits went into our house.

  Mum, Dad and Luke returned the next day. I knew as soon as I went home that something wasn’t right. The place was spotless in a way it had never been before. It made me want to scream. Put it back, make it all go back to how it was before Luke died.

  My parents seemed disorientated, as if they had just woken from a deep sleep. Luke went to the fridge and opened and closed it, opened and closed it, opened and closed it. They all appeared to be in a trance. Although they looked like my mum, my dad, my brother, these three people were strangers to me. After that they had regular visits from a doctor – he wasn’t our local GP. I wondered afterwards if it was the pills he prescribed that affected them so badly.

  Mum had always been a great one for cuddles. She used to say that there was nothing that couldn’t be cured by a good cuddle. Dad was the same – they were both touchy-feely. But after Luke came back they seemed surprised by any physical display of affection. A quizzical look would come over their faces as if they were trying to fathom why I would want to touch them.

  Lazarus – I’ll refer to him as Lazarus – was the most robotic of all. He looked like Luke but that was as far as it went. He would sit for hours in a dark room staring at nothing, not speaking, not moving. He gave me the creeps. I think it was because of Lazarus that Mari drifted away from me.

  Lazarus went to school. Where Luke had been popular, Lazarus had no friends. I thought Mum and Dad might get better but they didn’t. The doctor insisted that they kept taking the drugs, and he sent other medical people to help with Lazarus, who seemed incapable of coping in the world.

  Yes, Mr Jones, you’re right. That’s enough for today.