‘I’m glad you felt you could, Shep. You’ll always be welcome here, you know that, the both of you, whatever the circumstances. Though I can’t see them ever being worse.’
He lifted the glass and swept the debris from the table into the cloth.
‘Let me replace this,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you could use it. I know I would. Just give me a minute.’
He caught the drips in the bowl of his free hand as he carried the sweepings behind the bar and through into the kitchen.
‘Come on,’ said Shep.
He helped Rebecca to her feet and wrapped her duffle around her, pulling the collar up to shield her, hoping Bill would know to stay in the back and give them enough time. He didn’t want the awkwardness to be increased with goodbyes.
Outside, beneath the rancour of the crows in the high spruce branches, he held Rebecca close until she had stopped trembling. Over her shoulder he saw Bill’s huge fists draw the curtains and was grateful for the privacy.
Seven years earlier
When Hamilton Walker ducked into the wigwam, he held a penlight torch in one hand, the beam of which was trained on the contents of the other. Robbie, Cameron and Jack leant in to see the fallen bird. A red ring and a grey metal ring were crimped on to one rigid leg. Both feet gripped an invisible perch. Its head rolled with the movement of Hamilton’s fingers.
‘It’s a bird,’ he said.
‘Is it asleep?’ said Cameron.
‘Dead.’
‘That’s a shame.’
‘But still pretty.’
‘Yes,’ said Hamilton, ‘it is.’
As Hamilton examined the bird, he was already working out how best to turn it into a drawing. He saw it as lines, strokes, finger smudges and cross-hatch shading.
‘What kind is it?’ asked Jack Todd.
‘I don’t know. We should ask Norrie, he’ll know.’
They left the wigwam like a funeral cortège.
Standing with the older boys, Norrie only turned around when Cameron pulled at the back of his jacket. The instant he saw the bird he was interested, bending down for a closer look.
‘Do you know what that is?’ said Hamilton.
‘It’s a snow bunting.’
‘Why? It isn’t white.’
‘They only go white in the summer. This is his winter plumage.’
The younger boys looked with new appreciation.
‘It can change colour?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did it die?’
‘I couldn’t say. Maybe it’s old, come to the end of its life cycle.’
‘It doesn’t look old.’
‘It’s pretty.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Is it the last one?’
‘I wouldn’t think so. Keep a watch out, they usually fly in flocks.’
‘What?’
‘Groups, big families.’
‘Is he a daddy?’
‘Probably.’
‘Will his children be sad?’
‘I don’t know if a bird can be sad.’
The boys didn’t know what to make of this statement. It stemmed their questions. With a quick ruffle of the nape feathers and one final look, Norrie turned back to the older boys’ conversation.
‘Let’s show Maggie,’ said Robbie.
‘Why?’ said Hamilton.
‘Because.’
Robbie and Cameron dragged Hamilton across the playground, the bird held to his chest between two possessive hands. Maggie was waiting for them when they arrived, a few steps away from the other girls and their dozing charge.
‘What’s the matter, boys?’
Robbie and Cameron poked Hamilton, urging him to show Maggie. Reluctantly he held the bird out.
‘Aagh, poor birdie.’
‘It’s a snow bunting,’ said Jack.
‘It’s dead,’ said Robbie.
‘Can we bury it?’ said Cameron.
Hamilton yanked the bird tight to his body.
‘I know you like it, Hammy,’ said Maggie, bending to his height and adopting her grown-up tone. ‘But I think that would be best, don’t you, before it starts to smell and all the beasties come out of it? Why don’t you bury it under the holly bush, so you can see the grave from where you sit?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Jack. ‘Just by your window, it couldn’t be closer.’
‘Okay.’
‘Nobody else touch it except Hammy,’ said Maggie. ‘It’s his bird. And you be sure to wash your hands as soon as school opens, and no biting your nails or scratching your face; there’ll be germs, okay?’
Hamilton nodded. Maggie went back to the girls. He followed the younger boys to the holly bush, regretting that they had made him show Maggie his bird.
They cleared the snow with their feet and used sticks to scratch a shallow burial place in the frozen ground. Hamilton put the bunting in the bottom, scraped soil over it and stood up. He pressed his palms together and closed his eyes, his head slightly forward as his lips moved in silent prayer. Robbie and Cameron followed suit, each looking at the other through half-opened eyes and with a slight sideways tilt of the head, not sure when it was over. Jack Todd left them to walk over to the older boys.
19
The final few hours of single track were still so familiar to Shep it was as if he’d only been away days, not years. Glancing at Rebecca as he drove, it struck him how few times they had made this journey together, in either direction. Usually he’d been alone, tired and leaving or tired and coming home. Initially he’d found peace amongst the valley floors and along loch shores, come to enjoy the hairpin bends over narrow bridges that spanned boiling streams of mountain meltwater, the loch-end collections of timber fishing huts and upturned boats commanding views right down the length of the waterways. He’d befriended the ruined houses and lone chimney stacks, stark against the skyline, set back from what had never been their main road and now only accessible by foot. Each lonely assembly of stones had become a welcome ticking-off of distance travelled, of fewer miles to go. The longer they lived in the village, the more he related to their isolation.
What little certainty there was about his homecomings had evaporated after the accident. Each time he got back, he would find Rebecca’s state of mind a little more unhinged, a little harder to repair. Their son took to vanishing for days or isolating himself within the house, as if he knew he was the cause of her upset. Shep spent his weekends balancing Rebecca’s eggshell sensitivities and trying to coax their boy out of his compulsion to hide. He said he felt safe when nobody could see him. It got so that Shep knew where he would be the moment he walked through the door. If he was in his room, Rebecca would be on the sofa with the fire on, in all weathers, reading or watching television; a regular evening. There would be food in the oven. Shep would hug Rebecca, give her flowers, or shockolates – so called because she always acted surprised – and say he was hungry. Then, while she busied in the kitchen, he would go up to sit on the landing and talk to his boy through the gap he allowed in the door.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Everything okay?’
The boy would nod.
‘You look lonely.’
‘I’m the only child.’
‘Are you going to come and join us?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
‘You sure you won’t come down? You must be hungry.’
‘No.’
‘I’d like to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ve been away all week.’
‘Can I come with you?’
‘What was that?’
‘On Monday.’
‘All week?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what about your mum? Do you think it’s right
I should leave her alone, without a man in the house?’
After a long pause, he said, ‘No.’
‘Good. Your mum needs a man in the house to look after her.’
‘I know.’
‘Shake on it.’
Through the gap a man’s hand would grip a youth’s hand in the space permitted by the security chain he had asked Shep to bring home from his travels. Shep had assumed he wanted to put it on the front door and saw it as a reaction to the way Rebecca had been treated. The boy wanted to protect his mother. He was disappointed and upset that weekend when he came home and found access to his son’s room now governed by his son.
‘You don’t have to be on your own.’
‘It’s easier.’
Shep had no comeback.
‘Dad?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Go downstairs.’
‘Why?’
‘You can still make her laugh. I like listening when you talk.’
‘Why don’t you come down and talk with us.’
‘Sorry’s not a conversation.’
His hand would slip out of Shep’s. The door would be closed. And again, Shep had no recourse.
When Shep told her their son liked being alone, it was all she needed to hear.
‘He’s nearly sixteen.’
‘He is.’
‘He can look after himself.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘So?’
‘Rebecca? What are you saying?’
‘We could leave.’
‘No, we couldn’t.’
‘I need to find peace, Shep.’
It was the start of the attrition.
On the days the boy had gone out, yet to return from wherever he went, Rebecca would be pacing the ground floor from curtain to curtain, arm’s-length twitching, her left hand worrying the rosary she had taken to carrying at all times. The anticipation of the boy’s return prevented relaxation, conversation or eating and frequently ended up causing arguments between Shep and Rebecca.
Shep preferred it when he was in, but it got to the point where the boy retreated to the point of not being there. The weekends became Shep and Rebecca again, and if their son wasn’t mentioned, Rebecca wouldn’t shake or shout or cry. Shep tried to accept this, but saw it as a failure on his part. Once, angry with her instability and the boy’s absence, he kicked the door through, rending the chain from the woodwork, and made him come downstairs, physically dragging him. They all sat around the table miserable while the food went cold until Shep said he could go.
It was the last time Shep forced him down. It was the last time Shep wanted him at the table.
‘I made him go.’
Shep was still considering the waste of three uneaten meals, the cost of meat, the absence of family.
‘Shep.’
‘What?’
‘I made him go, to his room. I hit him.’
‘What?’
‘He laughed at me.’
‘You hit him because he laughed at you?’
‘No. He laughed because I hit him. He won.’
‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘Don’t swear, Shep. Please.’
‘Speak plainly, Rebecca. I’m exhausted and in no mood.’
He paid heed as Rebecca gathered herself. He could tell it was an effort and already didn’t want to hear what was coming.
‘I’d showered,’ she said. ‘I was drying myself.’ She struggled to control her emotions.
‘What? Was he watching?’
‘I was drying my legs.’
She bent forward and swept her hands down to her ankles, suggesting the position she was in. She appeared on the verge of hysteria and Shep went to hold her, but she pushed him away. The rim of her eye patch was damp from tears.
Shep had underestimated what was to come.
‘He put his fingers in.’ She squirmed in her seat, repulsed. ‘I can still feel them.’ Her voice was shrill and pained and shamed.
‘Rebecca?’
‘He had it out, rubbing it.’
When Shep got to the bedroom, the window was open and his room was empty.
On Monday morning, Shep took Rebecca with him, leaving their son to fend for himself. On their return, they saw he hadn’t needed them. The house was clean. A meal was prepared. He wasn’t there. He didn’t come home.
The next weekend, he was sixteen. Rebecca thought she’d found her peace.
But she was suffering tonight. Although she had tried to go back to sleep, she had been writhing all over the seat. Her hand hurt. Blood had seeped through the bandage and stained the bindings across her palm. She was increasingly fretful the closer they got. Shep wanted her to find peace, even if he couldn’t. He felt guilty for being disappointed that the death had not been confirmed. That they both wished their only son dead brought no pride. Which was as well, Shep having often been a stranger to pride.
How Finnegan had acquired the photographs, Shep could only guess. Images Shep considered tame that made use of his physique and looks in a time of need. Maybe it was somebody in the village; more likely another priest. But Finnegan used the evidence of Shep’s only sortie into pornography to demonise him and his family. He undertook house visits to everyone who had lost a child. He used these visits to share the images. Scrolled in his hand, the tawdry pages took on the significance of religious text. They became proof, as Finnegan forged a direct link between Shep’s shrouded past and the boy’s strangeness, insisting his ‘condition’ was God’s comment on Shep’s carnality. He used grief to galvanise the injustice surrounding the boy’s survival.
Shep felt the change in the way people dealt with him. Initially he assumed their avoidance to be a manifestation of their pain. His drop in local sales was to be expected. Weeks later, when still nobody spoke to him or answered his calls, he knew something else was going on. Only when he cornered Nugget did he find out what was behind the silence; that he and Rebecca had ‘brought it upon themselves’.
Bursting into Finnegan’s house, he’d half throttled him as he warned him off Rebecca. His thumbprints could be seen on the priest’s windpipe the following Sunday, when Finnegan damned Rebecca for being the receptacle of Shep’s seed. Mary Magnal had walked Rebecca home. She kept apologising for Father Finnegan’s words. Shep had told her to go away without thanking her or inviting her in.
By now, Mary was the only parishioner who still tolerated Finnegan’s visits. Initially welcoming them as a chance to share a grief that might otherwise overwhelm, families had come to dread them. He refused to let them stop grieving. He obsessed over their loss. John Cutter had been the first to throw him out. Others had quickly followed suit. There was talk of him losing his mind. Mary Magnal, the only single mother in the village, was the first to conceive after the tragedy. Shep had pointed the finger at Finnegan.
20
Wittin searched for Deborah. He tried her lodgings. When she didn’t answer, he entered, calling her name. Her clothes from the night before were in the washing machine. The fresh smell of bathing lingered in the room. A damp towel hung from the bathroom door. Condensation ran down the window. A bronze pubic hair shone wet in the bottom of the bath. The thought of her naked and washing aroused him.
In the bedroom, the pictures of Jenny took his desire away. Perfume and hair products lay on the dresser. The idea of her cleaning up to go out and find another man drove him to comb the village once more for her. She hadn’t been seen in the tavern or any of the bars. She wasn’t on streets, down lanes, alleys or dead ends. Hours passed; night fell. He had looked everywhere he knew and was mightily pissed off with being dismissed, told he was wasting his time or that she might not want to be found.
The car that passed him that night on its way down Main Street stopped outside the hotel. He held back to obse
rve. After talking to Cutter, he assumed the couple that got out had to be Dog’s parents. Seconds later, they had been welcomed into the hotel and the street was empty. Tomorrow, John Cutter would lie to them and gauge their reactions. He would show them the cremated corpse and tell them it was their son. If they believed him, there would have been no murder. Cutter and the village would carry on as if legitimate justice had been done. Wittin retreated to his church.
The heating had been on all day. It was oppressive. Wittin drank two bottles of holy wine on the altar steps, tossing the first empty at an imagined congregation. It bounced off the faithless, rattled between pews and rolled out into the aisle. He pushed the second over in the early hours as he slumped onto the carpet, his head on Deborah Cutter’s pillow.
21
It was coming on to one in the morning when Shep parked the car. His shoulders were solid with tension and pain knifed through his muscles as his hands slid to the bottom of the wheel. He yawned as he looked across at Rebecca.
‘We’re here, baby.’
Rebecca stared into the middle distance, refusing to focus upon the village she had once craved and now despised.
‘It hasn’t changed,’ she said.
‘It’s night, you can’t tell.’
‘I can feel.’
He didn’t want to agree with her. It couldn’t be the same. Time had to have healed things, even slightly. What had driven them away couldn’t have survived this long. It had to be blunted at least; the edges rounded so that they didn’t catch on every element of daily life. It wasn’t the same. Shep thought it was worse but told himself he was just worn out.
‘Do you want to drive down to the house, see what’s left?’
‘What are we going to see?’
‘What do you want to see?’
‘I think I’d rather be blind than see any of this again.’
‘Please don’t say that, even in jest, Rebecca.’
The Wrong Child Page 13