A Wrinkle in the Skin

by John Christopher

  “Quite sure. I was taking a walk. I think the exercise does it good.”

  She said, “There are some lovely walks round here. I used to like walking very much. Now one feels guilty about not doing useful things, like cooking or hunting for food.”

  Matthew rested his other hand on hers for a moment. “Forget the useful things for a while. Show me one of your walks.”

  She said doubtfully, “I left the others putting the stuff away.”

  “They can manage for once. And it wont matter too much even if the rice pudding gets stacked with the pickles.”

  “No, you’re right. One can take the small details too seriously.”

  They walked companionably together, at ease with each other and enjoying the benison of the evening. Late sunlight slanted through the trees, turning the green to pale lemony gold. The air was soft and carried a haunting smell, a recollection of past summers. There was the buzz of insects, and birds calling-more, Matthew thought, than there had been since the breakdown. Not through natural increase, obviously. Had they taken refuge, perhaps, flying to lands farther from the center of the big shock, and were they now coming back to their old places? The mild tremors of the afternoon did not seem to have disturbed them. He spoke of this to April.

  She said, “To what lands? Do you think we were worse hit than most? Wouldn’t other countries have sent some help if that were so?”

  “Yes,” he said, “one comes back to that. Perhaps we were among the luckiest.”

  “It depends what you mean by lucky.” Her voice was harsh suddenly, but after a pause she went on more gently: “Lawrence found one of those long-range wireless sets not long after it happened. Transistorized and battery-powered, with three or four short-wave bands. It seemed to be in working order. When he switched it on there was a live sound—you know, crackle and hiss. But no signals. He spent a long time going over the wave bands, listening for a station. There was nothing at all.”

  “Do you still have the set?”

  “No. We left it there.” To his look of surprise, she added, “It didn’t seem to come into the category of genuinely useful articles.”

  “Even if the air was dead then, stations might reopen.”

  “The set would only last as long as the batteries.”

  “Something might have come on within that time. In some part of the world that had only been lightly hit.”

  “I suppose it might,” April said. There was a hedge, pink and white with dog roses and convolvulus, and she stopped to stare at it. “Would that do any good, do you think?”

  “One would know—that some sort of organized society existed somewhere.”

  She went on, without warning, and he had to walk quickly to catch her up. She said, “No one is coming to save us. That’s something that has to be understood. No airplanes dropping out of the sky with cargo. No great ships steaming in with meat and grain and bananas and avocados.” She turned to him, smiling unhappily. “Well, you know that, don’t you? There isn’t even a sea for them to sail on. We are here, and we have no help outside ourselves.”

  Matthew nodded. “Yes. I know that.”

  They walked in silence for a time. They were in open country, and they went across a field of long grass toward a small wood. Before they reached it, there was an oak. It was of great size and girth, with centuries of growth behind it. It was alive still, but leaning over at an acute angle; on the opposite side, some of its huge roots were clear of the ground and snapped off.

  Matthew said, “The winter gales will finish it off.”

  “Yes.”

  April went up to the tree and pressed herself for a moment against the bark. The gesture was incomprehensible, but sad. Matthew watched her, aware, as he had been that morning at the stream, of her beauty and her uniqueness. She turned to face him, and he wanted to say something, to explain a little of what he felt. But she spoke first.

  “The children loved it. It was fairly easy to climb, even when they were little, and there was so much of it, so many branches, and the chance to be hidden in leaves. We used to walk out here, and they would climb up and I would see them higher and higher—just glimpses of them now and then—and hear their voices calling to me. And, of course, my heart would be in my mouth for them, with fear of their falling, but I knew I must not call them down.”

  “Were they all boys?”

  April nodded. Her eyes were steady on his. “Five, and seven, and ten. That was Andy. Dan had wanted him to go away to school, but I prevented it. It was the only thing I remember our fighting about. We compromised, in the end. He was to stay at home till he was thirteen.”

  He would have thought there might be awkwardness in listening to her talking about them, but there was none. Her mind was open to his, in trust, and in her voice there was valediction as well as love for those she had lost.

  He said, ‘1 saw their graves.”

  “Yes. One goes through stages. There are bad moments still, but not so often, and so bad, I think. And one knows there can never be anything as bad as filling the earth in over them.” They began to walk back toward the grotto. April’s hand was near his, and Matthew took it; their fingers linked in warmth and reassurance. She talked about the foraging—they would have to go rather farther afield, she thought, to find anything worth while. Although she did not say so in words, he got the impression that she was ready, or almost ready, to accept the fact that it made no sense for them to go on living here.

  He said, keeping it in general terms, “At the moment, were scavenging on the past. That means there are better pickings where there have been more people. But more risk of the yobbos, of course, too. This is a kind of in-between territory, isn’t it? Isolated enough to make foraging difficult, but not far enough off the beaten track to be free from occasional visitors.” She shook her head. “They don’t matter.”

  “I doubt if Archie would agree.”

  “We were fools to have all our eggs in one basket, and then to hide the basket. I agree there. But we’ve cleared that up. There won’t be any cause for heroics if it happens again. Archie can take them to the well.”

  “It’s not only that, is it?”

  “What else?”

  “If we’d got back later …”

  “Well?”

  Her obtuseness surprised him. He said, “Two women, one of them at least very attractive. There’s more to it than the question of losing supplies.”

  She stopped and stared at him. There was incredulity in her face, and the beginnings of something else which he could not identify.

  She said, “You don’t think you arrived just in time to prevent our being raped, do you?”

  “I think that might well have happened.”

  She gave a short gasping laugh. “But didn’t? What made you think—? Because we didn’t talk about it? Or perhaps because they let us pull our trousers up? That was considerate, but by that time they had decided to amuse themselves with Archie.” He heard her voice grow more bitter as she spoke, and knew that part of the bitterness at least came from what she read in him: bewilderment, the shock of realization and, although he fought against it, something of revulsion. He was horrified, not only by what had happened but by the way she spoke of it, casually and brutally.

  Not meeting her eyes, he said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t know anything,” she said, “do you? But what did you expect happens nowadays when a gang of men find unguarded women?”

  He asked, unwillingly but compulsively, “It’s happened before?”

  “Look at me!” Her face was angry. “Do you want to know about the first time? The day after I found Lawrence, two days after I dug those graves. I saw them first. I called to them, because I thought the most important thing was that those who were left should make contact. I suppose I thought that if people had been changed they would be more human, not less. I couldn’t believe it when they got hold of me. I fought, of course. I hadn’t learned how stupid it was to resi
st. That was the only time it was really painful.”

  “And Lawrence?”

  “We’d split up, covering as much ground as possible. He was within earshot, but even though I fought I didn’t cry out. They were both strong and under thirty. He could only have got hurt, one way or another. When they left me, I crawled away and found him again. It creates quite a bond, you know, when a man comforts a woman after two other men have knocked her about and raped her.”

  Matthew said, ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  “Don’t I? Are you sure? The point is, it wasn’t just comfort. Lawrence could offer practical help. He had some of those foreign-body contraceptives in his surgery. We dug them out, and he fitted me. It’s a coil of stainless steel and nylon, with a funny tail. A terribly cute little gadget. And he fitted Sybil and Cathie when they joined up with us.”

  He was trying not to show anything, but she was watching him closely.

  She said, “Yes, Cathiel Which was just as well, because it happened to her a couple of days later. There were eight that time, and two of them couldn’t wait for me and Sybil to be free. That was one of the times the men had to watch. The good thing about the ones you saw was that they left Cathie alone. Three of them had me, and the other two Sybil. I’m generally popular. One of them took me with him once, as far as Southampton. I made the mistake of talking, and he liked my accent. I got away in the night, and came back here.”

  Matthew said, “If it helps …”

  “All this,” she said, “it isn’t even the beginning. I haven’t told you anything. That man I kicked—the one who was badly wounded—you remember?”

  Matthew nodded. “Yes.”

  “He spat in my face while he was in me. Do you think you have the remotest idea how that makes you feel—about yourself, and about men?”

  “No. I know I haven’t.”

  “There have been five times all together. I don’t know how many men—sometimes the same man more than once. The secret is to cooperate because then it’s over quicker and less … less hideous. As an extra precaution we have sponges as well as the gadgets. Its not a great deal worse than going to a dentist used to be, if you have the right mental attitude, and the odds are pretty high against conception. But there’s always the possibility, of course. Have you thought what that would be like, Matthew? Pregnant, in these conditions, by a beast on two legs who’s used you the way a dog uses a bitch? And the other little possibility—of V.D.? The odds are not so high there. So far we’ve been lucky. At least, I think we have. It’s too early to know about the latest episode.”

  He felt he must stem the flow of this wretchedness and misery which was pouring from her. He put his hand on hers, holding her, feeling the bone under the flesh. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I ought to have done. It was stupid of me.”

  She turned away. “Not that. Your look when you realized.” “It’s happened. Bad things come to an end, as well as good. You’ll forget about it in time. What you do counts, not what’s done to you.”

  She stared at him, her face full of pain. “You still don’t know anything. I had one man, my husband. I was proud of my body, because he loved it. Now … Lawrence wanted me, so I let him take me. It didn’t mean as much as being raped, but it meant as little. I was sorry for him, and I despised him.” Matthew said, “That was generous.”

  “Generous! My God! And Charley? A boy only a few years older than my son was. And knowing it was the sight of other men using me that had excited him? Do you call contempt generous?”

  He was silent. His hand still held hers, and as though suddenly aware of this, she took it from him. She said, her voice lower but harsh, “Sex and motherhood are the centers of being a woman. Now they mean nothing but disgust and fear.

  Little Archie … no, he hasn’t had me, but only because he hasn’t asked.” She glanced at him, and away. “I’d learned fear of most men, contempt for all of them. Then, when I was washing at the pool, I looked up and saw you watching me. And I had the insane idea that there might still be strength and goodness—in a man, between man and woman. It was my illusion, and not your fault.”

  “I don’t think it is an illusion.”

  She ignored the remark. “I’m sorry about the outburst. You listened very patiently, Matthew.”

  The anger and bitterness had gone, but he could almost have wished them back. She was a long way away.

  “Listen,” he said. He sought her hand, but she moved from him. “Surely you don’t fear me?”

  “No.” She sounded tired. “I don’t fear you. But I despise you. I despise you as a man. As a person, I think I envy you. What I said when I was bandaging your ankle—I didn’t realize how true it was. Nothing has changed for you except the scenery. For the rest of us it was God bringing our world crashing down about our ears, but for you it was—what? An epic in Cinemascope, Stereosound and 3-D. Jane is still alive, and you can amble your way toward her through the ruins. Do you know what? I think you’ll find her. And she’ll be dressed in white silk and orange blossoms, and it will be the morning of her wedding to a clean young man with wonderful manners, and you’ll be just in time to give her away.”

  He said, “I want to stay here.”

  April shook her head. “You can’t do that. I can tolerate the others, but not you.”

  “In time, you could.”

  “No. You remind me of everything that’s finished. I would have to go myself, if you stayed. I don’t think you would force me into that.”

  There was a response, if he could find it, which would break through the meaningless tyranny of words, which would restore the early morning moment of recognition. But even if he found it, he wondered, could he afford what it would cost?

  April walked away from him, toward the garden and the grotto. After a time he followed her, but he did not try to catch her up.

  14

  IT WAS WISER, Matthew decided, not to risk the Southampton gangs. He thought of going north at first, until the better idea occurred to him of heading southeast, toward the coast. By following the line of the tide, he could keep his bearings even without the sun; and the morning had started cloudy.

  Lawrence had pressed him to take food from their store, but he had refused. For his part, he had offered them the gun, with the same result. The atmosphere was strained. Their reactions, when they realized he was serious about leaving, had been a mixture of regret and resentment—all except April’s; if she showed anything beyond her usual serenity, it was indifference.

  When Lawrence, at the beginning, started to remonstrate with Matthew, she cut him short. “He’s made up his mind, Lawrence.”

  “But the whole thing is lunatic.”

  “Leave it at that.”

  After a pause Lawrence said, “And Billy?”

  Matthew said, “I think it would be better for him to stay with you, if you’re willing to have him.”

  April said, “Of course we’ll have him.”

  Billy said, “No. I want to go with you, Mr. Cotter.”

  Matthew said, “You should stay, Billy.”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t want to.”

  Lawrence said, “I thought you were going to let me teach you medicine, Billy. What I remember of it, at any rate.”

  The boy looked agonized and embarrassed. He started to speak but stumbled over the words, and was silent.

  April said, “He will be as safe with Matthew as he will with us.” There was a hint of tiredness in her voice. “Perhaps safer. There would be no point in his staying here against his will.” That was the end of the discussion. They packed their things and set off. At first Billy talked a good deal, with forced cheerfulness, but Matthew made little response and eventually he grew quiet. They came to the place where they had met April—a figure ran scurrying away from the ruins as they approached—and crossed the road, making their way across country.

  Matthew found his mind shying away from the thought of April.
It was impossible to dissociate her from her rejection the previous evening; her bitterness and contempt became, in retrospect, the more harsh. In part he was aware that there was more to it than this—that he was, and had been, revolted by what she had put into words. He had found himself, afterwards, unable to look at Charley without disgust. But thinking about his own reaction was as unpleasant as contemplating the things that had happened to her and that she had done.

  He thought instead of Jane. The idea that she had survived had begun to dominate him again; he pictured the house, its isolation and the stoutness of its timbers. She would be there, waiting because she knew he would come to her eventually. There had been the time, he remembered, when she was only five and they had gone up to Hampstead Heath for the fair, and somehow he had got separated from her and lost her. He had hunted for over an hour through the crowds and had finally found her, anxious but dry-eyed, on the steps of the roundabout. She had told him that she had known he would come for her; that was why she had not minded being alone.

  He fleshed out the bones of his belief with other recollections. The house had a large cellar, and Mary had always kept good stocks of food, partly, he thought, because of her childhood in the war when her mother had been a great hoarder of rations, but ostensibly because of the risk they ran every winter of being cut off by snowdrifts. It had happened to them twice since they had been in the house, the second time for nearly a week. She would have stayed at the house, he decided, and there was nothing near it that was likely to attract the yobbos.

  Billy was saying something which he had missed.

  He said, “What was that, Billy?”

  “Someone’s been camping.” He pointed. “Over there.”

  There were signs of occupancy, and the remains of a fire. If there were any fuel, and it could be coaxed into life, they could stop and have their midday meal here, he decided. They went over to investigate. The fire was cold and dead. The remains of the feast lay near it—chicken bones, a chewed carcass, feathers. Farther on, something gleamed in the grass. Matthew picked it up. It was a camera, a Pentax. It seemed to be undamaged. Just hold it in your hands, he thought. But what had made somebody take it in the first place?