by Sarah Moss
He takes his tea over to the French windows, carefully going round the front of Justine and her work laptop. The first day they were here, he watched the sunset at just about this time. It goes down behind the mountains of course, you’d need to be over on the west coast for the whole thing, but the clouds went mad shades of neon pink and the sky was a deeper and deeper blue, almost unnatural colours, and later when he got up to pee he noticed the stars and went out on the deck to look, and it was just him standing there under the night sky with more stars than he’d ever seen in his life and the water reflecting a quarter-moon and he thought, bloody hell, this is me, then, and this is space, kind of wanted to go down to the beach but it was proper cold and him in his pants and T-shirt, plus it felt a bit funny, woods in the dark, so he just stood there and watched the stars until the cold got to him.
There’s no sunset today. Rain runs down the windows and drips from the roof, and in the window there’s the reflection of Justine’s laptop hanging in a wet tree. It’s all going black and white; when Steve was little he thought all the colours left at night, and he still doesn’t really see that that’s not true. How does anyone know there are colours in the dark, it’s not as if you can see them. There are patches of yellow light coming from most of the other cabins, and two doors along he can just see the Romanians, their windows open despite the weather and someone standing in the open door, smoking. Unless they own that cabin, and he very much doubts they do, there’s no smoking allowed here and he’d have thought any idiot could see why smoking in a wooden cabin in a wood ten miles up a single-track road was a bad idea, even if you’re not bothered about lung cancer and heart disease and all that. And what about the little girl, passive smoking? He’s old enough to remember all that, what it was like to be a kid in the back of a car with someone puffing away in the front, and also the way your clothes and hair used to stink after getting the bus with all the smokers in the back seat, as if that made any difference. He might not run all the time, might like the odd night down the pub and sugar in his tea, but at least Steve knows better than that. Never had a cigarette in his life, actually; after watching his mum nurse his grandad he wasn’t that stupid, and if he ever catches Noah or Eddie at it he’ll bloody murder them.
Why’s the daft cow standing in the door like that, just to make sure no one can miss a single yell and thud of her so-called music? Must be catching her death of cold and getting wet into the bargain, and with those windows open there’ll be rain getting onto the carpets. If he knew who owned the cabin, he’d be on the phone right now. Well, not right now, obviously, you can’t call from here, but he’d go up the road or out on the jetty even to let them know what’s going on, never mind the weather. It’s not right, to rent someone’s cabin that they’ve worked and saved for and then stink it out with cigarettes and ruin the carpet with rain and God knows what else they’ll be up to in there, filthy it is, probably, people like that. He drinks some tea. Maybe he will go round there. Who else is going to deal with it, the old bloke with the doddery wife? There’s the chap two doors along with the teenage son who was out in his kayak earlier, maybe Steve will call on him and they can go round together. Show the Bulgarians they’re pissing off everyone, not just one grumpy bloke. That lad could come too, he’s tall, towers over his dad. If they don’t turn that noise down in the next five minutes, Steve’s going to put his coat on.
Justine’s still staring at her laptop. God knows what’s going on there now, pervy shit he doesn’t even want to think about, she’s probably got that red dress off by now and maybe it’s her turn to kneel on her polished kitchen floor between the polished shoes of the man in the suit, not that that would be doing it for Justine, she’s never been— The Romanian woman’s taking out her phone now, he can see her face in its blue glow. Classy, fag in one hand, phone in the other. You can kind of see her cleavage too, and bits of a dark bra showing over her top. She won’t be calling anyone, that’s for sure, couldn’t make herself heard if she tried, but she’s not, just fiddling with it, swiping and tapping, messaging her dealer he’d think if they weren’t all the way out here. Wait, he thinks, how come she has reception? What’s she doing, must be on a different network but everyone has to go up the road or onto the jetty for two bars, whoever they’re with. Unless there’s some Romanian provider with better coverage, but that doesn’t make any sense, certainly not how it used to work, before. He can see her smiling, fat cow, and dark hair falling into those hoiked-up tits. Justine had long hair when they met and for years afterwards, until she got it all cut off so it was quicker to wash after running, didn’t even tell him she was going to do it. It’s her hair, of course, he knows that, but you’d think she might care what her husband likes. He’d ask her, if he wanted to grow a beard or shave his head or something. Not that he’s the type and that’s one thing at least, he’s not going bald yet, or barely, not like his dad who had this terrible comb-over that used to lift in a strong wind. Steve knows how to face facts better than that.
Headlights sweep the trees, make him jump. Of course he wouldn’t have heard an engine, would he, they could probably be breaking the sound barrier overhead and no one would notice. That used to happen up on the moors near home, before, when there were the Air Force bases up to the north, used to be exciting, the way the fighter jets would rip the sky and you’d look up and they’d be ninety degrees ahead of where you heard them. He’d have liked to go in one of those. It’s big, whatever it is, and here it comes, lurching and swaying, looks like one of those new Sasquatch Adventurers, white and shiny as ice and bloody hell it’s only stopping at the fucking Romanians’ place. Justine, he says, would you just come and look at this, but of course she doesn’t respond. There’s other music coming from the car as soon as they open the doors, two sets of drums now banging against each other, two voices howling. The engine stops and people get out, two men from the front and from the back two women in white trainers you can see in the dark and tight little pale dresses, and the men go round and get what look like boxes of beer out of the boot while the fat cow with the phone comes right out into the rain to hug the women and then the little girl appears in the doorway and all the time the music’s howling and thudding. Fucking hell, Steve thinks, we’re going to need a whole bloody army now.
drums
The sound waves pulse like the rings around a thrown stone, spreading out across the rainy night.
Music crosses raindrops, the air full of noises and riddled with movement. Sound waves travel through the cabin’s open door and through the gaps in the windows, over the waterlogged earth, into all the ears in the woodland. The fox cubs feel it through the earth of their den, the bats in their rafters. In a nest of bracken up on the hillside, the doe pricks her ears towards a running beat too heavy for wolves. The anthill pulses. Damp trees absorb the higher frequencies, swallow the energy into the wetness and wood-flesh, so it is the bass that penetrates your head and drums on the drums inside.
noise in his body
MUM AND DAD don’t like it when he gets out of bed after they’ve turned off the light, but Jack’s been lying here awake for hours, all the time it was still light, watching darkness seep up the walls. They must know he can’t sleep through that noise and anyway he’s thirsty, he needs a drink of water. He can feel the drumming in his bed, coming through the mattress into his bones, and the singer, the shouter, coming over the air through the glass and into his ears, deep into his head. They’re playing on him, he thinks, they’re making a noise inside his body and he can’t stop them. He can’t get away, and he’s out of bed, out of the room. It’s dark in the hall, the lino cold on his feet and the whole floor shuddering to the music’s beat. Dad, he says, Dad. There’s a line of yellow light under the door to the main room. In here, says Dad, and his voice makes a little space in the noise. What’s up, says Dad, can’t sleep? He’s sitting in one of the big chairs, a green bottle of beer at his side, and he’s just paused something on the TV, two men talking over an open ca
r door somewhere grey and rainy. Jack eyes him. Usually you need a reason to be out of bed, toilet’s best, no one can object. It’s so loud, he says. Yeah, says Dad, your mum’s been complaining too. Lola asleep? Jack shrugs. We’ve not been talking, he says. Even when they’re sharing a bedroom on holiday, they’re supposed to lie quietly and go to sleep when Dad turns out the light. They might not need the rest but Mum does.
The song ends and they both pause like the men on the television. The music starts again, a gathering of notes before the violence of the bass.
Dad grunts as he stands up. Go pee, he says, have a drink of water and then go back to your bed. I’ll deal with this, I’ll just check on Lola first.
Jack follows Dad down the hall and hears Lola’s voice as he goes into the bathroom, which is full of steam that smells like Grandad’s roses in summer, too much. Mum must have just had a bath. He manages a bit of pee, holding the seat up because it doesn’t stay, washes his hands with the weird-smelling soap they have here and then scoops a few mouthfuls of soapy-tasting water. The music pounds through the cabin. When he comes out, Mum’s standing there in her dressing gown and Lola’s out of bed too, talking to Dad by the door. Isn’t it horrible, says Mum, they’ve no consideration, all last night was bad enough but now again, we can’t stay here if we’re never to get any sleep, I can’t bear it and this was meant to be our holiday. All that money. Ian, I’m so tired. I’ll sort it, Dad says, go to bed love, you’ll get your rest. Mum’s always tired. Sometimes she’s so tired she cries. Please, Lola says, let me come too, maybe if they see you have a little girl they’ll be nicer. Dad looks at Lola. He looks out of the window. There are more of them, he says, another car just arrived. All right then. But the moment I tell you to come back here, you do it, understood? She nods. Lola always gets Dad to do what she wants. Lola always does what Dad tells her, at least while he’s watching. Ian, says Mum, are you sure? Dad’s fastening his coat. Keep things civil, he says, I’ll ask nicely first, I’m not going looking for trouble, and if not she’ll be back here in ten seconds. You can watch her all the way. We can’t have this, look at the state of you. Put your coat on, Lola.
Jack watches. Just little girls, then. Not that he wants to go, not if there’s going to be shouting. Lola’s got something in her coat pocket, something she’s touching. She’s biting on a small smile. Maybe one of the stones from the beach. He doesn’t like remembering that, the girl. Violetta. Anyway someone needs to stay with Mum, who’s looking as if she might cry again. You have to give her a hug and bring her tissues and if she can’t stop, make her a cup of tea. Sometimes it goes on for a long time. Some days she just stays in bed and cries until Dad comes home and Jack has to make eggs or beans on toast for tea. He’s good at frying eggs now, doesn’t break the yolks. But Dad and Lola aren’t going to be a long time. He looks out of the window and sees the dad from the cabin below looking out of his window, and over the way the little kids’ mum standing on her deck. Everyone’s watching, he says.
He can feel the beat in his feet, coming through the floor. Above the dance music, a bird calls. Not an owl, Jack thinks, a daytime bird. Its nest must be shaking like the cabins. I’m so tired, it’s saying, I can’t stay here if there’s no rest. What’s Dad going to say to them, to the Shit-chenkos? Bloody typical, Dad says, look out there, faces in half the windows and everyone watching and waiting for someone else to say something. The state of this country. Come on, Lola, we’ll show them how you handle yourself. Lola smiles up at Dad and takes his hand.
Rain blows in when Dad opens the door and Mum says, oh, it’s so cold, and she’ll get wet, she’s only wearing her pyjamas under that coat, but the door’s closed before she’s finished. You can’t really listen to Mum, is the problem, or everything turns into a worry, but then she worries because nobody’s listening to her. Jack thinks about what Dad would say to her, or at least what Dad would say on a good day. It’s only a step, he says, Lola won’t melt and she’ll soon warm up when she’s back in bed. I suppose so, says Mum, are they going in?
Jack goes right up to the window and cups his hands around his face to shut out the reflection of the kitchen light and Mum’s un-made-up face over her dressing gown. They’re standing at the door talking, he says, and his breath mists the window. A line of light opens across the grass, catching raindrops in flight, and he sees the neighbouring dad coming up the path. He opens his mouth to tell Mum and closes it again; some things don’t alarm her but if you don’t tell her anything you don’t have to worry about which ones they are. He can feel his stomach twisting again, the ache starting up. The other dad isn’t going fast, but Dad and Lola are still on the Shit-chenkos’ deck when he comes up behind them. Dad’s not shouting, Jack’s pretty sure, even though he can see only his back, and Lola’s standing a bit behind with her toes turned out. Second position; Lola’s good at ballet. The Shit-chenko woman steps back into the cabin and a man comes out with two bottles dangling from between his fingers and nods and hands one to Dad and one to the other dad, and then all of them go inside.
The music plays on and Jack looks at the place on the doorstep where they were.
What’s happening, says Mum, why is it still so loud? She seems to have got stuck in the doorway from the hall, as if she’s too scared of the noise to come any closer. It reminds Jack of when you try to feed a squirrel in the park and you and the squirrel both know it wants the bread but you also both know it doesn’t trust you enough to take the crust out of your hand. They’ve all gone in, he says, Dad’s having a beer, why don’t you go back to bed, I’m sure they’ll turn it down soon. Oh, she says, I don’t know, why can’t he just come back here, what about Lola? She went in too, says Jack, and the dad from two doors down, you know, the one with the little boys, red car. Mum nods. The mum’s the skinny woman who runs, she says, out there on her own, she’s brave, I’ll give her that. Oh, give over, Dad would say, everyone’s bloody brave compared to you. Yes, Jack says, him. Oh, says Mum.
The music plays on. Jack thinks he’s almost starting to like it, that it will be weird when it finishes, like when you get out of a car after a long journey and after the first few steps you realise that you miss hearing the engine, feeling it in your bones. He leans against the wall and feels the drums along his back. He lets his head bob a bit, to the beat. Maybe Lola’s dancing in there, doing one of her routines. With the Shit-chenkos.
I’m so tired, Mum says again. Are they coming out yet? Jack shakes his head. Go lie down, Mum, he says. I’ll keep watching and I’ll tell you if anything happens. Mum sags. All right, she says, thanks love. You’ll call me if you need anything? Jack can’t imagine that he’ll need anything or that he’d call her if he did. Yeah, course, he says.
Once her footsteps have shuffled down the hall, he turns off the light, holding the switch down so it doesn’t click. Darkness expands around him, the hollows and corners spilling over, and he stands still, waits for the room to reassemble itself as his eyes adapt. A little red light on the fridge he hadn’t noticed before is staring at him; he turns his back to it but it’s still there. It’s easier to see out of the window without the reflection. Next door’s door stays closed but through the window he can see a woman reaching up to put her arms around a man’s neck, a bottle still in one hand, and their bodies moving together. The woman dances away from the man, arms raised, bottom twitching from side to side, still waving that bottle, and back so the two shapes merge again. Jack glances round and then tries it himself, hands over his head, hips moving, here beside the wet coats on their hooks and the scratched steel draining board. He moves his head, his shoulders. It feels good. The music goes through his bones, fills his head and pulses away the pain in his belly. He dances back to the window, where he sees the young couple who never open the curtains before lunchtime if you know what I mean, barely left the park all week, coming hand in hand by the light of the woman’s phone towards Violetta’s cabin. The man’s carrying a bottle of wine. Jack stops dancing. They’re all
going, he thinks, everyone’s going to the party, and for a moment he imagines what would happen if he said, Mum, come on, let’s go over there too, let’s take Dad’s whisky and go dancing.
The couple who don’t open their curtains knock at the door, but of course no one can hear them so the woman just opens it, leans in, and one of the men from the car comes and takes the bottle, kisses her cheek and lets them both in. He can hear laughing and shouting as well as the music. He’s never been to a party for grown-ups. What can Dad be doing there, he doesn’t really laugh and you can’t imagine him dancing. Dad wouldn’t like it if Jack turned up, not that you can leave Mum on her own. He raises his arms again, dances back across the room to his own ghostly reflection in the French windows, nods and wiggles at himself. He bends back and shimmies his hips, comes back up, jumps and spins, pumps his arms.
And the dancing around the room, he’ll think later, later and often, was why he didn’t see the flames sooner. The dancing was why he didn’t notice when the laughing stopped and the shouting sounded different.
The dancing was why by the time he’d smelt the smoke and gone to look and rushed back to pull the fire extinguisher from its holder on the wall – surprisingly difficult, that – and run barefoot over the wet grass and checked the diagram by the flickering light already coming from the Shit-chenkos’ window and pulled the part you pull and pushed the part you push, it was too late.