And Grandad’s workshop being right next to it meant I could get all the gear I might need.
The Time. Sunrise. JC was nailed up at 9 a.m. I couldn’t wait till then because at that time there would be people around who would stop me. Failing that, sunrise seemed appropriate. New day, new way, etc. Not that I worked it out beforehand. Only decided to do the crucifiction experiment when I was on the common with Michelle. Though—hidden lives—the idea must have been rumbling about in the back of my mind like a brainstorm on the brew all the day before, if not longer.
The Cross. Easy again. Two or three weeks ago I saw a piece of metal from the chassis of an old lorry lying on the dump. It was made of two pieces welded together in a T-shape that reminded me of the crux commissa. I soon found it again that morning.
The Method. In Grandad’s workshop there was a big roll of heavy-duty clear polythene sheeting. He used it to cover anything he wanted to keep dust or rain off. Also for making temporary cloches and cold frames for his garden. I cut five strips off it, each a metre long by ten cm. wide. I also looked out a six-metre length of strong rope, and cut two twenty-metre lengths of window sashcord.
I took this stuff out to the dump and laid it on the ground directly under the arm of the old mobile crane Fred Bates uses to shift wrecked cars and heavier scrap. Then I dragged the chassis-cross to the same place.
I tied the rope to the cross where the metal pieces were joined and made a noose at the other end. The strips of polythene I tied round the bars, two on each arm and one on the upright, leaving them loose enough so that I’d be able to slip my hands through the ones on the crosspiece and my feet through the other. I reckoned these would secure me to the cross while leaving my hands free.
Next I had to fix the crane. I’ve often helped Fred use it. When I was a kid, the crane seemed like a great big toy and Fred used to let me sit in the cab with him and work the levers. When I got old enough he started paying me pocket-money for working on the dump at weekends. Fred’s a kindly, bumbling old guy who has no children of his own, which is maybe why he likes having me around. Grandad often tells him off for spoiling me but I suspect he’s jealous. He and Fred have known each other since their infant school days and have a mock-insulting kind of relationship, full of jokes no one else can understand and that neither of them ever do more than half-smile at. The point is, though, that I know how the crane works and I know where Fred keeps a spare ignition key hidden in case he loses the one he carries with him.
So as soon as the cross was ready I took the two lengths of sashcord, found the key, and climbed into the cab. There I attached one length of cord to the lever that raises the hook and the other cord to the lever that lowers it. Then I ran the cords through the cab window to the point on the cross where my hands would be.
That done, I hunted out a stub of heavy metal about the size of a brick and took it back to the cab.
Everything was now ready for a trial run. I started the engine and tested the arrangement of the remote control cords. This meant first finding how to jam the stub of metal against the accelerator pedal in such a position that the accelerator maintained just the right revs to raise the cross. If there aren’t enough revs for the weight to be raised, the engine stalls; if there are too many, it raises the load too fast and can jam the hook at the end of the crane’s arm. As I couldn’t find the right revs by trial and error, I had to judge them from experience.
When I’d done that I had to make sure it was possible to work the up and down levers by pulling on the sashcords. The levers have quirks. You have to lift and shift, rather like a motorcar gear for reverse. To achieve this I had to rig the cords round struts in the cab before a pull from outside of the cab made them function properly. I’d anticipated this, and had been thinking out the solution while getting everything else ready. So I didn’t take long to get it right. Except that I discovered I only had one chance with each lever. If anything went wrong once I was in the air, I’d had it: I’d be stuck.
If I’d let myself think about it, I might have given up right then. But I didn’t. The grey summer dawn was lightening now every minute. The sun would be up soon and so would people. No time for pondering. If I was going to do it, it had to be done at once or I’d be too late. And I certainly wasn’t going to give up.
Besides, I felt a weird kind of excitement. From the moment Michelle had left me, fleeing on my bike, I’d worked with steadily increasing speed and passion. Everything I did went perfectly, as if I knew exactly what I was doing because I’d practised many times. And by the time I’d rigged the crane I was sweating and breathing hard, almost as I had been earlier when I arrived on the common. Only, instead of feeling utterly whacked, I was elated, surging with energy. I can remember thinking, I am as one possessed, and laughing out loud.
Now, two days later, when in my memory I see myself scurrying about Fred’s dump in the early morning light, I know something I was not aware of at the time: a sensation of being utterly absorbed, of being wholly myself and yet also more than myself, a part of something inevitable and beyond that moment. I think what I felt must have been what people mean when they talk of fate and of meeting their destiny. That is why now I feel no guilt or shame or regret, the way some people (everybody?) think I should. I know it was a ridiculous thing to do, dangerous and stupid really, but when I think of it, I find myself smiling.
The cross prepared, the crane revving, its hook lowered and ready with the noosed rope attached. All that was left was for me to slip my arms and legs into their polythene bindings, take hold of the control cords, and pull the up lever.
I took my shoes off but found that my jeans were snagging on the polythene strip. So I pulled them off; decided to make a proper job of it, and pulled off my T-shirt as well, which was wet through for the second time and uncomfortable anyway. That left me in my underpants.
Without encumbrance of clothes my legs and arms fitted easily into their straps. I took hold of the ends of the cords, settled myself as best I could on the bars of my cold metal bed and, taking a deep breath, tugged the up cord.
Which is when things went slightly wrong.
†
‘This better not be another stunt,’ Tom said as they approached the dump. He had driven down from the common in sullen silence.
There’s nothing so funny, Michelle was thinking, as a randy boy when he’s thwarted. Nor so dangerous, sometimes, neither. She performed to herself her mother’s frequent refrain: Men, they’re all beasts!
‘Pull up just there.’ She pointed ahead at Arthur Green’s workshop.
Before she went in she banged at the rattly door, calling: ‘Mr Green, hello. It’s me, Michelle.’ But Tom swept her inside on the bow of his temper before there was time for reply.
The place was gloomy and cavernous, lit only from skylights. But everything was neatly kept and arranged. A carpenter’s bench, ancient in use but as cared for as front room furniture; tools hung and laid out in meticulous order; a circular saw, a band saw, a planing machine, all giving sharp metallic winks; even the sawdust on the floor looked as if scattered by order rather than neglect. One corner was occupied by stacked piles of wood in various cuts and sizes, a library of timber. Another, the farthest corner, half hidden by large sheets of blockboard standing on end and leaning against a main rafter, was an inner sanctum, a den where a naked light bulb dangled from the roof, shining above an old kitchen table, at which sat Arthur Green, his knotted hands curled round a large mug, his head bent over a newspaper spread in front of him.
He turned to peer at Michelle and Tom standing just inside the door but did not rise.
‘Now then,’ he called.
‘I’ve brought him,’ Michelle called back.
‘So I see.’
Tom made his way through the workshop, Michelle following slowly like an indulgent mum behind an over-eager child. He stopped by the partitioning boards, where he could see all of the den—its chipped sink and water-blackened draining board, its
long-out-of-date oven, its couple of battered armchairs angled towards a wood-burning stove, presently dead. But other than the man at the table, nobody.
Michelle arrived at his side; Tom glanced and saw her undisguised pleasure at his puzzlement.
‘So where is he?’ Tom said. ‘I thought he was here.’
‘Aye, well he’s not, is he?’ Arthur Green said. ‘He’s gone.’
‘I talked to you this morning,’ Tom said. ‘Out there.’
‘You did.’
‘You said you knew nothing.’
‘No, no! I said there was plenty of gossip.’
Michelle couldn’t help chipping in, ‘Mr Green is Nik’s grandad.’
Tom’s face betrayed that he felt like kicking himself.
‘Where is he?’ he demanded.
Arthur Green chuckled. ‘He is risen, he is not here.’
Tom said, ‘This is no joke, Mr Green. It’s a police matter.’
‘You’re right, lad,’ Arthur Green said. ‘It’s no joke, and it’s nothing to do with the police neither.’
‘Your grandson is crucified and you don’t think it has anything to do with the police?’
‘Why should it?’
‘Because it’s a criminal offence. GBH at least. Don’t you want the people responsible to be caught?’
Arthur Green turned to Michelle. ‘You didn’t tell him?’
Michelle shook her head. ‘Didn’t think he’d believe me.’
Tom said, ‘Believe what?’
Arthur Green pushed his mug away, sat back in his chair, placed his work-warped hands flat on the table in front of him and said, ‘He crucified himself.’
INTERCUT: The scene at the dump. The cross lying on the ground with Nik strapped to it. He pulls the sashcord. The crane begins to wind in. The rope connecting hook to cross takes the strain. The cross begins to rise, pivoting on its foot. At first all goes well. But then, suddenly, Nik’s unevenly balanced weight causes the cross to tip to one side. It slews and turns over. The control cords are snatched from his hands. This takes Nik by surprise. He cries out. Now, instead of lying on the cross, he is hanging under it.
The cross continues to rise up. As soon as its foot leaves the ground it begins to gyrate, swivelling as well as swinging from side to side like a pendulum. And because of the way the rope is attached, the cross does not hang upright, but tilts forward at the top, so that Nik is hanging from it, his arms pulled back by their bonds, his chest thrust out, and his legs, caught at the ankles, bending awkwardly at the knees. It looks like, and is, a painful position in which to be trapped.
Slowly, the cross rises until it is about five metres above ground, when the crane’s engine coughs, splutters, stalls, and conks out.
Silence.
The cross swings and turns. At each turn we see Nik’s dumbfounded face. And as he turns, his glasses catch the first rays of the rising sun and flash at us.
NIK’S NOTEBOOK: I had worked out the mechanics. But not the dynamics.
When I said that to Grandad afterwards, he said: The story of your life.
So there I was—suspended, stuck, helpless, suffering, and alone.
My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?
It took six hours before J C was broken enough to ask that. It took less than six minutes before I knew why he asked it and exactly what he meant.
‘I don’t believe you,’ Tom said.
‘Told you,’ Michelle said, slumping into one of the armchairs.
‘Tell him, girl,’ Arthur Green said.
Michelle said: ‘I found him on Selsley Common last night, not long before dawn actually. He was lying on the ground, flat out asleep, nothing on, only jeans and trainers. I thought he must be ill or something. But when I woke him he was okay and we talked a bit, well, quite a lot actually. But only talked, I mean, nothing else.’
She gave Tom a look that defied contradiction.
‘He told me all about the bomb and the girl he was with, how he felt about her, and about him and her and religion. And about how the girl didn’t love him like he loved her, and he’d just found out. He was pretty upset about that, I think. Well, I’m sure he was actually.’
She drew a deep breath, the way people do when they’re talking about a hopeless situation.
‘Anyway, he asked me if I’d do something to help him, and I said I would, and he brought me down here. But he didn’t say till we got here that he wanted me to help him crucify himself. I couldn’t believe it! I said: No way, I said. No way am I going to help you do nothing like that, I said, that’s crazy, you must be off your noddle, I said, even to think such a thing. It’s that girl, I said, and her religious stuff, she’s a fanatic, I said, she’s mangled your brains. And lying around on the common with nearly nothing on in the middle of the night, and soaking. He was wringing wet with sweat when I found him. You must have caught a fever, I said, and he did look flushed, no question.’
Michelle took another deep breath before going on.
‘Well, he said, don’t worry, I expect you’re right. It was just a joke anyway, he said, I didn’t really mean it. I’ll just stay here for a bit, he said, and make myself some tea in Grandad’s workshop. You take my bike, he said, and go home. I’ll use an old one of Grandad’s. You can fetch mine back later, he said. Though, to tell the truth, I was really glad of the excuse to see him again because—’
She glanced at Arthur Green, thought better of saying what she had been about to say, sat forward in the chair, coughed and went on: ‘But when I got home I couldn’t sleep for thinking about him. And the more I thought about him wanting me to help him crucify himself, the more I was sure he hadn’t been joking. And I thought: What if he does do it somehow? It’ll be terrible, I’d never forgive myself for not staying with him and making sure he didn’t and for not helping him a bit more. I mean, he’s had an awful time lately, hasn’t he? He can’t be very well, can he, even if he looks all right? And people can do crazy things when they’re really in love, can’t they? Especially if they’re rejected. I mean, everybody knows that. Anyway, in the end I couldn’t bear it. And I thought: It’ll be my fault if anything happens.’
The abstracted glare of desperation in Michelle’s eyes allowed no doubt. She swallowed hard and continued: ‘I didn’t know what to do. And then I thought of ringing the workshop so I could talk to him and make sure he was all right but I could only find the number for his house. So I thought of ringing Mr Green but then I thought: What if he goes racing off to the dump and nothing’s the matter, he might give Nik a bad time, and Nik would hate me for telling his grandad, and—’
She glanced at Arthur Green again and shrugged, a resigned apology.
‘Go on, girl,’ Arthur Green said. ‘Don’t you mind.’
Michelle gave him a grateful nod, snuffled against imminent sobs, drew a staving breath, and managed to add: ‘I got that worried I decided the only thing to do was ride back to the dump. So I did . . . and there he was . . . hanging—’ before undeniable tears welled and burst, sluicing with them the trauma and distress she had hidden from view all day.
INTERCUT: The dump. Early morning sunlight. Michelle comes cycling hectically along the road. She sees Nik before she reaches the dump and begins yelling his name in a panic-stricken voice.
When she arrives under the cross she flings herself from the bicycle, which wobbles away on its own until it collides with a mound of scrap and entangles itself with the other discarded vehicles.
Struggling for breath, Michelle gazes up at Nik and between gulps, shouts at him: ‘You—bloody—fool!—What did you—go and—do that for!’
Nik stares back at her with a pained grin, making confused, constricted noises.
‘Jesus!’ Michelle says, and stamps her foot. She sees the control cords snaking over the ground to the crane’s cab, runs to the crane, climbs into the cab, at once realizes the problem is too complicated for her to sort out quickly, jumps down, and sprints towards the workshop, shouting as she
goes: ‘I’ll get your grandad.’
She disappears into the workshop.
The cross turns slowly, swaying in the first breeze of the day as it does so.
After a moment Brian Standish in white running gear bursts through the hedge above the canal, his appalled face turned up towards Nik as towards a vision. Nik mutters incoherently.
‘Christ Almighty!’ the man gasps. He takes in the scene, dodging and skipping as if avoiding invisible assailants. He jumps, trying to reach the cross, as if he thinks by grasping it he can pull it down. He stumbles towards the crane. But stops before reaching it, turns, looks up at Nik, says, ‘Dear God!’, makes a dash for the access road, stops at the edge of it, turns to look at Nik again, says, ‘Hell’s bells!’, comes to a decision and races back to the hole in the hedge, shouting at Nik as he goes, ‘Hang on, I’ll get help!’ and disappears the way he came.
The cross slowly turns, floodlit now in bright warm sunlight.
There is birdsong. And Nik’s voice in an indecipherable ritual chant.
‘I better be sure I’ve got this right, Mr Green,’ Tom said. ‘You drove here on your motorbike at about six fifteen this morning in response to a phone call from Michelle Ebley. You found your grandson suspended on a cross from the crane on the dump. You got him down, and with Miss Ebley’s help, carried him into your workshop. Then, while Miss Ebley looked after him, you removed from the scene the cords, the metal block your grandson had used against the accelerator, and the crane’s ignition key.’
‘Right so far,’ Arthur Green said.
‘You knew someone else had found your grandson on the cross because Miss Ebley had seen him. And fearing the police would come, you locked yourself with your grandson and Miss Ebley into the workshop. The police did arrive shortly afterwards. But you all kept quiet till they left the scene.’
‘Right.’
‘Not long afterwards, I visited the dump. At first you thought I was just someone poking about and you came out to try and get rid of me. When you realized I was a police officer you began to fear that we hadn’t given up. This was confirmed when you learned that afternoon from Miss Ebley’s brother that I was making inquiries through contacts—’
Now I Know Page 23