Apple of My Eye

by Patrick Redmond

  They continued on. Down the path which was silent except for the song of birds overhead. On and on until they came to the ridge that led to the quarry.

  It had long been abandoned. They stood at its summit, looking down at sheer stone walls that were covered in clumps of moss and valiant sprouts of grass. Its base was full of brackish, stagnant water.

  Alan tugged at his hand. ‘Ronnie, where are the fairies?’

  He pointed to the water. ‘In there.’

  A frown. ‘I can’t see them.’

  He put his hand on Alan’s shoulder. ‘You need to look more closely,’ he said.

  Then pushed.

  Alan fell twenty feet, slamming into the water. Sinking deep below its surface before emerging, gasping with shock and struggling to find something to hold on to but finding only smooth stone. Trying to cry out with lungs that were paralysed with fear and fast filling with water before sinking under once again.

  Ronnie remained where he was. But in his head he was back in Hepton on the night that Thomas had not come home. The night when a distraught Vera had told him that there was no pain worse than the suffering of a loved one.

  That’s the worst pain in the world. When something bad happens to someone you love. It hurts far more than my arm ever did.

  And it was true. He knew it was true.

  Now his father would know it too.

  There was a noise behind him. He swung round, fearing discovery and the ruination of his plans. But it was just a fox. He made a hissing sound and it scampered away.

  He looked down into the quarry. The fight for life had ended. A tiny body lay motionless on the surface of the water.

  ‘Looks like you scared the fairies away,’ he whispered.

  The beach ball lay at his feet. He kicked it into the water. It bobbed up and down a couple of times, then, like its owner, lay still.

  The penultimate morning of his holiday. He sat beside a recovered Archie on a bench that faced out to sea.

  Behind them was The Terrace. As Archie talked endlessly about nothing of interest, he turned to see a police car pull up outside his father’s house. In the two days since Alan’s disappearance dozens of people had been searching the woods around Rushbrook Down. Now it seemed that the search was over.

  ‘I’m going to get an ice cream,’ Archie told him. ‘Coming?’

  ‘No. I’ll stay here.’

  Archie wandered off. Ronnie watched a policeman knock on the door of the house. His father answered, his wife beside him, their faces bright with the sheen of desperate hope.

  The policeman began to speak. The sheen faded. His father’s wife let out a howl. His father staggered and almost fell, unbalanced by the sudden, terrible weight of grief.

  Now you’re sorry. Now you know how it feels.

  Rising to his feet, he walked away, head high and heartbeat steady.

  And never once looking back.

  * * *

  Ronnie finished speaking. His eyes were still shining while, outside, fireworks continued to blaze against the cold night sky.

  Susan told herself that it wasn’t true. That it really was just a story, made up to shock and frighten her. Though why he would want to do that she couldn’t say.

  Then he took the faded newspaper from the drawer. ‘Look,’ he said.

  And there it was. On the front page in black letters one inch high.

  ‘Local Boy Drowns in Dreadful Tragedy’.

  Her eyes focused on the accompanying photograph. A little boy with a lovely smile and trusting eyes stood in a garden posing with a cricket bat that a man with Ronnie’s eyes was teaching him to hold.

  Beneath the photograph it said ‘Alan Frobisher with his father, Edward’.

  Ronnie started speaking again. She tried to listen but the drawer pulled her like a magnet. It was still full of paper. She reached inside to find a drawing. One of a quarry with steep stone walls and brackish water and a little child floating like a twig on the surface.

  She crouched down, opening the drawer wider, pulling out its entire contents. Not believing what she seeing.

  Because there wasn’t just one drawing. There were dozens. Some in pencil. Some in inks. Some from different angles. But all of the same scene.

  Except one. A picture at the very bottom of the drawer that had been torn from a book. A reproduction of a painting she knew to be Ronnie’s all-time favourite.

  Millais’ Ophelia, young, golden and beautiful, drowning herself in the lake.

  Slowly she rose to her feet. A strange numbness was sweeping over her, just as it had when her father died. The protective balm of shock.

  Ronnie wrapped his arms around her, tenderly stroking her neck. ‘I learnt the lesson long ago,’ he said softly, ‘that if you really want to hurt someone then you hurt the person they most care about. For him it was his son. I knew it when I saw them together. You can feel the love people have for each other. They give it off like heat and his was stronger with his son than with anyone else. When I saw them together I wanted to die. I was fourteen years old, and for every day of those years I’d dreamed that one day I’d be that boy. That I’d have what he had. That my father would come and give it all to me. But I was nothing to him. He’d used my mother, then thrown her away. I couldn’t let him get away with that. You see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I see it all.’

  ‘I wish I could tell Mum. But she’s not like us. She doesn’t see things the way we do. She doesn’t understand that people who hurt you have to be punished. We couldn’t punish your stepfather that way. He was the one who had to die. But we can punish others. Anyone who ever hurts you …’ He paused, kissing her cheek, ‘… will be made to pay. I’ve been waiting for you all my life and now I’ve found you I’ll never let anyone hurt you again. My darling. My beloved. My soulmate.’

  He continued to kiss her. She remained quite still, watching the fireworks explode but no longer hearing the sound they made. For the third time in her life she found herself in a silent movie. One with title cards that would act as prompts for how she should behave.

  She waited and waited, feeling his arms around her and his lips against her skin.

  But no prompts came.

  One hour later Ronnie returned to his bedroom after walking Susan home.

  This time he left the door unlocked. The newspaper and drawings were back in the drawer, hidden from those who did not see things the way he and Susan did.

  She was gone now but yet still here. He could smell the residue of her presence. Lying down on his bed, he breathed slowly and deeply, sucking the last drops of her out of the air. Making them a part of himself.

  Just as she was.

  Nothing could part them now. They belonged to each other for ever. Bonded by love and their understanding of how the world really worked. Of how life was cold and cruel and that forgiveness was nothing but a placebo for the weak. Hatred was strength. Loathing was power. And vengeance was not the Lord’s but theirs.

  He stared up at the ceiling, half closing his eyes, picturing the faces of the people who had wronged him and those he loved. Vera. Peter. Susan’s stepfather. His own father. Conjuring them up, one by one, all with faces lined by pain and shadowed by fear, while realizing that he had grown weak himself because he didn’t hate them any more. At last he could forgive. Forget. Let go and look to the future.

  Because he had Susan. His soulmate. His other half. The person who made him complete. The person who made the shabby, drab existence called life mean something in a way that even his beloved mother had never quite managed to do.

  The person who had taught him what it was to feel totally and utterly happy.

  His eyes remained focused on the ceiling. He smiled up at the faces of his victims, watching the dread fade from their faces as slowly, hesitantly, they began to smile back.

  *

  Midnight. As Ronnie exorcized the ghosts of vengeance past, Susan sat in her bath plastering her skin with soap
.

  The bath was deep, the water hot, but still she shivered. Shock was wearing off, its shields fading and leaving her to confront the full darkness of what the evening had revealed.

  She rubbed soap into her neck, scrubbing hard at the flesh he had kissed. Still feeling the touch of his lips like an infection from which she would never be free. As with Lady Macbeth, it would take more than all the perfumes of Arabia to make her clean.

  Her fingers were shaking. She dropped the soap. As she reached into the water she saw a face staring back at her. The face of a boy who had never hurt a soul and then been left to die in a cold, dark pit, terrified and alone. She shut her eyes, trying to escape from the image, but still it remained. Playing in the cinema of her mind where she sat with Ronnie, his arm around her shoulder and a smile upon his face, certain that she was enjoying the film as much as he was.

  From somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked. For a moment she thought it was Uncle Andrew, back to pay her one of his secret visits. But that nightmare was over. Ronnie had helped her escape it before leading her into one that was even worse.

  Is this my punishment? For what I’ve done? For what I am?

  Downstairs her mother was sleeping. The woman who depended on her as the weak always depended on the strong. But she didn’t feel strong now. Just filthy, frightened and alone with nothing but the flickering picture in her head for company.

  She began to cry, sobbing into the water that cooled around her. Crying for her father to come and save her, just as a drowning boy had once cried, in vain, for his.

  Half past eight the next morning. Dressed in her school uniform, she sat by the living-room window, watching for Ronnie.

  He was due any minute. Coming to walk with her to school as he had every day since Uncle Andrew’s death. Playing the role of protector as Uncle Andrew himself had once done thousands of midnights ago.

  But she had no protector. To believe otherwise was to wish upon a star. Now, more than ever in her life, the only person she could depend on was herself.

  Her mother hovered anxiously in the doorway. ‘You look tired. Why not stay home today? No one will mind you taking a day off. Not after what you’ve been through.’

  Oh, Mum, if you only knew what I’ve been through.

  Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside her. She swallowed it down. ‘Don’t fuss. I didn’t sleep well, that’s all. I’ve missed enough school as it is. I really need to go in today.’

  And that was true. She really did need to go. Keep up a façade of normality.

  For if Ronnie even suspected a change in her feelings there was no telling what he might do.

  Her stomach began to churn. She rubbed it with her hand while her mother looked suddenly embarrassed. ‘Are you having your monthly visitor?’

  She nodded, though in fact her period was two weeks late. Normally she was as regular as clockwork, but stress could cause delay. She had read that in a booklet her mother had given her, and she had certainly suffered a great deal of stress in the previous weeks.

  That would be the reason. There could be no other.

  Except one.

  But she wouldn’t even allow herself to think about that.

  Ronnie appeared at the corner of the square, striding towards her house. ‘Ronnie’s coming,’ she said, keeping her tone bright, feeling as if she was going to be sick.

  You’re strong, Susie. You can do this. It’s just acting.

  And you have to survive.

  He rang the doorbell. She went to answer it, stopping in front of the mirror in the hallway to pinch colour into her cheeks. Preparing for her scene like one of the movie stars she had been told she resembled while the director and crew waited impatiently for her to hit her mark and say her lines.

  Lights. Camera. Action.

  The actress opened the door to find her leading man standing on the doorstep. He was smiling, his face a beautiful mask that gave no clue as to the ugliness that lay beneath. She smiled back, her expression as open and relaxed as his.

  And when she spoke her tone was relaxed too.

  ‘Hi, Ronnie. How are you?’

  ‘Happy,’ he told her. ‘How else could I be when we’re together?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘My mother’s warned me about boys like you.’

  ‘And what sort of boy am I?’

  ‘A charmer. The sort who’ll say anything to get a girl’s knickers off. But not me. I’ve got a reputation to keep.’

  He laughed. She took his arm. Gave it a squeeze. He squeezed back.

  And heard a voice whisper inside his head.

  She’s different. Something’s not right.

  But her tone was animated. She looked happy. She looked just as she always did.

  Except …

  ‘I’m really glad you told me about Waltringham. I know it can’t have been easy, just like it wasn’t easy for me to tell you about what I wanted to do to Uncle Andrew. I was frightened you wouldn’t understand. That you’d be shocked.’ Another squeeze. ‘I couldn’t be sure you saw the world the same way I did.’

  He felt himself relax. ‘But I do.’

  They crossed the square and entered Market Court. Women with baskets stood outside shops, waiting for them to open. ‘It’s always the same faces,’ she remarked. ‘You’d think they’d have learned to tell the time by now.’

  He held up his arm, pointed to his wristwatch and raised his voice. ‘The little hand is pointing to the eight and the big hand is pointing to the nine.’

  She laughed. He kissed her cheek then waited for her to return the gesture.

  ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me back?’ he asked.

  ‘People are watching. I’m embarrassed.’

  ‘Go on. I dare you.’

  So she did. A peck, similar to dozens she had given him in the past, yet this one felt lighter. The effect of self-consciousness perhaps.

  Though she had never displayed it before.

  They entered the school lane, still arm in arm. She talked about the day ahead, complaining about teachers she didn’t like and whose lessons she would have to sit through. ‘I wish it was Saturday. I don’t feel like another week of school.’

  ‘Next Saturday let’s spend the whole day together. We can do whatever you want.’

  She nodded. Still smiling. Though he thought he felt her shiver.

  But it was cold. Everyone shivered when it was cold.

  They reached the gates and faced each other. ‘I’ll wait for you this afternoon,’ he said. ‘We can do something, perhaps.’

  ‘I can’t this afternoon. Mum’s been feeling down. I should really be with her.’

  He felt jealous. ‘She takes up too much of your time. I want some of it too.’

  ‘You get all of it. We’re soulmates, remember, and soulmates are always together, even when they’re apart. You mustn’t be jealous of her. You’re the one I want to be with. You know that, don’t you?’

  Then she kissed him. Properly this time, ignoring the others, who stopped and stared. He kissed her back and knew that it was true.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do.’

  She headed through the gates. He watched her go, feeling reassured. Feeling happy.

  And suddenly he saw it. What his brain had tried to tell him outside her front door. Her stride was as measured as always. Her shoulders back and head held high.

  But her physical presence was diminished. Her aura of invulnerability reduced. Just as it had been around her stepfather.

  The man of whom she had been afraid.

  Two minutes later Charlotte saw Susan rush into the first-floor toilets. Concerned, she followed her in.

  Susan stood at one of the sinks, vigorously scrubbing her face. ‘What are you doing?’ Charlotte asked her.

  ‘Washing. What does it look like?’

  ‘Then ease up on the elbow grease. Soap’s supposed to clean your skin, not take it off. Anyway, you look spotless to me.’

  Susan started to laugh. A
shrill, edgy sound. Charlotte’s concern increased. ‘Is something the matter?’

  The laughter stopped. Susan began to dry her face. The skin around her mouth looked raw. ‘Susie, what’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing. I just feel grubby. The air always seems dirty this time of year, don’t you think?’

  Charlotte didn’t but nodded anyway. A pretty third-year girl entered and began to comb her hair, checking her reflection in the mirror above the row of sinks.

  Susan continued to dry her face. ‘I enjoyed Saturday,’ Charlotte told her, ‘and so did Colin. He really liked Ronnie. He was saying that the four of us should go to the pictures. I’d like to see Breakfast at Tiffany’s but Colin wants The Magnificent Seven.’ She giggled. ‘I said I didn’t mind that either as I could drool over Steve McQueen and he got really jealous.’

  Susan shook her head.

  ‘Doesn’t Ronnie like the pictures? We could do something else if you like. Colin’s got a friend called Neville who’s in a group. They’re more jazz than rock’n’roll but Colin says they’re quite good. Does Ronnie like jazz?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? Ronnie and I aren’t joined at the hip. Stop expecting me to know everything about him.’ Susan marched out of the toilets.

  ‘Is that Ronnie Sidney you’re talking about?’ asked the third-year girl. ‘He’s really gorgeous, isn’t he?’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ a bewildered Charlotte told her before leaving herself.

  Half past three. Susan walked out of the school gates to find Ronnie waiting for her.

  She had expected him to be and had her smile ironed and ready to wear. It was only a short walk home. Ten minutes. Fifteen at the most. She could keep up the façade until then.

  But for how much longer? Weeks? Months?

  Years?

  He walked towards her, looking just like the polite and charming boy everyone believed him to be. She felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry. Cornered and helpless with no idea of what she was going to do.

  But she would think of something. She had to.

  For there was no one else who could help.