Richard went to bed first. He left Lily in the living room, staring out of the window at the animals that moved surreptitiously through the front garden. Hedgehogs mainly; she could hear their slow shuffling, though they remained hidden in the bushes. There were cats, too, but they stalked the open air, proud and defiant, eyes glinting in the reflected light from the window.
After a while she turned the light off. The equality of the separate darknesses, inside and out, made it easier to see from one to the other. She no longer saw her own face ghosted back at her in the glass.
The darkness away from town was different, somehow. There was no orange undertone to it, of course, no streetlights except in the very centre of the village. But it was more than that. The darkness was thicker, more malevolent. There were things that lived in it.
Inside and out.
She moved through to the kitchen, half-heartedly clearing the plates that they’d left out earlier. She kept the lights off, but the moon was bright at the back of the house, easily casting enough light to see by. She could see its silvery shadows, picking their way across the lawn towards her.
Something caught her eye as she carried the plates back to the sink, and it took a moment for her to work out what it was. Something in the landscape had changed.
The lavender, she realised. Two days ago it had been wild, abandoned. Now it was all cut back, drawing her eyes more firmly to the trees beyond.
Had Richard done it? When had he even been out there?
But, if not Richard, then who?
Two child-size ghost-shadows lurked in the doorway, whispering stories that she couldn’t understand.
And, outside, the church bells chimed once, calling the midnight hour across the sleeping village.
Richard lay awake for a long time, listening to the low rustle of the house as it settled itself around him. He wondered what Lily was doing. He couldn’t hear any sounds from downstairs, no hints of her movements. It was silence accented by not-silence; the creaking shuffle of the house seemed to draw attention to the lack of sound from its occupants.
He turned over familiar etymologies in his mind, treading oft-travelled paths through the history of language. Silence, deriving from the Latin silentium, among other sources: a state of being silent, an absence of sound. A largely uninteresting etymology, indicating a passivity, a state of being that just was, with no intent or foresight on the part of the object rendered silent. It hadn’t been used as a verb until the sixteenth century, and yet, if you dug deep enough, there were hints of something more deliberate: the Latin desinere, meaning to stop, suggesting the silence was embedded in the act of ceasing something else. When Lily was silent, was it a natural state of being, or was it because she actively ceased creating noise? And, if it was active, then what was the purpose behind it?
And then there was the Germanic anasilan: the ceasing of the wind. A less purposeful stopping, simply the gradual cessation of external noise, the return to stillness. Was that what she was aiming for? A form of meditation, perhaps: external silence in an attempt to grasp at internal stillness?
A nice idea, one that brought him comfort, sometimes. But then there was the nagging voice at the back of his head: what if he was looking at it from the wrong angle? What if the silence was not hers, but being wrought upon her? To silence – to prohibit or prevent from speaking: to hush.
What if her silence was not a choice, but something that had been thrust upon her?
And, if it was, what was he supposed to do about it?
then
The four of them were at home on a Saturday afternoon, two weeks after Easter. There was still a chill in the air, though winter had lost its edge, leaving longer days and lighter skies in its wake. It was light when they got home from school now, and Connie had taken to sitting in the garden in the afternoons, wrapped in a blanket. Lily, so quick to follow everywhere else, did not follow her there, though she sometimes watched from the safety of her bedroom window.
Anna had spent the morning walking in the woods, and had returned more energised than she had been in weeks. She was sitting at the kitchen table, sketching, lost in her own world. Lily and Connie were sprawled side by side in the living room, staring at the TV. Marcus was pacing from room to room, restless, too cheerful, trying to encourage communication between the two rooms.
‘Come on, girls. What a wonderful day. Why don’t we all make lunch together? Or go for a walk? When was the last time we all went for a walk together?’
Dutifully they pulled on boots and coats and hats and scarves, wrapping layers around themselves to give the appearance of being more substantial. Lily had bought a new coat a few weeks ago – bright red, pillarbox-red, like a signal, or a warning – and she looked odd next to the rest of the family in their wintry blues and greys.
They walked out of the village, across the fields, down towards the river which connected them, meanderingly, to the rest of England. Their exhaled white clouds filled the air around them as they followed the water through back streets and common land, which looked strangely deserted without its summer coating of cows. Lily and Connie trailed behind their parents; the girls did not speak, but watched the water and thought separate thoughts about how cold it must be.
The sun was low in the sky, an orb of half-hearted light against a blanket grey backdrop. There was a heaviness to the air, the promise of rain, perhaps. The people they passed walked quickly, heads down against the cold, bare skin muffled by mittens and woollen hats. Quietness pervaded, contemplative; even the dogs which trotted obediently beside their owners did so in silence.
Connie slowed her pace, almost imperceptibly, and Lily followed suit. There was a junction in the pathway up ahead: one fork continued along the riverbank, while the other veered sharply to the right and abruptly disappeared behind lines of bushes. By tacit agreement they fell back as far as possible from their parents so as to make their disappearance less noticeable, and then slipped away up the right-hand path.
‘Run,’ Connie hissed, as soon as they were out of sight. Connie had longer legs, but Lily was more energetic, and they kept an even pace, panting as the cold air hit the back of their throats. ‘The park,’ Connie said, her voice low and determined. They kept their eyes on the distance. Their absence probably wouldn’t be noticed for a few minutes, but there was no point taking chances.
They burst through the gate into the children’s playground, which was mercifully empty. There was a whine as the gate swung shut behind them, and then the dull clang of metal on metal. There was a slide in the corner of the park, with a castle at the top, enclosed by red wooden walls. Connie climbed up the ramp first, and shifted along inside the castle to make room for Lily to squeeze in beside her. They sat in opposite corners, feet resting lightly on graffiti-scrawled walls.
‘Have you tried smoking yet?’ Connie pulled a crumpled packet from her pocket, along with a pink plastic lighter. She proffered the packet in Lily’s direction; two left, one upside-down in the pack, bits of tobacco poking out of the top. Lily shook her head.
‘You’ve got to try it some time,’ Connie said with a shrug, taking one out and putting the packet back in her bag. ‘You can have a few drags of mine, if you like.’
‘Okay.’
‘You probably wouldn’t be able to smoke a whole one on your first go, anyway.’
Connie lit the cigarette with a sharp inhalation, and then exhaled slowly, savouringly. The cloud of smoke filled the air around them with carcinogenic acridity, the only scent that Lily could make out against the clarity of the cold air.
‘When did you start smoking?’
‘When I was your age.’
Lily nodded. Acknowledged the implied challenge. ‘Does Dad know?’
‘He’s caught me a couple of times. He told me off, but not very seriously.’ Connie inhaled, punctuating. ‘I don’t think he’s really got the energy for disciplining us at the moment.’
‘Because of Mama?’
‘Not
just that.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. And me.’ Connie held the cigarette out for Lily to take. ‘I think we’re all wearing him out.’
Lily held it between the tips of her fingers, the way she had done with fake cigarettes, once. Admired the strange extension to her hand, simultaneously so out of place and so natural.
‘Do you think he’d ever kill himself?’
If Connie thought the question strange, she didn’t say anything. She shook her head. ‘He’s stronger than that.’
‘Good.’ Lily lifted the cigarette to her lips. Inhaled, tentatively. Coughed, predictably.
‘You have to inhale properly. You breathe in, to get the smoke in your mouth, and then you breathe in again. Like this, look.’ Connie took the cigarette from her sister, did an exaggerated demonstration of inhaling, and then passed it back to Lily, who followed suit awkwardly.
‘You’ll get the hang of it.’
She wasn’t sure she wanted to, but she nodded, obediently.
They sat in silence for a while. Lily took a couple more drags of the cigarette and then passed it back for Connie to finish. A man with a dog entered the park and sat on a bench near the entrance. The two of them went as still as possible, and stayed that way for ten minutes, while the man sat on his bench, oblivious. Lily focused on the graffiti that was scrawled across the walls in stark black marker pen. Eventually, the clang of the gate signified the departure of the man.
‘Can I tell you a secret?’ Connie was smiling, eager, though there was something not quite right about her smile. Lily nodded.
‘I’m going to run away one day.’
‘Run away where?’
‘I don’t know. Anywhere. Just away.’ It was the look in her eye which wasn’t right, Lily realised. As though she was trying to communicate something which was not being said.
‘Forever?’
‘Probably not. I just want to go somewhere where no one knows who I am for a while. Then I expect I’ll come back.’
‘What about Mama and Dad?’
‘They’ll be fine. It’ll give Dad less to worry about.’
A pause. Then Lily’s voice, smaller than before. ‘What about me?’
Connie smiled and leaned forward to ruffle Lily’s hair. ‘You won’t need me for much longer.’
‘I’ll always need you.’
‘Nah. You’ll be doing your own thing soon. Having me hanging around will just cramp your style.’
‘GCSEs?’
‘I’ll probably stay to finish them. I don’t mean I’m going right now.’ She laughed. ‘I need to wait until I’m sixteen anyway. I won’t be able to get a job until then.’
Lily said nothing, turning it over in her mind.
‘Look, don’t worry about it. I shouldn’t have said anything. It won’t be for ages yet. I just thought you might be excited for me, that’s all.’
Lily nodded. Then shook her head. The effect was something along the lines of a confused spasm, and it made Connie laugh.
‘Come on. Let’s go find Mama and Dad, before they completely freak out and think we’ve gone to join the circus or something.’
They scrambled down the ramp, one after the other, then set off at an easy run, bounding across the deserted grass. Frosty blades of grass crunched underfoot, and their footsteps were loud on the frozen ground. Their blonde hair streamed out behind them like May Day ribbons, and when, in mid-stride, they caught each other’s hands and smiled, they almost looked like children playing.
now
The pub was a ten-minute walk from the house, wedged between the Co-op and the post office, spilling its picnic benches across the pavement in an attempt to claim as much of the street as possible. The Golden Lion, one of three pubs in the village, and probably the busiest, from what Richard had seen on his late-night walks. Despite its inherent old-mannish quality, with its hideously patterned carpets, hunting memorabilia plastered all over the walls and the fire that burned constantly regardless of the outside temperature, it was the only one of the three that managed to attract a mixture of all ages. It was a family pub during the day, a place where teenagers weren’t ashamed to be seen on a Friday night, and a sanctuary to the collection of elderly men who propped up the bar on any given day of the week. All in all, if Richard was going to regress to his student days and earn a living assisting in the inebriation of strangers, this wasn’t a bad place to be doing it.
Ed had told him to show up at eleven on Saturday morning. The landlord, Tim, had been out of town all week, but he hadn’t missed a Saturday night in his pub for twenty-one years. Ed had reported this fact with some amount of pride. Richard had tried not to let it depress him too much.
The front door was open when he got there, but, stepping over the threshold, he got the distinct impression that the place wasn’t open yet. For one thing, half the lights were off, and the watery sunlight outside hadn’t done much to penetrate the gloom within. For another, there were boxes and suitcases all over the floor, and not a single person in sight.
He hesitated in the doorway. Considered calling out, but found himself muted by some instinct or other. He took a step forward, then another, stopping to look at the boxes on the ground. A delivery, he assumed; but the boxes were all mismatched, and some were clearly falling to pieces, held together with metres of masking tape. It was more like someone moving house. But moving in? Or out?
He walked up to the bar, and leaned over to see if anyone was lurking out of sight. He realised he could hear a radio, very distant: upstairs? Only the faintest traces of it carried to the bar, disembodied voices whispering their way through the rows of waiting pint glasses. Behind the bar, deeply coloured bottles seemed to shimmer in the dark light. He caught his eye in the mirror behind the bottles, and saw a flicker of movement behind him.
‘’T’fuck d’you think you’re doin’?’
Richard turned so fast he nearly fell. A painful jolt of adrenaline spurted outwards to his fingers and his toes; he had to gasp to keep from shouting out. ‘Sorry,’ he said quickly, breathlessly. ‘I wasn’t sure if anyone was around –’
‘We open at half-past.’ The man was huge, with shoulders that were roughly twice the width of his own, and the voice was somewhere between a growl and grunt. His eyes were sharp, though, glinting deep within a face which was mostly beard.
‘Yes. Sorry. It’s just, I was told to come here at eleven.’ The man stood motionless, waiting. ‘By Ed,’ Richard continued, feeling smaller and more inarticulate by the second. ‘He said you might have a job going?’
The man continued to watch him, silently, as if waiting for some sort of sign. Then abruptly he nodded, and thrust his hand in Richard’s direction. ‘Tim. Nice to meet you.’
‘Richard.’ They shook hands, Richard relieved to be back on familiar conversational ground.
‘Have you done bar work before?’
‘Yeah. Not for years, though.’
‘It doesn’t change much. Help me carry these upstairs?’ Tim indicated the boxes on the floor.
‘Uh, sure. Of course.’
Richard crouched down to lift a box, awkwardly, finding himself unable to get a proper purchase on it. For someone so large, Tim was all fluidity – he lifted two boxes in one smooth movement and was halfway up the stairs before Richard caught up with him.
The stairs were narrow, uncarpeted, and dark; they led down to the cellar as well as up to the flat above the pub, and they smelled of damp and sweat and old beer. Tim took them two at a time, negotiating the tight corners with ease while Richard struggled awkwardly behind, and they emerged into a small but brightly lit kitchen, where the radio blared invitingly. A tall red-headed woman was cleaning the window above the kitchen sink, her hair held back from her face with a green silk scarf. She turned and smiled when they entered. ‘Hey, who’s this?’
‘This is Richard. He wants to work for us.’ Tim dumped his boxes in the middle of the floor, and Richard followed suit, observing that there w
as ten per cent less grunt in Tim’s voice when he spoke to the woman. ‘Richard, this is Rosa. You might have seen her behind the bar.’
‘Actually –’ Richard began, thinking to explain that he’d never actually been inside the pub before today, but Rosa interrupted him, stepping forward and holding out a translucent hand for him to shake.
‘Lovely to meet you. Are you new here?’
‘Sort of. My girlfriend –’ he began, and then found himself halting awkwardly, as a teenage girl shuffled into the kitchen, all ginger curls and pubescent sulkiness. She had none of Rosa’s projected good nature, but nevertheless the resemblance between them was startling. She turned wide green eyes briefly in Richard’s direction before dismissing him as irrelevant.
‘Mum, there aren’t enough plug sockets in my room.’
‘I know, darling, Tim’s going to find you a multi-socket thing. There should be one lying around somewhere.’
‘Well, I need it now.’
‘Okay, give us a few minutes, will you? We’ve got company.’
‘But I need to straighten my hair.’
‘Well, that only requires one socket, surely?’
‘Yes, but Hollyoaks is on and I’m talking to Gina online. And I need to straighten my hair now because I’m meant to be meeting people in half an hour and I’m not going out like this.’ She yanked her curls away from her face in a demonstration of their abhorrence.
‘Okay, okay. Tim? Can you go see if you can find it? There’s one in our room she can borrow for now if needs be.’
Tim grunted, and left the kitchen, with the miniature Rosa trailing persistently behind.
‘Sorry about that. That’s Ella – daughter from my previous marriage, you know – her father’s being a total arse and buggering off to Spain for a year so she’s coming to stay with us and she’s not happy about it at all, as you might have noticed.’ All this was divulged cheerfully, through the back of her head, as she filled the kettle with a thundering hiss. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
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