‘I said – ’ he began fiercely, but Isobel had let the ladle drop back into the bowl and grabbed his wrist. She let out a small gasp.
‘What’s this?’ She pulled John’s arm across the table towards Alfred. Peeping out from the end of the cuff were two or three ugly red welts on his skin.
John pulled his arm back and held it across his chest. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said dully.
But Isobel wasn’t satisfied. ‘Show me, John. Now.’
Very hesitantly, John unfolded his arm. Isobel unbuttoned the cuff and he winced. Alfred leaned forward. Three long parallel gashes were visible beneath John’s rolled-up sleeve.
‘Christ, son,’ he said. ‘You’re hurt. What happened?’
John swallowed and shook his head. ‘Nothing. I mean, I got scratched. By a cat.’ He was tripping over his words.
‘A cat? Oh my goodness. When did this happen? It looks infected,’ Isobel said. ‘Oh you poor, poor lad.’
‘Yeah,’ John continued, suddenly eloquent. ‘It was a cat. On my way home from school. It was playing just outside the pub, and I went to stroke it and it just scratched me.’
Isobel let go of his arm and instead pulled him closer so his head was pressed against her waist. ‘You poor thing. I think we should mebbe get a doctor to have a look. What do you think, Alfie?’
But Alfred was certain the boy was lying. It was something about his tone, the strange smirk he had on his face right at that moment. He said, ‘You must mean Harry’s new cat. The ginger one.’
John nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s the one.’
‘Got a little bell around its collar?’
John nodded again. Alfred took a deep breath. ‘Why are you lying to us, John?’
Isobel snapped her head around in surprise. ‘What?’
‘Harry has a new cat, but it’s black and white. There’s nae a ginger cat in the whole village. So,’ he continued to look at John, ‘why are you lying?’
‘I’m never lying!’ John shouted. He looked up at Isobel. ‘Mum?’
Isobel sat down slowly. The look she gave Alfred was cold and hard, but when she spoke, her voice was unsteady. ‘Why are you doing this, Alfie?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, astonished and angry that she was turning on him like this. ‘Doing what?’
‘Twisting everything he says. Everything he does. Making everything . . . wicked and toxic. Why on earth would he make something like this up, hmm? What possible reason could he have?’
Alfred shook his head. ‘I . . . I don’t know. He’s probably been in a fight or something, and doesn’t want to get into trouble.’
‘Aye, think the worst. That’s all you ever do.’ She turned to John, who was now sitting silently, his eyes darting around in that preoccupied, agitated way Alfred had come to loathe. ‘Johnnie. Let’s get ye upstairs and I’ll dress that cut.’
Alfred was left on his own in the kitchen. He took several deep breaths, but that did nothing to alleviate his exasperation. Finally, he grabbed his jacket from the hook and headed outside. He began walking westwards, with no direction in mind. It was raining hard, but he barely noticed. The longer he walked, the greater his frustration became, until he felt it was suffocating him. He stopped in the middle of a meadow and roared: ‘What’s happening? What am I doing wrong? He’s lying! I know it!’
He felt the voice-women’s presence, thought he felt one of them about to speak, but in the end, they remained silent. He had been walking – randomly, zigzagging the village and fields and meadows surrounding it – for what seemed like hours. Then, a sudden weariness surged through him, and he knew he had to return home.
He was about a mile outside the village when he heard a car coming towards him, so he stepped off the road, pressing his body against the hedgerow. The car passed him by, its headlights sweeping the hedges and turning them from black to green momentarily. Then he heard it stop several yards behind him. He turned to see the back door open and a woman poking her head out.
‘Mr Warner?’ It was Alice Singer-Cohen. Alfred walked up to the car and leant down.
‘Hello,’ he said.
‘I thought I recognised you,’ she said. ‘You’re out and about quite late.’
‘I’m taking a walk.’
‘In the rain?’
He shrugged.
‘Well then, can we give you a lift home?’
‘Oh. Thanks for the offer, but I’m heading in the other direction.’
She shuffled to the other side of the car. Her silk dress slid invitingly across the seat as she moved. ‘That’s not a problem. Come on,’ she patted the seat next to her, ‘get in.’
Alfred hesitated for a moment, but then climbed in beside her. The car was full of the smell of her spicy perfume. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to – ’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘It’s no bother, really.’ She leaned forward to give instructions to the driver, but then turned back to Alfred. She looked at him quizzically. ‘In fact, if you’re not too tired, may I invite you back to the house? I’ve just escaped from a dinner party at Tean Hall – the company was tedious and the food plain awful. So I told them I felt a migraine coming on and left.’ She gave him a mischievous smile. ‘And now I’m positively starving, but I do so hate eating on my own. Please say you’ll join me.’
Alfred took a moment to consider, but then his stomach growled, as though it had been invited to join the conversation. The rabbit stew would be cold by the time he got home, and a part of him – a childish, malevolent part of him – wished that Isobel could see him now, invited to have supper with another woman. He nodded. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’
When they got to March House, Alice Singer-Cohen led him straight to the kitchen.
‘I have no idea what we’ll find,’ she said, opening the fridge. ‘Ah, lovely! Cook’s left some meat pie. Shall I heat it up, or are you all right eating it cold? Delicious, both ways, I assure you. And do sit down.’
Alfred took a seat at the large rectangular table. ‘Cold is fine, Mrs Singer-Cohen,’ he said.
She took the pie out of the fridge and placed it on the table. ‘Oh, please.’ She pulled a face. ‘Let’s stuff the formalities, Alfred. It’s about time you started calling me Alice.’ She smiled at him, and then frowned. ‘Now, where’s the cutlery?’
When they had finished eating, Alice sat back in her chair and lit a cigarette. ‘Samuel wanted to hire a Jewish cook when we first moved here. But the first three that I interviewed had such peculiar ideas about food that I decided we’d hire on merit alone. Even if it does make me a bad Jew.’ She gave an odd laugh and stubbed out her cigarette.
Alfred was just about to thank her for the meal and take his leave when she said, ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’
She crossed the kitchen and threw open the double doors that led to the garden. Alfred followed her. The rain had receded, and a fine drizzle now veiled the grounds, so that they could barely see past the vegetable and herb garden. Alice lit another cigarette.
‘I do so love the garden,’ she said.
‘Yes. So do I.’
Alice drew on her cigarette and suddenly grimaced. Her hand flew to her forehead. ‘Damn,’ she said.
‘Everything all right?’
‘I think I’ve a headache coming on.’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘I suppose it’s my punishment for pretending to be sick.’
‘I’d recommend a chamomile tea,’ he said. ‘Except it’s not in bloom yet. But hang on – ’ he stepped outside and circled the herb garden, stooping to pick a fresh green stem of parsley. ‘Here, try this,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘Try chewing on it. It’s supposed to bring instant relief.’
Alice bit into the parsley. She chewed on it, and then pulled a face. ‘Bitter.’
Alfred laughed. ‘Did your mother never tell you that medicine isn’t supposed to taste nice? If it tastes bad, that means it’s good for you.’
Alice tossed what was left of the parsley b
ack into the garden. ‘You would have been burned as a witch, you know,’ she teased. She looked out into the darkness. ‘Hildegard of Bingen, ever heard of her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Hmm. Fascinating woman.’ She turned her head to look at him. ‘She heard voices too, didn’t she?’
‘She did indeed.’
‘May I ask – can you hear them now?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘But they’re never far away.’ In fact, he could feel them right now, just beyond the edge of his hearing. Even when he couldn’t register them aurally, he most often had some subconscious awareness of their presence.
They were silent for a while. Alice leaned against the doorframe. ‘You know, when I first moved here, I hated the place.’ She lifted a shoulder in a shrug. Her shawl slid off, revealing her very pale skin. ‘To be honest, there’s a lot I still hate.’ She paused to smoke her cigarette. Alfred stared out into the blackness of the garden, wondering if Isobel had noticed he wasn’t in bed beside her.
Then Alice said, ‘At dinner, tonight, Samuel was talking about moving to Israel, for the business opportunities. Israel, I ask you!’ She let out a short laugh.
‘He wants to leave?’
She sighed and waved her hand across her face. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps he thinks the climate is conducive to fertility. He has strange ideas sometimes. But you never know.’ She pinched out her cigarette on the doorframe. ‘I would turn into a beetroot in that climate.’
‘I – ’ Alfred began, but stopped. It had never occurred to him that the Singer-Cohens might one day leave.
She shivered slightly. He lifted her shawl, which had slipped almost to her waist, and draped it over her shoulders, feeling the coarseness of his fingers against her soft skin. She gave him a shy smile. ‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Israel, that’s very far away,’ he said, speaking his thoughts out loud.
‘It is. But perhaps . . . ’ she trailed off and stepped back into the kitchen. ‘Well, let’s be honest. Nobody else really wants us.’
Alfred closed the doors. He went and stood behind Alice, wanting to say, ‘I want you’, but was stopped by a rustling in his ears – sssss, iiisssss, Isssobelll.
Alice turned and looked up at him. He held her gaze, and saw her slowly blushing pink. She raised her hand, as though to place it on his cheek, but dropped her arm again and looked away.
She said, ‘Listen, Alfred. I really should be in bed when Samuel gets home, or he’ll know I was fibbing. Thank you so much for keeping me company.’
Alfred nodded, said goodnight and left. The journey back home seemed longer than ever before. This route, so familiar – he must have travelled it a thousand times, and yet with every step he took, moving through the darkness like some deep-sea diver at the bottom of the ocean, he became more and more lost.
In the bedroom, Isobel lay huddled, foetus-like, beneath the covers. He slipped his clothes off and lay down beside her.
Nineteen Ninety-Four
Four weeks. That’s all it takes to turn you into a crazy person.
Week one: Your mom has gone out and said she won’t be back till late, Be a good girl Bryn. And don’t wait up! She forgot to fix dinner, so you make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and eat it in front of the TV. You flick through the channels and settle on MTV. The sound goes fuzzy for a moment, like there’s some static interference, then –
Brynja! Brynja!
Whispering, coming from the kitchen. You turn MTV to mute. You call out, Mom?, even though it’s not her voice. You wait, hold your breath. There’s a tight feeling in your gut. The light from the silent TV twitches and sputters.
Brynja, can you hear me?
She’s not listening.
Who’s there? you call. Your voice is shaky. You slide off the sofa, slowly, and tiptoe into the kitchen. It’s empty. A sudden rush of air on your left.
Mom? you call again. Who is it? Who’s there?
Now the sound is coming from the den. A humming, hissing, whining. You hear your name being called. Over and over. Different voices.
You run back into the den in a flutter of panic, SHUT UP! LEAVE ME ALONE!, and turn up the volume on the TV, until the Beastie Boys are flooding the space of the room and you curl up in a ball and cry, dark, damp sounds coming out of your throat, until the thump thump thump on the wall is telling you to turn it the hell down.
Week two: Geometry class. Construct a line perpendicular to the given line using a compass and straight edge.
You read it three times.
Baa, baa, black sheep have you any wool?
It’s a little girl’s voice. You look up. The other students sit quietly, heads down.
Yes sir, yes sir
Her voice is honey-sweet. It makes you sick. You pick up the compass. You start sweating. Perpendicular. Put the spike on the paper and adjust the hinge.
three bags full
You draw a circle. Good. Now you have to draw another one, right? Or do you use the straight edge? You can’t concen–
Mary, Mary, quite contrary
You hiss, Shut up!
Brynja! Mrs Robson stares at you from the front of the class. Quiet please.
How does your garden grow?
You didn’t tell your mom about the voices last week. She’ll know you’re crazy. Perpendicular. Where two lines meet at a right angle. You feel the muscles in your face twitching, getting ready to cry. Your hands drop onto your lap. One is still holding the compass.
With silver bells and cockle shells
You lift the compass and place the spike on your jeans. Perpendicularly. You push down. There’s a small pop as the denim gives way to the pressure. Then a sharp pain.
And pretty maids all …
The singing is fading. You push harder. Your eyes start watering. And the singing is gone. You rub your leg and go back to your geometry task. Your heart is pumping in your mouth.
Week three: You say, Don’t go out Mom. Please.
Why? She checks her hair in the mirror. You feeling sick?
No, I’m – you bite the skin around your nails.
Don’t do that, liebling. Your mom pulls your hand away from your mouth. Look, I’ll only be an hour. Maybe two. I gotta go now. I’m late.
She hugs you tight. Smells of smoke and musk and coconut dread wax.
Mom?
She pulls back, holds you at arm’s length and smiles. Hey, I’ve been thinking. Maybe we can go on vacation together this summer. SeaWorld, what do you think? There’s a flyer came today, with a discount coupon. Hmm, liebling? Now – she opens the front door – I really gotta go. Be good. And don’t wait up.
You wait up. They come in the dark.
Brynja
Shut up! you whisper. If you ignore them, they’ll go away.
If you send us away, the others will come
You’re the one
I hate you! you scream. Go away! I hate you!
Week four: You’re a rude, rude girl. A pitiful excuse for a human being.
A new voice. You’ve got Bruce Springsteen on your Walkman but it doesn’t help. You squirm on the bed, take your hand out of the bag of Doritos, wipe your fingers on the bedspread.
You eat too much, you know that? You’re a fat, revolting pig. You stink.
The voice is inside your head. Deep inside you. You turn up the music but it hurts your ears.
Take those headphones off! Now!!! Don’t you dare ignore me.
You remove the headphones. Then you remember something and sit up. You get off the bed and go to your desk. They’re here somewhere, you open a drawer and – yes – take out a pair of scissors. Go back to the bed.
What are you up to, Brynja?
You sit, look down at the inside of your left arm. The pale, soft skin. You’re frightened, but kind of fizzing with energy. Then you drag the scissors across the inside of your arm. You gasp. The pain is shocking. Amazing. You close your eyes –
Aaargh! Stop it! Please!
&n
bsp; Her voice is clear and desperate. You sit up straighter, can almost taste the blood in your mouth. You make another parallel cut, deeper, increase the pressure.
Aaargh! No Brynja. Stop! Aaargh! Don’t –
She shuts up, suddenly. You lay down the scissors beside you on the bed. Your heart is pumping fast. The pain makes you feel sick. The edges around the wound are throbbing, but it’s quiet now. Peaceful. You sit and wait, feel the blood leaking from the cut, don’t move. For a long time. You take deep breaths. Your heart has stopped racing, and –
HA HAHAHA! Oh Brynja, that’s funny! That’s so – hahaha, wheeeeee! You thought, you actually though you were – hahaha – hurting me!
You whisper, No.
Oh, that was a good one. Hey, listen. I’ve just thought of a good little game to play. Just you and me. Okay?
You start shaking.
OKAY?
You nod. Okay.
Good girl. Now, in this game, I give you a riddle. You know what a riddle is? And if you solve it, you win. But if you don’t, hmm, let me think – I know! If you don’t solve the riddle, you have to cut your other arm, nice and deep. Okay? We want things to be symmetric, don’t we? Right, here it comes . . .
1968 - 1969
On a cold, clammy October morning in 1968, Alfred collapsed at work. Perhaps it was due to working outdoors in the increasingly chilly temperatures or the fact that he rarely slept more than five hours a night or his concerns over his son – or most likely, a combination of all of these. Whatever the reason, Alfred was standing atop a six-foot ladder trimming the hedge with a large pair of shears, when he was overwhelmed by a sudden, raw exhaustion. It began at his feet, and then surged rapidly up through his body, draining him of all energy. He was finding it hard to breathe, and every thin, shallow breath he managed to take caused him acute pain, like so many knives stabbing his lungs. With great effort, he held his arm out to the side and let the shears drop to the ground. Then he climbed down the ladder, slowly, carefully. He placed one foot on the damp lawn, heard a long, drawn-out moan – ooooooooooohhh – and passed out.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 26