So he did get up, though he rarely bothered to dress, preferring to wrap himself in the comforting folds of a sheet or blanket, which reminded him of the robes they used to wear long ago in better days, back when the mortals cared. He would drift down to the rooms on the ground floor of the house, like a ghost, he hoped, varying the rooms he brought his dark mood to, though not varying the actual mood. He was deeply, desperately unhappy, and torn between inviting the sympathy he craved from the rest of his family by showing them how he felt and the certain knowledge that all he would get from them was contempt and mockery.
One afternoon as he sat alone on a listing chair in the corner of the living room, plucking sporadically at a single note on his least favorite guitar, the door to the room opened and Eros came in. He was dressed very sensibly in pressed khaki trousers, a navy round-necked sweater, and a green-and-white-striped shirt, and his hair was as carefully combed as always. He didn’t appear to notice Apollo as he sat down on the sofa with a pad and a pen, so Apollo twanged particularly aggressively at his solitary note.
“Oh,” said Eros, looking up. “Hello, Apollo. I didn’t see you there.”
“What are you up to?” said Apollo. He didn’t really care. He just wanted Eros to tell him quickly and then ask him what he was up to so that he could say, “Nothing,” in a mournful voice.
“I just got back from a rehearsal for the youth club Easter show,” said Eros.
“Easter? Already?” Apollo was genuinely surprised.
“I know,” said Eros. “Persephone will be back soon. Actually she should probably be here already. Anyway, the show’s only next week, I hope she’s back by then. The kids are really looking forward to it. They’ve persuaded me to do a rap.”
“You? A rap?”
“I know,” said Eros. “It’ll be completely humiliating, I’m sure that’s why they asked me to do it. I’ll live it down eventually, but by then they’ll probably all be dead.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?” said Apollo. “Looking stupid in front of mortals?”
“No,” said Eros. “Why should it? They’re just children, Apollo, even the adults. Do you worry about looking stupid in front of babies?”
Apollo did. “No,” he said.
“You could help me write it if you like,” said Eros. He waved the pen and paper at Apollo. “I’m going to do a terrible job of it. You could come and perform it with me.”
“I’d rather not,” said Apollo.
“Of course not,” said Eros. “I know how much you hate being the center of attention.”
Apollo wondered whether Eros was being sarcastic. “Yeah,” he said.
“I’m sure I’ll come up with something,” said Eros. “Though this is hardly the most conducive place to write.”
Apollo looked around the room. The walls were covered with scorch marks from Hera’s temper tantrum. Only the very tops of the curtains remained because the rest had burned away, and what furniture was left was even more dilapidated than it had been, upholstery singed, arms and legs broken or missing.
“Hephaestus should really do something about it,” Eros continued, “or that cleaner, when she gets back from holiday—”
He broke off. He looked at Apollo with what appeared to be genuine concern.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
This was Apollo’s chance. “Nothing,” he said, in the most grief-stricken tone he could muster.
“Really?” said Eros. “Are you sure?” When Apollo didn’t say anything more, he went on. “I tell you what, I can’t wait for Persephone to get back. At least the weather will start to pick up properly then.”
“It’s a while since I’ve been out,” Apollo said.
“Why not?” said Eros.
“No reason,” said Apollo, and sighed.
“Apollo, if you’re upset about something, instead of dropping hints, why don’t you just tell me what the matter is?”
“Why would I want to talk to you?” said Apollo. “I don’t even like you.”
“Well, I do agree it seems strange,” said Eros, and waited.
“Alice is dead,” Apollo blurted out suddenly.
“The cleaner?” Eros said.
He looked genuinely shocked, Apollo thought. The color had bleached out of his face, leaving an ungodlike pallor.
“I thought she was just away,” said Eros. “What happened?”
“Zeus,” said Apollo. “He found out we’d had a mortal in the house.”
Eros looked relieved for a moment, but only for a moment.
“How did Zeus find out we’d had a mortal in the house?”
“Well, you know,” said Apollo, waving one hand vaguely in the air. “Omnipotent. Omniscient. That sort of thing.”
“We both know Zeus is a long way from omnipotent or omniscient,” said Eros. “Somebody must have told him. Apollo? Did you tell him about the cleaner?”
“Why would I have done that?” said Apollo.
Eros rubbed his face with his hands. “I really wish I didn’t know the answer to that,” he said.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Apollo, “seeing as I didn’t do it.”
Eros was looking fidgety now, squirming in his chair.
“Why?” said Apollo. “What is the answer?”
Eros didn’t reply for a few seconds, and when he did, he just said, “Did you want Alice to die?”
“Yes,” admitted Apollo. “That doesn’t mean I did anything.”
“Why did you want her to die?” said Eros.
“Because I loved her and she didn’t love me,” said Apollo.
“I was afraid that was the reason.” Eros put his pad and pen down on the floor beside him. “And now you feel—nauseous?”
“Yes.”
Eros swallowed. “Restless.”
“Yes.”
“Clammy palms.”
“Yes.”
Eros wiped his hands on his trousers. “A strange gnawing at your insides that you can’t ignore.”
“Yes.”
“A persistent wish that you had done things differently.”
“I did do things differently. But theoretically, yes.”
“Half of you wants to make amends but the other wants to bury yourself away somewhere and deny that it ever happened at all.”
“Eros, do you have the power to read minds? You’ve never done it before.”
“No,” said Eros. “It’s just that, unlike you, I am familiar with feeling guilty. It’s one of the things you have to learn if you’re going to be a Christian.”
“Guilty. Right.” Apollo nodded slowly. “You think that’s what it is?”
“Almost certainly, if you feel in any way responsible for Alice’s death.”
“Why would I feel that?” said Apollo. “Zeus killed her.”
“There’s lots of ways of being responsible,” said Eros.
He seemed to forget that Apollo was in the room, his attention drifting over to the charcoal-stained window.
“So if that is what it is,” said Apollo, loath to lose the sympathy. “If I am feeling guilty. Whether I am actually guilty or not. How can I make it go away?”
Eros turned back to him. “That’s a good question,” he said. “If you were a good Christian you would atone for your sins and pray for forgiveness.”
“And that would work?”
“Apparently.”
“Forgiveness from a god that doesn’t exist gets rid of guilt?”
“Only if you believe in him,” said Eros. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to all of you for decades. Belief is a powerful thing. For mortals, belief changes everything, what they do, how they feel . . .”
Apollo could sense that Eros was about to go off on one, so he leaped in.
“So it doesn’t work if you don’t believe in that god, then.”
“Unfortunately, no,” said Eros.
“So then what are you supposed to do?”
“Well, you have the choice,” sa
id Eros. “Either you can let the guilt burn inside you like the fiery torments of hell until it destroys you utterly. That’s where the idea of hell comes from, I’ve always thought. Or you can apologize to the person you’ve wronged, and see if they will forgive you.”
“But Alice’s dead. I can’t apologize to her.”
“But she isn’t the only person affected by her death,” said Eros. “There are many people you could apologize to. Her friends, her family . . .”
“Right. And then this feeling will go away,” said Apollo.
“That’s the idea,” said Eros.
“So why doesn’t everyone apologize all the time?” said Apollo.
Eros crossed his legs and uncrossed them again.
“I suppose apologizing takes a certain amount of courage,” he said. “You have to face up to what you’ve done, be ready to take the consequences, whatever they are. Sometimes it’s easier just to live with the guilt. And . . .”
Apollo waited. “And what?” he said eventually.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, I thought you were going to say something else.”
“No, no,” said Eros. He picked up his pad and pen and stood up. “Was that all you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I suppose so,” said Apollo.
“Well, I hope you feel better,” said Eros. “Anyway, I’d better go. There’s something I forgot to do, back at the church.”
And as Eros left the room, Apollo could see the wings under his sweater twitching and jumping in their haste to get him out of there.
29
EVERY TIME NEIL thought about his encounter with Artemis, he got upset. It wasn’t the thought that she didn’t believe what she had said to him; it was the thought that she did. There was something about her utter certainty that Alice still existed in another form and another place, and that somehow he could reach her there, that made him doubt. It made him doubt that Alice had really gone. And he didn’t want to doubt, because doubt made him hope, and the hope was more painful than the despair: it gave him more to lose.
So he decided that his meeting with Artemis would be the spur for him to Get Over It, Let Go, and Move On—the words were fixed in his head like a caption on a daytime talk show. He went to the supermarket. He called work and told them that he would be in at the beginning of the following week. And he forced himself to clean the entire flat the way Alice would have done it, even though every act of cleaning reminded him agonizingly of her. The only thing he couldn’t bring himself to do was to change the sheets that she had slept in. He knew he would have to do it eventually. Just not yet.
He was putting his laundry in the machine when the doorbell rang. His first instinct was to ignore it. There wasn’t anybody he wanted to see. But that wasn’t in the spirit of Getting Over It, Letting Go, and Moving On. So he dropped the rest of the dirty clothes on the floor and was just straightening up when the doorbell rang a second time, its intrusive shriek holding on for just a second longer than was necessary.
“I’m coming!” yelled Neil.
He took the keys off their hook by the door and went out into the chilly communal entrance hall, immediately regretting not having put on a sweater. Through the distorting glass of the front door he could see the silhouette of the caller raise its arm to ring the bell a third time. He leaped forward and pulled the door open before it had a chance. The caller dropped his arm in a gesture that was uncharacteristically sheepish.
“What the hell are you doing here?” said Neil.
“Hello,” said Apollo.
“How did you find out where I live?” said Neil.
“Hermes told me,” said Apollo.
“Hermes? But he’s supposed to be—” On my side, was the end of that thought, but it was swiftly overtaken by a new one: “How does Hermes know where I live?”
“It’s his job.”
“His job?”
Apollo didn’t elaborate. An arctic wind blew in off the street, lifting the hair on Neil’s arms and bringing him out in goose bumps the size of peas. He ignored it, crossed his arms, tried to look like the master of the house.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I, ah,” said Apollo. He shifted on his feet a bit, hands in his pockets. “I’m . . . Forget it. Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Neil repeated.
“Nothing,” Apollo confirmed.
“You found out my address and came all the way to Hackney for nothing?”
“That’s right,” said Apollo.
“Good-bye, then,” said Neil, going to close the door.
“Wait!” said Apollo. He locked his eyes on Neil’s in a way that reminded Neil of Artemis. “I do need to talk to you. Can I come in?”
Neil hesitated. He tried to look away but he couldn’t.
“Sure,” he found himself saying, apparently in direct contradiction to his will.
He pulled the door farther open rather than shutting it, and Apollo followed him down the corridor and into the flat. Neil shut the door behind them.
“Come through to the kitchen,” he said. “I for one could certainly do with a beer.”
Neil went to the kitchen, wondering what the hell he was doing. Behind him, Apollo was chattering nervously but politely about the flat. “Very cozy,” he heard him saying, “I like your carpet.” Neil couldn’t get the image of Alice kissing Apollo out of his head. Why had she done it? Of course, Apollo was far more handsome than Neil could ever hope to be. But Artemis had said that Alice wasn’t interested, that Apollo was very “persuasive.” Though why he should believe a thing that insane woman said was another matter. Still, Apollo did seem quite persuasive, Neil had to admit, as he opened the fridge and offered his archenemy a beer.
“No, thank you,” said Apollo.
Neil took a bottle out of the fridge for himself and they both sat down at the kitchen table.
“So,” said Neil. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
Apollo didn’t reply. Instead, he started scanning the room as if searching for an escape hatch.
“If you’d rather not be here,” said Neil, “feel free to leave.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Apollo. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” said Neil.
Apollo, who had eyeballed him so intensely on the doorstep, was now looking anywhere but at him. He had crossed his legs and was violently jiggling his hanging foot.
“It’s a nice flat,” said Apollo.
“Yes, you said that,” said Neil.
“Nice kitchen, very clean. Oh. Except for the dirty clothes.”
“Thanks,” said Neil.
Neil had thought that if he was ever in a room with Apollo again, he would be filled with a searing rage that could only end in bloodshed. Instead, he sat calmly as waves of anxiety flowed off his visitor.
“Well,” he said eventually, “it was lovely to see you again, but I have some things to do, so—”
“I’mverysorry,” said Apollo.
“Excuse me?” said Neil.
Apollo took a huge breath as if about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake for a relative of extremely advanced years.
“I’m. Very. Sorry.”
“You’re sorry,” said Neil.
Apollo smiled weakly. “Yes?” he ventured.
“What exactly are you sorry for?”
“Oh,” said Apollo. “Do I need a reason?”
“In general,” said Neil.
Neil watched as Apollo squirmed in his chair.
“I’m sorry that Alice is dead. There.”
“You’re sorry that Alice is dead?” said Neil. “Well, so am I. I’m very sorry that Alice is dead.”
Apollo nodded. “I forgive you,” he said.
“You—” said Neil. “You what?”
“I forgive you,” said Apollo. “I forgive you for Alice’s death.”
“You forgive me? That’s very good of you,” said Neil. “But I don’t need your for
giveness. I didn’t kill her. And even if I did, you wouldn’t be the right person to forgive me.”
“But you said you were sorry,” said Apollo.
“Not that kind of sorry,” said Neil.
“There’s more than one kind?” said Apollo.
“I’m not going to give you a class,” said Neil. “Apollo, what are you doing here?”
“I came to say sorry,” said Apollo.
“Well, you said it,” said Neil.
“But I think I might have said the wrong kind of sorry,” said Apollo.
“Well, try again,” said Neil, “and then please go home.”
Neil watched as Apollo visibly collected his thoughts. In all of the angry fantasies he had had about Apollo, in all of the jealous hours that he had spent imagining Apollo and Alice in congress and feeling inadequate as he compared his unimpressive form with Apollo’s glorious beauty, it had never once occurred to him that Apollo might be stupid.
“I kissed Alice,” said Apollo eventually.
“I know,” said Neil.
“You know?” said Apollo. “Really? Well, I’m sorry for that. No, I’m not. I’m not sorry for that at all. It was one of the finest moments of my life, and I have a lot to choose from. So I’m not sorry I kissed her. I loved her. And I know you loved her too, but—and I hope you don’t mind me pointing this out to you—I’m twice the man you are. More than twice. I am an infinite number of times the man you are.”
“Why on earth would I mind you pointing that out?”
“Exactly. It’s obvious to us both. So it was entirely reasonable for me to stake my claim.”
“Stick your flag into her, so to speak.”
“You shouldn’t feel bad about it,” said Apollo.
“Tell me something, Apollo,” said Neil. “Did Alice like you kissing her?”
Apollo bit his lip, considering.
“She liked it,” he said. “She just didn’t know that she liked it.”
“Then I think you should be sorry,” said Neil, “but you’re apologizing to the wrong person.”
Marie Phillips Page 18