“Can you see me?” Ronny asked.
“Yes. I can see your hands and your face.”
“Good.”
Ronny bent over and took hold of one of his white shoes. Jim could see that his hands were shaking.
“Remember on the bridge, when you asked me about my shoes?”
Jim nodded. Ronny pulled off his shoe.
“Look.”
Jim squinted in the darkness. He saw the pale outline of Ronny’s foot. It was a long foot and delicately boned, but it was not like other feet he’d seen. It tapered.
“No big toe,” Ronny said, his voice expressionless, “on either foot.”
Jim’s mouth went dry.
“What happened?” he managed.
Ronny smiled. “Nothing. I never had any.”
Jim continued to stare at Ronny’s foot. “It must be difficult to balance,” he said eventually.
“You have no face, Jim,” Ronny observed fondly, “not this close up. Just a red glow.”
“Maybe you damaged your cornea.”
“Tell me she isn’t dead.”
“What?” Jim’s throat tightened and his shoulders rose defensively.
“I had this strong feeling, all along, that she was dead. Tell me she isn’t.”
Jim stood up, but with difficulty. “I think I hear something outside,” he said.
“Tell me nothing terrible happened.” Ronny dropped his shoe. He tried to pick it up again but his hand wouldn’t seem to work properly.
“Nothing terrible happened,” Jim whispered, but he couldn’t breathe. Everything was closing in.
“I was looking for a knife before,” Ronny mused, “to smooth the putty on the back wall. I couldn’t find one. Not in the drawer. Not in the sink. I thought that must mean something.”
Jim cleared his throat. “But you were doing a great job with the trowel.”
He went to the window. “I think a car’s pulled up outside. Everything’s brighter. That must be the headlights.”
“It’s the moon.”
“Don’t you hear voices? I hear them.”
Jim pushed the nets aside and peered out. Ronny stood up too. He began to walk over.
“No,” Jim said suddenly, “don’t come any closer.”
But Ronny kept walking. “Keep away from the window!” Jim cried, turning, and throwing out his arms to ward Ronny off, to try and shield him, but Ronny would not be directed and he would not be protected. He stopped, stood firm and stared blankly over Jim’s shoulder as one, two, three, four shots rang out.
♦
All in the chest. She was a great shot. Luke was crushed up against the wall of his prefab. Lily was out of the car and prancing. Nathan was standing on the driver’s side, his ears still reverberating from the sound of gunfire.
“Is it dead?” Luke asked, finally starting to inhale again. Lily walked over.
“Be careful!” Sara yelled. Her voice was higher than usual.
“It’s still breathing,” Lily observed, “big slow breaths.”
Luke moved forward. He brushed past Sara. “I didn’t even see it, but the noise it made! That squeal! And it kept on running once you’d shot at it. I thought it would never stop.”
“They always do that,” Sara said softly. “They’re almost too tough. They fight so hard for every inch of ground.”
“If we hadn’t turned the car, I’d never have spotted him,” Lily said, squatting down.
Luke drew closer to the boar.
“I haven’t ever seen one before,” he murmured, “not in the flesh. It’s a giant. Is it really still alive?”
“All four bullets hit the chest,” Lily said. “I see the fucker stewed, I see it minced, I see it roasted…”
Her initial euphoria began to wane though at the sight of this huge, dismantled, panting creature.
“Come on, die,” she mumbled, almost furtively.
“I’m glad we followed you now,” Sara said, carefully putting the gun’s safety catch back on. Luke crouched over the beast, still gazing in wonder at the size of it. Nathan, too, had finally strolled over.
“And I’m very grateful that you drove us,” Sara added, turning to him.
“It was nothing.” Nathan remained cautious. “So is it dead yet?”
“Its chest is still heaving,” Nathan said, taking a tentative step back just as the prefab door flew open and Ronny rushed out.
He clattered towards them unsteadily. He wore only one shoe.
“I don’t understand…” his voice was soft but ragged, “he was just staring out at the sea. He was so peaceful. He meant no harm to anyone…”
“If he was just staring out to sea,” Luke interjected, “how come all the shots are in his chest?”
“He turned around, that’s all. He didn’t understand the commotion…”
Jim stood in the open doorway, watching but saying nothing.
“It would’ve ended this way eventually,” Lily said gently, her original triumphalism now almost completely abandoned.
Ronny fell to his knees alongside the boar. “His eyes are open. And his mouth. Why won’t he die? Shoot him again,” he looked up at Sara, imploringly, “just finish him.”
Sara didn’t move.
“He’s in pain. He’s in painl I can’t stand it!”
Nathan took another step back. He didn’t want to be noticed or involved or implicated. But Ronny saw something moving, in the mesh of shadows between the prefabs. He glanced over at Nathan for a second, then his sore eyes returned inexorably to the boar.
Jim turned too. His eyes were fine. And with his two fine eyes he saw his only brother.
Nathan. Smaller than he remembered him. Older now. With less hair, and looking so much like their father…But gentle. Nathan stared back, his expression anything but brotherly. It was hard, angry, distant. His face expressed his gut’s instinct; his every familiar feature studiously riveted into hard lines of disdain. His mouth curled, instinctively, as if he’d just taken a slug of stale milk. Nothing was forgotten. Nothing had diminished. Jim saw his whole sad, grim, paltry life in the sudden, tiny, bolshy lift of Nathan’s jaw.
The boar, meanwhile, took one, deep, shuddering breath and then all its breathing ended.
“It’s over, Ronny,” Lily said, and put out her hand to touch his arm. Ronny yanked his arm away.
“We’ll need to move the carcass somehow,” Sara said, trying to be practical in the face of Ronny’s emotional intervention, “and he’ll weigh a ton.”
Ronny clambered to his feet, turned, staggered back past Jim and into the prefab, slamming the door behind him.
“Jim?” Luke spoke. “Will you give us a hand?”
Jim remained where he was, apparently bewildered, saying nothing.
“I have something back at the farm which’ll make the whole thing easier,” Sara said. “It’s a kind of manual forklift. We should head on back and fetch it.”
Luke put out a tentative hand to feel the texture of the boar’s pelt. It was rough, like shredded bark. The flesh underneath was still warm to the touch. He had forgotten how cold he was, and how wet. But it was still cold and it was still raining.
Jim put his own hand behind him and felt for the door handle. His fingers gripped it. He pressed it down, pushed it back and then manoeuvred himself slowly into the prefab, shutting the door gently, very gently, in front of him.
Ronny stood in the middle of the living room struggling to remove the letters from his belt.
“Turn on the light,” he said, his voice all torn.
“Not yet,” Jim whispered.
“Yes. Right now. Turn it on.”
Jim switched on the light. It was a cruel light. Everything was suddenly sharp and hideous and multi-dimensional. Even Ronny, who pulled open letter after letter, identified each one as best he could and then cast them into a heap on the floor at his feet. Eventually he reached the shortest of them all. The last letter. He held it out to Jim.
“Read i
t to me,” he said, “my eyes are ruined.”
“Not now,” Jim said weakly.
Everything appeared too bright but too bleary. His eyes were salt-sodden. His smooth cheeks were a clear ski-run of tears.
Ronny didn’t move. He didn’t give in. He continued to hold out the letter defiantly, while Jim shuffled past, head bowed, shoulders hunched, looking as though every inch of his own battered will had finally upped and died inside him.
∨ Wide Open ∧
Forty-Four
They faced each other like two spiteful, glimmering starlings across the length of the kitchen. Lily’s arms were stretched around a large, slightly battered cardboard box, which she rested on the table but refused to release. Connie stood next to the Aga, glad to have the table between them.
Sara ran in – with the gun, which she carefully unloaded and locked away – then picked up some keys and headed straight out again.
“We killed it,” Lily announced brashly, “on the beach.”
Connie gave her a thin smile.
“And I saw you in the road with Ronny before…”
“With Ronny?” Connie shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
Lily’s eyes tightened. “I’m not stupid. I saw you.”
“But I wasn’t with Ronny,” Connie stuck her two hands defiantly into the pockets of her robe, “which means that, yes, Lily, you must be pretty stupid.”
“That’s my father’s bathrobe,” Lily said thickly, “take it off.”
“Gladly.” Connie pulled off the bathrobe and dropped it on to the floor. She wore nothing under it.
“Happy now?”
Lily was not happy. Connie was so neat, so little. She hated her for it. Her completeness. “Why won’t you leave Ronny alone?” she snarled. “He doesn’t like you. He doesn’t trust you. None of us do.”
“You’re breaking my heart,” Connie grinned. “You’re snapping it in two. You stole my letters and now you feel the need to lecture me on issues of trust?”
Lily growled, grabbed the box and headed upstairs with it.
Once she had gone, Connie’s grin disintegrated. She pulled the robe back on again. She was shivering. She walked to the doorway. Outside she could see Sara unlocking one of the larger outhouses and Nathan, sitting inside his car with the door wide and the light on. He was staring straight ahead of him, through the windscreen. Into the rain and the darkness beyond it.
Connie wrapped the robe tight around her and then jogged out to the car, still barefoot. She climbed in on the passenger side. “I can’t pretend to understand any of this, Nathan,” she said calmly, slamming the door shut behind her. “How about you?”
Nathan did not look quite himself. He seemed ravaged. He didn’t make eye contact. “You probably won’t believe me,” he said, reaching out and closing his own door, “but I didn’t know Ronny would be here.”
“Did you see him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. We didn’t speak.”
“Then why did you come if not for Ronny?”
Nathan had a book on his lap. His hands were stretched across it.
“I came for you. I needed to show you something.”
“Me?”
He passed Connie the book. She took it, handled it briefly, closed her eyes and sniffed it.
“Italian,” she said, exhaling.
“Why do people always do that?”
Nathan thought of Laura for a split second. Poor Laura.
“It’s a hardback,” Connie fingered the book’s spine. “I love the aroma of hardbacks. Especially art books. They smell like wax and hamsters. My dad used to buy books like this. Our house is still full of them.”
Nathan reached out his hand and pulled the book open at a place marked by the jacket flap. Then he glanced up and admired Connie’s fine little face in profile. She seemed exhausted. He felt a strong urge to stroke her cheek. But instead, to compensate, he stroked his one hand with his other.
Connie’s eyes gradually ingested the glossy illustration. “That’s Jesus,” she said finally, “and he’s gorgeous.”
Nathan opened his mouth to say something but was pipped at the post by Sara, who suddenly materialized at Connie’s window, rapped on it and tried the door handle. The door opened.
“You’ll catch your death wearing only that thing,” she muttered tartly. “Where’s Lily?”
Connie closed the book. “Inside. Upstairs.”
“I’ll need her to give me a hand with the carcass. And you…” she leaned forward, “you too, Nathan, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”
“No,” Nathan said, automatically, “I don’t mind.”
Connie peered over at him. He looked like he minded.
♦
Lily placed the box on her bed and sat down next to it, her expression staunch, but cautious, as if she and the box were on a first date together and she wasn’t exactly sure what its intentions might be. She stared at it for a long while, quite gravely, and then stood up, walked over to her chest of drawers, opened the third drawer down and inspected its contents. She picked up a penknife – but she was frowning as she handled it – then rifled with great care through the rest of the drawer’s jumble. For all her carefulness, she failed to locate what she wanted and finally, abandoning her search, huffed frustratedly.
She went and sat down on the bed again, repositioned the penknife in her hand, pulled it open, but instead of applying it to the box, applied it lightly to the very tip of her own tongue.
“Ow!”
The blade was sharp. She blotted her tongue on to her hand and studied her damp skin to see if any trace of blood remained. None. She smiled, then took the knife and applied it with a grand flourish to the brown tape on the box. She cut with a light, measured stroke; one side, two sides, three sides. She snapped the knife back into its shell and dropped it carelessly on to the counterpane.
She stared at the box again, took a deep, preparatory breath and then reached out a tentative hand to pull the flap open.
“Lily!”
Connie’s voice, in the hall.
She frowned.
“Lily!”
Connie’s voice again, on the stair.
“What?” she barked.
“Your mother wants you. She’s outside.”
“Tell her I’m busy.”
“Tell her yourself. They’re heading back down to the beach again to fetch the carcass.”
Lily said nothing.
“If you don’t want to help them then I’ll go.”
“No!” Lily stood up. “Tell her I’m coming.”
She yanked on her shoes, picked up her rain mac, slung it over her shoulder, and was just about to leave her room when something struck her. She turned and stared at the box on her bed. She grimaced. She took the key from the small lock on the inside of her bedroom door, reached around and pushed it into the outside lock. She turned off her light, closed the door behind her, twisted the key and pocketed it.
Connie sat at the kitchen table with Nathan’s book closed in front of her. She heard Lily cantering down the stairs, the front door slamming and a short while after the sound of a car’s engine firing. Her nose was running. She sniffed. She went upstairs to the bathroom for a tissue, but instead of finding herself at the bathroom door, she found herself turning the handle to Lily’s room. Jammed. She twisted the handle and pushed a little harder. Not jammed, locked. She kicked the door.
“Damn her!”
She went into her bedroom, took off the robe and pulled on some jeans and a jumper. She sneezed. Her eyes began watering. She cleared her throat but it would not clear completely. She went into the bathroom and lapped at some water from the cold tap.
On her way back downstairs she thought she heard something. A knock. A clatter. In the kitchen? Perhaps it was Sara, home again, having forgotten something? She tried to recollect whether she’d left the back door open. It’s a cold night, she thought, a w
et night. Her nose was still running. She blotted at it with a fistful of toilet paper, then slowly made her way down the last of the stairs. She paused for a moment in the hallway and listened. Everything was still.
The door through to the kitchen was slightly ajar. She pushed it with her foot and walked inside. The light was on. The Aga grumbled. It was still warm, but the back door was swinging on its hinges. She walked over and closed it, then returned to the table.
Nathan’s book. She put out her hand and pulled it open. The beautiful Jesus. She looked more closely. His eyes were closed. His mouth was open. Why should that one particular combination prove so fiendishly sexy? She smiled to herself, slightly perplexed. The wound under his right nipple…wasn’t it too artificial-looking? Too gaudily ornate? And the sparse cloth barely covering his groin? Creased with the precision of a concertina. A red-head. Jesus? And the angel. His small face so tragic, his arm so protective, and the delicate tracing of a single tear…
A slight sound. So slight a sound that it was barely anything. A panting, perhaps. The sound of fur touching something. A boot? A broom? Connie turned from the book, very slowly, and glanced around her. She saw the wall, the door, the refrigerator, the dresser, the old kitchen clock. Nothing else. Nothing.
Her eyes returned to the book. The sky was blue. No sun was visible in the painting, but even so she could almost feel the warmth of it. She’d never imagined the crucifixion as a sultry, sensual, balmy affair before. Never. But here it was, and it was all of these things.
A clanking. This time Connie’s eyes flew straight to it. A small weeding fork leaning up against a wicker basket containing potatoes and carrot tops. It had fallen over. The fork. She was afraid, and fear made her move towards it. She bent over and picked it up. It was old and muddy with three small prongs.
She detected an even softer bumping, directly to her left. The kitchen table. The chairs. Their legs. They shifted, once, with a little clatter. Connie sprang backwards. Whatever this creature was it was surely a tiny thing. It was a little thing. It was nothing. But it was strange. She felt as if her whole heart had lifted. It felt higher than usual. And it was beating away inside her like a wooden spoon against an empty dish. In fact it was all she could do not to reverberate with it. Her hands were shaking as she held the fork up high in front of her.
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