Wake

by Elizabeth Knox

  Bub and Jacob arrived and, with difficulty, wrestled William away from Sam. Theresa let go of him. Bub wrenched William’s arms up behind his back and forced him down onto the carpet on his knees.

  Sam was now sobbing, fearful and heartbroken. There was a strange smell in the corridor—as if someone had opened the door on a freezer used to store something inorganic. It was very like the scent Theresa sometimes got a faint whiff of whenever she was near the No-Go.

  One of Bub’s elbows was jammed against the back of William’s neck, forcing his face towards the floor.

  William began to shout. ‘You crazy bitch! Before you fucking started in with your manipulations you should have done some reading! No one believes in fucking Multiple Personality Disorder any more. It isn’t even in the DSM Four!’

  William was articulate even when nakedly enraged. He tried to buck Bub off and they both collapsed sideways onto the carpet. Bub threw a leg over William and got him in a chokehold. Theresa hesitated, looking for a safe place to lay a hand on to help, and chose to grab a handful of the thick hair on his crown. ‘Easy,’ she said.

  Just about everyone else was, by that time, standing in the doorways of their rooms and looking on.

  Jacob picked Sam up and carried her to an empty chair in an alcove. Belle darted in to pick up Sam’s blanket and return it to her.

  Bub said, through gritted teeth and grunts of effort, ‘I’ll let go when you let up, buddy.’

  William stopped fighting. He lay still.

  ‘Are you going to be good?’ Bub said.

  William stayed quiet and Bub loosened his hold. He let William straighten, but didn’t release him.

  Sam was sobbing. She was trying to say something too, her voice so broken and mushy that it took Theresa a while to work it out. ‘What did she do?’ Sam asked, apparently in an agony of confusion. ‘What did she do?’

  ‘What did you do,’ William said—correcting Sam, not questioning her. ‘You did it.’

  ‘No. You did, buddy,’ Bub said. ‘And you’d better not do it again or I’ll give you the bash!’

  William ignored Bub. He concentrated on Sam. ‘You should’ve read the latest research before you came up with your little bit of theatre. The current view is that Dissociative Identity Disorder is a creative strategy a damaged person uses to try to express the painful truths of their history. But I think it’s all histrionic attention-seeking. What did you think I’d feel?’

  ‘You are so out of line that you’re out of orbit!’ Theresa said. She poked William in the sternum with her index finger. ‘You have issues.’ Jab. ‘You can keep your issues to yourself.’ Jab. ‘I take a very dim view of partner abuse.’ Jab. ‘So watch it!’ Jab, jab.

  William ignored her too. He glared at Sam’s slack, miserable face. ‘Are you following me? Or have you conveniently reverted to the Sam who hasn’t a hope of following me?’

  ‘William,’ Sam sobbed. She was pleading.

  ‘Stay away from me,’ William said. Then he looked down at the floor and became still, haughty, inward.

  Bub continued for a time to pester William with threats, then pleas for promises—‘Promise you’re done. Promise to behave’—till finally he ran out of anger, or self-confidence, or whatever had carried him through the confrontation, and let William go.

  William straightened his clothes and, without another word, stalked through the gathered onlookers into his room, slamming the door.

  ‘That guy has fucking lost it,’ Belle said. ‘Perhaps we should shut him up somewhere.’

  Bub gave a whoop. ‘Yeah, and feed him meat on a stick!’

  ‘And hose him down when he’s dirty,’ Belle said.

  They began to laugh, semi-hysterical.

  ‘Would you two just chill,’ Jacob said. Sam had her face against his neck and was lost in noisy grief.

  ‘Let’s get her into her bed,’ Theresa said to Jacob. They led Sam to her room, speaking to her gently, Jacob saying, ‘Are you injured?’ and Theresa saying, ‘You should just stay away from William.’

  A few days later Curtis arrived at the spa and asked if he could please see Jacob in private.

  They retired to the treatment room. As Curtis undressed, he explained his problem. He was careful to use the word ‘bruise’ instead of ‘rot’. He felt confident that Jacob would see for himself what the problem was. He didn’t want to inadvertently provide Jacob with cues and stop him seeing what was actually there to be seen.

  The room’s lights were all soft-toned, recessed halogens—not the best for an examination—but there was a magnifying glass framed by a fluorescent tube which, presumably, had been used by the spa’s beauticians to inspect sun damage, enlarged pores, wrinkles, and spider veins.

  Jacob asked Curtis to take a seat in one of the recliners. He positioned the magnifier.

  The room wasn’t cold, but Curtis found he was shivering. It was difficult to suppress his disgust at the sight of his own reflection in one of the room’s kindly mirrors. His skin was darkened by a puce webbing of diseased flesh. He said, ‘The thing that alarms me most is the absence of pain.’

  Jacob moved the jointed arm of the magnifier to another position. He peered closely at Curtis’s thighs.

  ‘When I run my hand down my leg the flesh feels quilted, as if there’s stitching along all the dark places,’ Curtis said. ‘As if someone made me.’

  Jacob, his head down over the lens, said, ‘Honestly, Curtis, all I can see are one or two bruises. Their persistence might be due to a lack of vitamin C. Stress will make your body chew through vitamin C and B. And we’re not getting enough fresh fruit and vegetables. I can’t wait till Holly’s garden starts producing. Tell me—have you been eating canned fruit with your cereal?’

  ‘I’ve been off my food. That can be dealt with. But, Jacob, is it really a good idea to just reassure me about the other thing?’

  Jacob straightened to look him in the eye. The man seemed perplexed. ‘Your circulation might be a little under par. But are these bruises of yours really bad enough to be giving you all this bother?’

  The darkening on Curtis’s legs seemed to swarm, as if he was seeing something without substance, like shadows cast on a sandy streambed by the twists and dimples in the current. He rubbed his eyes.

  Jacob noticed this and asked, ‘Have you got floaters? Dark motes in your field of vision?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘That could make you see blotches where there aren’t any.’ Jacob sounded hopeful. ‘The blotches would move. Are they moving?’

  Curtis watched the darkness ooze. It looked like bloodied water moving in a vacuum-sealed meat pack. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well—there you go,’ Jacob said. He explained that floaters near Curtis’s optic nerves could be another result of stress. ‘Stress has vascular effects. Perhaps you’re only noticing and minding because you’re such a visual person.’

  ‘You talk as if I’m complaining about a poor-quality print of one of my films,’ Curtis said.

  Jacob laughed. ‘Look. I’ll give you some multivitamins. Get dressed now. You should probably spend the day sunning yourself on your porch. But stick to the Bed and Breakfast. We’ll be out again today with our guns.’

  Jacob walked Curtis to the front door. As they passed the dining room Holly spotted them and hurried out, wiping her hands on her apron. ‘Curtis! How lovely to see you. I was about to bring you your bread. If you wait a moment I’ll go get it.’

  ‘I’m sorry to deprive you of an opportunity to visit.’

  Jacob glanced at Curtis. There was something unpleasant in the man’s tone, something smug and sly.

  Holly blushed. ‘Oh—that’s all right—I’ll just go get your loaf.’ She set off towards the kitchen.

  Jacob was puzzled. It seemed that Curtis wanted reassurance, but not looking after.

 
When Holly returned, with the bread wrapped in a clean tea towel, Curtis accepted it from her but didn’t say thank you. Instead he looked at Jacob and said, ‘Holly is wooing me.’

  Holly stiffened. Her blush drained away. ‘I’m not,’ she said. Then her eyes filled and she muttered, ‘Excuse me,’ and bolted up the stairs.

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘She keeps turning up with baked goods. She fusses about my kitchen, sniffing the butter, and saying inane things like, “A man shouldn’t have to cook for himself.”’

  ‘She means well.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Curtis said, ‘You all want something from me.’

  Jacob gaped. He couldn’t think of a reply.

  Curtis walked off with a limp, hugging his loaf of bread.

  The first thing Jacob did when he came in from the day’s hunt was go to find Holly.

  She was at a table in the dining room, spreading tomato seeds on paper towels. She glanced up. ‘I’m drying them for planting. I’m going to make another vege bed. And I’ve been foraging further afield, not just taking my daily—Theresa-approved—trip to the supermarket. I’ve been making an inventory of freezers in the cleared houses. We have to organise our provisions. For instance, we should save all the canned food. Within twelve months everything in the freezers will have gone off. Theresa thinks I’m being bizarre, talking about twelve months. But since it’s my job to feed everyone, I’m obliged to think that far ahead. If you people fail to find the man in black, or he turns out to be no help, then at least there’ll be some plan in place to keep everyone from malnutrition.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Jacob. Then, ‘How are you?’

  ‘Don’t fuss, Jacob.’

  ‘Curtis was totally out of line.’

  ‘He’s grieving,’ Holly said. ‘It’s understandable.’ She paused a moment, then added, ‘And forgivable.’

  Jacob went away to wash up and Holly sat wondering how she was really.

  When she was a girl the news sometimes used to make her cry. Her mother would switch off the television and say, ‘Don’t get so carried away, Holly. You may have strong feelings about what is happening in Somalia, but when you sit crying in my living room you’re only imposing those strong feelings on your family.’

  Holly was going to try very, very hard not to do that. She couldn’t communicate her feelings, so she mustn’t impose them. She had really felt for Curtis, but her mouth was always full of empty politeness. And Curtis didn’t want to talk to her. He didn’t want to talk to any of them.

  ‘Holly is wooing me.’ The shame of that! And it was the only thing he’d ever had to say about her. Curtis seemed to despise even the few things the other survivors had been able to do for him. Adele’s grave. Her baking.

  Holly wrenched her attention away from her feelings and concentrated on her task. It was a worthwhile one. She felt that she was being sane in her aims, and farsighted. But, as the days of confinement had gone by, she’d catch herself repeating herself, checking whether the oven was off over and over again, or making exhaustive inventories of Jacob’s filing boxes of medications. Once, when Jacob caught her doing it and asked whether something was missing, she’d snapped at him. ‘Aren’t they normally locked away? Don’t you and I have the only keys?’ Then, ‘Warren has had plenty of opportunities to go through houses for himself, looking for drugs, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’

  Jacob had held up his hands, palms out, and said that he hadn’t meant to suggest anything—certainly not that his friend had been dipping into their store of medications. He was only concerned to find Holly going through the drugs again.

  Holly was worried herself about this panicky compulsion to keep checking things, to keep counting under her breath, her count a charm against disorder. She was doing it again tonight. Sorting. Counting. Trying to blot out the voice that kept saying, ‘Holly is wooing me.’

  *

  Jacob sat down on the couch with Dan and Oscar, who were trying to watch a DVD. Warren started to talk, trying to make sense of things, though nothing immediate, nothing on the screen. He spoke as if he and Jacob were alone in the room. ‘Piri’s tangi seems so long ago,’ he said, slurring. ‘Wasn’t it shitty that only five of his old mates bothered to come? Hey—did you notice how the other guys all had big guts sitting on their belts?’

  ‘Did they?’ said Jacob.

  ‘Yep, going to pieces. You know, I reckon Piri might have preferred a wake—something less solemn. Do you think it’s right to be so solemn?’

  Jacob rubbed his palm across his mouth, determined not to answer—because, of course, he did have an opinion. He kept thinking about the daycare centre. He kept waiting for the tide to recede, a king-tide of horror and disgust, of pity, and distressed tenderness. There didn’t seem to be any way to be about the dead. Gentleness was useless. Formality was useless. Solemnity or celebration—it was all useless.

  He’d escorted Belle that afternoon when she went to feed her kakapo. The reserve’s fence would be very difficult to scale without a long ladder, so Theresa had thought it safe to assume that the man wasn’t hiding in there. Still, just to make sure, she’d sent them to patrol the inside of the fence, checking for ladders or ropes. A full circuit took four hours and Jacob was pretty tired. Too tired to go on thinking.

  Oscar complained that his legs ached. ‘I need to go out for a bike ride,’ he said. ‘I hate being cooped up.’ Someone suggested he make use of the stationary bike in the gym, and he pressed his lips together and set off around the building, peering out through the dark windows as if he hoped to catch the view at something illicit.

  *

  Lily was already in bed, worn out and asleep, her exhaustion a hammock she’d hung over the fizzing abyss of everyone else’s sleeplessness.

  William was in his room, a little drunk, his phone plugged into the room’s stereo, listening to something sufficiently big and real—Schubert—and deaf to Sam who was standing at his door, alternately knocking and pressing her ear to the wood to listen.

  Bub and Theresa were sitting on the terrace. It was chilly and they were wrapped in coats. They were trying to make plans about what might come next, if catching the man in black and asking him questions didn’t solve all their problems. Theresa said that she thought they should move the last of the cars from the supermarket parking lot, and paint the concrete some pale colour—they could easily get enough paint by scavenging in people’s sheds and garages. They could run a power cable out from the supermarket and set up some big lights, then use the lights and the reflector of painted concrete to send messages. If they didn’t manage to find Morse surely they could devise their own code of short and long flashes? ‘With the simplest combinations representing the most commonly used letters. Like SOS—three dots, three dashes, three dots.’

  ‘That sounds right. Not much point us sending that though. I’m pretty sure they know we’re in trouble.’

  Theresa went to the rail and looked up. It was a fine night and the stars were visible, though blurred and melting. She picked up the pair of binoculars that lived on the terrace, and pointed them at the zenith. That part of the sky had a particular look; the air was like clear oil roiling in clear water. She moved her head to focus the binoculars on the place where the stars began to streak and run, then, further down the sky, where black space and bright stars smeared together into a dark glassiness. She said, ‘I think we have to concentrate on the satellites.’

  Bub fetched a blotter pad from the manager’s office, and sat down to nut out some code.

  Theresa finally took herself off to bed. As she passed Sam she said, ‘For God’s sake girl, have some pride!’

  Kate put away her knitting and climbed the stairs.

  Jacob asked Dan to give him a hand with Warren.

  Holly told Bub that she would
put out the lights; he should get to bed.

  Bub found Sam still sitting on the floor of the hallway, her cheek pressed to William’s door. ‘I hope you don’t mean to stay there all night,’ Bub said. He was very irritated with her. How could she bear to be so abject?

  Bub went on to his room, where Belle was waiting for him, the ends of her hair still damp from her shower. She was rosy, and smiling.

  Sam let Bub shoo her back to her room, where she waited for everyone to go to bed so that she could return to her post at William’s door. She paced her room, chafed by its emptiness. She wasn’t thinking, only feeling. Her heart had stopped and she was still upright. She was her body and she hadn’t known it. William’s door was what kept her from him, but, in his absence, it acted as a surrogate for William. She could lean against it. It had a texture and a temperature and a taste—she had pressed her mouth to it. Without something to touch, something standing in for William, Sam was left with the memory of his rebuff—how he shook her hands off when she tried to touch him. His disdain, his pressed-together lips, wrinkled nose, squinting eyes. That was disgust—Sam had seen that look often enough on his face when they were going house to house, cleaning up.

  Sam had liked her job at Mary Whitaker. Every morning Snow would say, ‘Here’s my girl!’ and Mrs Craig would have a story about her grandson in Saudi Arabia. And Sam was sure that, even when changing Mrs Collins’s bed sheets or wiping shit from poor partly-sighted Mrs Healey’s bathroom light switch, she’d never have made that face.

  William had held her, and held her down, and his body would go hard all over when he came. He did things to her she’d never dare to ask anyone to do, and other things she’d not dreamed people did, or that she’d like. Bits of her weren’t her own any more. They were his. She’d showered many times—days had gone by after all—but she could still smell him. She was inside a ghost of him with nothing solid to touch, not even—while she waited for the hallway to clear and everyone to go to bed—his door to press and scratch and whisper at.