by Alex Preston
‘To mourn? So she doesn’t think Lee’s coming back?’
‘Do you?’
Marcus offered Mouse a cigarette. Mouse took it and lit it. He opened the window beside them a crack and they flicked their ash out into the night.
‘I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but Sally Nightingale found some books at Lee’s flat. Some diaries. Lee was terribly sad, poor thing. I always knew that she was prone to these slumps, but I suppose I just thought she got down like we all do. Or maybe that she was a little more sensitive than us, you know? That she felt things more acutely, but never that she was so low as to do this.’
Darwin had finished his tuna and was struggling to climb up onto the bench. Marcus cupped a hand under his tummy and lifted him into his lap.
‘I wouldn’t give up hope yet. People write things sometimes just to see how they look. Not everything that is written is meant.’
‘I know, I know. But the pictures of men. So many of them. I suppose I had always hoped that she was secretly chaste. That the men who went home with her were made to sleep out on the terrace or something. And some of them so old and ugly – I saw the photos. It makes me wonder quite why it was she never looked at me.’
They sat in silence for a while. A barge chugged past, rocking the boat with its wake, causing Darwin to stir in his sleep. Marcus eased the dog onto the bench beside him and walked out to the supermarket to buy more wine. He picked out a bottle of good Burgundy and made it to the boat just as it began to rain. Mouse was standing in the tiny kitchen stirring a bowl of pasta when Marcus arrived.
‘You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?’ he asked.
They sat and ate and the rain pounded down on the roof above them. Marcus peered out onto the water of the canal and saw it dancing with the torrent that was pouring down from the sky. He realised at once how cosy and how lonely Mouse’s life out here was. He turned back to his friend.
‘Who called you Mouse? Who gave you the nickname?’
Mouse thought for a moment. Marcus settled back down on the bench beside Darwin.
‘I suppose I did. It was when I was at school in Scotland and obsessed with The Wind in the Willows. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that there was some terrible sadness behind the story. Even in the joyous parts, there’s a kind of elegiac quality to it, and finally I read a biography of Kenneth Grahame and it all made sense.
‘Mouse was the name of Kenneth Grahame’s son. Or actually Mouse was the nickname his dad gave him. His real name was Alastair too, you know? I took my nickname as a kind of homage to him. The Wind in the Willows was written for Mouse.’
The sound of the rain on the roof grew louder. The wind blew and the boat rocked. Mouse drew back a corner of curtain, looked out into the night, and then let it drop back. He shivered, then continued.
‘Mouse had been born partially blind, and his dad told him bedtime stories that he’d made up during weekend walks along the riverbank. Because he was sad that his son couldn’t see everything in nature and appreciate the walks with him. Anyway, these bedtime stories turned into The Wind in the Willows. And then when Mouse went away to boarding school, Grahame continued to tell the stories in letters he’d write to him every week. Mr Toad was based upon his son, who used to get taken up in new pursuits and then discard them as soon as something more exciting came along. I suppose all children are a bit like that.
‘Despite Mouse’s eyesight, and because of his dad’s help and encouragement, wee Mouse was accepted into Oxford when he was seventeen. The letters with the stories about Mr Toad and Mole and Ratty continued when Mouse was at university. And then nobody knows what happened. It was maybe a suicide pact with a gay lover, maybe an accident. I like to think it was the pressure of being his dad’s only child, of having his dad smother him, that did it. He lay down on a railway track and killed himself.
‘I like the fact that The Wind in the Willows is so innocent, so completely removed from everyday concerns and troubles, and yet the story behind it is so dark and heartbreaking. A bit like Lee, I suppose. Everyone who met her thought she was this wonderful, lively girl. Those eyes . . . I’d see people look into her eyes and be transported. But behind it all she was struggling with terrible demons, unable to face the world.’
When they finished dinner it was still raining and Marcus couldn’t face going into the night. Mouse got out a Scrabble board and they played until the bottle of wine was empty. Mouse searched in the cupboards in the kitchen and found a litre of gin. There was no tonic and so they mixed it with orange juice. Soon they were both quietly drunk. Marcus let Darwin out into the storm for a moment. The dog trotted up the riverbank, sniffing the ground, then came back to the boat, soaking wet. Marcus wrapped him in a dishcloth and towelled him dry. He laid him down on the bench and he fell asleep again.
‘You can top and tail with me if you like,’ Mouse said. ‘You don’t want to go out in this rain.’
‘That’d be great. Thanks.’
Marcus brushed his teeth with his finger in the minute bathroom, then took a long piss, breathing through his mouth to avoid the chemical stench of the toilet. When he got back into the main cabin, Mouse was already lying in bed. Mouse’s head was squashed against the curve of the ship’s hull and he wriggled under the covers, trying to get comfortable. Marcus stripped down to his boxer shorts and lay with his back against Mouse’s legs, his face pressed into the musty cushion that Mouse had given him as a pillow. The boat moved every so often as gusts of wind swept along the water’s surface. The rain continued to drum on the roof and Marcus could hear the trees on the opposite bank whipped by the wind.
‘Do you still believe in the Course, sport? Are you glad you’re a member?’ Mouse asked.
Marcus had thought that his friend was asleep. He turned onto his back and stared up into the darkness.
‘I don’t know. I felt very strongly about it at first. After that first Retreat – what? – five years ago, I was evangelical, totally committed. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘Why not? What has changed?’
‘The Course was about us. About the four of us. I thought it made us better people. I thought it gave us something we desperately needed. But look at us. Abby and I are falling apart. I really think it might be over between us. You’re not happy, I know you aren’t. And as for Lee . . .’
Mouse sat up in bed.
‘Lee was a mess. And I’m as happy as I’m ever going to be. And as for you and Abby, you’ll get over it. You’ve gotten over worse in the past.’
‘OK, but how much of Lee was the Course’s fault? And those new members. They look so young. They’re just kids. And they are being told that they can’t have sex, and they can’t be gay, and they have to strive towards perfection. The idea that we’re telling kids who are barely out of their teens that they’ll go to hell if they fuck someone at a party . . . I just don’t think it’s right, Mouse. I don’t think I’ve ever thought it was right, but I just avoided thinking about it.’
‘People need the Course. Look at the way they embrace it. It answers a fundamental need.’
‘Just because people need something, doesn’t mean we should give it to them. I’m going to have to do some thinking. Shit, I don’t know. I miss Abby.’
He felt Mouse reach over and pat his thigh.
‘You’ll get Abby back by staying true to the Course. Being over in the States, seeing how people are embracing it over there, that’s what she needs at the moment. She believes in this more than any of us. More than David, even. Who knows, the two of you could be the next David and Sally. I know that’s what Abby wants.’
Marcus drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the boat and the sound of rain on the fibreglass roof. The wind lifted small, tightly packed waves on the surface of the canal and sent them slapping against the boat’s hull. Once, the huge gasometer let out a mournful sigh and Marcus turned over, his face pressed against Mouse’s small feet. Darwin snored, curled up on a pile of M
ouse’s jumpers in a corner.
Marcus wandered through inchoate, directionless dreams. A noise reached through to his dream-world. He stirred in his sleep. He was aware of a presence, but couldn’t lift himself far enough out of his slumber to decipher it. He felt warm breath on his cheek. He half-opened his eyes and saw that Mouse now lay alongside him, his head on the cushion. One of Mouse’s hands was resting on the point of Marcus’s hip bone, the cold line of his friend’s signet ring clearly discernible.
‘Shh,’ Mouse whispered.
The boat rocked gently and Marcus felt himself drifting off again. Mouse’s breath was sweet. Alcohol, cigarettes and toothpaste. With his friend’s small, tubby body pressed closely against his own, Marcus slept once more. He dreamed of the fern den he had built as a child.
‘Morning, sport.’ The toaster popped and Mouse buttered two slices before topping each one with an egg. Marcus swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched.
‘Morning. What time is it?’
‘Almost nine. You were out cold. Darwin and I have already been for a walk.’
Marcus jumped up from the bed.
‘Jesus, I need to be at work. Fuck.’
‘Oh, take a day off. I have.’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. Let me have a bite of that. Listen, would you mind popping into my flat and feeding the dog later? I think my spare keys are here somewhere . . .’ He searched through his pockets and found the key that Abby had handed him at the airport. He had been carrying it around with him as a kind of totem.
‘Sure. I’ll go in at lunchtime. I could do with a leg-stretch.’
Marcus wolfed down his egg in a couple of bites and pulled on his clothes. With a wave, he lifted Darwin under his arm, jumped to the grassy bank, and set off up the towpath. When he reached Ladbroke Grove, he jumped on the bus and made his way home. He got dressed without showering, pulled a scratchy razor across his face, and poured a bowl of water for the dog. He realised that he looked haggard and hungover, but he strode into the office with the air of a man who has been working long hours in pursuit of the firm’s interests. His secretary went out to buy him coffee several times during the day and he left just before five, mouthing ‘Meeting’ and tapping his watch at his colleagues as he passed their offices.
*
When Marcus got home he took a bath in the silent flat and pulled on his dressing gown. It was barely dark, but the events of the previous few weeks had left him exhausted. He flicked through a series of mindless programmes on the television before selecting one at random and drifting off to sleep. When he woke, the room was dark save the flickering screen and Darwin was licking his face. He dressed and took the dog for a walk up Portobello Road. When he got back, David Nightingale was standing in front of the block of flats, pressing the buzzer repeatedly.
‘Hello, David.’
The priest turned to watch as Marcus came down the steps towards him.
‘Can I come in? We need to talk.’ The priest’s tone was curt. Marcus could see bags like yellow-grey oysters under the older man’s eyes.
They travelled up in the lift together in silence. Darwin sniffed at David’s trouser leg, whining, until the priest lifted him up and scratched him behind the ear. Marcus let them into the flat.
‘Ah, nostalgia,’ he said, seeing the photographs that Marcus had left strewn across the dining table, the boxes piled beside it. ‘Be careful, Marcus. It can do funny things to you, too much recollection.’
‘It was Abby. I need to clear them up. Do you want a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thank you. What I have to say won’t take long.’ The priest sat down on the edge of the sofa, his knees drawn together, his hands over his kneecaps.
‘This isn’t an easy time for any of us,’ David began. ‘Sally and I’ve been terribly upset by what happened to Lee. I believe you know about her diaries.’
Marcus nodded.
‘I sent Abby away for her own good. She needs to be doing something useful just now. And she needs you to be here for her when she comes back.’ David cleared his throat.
‘I understand you two have been having some troubles. Abby didn’t tell me exactly what, but I got the general idea. The Course will survive Lee. It is a shame and – if she is indeed dead – it is a tragedy, but the Course is resilient enough to deal with this. What I won’t allow is for one girl’s depression, regrettable as that may be, to infect the whole group.’ He stood up and began to pace up and down the room.
‘You must understand that the Course is about leading by example, it is about aspiration, about people wanting to better themselves. I am the model for scores of priests across the country, around the world. They watch the DVD, they read The Way of the Pilgrim, they see pictures of St Botolph’s on a Sunday morning turning worshippers away because the church is so popular. They want that. The Course leaders fulfil a similar role within each Course. People look up to you, Marcus. You may not realise it, but the twins idolise you. The girls in your group hang on to your every word. I had Neil in my study the other day telling me that he thought you should take holy orders. You are a young man, with all the worries and troubles that a young man has. But you are also a senior member of my church, the church which is the centre of the Course, the church to which all others aspire.’ He stopped pacing and looked down at Marcus.
‘I’m not sure I want all that,’ said Marcus quietly.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know if I want to be a senior member of your church, David. I don’t know whether I can live up to what you expect of me. I never felt about it in quite the same way as the others. I believe in God. I’m pretty sure that I believe in God. I just don’t know if I believe everything that goes with it.’
‘So what are you saying, exactly?’
‘I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t know anything at the moment. One of my best friends may be dead. Everyone is talking about her suddenly as if she’s dead and yet there’s no body, no real explanation of how or why she died. My wife is three thousand miles away and won’t answer my calls. I’m sorry, David, I just need some time to think.’
The priest knelt down in front of Marcus and laid a hand on his arm.
‘I understand, I really do. If we don’t question our actions sometimes, then we find ourselves leading our lives on autopilot, and we can never achieve fulfilment. Take some time, but remember that we need you. The people at St Botolph’s love and need you so very much.’
David stood up and walked down the corridor to the doorway. Marcus followed him.
‘I’ve big plans for you, Marcus,’ David said over his shoulder. ‘You must remember that no other Christian movement has the money, the connections, the marketing savvy of the Course. We are going to be a global brand before long, and we’ll need smart people like you to run it. Keep strong. Things will get better, you’ll see.’
When the priest was gone, Marcus microwaved a bowl of minestrone and sat down at the dining table. He cleared a space for his bowl among the photographs and began to flick idly through them as he ate. He had taken more photographs at university than he did once he was in London. He smiled at photos of the four friends. They looked so young back then. Mouse and Lee seemed like children in the pictures. He couldn’t believe that he and Abby had been so fresh-faced, so innocent. He noticed how close they all seemed: not just the four of them, but all of their friends from university. There had been so many of them, so many friends left behind once the Course became the most important thing in their lives.
Daffy was in almost all of the photographs from that period. Marcus remembered how the mouthy, energetic Welsh boy had followed them around, had always been the last one drinking at the college bar, an ever-dependable companion for pub crawls or spontaneous trips to seedy nightclubs in town. Marcus had tried to keep in touch with him once they moved to London: he had come to the wedding and they still exchanged occasional emails, but Marcus knew that Daffy felt excluded by the prominence of the Course in the
ir lives. He thought he should probably call Daffy and tell him about Lee. He found the number on his phone and dialled it.
‘Hello.’ Daffy was in a pub. Marcus could hear fruit machines and music and people shouting to be heard at the bar.
‘Daffy. It’s Marcus Glass.’
‘Hold on.’ Marcus heard Daffy move through the bar and then outside. ‘Sorry, it’s carnage in there. Is that you Marcus? Brilliant to hear from you, man. How are you?’
‘I’m OK. Listen, would you like to meet up? I mean, I know I’ve been rubbish at keeping in touch, but I wondered if you’d like to hook up for a drink?’
‘Of course. It’d be great to see you.’
‘What about Saturday?’
‘Day after tomorrow? Sure, why not? I have a thing later on, but we could get together about seven if that works.’ He named a pub in Shoreditch.
‘Yes. Great. See you then.’
Marcus fed Darwin and sat back down at the table. He started to look through the pile of pictures of Lee, realising that Abby had arranged them chronologically, so that he watched his friend age as he thumbed through them. He saw her blue-green eyes lose a little of their naughtiness, saw her face grow thinner and her hair more blonde. And in each photograph the unmatched earrings, one blue, one turquoise, which she had told him once had been a present from her first real boyfriend. She had left the boy behind in Suffolk, but continued to wear the earrings, pleased with the disconcerted glances they provoked and the way they brought out the colour of her eyes.
He went back to the beginning of the pile, preferring to see Lee when she was at her best: young and wicked-looking. He came to a photograph of the band on stage. Lee was standing up at her keyboard, her head thrown to the side so that her hair shot out horizontally. Abby was beside her, the two girls singing into one microphone. Marcus had his head down and was pounding his guitar, while Mouse grinned, slightly out of focus, in the background. The photo had been taken at a college ball. It was still early in the party and dusk was falling behind the stage. The band’s name had changed several times during their university years. He thought at this point it had been Edwin and the Droods.