Maggie takes it, looking around for somewhere to put it down, seeing the table heaped with boxes and containers and more cartons. She follows him back into the living room where he lowers the volume on the television and drops himself heavily into his chair in the corner. He motions her to sit on the sofa, which is cream leatherette, etched with scratches but otherwise bare. It squeaks whenever she shifts in her seat. Between them is an old-fashioned marble-effect coffee table with a battered metal trim, and a huge onyx ashtray in the centre, filled with spent matches. The tea tastes of iron, coating her tongue with the bitter dryness of sterilized milk.
I know what you’ve come about, he says, And there’s a film on in ten minutes, so, you know, we’ll make it quick.
We will, says Maggie.
She’s prepared herself for this. She has gone over this conversation in her head so many times since Nell died, has imagined the whole scene; and now, since she found the dreamcatcher box, her questions will be direct. Maggie had braced herself for another battle, but he seems quite cooperative, almost friendly; she might not even need ten minutes.
Can you tell me anything about William Earl? she says, When he was a boy?
A sound of scratching as she speaks, and Maggie scans the room, looking for the source of the noise. Thomas shakes his head, twists around and takes his pipe and a crumpled paper bag from the shelf.
Don’t reckon I remember much about him, he says.
He used to help you when you worked on the river.
Oh, him, yes, and quite a few other boys, too. They all blend together, after a while.
Maggie unzips the inner pocket of her fleece and takes out the newspaper cutting, smoothes it flat on the coffee table, and then, realizing he won’t be able to see it from any distance, hands it over to him.
Will this help? she says, It’s a picture of William. He’s holding me.
Oh aye, says Thomas, not taking his eyes off the television, Well, he found you, you know. You’d gone wandering. He found you.
I don’t think he did, says Maggie.
Still he doesn’t look at the photograph. He concentrates on filling his pipe, and Maggie watches, waiting, staring at his fingers as they paddle in the paper bag, drawing out what appears to be a knot of dirty brown hair.
If you look, Thomas – can you see? Can you see what’s happened to my face? It’s like – as if it’s been painted.
Oh, he found you all right. You’d gone wandering.
She folds the cutting and puts it back in her pocket.
What’s the use? she asks, trying to control her voice, Is there any point in me asking?
Ask away, he says, stuffing the clump of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, pressing his finger once, twice, on top.
Thomas, please listen. I remember him, from back then. I know what he did. So there’s really no reason to pretend, not for my sake. All I want from you is the truth.
Maggie stares at the ashtray. It’s in the shape of an island. It’s in the shape of a Mediterranean island. She can do this.
William Earl abducted me, she says, I was only four, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.
Thomas jerks the pipe at her, the ball of his thumb joint shiny and misshapen, threatening to split the skin.
A slippery thing, memory, he says.
Not this memory.
Thomas smiles to himself.
I used to have a friend when I was little, he says, and now, finally, he appears to be looking at her, His name was Vinny.
Maggie nods for him to go on.
He was a good friend, the best friend you could ever have. We used to go everywhere together.
Thomas fumbles around in his pockets, shifts in his seat, his fingers searching underneath him, under the cushion, in his pockets again.
Yes, says Maggie, urging him on,And thisVinny? What about him?
Finding the matches, Thomas strikes one and pushes the flame into the bowl of the pipe. Sucks and sucks and the flame leaps up in a rash of sparks, and the room fills with a cloud of smoke, so thick Maggie can barely see him behind it. The smell is immediate; dense and choking.
My mother killed him.
Maggie sits back, appalled.
Why are you telling me this? she cries, feeling the tendrils of the smoke curl around her.
Because it’s the truth, says Thomas, And you want the truth, don’t you? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? His name was Vinny and he lived in a little box—
Thomas picks up the matchbox and rattles it at her,
– And he lived in my pocket. And one day my mother found the box and she stood in front of me and she said, ‘What have I told you, boy, about bringing these things in the house? What have I told you?’ And she crushed the box in her hand, and I swear I could hear his bones go pop. Chock, like that—Thomas closes his fist around the box,
– And that was the end of Vinny.
He stares at her for a long moment, takes another suck on his pipe.
I was only little, he says, But it could’ve happened yesterday, as you say. I should have put him back, see? And he would’ve been all right, if I’d only put him back. Like you’re all right. Some mothers can be very hard.
Maggie stands up, banging against the coffee table, feeling and not caring about the metal cutting sharp into her leg, and there’s the smell of pipe smoke and that noise again, that scratching noise. It’s close and hot, that smell, and that scrabbling, it’s a dog, she says it, she hears herself saying it:
It’s a dog. It’s your dog. Thomas, it was your dog!
Ah, no, that’ll be Bramble, he says, I’ve locked her in the pantry. You don’t like ’em much, do you, dogs? Now that I do remember.
twenty-nine
In the corner of the cafe, Alison is pretending to read the newspaper. She hates waiting; she hates, even more, being kept waiting, especially in a place as dreary as this. She’d ordered coffee without a second thought, and now wishes she hadn’t. It’s bitter, and murky as a puddle. The news is dreary too; local stories of the past week’s flood damage, with a centre-page spread showing photographs of the Cerne Abbas giant and a statement from the Pagan Federation.
Anything of interest? asks William, bending over to kiss her on the cheek.
Pagans, she says, tapping the picture, Apparently it’s all their fault.
William drags out a chair and cranes his neck to read the story.
Ah, the rain, yes, it’ll be them all right. They got all upset about Homer. Threatened to cast a spell to wash him away.
You’ve lost me, says Alison, raising her head and trying to catch the waitress’s eye, Don’t have the coffee. It’s like gravy browning.
Someone did a chalk drawing of Homer Simpson next to the Cerne Abbas giant, says William, I saw it on the news. It was quite funny, he was holding a doughnut. The Druids were in uproar.
Now that would have been worth seeing, she says, A Druid in uproar. How’re things?
William nods, blinking rapidly, licks his lips. Alison waits. She’d never heard him sound as tense as he did last night when he rang her, and now she can feel his leg bouncing under the table, keeping time to some hectic inner rhythm.
Awful, says William, He’s pretty bad. I don’t know what to do.
Have you spoken to anyone else? she says, at last catching the attention of a waitress. As the woman approaches, William drops his voice.
He’s refusing to see the doctor. Ali, he’s refusing to see anyone. He’s got . . . this . . . thing.
She hands the waitress her coffee cup and orders a pot of tea for two.
Can’t wreck tea, can they? This love thing, is that what you mean? she says, You did mention it. But I thought the girl had vanished?
Not in here, says William, tapping his chest, You know what he’s like when he gets fixated on something. Well, he’s worse than ever. Paranoid. And bonkers to boot. I think he may do himself some damage. Last week when I was there, he went swimming.
Alison shr
ugs, until he tells her it was in the river, and then she grins.
Oh, he’s just trying to wind you up. Succeeding too, I’d say. Again, the table vibrates steadily to an unseen count.
If your father wants to drown himself, let him.
William fixes his eyes on her, waits for her to relent.
You didn’t see him, Ali.
Exactly. And haven’t since that girl showed up. D’you know, Will, I don’t think I care any more what happens to him. I’ve known your father for nearly ten years, and we’ve been close in that time.
William looks at Alison’s face, sees the blush growing beneath the make-up as she lowers her voice.
But never quite close enough. He’s always had the brakes on with me, always kept me here—
She puts an arm out in front of her,
– And then along comes little Pippi Longstocking, with those cow eyes, and suddenly, I’m ancient history.
Must hurt, he says.
She tilts her head sideways; her own resentment has caught her out.
I suppose I’ve always known, she sighs, Men are such idiots when it comes to love. They haven’t got a clue. I’d leave him to it if I were you. He gets what he deserves, the vain old twit.
You really think he’s in love? says William.
I’m only going on your reports. You clearly think so. Has he thought any more about your suggestion?
The hotel? Not a chance. He’d burn the place down first. It’s hardly fit to live in as it is; if it wasn’t for Freya, he’d be knee-deep in filth.
And what does all this have to do with me? I told you last night, I’ve given up trying.
William leans forward, puts on his most appealing face.
I need you to go and see him.
Not a hope, my dear, says Alison, flicking an imaginary crumb from the table.
Ali, I really think he needs our help. I wouldn’t ask, especially – given the way he’s been treating you. But it’s not him. It’s like, like he’s possessed. He’s started smoking cigars, he drinks all day, and all night from what I can tell. He’s reading bloody Shakespeare!
Alison lets out a hoot of laughter.
That serious, eh? Any play in particular?
William fishes in his pocket for his phone and presses three digits. He passes it to her.
Listen, he says.
He studies her face while she puts the phone to her ear, feels a quiver of satisfaction as her smile falls away.
Sounds like he’s crying, she says.
Go on, he says, motioning for her to keep listening.
After a minute she holds it away from her ear. They stare at each other as the shouting continues, the wild booming of Kenneth’s voice trapped inside the handset.
Those are just the ones I’ve kept, he says, taking the phone out of Alison’s hand, And when I ring him back, he’s absolutely normal. Doesn’t remember calling half the time.
They are silent for a while, and the cafe is silent too, apart from the distant clatter of dishes in the kitchen, the clink of china on metal.
Last time I went over—
He pauses as the waitress brings the tray and lays out the cups and the milk jug and the teapot,
– he pretended he wasn’t in.
Alison flips the lid on the pot and fishes about inside with a teaspoon.
Well, maybe he wasn’t, she says, One measly tea bag. Typical.
I could hear him, though. Singing. Some old hymn by the sound of it.
You could always force him to see a doctor, she says, For his own safety.
William shoots her a look.
I don’t want to turn him totally against me. I’m all he’s got. Alison knows better than to correct him. She rests her chin on her hand, considering.
I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to pop by, she says, Although I swear, if he behaves badly, it’ll be the last time.
I knew I could rely on you, he says, It’d be such a weight off my mind. You’re an angel, Ali. Thank you.
She takes a paper napkin from the dispenser and wipes it round the inside of her cup, angling it to the light and grimacing at what she sees.
There’s a very nice bar just down the road, Will. Good range of single malts. Next time you want to entertain this angel, I suggest we meet there.
thirty
It sounds like the music Leon used to play on his tabla. The noise was soft and muted for a little while, but now it’s hard and rapid, and it’s in the house. Maggie sits up in bed and listens. This is it, at last. She should have paid more attention: sandbags at the door, the cows shifted to the barn at the top of the field. There were men in sou’westers pumping frothy brown water down the middle of the road, but they’d given up days ago. These were the signs and she’d chosen to ignore them. The noise is fierce, insistent, like someone knocking, wanting to be let in. But then, she’d heard opposing views too; the villagers talked of nothing else.
Welford’s never flooded in my lifetime, said a woman queuing at the counter in the petrol station, And it won’t now. Maggie glanced at the woman, thought she looked ancient enough to be believed. And then the voice of another, behind her, which she realized belonged to Mrs Moore.
Yes, Susan, we’ll be all right. Boil your water, mind.
The rain chases down the roof, finding the old cracked slates and working on them, hammering away until they collapse, sink sideways, splinter into shards. The rain, throwing itself from the sky into her house. But there is someone knocking. Maggie pulls on her clothes and pads barefoot to the top of the stairs, taking comfort in the feel of the boards under her feet, dry still, and the rug dry, and sees below her a shiver of light through the glass of the front door, the ripple of a figure. There’s something not right about it – the figure and the wavering beam – something dreadful. Something . . . she’s reaching for the memory and she’s very nearly there . . . of pipe-smoke and dogs, and the way the light moves, like a sharp edge slicing an egg.
Maggie, it’s me, shouts Aaron, through the glass.
She reaches for the light switch and flicks it, and the lights go on and off with a fierce clap. The wall under her fingers is soaked, the rain running down in a clear sheet.
The river Bourne’s breached, he’s saying, You’ve got to come. Maggie stays very still.
Aaron raps on the glass with his torch, pushing at the flap of the oblong letter box so that Maggie has to flatten herself against the wall to stop herself from seeing his mouth there, open and wet like a gash in a hole. The rain soaks through her shirt and she can feel it now, pooling at her feet. Again that light, dancing on the darkness.
She waits until she hears his truck pull away. Now she can breathe. Pressed against the wall at the top of the stairs, the smell is old wallpaper, electricity. She closes her eyes and sees the torch again cutting its way inside her, and the smell that follows is spearmint, wet earth, dog.
The River Man
What he’d wanted to say was, Not everything is as plain as it seems, not a hundred per cent straight. What you think you know, you don’t. But then she took fright. Just like her mother, that one, fear creeping all over her. Except she’s more serious than her mother, that’s clear enough; more intent in herself. Nell, she was easy, let things stand. Didn’t like to stir things up.
The way Thomas remembers it, Nell was that happy to be getting her girl back, there was no questions asked, no fuss. Not at the start, any road. It didn’t matter who’d found her – who’d lost her in the first place, that’s what people were saying. Who’d let her wander off in the middle of the night? Thank God no harm had come, they said that too. Nell, she was hopeless. Couldn’t say how it was that her child could just get up and go off like that, how come there was no lock on the door, why no police got called. Because she’s been stoned out of her brains, that’s why, not paying attention, that’s why. Drunk with that waster with the beard and bongos. That’ll be why.
Thomas considers his supper. Completely lost his appetite now. He opens the
remaining half of his sandwich and removes a slice of gherkin, tossing it into the fire where it hisses and sparks. Bramble watches the whole flight of it, trying to intercept it, immediately switching her hungry eyes back to Thomas’s fingers. He feeds her a long piece of crust, but even as she wolfs it down, her attention is on his plate, assessing how much of the food is left, how much is hers, wanting it all.
You are a beast, he says, smiling.
He’ll admit, his eyesight isn’t so sharp these days. But Maggie’s a good-looking girl, just like her mum was. Why Nell’d let herself get dragged down by that Leon is anybody’s guess. He’d started it. The whole, My daughter’s said this, and My daughter’s said that, coming round, asking for an explanation, making threats.
I’ll give you an explanation, says Thomas, alive again to the argument, and the way he says it makes Bramble slink away to the sofa.
Try explaining how you think you’re her father, for starters. Thought it was Edward Crane, ’cause if he ain’t the father, what’s the woman doing there? Or don’t she even know who it was? Try keeping a civil tongue in your head when you speak to me. There’s a word for what you’re doing. Extortion. Don’t threaten me with the law. There’s only one law that counts, and that’s God’s own. Take it up with the Earls if you’re so eager. See where that’ll get you.
Then a visit from Mrs Earl, totally different manner about her. Perfumed up, smiling. Wanted to know what Thomas knew. Not speculation, not what village talk says. Complimenting him on his vigilance. Complimenting him on how nice he’d made the cottage, how they would simply hate to lose him, despite the business with the dog. Said he wasn’t to worry about anything, there’d be no police involved; they’d got his statement and she’d be very grateful if he should stand by it. The whole family would show how indebted they were to him for his . . . loyalty. Said she’d speak to Leon too, put him straight. And everything went tidy after that, after a fashion.
Thomas presses his fingers into his sternum, waiting for the burn to pass. There’s gherkins for you. When that doesn’t work, he makes his way down into the kitchen, searching amongst the boxes and cartons on the table for the tin of liver salts, feeling the cold water wash against his ankles. She was no fool. Only Sonny, it was a terrible shame about Sonny. He should take Bramble upstairs; she never was one for getting her feet wet. Not like Sonny. He was a proper water hound. Tell him to go, and he’d be in. He was a hard worker; they both were. Not like some. Some are born lucky, never have to do a day’s turn.
The Song House Page 17