The Gloaming

by Kirsty Logan

  ‘Islay,’ said Pearl, in a tone that Mara had never heard her use before. She spoke with care, as if each word might explode. ‘I don’t like girls. I love a woman. And she loves me.’

  Mara felt the tension building in her bones. Should she clear her throat? No, that’s stupid. Whistle a tune? No, she couldn’t whistle. Scuff her feet or rattle the latch or … and it didn’t matter, it was all the same, she just needed to get in there and stop them arguing. She pushed open the door. Islay had already stormed out, leaving Pearl alone in the kitchen.

  ‘I heard that,’ said Mara.

  ‘She’s just looking out for you. She wants to keep you safe.’

  ‘Trust me, Pearl. That’s not what she wants.’

  ‘Then what does she want?’

  ‘I don’t know. But whatever it is, it’s about her, not me.’

  The kettle rocked in its base, steam billowing, then clicked off. Pearl poured water into the teapot.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘It’s fine. Your sister will love me and your mum and dad will love me and everything will be fine. We just need to give them a little time.’

  ‘But she –’

  ‘Look. Me and Islay, we’re just having a negotiation. In negotiations, you always start with the things you can agree on.’

  ‘How do you even know that?’ Mara, distracted, picked at the splintering edge of the worktop.

  Pearl grinned. ‘I read books. Now, there are a few things that your sister and I agree on: one, Mara is a person we like. Two, we want Mara to be happy.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It’s enough.’

  ‘It’s only two things! And they’re basically the same thing. What about the rest? You think you can win her over, but I know her. I’m not holding my breath.’

  ‘Well. We don’t need to agree on everything. We just need to be in the same house for a little while, until … well, just until.’ Pearl arranged the tea things on the tray: the pot, the cups, the milk in the silver jug. Mara hadn’t told her how she used to carry the warm cream for her dad’s whisky in that jug, and later it slipped her mind, and after that it didn’t seem important, and in the end she never told Pearl at all. Everyone has secrets, even if they don’t matter.

  ‘The thing you should have realised about me by now, Mara –’ And here Pearl circled her arms around Mara’s hips and pulled her close, pecking a kiss to the tip of her nose. ‘The thing is, I am very’ – kiss – ‘very’ – kiss – ‘very good at holding my breath.’

  Shadow-boxer

  PETER DREAMED HE was standing on the beach, dressed in pyjamas, watching the sea. Even in his dreams his limbs were heavy. Everything looked as it should, as it had the first day he’d arrived on the island, as it had every day since then. The night sky above him. The stony beach below him. The sea between, relentless.

  But then the waves slowed, stuttered, stopped – and began to turn backwards, the front edge of the water curling in on itself. As Peter watched, the heavy sea rolled back like a carpet. Left behind on the exposed sand lay bones and shipwrecks, gasping fish and beached sharks, seaweed laid out thick as velvet.

  And Bee.

  Bee was there. His boy was so tiny, so distant – but the moon lit him silver among the dead and dying things. Peter set off at a run, his feet skiffling up sand, his muscles cramping, his bones shrieking. He skitted across the carpeted seaweed and leapt over the vast schools of gasping, flip-flopping fish. He was a runner, a sprinter, his lungs huge as airships. He’d never moved so fast in his life. His feet pounded the seabed, kicking up huge gouts of wet sand. He felt that if he ran any faster his skin would peel away where the wind whipped it, his limbs would stutter off his body, he’d topple apart like an old car driven too fast. He stayed whole – but no matter how hard he pushed, how fast he ran, he could never quite reach Bee.

  He glanced up. Slowly, slowly, the sea was rolling back. It was as high as a skyscraper and utterly silent. On its underside, Peter could see endless shimmering layers of jellyfish, pale and pulsing. And on the seabed, still, stood Bee, his little Bee, so far away. Just as Peter thought his heart would break, Bee reached out for him, and then it did break. The sea was coming for his boy, and there was nothing he could do.

  He ran harder, a cry pushing out of his throat. He reached for Bee, and his fingertips just brushed Bee’s hair as the wave crashed in. He tumbled, blind, deaf, dying, his body prickled freezing from the water and stinging hot from the jellyfish. The sea flipped him and choked him and turned him end over end before depositing him, finally, on the cliff.

  Peter gasped into the wind, but there was no wind. The cliff was still and silent. His body and clothes were dry. Above him, the stars twinkled. Below him, the grass was as soft as his bed. Behind him, the mass of statues. And in his arms, smiling in his sleep, was Bee.

  Peter woke. He lay for a long time, listening to his wife breathe by his side. Now he knew: this was the deal he had to make. There was one way to get his son back with Signe and Mara and Islay. He would have to trade, one life for another. He would have to give himself. His failing body, his lagging mind – he didn’t know if it would be enough to get his boy back, but he had to try.

  And if it didn’t work? If he gave himself, and Bee didn’t come back? Well, at least they would be together.

  Peter was used to bargaining with the world. He’d inherited plenty of superstition from other fighters: never shave the day of a fight, never sign a fight agreement on a Friday, never do thirteen reps when training, always wrap your left hand first and put your left boot on first. Over the years he’d added his own, to do with rusty nails and blades of grass from graves and swilling out his mouth three times with salt water. Perhaps they didn’t help, but they certainly didn’t hurt, considering how lucky he’d been: how much he’d worked, how many punches he’d taken and thrown to earn his savings, enough over the years for a ramshackle island house and its devouring upkeep. The charms he believed, the bargains he struck with his own body.

  At a weigh-in, the boxers’ weights must be evenly matched. A few pounds could move a fighter up or down a class. Drying out – no liquid for forty-eight hours before a weigh-in – was no rarity, though that didn’t make it any easier to bear the results. The glazed eyes, the sores cracking at the corners of the mouth. Still, it’s better than it was, in the days of bare knuckles and cudgel fights. Peter had heard stories from the old-timers. For cauliflower ear, a freshly roasted whole mouse was bound to the head. Cuts over the eye were treated with cow dung, spiderwebs, mud. Surprisingly effective, the old-timers said; spiderwebs stop bleeding, speed healing and reduce scarring.

  When Peter was a young boy in Ireland, his family lived at the north end of the street, in the very smallest house, number 1. Every night his father sat in his chair and stared at the TV. It took Peter a long time to realise that his father wasn’t looking at the TV at all, but out of the window, to the biggest house at the top of the street. The next year, Peter’s father got a promotion and they moved to number 5. By the time Peter started secondary school, they were in number 20. By the time Peter was turning eighteen, his family had made it right to the south end of the street, to the very biggest house. Peter had made his own way from that big house, to the boxing ring, to Signe’s bed – and eventually to his own big house, the biggest on the island. What had he wanted then, other than her? The stories his mother had told him as a child, fairy brides and how to catch them; the way they valued courtesy and independence above all things, except for shelter. Signe was his fairy bride, and he still couldn’t quite believe he’d made her stay. Stay or leave: that was the choice. But losing Bee showed him that it wasn’t that simple for either of them. They never meant to lie to one another.

  Boxing had taught him that belief mattered. He’d needed his beliefs the way they all did, all those bold and beaten men. What else did they have to believe in, other than their own bodies? It wasn’t hard for Peter to imagine the house without him in i
t. He was barely there at all, just a slab halfway between meat and stone. What good was his body now? What good was he to his girls? Without him, the whole house would be lighter. Stronger. Better.

  Once, many years ago, Peter was knocked out and couldn’t remember anyone’s name for three days. It had felt like hot water was being poured into his skull, flowing over his eyes, leaving a boiling film over his brain. His opponent was smart; he knew to hit a groggy man on his body, so he will lower his hands from his head. His opponent knew something that Peter did not. To save ourselves pain, we forget about the things that matter.

  Palooka

  PETER KNEW HIS final walk would be slow. He started before midnight to give himself enough hours until dawn. He knew he would stagger and he knew it would hurt and he knew he would want to turn back and he knew it would be ugly and cold and dark.

  But it was, as it happened, far too quick. The island helped him along, seeming to agree with his decision. The stars came out to light his way, a thousand-thousand bright pinpricks above his head, a treat just for his eyes. For his ears he was given the waves, steady like the applause of some distant crowd. And for his skin, the warm night breeze behind him, urging him on.

  Stage one of dementia pugilistica can happen within seconds of a boxer taking a punch. Effects include respiratory arrest, drop in blood pressure, loss of corneal reflex, and loss of consciousness. When consciousness returns, it brings with it drowsiness, dizziness, disorientation, double vision and vomiting. If the fighter is unconscious for several hours, these after-effects can last for days or weeks. When the fighter awakes, he may not remember anyone’s name. He may not be able to orientate himself. He may not be able to speak in sentences.

  Peter reached the base of the hill and began the trek upwards, the breeze encouraging him, a gentle stroke to his limbs. The moon blinked bright above him, silvering the island.

  Stage two of dementia pugilistica can begin months after a boxer’s last fight. Effects include dysphasia, agnosia, and apraxia. Which basically means a fighter who can’t speak, at least not in words that anyone else would recognise. It means a fighter who can’t interpret sensations and so can’t recognise things, like the sight of his son’s face or the scent of his wife’s skin or the sound of his daughter calling his name. It means a fighter who can’t perform everyday actions like getting dressed, brushing his teeth, or, one day, wiping his own arse.

  Peter emerged at the top of the hill. The wind was stronger up here, tugging at his clothes, pulling him closer to the edge. The heaviness in his limbs was almost too much to bear. With each step his toes dragged along the ground. Around him, like ghosts from the breathing night, the statues emerged. Each stood facing the sea. Peter approached their backs, hearing his knees creak over the static of the wind. He recognised many of the people. Elinor, who illustrated books. Caleb the shepherd. Eilidh the doctor. Peter had been there to light so many of them up to the cliff. He knew that he shouldn’t be going up this way, alone in the night. He should have made his intentions clear, let everyone get ready, bring everyone together with their candles and their neighbourly whispers. Well. He had the stars.

  Stage three of dementia pugilistica can appear without warning, years after a boxer’s last fight; when he hasn’t thrown or taken a punch since before his children were born. Medically, it’s degeneration of the substantia nigra, neuronal loss in the cortex and cerebellum, cortical neurofibrillary tangle formation and cortical diffuse beta-amyloid plaques. Casually, it’s called getting punch-drunk. Physical effects include tremor, rigidity and slowness of movement. Mental effects include memory loss, confusion and mood swings. The most fortunate boxer, in the end, is one who received a significant punch early in the fight, was knocked unconscious and so spared further punishment. But no boxer can do that in every fight. What kind of career is that? What legacy is left by a healthy, safe fighter? Never a fan favourite, never loved by your agent, never earning a decent living. A boxer is more likely to sustain extensive brain damage if he is a ‘good’ fighter. Good fighters are esteemed by fans and promoters, and have long and successful careers during which they stay upright to take hits to the head over and over and over, and they do not fall. This is the reward for putting on a good show.

  Peter made his steady way through the statues, closer to the edge of the cliff. It took all his strength to hold up his heavy head. He couldn’t bend his toes or his knees, and he staggered like a giant, weighty hands swinging. Finally he made it right to the edge of the cliff. It was too late to turn back now.

  He dragged his toes to the edge so that nothing stood between him and the sea. At the last moment, before his muscles ground to stone, before the whites of his eyes turned grey, Peter raised his hands to the sky.

  Sucker punch

  THEY HAD SO much hope in those early days on the island. The sweet gorse, the butter-bright flowers. The sea stretching blue to a squint, tiny boats bobbing far away. The island sang for them.

  It wasn’t always friendly. Let’s not pretend it was sunshine and rainbows every day. If Peter tried to hang the wet sheets on the drying line, the wind snatched them before he could peg them down. And if he chased the sheet across the garden, brambles scratched his calves bloody. And if he caught them, there would be some buzzing stinging insect tangled in the damp folds, and it raised a welt on his arm. And if he actually did manage to hang the sheets, then the second he fastened the last peg the rain started. No, snow. Hail. It wasn’t always good. But when it wasn’t bad, it was glorious.

  And that day, as Peter ambled across the island to the shop with his wee boy on his hip, and the sun on his face, it was wall-to-wall glorious. To celebrate – it didn’t matter what, the lack of clouds or the fact that they were all alive and healthy – he wanted to get something special for dinner.

  Bee fidgeted in his arms. So new, his boy, so fresh and bright in this world. Peter wanted to make a cage of his body and hunch over Bee to keep him safe inside. How had he helped to make something so perfect? He wanted to drop to his knees in thanks for each one of his healthy children. Signe didn’t like him to talk about what the girls would be one day – she said a child is already all it needs to be, perfect in each day. But he liked to dream of the future.

  Islay, sprouting up weed-fast, still a child to him but already haughty and perfect like she’d been carved from marble. She’d be off the island the second she could, he knew. All he could hope was that she’d get her adventures out and want to come back. Perhaps the island was no fun for a teenager, but a grown girl could make a life here if she wanted.

  Mara, his awkward dreamer. How she’d whined and tantrummed about coming to the island. She’d probably leave too, as all the growing kids did, but he knew she’d be back. Hopefully before too long; the guest house would have to be left to someone one day, when he and Signe were gone.

  Under the burr of the wind and the distant waves, the island was silence. He still missed the rumbled lullaby of traffic; the roads on the island were no good for cars, so there were only bikes and motorbikes and a few battered Land Rovers owned by crofters. The island was so small; why drive around and around pointlessly? Your own feet would do.

  Peter pushed open the door of the shop with his non-Bee hand.

  ‘Morning, Mr Pettersen!’ He resisted the urge to lift Bee and present him for applause.

  ‘It is,’ said Mr Pettersen, and went back to his newspaper.

  Peter surveyed the shelves. ‘Anything special in today?’

  ‘Since you said. Good lobster down at the harbour. Big ones.’

  Peter thought of blue rubber bands, peppercorn eyes, the crack of bodies. He thought of holding the lid on the pot, the rush of it, the thrill. His stomach clenched.

  ‘No.’ Peter held his boy tighter, then forced himself to relax; he had squeezed too tight, shocking Bee into a wail. ‘No, not that.’

  Mr Pettersen shrugged. His suit yourself was implied rather than said.

  ‘Right,’ said Peter, jigg
ling a now-grizzling Bee. ‘Special.’

  He bought pork-and-apple sausages and some sturdy-looking vegetables; it was only later when they were all sitting down to eat, and he saw the cut-up sausages and neeps and tatties all mashed together, that he realised it was exactly what his mother used to make for him when he was a child.

  Skelp

  MARA WAS THE first to notice that Peter was gone. Why did she always have to miss the missing first? She hadn’t chosen that role, and she was no good at it. And yet, there it was.

  She’d stumbled half asleep from her bed. On her way downstairs she’d glanced through the open door of her sister’s room – still sleeping in a duvet mound – and her parents’ room – empty. She thought nothing of it, assuming they would be downstairs. Standing in the kitchen, watching her tea steep, still blinking sleep-blurry, she felt the hollow gasp of empty rooms all around her. There was no reason to worry. Her parents were both grown-ups; they were allowed to get up without telling her. It wasn’t as if the house was going to eat her. She left her tea on the worktop and climbed to the top corner of the house. She wasn’t searching. She was just looking.

  One by one, she pushed open every door and peeped inside the room. Dust sheets, half-painted walls, pasting tables. In one room, a spiderweb of piled-up dining chairs. Mattresses stacked to the ceiling. A floor that was more hole than floor. If a door was locked, she pressed her ear to it; no paintbrush rasp or tinny shrill of a radio, and she moved on.

  During her second sweep of the house, when her tea was stone cold and steeped the colour of mahogany, she realised that she wasn’t alone after all. Signe’s sandy hair was just visible over the back of the couch. Mara stepped into the front room. Signe didn’t turn round. Mara, holding her breath, stepped so close that she could see the light catching the silver strands through her mother’s hair, could hear the catch of her breath in her throat, could smell the floral sawdusty scent from her skin.