by Peter Benson
“I found a dying bird. A blackbird. It was lying in a puddle. Its eyes were glassy and it was making little wheezing sounds, trying to flap its wings, but it knew…”
“Knew what?”
“That it was dying. I wanted to pick it up and take it home, and try and nurse it back to life, but Mother told me to leave it where it was. I think that was the first moment, the moment I knew I wanted to do some good in the world. Or at least try. I remember… I bent down and picked it up and held it in my hands, and as I did, it lifted its head up, blinked at me and made a little squeak. It was trying to sing, trying to sing its last song. Then… then it died…” Her voice stalled, she put her hands over her eyes and she took a heaving sob of a breath. She looked back at me, and her face was covered in tears. I gave her a handkerchief, and while she dabbed at her cheeks she said, “It died in my hands.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I was too,” she said, and as we sat in silence for a few minutes the rustling trees seemed to quieten over us, and the waves below slowed.
“I…” I started, but she interrupted.
“When will they find him?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe never. I dug deep, and the place is hidden.”
She picked up a stick and started poking in the ground. “And how long before they come calling?”
“Who are they?”
“The police.”
I shrugged. “They might never.”
She drew a figure of eight, put a cross through it and whispered, “I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
“I didn’t think…”
“Did he? Did he ever really think?”
“All the time,” she said, “but never about the right things.”
“Did he have any family?”
She shook her head. “Not that I heard of. But he never said anything about that side of his life.”
I wanted to say something about blame, but now I was tired and I wanted to lie down. She tossed her stick into the air, and as it arced into the undergrowth I stood up. A bank of dark cloud was looming over the horizon, and the light was turning pink. I said, “It’s going to rain,” she said, “Never…” and we started to walk back to the gig. A bolt of lightning flashed behind us, thunder rumbled by, and we had just started to move when it began to tip with rain.
As we were passing through Sheringham, we saw a wedding party leaving a church. The bride and groom were standing in the porch, staring at the rain. Guests were clustering around, some in worried groups behind the happy couple, others not caring, soaked to the skin and laughing. I had to slow down while the wedding carriage pulled into the kerb, and as I passed it, one of the guests looked up at Isabel. Her scarf had slipped down and, as he saw her, his face changed from angry to panic like a season, his jaw dropped and he tried to shout. Nothing came out. He turned and pointed at us, but before anyone could join him we were away and the groom was picking the bride up and carrying her across the sodden pavement, and the bridesmaids were screaming and laughing.
“Have you ever been married?” said Isabel.
“No.”
“Do you want to be?”
I shrugged and said I did not know.
“I’ll take that to mean no,” she said, and she wrapped a blanket around her shoulder, turned her head away from me and watched the weather through her milky, fading eyes. She watched, and I watched, and we watched together, and as we did I felt something snap in the air. I do not know if she heard it too, but she did close her eyes and rest her head on my shoulder, and as we rattled home she started to make little rasping noises in her throat, as if insects were trapped in there and all they wanted to do was escape.
It ended in the night. The wind dropped and the rain stopped and an odd stillness hung in the air. The smell of grass and salt caught in my throat, and shy birds called. I poured a whisky, and as I drank I followed its burn, felt it settle, poured another and went to sit on the veranda to drink. I stared into the dark and counted the stars, but their distance or mystery meant nothing to me. They could have burst and cried before me, but I would not have worried. Mystery is swallowed by guilt – guilt the worst punch in the jaw and all the rest. When I finished the whisky, I went to bed.
We slept together. She was quiet for a couple of hours, but at around three o’clock she started to shiver and moan in her sleep. The blankets had slipped off, so I got up, pulled them back, spread them over her and climbed back into bed, but it did not make any difference. The shivers did not go away.
Ten minutes later she woke, sat up and whined. I looked up at her. Her breath was steaming and there was foam around her mouth. I got up, drew a glass of water, held it to her lips, and she tried to drink but could not swallow. She spat it across the room and slumped back, gripped the sheets and gasped. Shudders broke through her body. I put my arms around her and tried to hold her, but she pushed me away. Her legs thrashed, the whining got louder and she let out the first scream.
There are screams and there are screams. There are screams of delight when people hear of success, screams of shock when virgins see the shadow of a monster climbing up their bedroom walls. Screams of hate and screams of pain. Screams to shatter glass or break china, and screams as old trees split and fall through gales. More screams than types of food or mineral. Isabel’s scream came from deep, welled up, broke out and shook the house. The windows rattled in their frames, and the cups and plates on the draining board slid into the sink. Her eyes popped, and she opened her mouth so wide I thought she was going to dislocate her jaw.
It was so loud I wanted to scream back, and when she took a breath for the next, she dropped her head between her knees, arched her back, heaved, reached up and let it tear from her body. She hit her arms and hit her legs and ran her nails across her stomach. A sour, bad smell started to fill the room. She turned over, struggled to reach a place on her back, failed, tried again and then fell back. She lay perfectly still for a moment, her eyes wide open and her breathing slow. I put my hand on her forehead and said, “Ssh...” She did not blink or look at me, but then she heaved again, whispered, “If you knew how much…” but she did not finish the sentence. She took a deep breath, clutched at her stomach and screamed again, thrashed, turned and rolled off the bed.
I jumped up and went to where she was lying. I tried to turn her over, but she pushed me away, rubbing and scratching at the skin, twisting and buckling. “It’s crawling,” she wailed. “Crawling. I’ve got insects. Too many insects. Biting…”
“What?”
“Millions of insects. They’re biting. I should have some stuff… I need it…” She slapped her arms, the smell got worse, I pulled a sheet off the bed and laid it over her. She screamed as it touched her, ripped it away and threw it back at me. She yelled, “No!” rolled over, smashed against the door, rolled back, hit my legs and then stopped. She stiffened, let out a long, wheezing sigh and then, like a bird settling on its nest, stilled.
I sat in a chair by the bed and watched her. She was breathing slowly, each breath making a quiet buzz in her throat. Her eyes were closed, but they twitched behind their lids. When she started to shiver I picked her up, laid her on the bed and spread the sheets over her. This time she did not throw them off but tucked her knees to her chin and made little weepy noises. I whispered “I’ll be in the kitchen” in her ear and left her alone.
I poured a glass of whisky. It was half-past three. I stood at the bedroom door and watched her for five minutes. She was sleeping now, lying flat on her back and wheezing quietly. I left the door open and went back to the kitchen, sat down and drank.
I drank and thought about bodies burning, organs popping and guilt. I thought about good things I had done and bad things, and I asked big questions. Can murder ever be justified? Do animals have a sense of humour? Did Voltaire prefer the society of men? How many cups of tea can you safely drink in a day? What’s the difference between a banana? What does your body do with protei
n? I asked these questions but did not answer them. I was tired but knew I would never sleep, and when Isabel stirred and called my name, I went to sit by her again. I ran the tips of my fingers over the scales around her eyes and held her hand.
I was going to ask her how she felt, but before I could open my mouth she started wailing more and then screaming and thrashing, yelling about the crawling under her skin being worse, the insects having sharper teeth and she being unable to live any more here or anywhere she could think of or I might suggest. She did not want to live any more and wanted me to hold her hand as she died. I told her I would hold her hand for as long as she wanted and would not leave her unless she told me to, and the lights she could see in her eyes were not lights outside but came from inside, and she was not to worry, she was not going to die. She sat up, took long, heaving breaths, struggled to find words, yelled “Ants!” and fell back again. Scratched her arms and legs, ripped her fingernails across her stomach and tore some scales away. “Can’t!” she screamed. I put my arms around her; she pushed me away and pulled me back. She buried her head in my shoulder. I gagged at her smell, twisted my neck and thought I heard something, something coming towards me, hissing and puffing, and I think it was a railway train, a railway train whispering over the horizon towards my place.
I thought I heard a railway train as I held on to Isabel, and I thought I saw the first twist of smoke through a forest, layers of smoke settling on the trees, and then it broke out of the shade and came towards me.
At first, like some things are, it was silent and black and white. I did not recognize it. I thought it was just a train and the carriages were filled with people. There were lovers, businessmen, children, a priest, a party of doctors and people just travelling one stop. Some were talking and others were quiet, and some were smoking. There were leather straps on the doors: you had to pull them down to open the window. And in first class there were antimacassars on the seats and a vague smell of brandy.
As the train got nearer, the driver leant out of his cab. He had a blackened face and wore dark-blue overalls and a ragged cap. He pulled on a rope, the train whistled and birds blew out of trees and hedges. Sheep bolted, and in one of the carriages someone lit a pipe.
I smelt the tobacco, and then the thing I thought was a train was on top of me and steam was clouding up, but it was not really a train. It was Isabel screaming again, howling, lashing out at me, scrabbling at her skin, trying to rip it off, digging her fingernails into her thighs. Her eyes were spinning. Her tongue flipped back and she started to choke. I tried to get my fingers into her mouth but she bit them, grabbed my hand, pulled it away and kicked me off the bed.
I rolled across the floor, banged against the door and blacked out. I do not know how long I was out, but when I came to I felt blood trickling down the back of my head. I sat up and then stood up. She was lying back. I took a step towards her, she tried to sit her up. Blood was seeping from breaks in the scales on her arms and legs. She opened her mouth, managed half a word, slumped back and turned away from me. I sat on the edge of the bed and spread my fingers across her back.
Her shoulder blades were like wings folded beneath her skin, and as I stared at them I thought all I had to do was take a knife and release those wings and she would have freedom. I could have folded the flaps of skin, and feathers could have grown from her blood, as if her blood was magic and I had a greater power. Her bones might have clicked and spread and sung along their edges, and my knife could have sung in return, but it did not.
I ran my fingers over those hidden wings and kissed the back of her neck. She twitched and buried her head in the pillow. She blinked and her eyes filled with tears. She opened her mouth, said nothing, stared and then she dropped away from me like a stone. I reached out and tried to grab her, but her breath failed, her eyes rolled back and she gave one last sigh, like an echo over a mountain in the summer.
I sat with her until the dawn broke, lines of light oozed into the dark and the first birds called. Then I straightened her on the bed, and as the colour began to drain from her scales, I washed the blood away and laid a fresh sheet over her. I pulled it up to her neck, stroked her face, spread my arms and laid on her. I hugged her, buried my face in her neck and took a deep breath of her smell. She was hard and cold against me, and when I stood up again dimples patterned my face. I pulled the sheet up and covered her completely, and I left her like that. I turned off the lights and stood alone for a few minutes. I was empty. When I was ready, I walked to the shore.
I walked through the marshes. The light was brighter now, milky and blue and pale together. I could feel the way. It was flat. I heard the reeds, and the sea came washing after the storm.
When I reached the beach I walked towards the place where we had flown the kite and looked for it, but I did not see it. I looked carefully. I am a careful man. That’s my job. I could be a railway driver. I like railways. I could be a fisherman. I like boats.
I thought random thoughts as I walked, all the way to the ridges of shingle. I sat down.
I stared at the waves as the sun rose through a low hedge of cloud, and light exploded across the sea. I blinked and shaded my eyes, and all the birds blew into life. They rose behind me and flew away. I could go for a long walk, a trip across Europe to Istanbul or Tashkent. I could take my savings and use them to do good in a poor country. Or I could do exactly the same things I have always done, make no plans and be vaguely pleased.
I sat and, as the sun climbed, tiredness crept up and flooded my body. I stood up, turned my back on the sea and walked away, and when I reached the marshes I did not stop to listen to the bitterns as they crept through the reeds, and when I reached my house I did not pat the statue of a dog as I walked up the garden, and as I climbed the steps and crossed the veranda I did not hear a sound from inside, or from the skies that rolled over my head.
Dorset
I stayed in Norfolk for a while. The place held me in its arms and I rested my head on its shoulders. I felt its breath, its sadness and an unexpected happiness. I whispered to it, and if I listened carefully I could hear it whispering back. Real words, soothing me and letting me know it loved me, wanted me to stay, wanted to give me gifts.
When I felt able, I wrote the beginning of this book and some of the rest, and when I finished I put the pages in a folder and drank three glasses of whisky. I slept for twelve hours. When I woke up I left the house without looking back, hitched my horse to the gig, tied Hunt’s horse to the back and drove away.
I was empty. Autumn was bad, and that melancholy time was thick with leaves and wind. I drove away from the flat lands. I said goodbye to the one horse at Norwich and rode Hunt’s on to London. I left it tied to a graveyard fence near Blackheath. I patted its side, nodded to a beautiful woman with blond hair I saw walking across the heath and then walked the few miles to Highbury. The city was blank and cold, and people were wearing their coats. I came upon a scrawny dog. It followed me for a while, yapping and sniffing at my heels, but he left me before I crossed the river. I think he was afraid to leave the south of the city, afraid of the water and the sky. I was not. I stood on Southwark Bridge and watched the swell and current for five minutes, and the rubbish as it swilled. The barges and lighters were busy, and so were the tugs.
I walked on. I called at my rooms to collect my letters. I stood in my kitchen and watched the lovely tree in the garden next door, but it failed me. Its tumbling leaves meant nothing, and the birds were dumb. I washed, changed into fresh clothes, left my rooms, locked the door and walked to my office.
I spoke to Mr Hick. I had made a decision. I did not tell him what I needed to say, but I told him I would be back at my desk within the week. There were a few things I had to sort out, and he said that was fine; he had had a chance to see some of the Buff-Orpington collection, the Dresden Œuvres really were as good as I had said, and the Chairman wanted to meet me. He was very pleased with my work, and there was an excellent chance I would be invited to h
is estate for Christmas. “Do you know what this could mean?” he said. I said I did not, but could guess, and as I left the offices, I thought – once again – that maybe I would never see them again. Maybe now really was the time to leave one life and find another.
My earlier wanderings had given me a taste for the aimless, so I walked the streets for an hour or more, and as the day crept through the afternoon towards evening, I decided to call on Timothy. When I reached his rooms, I banged on the door but got no reply. I called his name, and as I was turning to leave, a door on the landing above opened, and a man in shirtsleeves appeared. He demanded to know what the noise was about. When I explained I was looking for my old friend, I was told the unthinkable but inevitable. Timothy was no longer there. He had fallen in love with an actress, and was living in the gardens opposite the Sadler’s Wells theatre, watching and waiting for the object of his obsession.
I was tired and needed to sleep, so I returned to my rooms, and after a long night of sweats and nightmares, I set out to find him as dawn broke, away from Highbury, down stirring Upper Street, over the Angel to the theatre. I stopped for a hot cup of tea at a stall on Chadwell Street. I asked the woman who stirred the pot if she knew of someone who was living on the rough in the area. She laughed and said, “Go to the churchyard,” and pointed up the road. “There’s a dozen up there. A dozen more on Exmouth Market.” She waved her hands. “And that’s for starters.”
I thanked her and drank the tea. It was hot and sweet, and when I headed towards the churchyard I felt it swilling in my stomach and, like rabid bats, my thoughts began to thrash blindly against the inside of my skull. When I found the tramps of the yard, still tossing and mumbling in their drunk sleep, I stepped amongst them, staring into their failed faces, seeing no one, no Timothy, no old friend of mine sunk so distant and mad, so far from promise and ambition. I retraced my steps, turned back towards Sadler’s Wells, and when I reached the theatre, took my starting point from the stage door.