Hunger and the Howling of Killian Lone

by Will Storr

  “So what’s the matter then? Why are you sad?”

  “Oh, it’s just Mum,” I said. “She didn’t tell me you were in hospital. She did it on purpose, I think.”

  Her jaw muscles mashed as she thought something over.

  “You know I don’t like to speak badly of family,” she said, eventually. “But I know how she treats you, Kill. Well, you’re a grown-up now, that’s what I say. You’ve got a job of your own, near as dammit, and the sooner you can move out of there, the better.”

  “She’s only doing her best,” I said. “Even if I did get a full-time job, I doubt I could afford to live by myself. The money would be awful, to start with.”

  “Well,” she said. There was an almost imperceptible nod, as if she was measuring a thought. Around me, I became aware of the sounds of shuffling and coughing breaking against the hard, high walls. The busybody striding of a passing nurse added to that almost cruel taint you can feel in hospitals, where bureaucracy meets agony and work meets death. When she turned towards me again, I noticed her pupils were dancing all over my face: my mouth; my eyes; my cheeks; my hair; my nose. It was as if she was trying to recall something. When she spoke again her voice had the tiniest thread of hardness running through it.

  “You’ll be fine, Killian. You will. Trust a wise old buzzard. You’re going to be a big hit in London. Already are, by the sounds of things. All you need now is to get out of that house. I know you don’t tell me the half of it. All these excuses you make for her.”

  “She doesn’t mean it,” I said.

  She reached over and closed a shaking hand over mine. Her skin looked shiny and hard, like vinyl. I could see the muscles and mechanisms inside it; rods and hinges and thick blue pipes. I could see everything moving about.

  “Can I ask you a funny question, Kill?” she asked, carefully. “Do you have dreams sometimes? About the cottage?”

  I saw her heartbeat throb inside a vein. I saw the push of the pulse, defiant in the face of her decay.

  “No,” I said, still looking at her hand. “I don’t know. I don’t really remember what happens in them.”

  “You know you’re a special lad, don’t you, Kill?” she said. “You’ve got the Dor blood. You’ve got Mary in you.”

  With a miniature groan, she sat herself up, just a little.

  “I want you to listen to me now. The next year or two – you might find them to be a little testing. What I mean is, you’ll probably be tested, in ways you can’t possibly begin to imagine. Now, I know you think I’m a dotty old thing, with my funny stories about the cottage and all that. But you must understand. There’s more to this world than you might think. When it comes, when it happens, you have to be strong enough to be good. And I know you will, my dear.”

  She looked settled enough, in her bed. Content. I wondered about the painkillers. It was probably the drugs, making her confused.

  “Okay, Aunty,” I said. “I understand.”

  “But first things first,” she said. “You need to be allowed to grow up. You need to strike out on your own.”

  “But I’m never going to be able to move out of Mum’s house,” I said, pulling my hand up from under hers. “Even if they keep me on, I won’t be able to afford it.”

  I had a sudden doubt about her smile.

  “Trust a wise old buzzard,” she said. “You’ll be all right.”

  And my room was flooded with golden light. The air was simmering, and I was elevated inside it, lifted by the most wonderful of fragrances. Feathers of flavour were stroking the weight from my body, now the scent of strawberry, now thyme, now roasted chicken, now frying shallots, now lemongrass, now tomato, now satsumas, now chocolate, the air blushing with oranges, greens and pinks. It was as if I were dreaming, not with my mind, but with my nose, mouth and tongue. In that moment, as I floated in the ecstasy, I felt in total command of all of nature’s gifts.

  13

  Having lied to Mum, I realised that my only option was to take the 06.52 to London as if I hadn’t been dismissed at all. I walked around for an hour or two and eventually ended up outside King. There was a post office on the opposite side of the road whose window faced the restaurant. It had a counter running beneath it, upon which customers were supposed to stick stamps and write addresses. I spent a long time leaning there, pretending to read pamphlets about the dole and housing benefit. I filled in four passport applications and applied for road tax twice. But what I was really doing was the thing I did best: watching in the silence. I wanted to see them – Ambrose and Patrick and Chef Max Mann. I wanted to see Kathryn.

  During lunch service, I walked some more. I went to Billingsgate, Smithfield and Borough Market. I made pilgrimages to Le Gavroche, Tante Claire and Chez Nico. I peered at the menus in Inigo Jones, Le Caprice and Langan’s Brasserie. Halfway through the afternoon, I took the train to Tunbridge Wells. Aunt Dorothy was missing.

  “Is she still in Ward 10?” I asked the receptionist when I arrived at the Kent and Sussex. I had been looking forward to her sympathetic company and felt pleased that, this time, I could have a full two hours. The hospital was busy. The people moved with a curious slowness; the tired slouch of cleaners, weary invalids, harassed visitors and doctors wired on 5p machine coffee.

  “Do you know when they were operating?” he said, picking up the phone with the same friendly smile he’d greeted me with the day before.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet, though.”

  He mumbled into the receiver, then placed his hand over it. There was a pause as he listened to something, then span around in his chair. My legs ached from the day’s walking and I leaned my weight against the counter, running my thumbs impatiently along its edge, which was coming away to reveal the chipboard beneath. I glanced about at the plastic signs, plastic chairs and the dusty plastic light fitting that was hanging dangerously above me from the suspended ceiling.

  “Is she still in Ward 10?” I asked, again, when he was off the phone.

  “Sorry, sir, could you excuse me for a second?” he got up from his seat. “I’ve just got to check something…”

  He went into the back office, through a door marked “Staff Only”, and I could just see him talking to someone through the window, which was louvred with mirrors. He glanced at me, fearfully.

  I walked as fast as I could without looking conspicuous. I went around the corner and ran – up the stairs, left down the corridor, radiology, Ward 8, Ward 7, hang on, hang on, I’m going in the wrong direction, back past radiology and upstairs and right and straight down the corridor, neonatal, coronary care, intensive care, no, no, no, maybe downstairs, two flights this time, where are the signs, where are the signs, steps, steps, steps, down past the lift, I remember these murals, I remember that cartoon tiger, it was somewhere around here, I know it was definitely somewhere around here, physical therapy, Ward 5, Ward 6, oh no, how could this be?, down there, right down there to the end, more stairs, I’ll go up this time, oh God, not Ward 8 again, hang on, hang on, I remember endocrinology, it was here, it was around here, Ward 9, no, no, no, got to be down here, there, there, those green doors, there they are, those green bloody doors – and I ran; I ran as fast as I could.

  “Can I help you?” said the nurse. She was standing over the bed of a man with remarkable eyebrows who looked as if he was concentrating very hard on sitting up.

  “Dorothy Moran,” I said. “Is she down there?”

  The nurse moved into the centre of the corridor. She spoke low and tentatively.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Somebody downstairs should have told you. She went at about half three this morning.”

  “Went?”

  “I’m so sorry, sir. We had your mum down as next of kin but – has your phone been disconnected? It doesn’t seem to be working. We’ve been trying all day.”

  The nurse took a tiny step away from me and her hips moved towards the nearby door.

  “I’m really, really sorry,” she said.

 
I stood there, surrounded by the moment.

  “That’s okay,” I said, trying to look calm. “But she was fine. I saw her. I spoke to her.” I glanced towards the bed Dorothy had been in. A single fly circled over the space where her head had lain.

  “Actually,” she said, “I think she was a little distressed about the operation and about not being able to walk without assistance. I mean, the doctor told her yesterday morning she might not walk again.” She took a little step back towards me and allowed her voice to become softer. “I know it sounds weird, but sometimes – when they get to that age – sometimes you just get the feeling they’re ready to go. They just decide it’s time, you know? You see it a lot on this ward. Sometimes, they just decide.”

  I didn’t cry when I left the hospital and I didn’t cry when I got home and I didn’t cry when I was alone on my bed trying not to think about anything at all.

  14

  For the first part of the week that followed, I continued to sustain the fiction that I was working the lunch service at King. I’d spend the days watching in the post office or sitting on a bench in Soho Square, before making it home in time to heat up a Findus dinner with chips for my parents.

  That Thursday, I walked into the lounge to meet the sharp silence of a conversation abruptly halted. The television was on, but Dad was standing in front of it in his gold-buttoned suit, his navy-blue tie in a wide shiny knot. Mum was in her armchair, having made her usual move of changing out of whatever it was she’d been wearing in the day and putting on her pink Harrods slippers and a thin cotton ‘CHOOSE SLEEP’ nightdress that went to her knees. Her small round face hung like a failed sun beneath the horizon of her heavy black fringe that was shot through with lightning strikes of grey. A half-smoked Belair Menthol sat glowing in the heavy glass ashtray – a souvenir from a Mediterranean cruise that she had been on with Dad.

  She sprang from her throne as I entered – her spine, her upper lip, her finger poking towards me – all curled up and nasty; one great human-sized jab.

  “Joy,” said Dad, holding his arm out to stop her. His suit was too short and his gold bracelet clashed with his orange skin and hairs.

  “What did you say to her?” she said. “What did you say to her?”

  She turned to my father. “It’s not right. It’s not right.” And to me, “You greedy little bastard, what have you been scheming?”

  “What’s going on?” I said.

  “We’ve come from the solicitor’s,” said my father.

  “Congratulations,” Mum said. “Greedy bastard. I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve got what you wanted.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  Mum broke free and slapped me around the face.

  “Not now, Joy,” said Dad.

  “You’re not too big for an old-fashioned hiding, you know,” she said. “I’ll get the fucking kettle boiling.”

  “That’s not…” began Dad. “This is not the way to solve this situation.”

  I looked back at my father, squinting in confusion; surprised by the calm strength he was exhibiting.

  “The house,” he explained. “The cottage.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

  “As if he doesn’t know,” said Mum. “Acting the bloody innocent. This is how I get treated, after everything. This is how I’m repaid.”

  “Sit down, Joy,” said Dad. “Let me try.”

  He lowered himself onto the sofa with a stiff grunt, his slow movement somehow having a calming effect on the room. “Now,” he said, looking up through reasonable eyebrows. “At some point, your aunt Dotty changed her will to make it so you got the cottage.” He patted the arm of the chair. “You’re just a boy, Killian. She didn’t know what she was doing.”

  The only way I could hold myself together was to lean back on the sofa to stare at the ceiling – at the bottle-green tasselled lampshade, the long cracks in the plaster, like spider’s legs, and the remains of the twilight leaking through the net curtains.

  “It’s not right,” said Mum with sorry, pleading eyes. “It’s not right.”

  “We’ve been relying on getting that house,” said Dad. “It’s supposed to go to us – next of kin. We need the money, son. We’ve got to sell it. I’ll be retiring soon. We’ve got loans.”

  I couldn’t remember seeing them this combined before.

  “Come on, son,” said Dad. “There are times in life when you've just got to do what’s right. For the family. We’ve brought you up. This is the least you can do for us. You owe it, really.”

  When Mum spoke again it was with a careful mix of affection and softly spun hurt.

  “All those years I raised you,” she said. “I’ve given you everything I’ve got. You should see some of the cases that come across my desk. You don’t know how lucky you are. This is your chance to help us for a change. To help your mother. To show me how much you love me.” Her eyes raked me up and down. “If you still do, that is. All grown up now. Big man. Don’t need your mum any more.”

  My eyes flicked back to the ceiling. I remembered Dorothy, lying there. Trust a wise old buzzard.

  “You can have it,” I said. “I don’t want it.”

  I avoided looking at either of them as I stood. I didn’t know where I was going. It didn’t matter: the only important thing was to leave. I’d just see where my feet wanted to take me. Maybe to the park. Maybe to a pub. Maybe I’d do as my father always did and poison the discomfort with whisky.

  “You’re a good boy, Killian,” said Mum as I passed by. “It’s only right, after everything we’ve done for Dorothy. We loved her. You know we did. She was family.”

  She was stroking the arm of the chair with the pad of her thumb and peering down at it in a detached sort of gaze. It was a caring, gentle motion. She was watching herself in the act of it. Being caring. Being gentle. I observed her for just a second. For some reason, I lost control.

  “Well, that’s bullshit,” I said.

  Her neck twisted towards me. I could see the sinew in it and I could see something pulsing.

  “What did you say to me?”

  A U-turn, right round to the front of her and I was there, crouching to the height of her face. I was conscious of the pressure in my thighs; the torque in the muscles as I held myself steady. Her legs poked from beneath her black skirt like pistons.

  “You wouldn’t even let her come for Christmas,” I said. “She looked forward to Christmas dinner all year and you wouldn’t let her come. Do you know what she ate on Christmas Day, whilst we were eating turkey? I know, because I saw it in her bin. She ate a can of Campbell’s tomato soup.”

  I stuck my face into hers just as Patrick had done to me.

  “Campbell’s. Fucking. Tomato. Soup.”

  I stood up to my full height.

  “I don’t want to be here any more,” I said. “I don’t want to live here. I want to live on my own. I really think that’s best.” Silence. “That’s what I want. And that’s what Aunt Dorothy wanted. What she didn’t want was you lot selling the cottage.”

  “And what have I got?” Mum shouted, rising from her chair. “Who’s going to look after me when I get old? Not him. Not that bloody useless sack of a man.” She gestured to the sofa behind me, where Dad confirmed her prediction by doing absolutely nothing at all. “We need the house, Killian. We need the money. I need it.”

  “It’s supposed to be mine, Mum, and I’m sorry but I promise, I’ll look after you,” I said. “Of course I will. I promise.”

  She slapped me, aiming her long nails, as was her habit, at my injured left eye. Her nipples hardened beneath her nightshirt. I lurched back and sunk towards the carpet, covering my head. In the background, I could hear a baked beans commercial showing on the lounge television: “My brother’s been really kind to me lately. He’s given me all his comics…”

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, you ungrateful little bastard.”

  “His magnifying gla
ss, his favourite poster. He’s even given me his share of Heinz baked beans.”

  She kept it coming and coming and coming, shouting, “After everything I’ve done for you.”

  “Genuine too! All of them covered in lovely thick tomato sauce.”

  “You don’t give a shit about me. Typical fucking man – ”

  “Heinz beans are the business! And me? I gave him the – ”

  “– cunt.”

  It would be over soon. She would be sorry and she would hold me again just like she used to. It was going to be fine. It was going to be fine.

  * * *

  When I got home from drinking in Tonbridge Park that night, I found her in the armchair, asleep with a half-drunk bottle of Martini at her feet. I helped her upstairs and put her to bed. I made sure she was warm and comfortable, the quilt tucked up to her chin and the night-light on, her face cast gently in its safe orange glow.

  And I felt the caged magic in Dor Cottage. I felt it breathing; moving towards me as I slept. I reached out and touched it with my fingers, sliced with blood, pushed through dreadful undergrowth. They tore at plants as a great fire burned around me.

  In the kitchen, the woman I had always known turned to look at me. Gently, she took my hand and pushed my finger into a pot of hot broth. She held it in the thick and roiling red, until my skin peeled off. She said to me, “And now you’ve come, so. From the land of Uz, all perfect and upright.”

  Outside, the elms were filled with night and the voices of children. I could hear them chanting, “Earl’s heart and earl’s leafs and earl’s lusts abounding. Earl’s fires and earl’s grace and earl’s witch is burning.”

  And dogs surrounded the king of all cooks. He pushed them back with his bleeding fingers. “Who’s going to stop them barking?”

  And I was king of the dogs, dog of the kitchen, dog of the lost.

  I was dog of the kitchen, dog of the lost.

  15

  West Kent’s catering department was deserted. I walked through the training kitchen, amongst the cold ovens and the unclattered pots and pans. All the students were on their work placements. I would have imagined that Mr Mayle wasn’t there either, if it hadn’t been for the message I found by the telephone at home that said he wanted to see me in his office.