The Bellwether Revivals

by Benjamin Wood

  It was cold with the air conditioning on, and there was a sullen atmosphere in the car once they started driving. As they left the city, heading for Grantchester, Oscar saw other groups in formalwear just like them, walking in the opposite direction—happy young faces, brighter for knowing that another long year was behind them, for better or worse, and that the summer had finally arrived. But the end-of-term spirit seemed to have bypassed his friends entirely. Nobody talked for a long time, and the silence was uncomfortable. Jane quietly gazed at her shoes; Marcus concentrated on the road; Yin fidgeted with the lightswitch on the vanity mirror until Marcus told him to cut it out. The sun flared in the windscreen.

  ‘This doesn’t feel right,’ Jane spoke up at last. ‘I should be over there with Theo, not going to a stupid party. I should be doing something.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Marcus said. ‘This whole thing just feels—’

  ‘Hollow,’ said Yin.

  ‘Yeah. That’s it exactly.’

  ‘Nothing’s the same without Eden,’ Jane said. She leaned forward to tap Marcus on the shoulder. ‘Have you got your mobile switched on? Just in case.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, relax.’

  There’d been drips of positive news from Theo since he’d left for Hamburg at the end of May. The information was passed on by Ruth, then Iris, and by the time it reached Oscar, all traces of pessimism had been filtered out of it. He’d heard that Theo had begun a city-wide search, starting with St Michael’s church, where a chorister had recognised Eden’s face from the photograph he’d shown her—she said she might have seen him at an afternoon service. Next, a waitress in a café on the Reeperbahn had recognised the boy in the photograph, too, and said he might have been to eat there a couple of times. Then a taxi driver said he’d dropped someone who looked like Eden at the opera—he remembered, because the fare was only eight euros, and the boy had given him a twenty and walked away. That was the last anyone had heard. There’d been no more text messages, no more sightings, and Theo was getting tired of the hunt, but he wasn’t giving up until he’d exhausted all the options. He was still confident that he would find his son amid the hustle and dirt of Hamburg, and everybody else was, too.

  Iris seemed a lot more upbeat about the situation, knowing that somebody was out there looking for her brother, and now the exams were over she’d started to ease off on the cigarettes. She was easier to talk to on the phone. Her laughter had returned.

  Oscar had gone with her to a violin recital at West Road last week, and she’d spent the night at his flat afterwards; for the first time in months, they’d slept together and woken up in the same bed. On Wednesday evening, they’d had dinner with her mother in the vast, echoing dining room at the Bellwether house, and they’d stayed up late watching movies while Iris talked over every scene, telling him how much she was looking forward to the year ahead. She was excited about spending the summer in Grantchester and doing nothing but reading and swimming and playing cello in the garden, and she was thinking of taking a trip with him somewhere once her leg was better (maybe Paris—‘clichéd but romantic,’ she said; or maybe Reykjavik, because she’d always wanted to splash around in the geysers). She couldn’t wait to move into halls in September and be a regular student for a while.

  The first thing she was looking forward to was the ball at St John’s. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to just let my hair down, and breathe for a while,’ she’d whispered into his ear. ‘I know I should be thinking of my brother and everything, and I feel guilty for being excited about a silly party, but I just feel like I need something to celebrate that’s mine. Does that make sense? I miss Eden, I do, but I want to have at least one memory of Cambridge that’s all mine.’

  She’d already imagined how the night was going to go. ‘I was thinking you could pick me up, all handsome in your dinner suit, and we’ll have Marcus park somewhere close, so I don’t have to stumble around too much, looking like an invalid. As soon as we get inside, I thought we’d have champagne—three or four glasses before the dancing starts, at least, though I’m thinking the music will already be playing when we arrive—that old-fashioned Cole Porter-type music, probably; trumpets and clarinets and oboes and a proper jazz singer. Then you can ask me to dance and of course I’ll accept, and you can waltz me around the ballroom as long as you want, all night if you want to. We should probably sit down for a bit then, I suppose. Rest my leg. Mingle. Be sociable. And then afterwards, leg permitting, we’ve got to walk barefoot on the college lawn. I’ve always wanted to do that.’ Her voice had sounded so breezy; her face had been alight. ‘I bought this incredible white dress—you’re not allowed to see it yet, but it fits me like a dream—and my mother’s helping me decorate my crutches with this fabric she got in India. I’m aiming for convalescent chic.’

  Now, Oscar could just make out the verge of the Bellwethers’ driveway in the distance: that familiar regiment of pine trees that led up to the house, nestled beyond the main stretch of road. How he’d come to love this place, and how well he’d come to know the journey. He almost knew it better than the route to his parents’ estate. He seemed to walk these roads in his sleep.

  Jane was still wordless beside him. She was twisting at her bracelet and keeping her eyes on the accelerating world outside the window. The sun was hanging in the sky, grapefruit red, and the distant fields were spotted with grazing livestock. It was strange to see her so quiet, so removed. Usually, when she couldn’t find a way into a conversation, she’d start one of her own. But her lips were tightly closed and she didn’t seem the least bit interested in talking. Her mind was in another country.

  Marcus and Yin discussed their summer plans: ‘Are you going back to the States?’ ‘Probably. Haven’t seen my folks all year. They’re renting a place in Santa Barbara over August.’ ‘Jealous.’ ‘Come if you want.’ ‘I’d love to but—’ Oscar had already tuned out by the time they turned into the Bellwethers’ driveway. He was thinking of Iris, wondering what she was going to look like in her dress, imagining the bare slope of her shoulders. He would kiss her the moment he saw her.

  The tyres shuddered on the gravel, and suddenly the house appeared before them, a great surfacing block of white that grew bigger and wider as they approached. In the sunlight, it seemed almost waxen, the glass atrium glinting like a telescope lens. Birds darted from the trees in the garden; they seemed to head straight for the atrium, mistaking the perfect glass for air, only to pull up at the last second, using the updraft to steer themselves away. All it would take was one small miscalculation, he thought, just one rotation of their wings too many and they would stun themselves and fall to the ground.

  Marcus parked by the garage and switched off the engine. He leaned into the back seat. ‘It doesn’t take four of us to knock for her,’ he said, looking at Oscar.

  ‘Don’t be such a misery,’ Jane said. ‘We’ll all go.’

  ‘But it’s so lovely and cool in here …’

  Jane clicked open her door. ‘Shut up. You’re coming.’

  Yin had one foot out of the car already, and when Marcus saw they were all leaving him, he quickly unlatched his seat belt and got out. They stood around the car, adjusting again to the heat. A humid air pushed at them from all sides. Oscar checked his reflection in the tinted window, dabbing his face with his handkerchief. The flower-stems dripped on his shoelaces. They trudged towards the house, labouring up the front steps.

  Before he rang the doorbell, Oscar got their attention. ‘Listen, everyone, I know you’re not in the mood for a celebration right now, but can we at least pretend to have fun tonight, for Iris’s sake? She’s been looking forward to it.’

  Yin pushed his hands into his pockets and nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I can manage that,’ said Marcus.

  Jane put on a silly, ventriloquist’s grin. ‘Shiny happy people,’ she said through her teeth.

  He rang the bell and waited. When there was no reply, he rang again. They all shuffled their feet, shrugging at e
ach other. ‘Ring it again,’ Yin said. ‘They’re probably upstairs.’

  ‘This house is just too massive,’ Jane said, ‘it’s no wonder they can’t hear anything.’

  Oscar pushed the bell a few more times.

  They waited.

  No answer.

  Yin stepped forward and pushed the button—five urgent trills. ‘This is ridiculous. It’s too hot for this.’ Still, nobody came to the door.

  Oscar put his face to the glass, blanking out the sunshine with his hands, and peered into the empty atrium. The ceiling fan was spinning slowly on the landing. ‘You see anybody in there?’ Marcus asked.

  ‘No.’

  But right then Oscar saw something that brought a tight feeling to his chest, as if a fist was closing around his heart. There, at the back of the room, a white dress was hanging from the highest baluster, wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic. With every rotation of the ceiling fan, the tails of the plastic quivered and shone, and the longer he looked at it, the more the fabric of the dress seemed so intensely white—it stood out in the bareness of the atrium like a flag of surrender. He pulled his eyes away.

  Jane noticed the worry in his face. ‘What?’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Her dress is there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Typical. She’s not even dressed yet!’ Marcus said.

  Jane pushed past him to look through the window. ‘He’s right. She hasn’t even taken it out of the wrapper. We did say seven thirty, didn’t we?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Yin sniffed. ‘So what now?’

  ‘I’ll call her,’ Oscar said. He got out his mobile and dialled Iris’s number. No signal; it went straight to voicemail. He called the landline. They could hear it ringing out in the atrium, could see the green light pulsing on the telephone table, but nobody answered. ‘I guess we should try the back way,’ Yin said.

  They went down the steps, heading for the side gate. The others walked with casual, trundling strides, but there was an urgency now in Oscar’s step—something wasn’t right. He could feel it.

  The side gate was locked. Marcus tried to reach through the iron rails to unlatch it, but he couldn’t quite stretch far enough.

  ‘Alright, stand back,’ Yin said. ‘Let me get a decent run at it.’ He gave himself a good run-up and hurled himself towards the gate; he leaped out with his front foot and landed it halfway, pushing himself upwards, clutching at the brickwork. He hauled himself over the wall and dropped down on the other side. His suit was streaked with dirt and he spent a moment patting himself clean before he unbolted the gate.

  They made their way through the garden, winding along the landscaped path, under the hang of weeping willows and past rockeries of hibiscus and roses and lavender. The decking at the back of the rectory was dark with the shadows of elms and cherry trees, but the lawns seemed impossibly green, and the sprinklers were giving out a fine and gentle spray. As they neared the back of the main house, Oscar noticed a curtain billowing. One of the French doors was wide open. Yin saw it too: ‘Hey, I guess we’re in luck.’ Oscar led the way up to the patio, around the swing-seat and the folded-up sunlounger, to the open door. He knocked on the glass, calling out for Iris and Ruth as he went inside, hoping to hear their soft, friendly voices coming back at him.

  The drawing room was empty. On the marble floor, there was a long, meandering streak—he saw it right away—a wavy black line, like a child’s crayon doodle, or a scuff mark left by chair casters. It was a solid, thin trail that weaved across the room, from the far end of the hallway to right where he was standing.

  ‘I don’t get this,’ Jane said. ‘Where is everybody?’

  Yin crouched to inspect the black mark. He rubbed at part of the streak with his fingers. On his haunches, he followed the trail back to the lip of the French doors, back outside, everyone walking behind him. The trail continued across the patio, stopping at the steps, where the path turned into gravel—the stones were disturbed there, bunched together in little heaps—and it carried on as far as the rectory. Yin stood up. ‘I guess they’ve been moving the furniture around.’

  Jane turned to Oscar. ‘This is so weird. Where is she?’

  ‘We should check upstairs,’ Yin said.

  Marcus huffed. He swung his car keys around on his finger. ‘Well, I’m going back to the car before I sweat right through this jacket. If she comes out the front, I’ll toot the horn.’ And off he went, back the way they’d come. But before he could even get down the patio step, a jarring noise rang through the garden. Marcus stopped the instant he heard it, turning back to them. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Yin said.

  The noise came again. It was like the sound of a shipyard, of metal striking metal—short atonal notes resounding through the air. The four of them stood waiting, listening, as the noises got louder, more frequent. ‘Where’s it coming from?’ Jane said.

  The sound came again. Kuh-langg. Kuh-langg.

  Oscar knew exactly where it was coming from. He had a perfect line of sight now from the patio. Across the sun-bright lawns, the door of the organ house was hanging ajar. He heard the noise again—kuh-langg, kuh-langg—and started to run towards the building. He ran with his arms flailing, and the carnations shed their petals behind him, until his fingers loosened around the bouquet and it fell to the ground. He heard Yin trampling over it as he came bounding after him. Kuh-lanng. Kuh-lanng. The metallic noises kept on coming and he could feel that fist around his heart getting tighter. Kuh-langg. He was breathless and panicked by the time he reached the organ house. He struggled to push back the door.

  Another black drag-mark ran like a train track along the aisle. It ended at the rubber heel of Iris’s leg-brace. She was crumpled on the floor in a nightdress, her body as limp as bundled laundry. The frame around her leg had snapped, bent up like a hairpin. One side of her face was lying square against the hard floor and her skin was silvery pale. Her eyes were closed. She wasn’t moving. She didn’t seem to be breathing.

  There were no more noises.

  A few yards from his sister’s body, Eden was sitting on the battered keys of the organ console, barefoot and shirtless. He was breathing hard. Sweat was teeming from his face. His hand was curled loosely around a pickaxe. Behind him, the metal pipes of the organ were punctured and twisted, hammered flat and mangled.

  Oscar felt his whole body seizing. He could hardly move his fingers, let alone his feet. But then he heard Yin’s voice behind him—‘Fuck, man, what the hell have you done?’—and he saw Eden raising his head, slowly, slowly, so that the sheen of his eyes was like a cat’s glare.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Eden said, ‘I made a mistake.’

  The words seemed to unlock Oscar’s body. He couldn’t have run any faster down that aisle to reach her. He couldn’t have made it to her side any quicker than he did. He dropped to his knees, searching her neck for a pulse, but he couldn’t feel one. ‘Call an ambulance!’ he called out. ‘Somebody! Hurry!’ Marcus backed out of the organ house, heel after heel, so startled and frightened that he nearly tripped over himself. He rushed off to find the telephone.

  Oscar stared down at Iris. He felt for her pulse again, but there wasn’t even the weakest beat. Her skin was dry and cold. He listened for her exhalations. None came. Her lips were pinched and blue. He tried to resuscitate her, desperately pushing his mouth against hers, but she didn’t stir, she didn’t gasp, and there was no pressure coming back upon him. He broke down, then. He wasn’t ashamed to cry, to scream out in pain, to fall apart. The tears came rolling down his face onto her mouth and he wiped them away, kissing her cheek. He held her head against his chest and smelled the shampoo in her hair. And he did all this with Eden sitting there on the organ console, watching him, making no sound.

  ‘Is she—?’ Yin couldn’t even get the words out. His fists were balled at his sides. ‘Is she dead?’

  Oscar could only just bring himself to nod.
/>   Yin turned away. ‘Oh fuck … Oh my fucking God …’

  Jane was still standing by the doorway. She had to lower herself into a chair, two hands cupped over her mouth, as if she were praying. Her eyes were wet and round. ‘Did you do this?’ she said.

  Eden let her voice fall away. ‘I made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t bring her back.’

  She stepped along the aisle towards him. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I couldn’t revive her.’

  ‘What did you do, Eden?’

  ‘I—I just—it all happened so fast.’

  ‘Where’s Ruth?’

  Eden stared at the floor.

  ‘Where is she? Where’s your mother?’

  He didn’t respond. As Jane moved closer, his fingers tightened around the pickaxe handle.

  Yin was heading towards Eden now, too, his fists still balled up at his sides. Eden stood up, clutching the pickaxe across his chest, spinning it as if it were a tennis racket and this were all just a backyard game. ‘Don’t come any closer!’ he said. Yin and Jane slowed, holding their hands in the air. ‘I mean it, stay back!’

  Eden began to swing the pickaxe. He was standing high up now on the organ console, towering over them. They stopped in their tracks. ‘Edie,’ Jane pleaded, ‘you’re not going to hurt me. You love me. Come on, put that thing down and let’s try to sort this out, together, you and me.’ But Eden just swung the pickaxe again and again, in wide, slow arcs, until they stepped backwards. He jumped down from the ruined keys of the organ and his feet slapped against the floor. Swinging the axe, he made Jane and Yin retreat further, turning them around, backing them against the wall to give him a clear path along the aisle. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. ‘Don’t make me hit you!’ With the momentum of one last swing, he started to run for the door.

  Oscar was only a few yards away, still holding Iris’s limp body in his arms, and he wasn’t close enough to reach out and stop Eden escaping. But the axe was heavy, and Eden had to let go of it halfway along the aisle—kuh-langg—and when he got to the door, he found Marcus standing in his way. If Marcus expected that sheer resolve would bring Eden to a halt, he was wrong. Eden kept on going. Like a rugby forward, he dipped his shoulder and barged straight into Marcus’s ribs, throwing his weight right into him, and Marcus fell back against the door, hitting his head against the wood. After a moment, he sat up, clutching his skull, bewildered. Eden slipped out into the bright evening.