Swallowing the Sun
Page 11
‘Never saw a moment of the game and the old goat was United crazy. He could have stayed home and watched it on Match of the Day. We had some laughs all right. Here, have another drink. I’ll get one of the boys to taxi you home.’
‘Listen, Jaunty,’ he says, ‘it’s good to see you and thanks for the drink. After all this time like. But I need to find Rob now. Family stuff.’
‘End house, street behind the community centre. Got a red van parked outside. Tell him to come and see me soon. Might have some work for him.’
He says his thanks and turns to go. The voice calls to him. ‘Any time you need a change of job, give us a call, Marty. I could use a sound man in a lot of things. The world’s full of thieves, always need people I can trust.’ In reply he lifts his arm and lets it fall again, but doesn’t look back as he gets in his car. Already, he’s asking himself why he’s come, why it matters about Rob. It feels like he’s stepping back into a sewer and then he tells himself that this is part of the price that has to be paid and he knows, too, that there will be worse than this.
The community centre’s roof is circled with barbed wire and on the tiles in large letters someone has painted U.F.F in white paint. Some kids stand smoking in the doorway. He finds Rob’s street, sees the red van and parks a little way from the house. The wooden fence is broken and a dog sniffs round the patch of uneven grass. There is a satellite dish jutting from the chimney. He wonders if Rob is still with Angela, if they have any kids, how he is. What he will say when he tells him. Again he wonders why he’s come, considers starting the car and driving away. Rachel was still in primary school the last time he saw her – she never knew him as an uncle. She never knew much about any of his family and after a while whatever natural curiosity she might have had slipped away.
As he walks down the path to the door, the dog turns briefly to inspect him then returns to its sniffing. There is a light on in the living room but he can’t see a bell or door knocker so he raps with his knuckles. The wood feels cold and damp against his skin. A hand shivers the curtain and a few moments later the door is opened by someone he thinks is Angela. Her hair is blonde now, not brown, and she has rings in her eyebrow and nose. The smell of cigarette smoke and cooking engulfs him so strongly that he blinks his eyes as if trying to clear it. She stares at him without speaking and it’s clear she isn’t sure who he is.
‘Is Rob in?’ he asks. ‘It’s Martin, his brother.’ She doesn’t take her eyes off him or say anything to him but shouts for Rob and when he doesn’t appear she shouts again, and each time her voice is louder and more insistent and it mixes with the blare of the television. She’s wearing a black blouse with tracksuit bottoms and nothing on her feet. Her feet are small, blue-veined and ragged in the nails. He stares past her and in the kitchen he can see a basin on a table with washed clothes piled into it. She doesn’t ask him in or speak, except to call for Rob, and finally she turns to go and get him.
It’s his last chance to go. To go and never come back. But he forces himself to stay because now he knows there is nowhere to go. Nowhere that is better than this. He touches the frame of the door, lets his finger trace the peeling strip of rubber. There is a child’s pram protruding from under the stairs. A curly-headed doll on the floor between the wheels. Rob never told him. Never told him about a child.
‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ Rob asks. He comes down the hall and he doesn’t look any older than how he remembers him – only a lightly lined tightening round the eyes and a thinning of his hair at the temples mark the passage of time. He’s scared now though; that, too, is familiar in the way his body locks itself into a tight angular frame, the way his hands suddenly seem stiff and clawed as if they’re looking for something to hold on to. ‘She’s dead isn’t she?’ he repeats.
‘Yes, she’s dead,’ he answers and hates him for making him use the words.
‘I knew you’d come some day to tell me that,’ Rob says. They’re still standing on the doorstep. He watches him shuffle a little, turn a half-circle then unclench his fists. What does he mean, he knew he’d come?
‘I can’t come to the funeral – I’m sorry, Marty. I’ve already decided that whenever it happened, I wasn’t going to go to Ma’s funeral. I’m sorry. I’ll do anything else but I’m not going.’
‘Ma’s not dead, Rob. It’s Rachel who’s dead. It’s Rachel, Rob.’ And he wishes with all his heart that what Rob thought he was coming to tell him was the truth, that with a sleight of hand, some reshuffling of the dealt cards, that it might become the truth.
‘You’re jokin’ me, you’re fuckin’ jokin’ me,’ Rob says and then at last he stretches out his hand and invites him in. Rob repeats the words to Angela even though she’s been standing at his shoulder, then wanders into the living room ahead of them both as if they’re no longer there. When they follow him into the room Rob is staring at the television, and doesn’t turn his head to look at him when he speaks. ‘I thought it was Ma, Marty. I’m sorry. I just thought when you came, it would be to tell me she was gone.’
Angela stands in the doorway, still staring at him. No one turns the television volume down. Neither of them hear how loud it is. He has to talk over it, tell them what he has to tell them, about the funeral arrangements, his voice merging with the laughter and applause of the game-show audience. Rob only sneaks glances at him, as if someone has told him that he’s not to look. He wants to get up and rip out the plug, grab Rob by the throat and make him look him in the eye. Every word he uses now spills a little more of himself, rubs the memories raw and suddenly he thinks of the pram in the hall and asks about their child. But it is Angela who speaks and tells him that Corrina is four years old and that she’s from a previous relationship. And part of him wants to say that they don’t deserve her, wants to take her from them, give her to people who will take better care of her and love her more. But then he thinks that even in this house, in the middle of this estate, even here with Rob, they’re taking better care of her than he did of Rachel. So he tells them of the arrangements, lets Rob know he can come or stay away as he wants, and then he’s hurrying to the car and trying not to be sick.
*
She holds it to her nose – mint, arnica, witch hazel – but nothing can sweeten what she smells now. The sourness of loss clings to every part of her skin, clammy and heavy, and even if she wanted to, she knows she can’t ever shake it off. It clogs her pores, coats every strand of her hair and as she watches the rain fall against the glass, she wants something that will wash it away. Something that will lighten and lift what she feels – even for a moment, even for a single moment. But she feels only one thing sharply now: the constant stab of a fine steel blade that is unrelenting in seeking out some new spot to pierce. It finds it in Rachel’s clothes buried in the pile of ironing, the letter which arrives from some university she had asked to send her information about courses, the yoghurts that only she liked, creeping past their sell-by date in the fridge.
She feels only one thing now and everything else is muffled and rendered vague and undefined. Nothing else touches or impinges on this thing, not the hands of the clock, not food, not even the need to wash or brush her hair. Everything that constituted her former life is drained away, diverted into some channel which sluices it all off. Sometimes she wonders how she even remembers to breathe because everything else has been forgotten – how to sleep, how to walk further than from one room to another, how to talk to the people who come to the house to pay their respects. Maybe it is the tablets which cut her off from her self, maybe it is the sedatives which leave her feeling nothing but that sharp stab of pain. She wants herself back because she needs her memories now more than anything else and when she tries to make Rachel alive in her head, the images are shrouded and out of focus like some photograph which hasn’t been fully developed. She’s even scared to summon those moments which are precious to her because each time they form in her consciousness, they seem to have travelled an ever greater distance and be more insub
stantial than the time before. So as she stands watching the falling rain slant against the glass, she is filled with a dull ache of fear that soon there will be nothing left upon which to draw.
The yoghurts are past their sell-by date. It’s stupid. She takes them out of the fridge and then puts them back. She irons the clothes and puts them in Rachel’s drawer. She props the letter against the lamp on her desk. What did her hair feel like? Why didn’t she touch it when she had the chance? Why didn’t she say all the things that now seem important? Why did she put off everything to some future date? Now there is no future, only a past that is slipping slowly through her hands. She looks for a cigarette but knows there aren’t any, remembers that she hasn’t smoked since she was a teenager.
She puts her hand to her hair, is repelled by what she feels. She lets her head rest on the coldness of the glass, lets her face wear the mask of the falling rain. Not even to know your own child. She thought she had a daughter who knew so many things, when after all she knew as little as anyone else and maybe even less. She hates the stars now, blames them for deceiving her, for stopping her being the mother she should have been. They stole her daughter from her and now if she could, she would take them and throw them into the darkness. Her breath steams the glass and when she wipes it clear, the prints of her fingertips whorl it before fading into nothing. More rain falls. She wants to be clean, to be wakened to her self again, and so she opens the back door and goes outside.
*
He pauses before he gets out of the car, momentarily unwilling to re-enter the round of his life. But the funeral is soon and there are still things to be done. When he opens the front door, the house feels empty and strange. As he walks down the hall, he can hear Tom’s footsteps in his room, but there is no sign of Alison. He calls for her and looks, asks Tom, but there is still no sign, then coming down again to the kitchen, he notices that the back door is slightly open. A little shift of rain has glistened the vinyl. He opens it wider, feels the damp breath of the night brush his face – the rain is heavier now, coming down in fine riddling slants and he stands on the step and calls her name. There is no answer but somehow he knows she is out there. Suddenly he gets frightened, wonders where she is and what she’s doing, startling himself with the thought that perhaps loss is not singular but when it comes it can flow and flow until whatever you once had is washed away, until there is nothing left. As the rising wind shivers the light, he calls again and steps out into the frittering span of yellow from the kitchen, pauses momentarily at the wall of dark and then passes through.
‘Alison, are you there?’ he calls, but even in his cry his voice is soft as if he’s shouting to some creature that might flee in fear of his approach. ‘Alison, Alison.’ He hears her now, knows she’s down the end of the garden where the couple of apple trees are. As he gets closer he hears her crying but it doesn’t sound like her crying. It’s dried up, used up as if it’s only the dregs that are left, so it’s a thin and reedy quaver in her throat as if something’s stopping her breathing properly.
‘Alison, what are you doing? You’re getting wet.’
Her back is pressed against the trunk of the tree. In the matted tangle of grass he feels the press of its rotting crop underfoot. Hardly bigger than horse chestnuts, bitter to the taste. The tree’s good for nothing except for the children to climb in its branches when they were younger. She doesn’t answer. One of her arms holds a branch; even in the darkness her hand is pale against the blackness of the bark. Her hair is plastered to the knob of her skull and her face, which doesn’t look at him, is swollen and seeped as if her drowned body has been pulled from a briny sea. He doesn’t try to touch her but grasps the gnarled branch in his hand. It feels sapless, ready at any moment to snap under the squeeze of his fingers.
‘Do you remember the time I tried to make a swing?’ he asks. ‘Out of a wooden box and the clothes line. I thought it was really good but neither of them would get into it. Said it wasn’t safe.’
‘I don’t blame them – it didn’t swing straight and they got splinters from the wood.’ She lets go of the branch, wipes her face then runs her palms down the sides of her head. ‘It was a death trap.’
They both flinch a little and he kicks his foot through the tangle of grass. ‘Let’s go inside,’ he says, ‘you’re soaking wet.’
‘In a minute, in a minute.’
‘I’ll make you a hot whisky,’ he says.
‘I can’t with the tablets.’
‘Sorry, I forgot. I’ll run you a bath. A real hot bath.’
‘Martin, I can’t face the funeral.’ There is the same rasping quaver in her throat. ‘I can’t leave her there, can’t walk away and leave her there all on her own.’
He tries to hold her but her body resists him. It feels like the branch of the tree and if he holds it too tightly, it too will snap. He lets one hand cup the wet splay of her hair. He knows there must be things that can be said to ease her pain, knows that there must be some soft chorus of words that will give her something to hold on to, but he can’t think what they are, so he pushes through the stiffness of her body and presses the dampness of her face into the cushion of his shoulder and tells her that they’ll get through it, that they’ll help each other. That they’ll get through it, that everything will be all right, as if the repetition of the words will create a spell, an incantation that will protect them both.
*
The policewoman sits on the edge of their settee and tells them they’re very hopeful, that they’ll make a breakthrough before long and she’s confident they’ll make an arrest very soon.
‘That’s why publicity is so important,’ she says. ‘Seeing you both on television could be the thing that stirs somebody’s conscience, encourages someone to come forward. There’s people out there who know who sold those drugs. If we get their help we can crack this case.’
As she talks, tells them how important this case is, how high a profile they’re going to give it, how many resources they’re allocating to it, she looks at her hair. At her perfect make-up. And as she gives them her sympathy again, she looks at the clear polish on her slim fingernails. Her shoes and clothes are elegant, expensive; she looks as if she’s spent a long time on her grooming, on her appearance. She’s not like a police person at all – her presence makes her feel grubby and unkempt, threadbare in her own home.
‘I know it’s going to be difficult for you but you have to do it. You have to do it for Rachel and for all the other young people whose lives these people put at risk. The TV people have a lot of experience – they know how to handle it. Sometimes it’s just like talking to a friend and if at any point it all gets too much then we can stop it and take a break.’
‘We’ll do it,’ Martin says. ‘We want these people caught.’
He’s started to talk a lot about those responsible being caught, about their being brought to justice. It seems to have some meaning for him that she can’t understand. What difference will it make now? Just a lot of noise and shouting and then a slap on the wrists. And when they come back out of prison they’ll start right in again. And the life they’re given in prison is like luxury compared to where they come from. But she’ll do it, let the world see how it feels, let the world be discomforted just for a moment in the cosy safety of their living rooms. And if they think she must have been a bad mother, she doesn’t care and maybe they’d be right, so let them look at her and feel her shame at not having saved her own daughter from the world.
‘You must have some leads,’ Martin says. ‘The girls she was with from school must have told you names.’
Let them stone her with their eyes – she doesn’t care any more. She’d been a fool to think that the stars would protect her child, that they meant she was immune from harm. So she’ll go on television and share her shame. Do it for Rachel. Do it to say she’s sorry.
‘We’re following several leads,’ the policewoman says. ‘Drugs and the people who deal them are links in a chain, and the c
hain always leads back to the paramilitaries. Getting names isn’t as hard as getting the evidence to convict in court.’
‘So you’re saying that you don’t think you’ll be able to convict anyone?’ Martin asks, his voice flecked with rising anger.
‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying we’re going to do our very best, that we’re going to make every effort, but I would be misleading you if I let you think that it was going to be easy.’
Martin sits back on his chair and a little deflated stream of air pushes through his lips.
‘The television appearance will help. I’ve no doubt of that,’ she says, glancing at her watch. ‘It’ll be hard but you’ll be helping us and maybe helping other parents who have teenage children. They’ll want to have a good photograph – one in her school uniform would be best. Most effective.’
She watches her scanning the room looking for the most effective photograph of Rachel and wonders how someone who’s supposed to spend her time investigating terrible things, who’s bound to meet the city’s scum every day she does her job, can have so much time to spend on her appearance – how she can sit there and bear no trace, no stain of the world. She remembers the smell of food that plaits her own hair, the tiredness of her limbs and wonders how it can be done. Does she wash it off every night and then anoint herself with sweet-smelling scents and expensive clothes? ‘Call me Joan,’ she says. How can it be done then, Joan? What’s the secret? Share it with me. She’s looking at her watch again, she’s impatient to go. She fiddles with the broad band of her wedding ring. Her knees are neat and sharp like little points of light. Does she have children of her own? Does she touch their hair at night? Her mobile rings and she goes out to the hall before she answers it. They hear her voice but not the words as they sit and look at each other. Martin’s face is shiny as if he’s just washed it. There is a little patch of red on his throat like he’s just shaved. While Joan talks in the hall it feels the house is no longer theirs. It feels like being visitors in their own home. She thinks of the photograph they will use – the one that was taken for the school magazine on prize day, holding the cup. The one Rachel hated, wouldn’t let them get framed or put on display because she looked ‘swotty’ in it. Because her hair wasn’t right. Because it wasn’t cool. Martin goes to say something but stops and looks towards the hall. She’s coming back, one hand slipping the mobile into her pocket. Smiling, as if that’s an answer to some question they’ve asked her.