Swallowing the Sun

by David Park

  He grips the steering wheel with both hands to steady himself before slipping out of the car and quietly closing the door. He takes the long way round, keeping a screen of shrubbery between himself and the car, moving slowly, stooping where there are gaps, then walks directly to the driver’s door and opens it. The driver is putting an elastic band round a tight wad of notes and the shock on his face is illuminated by the light. He wants to see all his face so he knocks the cap off, then pushing him over towards the handbrake, forces himself in beside him.

  ‘What the fuck?’ the lad says, stuffing the wad of notes inside his fleece.

  ‘Shut your face!’ he orders, staring at him, taking in everything he can. He’s not yet twenty, skinny, the skin on his chin and cheekbones purple-tinged with acne scars, his eyes dark as his hair. There is a lightly bruised blue circle under his left eye that’s beginning to fade to yellow.

  ‘Are you the police?’ he asks, trying to straighten himself.

  ‘No, I’m not the police – I’m worse than that. Where’s the stuff?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Tell me!’ he shouts, swivelling his body and punching him on his cheek below his eye.

  ‘Jesus!’ he cries as he throws both hands to his face. ‘Honest, mister, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.’

  ‘Tell me where the stuff is or I’m goin’ to break your fuckin’ arms!’ There is something rattling at his feet – it’s a crook lock. He picks it up and it rattles in the shake of his hand. ‘Tell me where the stuff is now or I’m going to beat your head to a pulp,’ and he clatters the metal against the dashboard.

  ‘Listen, listen,’ the lad says. ‘Please listen. You take this stuff and we’re both dead men.’ He’s started to cry for real, his shoulders heaving in rhythm with the struggle of his words. ‘You don’t know what you’re dealing with here – it’s not mine, none of it is mine. It belongs to people who’ll shoot my kneecaps off and give you a head job as soon as they find you.’ He wipes his face with the back of his hand. ‘You understand what I’m saying? Take this stuff and you’re dead when they get you.’

  ‘Tell me now,’ he says quietly then suddenly leaps astride him pressing the lock across his windpipe. ‘Tell me now while you’ve still got a voice.’

  ‘Jesus! Jesus!’ he screams. ‘Don’t hurt me, Boss, please don’t hurt me. It’s there, in the front. But do this and we’re both dead men walking!’ It’s the second time in days someone has said this to him. Dead man walking. For a second he thinks he sees a flicker of recognition in the boy’s eyes. He lifts himself off and opens the glove compartment. He doesn’t know what he expected but what he sees is something that looks like nothing more than a polythene bag full of sweets. He stuffs it in his pocket.

  ‘If none of this is yours, then who owns it?’ he asks, glancing back at the club.

  ‘You can kill me if you want but I’m not goin’ to say any names.’ He’s holding both hands to his face like a child who doesn’t want to watch a scary film. He sees that no fear he can spark in the moment will cancel out the boy’s permanent and ingrained fear, so when he speaks it’s almost gently.

  ‘I know that you work for Jaunty, so all you have to do is nod your head when I ask and then I won’t have to hurt you anymore. Do you understand?’ The boy nods, still holding his face in his hands.

  ‘You work for Jaunty, don’t you? This stuff comes from him doesn’t it?’ Without looking at him and almost imperceptibly the boy nods his head, then asks, ‘Who are you? Who you workin’ for? Are you the police?’

  ‘No, I’m not the police. It’s not the police you need to worry about.’

  ‘What you goin’ to do with me?’

  ‘I’m goin’ to kill you if I ever see you again with this stuff. Do you understand?’ he says, dropping the crook lock to the floor, then getting out of the car and walking towards his own. He knows already that the boy is on his phone but doesn’t hurry and as he starts the engine, he sees the two bouncers coming towards him from the doorway of the club, the speed of their movement hampered by their weight and the tight stiffness of their suits. They’re scampering towards him but he has the car in gear and he’s moving away before they can do anything more than thump the boot with their flailing, white-cuffed fists.

  *

  She’s off the drugs. She had to do it and she has. Her head aches and sometimes she has to stop the shake of her hands but she’s off them. It feels like the worst hangover she’s ever known and some days she thinks her head is filled with a swirl of drowsy fog which will never let her focus or see anything clearly again. When there’s no one else there she’ll shake her head as if she’s being tortured by flies, or splash her face with water. And there’s another thing she’s decided – they’re going out together as a family. Going out to do a shop and then for a drive and maybe something to eat. She doesn’t care what they say, they’re going to do it, because they can’t go on like this, crumbling away, bit by bit, like some shore slowly eroded by the sea. She can’t stand the silence, the way no one talks to anyone, the way the only voice in the living room belongs to the television. Martin and Tom hardly look at each other, avoiding each other’s path as if they’re side-stepping a stranger and Martin doesn’t seem to care what his son does any more – what he eats, when he goes to bed or how long he plays on the computer. They can’t go on like this and it’s up to her to pull it all together.

  They look at her as if she’s speaking a foreign language when she tells them, start to shake their heads and make excuses but she brushes them aside and she can see they’re shocked by her insistence, the show of energy that finally leaves them acquiescent if unenthusiastic. She can’t fathom either of them any more, thinks that what has happened has carried both of them to places she doesn’t know. But she’s going after them, because if she doesn’t there won’t be any family left, only three people vaguely connected by name and a common past, three people who move about and through each other like ghosts. She’s started already with Martin, reaching her arm across to him in bed and letting it rest lightly across his shoulder, ignoring the tight knot of his body, the way he stations himself at the edge of the bed as if he’s guarding a borderline, touching her only by accident in his broken sleep. Ignoring the way he places his hand under the pillow and pushes it tight against his face for comfort – sometimes so tightly it looks as if he’s trying to smother his head in its folds. When they both lie awake she’s started to speak to him, talking on even though he pretends to be asleep and when he does talk it’s sleep talk, the words screamed out on the rack of his dreams.

  There’s talk of Tom getting a home tutor, she doesn’t know what to make of it but if it’s only for a little while then maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing, might even help him get himself together. She’s already seen him with his books out, looking as if he’s revising for something, so that must be a good sign, and she’s decided that she’s going to clear out his wardrobe and take him out soon and buy him new clothes, clothes that fit and with which he’s happy. She understands the importance of his happiness more than anything else and she’s not going to neglect it, or take it for granted any more.

  On the Saturday morning they try again to resist the idea but she won’t have it, showing them the sandwiches and flask of soup she’s made, injecting her voice with a jolly determination she no longer feels. She’s made a list of the shopping they need and as she waits in the kitchen for them to get ready, she opens the fridge but there’s no need to clear spaces for what’s coming because it’s almost empty. She stares at the yoghurts, hesitates and then lifts them out, finds a plastic shopping bag and with her hands shaking a little, places them in it and ties a knot with the handles of the bag. She carries it outside, blinking at the sharpness of the morning sun and lifts the lid of the bin but at the last second she can’t do it. She tells herself it has to be done for the rest of the family, that she has to do it if they are to survive, but the inside of the bin is dark and putrid with
the smell of decay and she lets the lid drop. Walking to the edge of the garden she lets the fresh smell cleanse her. The grass is still sheened and glittery with dew. Fine filaments of whispery web tremble on plants and branches of the trees. She thinks of work, of the heat, feels it start to seep into her consciousness, flushing her memory and leaving her unsure, but she’s not going to let it and so she shrugs it away and, kicking off her slippers, walks on the wet grass in her bare feet. Walks down the garden, feeling the sweet coldness on her skin, pauses a second to smooth her palm over the grass, then gently pats her face with the droplets. She feels them on her tongue. It has to be done.

  She’s reached the apple tree. Sometimes she’s not sure if it’s alive or dead but this morning it stands strong in the sharp definition of light, and its leaves are green and limed with dew. As a child Rachel always wanted it to be bigger, the branches wide and strong enough to build a tree house. She’d just watched Swiss Family Robinson on television and wanted Martin to build her one. They could see her from the kitchen window, climbing in its branches and sometimes knocked on the window to signal her to be careful but she never fell; through her whole childhood she never really had any accident worse than a skinned knee. In some other garden a bird sings, shrill and insistent. She steadies herself by holding one of the branches, then kneels on the grass and opens the bag. One by one she peels back the lids of the yoghurts and fixes the cartons in the forks of the branches.

  In the supermarket Martin and Tom trail in her wake. She tries to involve Tom by tempting him with food, asking his opinion about whether she should buy this or that, but he shows no interest and always there is a space between the three of them as if they’re a convoy of ships, bound to keep a requisite distance. But she won’t give up and keeps talking to them both, asking them questions, ticking things off her list, handing them things to look at, getting them to make decisions. She pauses – she’s in the dairy section and she suddenly finds herself looking at yoghurts, almost about to reach out for them – but hurries on, getting what they need, adding new things she’s just remembered. Afterwards she tells them she’s tired and sits in the car, leaving them to pack the bags in the boot, the closest they’ve been all day.

  When they’ve finished Martin says, ‘Maybe we should go home now, if you’re tired.’ But she tells him she’s fine and looking forward to their day out. She tells him that she wants to go to Bangor, that they haven’t been there for years and they can go round the coast and find somewhere nice to have a picnic. She opens a bag of sweets she’s bought and passes them round, tells Tom to take the paper off his father’s, but when it’s done he passes it to him without either looking at the other or speaking.

  It’s where they used to do their courting but she hardly recognises it any more. Now there’s a marina and they park and set out along the walkway and look out at the sleek lines of moored boats. She makes them pick their favourite, the one they’d like to own, the one they’d like to sail away on. The boats feel like bookmarks on the pages of different types of lives, where people who have money skim over the waves, travelling where they choose to go, coming to rest in a safe harbour like this.

  ‘You’d hardly know the place, Martin,’ she says.

  ‘Everywhere’s different now,’ he says.

  ‘It’s where we used to come before we were married, Tom. Walk along the front to Pickie Pool, get an ice cream or a chip.’ Tom only stares out to sea. She looks at his feet and thinks that the first thing they have to get him is new trainers. The ones he’s wearing are scuffed and battered. She looks at the bright paint of the boats, sees the way everything looks new and expensive, tries to read their names and thinks that her idea has been a failure.

  They walk on round to where there is a miniature railway, a kids’ playground and a pond with pedal swans.

  ‘This is good,’ she says, gives Tom some money and tells him to buy himself something at the shop. When he’s gone she turns to Martin. ‘Martin, I know this is very hard but I want us to clear Rachel’s room. We can’t keep just leaving it, it has to be done now.’ She sees the shock in his eyes, the way his body bridles with a silent refusal. ‘We can’t go on like this, we have to keep going or everything’s going to fall apart so bad we won’t be able to put it back together. We have to clear her stuff and in a little while, when we’re all ready, I want Tom to have it, to have the extra space.’ Still he doesn’t speak but shuffles his foot over a tiny stone. ‘Speak to me, Martin.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You could tell me that you love me.’

  ‘I love you,’ he says but his voice is flatter than she’s ever heard it.

  ‘Look at me, Martin, and say it.’

  ‘I’ve something to tell you,’ he says, finally looking at her. ‘I want you to go to your sister’s in Scotland. I want you to go tomorrow night, take Tom with you.’

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘I’ve it all arranged. I’ve spoken to her and she really wants you to come. It’s all arranged.’

  ‘What about work?’ she asks

  ‘They’ll understand – I’ll sort it. Don’t worry – just go, you need the break.’

  ‘What about you? Will you be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be okay. Please go, Ali.’

  It’s the first thing he’s said to her that contains anything of himself, or his feelings, and because of that she has no choice but to agree. She sees Tom coming back from the shop, there isn’t much time.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she says, ‘but there’s two things you have to do for me. I want you to clear Rachel’s room, pack up her things so we can decide what to do with them when I get back.’ He nods. She pauses.

  ‘What’s the other thing?’ he asks.

  ‘I want you to take Tom and get on one of those swans.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ he says.

  ‘No, I’m not. Do it for me, Martin. Please.’

  Then she sits on the bench and gets out the sandwiches, opens the flask and lays everything out ready for the picnic, glancing up from time to time and smiling as her husband and son pedal slow laps of the pond in a white swan.

  *

  When the phone rings at intervals he doesn’t answer it – he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, has already decided that words only get in the way, hinder him in his path to what must be done. But he’s glad Ali and Tom are safe. He takes one final walk round the empty house, going into every room, sometimes touching things as if storing their memory through the gentle brush of his fingers. He pauses at the foot of their bed. He never meant to betray her, to deceive her. She treated him better than anyone ever had, she deserved better than the little she got. The truth was she deserved better than him. He feels a surge of deep remorse and part of him regrets that he won’t have the chance to explain to her, to thank her for everything she gave to him but to tell her that it was no use, that he couldn’t be saved, that inside where even she couldn’t see, he was damaged beyond her power to heal. Then he gets in the car and drives, great looping circuits of the city that are without purpose except to kill time. Once, on impulse, he stops at a garage and buys some flowers, then drives to the hospital where his mother is being assessed.

  It takes him a long time to find the right building, a longer time to find a parking space but he doesn’t mind because now he’s got time to spare. There is no smell from the flowers and as he looks at them for the first time he thinks that they don’t look like the colours of real flowers. Never in his life has he given her flowers and as he pauses at the entrance to the building, clutching his cheap garage bouquet, he wonders why he’s come at all. A couple of smokers huddled to the side of the door glance at him and for a second he thinks of dumping the bunch but it’s too late and he strides past them, not looking at their faces.

  Inside, nothing is as expected. There are none of the elements he has constructed in his imagination, things that, when combined, created the impression of a home rather than a hospital. But the smells,
the sounds of rattling metal and echoing footsteps, the shiny slime of gloss paint on the walls that looks as if it would feel damp if touched, all bear the indelible mark of a hospital. He remembers the name of the ward and searches for the signs, then shares a lift with an elderly man who carries a plastic bag that reveals a bottle of cordial, some apples and a pair of slippers. They do not speak to each other, or acknowledge each other’s presence in any way, until the man suddenly says, ‘For the wife.’ He nods his head in answer and then there is silence again.

  When he’s left alone in the lift he sets his flowers down in a corner and leaves them. A nurse greets him as he tries to establish where he’s supposed to go, then tells him that his mother is in a day room at the end of the corridor. As he starts along it he thinks she’s watching him, wondering why he hasn’t visited before, or perhaps she’s recognised his face from the television. Either way it’s enough to force him on and stop him from turning round and heading back to the car.

  He first looks into the room through a glass window. There are three women in the room. Two sit close to the yammering television; his mother further back, slumps in a plastic-covered, high-backed chair that dwarfs her and makes her look like a child.

  ‘All right, Ma?’ he asks, sitting in the chair beside her.

  ‘Why am I here?’ she asks after a long silence, her eyes focused on the television.

  ‘You’re here for a check-up, for some tests, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t like it here,’ she says. ‘I want to go to my own house.’

  ‘When you get your tests done. When they get everything checked out.’