Frozen

by Richard Burke

  Mind you, she did have a point about Adam's dad. He was a man with a reputation. I had never actually met him, but even seeing him from a distance you were aware that there was something wild about him. Perhaps it was in how he moved or stood. You had the sense that he was unpredictable and unrestrained, that anger was never far away. He was talked about: his womenfolk (village gossip had it that there were three, none married to him); his three children, Adam, his sister, and an older brother in prison; the farm labourers who worked for him occasionally—all were the subject of the village's collective sympathy. I was scared of him, just like everyone else. So was Adam. He avoided talking about his father whenever he could.

  It was obvious that neither Verity nor Adam was going to say another word. It was getting dark, and I sensed a lightening of the silence: enough time had passed for their strange mood to dissolve.

  “Better get home,” I said.

  They both stirred, and in the half-dark I could see Verity next to me blink hard and become alert again.

  “What's the time, then?” Adam mumbled, from below.

  “Dunno,” I said. “Late.”

  Verity stood up and headed for the rope ladder. I swung down the same way Adam had. We collected the cameras, and picked our way through the woods towards our bikes, and home.

  *

  The next day, whatever had passed between them was gone. We needed money to develop the films, and to get it, Verity was prepared to use every weapon she had.

  “Ten quid, or I tell your dad about the cameras,” she said contentedly. She already knew she had won.

  “I can't,” Adam whispered. “He'll kill me. He will.”

  “Best not let him find out, then.” She shrugged unhelpfully.

  I felt sorry for him, but the extortion seemed justifiable. She and I had dredged up ten pounds each; surely, it was only right that Adam should do the same. The truth is, though, that we were bullying him—and I knew it. I hung back, guiltily letting Verity twist the knife. It was doubly unfair, because we had only let Adam stand in on the seventh set of photos, and by then it had been so dark you could hardly make out his face: we knew the shots wouldn't come out. I knew Verity was being cruel, but I did nothing to stop it, and that made me part of it.

  “I don't have a tenner,” Adam whined. “Where am I going to get a tenner?” He looked scared, as though he had shrunk.

  “Don't care,” Verity said idly.

  “You wouldn't tell Dad, though, would you? Not really?”

  She picked up a pebble and examined it, disinterested.

  “Please, Verity. He'll kill me.”

  “You owe us a tenner, Adam.” Absently, she threw away the stone. He stared at the ground and chewed his lip, arms crossed, hugging himself. “Suit yourself,” she said. “Come on, Harry.” She walked away. I mumbled something apologetic to him, about needing to check the treehouse and, sheepishly, I followed her.

  “Harry?” Adam called feebly. “Please, Harry. He'll kill me!” I didn't dare look back. The nape of my neck burned as I carried on walking, as helpless in my own way as he was.

  We had the money the next day—and the photos the day after.

  *

  Some of them were quite good. The first three or four sets were fine. After that, the sun had been low enough to white out some shots and sink others into irretrievable gloom. The last five attempts were useless, and the last two utterly black. One by one, we put each set of pictures in a line and crouched over them.

  We were in Verity's garden. She and Adam were squatting side by side, and I was opposite, looking at the pictures upside-down and trying hard not to look up Verity's skirt. She leaned against Adam. As she looked at the shots in front of him, she seemed to nuzzle her head in towards his chest. He stayed very still, his eyes soft and nervous. I sidled round to the same side as them and crammed myself next to Verity, but she stayed closer to Adam, even when she was looking at the pictures at my end of the line of eleven. Perhaps she sensed that he needed reassurance. I hoped so.

  The pictures were magical. The first three sets were of Verity. In the first and second, we had caught her in mid-air. In the first, she had only just left the ground; she was stretching upwards, toes dangling, her mouth contorted by a yell. But the second set was perfect, and the third was almost as good. In both, we had caught her in mid-leap. Her legs were kicked up under her, her arms thrown out. In the second set her mouth was wide open in delight; in the third her expression had begun to collapse into neutrality as she started to fall. The fourth set was of me. I hadn't known quite what to do with myself and the end result was hopeless. In any case, only about half of the shots had come out at all well: by then the sun had been too low. The fifth and sixth sets, of me and Verity together, were indistinct and clouded. The rest, including Adam's set, were useless.

  I'm in love with those pictures now, and with the memory of them, but at the time I think we were more excited than fascinated. These days, my copies live in a brown envelope, worn soft at the edges, in a tea-chest in Mum's loft. When I made the zoetrope for Verity, I fished them out to copy them, but although it's important to me to know that they are there, I hardly ever look at them. Memories can be painful.

  Adam leaned across Verity to look at the photos, and she stood up sharply, still staring at them on the ground in front of her. We both stood too, and spread out, embarrassed.

  “Your turn first next time, Adam,” Verity said, with a bright smile. He grinned back. I felt a bitter little lurch.

  Verity twirled from side to side, her short blue skirt kicking up with each swing. In its shadow, her legs were shaded green by the grass. She was smiling to herself. When she turned to look at me, I grinned back oafishly. She didn't seem to notice. She gazed through me, at what I could not imagine.

  That was when the yelling started.

  A door crashed inside somewhere, in her house. Then indistinct roars began, one man bellowing, and another—Gabriel—talking rapidly.

  “Oh shit,” Adam whimpered. “Oh shit.” Suddenly he was crying. He was hugging himself tight, doubled over, rocking. A moan slipped out of him.

  The back door smashed open. The man's voice exploded out at us.

  “—don't fuckin' care, you slimy git, 'e's comin' away! Now! Got that, 'ave ya?” Adam's father was blocking the door, glaring back at Gabriel who was still inside. I heard Gabriel say something mild. The man raised a finger and scowled. “Try it, mate! Go on, fuckin' try it!” He yanked his shoulders back sharply, and then sneered at Gabriel's reaction. “Yaaah! Wanker! Fuck off!” He swaggered towards us. He was wiry and wide. His arms bowed outwards, thin but knotted with muscle. His hair was crew-cut, his face contorted.

  Adam was crouching, still whimpering, clutching frantically at himself, shoulders, knees, chest, shifting and twitching, curled into the tightest ball he could manage. A trickle of piss was running down his leg, a damp stain was spreading across his sock. A thin whine came out of him, punctuated by sobs.

  His father kicked him savagely in the chest. It knocked him on to his side. After a moment, the moan started again and a sticky thread of vomit slid from his open mouth.

  “UP!” Adam's father screamed. Adam hunched round his own chest, his head thrown back, retching.

  “Dad?” Verity ran to Gabriel, who was standing helpless by the back door. “Dad, call the police! Dad? Dad!” Gabriel was watching, paralysed.

  Adam's father glared at Gabriel, his finger raised again. “I'll fuckin' 'ave you!” he snarled.

  “Dad!” Verity hit Gabriel with both fists. Gabriel bit his lip. He turned and hurried into the house, grabbing her as he went. Adam's father howled after them inarticulately. He turned his attention back to his son. He crouched calmly down by Adam's head.

  “My—fuckin'—money!” His voice was soft. His teeth were clenched. “Mine. Understand?” He grabbed the back of Adam's shirt and hauled him partly upright. Then he buried his fist in his solar plexus. Adam collapsed, his mouth a rigid O,
his eyes bulging. His father heaved another half-hearted kick at his back. “Nick my fuckin' dosh—would ya? Ya little fuckin' shit!” Adam still hadn't managed to pull in a breath. His whole body convulsed. His dad ripped his belt out of its loops, wrapped the buckle end round his hand, and slashed the other across Adam's back, bending savagely into each stroke—no pause, relentlessly, each blow crisp and moist, snap, snap, snap, snap.

  “Stop it!” I yelled.

  Trust me, I didn't mean to. The words ripped out of me before I could prevent it. I stood there, clenched and trembling, ready to run. He stopped beating Adam, and scowled at me blankly. “Who the fuck are you? Fuck off!”

  I stayed—quaking, but I stayed. He hefted the belt and straightened to face me. At the same time, Adam gulped his first breath, a huge inwards groan, and the man turned his attention back to his son. He had forgotten the belt; instead, he grabbed a handful of Adam's hair and pulled him to his feet. He bent until his stubbly cheek was next to Adam's face.

  “My money, boy. Mine. That was very, very bad. My—fuckin'—dosh.” He straightened, glared at me, and then yanked Adam by the hair and dragged him towards the house. Adam staggered forwards. After a few steps, his father snarled in frustration at Adam's slow pace, let go of his hair, and jerked his knee hard into Adam's stomach. Adam collapsed again, and lay twitching spastically in the grass, the muscles in his jaw and neck roped and rigid as he strained for air.

  His eyes caught mine, and stayed locked there despite his body's convulsions. His face was smeared with tears and snot and puke. And there was something in his look—something that had nothing to with fear or pain, something that had to do with the fact that I was there: terrified, but there. I shot him a panicked look that, I hope, showed him that I had done what I could, and that I hoped... but, of course, there was not much hope for Adam just then. So all I hoped was that it would be over soon. And in between the twitches and gasps and spasms, with his eyes still fixed on mine, I saw him try to nod—and almost succeed.

  Then his father's hand was in his hair again, hauling him upright. I watched him drag my friend away, Adam still moaning and retching. What else could I do?

  I went into the house. Gabriel was in the living room, slumped in a shabby armchair, looking vaguely at the window. His face was slack, his eyes blank.

  The police never came. They only come if someone calls them.

  *

  I found Verity at the treehouse.

  I clambered up a drooping branch, and along the tree's broad limb. I walked around boards, and sat next to her without a word.

  She was hugging her knees, resting her chin on them, rocking back and forth. Eleven pictures ran in a row along the powder-green boards, all from different angles, all of the same moment. Verity in mid-leap, screaming.

  “These are the only ones that're any good,” she said.

  The leaves whispered in the twilight, the sky reddened. Overhead the clouds were a luminous grey. I waited.

  “I didn't want it to happen,” she said.

  I nudged a photo, neatening the line.

  She picked it up, frowned at it, put it back. “It was just for fun. It was supposed to be fun. I didn't mean it. I didn't.”

  We sat.

  “Going to Dad's this weekend,” I mumbled. “Still got to pack. Going to be late. You?” I was dreading her answer. She shrugged and picked at a splinter on one of the boards.

  “See Adam. Maybe swim. Do photos. It's his turn.”

  A sigh rippled the hornbeam's outer branches.

  “I'd rather be here,” I said. “With you. ‘Specially 'cause...”

  She glanced at me sideways, and kept picking. Then she unclasped her knees and sat cross-legged. Her bare knee touched mine, resting on it. I sat motionless, terrified to move.

  “Yeah,” she whispered softly. She peeled a sliver of wood away from the board, and threw it over the edge. It spun slowly as it fell.

  She leaned over to adjust a photo, putting her hand on my thigh to support herself. Her hips rose slightly, and her T-shirt pulled away from the back of her neck. I saw fine hairs, the jagged bumps of her spine. A gap opened between her shirt and her skirt at the back, a finger's width—not enough to see, but enough to imagine. My hands were rooted to the rough wood behind me. She pushed herself upright using my leg. Her hand stayed a beat, and then she let it slide gently off. Our hips were touching, just, and our thighs were pressed together. Her leg was cool and smooth. Something without a scent came from her skin, something I still cannot name. I breathed it in and held it.

  “’Specially what?” She traced a circle on my knee.

  “What?” I spoke clumsily, but her finger still drifted over my knee.

  'You said you wanted to be here specially 'cos of something.'

  'Adam,' I blurted.

  She stopped. Thoughtfully she took away her hand and rested it back on her own bare leg. We were still touching, but now she looked out towards the shimmering wall of leaves, which hid us from the world outside.

  “Not the—not his dad,” I babbled. “Just—him. He likes you.”

  “So?” Her voice was remote.

  “Just because.”

  I was defeated.

  We sat again in silence. I found a splinter of my own and picked at it fitfully. She watched the leaves shiver in the light. Then, still looking outwards, she leaned against me, and her head settled against my shoulder. I nuzzled her, and she turned her face to meet me.

  We kissed.

  When our muscles spasmed with the effort of staying upright, we lay back, our mouths pressed together. I was lost in her. The creamy sharp taste of her teeth, the scent of her cheek, the strange bumps and curves of her body against mine. I inched my hand towards her breasts, and she wriggled to bring them closer with a little grunt of approval, sliding her tongue over mine. I groped the closest one clumsily, unsure what I was doing. Encouraged, I slid my hand down over her belly, towards where my leg was wedged between hers. She rose towards me at first, then she grunted—meaning no, this time. I pretended not to notice. She shook her head, grunted again; but her mouth still pushed hotly against mine, and I felt the soft skin at her waist, and my fingertips were just slipping under the band of her skirt —

  “Harry!”

  She shoved me away roughly, and slapped my cheek. Hard.

  I rolled off her and hunched sulkily, facing away. I could hear her straightening herself; clothes being tugged, legs and skirt dusted off.

  “Harry?”

  I didn't turn, but we both knew it was only a matter of time. When I looked, she was standing at the edge of the treehouse, where the long branch led out and down. I could see her breathing, light and rapid. I could see her waist where her shirt hung loose, air against her skin, her long bare legs. She was holding her shoes. She bit her lower lip, and her eyes creased. Her cheeks were warm, her eyes alive. “See you soon, Harry,” she said quietly.

  And she ran away along the branch.

  I waited as long as I dared before leaving. Already, I could see the moon. When I got home, I would be late and Mum would scream at me, and I would have to pack, and Dad would bark at me for making him wait. It didn't matter. We kissed. I could still taste her, a coolness on the roof of my mouth.

  I hugged myself, and let myself shiver with the thrill of it. We kissed. And on Monday I would see her again.

  And as she ran off through the woods, I heard her happy laughter.

  CHAPTER 10

  ADAM WAITED BY the hospital lifts, and I went in alone.

  Somehow I'd been expecting her to have changed. She hadn't. I had forgotten what she really looked like. I had been chewing away at the idea of her fall; I remembered the starch and the whiteness, I remembered her immobility, and the machines, patiently pumping a thin substitute for life. I had developed an image of clinical perfection, of Verity in unblemished repose. The reality, of course, was... messy. The bruises had spread a little; flowers of purple and brown blossomed on her skin. I fo
und the thought horrifying, a sci-fi nightmare; she was being slowly consumed by some cold alien thing—too much pulp fiction when I was young, perhaps, but it was unnerving nonetheless. She was terribly swollen, more so than before. Her skin was puffed and shiny, warm under the hot lights. She was ugly and broken, and the tube into her throat must hurt, and those bruises...

  Brownish liquid seeped through her bandages and stained the sheets.

  I had been thinking of things to say. I wanted words to whisper in her ear, to bring hope, perhaps to bring her back. My first glimpse of her ripped away that fantasy. There was the stench of disinfectant, there were encrusted bandages, the jerks of the machine that gave her breath. Damaged goods.

  I bent and kissed her forehead, barely touching her for fear of pressing on her swollen skin. I imagined the heat of her injuries radiating on to my face. I whispered to her: “It's all right, Verity. It's all okay. Shh.”

  Yeah, Harry. Right.

  I left her bag and the zoetrope with the nurses, and went to find Adam, my lips and face still hot. He led me wordlessly to the car, and we set off.

  *

  259 => Eastbourne, Verity's Filofax said. R turn—BIRLING GAP, B Gap Hotel, thatched bar, 3.30. We were coming the other way, from Eastbourne rather than towards it, but Birling Gap was easy enough to find on the map. The hospital was on the outskirts of Eastbourne, so we headed through the town to the coast, and then turned right along the seafront.

  Eastbourne was like a seedier version of the promenades of the French Riviera. I had visited Cannes and Nice on a cycling holiday as a student. They, too, had a pink pavement lined with palm trees; they, too, had a parade of grand hotels with sea views; they even offered the same glimpses down the side-roads of eateries, and stalls stacked high with inflatable beach toys, T-shirts, and postcards. But here it was fish and chips, the postcards were gaudy and saucy, and the palm trees were tired and stunted. There was a pier on stilts with a wood and glass pavilion perched on top. There were ice cream vans and queues of children hopping barefoot on the hot pavement. Beyond the balustrade, the sea was chalk-green and restless.