Show Me The Sky

by Nicholas Hogg

  So far I have roamed avoiding villages, but today I wanted company, to hear the voices of others. When I heard men and women singing while they bathed in the stream beyond the path, instead of creeping away I went closer.

  This tiny village, no more than a collection of huts clinging to a steep embankment, rises from a stream between terraces of vegetables to the plateau above. All day I have watched the men, women and children cook, clean, fish, play, sing and laugh. The dialect here is so alien I barely understood a word. They are completely without iron, guns or clothes, any evidence of foreign lands. I imagine the white man is still no more than a whispered myth, a fairy tale to tell their children.

  Never have I seen a people so content.

  20 September 1835

  In the glow of the coming dawn I write. Before the sun rises I must bury all of my possessions where they might not be found: a pair of heavy cotton trousers, socks, shoes, a leather satchel, a dictionary, my handkerchief, the quill and the blade for cutting its nib, a pot of ink, and this journal. I will lay it beneath the earth as though I were burying a body, a soul only to be resurrected if the pain of return meant freedom from the missionaries for my beloved Fiji.

  Then I will walk into the village quite naked, no clothes upon my back or words upon my tongue, nothing remaining of Nelson Babbage, neither name nor language. I forsook my family, the bosom of my mother and the pride of my father, for a belief in God and England. And I cannot say this has made me into something I am not, because I am. But with this knowledge I am liberated, a lump of clay which can sculpt itself, Naqarase Baba, free to laugh, dream, sing, and love.

  Stolen Car

  He saw a woman in blue, her outline blurred, as though he was looking at her underwater. Then he surfaced. She was a nurse bent at the foot of his bed.

  ‘You’re a very lucky boy.’

  Jimmy stared and squinted. His head was bandaged. He looked at the equipment, computer screens and a drip, the nurse.

  ‘Am I in hospital or prison?’

  ‘Hospital, of course.’ She pulled up the bed sheet and tucked it under the mattress.

  ‘Is me brother here?’

  ‘Your brother? We don’t even know who you are, let alone your brother.’

  Jimmy tried to sit up.

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘You need to stay put and rest.’ She placed her hands on his shoulders and ushered him gently back down.

  Shapes of people passed outside the frosted glass.

  ‘It must have been this dream.’

  ‘What kind of dream?’ She checked his monitor next to the bed.

  ‘But it was me,’ said Jimmy. ‘I was looking at myself.’

  She studied his eyes, as though she might find the images still playing across his pupils.

  ‘But I was older, and it felt like night-time because there was no sun. But, but everything was bright as day.’

  ‘What about your brother?’ She stopped what she was doing and stood to listen.

  ‘Well, there was suddenly loads of us just walking on this marble floor, and I looked down and saw Gary was with me, but like when he was just a kid. We walked off this marble into this desert with all these other people. Then Gary and me started digging with our hands. Gary moved away the sand.’

  He stopped and looked to the ceiling. He wanted to replay the concussion, to make sure of what he had seen, and felt.

  ‘He found this piece of light. It was like we were digging for light.’

  She put her hand on his. ‘Dreams can be very strange sometimes. Now you need rest and have the doctor check you over.’

  ‘But that’s not it,’ he said. ‘Gary carried on moving the sand and found an arm, and a leg, and then the body. All made of light. When I moved the sand from the face it was mum.’

  The nurse still held his hand. ‘Where’s your mother now?’

  Jimmy looked at her then out of the window. Cotton-wool clouds blown down the wind. Now the nurse had both her hands on his. A policeman appeared gravely at the door like a messenger of doom. The nurse shook her head and he disappeared.

  Later they would come into his room with plastic smiles and a false patience, trying to coax from him a name and address. He watched them turn their hats in their hands and said nothing.

  That evening, clothed in a gown of hospital green, he limped from the bed and out into the tube-lit corridor. He walked with his head down like a novice monk, floating past a policeman at the vending machine. He stood and waited for the lift but when the doors slid open a huge and firm hand gripped him on the shoulder and asked where did he think he was going dressed like that?

  After three days they drove him from the hospital. Two officers sat quietly in the front. Sealed in a plastic bag in the glovebox was his knife. His head was still heavily bandaged and he sat upright and regal like some turbanned prince. It was the same road he had journeyed only days before. He recognised nothing. Reeds flowed bright green in a sun-clear stream. Frost streaked the furrows of ploughed fields.

  Then the weather changed, quickly, as it had been doing all day. From dark thunderheads that billowed as high as mountains, to shoals of scattered nimbus harried across the blue sky behind. When the car finally turned from the motorway the world loomed as black as judgement day. He was going home. The only gap of cloud that the sun shone through looked like an entrance to heaven.

  Missing Person

  MOTHER OF BILLY K MISSING

  Over a year and a half since the vanishing of singer Billy K, police last night announced that his mother, Marina Fulton, has also been registered as a missing person. Frank Courtney, her former husband, and stepfather to Billy K, relayed the concerns to police after returning home to collect his belongings after the finalisation of their divorce.

  Only a few personal items of Miss Fulton are missing, appearing that she planned to leave. Though police are treating the sudden absence as suspicious, officers have no leads of her whereabouts to pursue. Mr Courtney, last month served a restraining order by Miss Fulton, has been questioned and released without charge.

  With the disappearance of Miss Fulton goes the last physical sighting of Billy K. Woken at 2.30 a.m. on the morning of 8 May 2005, by the sound of an intruder forcing her rear gate, Miss Fulton had dressed and gone outside to investigate. But the intruder had fled, leaving only wet barefoot prints on the paving stones, and a handwritten note simply saying, I know you are sorry – confirmed by police graphologists as the penmanship of Billy K.

  Much speculation was made of such a gesture after years of no contact with his family. Criminologist on the case, Anna Monroe, noted that many suicides are preceded by a closure, or last farewell. An outcome that police have seriously considered.

  Asked about the importance of this last sighting, Inspector James Dent had replied, ‘What does make the sighting worthy of note is the corroboration of Miss Fulton’s statement and the forensic evidence recovered from the vehicle.’

  From the discovery of dead skin cells on the accelerator, clutch, and brake pedal of the Lotus, Dent had contended that the last time Billy K drove the car he was barefoot. An observation also recorded by his mother from the evaporating wet trail on the paving stones. Unfortunately, heavy rains and maintenance of the back lawn had hampered attempts to cast a footprint, but detectives had assumed it unlikely that Miss Fulton could have invented such a corroborating detail if it were not fact.

  On the negative side of this revelation was the question of how far a man without shoes was, if at all, planning to journey?

  Though lead detective on the Billy K case, James Dent, was not available for questioning, police insist they are vigorously pursuing all avenues in the hunt for the missing mother and son.

  Epilogue

  Jim and Gemma Dent sit down on a picnic blanket. Together they unpack sandwiches and crisps, bottles of fizzy drinks. The car is parked out of view in the hedged lane. And because there is nothing else in the grassy field, not even a cow or grazing sheep, it is as thoug
h they have arrived by magic carpet.

  Nestled between the rolling hills, a glittering stream and trees tinged with the first green of spring, they can see a large stone house. It is tangled with ivy and an overgrown garden. From the top of the field, with a powerful pair of binoculars, it is possible to make out the faces of the owners.

  ‘What can you see?’

  ‘Just clouds, Daddy. Lots and lots of clouds.’

  ‘Here, I need to focus for you.’

  ‘Let me do it.’ She tugs on the binoculars.

  ‘Gemma! Let me put the house in focus for you.’ She lets him take them. He levels the binoculars to his eyes and adjusts the wheel with his index finger. From nearly a mile away the cottage sharpens into view. He can see a woman relaxing on a wooden bench, holding a cup of tea and reading a magazine. The lenses are not that powerful to make out the title, but it does not matter. It is her, Marina Fulton, tracked down from a letter to her sister, no address but a postmark. And Jim Dent, the pardoned detective, can also see a man sitting on the steps of the back door. A man with a guitar but no shoes.

  ‘Now try.’ He passes back the binoculars, once again holds them to his daughter’s eyes.

  ‘I can do it.’ She pushes away his hand.

  ‘Can you see the house this time?’

  ‘I can see the trees.’

  ‘Down a bit, slowly.’

  ‘I can see the chimney!’

  ‘Down a bit more.’

  ‘And a lady, reading.’

  ‘Can you see the man?’

  ‘Not in the garden.’

  ‘Are you sure? Can I see?’

  ‘No. It’s my turn!’

  ‘Well, there should be a man.’

  ‘There he is! I can see him. He’s sitting on the back step smoking a cigarette.’

  ‘Well done, sweetie.’

  ‘He’s looking at the clouds.’

  ‘Can I have a look now?’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘You can look again in a moment.’ He takes the binoculars from his daughter and focuses.

  ‘I want to look again, Daddy.’ Gemma climbs over her father, pulls at the binoculars.

  ‘Wait, Gemma!’

  She lets out a little scream. ‘My turn!’ She gets hold of the dangling strap and yanks the binoculars from his hands.

  ‘Gemma!’

  ‘I want to look!’

  ‘Give them here!’

  She throws them into the box of sandwiches. She is about to cry. ‘I want mummy. You’re angry.’

  ‘I’m not angry, sweetie. I just need to look through the binoculars right now.’

  ‘Mummy said you get angry when you have beer.’

  ‘Did she now?’

  Gemma stands and stamps her feet. ‘And you had beer!’ She is screaming.

  Jim is afraid that even at this distance the mother and son might hear. He picks up the opened can. ‘What does that say?’ He points at the label.

  ‘Beer!’

  ‘Good girl. And what does this word say?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Sound it out. G. I. N.’

  ‘Gin … ginger.’

  ‘Ginger beer.’

  ‘It’s still beer.’

  ‘Not the kind that makes me angry.’

  ‘I want Mummy.’

  ‘Come here, sweetie. Come on. Give me a cuddle.’

  She thinks about this for a moment, a two-second protest. Then she rushes into his arms. ‘Sorry, Daddy.’

  ‘That’s OK, sweetie. You’ll see Mummy in a few hours.’

  She pulls back to look her father in the eye, the soul-deep gaze of a child, piercing the facade of adult, police officer. ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is Anna my new mummy?’

  ‘Mummy is your mummy. For ever and ever. Anna is just Daddy’s new girlfriend.’

  ‘I don’t want a new mummy. Or daddy.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Now, you remember last month, when Mummy said I had to go away, because I was looking for somebody?’

  ‘Like hide and seek.’

  ‘Kind of. Well, the man you saw on the step, he was the one hiding.’

  ‘So you won! You found him.’

  ‘But he never even hid.’

  ‘He cheated!’

  ‘I don’t think he really played. He just left the game.’

  ‘That’s silly. He’s a silly billy.’

  Jim laughs. He does not tell his daughter that was his name. That he faked his own death to hide from who he had become, shed his skin like a chrysalis after reading the journal of Naqarase Baba, to return to his mother. Because he could. Because his mother was alive and kicking, not like Naqarase’s, a whole country, a religion.

  Or like Cal’s, a stranger of his own blood waiting in a shopping centre.

  Or like Jim’s, a plot in a cemetery.

  He thinks about what they all share. Naqarase, Cal, Billy K and himself. Abandoned. He looks again at his daughter, and considers the fate of dying alone in the outback, stabbed in a guest house on a foreign shore, vanishing from one life to start over again. Then he leans over and kisses his daughter. He knows he is lucky, and tells Gemma that he loves her.

  ‘I know you do, Daddy.’

  ‘That’s beautiful. How do you know, sweetie?’

  ‘Because you came all the way back from the other side of the world to see me. Did you fly on an aeroplane?’

  He tells her he did.

  He does not tell her that he had thoughts about running from his own life, his failures. And what a fool he would have been if he had. Running from a woman who loves him. His beautiful daughter.

  He does not tell her that officers cornered Ricky Wise in a restaurant at Heathrow, booked on a flight to the Cayman Islands with a suitcase filled with dollars and offshore bank accounts.

  Or that a dog walker found Chief Superintendant Roberts in a New Forest car park, sitting up straight in his immaculate uniform, a hosepipe running from the exhaust through the passenger window.

  ‘Daddy, can we go and say hello?’

  ‘They want to be alone.’

  ‘Maybe they have cake?’

  ‘Maybe they want to eat it themselves. Anyway, we have some chocolate biscuits. Finish your sandwich first.’

  She lifts the top from the lunch box, and then lifts the tops from the sandwiches. She discards a ham and tomato, then finds a cheese and pickle. Jim studies her eating, the concentration of her bites avoiding the crust. He can see himself in her, yes, in her teeth and hair. And in her features he can see where he came from, his own mother.

  Gemma drops the second crust on to the plate. ‘Can I look again, Daddy? Please.’

  ‘Come here.’

  He picks her up and turns her around. He gives her the binoculars and sits behind her, angling the lenses on to the house.

  ‘The lady’s gone!’

  ‘That’s his mummy. Is he still outside?’

  ‘There he is! On the step again!’

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘He’s playing the guitar!’

  ‘Can you hear?’

  ‘Not from this far! Can we go closer, please.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Above the house and field, the trickling brook and swaying trees, puffs of cloud sail on the breeze.

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s singing now.’

  Acknowledgements

  Novel-writing may be a solo endeavour, but this novel could not have been written without the following cast of very real characters.

  First and foremost I must thank my agent, David Miller, for reading Show Me the Sky when he should have been eating lunch, and for the wisdom of submitting to Canongate, a better publisher for this book I could not imagine. The sharp editorial work of Anya Serota and Melissa Weatherill, and the input and attention of Jamie Byng have without doubt improved the manuscript.

  For the accolade, financial support, publicit
y and the introduction to a group of fine writers, I am indebted to all at New Writing Ventures, and also Stephen Moran at the Willesden Herald. May your literary prizes run and run.

  Many thanks to readers of earlier drafts – JT Boehm, Wes Brown, Vanessa Gebbie, Bilal Ghafoor, Tobias Hill, Victoria Hobbs, Michael Jones, Valeria Melchioretto, Wayne Milstead, Christine Scott and Jen Tilley – for tuning plot and prose. Your comments and suggestions proved vital encouragement.

  Beyond the page I must give big thanks to my family, to the wonderful people of Ravitaki in Fiji, and to Rhys Carnall for reading me a John Burnside poem when the only art in my life was an axed TV. Thanks too for the love of music shared by James Disney and Jonathan Wade – though listening to their early gigs you would have thought they hated music. Days when a roof over my head and a good meal were precarious, I am for ever grateful to Chris Hughes and family. And also Jonathan Gibbard, whose generosity with his company credit card kept me in sake and sushi. The University of Leicester, for not expelling Tom Bristow, who believed literature was worth enough to risk leaking his log-on code so I could illegally use their computers. David Cook, whose slick website was an asset during submission. Karl Tyler, to whom I am thankful for living a life worth writing about, and for allowing me to fictionalise it in Zen. Gratitude also for the gang on the hill above Escondido: Alice, Rick, Tena, Maury, Tripp, Le Ly and of course the howling coyotes, for inviting me into their treasured space.

  Last and most, thank you, my precious Sally, for your love and patience when I would have been happy to live in a ditch with a pencil.

  Bibliography

  I am indebted to the following sources as inspiration:

  Bulu, J. (2000) Joel Bulu: The autobiography of a native minister in the South Seas. Tonga: Friendly Islands Bookshop.

  Cargill, D. (1977) The Diaries and Correspondence of David Cargill, 1832–1843. Canberra: Australian National University Press, whose journal provided many factual details of the first missionary endeavours into Fiji.

  Daipea, W. (1928). Cannibal Jack. London: Faber and Gwyer.