by Paul Roscoe
Mary sat up fast, feeling a little woozy around the edges. Debris from a month’s creative activity, tempered by none of her usual personal organisation, cluttered the room. Since going out with Craig, she’d never worked so hard; paintings and drawings were everywhere. Part of it was the simple fact that her new boyfriend was a terribly responsible young man who took his studies very seriously, therefore, weekday nights (with the wonderful exception of Wednesday, when his mother would drive him to and from her house) were times of non-contact, without even so much as a phone call. But another part of it was the fresh sense of inspiration that being in love – well, there was no point denying it – had given her.
Since going out with Craig, her artwork had developed a life of its own. For the first time it had purpose. Every line she drew felt like an extension of herself; every colour mixed was a potential expression. And beyond self-expression, there was so much more to do. She was creating. Each piece had an independent life, with its own particular personality and story to tell. And when in the throes of creation, she could swear her paintings moved. It happened all the time. She would be standing before the easel, smeared with paint, putting the finishing touches on yet another canvas board, or lying on the bed, hunched over one of her huge cartridge paper sketch books, when the lines would start to swim, and the colours would begin to vibrate. Of late, details of objects she had not even considered adding would start to flicker in and out of the composition like a faulty fluorescent bulb. At first they would appear out of the corner of her eye, only to disappear upon further inspection; but eventually they just seemed happy to pulsate right before her. When that happened, she would later discover tiny fragments of them enmeshed in the finished piece. They were just the smallest of details – a line to suggest a shape, maybe, or a particularly odd colour that worked on two levels – but they had become integral to the whole in a way that Mary just couldn’t put her finger on. Not that she minded, however. Of the many different works she had completed over the past month, these were her favourite pieces; time spent making them was no time at all, and a whole evening could disappear without her noticing.
Mary swung her feet to the floor, yawning again. She stretched, exaggerating the gesture a little, dramatising it for her own amusement, and looked over at the small canvas board propped up in the corner. It was just a little something she had cobbled together this morning, and she had the usual nagging doubt over whether it was actually finished or not.
They’re never really finished, she told herself, you just have to find a point where stopping doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.
As she looked at her morning’s work, she began to nod in agreement with herself. The old shelter did seem good enough for what she had been trying to achieve. It was a sort of impressionistic, mood thing, something scary and horrible, which is how she’d always felt about that place. Why has no one knocked it down yet? She’d painted the supports as fangs, making the shelter itself into a mouth, that much was obvious, but there were those other little things, weren’t there? Those mysterious figures that seemed to crowd together, not quite part of the picture itself.
Mary stood up and approached her latest painting like someone approaching a bad tempered dog. There was something about those details she didn’t like. Something worrying. She lifted the painting by her fingertips and delicately turned it to face the shelving unit.
There.
Feeling better immediately, she undressed for her shower, dropping her clothes in a heap at the foot of the bed.
2
“She knew I was drawing her, so what does it matter?”
Angela’s voice was this side of upset, but only just; she liked being told no more than he did.
“It just matters, that’s all. And you know it does, so there’s no need for me to go on about it.” He wanted to go on, though, oh yes; he wanted to point out what might happen if her drawing made Mary look fat, or ugly, or both. He wanted to tell her how she wouldn’t like it if someone put her portrait in the end of year presentation without her blessing. He also wanted to tell her to stop being so egotistical, so stubborn. But wisely, and with a Herculean amount of self-control, he restrained himself. Instead, Tom gave a sigh that sounded more impatient than intended, and said, “I don’t understand what the problem is anyway, aren’t the two of you friends?”
“Of course we are. You know we are.”
“Well then.”
Even though Angela’s back was turned, Tom held his hands out palm-up. The gesture made him feel like the reasonable one in the room, the one who knew one thing from the other. In this role, he could follow any counter-argument she had to offer. However, from her silence, he knew the matter was closed: she would either take a nibble of humble pie and ask for Mary’s permission, or she wouldn’t, but it was no longer his concern. It was as simple as that. Either way, Tom suspected that Angela was probably right, that it really wouldn’t matter: Mary was a very easy-going sort of person.
He got up from the edge of Angela’s bed and joined her at the window. Their transparent reflections looking back in on them like ghosts floating outside the window, they watched the cherry blossom gently fall. The day was glorious: the perfect sky crisscrossed with condensation trails; the abundant blossom, pink and lovely as it floated in the breeze. The church grounds rising beyond were a deep shade of green, and a procession of cars climbed them, which at this time on a Saturday morning could mean only one thing.
What will happen when there are no more places to bury people? he thought. Compulsory cremations? Old lots being demolished in as-yet-to-be-invented ceremonies so the church can auction the spaces off with a clear conscience? What?
The hearse made a long, swooping route across the grey car park, and the other cars dispersed, filing neatly beneath a row of trees. Tom watched as two men in dark suits emerged from the hearse.
“School already feels over,” Angela said, looking up at him, and for a moment Tom struggled to find the context for her words. Detecting an unusual melancholy in her voice, however, he rested his hands upon her shoulders. She momentarily tensed beneath his fingers, then relaxed. Not only is the matter closed, that small melting seemed to say, but it’s forgotten. Which, he knew, also meant he was forgiven for ever having taken her to task in the first place.
Thomas Whyte watched the coffin as it was removed from the back of the hearse, and wondered who was in it.
3
Buddy watched the joint pass from Lisa’s fingers to Pete’s, watched it send a stream of tiny, blue-grey puffs into the warm, spring evening. Even though he’d only had a couple of drags, his head was already starting to feel wide and floaty. They were on skunk for a change, and it was strong stuff.
Pete sat forward on the bench, keeping the joint at arms length so as not to drop ash on his white tracksuit. Buddy thought the pose looked funny, sort of like an old man trying to get down with the kids, and he started to giggle. Lisa looked over, tipped her head in Pete’s direction and rolled her eyes. Buddy giggled even more.
“Okay, what’s the joke?” Pete said.
Buddy waved his hands in protest. “Nothing. Nothing. Don’t worry.”
Pete passed the remains of the joint to Buddy, who held it and composed himself before taking a drag. The initial sharp and bitter taste gave way to a deep and aromatic flavour that reminded him of the hazy smell of Tithborough woods in the summer, and as he took another drag, he wondered why they didn’t smoke this stuff all the time. The answer came immediately as he got a much stronger rush than he was used to. All his muscles felt like lead and his brains seemed to expand; at last they settled into a slightly swimmy state that he usually associated with being drunk.
To his disbelief, Buddy felt nauseous.
Oh boy, he thought, passing the smoke to Lisa, who sat across from them on the picnic table.
“You can count me out for now,” he said, his eyes trailing across the overgrown grass, watching the colour go luminous and blurry.
&n
bsp; A line of concern appeared across Lisa’s forehead. “You look a bit green around the gills.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. And then, not wishing to seem like a complete idiot: “But that stuff is seriously strong. I need to pace myself if we’re going out tonight.”
Pete looked up at that, and Buddy noticed that he too looked a little paler than usual, but was obviously putting a braver face on it than he was. “Why wouldn’t we be going out?”
He shrugged, but was helpless not to make brief, guilty eye contact with Lisa. “Just thinking out loud.” He took a few swigs of his cherry Coke and belched noisily; some of the queasy feeling receded, but his head still swam.
I could do with knocking this off, he told himself, and not for the first time.
“Is Mary coming out tonight?” Pete asked. He was looking at Buddy, but the three of them knew he was asking Lisa.
Lisa shook her head. “I don’t think she’ll be going down town with us again any time soon.” She lifted the joint to her lips, appeared to think better of it, and then passed it to Pete. “She’s got a boyfriend.”
Pete took the smoke, braced himself, and finished it off.
4
Alex put his hand on his front door, knowing that he should really be opening it, knowing that the time for opening it and walking out of the house had already been and gone, and yet he still stood there doing nothing. He took a deep breath and contemplated checking his rucksack for the thousandth time that evening, but the thought of unpacking his tent, his bed roll, and all the cooking gear (not to mention the bottle of Jameson he had stashed in there – it wouldn’t do for his folks to see that) filled him with such dread, that he grasped the handle and marched out of the house without giving his equipment another thought.
Once outside in the warm, late-spring evening, he felt reborn, and despite the sheer weight of his provisions, he felt lighter than he had ever considered possible.
“So this is life,” he thought, and said without meaning to. He repeated it, however, and a little louder this time. He didn’t understand what he meant by the phrase, if he meant anything at all, but he liked the way it sounded all the same.
Even though it was quite a walk to Daniel Timley’s house, he had neglected to ask for a lift from his parents. It seemed right, somehow, that there should be a long journey involved today, that there should be a sort of pilgrimage. This was Alex Turner, aged sixteen, tasting newfound and unknown freedoms, and the occasion should be marked, if not by statue or fanfare, then by sheer exertion.
He was going camping.
Camping with girls.
And one of them is Helen Brenné.
He wanted to scream it at every child, dog, woman, and man he came across. How could this be happening? he wondered, feeling the soft breath of the evening air against his skin, the hairs on his arms standing up despite its warmth. The idea had been more of a joke than anything, something daft that Daniel had suggested yesterday lunchtime just to get a rise out of Sarah Portland, Daniel’s new girlfriend, and Helen, her best friend. But miraculously they’d called his bluff.
Sure, they’d said, chewing their sandwiches, we’d love to come. Just tell us where and when.
Daniel had beamed and said, My house, tomorrow night, at eight.
And that’s all there was to it.
Maybe it’s still just a joke, maybe they’ve pulled out.
At that thought, he became aware of his surroundings, of the distance between his house and Daniel’s, and of how slow he was walking. He leaned forward beneath his burden and picked up the pace. Daniel lived the nearest to Bracton Hill; there was a shortish walk up towards the old mining area where the two of them had often camped before. He hoped neither of the girls would want a trip to the summit.
As Alex followed the arching path that led towards school and beyond it, past Old Man Heaton’s place, around Tithborough woods, and onwards to the feet of Bracton Hill, he tried to think of something to make the journey shorter, something to calm him down. He had been brooding on tonight, and this walk was a good opportunity to clear his thoughts. The last thing he wanted was Helen to realise how big a deal this was for him, and if he didn’t chill out, she would see it a mile off. Oh, and he would insist on using the bathroom at Daniel’s when he arrived. He had a fresh shirt, soap, some aftershave, and a towel packed ready for just that reason. If he didn’t wash up, no amount of charm would disguise the smell.
As he passed the church grounds, approaching school, he instinctively looked in on the graveyard. An old habit. There was something faintly melancholy about living so close to so many dead people – this was a thought that occurred to him more or less every time he passed, which was usually followed by pondering if anyone else felt that way. If they did, he always concluded, they never mentioned it.
Maybe it’s just me, he added now; maybe I’m just morbid.
He shrugged as much as the rucksack would allow, and let the familiar rows flicker past. At the end of the nearest row, he noticed a fresh mound of earth. A modest and slightly sad-looking wreath lay at one end, and Alex was shocked by the pang of grief he felt for the stranger who was spending his or her first night underground. He looked away, and walked past the graveyard, and past the school, and onwards to Daniel Timley’s house. He concentrated on the night ahead. He visualised knocking on Daniel’s door, the inevitable cup of tea and subtle interrogation by his mum, and the four of them piling out of the house, heading off for a slow walk towards the usual spot. Would the girls walk together and they ahead, or would Daniel and Sarah walk together? And if the latter, he wondered, would there be a moment when his hand could accidentally brush against Helen’s? He thought there might be, if it was done as carelessly as possible, but he’d have to see.
As the sunlight mellowed, casting everything in a rich, luxurious gold, a smile spread across his face, a smile so wide he thought he might never get rid of it.
“So this is life,” he sighed.
5
David Hartman adjusted his tie in the mirror. As he lifted his chin to tighten, straighten, and smooth the knot, his wide, blue eyes stared back at him with their usual seriousness. He quickly appraised the overall result. It was fine. The white shirt, freshly ironed by his own hands, was one he wore to school, as were the black trousers, and the shoes he’d loaded with enough polish to compensate for their many scuffs. The black tie, however, had been bought last night from a cut-price clothes shop in town, but it did its intended job of transforming the rest.
There, he thought, that’ll do. He looked like what he was – a school kid pretending to be a grown-up – but that was fine by him. As they say on TV, I’ve got my own thing going on. He was about to leave, when he noticed the concern in his reflection.
Am I really doing this? he wondered. No one would think any less of me for not going.
Those sombre eyes stared at him. They didn’t judge, not exactly, but they stared.
Well, I guess you know that’s not true – I would think a whole lot less of you. The old man looked after you, or have you forgotten that?
He shook his head. No, he hadn’t forgotten that. He’d curled up in fear when he’d realised the caretaker was standing there, and even if the rest of that distant Saturday morning was now a darkened room in his mind, he remembered that part clearly. He’d been staring up at a brilliant sky, his body filled with pain, when he’d became aware of this watching presence, this other; but the idea that help was at hand had not been his first thought, had it? When he’d become aware of the old man standing there, it had felt like the beginning of something much, much worse than the beating he had been given. Something about the old man, something about him being there was not quite right.
How long had he been there?
The idea stopped him…perhaps that was it.
No, don’t do this, David. Don’t go looking for a reason to stay at home. Sure, they’ll understand you chickening out, but do you really want to do that? And besides, you’re
forgetting how you passed out, remember? The old man brought you around, asked you if anything was broken, and then carried you into the school office so he could phone for an ambulance. He said he didn’t want to leave you in case the gang came back to finish the job off. Do you remember him saying that? You were shocked because the idea hadn’t even occurred to you.
Sure, I remember. And of course he did all that, but how long had he been standing there?
You were passed out!
No, no I don’t think so. I was watching the sky, following contrails, and waiting to get my strength back. I knew I had to get home, or get help, and that was all I was thinking about. But I was thinking it. There was no passing out – I just told other people that I passed out so they didn’t think I was stupid enough to lie there waiting for more punishment.
So how long had he been there?
He’d been there for…
The face in the mirror stared at him, its expression calm and patient.
He watched them do it, didn’t he?
He shuddered at the memory of lying there, of slowly become aware of this other presence, and faintly, slowly, his reflection nodded.
“Fine. He watched. But he saved me, too.”
Beyond the bathroom window, birds chirruped and whistled, their voices clear in the still, spring air. The boy with the wide blue eyes leant in towards the mirror closely so that his reflection became blurry and unrecognisable, then he pulled away until he thought he saw himself once more.
David Hartman exited the bathroom, called to his mother from the front door, and then headed out through the cherry blossomed streets, on his way to Mr Ermey’s funeral.
Copyright © Paul Roscoe 2012