Fen

by Daisy Johnson

  They played a game she did not know and nobody explained. When the bottle landed on Arch he said things that made her redden and the others laugh at her reddening. He’d shrug, swig, grin.

  Later he was kissing someone too. He did it lazy-like, one arm looped around, his mouth moving slow. He was thinking on other things. She found herself watching him – not bad, only considering.

  Someone spun the bottle again, though the game had flagged, failed. The dark of the tree lids above her coughed to motion. Then James – who’d kissed like a shark, small, fast-moving teeth – was looking at her.

  Arch, he said. Dare you to kiss Mattie, and she turned to watch her brother pulling his face back, slipping his arm free.

  He came over without much ado. He didn’t make a fuss. That wasn’t the way he was made. He would never lose face: you could dare him to swing down onto the train tracks and he’d do it, leg over leg and onto the metal runners.

  He would never do anything by halves.

  His tongue in her mouth quickish and tasting of the hot dog and onions she’d watched him eat. She wasn’t pulling back but he had a hand in her hair all the same, holding her firm. It went on. She had her eyes open because she’d forgotten she was supposed to close them. His face was too close to be anything recognisable. She worked out the flat of his nose, stretching away from her cheek. The others were whooping and howling and someone said: a game all the family can play. They were clunking their beer cans on the ground so she could smell the spillage and the wet dirt and he was going on, rhythmic now, as if he were hearing a beat in it all.

  She broke and hulked in a mouthful of air and let it cool her insides and he sat back on his haunches like a piss-proud dog and looked at her.

  That week she went to drink with them most days.

  She finished her exams and did well.

  We’ll see, her mother said, setting Arch’s place at the celebration dinner. But he was only a little late, toeing his shoes off at the door and sliding into his seat and raising his thumbs at her in something both mockery and collusion.

  On Christmas Day she stood in the hallway and listened to her mother on the phone to Marco. Her mother did not say much (don’t swear, Marco, please) but still – from the little Matilda heard – anybody with half a knowing of what Marco was comprised of could guess what had happened. Matilda wondered what a baby made a little of someone like her and a little of someone else would look like.

  * * *

  She was never certain why Marco’s mistake made Arch so angry. She saw him scrapping or heard about him scrapping all that next week, picking fights with anybody who came close enough he could call them out. One of the girls at school, prim with it, said he was out of his league, that play-fighting at school was fine but this was different and everybody in town was tired of his bullshit.

  She went back to the fire pit beneath the copses once or twice a week. She dressed carefully, looking down at herself. Marco and Arch looked so like one another, like a mistake doubled across a space. She looked like leftovers, what had come after. She drew, haphazardly, a black line across the rim of her eyelids the way she’d seen his friends do.

  Those long nights he was fidgety, could not keep still. She saw the way his friends treated him, with a wariness that normally comes around animals that don’t have the language to be reasoned with.

  Often he came to the field late, lifted up his T-shirt silently so they could see the fresh marks, the dirty scrapes of blood. He was going further and further afield to pick fights, was taking the train or hitch-hiking to the city to find bars where they wanted it as bad as he did. There were still people who wanted it that bad. She could see his friends growing bored with this show, with his hand reaching for the rim of the shirt, with his thinness coming into view. He would point out the new ones with a pride that made her wonder if he even fought back any more.

  Have a drink for fuck’s sake, someone would say and the moment would pass. Except she would remember the scratches and bruises. She would remember each new one.

  At the end of the year there was a car outside school and C.E was sat in it with one arm hanging out the window though it was near freezing and the other hand banging on the horn to call her over.

  Mattie, right? she said, although they’d spent almost a year passing one another in the hallways of the house.

  Yeah.

  She sat and tried not to look too hard but looked all the same. She remembered seeing C.E in the sports changing rooms, nearly naked, the long telescope of those legs, talking and talking. She wasn’t going to stay there. She was there because, second time around, her father had married a British woman. She knew the rest of them would get stuck stocking shelves and getting fat. She wasn’t like that.

  Except. There she was. She was still carrying a little of the pregnancy weight around her belly and, braless, her breasts were heavy. She was languid the way she had always been, long-bodied in the loose dress, legs a little apart, woollen socks and wellington boots. There were cigarette butts in the ashtray.

  They drove out of the car park. Matilda could not think of anything to say.

  Is this your car?

  It’s a friend of mine’s. She let us borrow it.

  They drove the rest of the way without saying anything.

  Walking to the house she listened for the sound of the baby or of Marco and Arch going at it the way they had when they were younger. The house was quiet.

  C.E kicked her wellingtons off against the wall and went in. The baby was on the carpet in the sitting room. It wasn’t moving much only lying on its back, looking at the ceiling. Her mother was on the floor, not close enough to touch the baby but near enough to see with good detail, knees bent beneath her, one hand holding up her head.

  Matilda followed C.E into the kitchen. Marco was there and so was Arch. They were drinking tea. Arch was leant against the counter and Marco was sat at the kitchen table. They weren’t talking any.

  Hello, Mat, Marco said, one hand around the tight bone of C.E’s hip.

  Hi.

  In the next room they could hear their mother talking to the baby.

  What’s its name? Matilda said, too loud because nobody was saying anything. Everybody looked at her.

  Skyla, C.E said. It’s my grandmother’s name.

  She looked at Arch. He was pale across the face and neck; his mug was full.

  Her mother made pasta with tomato sauce. She kept waiting for Arch to make his excuses or just go. She steeled herself to say that she was going with him, that she wanted to go to the field and drink with his friends too. Occasionally the baby would make a huffing sound as if it were bored; otherwise it didn’t do much. Sometimes she caught a smell from it, a warm, half-asleep smell.

  After dinner, Arch’s bony legs were over the side of the armchair and he’d found a beer from somewhere and was drinking it slower than she’d known he could drink beer. She wanted one but didn’t know how to ask. He didn’t comment on the baby, seemed barely to notice it was there. Occasionally C.E would stand and go and rearrange its clothes or look down at it.

  Arch was speaking to her now. You remember Harry, he would say to her. Or: you heard what Sarah said the other night? She was pleased, as if they were plotting a thing. She had a book out because she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. Sometimes she looked up and he was watching her that way he did of a time. Not bad, only considering.

  Later, Marco and C.E had an argument about something someone had said. It went on a good ten minutes and got louder and louder until they seemed to run out of steam.

  Crazy fucking cow, Marco said after a moment.

  Quiet, idiot.

  Marco talked a bit about the boats. He wasn’t used to them, he said, had thrown up the first five or six times and they’d said he wasn’t made for it and should work at the pub. He was, he said, better now, could manage a fair swell without losing his breakfast. He scoffed about a burnt-out lighthouse and the superstitions the sailors had w
hich he had to pretend he held with. C.E didn’t say much more.

  You going to stay there? Arch said.

  Marco shrugged. Don’t know. Maybe.

  Sounds a shit-tip.

  Not as shit as here.

  Give it a rest, C.E said, and Matilda thought that, though she might have birthed something up that looked like one or other of the boys, she didn’t know the first thing about the danger of them.

  It’s all right, Marco said, sounding amiable enough, don’t get your pants in a fucking twist.

  It was dark outside. The baby had fallen asleep on the carpet with its limbs splayed, not moving. I’ll do it, her mother said when C.E moved to take her upstairs. She did not come down and it was different without her there. Arch came back with four beers and handed them out without it seeming much of a thing to do.

  I haven’t pumped, C.E said, and gave hers to Marco, who drank both of them at the same time as if it were a joke everybody had known was coming.

  You remember that time we sucked all the petrol out of Mrs Williams’s car? Marco said, holding his beer up.

  Yup.

  Did she know it was you? C.E said.

  Everybody knew it was us, Marco said.

  Arch drank down a gulp of beer and looked at Matilda. She wondered what he wanted; whether he wanted her to stop whatever was going to happen, whether he’d always, really, wanted her to stop it. She waited for him to give her a sign. She was not certain what she would say, only that she would muster something. Remind him he’d told everybody he’d go to the pub.

  Eventually Arch looked away, said: you remember when we used to track foxes?

  I thought you said he loved animals. C.E’s voice was loud.

  Marco shook his head. It wasn’t like that. We never killed one. It wasn’t about killing them. We’d just follow the tracks until we caught up with it, chase it for a while and then let it go.

  What’s the good in that? C.E was talking loud still, as if to cover something. Matilda could feel Arch wincing at the sound of her voice.

  You wouldn’t understand. You never do anything unless there’s an exact point set out for it.

  She waved a hand at Marco. No, I just don’t see the point in chasing an animal like that.

  He didn’t see the point in hurting an animal – Marco rolled his chin at Arch. We could have got close enough to skin it with our hands but he would have skinned me first.

  C.E laughed and stretched so you could see the slight handhold of flesh between her T-shirt and jeans. Matilda watched them watching her.

  You couldn’t have got that close, she said, stretching still, not really looking at either of them.

  Foxes are cleverer than that, at least the ones we have back home. You couldn’t even get within spitting range, otherwise you would have come home with a fox brush. Boys like you always lie. It’s all you’re good for.

  Marco watched her carefully. He looked like he’d never seen anything who wore her skin the way she did. You’re wrong, C. Right, Arch?

  Arch didn’t say anything.

  They’re easy to track. Foxes. You just have to know how and fucking go about it really quietly until you’re close enough and then you get loud and they lose all their cleverness and you can chase them down.

  Bullshit, she said and Marco downed the last dregs of the beer from both cans and laughed at her with his head resting back against the chair.

  Well, we can show you.

  Show me what?

  She turned her face between them.

  Show you how it’s done.

  You idiot. It’s dark.

  Marco shrugged.

  You’re bluffing, she said and jabbed a finger in his direction.

  We can show you, can’t we, Arch?

  She knew then there was nothing she could do about it and got up to put on warm socks before they could leave without her. When she came back down the front door was open and Arch and Marco were stood in the square of light, smoking and not talking. Marco looked her up and down and dropped his cigarette into the dimness, moving a foot to cover it.

  You’re not coming. I don’t know what you think you’re doing.

  She looked at Arch. She wanted to nudge him, tell him she wanted to be there. She had to be there. Didn’t she?

  He didn’t say anything, only let out all his breath, and Marco laughed and said: go upstairs and you can watch out for us coming back.

  She didn’t go or say anything, only stood waiting until C.E came out of the bathroom with a big jumper on and her hair tied up and said: all right then, and the three of them went out leaving the door swinging, and she watched them until they hit the road and it was too dark to tell their bodies from the rest.

  The Hunt

  AT THE WAKE people talked without reserve. Nobody much believed Marco. Some said it was an accident, Arch slipping and falling; Marco making up a story out of grief or madness. Others disagreed. Everybody had seen them as children, out wrestling in the road, ignoring the cars. And older, bleeding before they’d barely begun, fighting with a sort of joy. A play-fight out of control, someone said.

  It was the foxes, she heard Marco saying loudly into a room talking mostly on him. I told you all. It was the foxes. There was a silence. Everybody had a plate with food on, salad and spring rolls and a quiche one of the teachers at the school had made. A lot of Arch’s friends were there, ones she’d known from the place under the copses, and they were drunk.

  Later, when she went up to the bedroom, Marco was there, on the bed, both hands under his head, muddy boots on the duvet.

  What are you doing in here?

  He shrugged.

  Mattie. Mattie, he said, as if he’d only just realised on her being a living thing at all.

  She waited for him to tell her the truth. To say they’d worked it all out; they’d decided on a good, last fight and there it was. Arch wanted it this way.

  One of them took him, Marco said after a moment. One of the foxes. I reckon one of them is carrying his soul or whatever around inside it at the moment. You believe in that?

  He didn’t wait for her to answer.

  I never did. Always thought he was talking bollocks. All those stories about them.

  She wanted to take a hold of him. By the shoulders or by the ruff of his hair. Shake him and shake him. Tell him he didn’t need to lie to her, he shouldn’t lie to her.

  He looked at her as if he knew all the things she was thinking. You believe me, don’t you?

  She’d been sleeping in Arch’s room since he’d died. Sometimes she woke in the night and the smell of him was so thick, so cloying and heavy on her face that she was certain he’d come back all on his own. He would be standing at the foot of the bed, one hand holding up the rim of his T-shirt so she could see the marks the foxes had made on his belly and chest. He would show them with a proudness as if to say that all the other fights had only been leading up to this one. Sometimes she woke to the dull thrum of all the words he’d ever said beating a new sort of pulse through her head. Sometimes she woke with the feel of his tongue pushing against the roof of her mouth and thought – if only he pushed hard enough – he could give her the words.

  That night she lay and thought about when they were younger. Out playing in the garden, they would see one on the field. The flush of it, paused at the hedge line or nose down, hunting in the ruts. Marco would shrug, go back to digging. Arch would run to the fence, duck under, go streaking across the field in pursuit. Come back ruddy-cheeked, sheepish.

  We saw a fox, he’d tell their mother as soon as he could. Spend the rest of the day talking about it until Marco got bored enough to rile him into fighting.

  Later, older, coming up her drainpipe, the stories he told were always threaded through with that slim shape. As if they’d climbed into his gullet, infected his words. But the stories had changed: fen foxes who’d been people once and grown out of themselves easy as taking off one jumper and putting on another. Foxes that carried the dead inside th
em. Foxes who would speak if only you could make them.

  The next day she went looking for the fox that had him.

  It was early, dark. She went straight across the field out the back of the house, slipping in and out of the damp, tractor-cut furrows. It did not feel the way it was supposed to. It felt only that her brother was dead and she was out walking in the early morning.

  She walked hard, fast, tripping forward. A little light grew on the straight line in front of her. She heard the pylons before she saw them, their low, tuning-fork buzz. In the distance there were cars passing. This land was deceptive: they were miles away. She kept on.

  Later there was that laughing bark in the distance. She turned to listen. Started in that direction. Then the sound cut from behind her. She turned and turned. Settled on the same way as before. Kicking at the high grass at the edge of the field. It would be light soon anyway and then it would be no good.

  She had reached, without realising, the copse with the fire pit and the soil skateboard ramps. She went into the black beneath the thin wind-breaker trees, waded into the fire pit to search for half-burnt beer cans with the toe of her wellington. Went to the river and bent down to squint for any left behind, bobbing in the water.

  There was something under the trees, just before the slope that ran up to the field. A fox caught by the foreleg in a trap. It took her half an hour to get the trap open. The fox panted and made a high sound she had not heard from the ones who used to mate or hunt rabbits out the back of the house. Its leg was caught good. She wrenched and forced. It snapped its jaw at her, lunging open-mouthed as far as the trap would allow.

  When it was done the fox started up the bank and she gave a gentle tug on the leash she’d attached around its neck and it fell back and looked at her with an astonishment that almost made her let it go then and there. Her hands were bleeding.

  She dragged the fox on. The lights of a car came over the rough, holed concrete road. The pylons went on and on in the sheer beam of it. She wrestled the fox hedgeways, out of the road, but it got its mouth pretty sharpish round her wrist and bit down. The car rolled on and then stopped. She could see nothing of the driver but their gloved hands on the wheel. She could smell the fresh rage of the fox, the pissed-off stench of it. The car got moving again, flashing its red tail lights in farewell, and she thinking there can’t have been many other places where people would mind their business the way they did in the fen.