The King of Spain

by Robert Ford

  The double knot to the side came loose and Sam slipped off the string, easing open the cover to reveal a small stack of photographs, tattered black and white prints with dog-ears and tiny tears. He lifted them from the page and cycled through; the first half dozen were of a young woman dressed in a plain summer dress standing under a broad sycamore, her hair dark and thick and on her face a certain uncomfortable, pursed expression. Then there were a few more general shots - a house and some fields, a man and a motorbike and a panting spaniel as seen from above, snapshots of a peaceful suburban existence.

  Moving on through the pages Sam found several more photos, but try as he might, he could not find any of Hal, not one. However, tucked away at the back of the volume was a grubby photo of a little boy of around seven or eight years old. Dressed in shorts and a collared football shirt, he stared straight towards the camera with a mix of joy and fear, his tiny round face and dark eyes suggesting something close to astonishment. Sam flipped over the card on a hunch and there written in faded black ink was a scribbled annotation:

  LUIS ’36

  Of course Sam leapt to conclusions. Was this little boy Hal’s son? And if so, where was he now? What had become of him? Sam was transfixed, staring at the image of the Luis, scanning each feature in turn, hoping that he might encounter even the slightest resemblance, the merest genetic trace of Hal, although the boy was perhaps too young, the photo a little too faded for such forensics.

  Lifting the print carefully with both hands, he placed it back inside the back cover before turning his attentions to the pages of the journal themselves. The paper was coarse and unlined and tinged with yellow, and despite the prodigious girth of the volume, the hundreds upon hundreds of pages that it contained, there was barely a side free, with just a little space remaining towards the back.

  Sam worked his way through the book, stopping at random intervals, exploring the text, engrossed. The content was incredible, a life’s work in many ways; from front to back Hal had furnished the pages with his tiny spider writing, a tangential, anarchic mix of thoughts and hopes and dreams, of tall tales and simple stories - most of which had been started, abandoned, and then perhaps picked up at some later stage, only to remain in the end disjointed and for the most part incomplete. Indeed the one exception to this rule, as far as Sam could make out from such a brief précis, occupied a large section of the middle pages of the book, where Hal had recounted the many and various intricacies of his family history; the language was somewhat more refined, the narrative streamlined to a degree, but otherwise there it was, the story of the King of Spain, the rambling, lunatic tale complete and preserved.

  Suddenly, a noise - a sharp cough and splutter from the bed that was enough to remind Sam where he was, to remind him of the dubious act in which he was engaged. He looked at his watch. 4.30am. Where had the night gone?

  LOOSE LIPS SINK SHIPS

  New Year’s Day. Perhaps the hangovers were a little more virulent, but otherwise it was a case of business as usual, a day like any other for the staff and residents of Edge Hill.

  At around nine thirty Sam emerged from his room and tramped downstairs into the atrium, where a detail of handlers were dismantling the rigging, taking down the decorations and sweeping up the remnants of the paper streamers that had been released upon the stroke of twelve, that had seemed like such a good idea at the time. As Sam was in no mood for conversation he ghosted along the side of the stairs undetected, slipped through the formal lounge area and into the East Wing.

  Standing on the viewing platform, Sam cast his eye over events below. The rink was almost full; it never ceased to amaze him what brilliant skaters the residents made, and how confident and content they seemed gliding round and round.

  Over on the other side of the gallery sat Ted and Spike. Somehow they had acquired two striped deckchairs, rather than the green plastic garden furniture that everyone else had to use. They both looked tired and aggravated, as if they had just finished one of their famous fights. Sam waved towards them but received no response - they just sat, arms folded each across their chest, resolute in their misery.

  On the near side, a few yards along the platform, sat Rachel and, to Sam’s complete surprise, Hal.

  ‘Morning, lover boy,’ said Rachel.

  Sam coloured.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard. Are you, then?’

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘In love?’

  Sam crossed his arms and made an odd, Gallic noise.

  ‘Morning, Hal,’ said Sam, in the hope of changing the topic.

  Silence.

  ‘Hal...’

  ‘Oh, he’s not talking today. Hasn’t said a thing all morning,’ said Rachel. ‘Not even to tell me to piss off. Which is a first.’

  Rachel leant forward, reaching under her chair to produce a beaten old thermos and filled two mugs with hot thick coffee.

  ‘Well. Another day, another dollar,’ said Sam and they chinked in mock celebration.

  ‘Cheers.’

  As far as Sam was concerned, there was an art to spending time at the rink. The skaters acted almost like a hypnotist’s watch, the circular motion engendering a state of extreme relaxation. He could spend hours like this, days even, his mind drifting off to nowhere in particular. Given the situation it was a neat trick, although he had to remind himself often that this was no long-term strategy, that to spend one’s days in such a manner was a peculiar waste of life, even by the terrible standards of Edge Hill.

  However, that morning, try as he might, he was unable to switch off, despite the fatigue he felt from the previous evening. He turned to his right and eyed Hal, who was sitting forward in his chair, his body rigid. Unusually, his dark hair had been combed across to one side, his face looked pale and puffed and he was in need of a shave, a thick layer of white stumble bristling his chin and cheeks. Rather than the anger that had come and gone over the past weeks he seemed vacant and sad, penitent somehow.

  Sam thought back to the previous evening, remembering the form and shape of Hal’s body as he lay on his bed. How did so meek a vessel house such a rancorous, vivid soul? And where had that spirit gone now? What had happened to his friend? Thinking the situation through, swirling the elements of his life together, Sam’s mind laboured, centrifugal, the process separating what seemed like an answer, a way forward: he had to do something, it was down to him.

  New Year’s Day turned to night, and with it came a strange and beautiful nocturnal quiet. Sam staggered outside, dressed in black, head to toe. The moon was full, shining down on the house and grounds of Edge Hill from a smoked navy sky.

  It was nearly one o’clock and the house was already deserted, most of the handlers choosing to get an early night following the delinquencies of the previous evening.

  Most, but not all.

  A door opened at the side of the house, near the staff areas, and out fell Sam’s partner-in-crime, shrouded, like him, in black.

  ‘Nggggg!’ he shouted in a toothy whisper as he floundered about the floor.

  ‘Shhh,’ came Sam’s response from the other man, reeling from side to side as if caught in a storm upon an ocean-going vessel.

  Having dusted themselves down they each grabbed several items from inside the doorway - a ladder and some brushes, a long roller and paint - before setting off across the grounds with an exaggerated, high-knee’d running style that made them look almost like cartoon characters, tripping, laughing, scolding, running, tripping, scolding, laughing.

  Presently the man with the ladder slowed to a standstill, laying his tools upon the floor. Then, straightening up, he ripped the woollen balaclava from his face and stood, arms outstretched, basking in the pale moonlight.

  ‘Look. At. That. Beautiful. Wall.’

  ‘Spike. We agreed. The masks stay on,’ slurred Sam.

  ‘Masks? What masks? And who’s gonna see us out here anyway, Sammy?’

  ‘You just can’t be too careful. Like they say. L
oose lips snik sdits. Hang on. Loose lips shink...’

  ‘Anyways. It doesn’t even matter any more. Not at all. It’s beautiful!’

  Sam stepped forward so that he was next to Spike and removed his balaclava also.

  ‘It is a beautiful wall though, Spike, isn’t it,’ he said, putting an arm around the gently listing Antipodean.

  ‘Beautiful mate. Beautiful.’

  Light the colour of weak tea speckled the upper cloisters as Sam and Ted moved along from the breakfast service, wending their way up through the staff accommodation to Hal’s room where Ted knocked and waited. And then, having received no response, he turned the handle and entered.

  The curtains were closed, the room pitch dark.

  ‘You must come to the grounds, Hal,’ said Ted, hands behind his back, rising and falling on the balls of his feet as he waited.

  Nothing. No response. Hal was buried beneath the bedclothes, a lumpen form.

  ‘You really must come now,’ Ted repeated, his speech becoming more retroflex; generally the more animated he became, the more Indian he sounded.

  This time there was a little movement from somewhere under the covers.

  ‘You must not be such a pest. Get up!’ Ted carried on, for once the right side of happy.

  Hal groaned, a long low note that came from deep within his chest.

  ‘Hal? This is no joke.’

  ‘I’ll shoot you, you arse,’ said Hal, his face still hidden under the blankets.

  Ted turned to Sam and smiled - he had won.

  Marching Hal along the cloisters, Ted looked rather like a member of the military police or perhaps a prison camp guard, pushing and poking his bedraggled charge ahead. Hal was up, he was awake, but looked less than happy about the situation, in fact he looked really, seriously ill - stick thin and shuffling, his screwed up squinting eyes still struggling to cope with the world.

  Their route took them past the dining room and back through the staff areas of the house, the steaming laundry and the antique engine room with the boilers and other howling parts that powered the house. From here they traipsed outside, across the scruffy service area and past the gym. Then, following the path to their right, Ted led the way through low hanging trees and onto the grass beyond.

  In front of them was a small crowd of handlers, perhaps twenty or so in number. Spike was there, with Rachel and Mrs Skeets. Ted coughed loudly, alerting the group to their arrival and the handlers all turned as one, shifting a little to form a path so that Hal could pass towards the front.

  Not only was Hal still soaked in sleep, but the days and weeks of regimented debauchery had left him feeling brittle. And so, as he passed the smiling faces of this random bunch, he began to feel more than a little uneasy. This had to be a hallucination. Or perhaps he was dreaming?

  ‘At least I’m wearing trousers,’ he said out loud by way of a reassurance, having in fact first checked that this was the case. ‘Wait. Does that mean this is a dream. Or does that mean that this is not a dream... ?’

  Before long, Hal stood alone at the head of the group. In front of them all was Kirkham’s house, or rather the side of the small, sorry-looking abode he had occupied since a few weeks ago. Hal shielded his eyes, squinting up ahead at the windowless expanse of red brick and mortar. And there it was, the reason for the crowd, the reason, he had to presume, that they had brought him here at such an ungodly hour. There ahead, daubed in ragged blue letters six feet high or more was a message, or rather a statement, and a familiar one at that. It read simply: KIRKHAM IS THE SHITGUNNER.

  Hal stared, eyes wide, mouthing the words to himself. As banners went, Sam himself was the first to admit, it was big and not particularly clever, indeed it was without question juvenile. But given the events that had transpired over the last few weeks at Edge Hill, given the audience and the atmosphere, it was perfect.

  The crowd waited with bated breath, keen to see what kind of reaction the prank might have, and of course no one more so than Sam. Hal continued to stand and stare and silently recount the words over and over and over until eventually it happened: his eyes began to dampen and his small shoulders to shake and tremble.

  ‘Kirkham is the Shitgunner.’ Hal said aloud at last. ‘Kirkham... is... the... Shitgunner!’

  And that was it; Hal melted into a most prodigious fit, tears streaming from his eyes, body bent double as he laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed while from behind him the crowd erupted, cheering and hollering, clapping and chanting.

  ‘Shit-gunner!’ they cried, ‘Shit-gunner! Shit-gunner!’

  The sense of camaraderie was all-consuming. Sam looked over at Spike and they shared a knowing glance, and Rachel leant forward and gave his shoulder a squeeze. The handlers were overjoyed, the noise rising out of all proportion to their number until suddenly there came a roar of such intensity that it cut right through the crowd - a wild shriek.

  ‘What? What?’

  Kirkham appeared from the shrubbery, red-faced and frantic in beige suit and brogues. A little way behind him were Megan and Morris, who stopped and stood to one side.

  ‘What’s this?’ he shouted, looking up at the wall and then at the handlers, but mainly at Hal.

  ‘Idiots!’ Kirkham fumed, spitting slightly as he spoke. ‘Ridiculous.’ He was now only a few yards away from Hal, who had continued to laugh unabated, his whole frame set to quiver.

  Kirkham fixed him with furious eyes.

  ‘You! I should have known!’ He jabbed a finger very close to Hal’s nose.

  Sam bristled, taking a half-step forward, but Rachel caught him by the shoulder.

  ‘Steady on,’ she whispered.

  As Hal’s laughter dried, he took the opportunity to wipe some of the moisture away from his eyes with the back of his sleeve.

  ‘Inside! Now!’ said Kirkham, pointing towards the house, the tone of his voice somewhere between Barbara Woodhouse and Klaus Kinski. ‘Inside!’

  Ignoring such instruction, Hal leant forward, breathing hard as if he had just completed a long distance scramble.

  ‘I said inside,’ repeated Kirkham.

  ‘Wooh. Weee,’ came Hal’s reply, his head hanging down by his knees.

  ‘Right.’ Kirkham had had enough. Without much warning he lurched forward, almost as if he were plucking at an item from within a burning room, desperate to reach it before the flames became too fierce. He seized Hal’s hand and marched off in the direction from which he had first appeared, back towards the front of the house.

  ‘Not your fight to have, Sam,’ Rachel said as they watched them leave. ‘He’ll be alright.’

  Sam flashed an unconvincing smile and hoped she was right.

  Taking charge of the situation, Morris stepped forward to the front of the group.

  ‘Right then, you lot - back to work,’ said Morris, with sufficient steel to leave no one in two minds.

  The crowd began to disperse, the handlers sloping off in twos and threes towards the main house. Sam bumbled along just behind Rachel and Spike, a broad smile across his face.

  ‘Well, that wasn’t very nice, was it?’

  Sam stopped and cringed and turned to see Megan catching up to him along the path.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘What you wrote on the wall. It’s not very nice, is it?’ She stopped in front of him, arms folded, defensive.

  Sam scratched at the floor with the point of his shoe; there really was no excuse.

  ‘No, I suppose not. Sorry. It was never meant to be anything... personal. Just a prank, you know?’

  ‘You’re an arse.’

  ‘I’m an arse.’

  ‘You are an arse.’

  ‘I am. But I didn’t know what else to do, you know, to help. To get Hal back on his feet again. It was silly and cruel but... desperate times and all that. Look, let me make it up to you? I’ll paint over it. I’ll paint a mural. Of you. Smiling.’

  Megan stared at him, unimpressed.

  ‘It’ll be a great
work, something for all time, a classic. Like the Sistine chapel? Without the beards and the religion. Or... the Mona Lisa. That’s it. Except she’s quite manly. And you’re not. I mean you’re very beautiful. What d’you think?’

  Megan leant forward and, much to Sam’s surprise, kissed him on the cheek. ‘I think that’s easily one of the worst offers I’ve ever had. But I suppose it was quite sweet in a way. I mean, what you did for Hal.’ Her stern features threatened to relax. ‘But you’re still an arse.’

  Megan pushed past him and made her way on ahead back to the house. Sam watched her go, watched the delicate rise and fall of her easy stride, the liquid swing of her fine bobbed hair. She seemed incredible to him, more so then than she ever had before. He thought that his heart may burst or his eye explode. He felt combustible. Ecstatic. Limitless. She was narcotic, made him want to attempt the unwise, to run into walls and flay wild beasts. To cut off his foot and throw it at the sky. To howl and to scream. It made no sense. None of it did. But after all, wasn’t that just the point?

  The ice ambulance moved off towards the double doors at the far side of the rink, its yellow lights flashing energetically as it nosed along dead slow. It had been called into operation because of a crash, a rare collision with the two residents involved requiring significant medical assistance over at the infirmary. And now one lucky handler was bent over the ice, scrubbing away the blood, while all around him weaved the other skaters, gliding by, unmoved by the accident.

  In the gallery above, the handlers had all returned to their posts - Spike and Ted slumbering on one side, while on the other sat Rachel and Sam, sharing a cigarette, vaguely watching the residents, passing the time as best they could.

  ‘Alright, rotters?’

  Climbing up through the hatch and on to the walkway was Hal. He had showered and shaved and combed his hair - an incredible transformation from the shambling creature that had emerged from the house that morning. Even his body looked bigger somehow, reconstituted.