The Extinction of Snow

by Frederick Lightfoot

  I turn right and go into the village. In no time at all I reach the cross-road. It seems that everything of note in the village is at the cross-road: a handful of shops, a bar, a restaurant and the hotel. The shops are closed, the shutters down. The cross-road is something of a dilemma. Where do I go? There are too many choices, too little information, no knowing. I turn and flee, back across the bridge and heading into darkness. I wonder if this is the bridge that gives the village its name. I suppose it could be old enough. In my mind I had the image of an ancient white brick, hump-back construction, fit for horses and carts. Of course it would have no place in the modern transport system. Maybe there is such a bridge; maybe all kinds of hidden things will be made visible before my time is out.

  I don’t know how far I walk, but it seems like miles. In the dark, with the traffic passing in both directions it might seem farther than it really is. I know distance deceives, and deception is an easy thing to latch onto. As the last vestige of crimson disappears from the sky the traffic becomes increasingly sporadic, until it is eventually intermittent. At the same time the temperature drops. It is not as cold as it was in Paris; in fact the mid-afternoon was noticeably warm, suggesting spring, an early spring of mild frost, crispness and cleanness. After a while there are virtually no streetlamps anymore, and stars appear in the cloud breaks. The moon is a thin, narrow sliver, its further shape resonant but unseen. I resent the suggestion of beauty. There is no beauty in this place, only horror, only catastrophe. Its outlines have been stained, events embedded in its tissues, its name soiled. As always since I have been here I cannot distinguish between a desire to scream, cry or vomit. Perhaps I am moved to all three.

  I keep going. At a point where the road bends there is a track running away to the right. In the distance there are lights and I can hear the sound of engines running. Without thinking too much of it I make my way in that direction. The track is rough, with potholes difficult to see in the meagre light. To either side are tall but bare hedgerows with a drainage ditch running alongside, the occasional glug of seeping water discernible. As I get closer I can see two lorries parked side by side, their engines droning, loud in the still night air. The track must lead to a patch of waste-ground. I stand, watch and listen. There are a number of voices, raised voices but not arguing, rather debating, making plans. Moments later I hear the sound of footsteps crunching on the rough ground behind me. I turn quickly. I am confronted by the figure of an enormous man, only his large blacked-out outline visible. He stops immediately. We are both evidently trying to decipher each other in the dark. It is impossible. He comes on, his step slow, menacingly so. I consider running, shouting out for the men at the lorries, but do nothing, simply stand, passive and numb.

  He comes up close, stands over me and leans slightly towards me, almost as if he wants to sniff me. He is wearing a large black jacket with the collar turned up, his hands firmly in his pockets, his great bulky shape hunched forward. I feel that I’m going to be engulfed and crushed by him. I look up. His face is close to mine. It is a large, square shaped face, with high cheek bones, leaving defined hollows running down to a broad well shaped jaw, the skin thick and finely fissured. He raises his eyebrows and slightly pouts his lips, and his eyes light on me with interest and pleasure. I quail under his attention, it seems so direct and personal. He reaches for me. I feel a scream rising in my throat, but it won’t issue.

  He lays his hand on my right shoulder and speaks to me quietly, his voice guttural but with a musical lilt, and which surprises me, in hesitant English: “Over there, to right, the canal. It goes with the road. Under the bridge and then with the road. To the other side, the big pool, the water thick, bad smelling. In summer you would be eaten by insects. A little farther the . . . – how is it – scierie, yes, sawmill. And over there the laboratories. It does not have a placard but the company is Rennstadt. And so, what interest have you?”

  I shake my head, slowly, with difficulty. I can’t think. I don’t know what to do. Again the feeling of screaming, crying or vomiting assails me. I am collapsing in my own well of absurdity, perplexed by the identity of things. No matter how hard I try I can’t summon my voice. He smiles grimly and shakes his head.

  “I think you should leave the lorries. They are very busy. I can see it. Too busy for anything. Do you understand?” I manage to nod my head. Again he smiles grimly, and again shakes his head, but rather in the fashion of a disapproving parent. I feel small and ridiculous, devoid of purpose. I resent the fact that he makes me feel this way, but I can’t resist. He imposes his scale on me. It is a brutal, masculine power. “Good,” he adds, by way of conclusion I suppose. There is a period of silence, the two of us not moving, not responding. Eventually I step away, circle around him and slowly walk away from him, walk away as if he is sleeping and I am escaping. I go no more than a few feet when he calls: “You can find the way?”

  I nod, but quickly realize that he won’t be able to see that. “Yes,” I say. “I will find my way all right.”

  “It is dark now.”

  “I know but the road is straight.”

  “The cars they go very fast. Be careful.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  There is nothing else said. I edge away. I look back once or twice and he seems still to be there, standing in the same place, not having moved at all, but it could be a trick of the dark. At most his presence creates a greater depth to the darkness, but it could simply be that I am looking, imagining him still there, imagining him altogether.

  I go straight back to the cottage. Despite not eating since lunch I have no appetite. Luckily I have brought wine. There are two bottles in my suitcase. I open one, slump down on the settee and put on the television. There is a programme in English with French subtitles, an American police story of some kind. I kick off my boots in order to put up my feet – my ruined boots. I can’t help but feel it is undeniably disappointing. Real life is a puzzle. The programme ends. That is disappointing too. I have no idea what it was about. I switch it off and simply sip at the wine. I don’t know how long it takes me to finish the bottle, but not long. I don’t open the other. I will need a clear head. I am grieving, not drowning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The police are sympathetic but not helpful. I have been ushered into an office and offered tea or coffee. I don’t know the position or rank of the policeman assigned to talk to me, he doesn’t say. I presume he has been chosen because his English is reasonable. I don’t suppose they are chosen for their skills with the bereaved. It is not their job to assuage the human consequences of a crime. They have to take a realistic view, work within simple parameters of right and wrong. As he keeps telling me he can only say what the report says. He keeps saying it without actually telling me what the report does say. Of course he is uncomfortable. He won’t be able to trust to my response. Perhaps I will start wailing and screaming, and what will he do then?

  “All right,” I say, trying to imbue some sense of being in control into my voice, which is a lie, an act, “tell me about the official report.”

  He stares at me for a moment as if needing to digest my request. He has very sharp, birdlike features, with dark penetrating eyes. I feel their investigative intensity. They seem to be asking – what is the point of such knowing? What good will it do to know the criminal facts? In this case the victim is dead and nothing is going to change that. I nod at him as if he has actually presented me with a question. He shrugs and opens the file in front of him. When he talks it is from memory, the file a prop, a symbol of officialdom.

  “I do not know what I can say, Mrs Tennant, more than there was a terrible accident.”

  “How was it an accident?”

  He looks concerned, as if the explanation requested is too complex, too absurd, too much a product of grief. “Your son was hit by passing vehicles. He was run over three times.”

  “I know, I know that. That is the information that was relayed to me in London. What I am asking is h
ow you know it was the collision with a car, or whatever, that killed him?”

  “But what else, Mrs Tennant?”

  “That is what I am asking,” I say, my voice rising in intensity, not shrill but deep, enriched. “Have you investigated all of the possibilities?”

  He looks annoyed, his skill questioned. He visibly stiffens and sits back in his chair, preparatory to speech. “I can assure you Mrs Tennant that the French officers did everything they should. English officers would not have done anything differently, I am certain of that.”

  I lower my head, downcast. I have been misunderstood. This is not about chauvinism of any kind. I am being cast in the wrong light. “No,” I utter quietly, penitent for his sake, “I am in no way suggesting that. It’s just that I was told that my son had drugs in his body.”

  “Yes, Mrs Tennant,” he replies flatly, as if his case is proven, as if my affront has been rebuffed, “that, unfortunately, was certainly the case.”

  “But how?” He eyes me quizzically, needing some explanation of my implication. “Yes, how?” I go on. “My son never used drugs.”

  He visibly relaxes, feeling certain, I am sure, that he understands the situation, the denying, grieving mother, the refusal to face disturbing truths. There is another surge of sympathy from him. He may even tell me about his own children. “Mrs Tennant, it must be difficult for you. You must ask yourself how well you know your own son.”

  “Very well.”

  “But grown-up, not before. We lose sight of our children I think.”

  “My son had no use for drugs.”

  He shrugs, raising and lowering his eyebrows quickly, mildly bemused, knowing he can’t win this pointless argument. For him it doesn’t matter. He has his file. But his file is wrong. This has to matter. “I think Mrs Tennant, it is understandable.”

  “What drugs?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Name the drugs in his body.”

  He leafs through the file, pauses at a certain page and then gazes at me with an expression of deliberate concern. We have no need to do this, he is suggesting. We can leave it as it is, mysterious, a sequence of hints, guesses and suppositions. I nod, giving my permission, asserting my need. “Well,” he begins speculatively. “the toxicology report states that there was evidence of opioid, diamorphine di-acetylmorphine, which you probably know is heroin. There were also other unknown chemicals.”

  “Unknown?”

  “Not individually, but because they had metabolised, not known in the original compound.”

  “My son had no use for drugs.”

  He eyes me impatiently, obviously satisfied that he has given me more information than is reasonable. “Mrs Tennant, your son was a chemist, known to produce his own products. Unfortunately it has led to a terrible tragedy.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “In the course of our inquiries we learnt that your son had lost his position in his company because of his behaviour. There is enough evidence to believe that your son used drugs he had himself manufactured.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I cannot name people, Mrs Tennant.”

  “The company say it. The company are the keepers of my son’s identity. The company construct him to suit their purpose. The company make it the way they want. This is absurd and wrong. How can it be? What are they protecting? And we all see what we are told to see. It isn’t surprising people go mad. Maybe I am, maybe I really am, and that wouldn’t be surprising, would it. But it would suit people. So no, I am not mad.”

  “Mrs Tennant!”

  “I’m sorry; my voice was shrill, I know.”

  “There was also alcohol present in your son’s body.”

  “Yes, so I believe. I have seen him drink wine. He certainly liked wine, French wine. He would have been happy here, but never a drinker, not even when he was a student.”

  “But how can you say with certainty, Mrs Tennant?”

  “I am sick of being told that I don’t know my son. I have done him that injustice too many times. I have betrayed him over and over again, but I think I need to stop.” He shrugs, unable to respond. “Do you intend to continue your investigation?” I demand.

  He looks perplexed. “Everything is complete. All reports have been made. There is nothing more to consider. It is over, Mrs Tennant. I am sorry. I cannot tell you what you want to hear, I know that.”

  “No, I’m sure you can’t.” He shrugs again, knowing that this impasse cannot be resolved. He will have judged me in some light, possibly favourably for my loyalty, symbol of my love, unfavourably for my naiveté, my refusal to believe in the visible world. He will resent that refusal, that going against the grain, but I have seen what mirrors achieve. I understand that at least. I am about to be dismissed. I am not finished though. How could I be? I present my final petition. “Can I see the place where it happened?”

  He considers for a moment, probably weighing up available resources and then firmly states: “Of course, Mrs Tennant. Do you want to go now?” I nod, confirming my intention. “Then I will take you myself.”

  I half expect to cross the bridge again, but we don’t. The bridge is the first turning to the left after the police station and we go straight on. This road is the larger of the two. This is obviously the main route somewhere. Not a major route, but not insignificant either. In no time at all he indicates and pulls over. We are on a stretch of straight road, forest to the left, open fields to the right. There is a single horse in the field, standing still like a carving, dappled grey, its belly round. Its head is over the fence, but it makes no move at all. I’m sure it would make an inadequate witness. I walk along beside the police officer, cars, vans and trucks speeding past, the chill air moved. He stops and looks down at the roadside and says: “This is the place, Mrs Tennant.”

  I feel an instantaneous sensation of choking. There is no discernible change in the ground, no memorial, no object or symbol marking the spot. My mind rushes, panicking, demanding certainties. How can he possibly know? He could just be saying it to finish with me, to be done with it all. But I have to know. I will have to carry this for the rest of my life. The significance of it is too great to comprehend. I look at him, my expression pleading, needing confirmation. I gesture towards the faceless ground, my entire self seeping away in horror and uncertainty. “Here,” I say, my voice scarcely audible, my attention fixed to a miniscule patch of the earth’s surface.

  “This is where his body was discovered.”

  “But died here?”

  “Yes, our inquiries would suggest that is the case. His injuries were not those of a big impact. He fell, too much drug and alcohol, and unfortunately in the dark he was run over three times.”

  I am crying uncontrollably. It is such an ugly place to die. It has no shape or definition. How could he die here, marooned, on some meaningless roadside? “But why here?” I plead, speaking through the emotional outburst. “Why would he be here?”

  “Unfortunately he is the only person who can tell us that.”

  “It is good that you say so much is unfortunate.”

  He looks mildly embarrassed. He says: “I mean what I say.”

  “I know.” I walk on a little way, surveying everything, fixing it in my mind. I know that in no time at all I’ll begin to lose sections of it. I won’t quite recall the view in the far distance, though I will insist on my accuracy. I need space and time. I don’t know how human beings survive their grief. It seems to burn and destroy so deeply I can’t visualize any recovery at all. I go still farther and then panic that I am leaving the true place behind. I scan everything once again.

  On the crest of the hill I can see the figure of a man, a large, straight-backed shape. I’m pretty sure it is the man from the previous night. He inserts himself into my grief with a jolt. Why should he be following me here, here of all places? I sense danger and I am not so lost in grief not to be aware of it. It feels like yet another betrayal. I return to the police officer. I sugg
est that I’ll walk back, wanting more time than he can possibly allow. He refuses, suggesting that the road is too busy to trust to a distraught mother. I argue only so far. In the end I agree to return with him. I don’t mention the man on the crest of the hill. He was too far away for me to be certain, besides which I wouldn’t be believed.

  As we get back into his car I ask: “Why could he not have been drugged, sedated, and then brought here, dumped?”

  “Because it didn’t happen like that.”

  “There is a piece of music goes over and over in my head.”

  He shrugs. I don’t pursue it.

  I walk out of the police station without my soul. I don’t know another way to describe it. My inner being has been cored out, left to gape like a horrified mouth. Nothing has colour, savour or value. Everything has died in this dreadful village.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I have no idea how long I have wandered or where I have been. I have been dealing with the problem of my son. He is large and potent but unavailable. I can’t comprehend that absence. His image in my mind isn’t clear and yet he is part of everything I see, the fields, the forest, the canal and unfortunately, as the policeman would say, the road. It will always be the case. But it should never have been. He could have had a completely different life, one that was quietly anonymous, stay-at-home. The age offered it. He didn’t have to go to war, take on foul ideologies or stand for a cause. It is the age of capitalism triumphant, the end of history. He didn’t have to fight it. But he did. He found it wanting and he fought it. It is wanting. It destroys life.