Joanna leapt in alarm as he came towards her. ‘I was just –’
‘Get the fuck out of here!’ he spat. She scrabbled for her coat and fled from him. Mara stood rigid.
‘Jesus Christ.’ The polecat took her arm. ‘What did she do? What happened?’ He touched her lip. ‘You’re bleeding.’ She rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth and saw a smear of blood.
‘I think I must have bitten –’
Darkness.
A patch of carpet. She was sitting on the bed staring at the floor between her feet. The polecat was beside her, arm across her shoulders, hand keeping her head down. I must stop calling him that. Andrew. Andrew. She straightened up slowly.
‘Better?’
She nodded. Her head throbbed.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Out running.’
‘God, you’re such a stupid bitch. Have you eaten anything?’ She set her face stubbornly. ‘I’m calling a doctor. You’re ill. I bet you’re anaemic.’
‘I’m not.’ She pulled away from him. ‘I don’t need a doctor. Just leave me alone, will you?’
‘All right.’ He stood up. ‘Listen to me: I can go out of here and call a doctor, or I can go and fetch Rupert and see if he can persuade you. Which would you prefer?’
‘You shit.’
‘Be nice to me, Princess,’ he said. ‘I know too much about you. If I go and talk to the right people, you’ll be sectioned and put away so fast you won’t know what’s hit you.’ Her blood ran cold. He’d do it. They’d believe him – he’s a doctor’s son. No. No. Not now. Not again. ‘Right – am I going to make an appointment for you?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, resolving to cancel it.
‘Good.’ He left the room.
She went to shower. Her face stared at her from the mirror; pale, wild, stained with dirt and blood. Her lip hurt where she had bitten it. No wonder the polecat was worried. Andrew was worried.
When he returned, she was dressed and unwinding the towel from her head.
‘Tomorrow at ten,’ he said, taking the towel and beginning to dry her hair for her. ‘What did Joanna want?’
‘A message from the Lord. I’m rebelling. She says. He says.’
‘Forget it.’
‘Yes.’ I need to work. To drive all this from my mind. Andrew handed her the towel.
‘You look terrible. Why don’t you try to sleep?’ No way.
‘OK.’
His eyes were on her. She met his gaze obdurately. He went across to her desk and began to pick up her books and notes.
‘What are you doing?’ He walked towards the door. ‘You can’t do that. Give them back.’ She clutched his arm and sobbed. ‘Andrew. Please.’
‘Don’t beg.’ He was gone.
She sat on the edge of the bed, head in hands. What am I going to do? She had other books, but he might hear her crossing the room to fetch them. He might even come to check what she was doing in five minutes’ time, anyway. Well, I can sit here and think. He can’t stop me. Women and marriage in seventeenth-century England. Marriage conduct guides: If ever thou purpose to be a good wife, set down this with thyself: my husband is my better, my superior. The role of women in the radical sects. George Fox: You do not deserve to have wives, you speak so much against women. But her mind kept stumbling back to the woods. That man. Just a sad old man. I shouldn’t care. It’s not as if I haven’t seen it before. The man in my uncle’s village. I was six that time. It shouldn’t bother me, for God’s sake. But to run from him and find her waiting. As if a man did flee from a lion and a bear met him, or went into the house and leaned his hand on the wall, and a serpent bit him. She began to shake as she sat, too afraid to sleep, too afraid to cross the room for a book. What could she do? Wait for it to pass, quarter by quarter.
An hour later there was a knock at the door. Her again! But the door opened and it was a woman Mara had never met before.
‘Mara Johns?’ She came in. ‘I’m Dr Buchanan. What can I do for you?’ But . . . but . . . He lied. The bastard lied. The doctor was pulling up a chair and sitting by the bed. Think. Quickly, quickly. What will he have told her?
‘I’ve had a migraine. And . . .’ Sweat was forming on her upper lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand. ‘I was wondering . . . I’ve been feeling a bit faint. I was wondering if I might be anaemic. Possibly.’
The doctor was running her eyes over her assessingly. ‘It’s possible. We’ll do a blood test.’ She was like a brisk version of Dr Roe. ‘Been feeling tired?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sleeping well?’
‘Yes. OK.’ A lie.
‘How much do you weigh?’
Another lie.
‘Eating well?’
‘Well, you know. College food.’ Themes of equivocation. She thinks I’m anorexic.
‘What are your periods like?’
I knew it. ‘Same as ever.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked the doctor a little sharply.
‘Well . . . OK. Irregular.’
‘Hmm.’ There was a long pause. She doesn’t believe me. ‘We don’t seem to have any notes for you at the Practice.’
‘Yes. Sorry. I haven’t got round to registering.’
The doctor pursed her lips and Mara told her the address of her GP at home, knowing that her notes were still in Cambridge. With a bit of luck I’ll have left here before they catch up with me. The doctor asked more questions, and Mara made a concerted effort, answer by answer, to build up an image of herself: highly strung, intelligent, academically ambitious, but fundamentally sensible.
‘I expect I’ve just been overdoing it a bit.’ She hit upon a promising seam of lies. ‘I’ve got this paper to write before the end of term. It’s sort of important. Change of status to PhD.’ She watched with relief as the doctor began to categorize her: highly strung, over-ambitious, basically sensible. ‘I’ll clearly have to ease off a bit.’
‘Yes. Take a break. Can you get away for a weekend?’
‘That’s an idea.’ Thank God she hasn’t got my notes in front of her.
‘Well, let’s do that blood test.’ Mara offered her left arm. ‘Have you got good veins? Good God. A doctor’s dream,’ she said cheerfully. The needle went in. Mara kept the other arm clamped to her side, as though the doctor’s eyes might penetrate the sleeve and see the scar. ‘There. Good. Press here.’ The doctor closed her bag. ‘I’ll let you know if you are anaemic. Now – do you need any migraine tablets?’ Mara shook her head. ‘Well, try to rest. Make sure you’re eating properly.’ Momentary flicker of earlier impression. ‘See if you can get away for a couple of days.’
‘Thanks for coming. I feel a bit stupid.’
‘Don’t.’ The doctor smiled. ‘No trouble.’ She left as smartly as she had come. Mara was on her feet the instant the door closed. Right. How dare you do that to me, you . . . But another wave of dizziness sent her stumbling back to the bed. As she waited for it to pass she saw Andrew’s face saying, ‘Be nice to me, Princess.’ Anger was swallowed up in a tide of fear. ‘You’ll be sectioned so fast, you won’t know what’s hit you.’ Sedation. Soft-soled shoes squeaking in endless corridors. Voices asking, ‘Would you like to talk about it? How do you feel about it? You’re going to have to co-operate with us at some stage, Mara. Why not now?’ She curled up on the bed.
Mara woke. It was dark. There was another knock at the door. What time was it? She groped for her bedside lamp and turned it on. Six-thirty. The door opened. It was Andrew with a tray of food, which he carried across to the desk.
‘Compliments of the chef,’ he said with a sardonic look on his face. ‘Who says, and I quote, “She’s to eat it all, and not go losing any more weight, or she’ll be too skinny. I like a good handful to grab a hold of.” ’ He crossed to the bed and sat down. ‘A more compelling argument in favour of anorexia I find it hard to imagine.’ This jolted her memory.
‘You called the doctor out.’
‘And I expect you lied to her comprehensively.’ He was watching her face. ‘Not clever, Mara. You’re the most untalented liar I’ve ever come across.’
I’m convincing enough when my back’s to the wall. ‘I want my books back.’
‘Tomorrow. Come on. Eat. We don’t want to disappoint Nigel.’ He put out a hand and she let him pull her up, for a nasty thought had leapt into her mind: she needed him to back her up if the Principal asked him about Joanna. She began to eat.
‘Your friends want to know if you’re receiving visitors.’ Oh no. Crowding in with their compassion and questions. She forced down another mouthful. ‘Well, what shall I tell them?’
‘Tell them I’m not feeling . . . I’ll see them tomorrow.’ She looked up and saw pity in his eyes. Her face burned. ‘Don’t patronize me.’ The look vanished, and he raised a cool eyebrow.
‘You sound like Scarlett O’Hara. “Tomorrow is another day.”
She knew he was trying to help, to anger her back into her usual defiance, but it was hopeless. She continued to eat, hoping he wouldn’t see the tears welling up in her eyes, hoping they wouldn’t spill over.
‘I’ll tell them to bugger off,’ he said, leaving as casually as ever, but she knew he had seen.
She pushed the plate away and went back across to the bed and sat down. The evening stretched out ahead of her, and beyond it the night. Then the next day, and the next. Outside the wind was beginning to rouse itself. She heard the rain against the window, and the sound of the bells pealing. It was Thursday. They always practised on Thursday. The peals seemed to come in bursts on the gusts of wind.
There was a knock at the door. It was Rupert. Andrew had not told him, then. He came in and sat beside her.
‘I won’t stay long. I just wanted to see if you were all right.’
‘I’m fine.’ The window rattled angrily.
‘Mara, I know you don’t want to talk, but don’t you think –’
‘I don’t mind talking. I’ll talk. What do you want to know?’
He ran his hand through his hair. She saw he was choosing his words with care. ‘I’m just concerned that you – that – People need to grieve, Mara, and –’
‘So you’ve done a course on bereavement counselling?’ He winced as though she had scratched his face. ‘I’ve read all that stuff. I know what they say.’ She saw a burst of his old irritation.
‘Then you know all about denial.’
‘Denial?’ She stared at him. ‘I’m not denying anything. I’ll tell you anything you like.’
‘Yes, the facts. But what about what you feel? You never say a thing about what you feel.’
‘Because I feel nothing. What’s there to feel? She’s dead.’
‘Mara, for God’s sake. She was your sister. Your twin. You must feel something!’
‘I’ve nothing to feel with. My soul’s been amputated.’
She saw his concern give way to anger. ‘You’re so self-dramatizing!’
Her own anger leapt up to meet his. ‘And you – you tell me what to feel, how to behave the whole time! What are you – my fucking priest or something? My father? Why don’t you just leave me alone? I never asked you to care about me.’
He grew pale. She had wounded him beyond anything she had intended. The sound of the bells swirled round the building on the wind.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I came wanting to help, but I can see I’m only –’ He broke off. The wind rattled the glass. They stared at one another across a wilderness of misunderstanding, until he left without another word.
The night was full of wind and rain. Milk bottles went skittling down cobbled streets. Slates were whirled from rooftops. She slept fitfully. The whole City shook. The chimneys, the trees, the weirs were all roaring. The bells chimed two and she got up and pulled on her tracksuit again. I just need to clear my head. She crept down the stairs, hoping Andrew would not catch her. A good long run is all I need. She was out on the howling street, walking, running, walking again until the day began to break and she could see the black clouds hunting across the sky.
She climbed back up the college steps and opened the door.
‘God knows,’ said a voice in the hallway. ‘She’s not in her room.’ It was Andrew talking to Rupert. She turned to creep away, but they caught her and held her arms, and she was screaming, cursing them, clawing at their hands. Then Johnny was there.
‘Let her go.’
Dimly she heard them arguing.
‘She needs help, for God’s sake!’
‘You’re making it worse. Let her go!’
‘Jesus Christ – look at her! She’ll hurt herself.’
‘Just let her go!’
She tore free and ran from the building.
These are the angel paths, the windy walk-ways. The air is bright with angels. Their faces are the faces of statues, their eyes like eagles’ eyes fierce and just. They watch her as she passes among them high above the City. The wind blows free. Far below she sees herself running along the street, a tiny figure stumbling down towards the river, where the water races by. The angels look on. Poor child, she says of herself. She has too much to bear. The angels make no reply. Their keen eyes know each thought. It will pass, she tells them. The wind sings. She will be glad to know someone is watching over her.
The water raced by. At last she looked up at the bridge high above her. Someone was leaning there, watching. It was Johnny. She turned back to the river. When she looked round again, he was standing on the bank waiting.
‘Don’t touch me.’ If he comes any closer, I’ll – She watched him, tensed for his first move. But he was still. ‘I’m not going back.’
‘Let’s go to the sea,’ he said. His words made no sense. Then the truth dawned: it’s a dream. She went with him to his car. I’ve had dreams like this before, she thought as the City dwindled behind them. She watched the miles glide past the window until they reached the coast.
‘I’m not worried,’ she said as she got out of the car, ‘because I know it’s all a dream.’
‘Fair enough,’ he said.
‘I can wake myself up if I really want to.’
‘Right,’ he said, and she walked towards the beach.
The air was filled with booming as the waves crashed in. Foam lay high among the rocks as she passed. On and on came the waves. There was seaweed like ropes under her feet, and scattered crab claws. She looked out to sea and saw the sharp points of rock disappearing with each swell. She ran forward and the water raced to meet her. Another wave came in. The spray leapt up and struck her from head to foot. This is no dream. She was on her knees in the shingle as wave after wave crashed in. The grief she had carried for so many months was being born. She fought it off, but it seized hold, choking cries from her, again, again, until at last it emerged, bloody, raw, screaming. She turned and saw Johnny waiting in the rain.
‘Why?’ she shouted, struggling up. ‘Why? You’re going to be a priest. You’re a man. You tell me why.’ He said nothing. ‘She was beautiful. I loved her, and she’s dead. He did this to her. He was a man of God. He laid his hands on the sick and they were healed. She had his child and it died. It died because it was born with no brain. It wasn’t even human. It’s a joke, and she thought it would be healed. I hate you all, you men, you priests. You think you’ve got the truth, when it’s nothing but lies. Think about this when you’re at your altar dealing out God to the people – that when I said all this to you, you had no answer.’
He continued to stand in the rain, taking it all without a word. At last she turned from him and ran off along the beach. The waves come and went, came and went. She ran on with the water racing under her feet. Tears streamed down her face and the wind whipped her sobs away. I could have stopped it. I knew what he was, and I did nothing. If I had spoken out, she would be alive today. She stopped running and cried out in pain as though two great hands were wrenching her ribs apart and breaking her whole body open. Drag down the heavens. Fling t
he mountains into the sea. There was not enough hatred and rage in the whole universe for this. Not enough water in all the seas to wash it away. Further up the beach she saw the birds grouping, flying and regrouping on the sand. She heard their cries coming and going on the wind. What am I going to do? The City reared up in her mind, the cathedral like a black rock in a treacherous sea where ships went down and all were lost. I’m not going back. She turned and saw Johnny coming towards her. That’s why he’s here. To make me go back. They sent him after me. He drew close.
‘I’m not going back.’
‘All right.’
He waited. The sea birds called in the distance. It’s a trick. They planned it beforehand. They knew I’d trust him. He took a step closer.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she cried.
He stopped. ‘What do you think I’m going to do?’ he asked, taking another step towards her.
She leapt back. ‘You’re going to force me to go back!’
‘Why don’t you want to? What are you afraid of?’
‘They’ll have me put away.’
‘Who will?’
‘Andrew. Rupert. They think I’m mad. They’ll tell the Principal. They’ll call the doctor back and I’ll be sectioned again.’
He was watching her, patient, careful, like a man trying to recapture a bird. He moved and she flinched back again.
‘I’m not going. He said he’d do it. He said he’d get me sectioned again.’
‘Well, that’s putting it a bit strongly.’
‘You’re lying!’
‘They just want you to agree to a few days in hospital.’
‘No. It’s the same thing! I’m not going!’ He was coming towards her. She screamed. ‘Don’t make me!’
‘I’m not going to. Now listen –’
‘No!’ It was a trap. The waves boomed on to the rocks. She turned to run and he caught hold of her. ‘Get your hands off me!’
‘Just listen, will you?’ She was spitting and clawing in terror. ‘If you run now, you’ll have the police out looking for you.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll hide.’
‘They’ll find you.’
‘No!’ He pinned her arms to her sides. She struggled but it was no use. ‘Let me go! Please. I can’t stand it. I’ll kill myself. If you put me in hospital, I’ll kill myself.’ She was sobbing now.
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