The Other Lives

by Adrian J. Walker

  She turns to me now, and she is shaking, supporting her weight on the chair. Zoe stands and lays a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘But the good is still there, Elliot,’ she says, ‘it’s always there. I’m sorry you chose to turn away from it like you did, but you do not get to spend your whole life blaming the way you are upon your parents. You just don’t. I’ve met people with scars, Elliot — not emotional ones, but real ones, burns from their drunken mother’s cigarette when they were six — and they’ve grown up to be carers, doctors, social workers. People who spend their days looking after other people.

  ‘Your show is awful, Elliot,’ says Morag, regaining control. ‘What you say on it is deplorable, and what’s more you fucking know it, Son, you fucking know it. So take your seat and stop whining like a little boy who’s been given the wrong coloured racing car.’

  Silence hangs in the air. Morag looks between us.

  ‘Both of you, sit down, now!’

  I sit down heavily and fold my arms. My father follows suit, his glare having lost some of its bluster.

  ‘None of this matters,’ I say. ‘Because they’re all dead. Lucy, Rupert, James — they’re gone and all we have are half-complete memories we don’t understand. We have no idea how to regain control of our minds, and we don’t know what William is searching for.’

  I nod at the door and laugh. ‘He’s the only one who might have been able to tell us, the only one who’s still alive, and he’s nothing but a mad, mute — ‘

  As if on cue, there’s a tremendous shriek from the living room and we all jump to our feet.

  ‘William,’ cries Morag.

  We run through and find him gawping before a picture, one bony finger touching the glass. Morag reaches him first. Her breath stutters with a chill.

  ‘It’s him,’ she says, as she takes the picture from the wall.

  The picture is of a man in uniform lying against a tree. He looks worn out, almost dead. Something stirs inside of me, an old machine made of leathery things and cogs that have not moved for many years.

  ‘The tree,’ says Morag.

  She drops the picture and flees to the back of the house, pressing both hands to the window. We run after her, crunching through the broken glass of the frame. I feel us moving, Zoe and I, shifting by the same will, gripped by the same incredulous rush. I feel William too, and a well of protection filling, as once more memories perform their drip, drip, drip. We stumble to the window and look out onto a short coastal path leading down to the crags. Perched high on the hill above is a farmhouse, separated from us by a copse.

  ‘There!’ cries Morag. ‘That’s where Lucy lived.’

  She speaks as if she is clutching a locket thought lost.

  ‘That’s right,’ says my father, joining us at the window.

  ‘And that…’

  She taps her hand on the window, towards the wood.

  ‘That…that, that, that…’

  She turns and runs for the back door, pushing her way out and running off down the path.

  ‘Morag!’ calls Zoe, and we follow her down to the crags.

  The winter sun dips, casting long shadows on the grass through which we run. I move, drift, float, feeling the dirt beneath my feet, the same dirt I ran through as a boy, alone chasing imaginary airplanes, and the same dirt I ran through as another child, in a different life, in a different time.

  NO TIME

  Cornwall, 1940

  ‘YOU TOLD HIM?’ SAID James, pulling on his jumper as he ran alongside Rupert. They were out in the yard, following Mr Sutton.

  ‘Of course I told him!’ said Rupert. ‘Lucy’s lost. She’s out there on her own. I should have been looking after her. I should have —’

  Mr Sutton emerged from the shed, carrying a cocked gun. He pushed two cartridges into its barrels and snapped the barrel. Two men were behind him — Uncle Davey and the same man James had seen in the front room the week before. Both were befuddled with sleep and trying to piece together what was happening.

  Mr Sutton walked over to Rupert. His face was red, his eyes were blue and blaring. His whole body shook with muted rage.

  ‘Where?’ he said.

  ‘Potter’s Copse,’ said Rupert, ‘south of the bridge.’

  Mr Sutton looked between the two boys, turned and stormed across the yard, with the two men following.

  ‘I’ll get Billy,’ said James.

  Rupert followed his father.

  ‘There’s no time!’

  Alone in the yard, James looked up at the window to their bedroom, where he had left Billy sleeping. Then he ran after Rupert.

  THE TREE

  Lasswick, Present Day

  I DON’T KNOW EXACTLY how long we stand staring at the tree, letting those other lives wash over us, but it is as long as it takes for two old men to hobble down a hill and through a forest. We hear bracken snap and William arrives, with my father close behind.

  ‘What is this place?’ he says.

  ‘This is it,’ says Morag. ‘This is where they found him.’

  She has led us through Potter’s Copse to a gnarled oak tree surrounded by brambles. Now she holds her hands together, sleeves in her fingers, as if in prayer. Sun dances in her hair. William walks past us, and places a hand against the trunk as if examining it for signs of life.

  ‘He was wounded,’ I say. ‘They tried to help him. James…’ Saying the name gives me a rush of dizziness. ‘James was afraid.’

  ‘So was Rupert,’ says Zoe, edging closer to the tree. Heathcliff’s head falls a little, his hand still planted firmly on the bark. ‘Lucy was lost. It was freezing cold.’

  ‘She was excited,’ says Morag. ‘At first, anyway.’

  Zoe stirs as if a chill has passed through her.

  ‘Something happened here,’ she says, ‘something that shouldn’t have.’

  ‘What was it? What do you remember?’ asks my father.

  ‘Not enough,’ I reply.

  ‘Why couldn’t you tell me about all of this when I was a boy? I was scared. I didn’t understand what was happening to me.’

  We walk back through Potter’s Copse and across the field to the house. Zoe and Morag support William between them.

  ‘Because of what would have happened if I did. Those people we met on our travels — the ones like you who could see as others — your mother’s instinct was to help them, to share what she believed was the truth about their gift. She wanted to explain that it was memory they were experiencing, not telepathy or clairvoyance. But whenever she did this, something strange always happened. They would close up, go quiet, and gradually start to doubt their own abilities. After an hour or so, or sometimes just a few minutes, they would deny that they could ever do anything in the first place. It was as if being told the truth obliterated their ability. That’s why your mother didn’t want to tell you. She wanted you to find out for yourself, so you wouldn’t lose the gift.’

  I stop, and he turns to face me.

  ‘It’s not a gift,’ I say. ‘It’s a curse. And I wish you’d told me.’

  He nods and looks to the ground.

  ‘It was supposed to set you free. Your mother thought that if it was handled correctly it could enlighten you, teach you empathy. But’ — he gives me an awkward glance — ‘well, I suppose things don’t always work out as one would hope.’

  Before I can protest there’s a noise from the house: tyres on gravel. I turn instinctively to Zoe, who’s heard it too. We watch my father’s dog, Arthur, heave himself up from his sun spot and labour to the drive, barking dutifully.

  ‘Friends of yours?’ says my father.

  ‘Get down.’

  I pull him down to the grass with me. Zoe and Morag have dropped behind a rock, William following without question. We lie there, waiting.

  ‘Elliot? What is this? Who are you expecting?’

  ‘Quiet,’ I say.

  The unmistakable thrum of an idling Bentley engine stops. There are boots on gravel, an
d Arthur renews his barking as a tall, familiar figure walks to the back of the house. He ignores Arthur and tries the doors, peering in through windows. Arthur lumbers behind, repeating his monotone demand to state his business or leave.

  ‘Is this something to do with your disappearing act?’ hisses my father.

  ‘Just a complication,’ I reply.

  Morag lowers her brow. A fierce look has appeared on her face.

  ‘I’ll take care of him.’

  She scrabbles to get up, but Zoe pounces on her, pinning her to the ground.

  ‘Get off me!’

  I turn and cover Morag’s mouth, and we keep her there, waiting, listening for any more sound at the house.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ says my father. ‘I’m going to see what’s what.’

  I barely have time to shout at him before there’s a loud yelp from the house, followed by a car door shutting and the Bentley growling into life. It roars out of the driveway and away up the road, and we’re all on our feet, running for the house.

  ‘Arthur!’ cries my father as we reach the old dog. ‘What have they done to you?’

  Arthur is lying on his side, panting. His tail gives a weak wag as we reach him, but he flinches when my father touches his side, reaching his nose round to nudge him away.

  ‘He kicked him. Who was that brute?’

  ‘People shouldn’t hurt dogs,’ says Morag. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  My father shoots me a look.

  ‘He was here for you, wasn’t he?’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Well, should we call the police?’ he splutters, fuming.

  ‘No,’ Morag, Zoe and I chorus.

  My father looks between us.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We should go,’ says Zoe.

  ‘No,’ says my father, foot tapping. ‘No, it’s too dangerous. Besides, I have something to show you.’

  There’s a deep rumble from the coast, where heavy clouds are gathering.

  ‘But I think it will have to wait until morning. Come on,’ he says, reaching down to stroke Arthur. ‘Let’s get inside before that storm hits.’

  EGGS

  IT’S ALMOST DARK BY the time we’re inside, night descending with the storm. We see to Arthur — nothing broken, just bruises and a single blot on his otherwise perfect view of humankind — and leave him slumbering in his bed. My father makes us eggs, which we eat with a bottle of extraordinarily cheap wine.

  We talk, filling my father in on the details of Stanley Mordant, the photograph and Marshfields. I show him the box and he inspects its contents with the cool appraisal of an antiquarian.

  A fatigue seems to descend as we eat, and rain pelts the loose windows of the house. William — eggs inhaled — takes himself to his chair. Morag’s eyelids droop.

  ‘I’ll take her to bed,’ says Zoe as we clear the table.

  ‘There’s a room at the top of the stairs,’ says my father. ‘Clean sheets, more blankets and clothes in the cupboard. Only one bed, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, with a smile for my father. ‘Good night.’ She glances at me as she leads Morag, traipsing to the stairs.

  As my father and I wash the dishes, there’s a loud bang from the back porch that makes me jump.

  ‘Relax,’ says my father. ‘It’s the gate; it always does that in weather like this.’

  He watches me as he polishes a plate.

  ‘Should I ask what you’ve done?’ he says at last.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ I say. ‘I didn’t ask for any of this, remember?’

  My father considers this, placing the cracked plate on its stack.

  ‘No. No, I suppose you didn’t.’

  He folds the tea towel neatly over the stove’s handle and sits down, leaning on his elbows. I remain standing at the sink.

  ‘How does it feel?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you see someone? Tell me, what is it like?’

  ‘Wretched. It feels like I’m losing myself.’

  He nods gravely.

  ‘We found a lot of people who didn’t enjoy the experience. Those memories are deep and ancient. They pull you down. They become so immersive that you forget, momentarily, what it is like to be you.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain how I could do this at will.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Before I saw that photograph, I had complete control.’

  ‘Yes, the picture triggered an effect in you. It’s the effect that your mother had been hoping for, the reaction that would unlock those deeper memories, not just ones you were occasionally reminded of in the —’

  ‘Occasionally? But I could do it with almost everyone I saw.’

  ‘Really?’ He taps the table. ‘How strange.’

  The wind whips up outside, hammering the gate in its post.

  ‘Damn thing,’ he says, getting up. He finds a hat and an old work coat and goes outside where the sky is a black, wild mess. My father sees to the gate, bolting it twice before returning inside and hanging up his coat.

  ‘I need to go to my office and think,’ he says. ‘I suggest you get some rest. Good night, Elliot.’

  He shuffles out, giving me a nervous glance as he goes, and closing the door behind him.

  I stand alone in the kitchen for a while, listening to the storm and debating sleep. But my mind is overrun. I have a sense of what my father was talking about with William — the oblivion into which he slowly fell through the years. I open another one of my father’s bottles of cheap wine. I want to get out of myself. I want to escape my skin and lose myself in something else. Anything. Anyone.

  I’m halfway down the bottle when the door creaks. I look up and see Zoe in a T-shirt and a pair of jogging bottoms from the closet upstairs.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ I say.

  She taps her head.

  ‘Too much going on.’

  ‘Me too.’ I offer her the bottle. ‘This helps.’

  ‘No thanks. I don’t do well with that stuff.’

  She finds a glass and fills it from the sink, then sits down next to me. Our legs brush, and her face flushes. My cheeks inflame too and I feel my heart move on apace — the raw feeling of a base, physical response is a welcome break from all the intangible psychic mess of the last few days.

  We spend a few moments avoiding the no-man’s-land that has opened up between us, eyes flitting at the space around each other’s heads. Zoe breaks the silence.

  ‘Gleaners, then.’

  I give her a sage nod, lips pursed, turning my glass.

  ‘So what do you think?’ she says.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘What your mum thought. Her theory about, you know, soul families and all that.’

  I shrug, shake my head.

  ‘It’s just a theory based on nothing but stories. And it doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘But doesn’t it interest you? I mean, if it’s true, and we’re part of something bigger and more connected, doesn’t that —’

  ‘No, it doesn’t interest me. Quite honestly, it terrifies me.’

  ‘Why?’

  I press the base of my glass against the wood and turn it slowly.

  ‘I have a hard time with other people, all right? I always have done.’

  She leans forward.

  ‘Why? What happened? Was there a moment when you —’

  ‘Don’t.’ I hold up a hand. ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Try and understand, try and get me.’

  She pulls back her head, incredulous.

  ‘I’m not trying to get you; I’m trying to get myself. I’m going through this too, you know.’ She taps her head. ‘It’s not all about Elliot Childs. The same thing is happening to me, and I want to get back to normal life just as much as you.’

  She sits back, shakes her head, and scoops half her water. I fill my glass with more vinegary plonk.

  ‘No, there wasn’t
a moment,’ I say. ‘You turned out one way, and I turned out another. Maybe you’re just the better person, Zoe.’

  She tuts.

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Yes it is.’ I take a huge drink. ‘How often did you do it? Before you met William and lost control, how often did you see inside people’s heads?’

  ‘Never, if I could help it.’

  ‘Because it’s deeply unpleasant.’

  ‘No, I just always felt like I was trespassing, somehow, going into rooms I shouldn’t. But I never found it unpleasant.’

  She tugs self-consciously on her sleeves, pulling them over the scars on her forearms. I don’t know why, but I want to punish her. So I do.

  ‘Took its toll, though, didn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I nod at her arms.

  ‘Those. Your addiction. Or was that just the product of your unhappy childhood?’

  I take a drink and sit back, waiting for the reaction I am sure will come. I want to see her slam the table, gnash her teeth, sweep the glasses off the table, scream at me. But instead, she looks back at me, eyes flitting between mine, then sits back and folds her arms. Her face is untroubled, and I feel my cruelty return, whimpering like a defeated wolf.

  ‘What makes you think I had an unhappy childhood?’

  I pick up my glass and shield my mouth with it.

  ‘I just…because of the people you work with, I suppose I assumed…’

  ‘I had a very happy childhood,’ she says. ‘We were poor, we didn’t live in a huge house, but I was cared for. I was shown love and protection. These’ — she tugs up her sleeves and bares her forearm — ‘were just the bad decisions of a teenager. But I got over them, with the help of my parents, and when I did I decided I wanted to help people. Is that so unusual?’