Never Ending

by Martyn Bedford

  They were on the dining terrace, the evening air lemony with the scent of the candles Mum had lit to deter mosquitoes. From the olive grove beyond the garden, the cicadas laid down their nightly soundtrack.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” Mum said. “What haven’t we done on our to-do list? In fact, where is our to-do list?” she added, going indoors to look for it.

  “To do,” Dec said, miming the writing of a note. “One, find the to-do list—”

  “There’s that fort we talked about going to.” This was Dad. He liked forts, castles, that sort of thing. “Dec?”

  “What?”

  “Your thoughts.”

  “My thoughts on forts?”

  Mum reappeared with the list. “What about the turtle sanctuary?”

  “Easter Sunday,” Dad said. “It’ll be shut.” Then, turning to Shiv, “Any ideas?”

  “There’s a boy in my class who can light his own forts,” Declan said.

  Shiv laughed. Dad just gave him a what’ve-I-said-about-swearing look.

  “Sorry,” her brother said, “my mouth’s still learning to type.”

  “Actually,” Shiv said, “I saw something in the thingy.” She pointed indoors. “You know, the information folder.”

  “What was that, then?” Dad headed inside to fetch the folder and Shiv called after him, “It’s the red-egg game, or something like that.”

  “Red-egg game?” he called back, laughing.

  “So –” Declan clapped his hands – “looks like we’re off to the fort, yeah?”

  When their father returned, flipping through the folder, she said, “It’s a bit like conkers, apparently, only with hard-boiled eggs.”

  “Red ones,” Dec said.

  “Yes. Red ones.” Shiv mock-scowled at him. Then, addressing Dad again, “There’s a picture somewhere – in the bit about festivals.”

  “Hey, you’re right.” He sounded suitably surprised. “Tsougrisma, or the ‘red-egg game’. A traditional part of the Easter festivities here on Kyritos, it is played using eggs dyed red to symbolize the blood of Christ… Participants play against each other in pairs, taking turns to knock the tip of their hard-boiled egg against their opponent’s until one of the shells cracks. The victor goes through to the next round and so on until there is an overall winner and that person is reputed to have a year of good luck.”

  “When is this?” Mum asked.

  “Tomorrow, in … where is it, ah yes, Lackanackathon.” The village wasn’t called that – it was the name Dec had invented after they visited the beach there. The real name was completely unpronounceable. “Anyone can watch or join in,” Dad went on. “And,” reading aloud again, “the Easter Sunday festivities also include lamb roasts, music, dancing, fireworks and devotional rites such as the burning of Judas.”

  “The burning of Judas?” her brother said, eyes lit up. “Oh, please tell me they sacrifice an actual villager.”

  Dad ignored this remark. “So, who votes for the fort … and who votes for red eggs in Lackanackathon?”

  “Woah,” her brother said, “four–nil win for Shivoloppoulos!”

  The beach was unrecognizable from their previous visit. Where there had been sunloungers, there were rows of people sitting on benches in front of an open-air altar. Beyond the altar, a tall pole with a dangling Judas effigy had been planted in the sand.

  With nerves knotting her stomach, Shiv located the stage at one end of the beach, behind which she’d – somehow – sneak off for her rendezvous with Nikos.

  In front of the stage, scores of picnic tables formed a U around a dance floor of wooden panels laid directly on the ground. To one side, eight, nine, ten carcasses roasted on spits above barbecue pits, tended by chefs in smut-stained white shirts. The air was dense with smoke and the aroma of cooked meat.

  “Lamb of God and all that.” This was Dad. “Apparently, the Greeks—”

  “Factoid alert,” her brother whispered.

  “Shush,” Mum said, “the service is starting.”

  They shuffled in among the tourists standing at the back of the congregation as a black-frocked priest began to speak. The service went on for what seemed like hours. Shiv spent most of it scanning the backs of heads for Nikos and wondering if she could text him without Mum and Dad noticing. She’d hoped to have spotted him by now and the doubts crept up on her after another day, another night, apart.

  Who knew what Nikos was thinking, caught up with his family all this time? Why hadn’t he replied to the text she’d sent this morning?

  At last, the priest brought the worship to a close. Raising both hands, he declared, “Christos Anesti! Alithos Anesti!”

  “Christos Anesti!” the congregation responded. “Alithos Anesti!”

  Declan tugged out the phrase book and thumbed it open. But before he could make up some daft translation, the priest extended his arms and – in fractured English – said, “Christ is risen! Truly He is risen!”

  “Spot on,” Dec said, snapping the book shut. “This guy knows his stuff.”

  She’d never felt like this about anyone. Less than a week ago she hadn’t even known Nikos existed, and now it was as though he was the only thing that did. The pain of wanting to see him and the dread that he wouldn’t come combined to torture her.

  They were sitting at one of the tables, cardboard plates loaded with roast lamb, salad and bread. Shiv’s was untouched, and Declan was already casting covetous glances in its direction. Around them, the din of chat and laughter.

  Under the table she checked her phone. No messages.

  “I wouldn’t mind wandering up to the church in a bit,” Dad said, pointing at an ancient-looking white building perched on a hill overlooking the village.

  Mum was the only one to show any enthusiasm. Dec was too busy eating.

  The red eggs were ceremonially produced after lunch and distributed among the revellers. Most people took one, Greeks and foreigners alike – Dad and Declan included.

  Shiv paid little attention to the tournament, too distracted by the musicians setting up their equipment on the stage.

  “You OK?” Mum said, when it was just the two of them.

  “What? Oh, yeah. Fine.”

  Mum rummaged in her bag. “Here.” She smiled sympathetically, placing two painkillers in front of Shiv. Her coded way of saying, Time of the month?

  “Thanks,” Shiv managed to say, going along with the misunderstanding. Then, blinking away the tears, flapping a hand in front of her face, “Eugh, smoke.”

  “Do you have any—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Shiv indicated her bag, down by the side of her seat. Then, with Mum studying her, she popped the pills in her mouth and swallowed them.

  “Headache?” This was Dad, suddenly reappearing at the table, Declan in tow. Over in the tournament area, a winner was declared, the master of ceremonies holding the victor’s arm aloft like he was a champion boxer.

  Before Shiv could reply, there was an announcement over a loudspeaker and, on stage, the musicians started to play.

  “Can I help burn Judas?” Declan pointed towards the pole, where twenty or so children were being organized to fetch wood from a nearby stack to make a bonfire.

  “You don’t want to see the church, then?” Dad said, pretending to be serious.

  Dec pulled a face.

  “OK, then. Shiv?”

  She looked at her father. “What?”

  “Mum and I are heading up to look at the church,” he said. “You coming?”

  “I might just watch the dancing,” she said. “I don’t feel too good actually.”

  She saw her mother mouth “PMT” at Dad.

  “Oh. Oh, right.”

  Mum told Shiv to sit where she could see the stage and keep an eye on Dec, at the bonfire-building. “See you back here,” she said. “We won’t be gone too long.”

  And so Declan and their parents headed off in different directions. Shiv ought to have been delighted at the stroke of luck in losin
g all her family at once, but by now she’d convinced herself that Nikos wouldn’t be waiting for her.

  All the same, she slipped out from the table and picked a route through the crowds towards the rear of the stage.

  8

  It’s a stiff pull to the high ground beyond the copse at the rear of Eden Hall. Worth it, though, for the view across the valley. Forested hills lie in all directions, so you could almost imagine yourself back in a landscape from the time before humans.

  Shiv sits down. Her breathing steadies. Green is meant to be good for you, she recalls, gazing out over the countryside – soothing for the spirit. Lying back on the grass, she shuts her eyes, sleepy and a little weepy after Write, setting down page after page about Declan. The whole reason for coming up here was to leave him behind for a bit. She visualizes a locker, her thoughts of her brother as so many school books scattered on the floor. Pictures herself picking them up one by one, stowing them away in the locker, closing the door and snapping the lock shut.

  It’s an old-style counselling technique, not Korsakoff Method.

  With each passing day, Shiv finds herself more confused by the contradictions between the two therapies, old and new. The previous counsellor encouraged Shiv to separate herself from Declan but it didn’t help at all; if anything it made her worse. This place, which is helping, wants her to fill every minute of every day with him. Which is all very well but when she eventually checks out of the clinic and returns to her real life, Dec won’t be there. He won’t be anywhere.

  Shiv drops off. Not that she’s aware of doing so, only of waking up afterwards. Gummy-mouthed, panicky. It’s OK. Checking her watch, she sees there’s still time to hike back down and freshen up before dinner.

  She stands up. Yawns. Stretches. Glances up to see a figure at the end of the ridge. The Declan-like boy. He is descending the slope at the back of the escarpment, oblivious to her.

  Too late she calls out, “Hey! Hey, wait!”

  But he is lost from view over the brow. Without a thought, she follows him.

  Over the ridge the ground drops to an area of woodland. The boy has already entered – she can make out his white shirt between the trees. Again, she calls, but the breeze whips the words from her mouth so that she can barely hear them herself.

  In the woods the ground is choked with ferns and brambles. She pauses to call again, seeking another glimpse of him. Nothing. Just trees and more trees. Venturing deeper, forcing her way through the undergrowth, she heads first this way then that. But he has vanished. Even so, Shiv presses on into the heart of the woods.

  Catches herself yelling, “Declan! Dec, where are you?”

  Close to tears, breathless, Shiv finally gives up. She looks around to get her bearings and figure out a route back to the ridge – but this part of the woods looks much the same as any other. She is lost.

  Idiot. Stupid, stupid idiot.

  On all sides, the towering trees stand in silence, like troops waiting for Shiv to issue orders. She picks a direction at random.

  The woods must connect with the ones she knows from Walk because Shiv eventually finds herself on the bark-chip trail that leads to the Make area.

  Good. She isn’t lost any more.

  She hears a grunt, a little way off. Fox? Badger? There it is, along with scuffles of movement, of exertion, that mark the sounds as human. Curious, Shiv follows the trail towards the clearing where they take their breaks. Entering the glade, creamy in the early evening light, she doesn’t see anyone.

  Then – Mikey.

  He’s wearing his yellow jumpsuit, standing hands on hips at the base of the steep mud bank that runs along one edge of the clearing. He has his back to her and is breathing heavily. He bends down to grapple with something at his feet – a sawn-off chunk of tree trunk, big as a car tyre, which he raises with a grunt. The log clutched tightly into his midriff, he sets off up the slope, legs bent, straining with each clumsy step. She’s sure he’ll drop the log, or stumble to his knees, but he makes it all the way to the top of the bank and lets the log thud to the earth.

  After a moment to recover, he stoops to pick up the log and sets off back down the slope.

  “Mikey.” She’s waited till he’s at the bottom.

  He spots her across the clearing and glares. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the exact same thing.”

  He’s drenched in sweat, hands torn and blistered, twitching. He must’ve been up and down that hill quite a few times.

  “Sisyphus,” Shiv says.

  “What?”

  “The guy who had to keep rolling a rock up a hill. In Greek mythology, yeah?”

  Mikey clearly has no idea what she’s talking about.

  They’re sitting on a felled tree at the edge of the clearing. She starts to explain how she came to be here – the hike, then getting lost in the woods, but not about the boy – but Mikey doesn’t seem interested. Was it him she saw up on the ridge? No. He’s been here for a while, as far as she can tell; besides, he’s wearing a blue T-shirt and yellow jumpsuit, not white.

  Her eyes are drawn to his hands again. She points. “They must hurt.”

  “A bit,” he says, looking at his hands as though they don’t belong to him.

  “A bit of a bit, or a lot of a bit? Or a lot of a lot?”

  He plays along. “A bit of a lot.”

  “That wasn’t one of the options.”

  Mikey gives her a look.

  “For a second there, I thought you were going to crack a smile,” Shiv says.

  “You thought wrong, then.”

  After a pause, she taps her watch. “Technically, it’s still Buddy Time. You’re meant to be nice to your Buddy.”

  “You ain’t my—”

  “Yeah, yeah, you already said. I could be, though – if you’d let me. ’Cos, I dunno, it must be bloody lonely being you, Mikey.”

  He goes to speak, then falls quiet. His grubby-blond hair is tousled, his face paler than ever; his eyes give no clue to his feelings. She knows that Mikey wouldn’t hesitate to get up and leave or tell her to sod off. That he does neither, she takes as a good sign.

  She wants to fill the silence but can’t think what to say for the best. Talking to Declan could be like verbal chess; with Mikey it’s more like a game of Swingball.

  She gestures at the surrounding woods. “Dec loved to climb trees.”

  “Your brother?”

  “He was like a monkey.”

  Mikey just nods, studying his tremulous hands.

  “Without the tail though, obviously,” she adds, giving him a sidelong look. “And not so hairy. And he hated bananas.”

  A definite smile this time; he turns away to hide it. She lets another hush settle, not wanting to push. Mikey folds his arms, shoves a hand in each armpit and clamps them to his sides; leans forward, then back again, sets up a rocking motion.

  She wants to tell him to stop, but she says nothing.

  Eventually, he becomes still. “You know the rope-pyramid – in playgrounds, yeah?” he says. “Feebs could climb right to the top of it when she was six.”

  He turns to look directly at her, as though daring her to disbelieve him. Shiv nods, tries to appear suitably impressed. She is impressed – when she was six years old, she cried if Mum pushed her too high on the swings.

  “What colour hair did Phoebe have?”

  He goes on staring. Suspicious. “Brown, like Mum’s. Sort of wavy.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  “Pretty? She was my sister.”

  Shiv changes tack. “What did she like to do? What was she into?”

  Mikey thinks about that. “Sylvanian Families,” he says. “She used to play with them in her room for hours.” He starts to explain but Shiv interrupts to say that she collected the little animal dolls too. “The squirrels were her favourites,” he says.

  “I made houses for mine out of old shoeboxes,” Shiv says.

  Feebs didn’t do
that. “She got too grown up for them in the end,” he says. In the end. When she was nine, he means. By the time she died. “So she said,” he adds. “She kept them hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe in case her friends came round after school.” He smiles. “But I knew she still played with them sometimes.”

  Feebs was the fastest girl in Year 5; a better runner than most of the boys, too. The best in her class at Maths. She got a merit in her Grade 1 piano.

  Shiv listens. Nods, smiles.

  Mikey hasn’t spoken about his sister at Talk; has broken the silence just once, to rant at Assistant Sumner about what a waste of time Talk is. Some of the others resent him for it – We speak, why should he be any different? Shiv wishes she could’ve recorded what he just said and play it back to everyone. See, he is the same as us.

  Shiv could easily set herself in opposition to the whole regime here, as he has done. Detach herself. Give in, smash things, lash out. But she doesn’t want to be that person any more. She doesn’t want Mikey to be, either.

  “I almost got her.” He mimes grabbing something, his messed-up hands raised like a pair of monstrous paws. Then, shaking his head, as though a wasp is bothering him, “I should’ve. I should’ve held on to her.”

  With a bit of prompting, he tells Shiv about the river. How it was Dazza’s idea to wade out to the island but that didn’t count for shit, ’cos Mikey was meant to be watching out for Feebs and he ought to have said no. Or just told Feebs to stay put. Not to follow them. ’Cos, him and Daz, the water only came up to here – he does a karate-chop motion at his belly – but with Feebs it was right up to her armpits.

  “And the current…”

  Mikey can’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

  Shiv can picture it as clearly, as horribly, as if she was there on the riverbank, watching a nine-year-old girl with wavy brown hair losing her footing, being swept away, shrieking, her brother diving after her, grabbing hold of her arm with both hands … but not strong enough. Nowhere near strong enough. Pictures him clutching at nothing as the fast-flowing water carries Feebs off, then under. Did he swim after her? Did he almost drown trying to find her, pull her to the surface, save her?

  She imagines he did.