by Pat Barker
‘Ye-es, but I don’t know… I’m quite attracted to writing screenplays.’
‘More money?’
‘Less publicity. You can be quite successful and still not be well known.’
‘That’s an advantage?’
‘For me it is.’
‘You’d be quite good at it, though. Publicity.’
Peter shrugged.
‘You don’t like the idea?’
‘It’s a perversion. It should be the work.’
‘Isn’t that a bit ivory tower? They’ve got to sell the stuff somehow. It’s the marketing people who matter these days. USPs.’
Peter looked puzzled.
‘Unique Selling Points. What’s your Unique Selling Point, Peter?’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got one.’ He reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarettes. ‘I suppose this is all right?’ he asked, looking round.
‘I think so. There’s somebody smoking over there.’
He coughed as he inhaled.
‘Have you ever been in the army?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered. I’ve got a theory you can tell if somebody’s lived in an institution.’
‘And you think I have?’
Stephen shrugged. ‘I think it’s probably true of me. Boarding school, in my case.’
‘Yeah, well, snap.’
‘Which one?’
‘You wouldn’t have heard of it.’
He was tightening up. Why the fear of publicity? He had youth, good-looks, charm. Given a modicum of talent, or preferably a great big chunk of talent, he was there.
‘Anyway,’ Stephen said, ‘I look forward to reading the stories.’
‘Do you have an agent?’
‘Yes, but I don’t think he’d handle short stories.’
‘I’ve got half a novel.’
This was becoming a predictable conversation. ‘I think with a first novel you more or less have to finish it.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘Do you like Kate’s work?’
‘Yes.’ He looked up, the cold grey eyes thoughtful. ‘I like the way she uses the male nude. She gets a lot of flak. Some people think she ought to sculpt women more, but the fact is she couldn’t explore the ideas she wants to explore using the female body. I mean, look at the way painters display martyrdom. You almost never see a woman saint being martyred, because it just wouldn’t have the same… A naked man being tortured is a martyr. A naked woman being tortured is a sadist’s wet dream.’
Stephen thought for a moment. ‘Suppose you’re gay?’
‘Ye-es?’
‘A tortured male nude might be a bit of a turn-on.’
‘Only if you were a sadist as well.’
‘Be a real challenge, though, if you were a Christian, wouldn’t it? Crucifixions, beheadings, floggings, breaking on the wheel, burning at the stake, roasting on spits –’
Peter said sharply, ‘I don’t know how many Christian sadists there are.’
‘Oh, I reckon they make it into double figures.’ He drained his glass. ‘I wonder what Kate would say?’
‘Nothing. She doesn’t find abstractions helpful.’ He got up to go to the bar. ‘Will you have another?’
Watching him talk to the barman, Stephen wondered how old he was. There were lines round his mouth and eyes, he couldn’t be much under thirty, even allowing for the weathering effect of an outdoor life. And if, at times, he seemed unformed, Stephen suspected it was less a matter of immaturity than of some basic confusion in the ground plan. He was like a cold bright star circling in chaos.
Stephen glanced round the room. A young girl with dark hair and enormous eyes was talking animatedly into a phone, her face veiled in cigarette smoke. Why is that movement so erotic? he thought, staring at the inside of her wrist. She looked up, caught him watching her and glanced quickly away. He turned back to catch a slight smile on Peter’s lips. Hey, Stephen thought, I’m the one with the teenage girlfriend. And then immediately he felt ashamed of thinking of Justine like that, as a high score in a competitive game. This evening was nonsense. He’d somehow got out of step with himself.
He finished his drink quickly after that. As he stood up to go, he remembered he hadn’t given Peter his address, and felt in his pockets for paper and pen.
‘It’s all right, I’ve got some somewhere.’ Peter was groping about inside his crammed rucksack. Books, tissues, bread rolls, milk, photocopies of newspaper articles, a pair of white socks were piled on to the bench between them. ‘Here we are.’
He handed over a notebook and pen, and Stephen printed his address, slowly and carefully, in block capitals, because he wanted time to check something out. Some of the photocopies – perhaps all of them – were about Kate. There was no mistaking the white wings of her hair.
‘Right,’ he said, handing the pen back. ‘I look forward to reading them.’
For once this was not entirely insincere. The stories might be dreadful, but Peter was interesting.
Outside, in the street, Stephen felt the tingle of sweat evaporating from his face. It had been raining. All along the greasy pavement reflections of street lamps blurred into supernovae.
They said goodnight and set off in opposite directions. After a while, Stephen looked back to see Peter moving rapidly along, threading his way between groups of young people out on the town, a dark bead on a brightly coloured string.
There was no reason why Peter shouldn’t have copies of articles about Kate. By his own admission he’d become fascinated by her work, and it was natural for him to want to know more, now that he was so intimately involved.
All the same, Stephen couldn’t help wondering if Kate knew the extent of his interest.
Fifteen
Kate had arranged to meet Stephen at the Bowes Museum. She wanted him to see the Goya.
Always she approached it slowly. From the moment she entered the gallery she was aware of it immediately, like a beam of infra-red light on her skin, but she refused to look in its direction, wandering off instead into the sixteenth-century room, trailing round countless crucifixions and depositions and pietàs. Wonderful things here, not least the El Greco, but on balance it was a dark place, she thought, full of unmastered cruelty.
She came out of it hungry for the Goya. It was so small, not much larger than a sheet of typing paper, all the colours subdued. The interior of a prison, seven men in shackles, every tone, every line expressing despair. She stood back. Knelt down. Stared. And because she’d only recently been talking to Stephen, she wondered whether any photograph, however great, could prompt the same complexity of response as this painting. Photographs shock, terrify, arouse compassion, anger, even drive people to take action, but does the photograph of an atrocity ever inspire hope? This did. These men have no hope, no past, no future, and yet, seeing this scene through Goya’s steady and compassionate eye, it was impossible to feel anything as simple or as trivial as despair.
She felt almost disloyal to Ben, thinking this. She got up, fleetingly aware that six weeks ago she couldn’t have made that movement without pain, and belatedly realized the man standing with his back to her, looking at the Canalettos, was Stephen. He looked, she thought, rather like his surname: lean, grey, elegant and dangerous. Hearing her approach, he turned and smiled. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you,’ he said.
‘Have you seen it?’
‘Yes, amazing.’
‘Do you want to go on looking round?’
‘No, I think I’ve done enough for one day. I even went to look at the two-headed calf because I thought Goya would have gone to see it.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he.’
They smiled as if enjoying the quirks of a mutual friend. She said, ‘That used to be part of a really quite sinister exhibition. There was a whole wall of murderers’ death masks – done by the hangman, I suppose. All very pseudo-scientific – the facial features of degeneration and all that.’
‘What did they look like?’
‘
Anybody else.’
Downstairs, on the steps, looking out over the formal gardens, she said, ‘I suppose that’s how he survived.’ She squinted up into a pale sun that was rapidly being obscured by trails of black cloud. ‘Otherwise…’
Yes, Stephen thought, otherwise… Deafness. The war. ‘Mind you, when you look at the “black” paintings you wonder if he did survive.’
‘Have you noticed how noisy his paintings are? You normally don’t think of paintings as making any sound, but they absolutely roar at you.’
‘Yes. I think his deafness must’ve been the sort where you have horrible meaningless noises all the time. But then, of course, he was very good at diverting himself.’ They were walking down the steps to their cars now. ‘Therapists are quite scathing about “taking your mind off it”, but there’s no doubt it works. At least for some people. It worked for him.’ Circuses, freaks, markets, fiestas. An odd collection of fragments to shore against his ruin.
‘And Leocadia,’ he said, unaware that he was completing a train of thought she hadn’t shared.
‘A mixed blessing, some people thought.’
‘They stayed together.’
‘Perhaps she had no other option.’ She glanced at him and smiled. ‘Forty-two years younger than him.’
‘I know.’ He was thinking with a challenge like that in the bed there wouldn’t be much time to brood. The wind was blowing hard across the formal gardens. He had to turn his head sideways to speak at all. ‘Where shall we go for lunch? Is there anywhere close?’
‘The Fox and Hounds. I’ll show you.’
Over the meal they talked about Goya, the dating of the painting, which the museum gave as 1794, though all the books he’d read – and the museum’s own catalogue for that matter – suggested 1810–12 as more likely. ‘I feel that’s right,’ he said. ‘I think he’d been through the war when he painted that. One of the rape scenes has a similar background.’
‘Isn’t it amazing, the way he shows rape? You still can’t do that now.’
‘They’re not generally keen on an audience.’
As he spoke he had a flashback to the stairwell in Sarajevo. One of the worst he’d had for quite a while. It’s not true, he thought, that images lose their power with repetition, or not automatically true anyway. That memory, which was now subtly different because Ben’s photograph had been grafted on to it, never failed to shock.
‘How did Ben cope?’
‘Buried himself in the country. He didn’t see people, when he came home. He just went to ground.’
‘I used to do that. Trouble is, Nerys didn’t want to go to ground with me. Understandably,’ he added quickly. ‘She had her own life.’
Kate was looking down into her glass, ruby-red lights reflected up into her face.
‘Did Ben ever go to a therapist?’
‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Did you?’
‘Yes, quite recently.’ He smiled. ‘Everybody seemed to think it was a good idea.’
‘What did you think?’
He shrugged. ‘He was good. Only I suppose in the end I think Goya’s a better guide.’
‘He lost his wife, didn’t he? Goya. Just after the war.’ She shook her head. ‘Poor woman.’
‘Why poor?’
She looked surprised. ‘Six dead children. Miscarriages galore. Read his letters. She’s forever in bed, bleeding.’
‘You identify with her?’
‘Sympathize. There’s nothing to identify with. We don’t know anything about her, except the obstetric history, and we only know that because she married Goya. He didn’t paint her. Or did he? – I can’t remember. If he did, it was only once.’
Stephen was smiling. ‘You think he should have done?’
‘It would have been nice!’
‘Why don’t you sculpt women?’
‘Wrong body. It’s not the right vehicle for the ideas I want to explore.’
‘That’s what Peter said.’
‘Peter?’
‘I bumped into him the other night. He’s going to send me some of his stories. Did you know he wants to write?’
‘Yes, he mentioned it. I haven’t read anything.’
A short silence. ‘He’s very interested in your work. I noticed he had photocopies of articles about you in his rucksack.’
‘Yeah, well, I know he’s…’
Her voice trailed away. When it became clear she wasn’t going to say any more, he asked, ‘How’s it going? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘Pretty well, actually. I’ve got a good bit of the carving done. I’m not sure about the head, though.’ She looked abstracted, unconsciously rubbing a morsel of bread between thumb and forefinger until it turned into a small grey bead. ‘But you can overwork things.’ She realized what she was doing and put the bread down.
‘And Peter? Is that working?’
‘Seems to be.’
He waited.
‘Well, no, not really.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Difficult to put your finger on it. And it could just be me being paranoid. Things keep changing position.’ She glanced at him. ‘I know my studio looks as if a bomb’s dropped, but actually I do know where everything is, and I keep coming in and things have been moved.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Chisels, mallets, scrapers.’
‘Nothing’s missing?’
‘No, and they haven’t been moved far. A few inches.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive. He’s got a key, he knows the combination on the burglar alarm – he has to, because he sometimes delivers stuff outside working hours.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘He doesn’t touch the figure?’
‘Not the Christ. Some of the others have moved. The group in the corner. They shift about a bit.’
‘You haven’t confronted him with it?’
‘No. It’s mad. Nothing’s missing. Nothing’s been damaged. And I suppose I keep thinking if I don’t say anything it’ll go away.’ She looked directly at him. ‘It could be me. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out. I have been in better states.’
‘I don’t think it’s you.’
She smiled, then laughed. ‘Good.’
‘You think he’s getting a bit obsessed?’
‘A bit. He’s really got into it –’
‘No, I meant with you.’
She considered for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so. I’m old enough to be his mother.’
‘As Jocasta said.’
‘Oh, c’mon.’
She was laughing now, slightly flushed. How long since she’d thought of herself as an attractive woman? But he knew the answer to that. To the day. Almost to the hour.
‘Anyway, he’s got a girlfriend. Justine Braithewaite. The vicar’s daughter.’
He managed not to show surprise. He didn’t for a moment believe anything was still going on, but he remembered how reluctant Justine was to go out to any of the local pubs or restaurants. She’d always said she didn’t want to bump into any of her father’s nosy parishioners. But perhaps there was another explanation. He wasn’t jealous, but he was surprised, and a bit hurt, that he hadn’t been told.
A few minutes later he paid the bill and followed Kate into the car park. ‘You’re right about that place. It’s very good.’
As they left the shelter of the building, a gust of wind caught them. She staggered, and he put out a hand to steady her.
‘March coming in like a lion,’ she said, pushing the hair away from her face.
Battling across the car park, they had to turn their heads sideways to escape the wind that threatened to snatch the breath from their mouths.
She almost shouted, ‘Are you going back to Goya?’
‘Yes, I think I’d better. Can we arrange a time for me to come across and look at prints?’
‘I’ve got to go to the hospital tomorrow. They’re going
to give me an anaesthetic to try to free up the shoulder. How about Tuesday?’
‘Fine. See you then.’
It was impossible to talk. He saw her into her car and waved as she turned off into the road.
Sixteen
Next morning the book from Peter arrived, with a short note giving his address and telephone number. Normally Stephen would have put it aside to read later, but by now his curiosity had been awakened. This was Justine’s boyfriend – ex-boyfriend. Why on earth hadn’t she mentioned his name?
Peter’s story ‘Inside the Wire’ was longer than the other pieces in the issue, though the potted biography at the end of the book gave less information than other contributors had thought necessary. His MA was mentioned, but almost nothing else.
Andrea White teaches Art inside a high-security prison. When people expressed surprise that her entire working life was spent locked up with some of the country’s most dangerous men, and asked if she did not feel nervous, she replied that she often felt safer inside the prison than she did waiting at the bus stop after dark to start the long journey home.
Andrea lives in a one-bedroom flat, in an area that was supposed to rise but hadn’t risen yet. A year before, she’d split up with her boyfriend. Two years before that, she’d had an abortion after her boyfriend decided he was too young to be saddled with a family. Now, despite his fear of being a child bridegroom, he’s married and his wife is pregnant. Andrea passes her sometimes trundling her trolley round Sainsbury’s.
Once safely home, Andrea puts on soup for supper – home-made – warming it through, gently, as you should, while cutting the bread – home-made, warm from the oven. She knows all about the deep demoralization of the microwave, does Andrea, and she wants none of it – she’s fighting back. But it’s a precarious little life she leads – trying and failing to get over the boyfriend, getting drunk at a party and having a one-night stand, but lacking the emotional toughness not to feel bad about it afterwards. Next morning, getting up and staring at herself in the mirror, she notices that the creases at the corners of her eyes look deeper when she’s tired, and then she drags herself off to work.
She’s a good teacher, though she rarely encounters any actual talent. The prisoners generally go in for disturbingly sentimental portraits of children, chocolatebox flowers, gooey pictures of Christ – Peter was very good on the links between sentimentality and brutality. But one prisoner, James Carne, is doing something different. He returns again and again to a single image: a figure of indeterminate sex, the face hidden by bandages or tape, enclosed in a double helix of barbed wire. It’s a bit like the Amnesty International candle. ‘Did you,’ she asks James, ‘have the Amnesty International candle in mind when you drew it?’ ‘No,’ says James. ‘But you were thinking of imprisonment and the impossibility of escape?’ ‘Oh, yes.’