by Matt Haig
I remember going to the toilets and calling the house to see if you had gone, and listening to that depressing bleat of the ringtone for over a minute. Then I tried your mobile telephone and was informed by a female replicant that you were unable to answer.
Back at the table I couldn't cope with it. With the oppressive lightness. With the nothing-talk of those guests. With the sickening cheesecake or my palpitating heart. I wanted to go. I wanted to leave. I should never have gone there. I was so out of place. A miserable caterpillar among the social butterflies. What was the point of it? I had only gone out of duty to Cynthia, after all her help, but now other duties were taking over.
It must have been eleven thirty by the time we eventually arrived back. Cynthia insisted on coming in for a late coffee but I couldn't settle.
'I have to call Imogen's mother,' I said.
'Oh, Terence. Don't be such –'
'I'm sorry, Cynthia. I'm phoning her. I just want to speak to Bryony, that's all. I just want to check she's safe.'
Cynthia shrugged a surrender. 'It's your daughter. Do what you want.'
'Right,' I said, picking your note out of my pocket. 'I think I will.'
We drove out of York and fast through twisting country lanes.
Cynthia was furious. I was over the limit. 'In more ways than one,' she added. But what was I meant to do? As there had been no answer to the number you had given me I was spiralling fast into thoughts of car accidents, rapes, abductions. Now we were heading towards the address, hoping beyond hope you had written the correct one down.
I had told Cynthia I could have dropped her off at home, or called for a taxi, but she had decided to come too. 'I don't want you doing something silly, Terence.'
Ah yes, something silly.
Before we reached the village where Imogen supposedly lived, we detected a dull golden light somewhere ahead of us. Turning the next corner we saw it: a fire in a field, with people dancing around. It was a scene from before civilisation, or after it, beyond the apocalypse. A ceremony of victory, or initiation, or sacrifice.
We pulled in to the side of the road and waited a while. 'She's there,' I said.
'Oh, Terence, you don't know that. Come on, let's keep driving to the house.'
'No, look, she's there.' I pointed towards a girl, a dancing silhouette against the fire. It was you, and Cynthia knew it.
She sighed. 'Leave her.'
'What?'
'Leave her. You can talk to her later. Tomorrow.'
'Are you joking?'
'No. I'm not. For God's sake, think about it, Terence. If you went over there now she'd never forgive you. These things stay with a child, you know.' She said this mournfully, and I wondered briefly at the humiliations her own childhood had brought her.
'I'm sorry, Cynthia,' I said, 'but I want to deal with it now. She's my child. What if something happens to her, tonight, while she's in that state? Fire, alcohol, boys. It's hardly the most comforting combination.'
Cynthia turned to me, light words passing her dark-painted lips. 'You don't know if she's in any kind of state. Now, come on, Terence, let her enjoy herself.'
I was getting crosser. 'Look. Look at them. For Christ's sake, look. They're out of their minds.'
'They've probably had a bit to drink. They're teenagers. It's a Saturday night.' She leaned in close, and spoke in a deep whisper. 'Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises./ Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.'
Cynthia mistook my frown for a query.
'The Tempest,' she said.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was being over the top. Maybe her wise witch's face was about to win me over. But then I heard it. The scream. A scream that gave me the same ache as when I heard your brother, hanging. Indeed, now I am reliving that scene I do not hear your scream at all. I hear Reuben's, in its place, but at the time I knew it was you and I knew precisely what it meant. You were in trouble, terrible danger, and we were the only ones who could protect you.
'That was her,' I said.
'What was her?' Your grandmother's question pursued me out of the car. 'Terence, I think you're making a terrific mistake.'
I ignored her, and clambered over the fence. Cows were close to the road, away from you and your friends. They were lying down, sleeping their empty sleep.
I called your name.
'Bryony!'
My voice axed its way through the boys' laughter. What were they doing to you? I had no idea. No, not true. I had ideas. And these ideas pushed me again.
'Bryony!'
Three girls, four boys. Throbbing orange by the fire. Standing there, like the world's last survivors, and turned towards me.
'Dad? Dad?'
'It's all right,' I said. 'You're all right.'
Laughter of a different kind now. Trapped and tight, like flies in a jar. I looked among them. I saw Uriah Heep, with his thin, child-catcher arm around Imogen. The other boys I'd never seen. And George Weeks, laughing loudest of all, raising his bottle like a trophy.
You walked fast, towards me. Then your face was there, full of anger and shame, flashing gold.
'What are you doing?' Your tone was disbelieving, betrayed.
'I heard you scream. Were they trying to hurt you?' I pointed to the nearest boy. 'Was he trying to hurt you? That boy? Who is he? Was he trying to hurt you? You were upset, I thought you were hurt.'
'I can't believe it,' you said. 'I can't believe you. Just go away.'
Disgust made a stranger of your voice. You sounded like you hated me.
I was numb.
I couldn't speak.
Behind you, the fire crackled, and drunken conversation began to bubble. You wanted to be with them. You wanted me to disappear.
'You said you were at Imogen's. I phoned and there was no answer. Your grandmother and I came to look for you.'
Not even a shrug.
'I heard you scream.'
You looked away and said it again. 'I can't believe you.' As though I could evaporate with the right evidence.
'I thought you were in trouble.'
'Just leave. Please, Dad, just leave.'
'Yeah,' shouted one of the boys. 'Just go away.'
'I'm not leaving without you. It's midnight, for God's . . . what time were you planning to go home?'
'Never.' You were drunk. I could see it now. Hear it. Smell it.
The wind switched, and brought smoke towards us.
I grabbed your arm. 'You're coming with me, young lady.'
You slipped my grip and ran further towards them.
And then the changes. The tingles. The sliding between stations. The dark on top of dark. It was as though everything, even the fire, was set behind black gauze.
I tried to follow you, but felt strangely off balance. A short way into my pursuit I tripped over something, landing close enough to the fire for a spark to singe a hair off my hand.
I turned to see George Weeks, an ominous white vision through the dark veil. A grotesque colossus above me. A juvenile Nero, blond and overweight, a baby swollen to a man. So near the fire his face had a monstrous appearance, with his white pallor rendered devilish red and his eyes invisible behind his glasses. Two gleaming squares of light.
I pushed myself up off the grass and stood facing him, trying my best to ignore the sensations in my mind. 'George Weeks, does your mother know where you are? Does she know you are smoking and drinking and tripping adults into fires? Does she . . . know?'
At which point, as you may recall, he insulted me loudly. '—— off.' He was inebriated beyond all reckoning, and he thrust forward.
'Have you lost all respect for your elders, George? What's . . . what's happened to you?'
My dulled senses stopped me dodging his hands. He pushed me, I staggered back, but didn't topple. George looked around for laughter that never came.
'Leave him alone,' you said.
'Leave it, Georgie, you dumb ——,' said another of them. A boy. The vulgar, archaic
word hit George like a stone, and he retreated from me.
In his place you appeared. My beautiful girl. Slowly, the black gauze lifted.
'I won't forget this,' you said.
We walked back to the Volvo. Behind us, one of the boys made a noise like a dying aircraft.
'I'm your father. It's my job to look after you, even when you think you don't need looking after. One day you will thank me.'
Your grandmother was initially silent when we got to the car. She didn't understand any more than you did.
'You did say you were going to Imogen's,' she eventually said, without conviction. 'Your father was worried about you. He didn't mean to make a complete show of himself.'
I glanced into the rear-view mirror and saw you stare out at the dark fields and farmhouses. At unseen primitive lands, enclosed by drystone walls, where fathers once commanded without question.
'I heard you scream.'
'From ten miles away?'
'I phoned Imogen's mother and there was no one there. We were worried.'
Cynthia sighed, for your benefit. Discomfort at the 'we', I suppose. She decided to stay with us, in order to 'keep us on our leads', but said she had to disappear early the next morning. Life drawing, or something. When we arrived back home you went straight to bed. I don't even think you used the bathroom.
I sat down on the sofa and Higgins strolled onto my lap.
'Happy?' your grandmother asked, before sipping her glass of brandy.
I sighed. 'It's not a question of happiness.'
She laughed. A laugh sadder than her usual cackle. I looked at her. I looked past the cabaret singer's make-up and the aged skin and sensed your mother there, sharing a joke that shone inside those eyes. 'No. So, Terence, tell me, what exactly is it a question of?'
I couldn't answer that, so I answered something else instead.
'You're different,' I said. 'You're a different type of person.'
Of course, this prompted a Cynthian scowl, and an audible eruption of disapproval. 'Oh yes? Enlighten me, Terence. What type am I?
I trod carefully. 'The coping type. You cope. You get by. You've got a – I don't know – an "inner peace", I suppose. An acceptance. I don't have it, you see. I just don't have that capacity.'
You would have thought I had slapped her. Red anger overpowered her make-up, and those dark heavy eyelashes widened like dangerous plants. 'Oh, listen to yourself. Honestly. You don't seriously think there has been one single day in the past fifteen flaming years when I haven't woken up and yearned for her still to be here? You don't think I ever accepted that I lost my daughter, do you? Or Howard? Or that I am in any better position now to cope with the loss of my grandson? I've cried myself to sleep God knows how many times. I wake up in the middle of the night and feel like I could scream with it all. Nobody accepts these things, Terence. But what can we do? What can we do? These things have happened. We will never know why – if there is a "why" to know. I get up in the morning and get on with things because what's the choice? What is the alternative? But don't you dare think for one little minute that when I climb into an empty bed, or when I think of my poor daughter lying on that floor, or when I see a tin of Harrogate flaming toffees, that it's any easier for me. The only thing I accept is that I am still alive, and other people are still alive, and while we are still sharing that same crack of light we ought to be making things easier for each other. That's my type, Terence. That's my bloody type.'
This tirade exhausted her, and had frightened Higgins out of the room. A long silence was left in its wake.
'I'm sorry,' she said, at the end of it. 'I didn't mean to shout. It's probably just the brandy.'
'No, Cynthia,' I said. 'No. You're absolutely right. It was a stupid thing to say. I'm sorry.'
And I meant it. I really think I did.
'Well, the main thing is we don't let Bryony suffer,' she said.
'Yes,' I said. 'Of course. You're right.'
And I went to bed that night feeling I was truly able to turn over a new page, a blank one, and write a better future for us all. But of course, and as always, I was wrong. The next day was written in the same descending style I was growing accustomed to, with Terence the Tormented Tormentor about to take a further plunge into his designated role.
I dreamt it was you. I dreamt you were there, where he was hanging from the lamp post. You lost your grip and I woke up, knowing I had to keep you close, keep you safe.
When Cynthia had gone to her art class I went into your room.
I tried soft words. I tried to offer an olive branch. 'We were both partially to blame,' I said. 'I know I shouldn't have embarrassed you in front of your friends. I'm sorry. And I am sure you were aware that you shouldn't have lied to me.'
You didn't want to listen. You didn't want me there, at the foot of your bed. 'Please, Dad, just leave me alone.'
'I just think you should say sorry that's all. I've said sorry and I'll say it again. Say sorry and we can forget about it.'
'No.'
'Apologise. You lied. Bryony, if you don't tell me where you are how can I know you're safe. Apologise.'
'No.'
'A. Pol. O. Gise.'
At which you disappeared back under your covers and made a sound like a near-boiled kettle.
I became angry. Something switched inside me and suddenly I found myself losing control. I sat there, listening to my own tense words, and wondered what had got into me. At that moment a new plan occurred to me. A plan fuelled by desperation, by anger, and by this new dark force closing in on my soul.
'Well, Bryony,' I said. 'It is a tragedy for me to accept it, but it seems that we have now reached a point where firmer action is required. If you are unable to be honest with me, or to admit your own mistakes, or to show any remorse for these mistakes, then it seems I am left with absolutely no choice but to lay down some rules for you to abide by. Rather than risk the excuse of a memory lapse, I will write these rules down and I will stick them in the kitchen for you to read. Now, I want you to remember that these rules are to be followed to the letter or there will be strict consequences.'
'Huh!' Your response, dulled by the tight blankets that lay over you.
'Well, Bryony, there is no point setting rules unless there are consequences for the rule-breaker and I assure you that if these rules aren't followed or are wilfully misinterpreted then you will be punished accordingly.' I hesitated, while my mind turned to the possible punishments I could inflict. 'If you persist in breaking the rules then I will be forced to sell Turpin. Or I will move you to another school. Or I will forbid you from leaving the house. Do you understand me?'
I left you and went to my desk. I looked ahead at the curtains I never pulled open any more, and then I took the fountain pen from the lacquered case as its Pre-Raphaelite nymphs watched me with concern.
My hand, trembling with this sudden and alien anger, pressed the nib to the paper and began to write.
Rules For Your Own Safety
1. You must not visit Imogen. If Imogen must be seen at all it is to be on these premises.
2. You are never to be out of the house after 7 p.m., except on cello evenings, or when you are being chaperoned by myself or your grandmother.
3. You must always eat your meals at the table, so we can enjoy a little conversation.
4. You must refrain from playing the noise you euphemistically refer to as music, unless you can do so at a civilised volume.
5. You will not inform me of an imminent departure when I am with customers in the shop. You will give me prior warning, and details of where you are going, and then I will consider if I approve.
6. You will not leave the house for longer than one hour at a time without a significant reason. Such as when you are at school, the stables or the music college.
7. You will not walk home from school. When term begins you will be picked up by myself every day, without complaint.
8. You will help in the shop on Saturdays.
9. You will not watch television of a corrupting nature, or communicate with strangers or males of any kind via your computer.
10. You will not drink alcohol.
11. You will not spend mine or your grandmother's pocket money on magazines or other corruptive forms of literature.
12. You will not travel in motor vehicles unless they are driven by myself or a driver approved by me.
13. You will not enter into a physical relationship with a member of the opposite gender until I am satisfied that you have reached the requisite level of emotional maturity.
A few days later Mrs Weeks came into the shop to buy the Arabian dancer. In all honesty I was sad to see it go, as it was by far the oldest item we had on sale.
'Is this an authentic Franz Bergman?' she asked me.
'Yes,' I told her, through her nods. 'The Dancing Arab Girl. Late 1880s. An amazing period for the decorative arts in Austria. The detail is quite exceptional.'
Her pretty mouth twitched in a manner that reminded me of an inquisitive mouse. She raised the small bronze beauty to eye level.
'I have a Barrias from around the same period,' she said. 'Winged Victory. Not quite as vulgar as many of his others. This might complement it rather well, I feel.'
I can see her standing there, with her neat blonde bob and wicker basket, as she contemplated the purchase.
I remember feeling a kind of savagery inside me, knowing that I was about to trouble this proud golden fieldmouse with some truths about her son. Yet Mrs Weeks had to be told. I owed it to her, you see, as a fellow parent. As a trusted ally against the unseen forces that were corrupting our children. Oh, it was horrible though, the actual act of telling. To watch her face as she stood there at the counter, struggling as it tried to keep its pretty dignity in place. I felt such a vandal.
'I'm sorry, Mrs Weeks. I just thought I had to tell you.'