The Possession of Mr Cave

by Matt Haig

  I kissed her forehead. I felt her small body against mine, and the life that beat inside. I could smell the floral scent of her shampoo, and see the blurred blonde curve of her head below me. She clung tight to my body, as if it were a raft in the sea.

  'The separation has been so terribly hard,' she said.

  'Don't worry,' I said. 'It's all right. Time will smooth things out.'

  I stood there, in the precise spot your mother had died, and held this other woman in my arms. I made reassurances only a father and husband is entitled to make.

  I stroked her back, my soothing hand appreciating the divine softness of her cashmere sweater. 'Things will get better,' I said, feeling the lie's sweet comfort. 'Things always get better.'

  'I'm such a fool,' she sniffed, and dabbed away her tears with a brilliant white handkerchief. 'What must you be thinking?'

  'I'm not thinking anything,' I told her.

  But what was I thinking? Could it have been that the desire to protect is the desire to possess? That the desire to hold is the desire to press close? That the desire to love is the desire to destroy? Amid these musings a bus rolled past the window. A double-decker advertisement for a Parisian perfume.

  'Ange ou Démon?' asked the vampiric model, staring out into the day-lit world.

  'Les deux sont la même chose,' came my silent response, as I kept stroking Mrs Weeks out of tears.

  Now, that next morning, when I cut myself shaving. It was a lie, Bryony. It wasn't a razor, but a toothbrush. And it wasn't even me, but your brother, playing malevolent tricks with my mind.

  I saw blood.

  I saw drops on the brush.

  I saw a speck hit the mirror.

  I felt it burning, but not like the word.

  Tea-stain. Tea-stain. Tea-stain.

  The hand moved faster, changing brown to red, the pain pressing deep into me.

  I saw the blood dripping and I looked down into the sink and glimpsed the madness of what I was doing. I kept on, as the word echoed inside me.

  Tea-stain.

  I heard the word as Aaron said it. With no line under it. Like it was the only name I had. He had. I had.

  'All right, Tea-stain.'

  'Nice one, Tea-stain.'

  'See you, Tea-stain.'

  And the remembered thought. If I brushed hard and deep and wide it won't come back.

  'Aagh.'

  I said it aloud. Through closed eyes. My whole face clenched with the pain that was too much.

  I saw myself dropping the toothbrush in the sink and felt the thudding pulse in my cheek. The pain grew.

  I opened my eyes and washed the weak pink blood down the plughole. I grabbed some toilet roll. Specks hit the lid and the carpet, turning black.

  I padded the red wound. The paper drenched into mush.

  My own voice, outside. 'Reuben? What are you doing in there? Reuben? Do you really need that much water?'

  'Dad,' I said. 'I'm just . . . I . . . I won't . . .'

  I switched off the tap and the door opened. It wasn't me standing there, out on the landing. It was you, in your uniform.

  'Dad?'

  'Bryony?'

  'Oh my God! What's happened? What are you doing? The blood!'

  I looked at my face now, and saw my own lined and aged skin, my Terence skin, with the blood running down it. And then I saw the damp pink tissue in my hand.

  'I cut myself shaving.'

  Did you see the toothbrush in the sink? Were you suspicious as to why the wound was so big? If so, you never said.

  'Dad, sit down. Sit on the toilet. I'll get a flannel. I'll sort you out.'

  I was delirious. I sat on the toilet, and stared into Turner's crashing sea on the wall behind you.

  I remember you helping me with the plaster, pressing gently, careful of your wrist.

  'My sweet Petal. My Florence Nightingale,' I said, and ignored your flinch at the words. And I flinched too, as you tapped your finger on the plaster. A sudden and specific shot of pain in the centre of the wound. It was then, I believe, that you asked me if it was all right to go to the sports centre that evening. You wanted to go swimming, you said. 'It will be good for my wrist. That's what the doctor said.'

  'Yes,' I said, too weak to remember if this was true. 'Of course, I'll take you.'

  *

  I dropped you off at the sports centre and waited for you in the car park, my face still throbbing with pain.

  I was in the lowest of spirits. I hated this game we were playing. I knew, ever since Clifford's Tower, that I had to keep it up but I just prayed that this time you weren't lying to me. Indeed, when I saw no sign of Denny, I began to believe it. Perhaps you were a normal, undeceiving daughter, enjoying an evening swim like you often used to. And perhaps I was just a normal, patient father waiting for you in the car park.

  Of course, I was deluding myself. The only reason I remained in that car park was because I had to remain in that car park. There was no way on this earth I could trust you enough to stay inside that horrendous building and do exactly what you had told me.

  I needed to see you disappear inside those doors and I needed to stay watching those doors in case you came back out of them too early.

  That didn't happen. Indeed, the conviction that you had changed began to grow. Maybe your lies had stopped. Maybe it had all been a horrendous phase. Maybe you had seen sense and ended whatever it was that had existed between you and that boy. Maybe his late arrival at the assembly hall had embarrassed you. Or maybe you had finally realised the value of your precious soul was worth so much more than his.

  But then I heard it. A roar that seemed to swell the sports centre's very dimensions. It was the roar of a mob, of a revolution, and it frightened me to my very core. By the time that noise had died I was already out of the car, heading towards those vast windows. I leaned in close, to peep through the dark tinted glass at the swimming pool. I scanned each lane of blue water, but I couldn't see you. Perhaps you were still changing. Yes, I would wait there, outside the glass, until you emerged from the changing rooms and then I would head back to the car, switch the dial to Radio 3, and listen to a little music.

  Judging from the worried glances of the swimmers, I don't think the bloodstained plaster on my cheek was doing me the greatest service. I could see what they were wondering, those slow-swimming ladies, and I tried to look as relaxed and unperverse as I could, given the handicap of circumstance.

  But then I heard it again. That roar, like a violent wind. A wind that swept me towards the entrance, through those red swing doors, and to the gum-chewing sloth in the kiosk. I told her I was searching for you, and that I was worried something may have happened in the changing rooms, but I got nowhere.

  'Looks like you'v'urt yerself,' she said, displaying powers of deduction that would have hardly shamed Sherlock Holmes.

  Then, for the third time, I heard that wild cheer.

  'What was that noise?' I asked.

  ''S the boxing,' she informed me, between her lethargic, bovine chews.

  'The boxing?'

  I turned and saw it. Him. His eyes staring out from behind his fists. One of the eight young gladiators on the line-up. North of England Under 18s Amateur Boxing League. I saw his full name, for the first time. Dennis 'Hammerblow' Hart.

  Hart.

  A hammer-blow indeed. Although at the time I was so determined to find you that the name hardly registered.

  'Yer'll need to pay 'f you wan' watch the boxing.' The sloth's words followed me as I walked down those chlorine-scented corridors, over that squeak-clean floor, towards the sports hall. When I got there I watched through the doors, through the crossed wire of the reinforced glass, and I saw Denny in the ring. He had that black boy in the corner, battering his guts with a series of punches that seemed to be powered by the crowd itself, gaining force with the ascending volume of the roar.

  You were not hard to spot. You were the only one among that lowly mob not punching the air or screaming fo
r violence. Indeed, you looked troubled by the blood-lust all around you. Scared, almost. My poor darling Petal, among that rabble!

  Two competing impulses, inside me. The first, which we might term the 'Cynthia reflex': stay there, let you be, don't interfere. After all, I knew where you were. You still would have to leave via the main entrance and so, in theory, I could have gone back to the car and waited for you with the knowledge that you would be safe. And, after all, this was in keeping with my plan. Hadn't I promised myself not to interfere unless absolutely necessary? Wasn't this the best way to keep on top of your double existence?

  Then the second impulse, boxing the other into its corner. There was something so horrendous about this scene. I felt the wild, uncivilised nature of that crowd tainting your innocence, melting it away like the last snow in March. No. It was too much. I couldn't stand back any longer. I had to change my strategy.

  This was it, the last deception I was prepared to put up with. A walk through the streets together was one thing but this was . . .

  No. Stop. Be honest, Terence. All right, I suppose what really drove me into the hall was the knowledge that you loved him. I knew it then, as clear as anything. You loved him. Why else would you be sitting there, as out of your element as a kestrel in the ocean, watching the pugilist's loose interpretation of the Queensberry Rules.

  I pushed open those doors and shook a man's hand off my arm.

  'Can I see your ticket, mate?'

  'No,' I said, drowned out by the roar. 'No you can't.'

  I ran on, over towards you. A few of the crowd had begun to notice the intruder now, followed as he was by the ticket inspector, and their bloodthirsty roar started to die. By the time I was climbing the middle aisle of the bleachers the whole hall, bar the two boys boxing in the ring, had descended into a hushed quiet. Somewhere behind me the bell rang for the end of the round.

  What were you feeling, when you saw me? Was there anything alongside the shame? The shame that caused you to conceal your beauty with your hands.

  I excused myself past a row of knees, ignoring the grumbled profanities as I made my way towards you.

  'Bryony? I thought you were meant to be swimming.'

  'Go away,' you said, quietly, through clenched teeth. Your cheeks were scarlet. Your eyes couldn't look at me.

  'Bryony, you lied. Now, come on, let's go home.'

  'Dad, just go.'

  'You heard the girl, fella,' said the rot-toothed, potato-headed specimen next to you. A man with a Celtic cross tattooed on his arm, and a low-carat gold medallion hanging over his T-shirt. 'Get out the way.'

  And then the ticket inspector: 'Mate, unless you have proof of a ticket or are willing to pay for a ticket I'm going to have to ask you to leave immediately. Mate . . . mate . . . mate . . .'

  The bell sounded for the next round but half the crowd were still staring at us. I grabbed your arm. 'Leave the girl alone!' said the rot-toothed man.

  You saw the threat of violence, and knew you couldn't risk further embarrassment. You stood up, followed me through that roaring crowd and across the hall.

  Halfway towards the door you turned to see Denny in the ring. He caught your gaze and forgot where he was. His arms hung down and his feet stopped moving across the canvas.

  You whimpered in quiet pain as his opponent's gloved fist met his chin and knocked him half off his feet. We left the hall as he fell back, hooking his arms around the ropes as another blow dulled his senses. We walked down those corridors, past those pinboards and vending machines and red-faced squash players.

  'Bryony, I have no comprehension what or why you feel for this boy. But I must tell you your feelings are aimed in the wrong direction. He's not right for you. You deserve better. You deserve a boy who is into the things you have always been into. Someone with an interest in culture. Someone civilised. Someone whose talents extend beyond the ability to use his fists.'

  You turned to look at me and gave me such a sharp look I wondered if the violence you loved in him had begun to infect you. 'You don't know anything about him. You're just a blind snob. He's hurt now. He's hurt. Because of you. You don't know anything.'

  A tingling memory of walking into a house with Denny. The putrid scent of vomit overpowering the chlorine, for that fleeting moment.

  'I know Imogen doesn't like –' I stopped myself, just in time, and pursued a different route. 'If this is something to do with your brother then you are far off the mark. He didn't care about Reuben. He was there when he died. I know he let him climb a lamp post for the sake of a cheap laugh. I know that if it wasn't for him and the rest of his no-good tribe of yobs Reuben would still be alive.'

  You closed your eyes and shook your head and kept whatever you knew to yourself.

  'You're not a father,' you said, as we walked out into that cool evening air. 'You're a dictator. You're a weird, creepy fascist and I hate you. You could die for all I care.'

  'No,' I said. 'You don't mean that. These are just histri—'

  'One day you'll wake up and I'll be gone. I'll have run away and you'll never be able to find me.'

  As we headed into the car park I looked at you, at your face, at the frown that dented your beauty like a chip in a vase.

  'You don't mean that,' I said.

  'I do. I mean it. You'll see. You'll see.'

  And of course, you had never sounded more sincere.

  Something I must correct:

  Dick Turpin was not a man to be admired. Now, I know you and your brother loved me to tell you about him, as children, and I dare say I loved to be the teller, yet now the doubt eats at me that this wasn't quite the thing to do.

  Dick Turpin was a highwayman, that is true, but there was no heroism attached to his villainy. There was no horse called Black Bess, no twenty-four-hour ride from London to York, no care for the welfare of his victims. These were embellishments, romantic conjurings from the pens of Victorian novelists. The real Richard Turpin was a vile torturer, who held old women over their fires until they told him where their money was kept. He was a man who shot his best friend, and let his father be imprisoned rather than give himself up. He was a rapist and terrorist, who hid out in caves and preyed on the old and defenceless. A man who, for all his cunning, got caught for shooting a cockerel, who exaggerated his exploits to whatever audience he could find in York dungeon, and who paid for mourners to attend his funeral.

  I was wrong to suggest a rogue could be a hero. I was wrong, on your first visit to the racecourse, to point out the spot where the gallows were, and to excite you with the famous story of how Turpin gallantly threw himself off the ladder to his own death. I was wrong to allow your horse to take his name. I wish I could have filled your ears with stories of the saints, of those who knew violence and evil for what it was, but I did not. And so I helped nurture this blindness you have, this inability to see where evil exists, this affliction I too must now recognise as my own.

  I had a bit of a row with Cynthia on the telephone.

  'She's lying to me,' I told her.

  'Oh, Terence,' she blustered, in her dismissive way. 'She's a teenage girl. Lies are what keep her breathing.'

  'She's putting herself in danger,' I said. 'She said she was going swimming and she went to a boxing match. Boxing!'

  A long, Cynthian sigh. 'She needs her freedom, Terence. You can't suffocate her.'

  'Freedom,' I said. 'What does freedom mean any more? Freedom's a myth, Cynthia. There's only safety. That's all. And if I don't know where she is, how can I look after her?'

  And then she began to get cross. 'Do you think I always knew where Helen was? Of course I didn't. She was always out, at the village hall, watching bands. Getting up to God knows what.'

  'It was a different time. And Helen was always strong. Bryony's so . . .'

  'So . . . what?'

  'So delicate.'

  Her bitter chuckle. 'That's a man's way of talking. A father's way.'

  'Well, I'm a man and I'm a father so it's no
surprise. And what's your way? The way of the blinkered grandmother?'

  'All right,' she said. 'Let's say you're right. Let's say she is a delicate little thing. And let's say she has – ow.'

  'Cynthia,' I asked, 'are you all right?'

  'It's just this flaming hernia. Anyway, where was I?'

  'Let's say she is a delicate little thing,' I reminded her, before she embarked on a rather lengthy metaphor about the art of holding butterflies that sounded like it had fallen out of a fortune cookie.

  Now it was my turn to sigh. 'Is that from one of your self-help books?'

  'Oh, stop it, Terence,' she snapped.

  'I just want to keep her safe, that's all.' I was speaking more quietly now, aware of your footsteps above me. 'I want to stop her getting into danger.'

  'You have to let her breathe.'

  'Yes. But I have to make sure it's the right sort of air she's breathing. She might as well suck on an exhaust as kiss that Denny boy, the harm it's going to do in the long term.'

  She laughed a painful laugh. 'Have you heard yourself? The long-term effects of kissing! Honestly! You have to act reasonably, Terence. You have to acknowledge the world you're living in. It's not the Dark Ages, you know. You can't lock her away in a tower and wait until she's twenty-one.'

  Cynthia was wrong. These were the darkest ages. These were the days of dying light. 'You sound like the rest of them,' I said.

  'The rest of who?'

  'Them! The do-gooders. The soppy lettuces who have let us get savaged by the dogs.'

  'And what's your solution? To wrap her up in cotton wool and not let her out of your sight?' She calmed herself down. 'Listen, you'll just have to let her get it out of her system. You have to just let her . . . be.'

  I knew then, right at that moment, that I was alone. Cynthia was an ally, but she would not join me in this war.

  'All right, Cynthia. All right. I'd better go.'

  'All right, well, goodbye. But don't do anything silly.'

  'No, I won't. Goodbye.'