The Possession of Mr Cave

by Matt Haig

  I sensed you were going to die and so I had no incentive to leave you. The police were going to identify the bullet soon enough, and trace it back to me, even if Denny didn't give it away. The Weeks' bodies would be found at any moment and further evidence provided. But I didn't care. Nor did it seem to matter whether or not Reuben returned to infect my soul with his own. If you were gone, what further damage could he cause?

  I glanced briefly at the other patients in the unit. Those sliding souls, engaged in their own silent battles with death. Old, wasted and fully-lived bodies, so different from your own.

  'Leave her.'

  I looked back at your face, the source of the whisper. I had imagined it, surely. You were still unconscious. Still undented. Maybe it was another imagining. My mind so frail after those events at the Weeks' house.

  I leaned in towards you. 'Bryony?'

  My nervous hand touched your arm. The thin slab of light dissolved into the blanket. I looked over at the nurse, filling in a form at her desk, and was ready to tell her you might be waking.

  I was beginning to realise what was happening here. I understood that everything was still hanging in the balance, and that the victor of your own silent battle was still far from decided.

  I took a deep breath. 'Reuben, tell me, what is it you want? What is it? I'll do anything. Please.'

  The nurse stopped filling in her form and looked over at me. I offered a weak smile, and my hand retreated from your arm. The nurse frowned and deliberated whether to leave her desk, but eventually went back to ticking boxes.

  'Reuben?' My voice was barely audible, even to myself. 'Reuben? Please, don't hurt her. Please. You love her. She's your sister. None of this is her fault. It's my fault. Everything. All of this. It's my fault. It's about me, not her. Please. I didn't want to hurt either of you.'

  'Leave her.'

  The slab of light returned, and with it the realisation. Suddenly it became clear. I had left him. For fifteen years I had left him, blaming a wailing baby when I should have blamed myself. All his jealousy, all his frozen anger, it had come from me. And if I had caused it, then I could end it, and that is what I vowed to do. I would return to him.

  A flicker, at first. So slight it might not have been there at all.

  'Petal?'

  And then a second time. A movement behind your eyelids. Dreams on the boil, bubbling away beneath the surface.

  Your nose twitched, your frown arrived, your mouth chewed the last of its sleep. And then the eyes blinked open and you were there, my darling girl. Alive and awake, staring tiredly up at me.

  'Dad?' The thinnest of voices.

  'Bryony? Petal? Don't worry. You're in a hospital. You've been hurt, but you're going to be all right.'

  You looked frightened. 'Denny?'

  'It's okay. He's okay. He's fine. He'll be back in a moment.'

  And you seemed to understand so much in these words.

  'I have to go, Bryony. But I'll be back.' I delivered the lie at the last moment, as I leaned to kiss your brow, so you weren't able to assess my eyes. 'I must leave, Petal. You will be all right. Everything will be. You'll see.'

  And I walked away from your bedside, and told the nurse you had woken. She left her desk and went over to check that I was right, speaking words I couldn't hear. At the door I turned to have one final look at you. You frowned as you watched me, and something about that frown told me you would be fine, whatever else happened. You would survive all the dents my life and death could inflict, because you were as tough as your mother had been, and you would tackle life as it should be tackled. The pain and the shame I had caused would eventually fade, and become caged safely in the past. You will go on without me. Surviving. Yearning. Loving.

  Living.

  I hope. Yes, I hope.

  I used to imagine how your life would turn out. Oh, it was a beautiful existence that I saw waiting for you – you would marry the right kind of man, you would live in the country, you would play in an orchestra – and my job as your father was to help navigate your way through the dangerous territory that lay en route.

  I now realise my own folly. I understand that like the amateur restorer who rips the canvas he is trying to repair, I have ruined this portrait. Your future will be textured differently to how I imagined, and it has every right to be. The only purpose of living is to accept life itself. To trust our children to find their own course, and realise there isn't a single one of us who has the right answers. How can we, when we haven't even discovered the question? All I pray now is that your life is devoid of the mistakes that have blighted my own course.

  I hope that if and when you have children you will note their differences but love them equally. I hope you know that we can create new life but never own it, and that we should never let our desire to protect become the will to possess. I hope you will know that children have achieved the whole world just by entering it, because we live and breathe its glories in every waking moment.

  And there is glory in abundance up here, with the vast sweep of the land in front of me. I remember walking these moors years before you were born, standing here and looking out at a whole wild atlas of green and purple. This was in July, when the heather was in flower, and so different from this evening. It holds a bleaker beauty now, but a beauty nonetheless. A beauty I can breathe inside me, as I sit out here, away from the car, and bring my task to a close. Bryony, I am so tempted to linger but I know I will be found before too long. I feel them getting nearer, with the night.

  Two small final requests. Please tell Cynthia I am sorry for leaving her that note – she must have had a terrible fright when she opened it this morning. I know she will look after you in the proper way, and help repair the damage I have caused.

  Also, the old picture of my mother in the living room. It is on the wall, tucked behind the door as you walk in. You know it. The one where she's looking out rather crossly, with Greta Garbo's face painted onto her own. I want you to keep it. I know you owe me nothing, but if you are still reading I might be able to presume you would be willing to do this one task. So please, if you could, keep it safe. You don't have to put it up on your wall, but keep it. Somewhere, anywhere, but make sure it's safe.

  Now, it is over. That is everything. The paper has been filled, and I am so close to the finish that the fear is leaving me. There is nothing further to be afraid of, even as I look ahead and see them. All of them.

  They stand in front of me, their silent spirits. Those I have lost, those I have killed, with Reuben one step forward. His hand beckons, but he looks finally at peace.

  I have no fear as I reach the end. I will offer him the love he needs and I will watch you in this beautiful world and let it shape you as it plans.

  The day's last breath brushes my face, and tells me it is time.

  I will go to him.

  Goodnight, Petal.

  Goodnight.

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank:

  Caradoc King, my agent, for his complete and unflinching enthusiasm for this novel from the start.

  Dan Franklin, my editor, for letting me head into the dark without insisting I bring a torch.

  Alex Bowler, Rachel Cugnoni, Alison Hennessey, Chloë Johnson-Hill and everyone at Jonathan Cape and Vintage.

  Elinor Cooper, Judith Evans, Christine Glover, Louise Lamont, Naomi Leon, Teresa Nicholls and Linda Shaughnessy at A.P. Watt.

  Alan Moloney and Tim Palmer at Parallel Film.

  Matteo Moretti and everyone at the Hotel Art in Rome.

  Michel Faber, Toby Litt, Scarlett Thomas and Jeanette Winterson, for providing me with advice and assistance at various points over the last few years.

 

 

 
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