‘I haven’t taken your son, you fool. You’ve thrown him away.’ She too stood up, dabbed her napkin to her lips with finishing-school poise and left the room. She squeezed Jack’s mother on the shoulder in passing. That unexpected tenderness unlocked tears and Jack had to stand to take his mother’s hug. She held him the way she’d held him before his deployment to Afghanistan: in a pray-God-this-isn’t-for-ever kind of hug, and it went on long enough to irritate Harry even more.
‘Get on with it, woman. We’re not welcome here.’
Charlotte appeared in the doorway, clasping a volume of Eddie’s diaries. She spoke to Harry with a steely coldness.
‘Before you go, I have something for you. If you ever wonder why Old Eddie left everything to Jack, it’s in here. If you want Eddie’s views of your skills as a father, they’re in here too. You may learn things about Jack that surprise you. You may even learn something about yourself.’
She held it out to him but Harry kept his hands by his side with his fingers clenching as if he wanted to hit her, so the diary hung between them like an unshaken hand. After a pause, Charlotte sighed and put it on the table.
‘I didn’t think you’d be man enough to read it. You’re all mouth.’
Jack’s mother reached across, picked up the slender book and slid it into her handbag. ‘I’ll take it.’ She paused as she passed Charlotte, eyes down to where her hands fretted to close the clasp.
‘I’m sorry, dear.’
For a moment, Jack thought Harry was going to hit his mother, but he stormed out of the room, his face working. Jack’s mum winced as the front door crashed back on its hinges, and turned to follow.
Charlotte and Jack stood staring at the abandoned mess on the table in a silence broken only by the soft click of the front door closing behind Jack’s mother. Jack slumped back into his chair and reached for the wine.
‘Which diary did you give them?’
‘Top of the pile. The last one.’ Charlotte sat, sighing, and fiddled with the stack of dirty plates and cutlery. The sound of car tyres spinning on gravel came down the hall. ‘He needed to learn a few home truths.’
‘I haven’t read much of that.’
‘I have. All of it. And I hope he reads it.’
Charlotte began to draw patterns in congealing gravy with a knife. ‘Are you going to say “I told you so”?’
‘Actually, I was going to thank you for trying.’
She was quiet long enough for her knife’s tip to make two, slow, mosquito-whine circles over the plate.
‘Jack, I knew there were differences, but I never realised it would be that tough.’
‘Actually, neither did I.’
She dropped the knife onto the stack of dishes, closed her eyes and let her head tilt backwards, so that her throat moved as she swallowed.
‘He’d be so bloody pleased with himself if we broke up.’
‘Now you understand, Lottie.’
‘At least, when you were in the marines, the officers’ mess gave us some kind of family.’
‘I don’t really miss that.’ The officers’ mess belonged with broken dreams, failure and guilt. It was a part of his life he’d rather forget.
‘I do.’ Charlotte stared at Jack across the table, and for a moment she seemed very far away.
IV: HARRY
Harry kept his temper long enough for the wife to get in the car. How dare she support The Slut in front of him? He couldn’t believe she’d actually apologised. In all the years they’d been married she’d never been so disloyal.
Then she made it worse by telling Harry it was all his fault. How the hell did she expect him to react when The Slut treated him like that? Talking across him like he was a child. ‘Time to take him home.’ Anyone would lose their rag, wouldn’t they?
The wife didn’t say much, just sat with her face against the car window, not looking at Harry, and sniffling.
‘If I’d have been her,’ she said after a bit, ‘I’d have tipped the food over you.’
Harry braked so hard she was thrown against the seat belt and the driver behind held his hand on the horn. Screw you, too. They ended up half on the verge.
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ Harry shouted.
‘You showed her what you thought of her without opening your mouth. Before you even got through the door.’
Harry asked her how the hell did she think he was going to feel, watching that woman play Lady Gracious in his own father’s house? That’s where he lived when his mother was alive. He grew up there. Then he had to put up with the sight of The Slut swanning around like she owned the place with her nipples poking through her jumper.
The wife wouldn’t back down. He’d never known her so stubborn. ‘We had one chance,’ she said, ‘and you threw it away. You just sat there, glaring at the floor.’
‘Better to say nothing than open my mouth and make it worse.’
‘You couldn’t have made it any worse than you already had.’
Harry had to remind her that The Slut hadn’t even bothered to cook for them. What kind of welcome is that? They’d never give guests frozen stuff from the supermarket. They’d got standards.
‘I think you should write and apologise.’
Harry hit the wheel. She just didn’t get it. And no way would he ever crawl to The Slut. They stared at the rain until another car blared its horn as it manoeuvred around them.
‘Oh, drive home before you cause an accident, you poor bloody fool.’
*
Harry had a drink and calmed down a bit at home. He felt bad about the day, but deep down he was bloody frustrated to have been kept at arm’s length when Jack was hurting. When they’re kids, you can tell them what’s safe and what’s dangerous. If they have a knock you can say ‘there, there’ and slap on a plaster. You can make them tougher so that the knocks don’t hurt so much and the big kids leave them alone. Then when they grow up and leave you they make their own way and sometimes you know it’s going to end in tears.
Jack was always so determined as a kid. Wouldn’t give in, and he’d never admit he’d made a mistake. And when this sordid bloody marriage broke up, as it was bound to do, he’d be too proud to let his family get close even though he’d be hurting even more.
Maybe one day he’d realise all this was only because they cared for him.
And maybe when they’d all calmed down, him and Jack could go for a walk, just the two of them, like they used to do. Keep the door open. Let him know they were still there for him when things went wrong.
*
Harry was sitting in the lounge, looking at the view down the garden as the light faded, when the wife came in. They hadn’t spoken since they’d got home. She hadn’t even offered him a cup of tea. She’d stopped crying but she looked all worn and sad. She came straight up to Harry, dropped Old Eddie’s diary in his lap and told him that if he didn’t read it, she’d never forgive him. Then she turned to leave, without another word.
‘Mary…’ he called after her, half pleading, half protesting.
Mary just walked out of the room.
V: Diary of Edvard Ahlquist, Volume 39
23 rd April. Wind NW force 4, rain.
I tried to give the dragon back. I thought he might leave me alone then. It had to be soon, while I had some strength left, which meant it had to be today, on the tide, before Jack came in the evening.
I took a hip flask of morphine but I had to leave the oxygen behind. Couldn’t carry the bottle. Dragging just the dragon down the hill exhausted me, but we made it through the trees to the jetty with a few long rests.
It was hard to let it go. I couldn’t throw it, but I heaved it to the end of the jetty and stood it on end, looking at the water. All I could think of to say was ‘ask them to leave me alone, old friend,’ and then I let it topple so it did a nosedive into the water.
It wouldn’t go. It floated, just, with water washing over it, but there wasn’t enough current to take it away. I watched it
for an hour until it grounded on the mud as the tide ebbed. It lay there looking at me like it was a dog that had been left behind, all hurt and betrayed, so I pulled it within reach with a boat hook and managed to bring it ashore.
Jack found us under the pine trees. I’d finished the morphine by then. Maybe I’d slept a little, but I knew I couldn’t make it back to the house on my own. He brought me oxygen and more morphine before he tried to move me. There’s a time after the pain goes and before sleep comes when I can think straight, and I realised how I must seem to him, filthy with mud, cradling the dragon. I tried to explain that this was the place of the massacre and Harald’s balefire, and he just stared at me. So I told him about the warrior and how he wanted Harald’s dragonhead back and might take me too, but I don’t think I made much sense. Jack just looked sad and said it was time to talk about the hospice.
Dear Jack. He’s the only one who cares.
* * *
Pardon, absolution for acknowledged crimes. ↵
A sacred place for the taking of oaths, or judgement or ritual. No Viking would desecrate a vé with violence. ↵
Chapter Eight: Eiðabrigði
(Old Norse: the breaking of an oath)
From the Saga of King Guthrum
On the day appointed for King Guthrum to set sail from Fyrsig with all his army, Jarl Harald seized the woman Witta and placed her in his dragonhead ship. While they were still close to land Witta saw her people standing on the shore, and great was their lamentation for her. Straightways she climbed over the shields at the baling-place and made to leap into the water. There was a warrior with Harald named Ragnvald, a great berserk, who seeing this stretched out his sword to restrain her. But Witta jumped nonetheless and swam towards the shore, though she was sore wounded.
Harald Guthrumsson was wroth and turned his ship to pursue Witta. When there was no more water, but only mud, he shed his boots and all his armour save his shield, and leaped down to follow her. Witta threw herself flat upon the surface and crawled, bleeding, in the manner of an eel. Harald lay his shield flat upon the mud, that he might not sink, but he was a heavy man and came not nigh to her before the mud held him fast by the legs.
The Saxons, seeing a woman of the crucified god pursued by a Viking, gathered on the shore and loosed arrows to protect her. Harald, whose shield was beneath him, was struck.
Thus died Harald Guthrumsson, whom the skalds later called Harald Siltefótr, that is to say Harald Mudfoot.
I: GEORGE
George was glad that Charl asked her to crew for them, not Jack. It kept things straight, if that wasn’t a frigging awful pun. Even so, she said no at first. She was still waking up in sweats and taking showers in the middle of the night at the memory of that touch in the bunk. But Charl was insistent during their sailing lesson and made it into a dare, so George accepted. Anyway, she wanted to prove to herself that she could sail in Draca again without freaking out. And it was a way to spend a day with Jack. She still couldn’t get him out of her head.
And after all that, when they set out she wondered if Jack wanted her there at all. At first she thought that she’d walked in on one of their tiffs, the way she’d done at the barbecue, so it seemed safest to steer clear and help Charl load the dinghy. They were motoring Draca out through the harbour, with the engine running sweet as her mum’s old sewing machine, before George sussed that Charl was needling Jack.
George was leaning against the hatch with Charl, leaving Jack to navigate the channels that run between the islands from Witt Point to the sea, and George was probably talking too much, filling the awkwardness with words and telling Charl about mudbanks and tides and how Draca drew a lot of water. Charl rested her cheek on her hands, grinned at George and interrupted her.
‘So if we see the seagulls walking, it’s time to change course.’
They laughed and George relaxed a bit. She’d been a bit cool with Charl on the last dinghy lesson because she didn’t want Charl to think she was up for it, but with Jack there she felt safer. George might almost have given Charl a girlie hug, but she didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. Plus George didn’t want Jack to think she was only Charl’s friend. That thought made her realise that both their bums were pointing at him as they leaned on the hatch, so she turned around and hooked her elbows behind her instead, grateful that her boobs were wrapped up in a life jacket.
‘You all right, Jack?’
‘Fine.’
He didn’t sound it. Or look it. George closed her eyes against the sun and his outline was blazing red, which could mean either anger or passion; it’s hard to tell the difference. At that moment George guessed anger.
Charl also turned and parked her elbows behind her like she and Charl were a double act. She’d left her life jacket unclipped so it hung open at the front. If George had to fit a colour to Charl right then, it would have been green, and a bit of red. Green’s a complex colour that can mean several things, but George would have guessed deceit or jealousy, with an overtone of sex. Something was going on between them.
‘Only Jack could be moody with two lovely ladies to play with.’
Jack didn’t speak. Something had changed in him since the last time she’d seen him. On the way back after that night at anchor, he’d been relaxed and friendly, letting her see the sweet, gentle guy inside, even if he had been knackered. Now he was inward again, the crab in its shell.
‘Oh, poo. You’re no fun. I’m going to make some coffee.’ Charlotte winked at George and went below. George moved to sit nearer to Jack, where Charl wouldn’t hear them over the engine.
‘Jack, have I done something wrong?’
‘Of course not.’ That was a shutdown. ‘Charlotte and I have a few issues to resolve, that’s all.’
‘Only I wondered if you’d rather I hadn’t come.’
Jack leaned against the tiller, spinning the boat around a navigation beacon into the main channel. ‘I’m glad you felt able to. Come, that is. After last time, I mean.’
‘It’s just a day sail. It’s not as though you’re asking me to stay overnight.’ George shifted on the bench as she realised that sounded a bit sexual. Jack stared out across the water but he was using sailing as an excuse for not making eye contact. That hurt.
*
Charl was a lot better company than Jack, that morning. They laughed a lot, getting the sails up, even though George did most of the work. It was fun. Girls together, like it had been in the beginning, but it was safe now because Jack was there. And Draca behaved herself. She performed as well as anyone could wish, even when George took the tiller, on a day of patchy cloud with islands of sunlight racing over the sea. It was a good day to be on the water. In the late morning George sat beside Charl in the cockpit, trying not to let their legs touch in the cramped space.
‘So tell me about this ghost, George.’
Charl had asked about that during their sailing lesson but George had brushed it away, embarrassed. Now, even sitting in Draca, that night didn’t seem as bad as it had at the time. Ghost stories go with dark evenings and low lighting, not with fine sailing weather when the wind hums through the rigging and blows everyone’s hair all over the place.
‘My mum used to say there are three kinds of ghost.’ George spoke to both of them, to make sure Jack was included. He was standing with one leg braced against the lee lockers, the other on the deck, and staring forwards like a helmsman should, but George could tell he was listening. Charl lay with her feet up on a bench and her back to the hatch.
‘Most ‘ghosts’ we build for ourselves, in our minds…’
Jack looked at George sharply.
‘…like people we’ve loved. I still think about my mum, f’rinstance.’
They fell into a trough so the hull made a small ‘boom’ against a wave, and spray hissed out over the water. They were clear of the shelter of Anfel Head, and picking up a bit of a sea from the easterly flow. Jack glanced up at his course and at the wind before staring at George agai
n. He looked hunky enough to make her forget her train of thought.
‘And?’
‘Only a few are dead people, condemned to relive a great sadness. They’re trapped. They can’t let go. They’re frightening but they can’t hurt you. Not unless the fright gives you a heart attack.’
‘That’s two.’ The way Jack was listening made George nervous. It was like she was answering an exam question, and George had never been good at those.
‘Exceptionally, you hear about the really evil ones. The ones that have will. “Volition”, Mum called it. They have the power to act. They can prey upon the living. They’re either nasty spirits or the ghosts of bad people who can’t find rest. She said they try to keep doing in death what they used to do in life.’
‘Gosh. Awesome.’ Charl’s eyes were big as she stared at George. ‘And have you seen any of those?’
‘Only one. About fifteen feet behind you.’
Charl squealed and spun onto her feet, staring down into the chart-room. George hadn’t meant to frighten her that much, but her reaction made George laugh. Even Jack smiled.
‘Sorry. Not now. The night we anchored.’
George must have been well relaxed to have joked about that. Charlotte sank back onto the bench, breathing hard with her hand to her throat.
‘How absolutely awful for you. Were you terribly frightened?’
So Jack hadn’t mentioned the details. ‘I freaked. Totally freaked.’
‘George, can you help me go about?’ Jack interrupted. ‘We’re going nowhere in this tide.’
George stood up, wondering if Jack was breaking the conversation to help her. Anfel Head was still on the quarter. They were close-hauled into a good westerly breeze, but had the tidal flow against them.
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