The Flame of Life

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

He’d had enough of John’s room. There was nothing more to think about, and not much else to say, and no one in any case to say it to. John was dead, and Handley had lost an elder brother, but the spirit of the world had not come to an end because of that. Life was renewable, even when the angels died. It had to be.

He came downstairs, and went out of the front door to get some fresh air. Pink, white and lemon-coloured roses were in full smooth bloom, scenting the heavy afternoon. Their sweetness cloyed at his nostrils.

On such a day the house and compound seemed to have drawn itself into an imperishable cocoon. The air surrounding it was electrified and brittle, as if one flint-spark only was needed to touch it off like a shell-burst. Maybe he was afraid. His lack of energy made him fear the end. His yen to ward off the rest of the world and protect only himself, Myra and Mark, was bad breath to him. It was a poor wish. He’d had it all along yet not been familiar with what it meant. To get rid of such an idea would mean setting off alone to some other country, thereby confirming that his native energy was not so snuffed out as he had felt it to be for a long time. But weren’t those days over for everyone?

He wanted to stay alive, but not by allowing any false desires to get the upper hand. You have to be practical, and think of others who depend on you, even when it seems that your spirit has reached the end. Walking into the yard, he noticed someone in the garage.

Richard saw him from the doorway. ‘Dawley’s coming. He’s spotted us.’

Handley was in the repair pit. ‘All right,’ he said to Adam, who was passing the last pack of notebooks, ‘We’ve just found ’em, and we’re getting ’em out.’

‘Understood,’ Adam said, taking the bundle back.

It was a useless and farcial run-around, and Handley was tired of it. The notebooks had turned up, had been seen to be worthless, and here they were caught in a whirlpool of subterfuge just to save somebody’s feelings. He wanted nothing more than to go back to his painting and forget the whole thing.

Dawley came in. ‘Any luck?’

‘If you can call it that,’ Handley said. ‘Adam and Richard stumbled on ’em down here. They’ve had time to read a couple.’

Dawley smiled. He too wanted to get back to work, though he was interested to know how they’d landed in the garage.

‘That’ll remain a mystery,’ said Handley. ‘Might as well forget it. No names, no pack drill.’

‘They’re not worth much,’ said Adam, when the last one came out of the pit. ‘Shelley may have practised revolution, but he didn’t write it. They’re only feeble attempts to write dirty stories.’ He pulled one from under the string and threw it to Frank, who took it to the entrance where a mirror on the open door reflected a better light.

‘Not that I’m against anybody writing pornography,’ Handley said, ‘as long as it’s good. I’ve done a bit myself, though I didn’t call it that. I turned out an album of Goyaesque drawings last year — one of them showed a man’s head up a woman’s cunt, I remember — cartoons of bodies and faces from all angles. Then this potty little Church of England windbag in Cheshire gets hold of one and writes me a whining letter about corrupting youth, though I suppose he wasn’t slow in letting his choirboys see them.’

Frank stopped listening. They were right. It was twisted, fly blown trash — a part of Shelley he’d never known about. Shelley’s socialism was fired in action, and presumably ended there. The revolutionary government would have shot him as he walked away from the victory parade. What he wrote in his private notebooks had been for amusement, or to resolve sexual problems which were his alone. He’d delved into a world of dreams and fantasies which weren’t latched in any way to valid ideas of human decency. Shelley was a practical man, and not an intellectual, otherwise his writings would have theorised about his realities and not dealt with such putrid stuff.

‘Satisfied?’ said Handley.

He handed the book back. Before looking into the garage, where Handley stood, he glanced at the mirror, which reflected enough of the yard for Maricarmen to be seen on the other side of it, standing calm and still, and pointing a gun straight at him.