Double Vision

Four

On Stephen Sharkey’s last night in London he went to the leaving party he hadn’t wanted to have, and ended up getting thoroughly drunk.

He woke at five the next morning with a mouth like a dustbin, and had to ferret around with his tongue to work up some spit before he felt human enough to stagger into the bathroom. One look in the mirror said it all. Lids crusted, eyelashes matted, the whites of his eyes criss-crossed with red veins, a Martian landscape. Contact lenses left in. After several painful attempts he managed to get them out.

He forced himself through washing and shaving, made coffee, ate two slices of dry toast for breakfast, then started to pack. He had a busy morning ahead of him, seeing his solicitor, then his publisher, and he couldn’t possibly do either looking like this.

On his way to the first appointment he stopped at a chemist’s, bought eyedrops and selected one of the few pairs of sunglasses they had in the shop. He looked, he thought, peering at himself in the mirror above the display stand, like a soon-to-be divorced, almost middleaged man, sweaty, frightened, uncool and desperate to prove he could still pull. Which, he informed his reflection waspishly, is exactly what you are.

By two o’clock he was on the train to Newcastle. He slept intermittently, woke, watched the backs of other people’s houses rush past, then travelled two hours through a rain-sodden landscape. Ploughed fields with flooded furrows like striations of sky. Once they stopped in the middle of nowhere, and a herd of cows came trudging over to the fence and stared at the train, chewing, in a mist of their own breath.

At the station he lugged his cases on to the platform and stood with them, one on either side, like inverted commas, he thought, drawing attention to the possible invalidity of the statement they enclose. Invalid, or invalid, whichever way you cared to pronounce it, that was how he felt. A man who’d sacrificed his marriage to his career, and, now that the marriage was over, had turned his back on the career as well. Stop beating yourself up, he told himself, shifting from foot to foot, but it was hard not to. He felt anxious, but that was partly the drink. If this cottage turned out to be too claustrophobic — too close to Robert, in other words — he could easily find somewhere else to live. And he wasn’t going to starve. He had a network of contacts. If the book took longer than three months to write, he could keep himself going on freelance work.

No sign of Robert. Just as Stephen was thinking he’d have to find a phone — he’d forgotten to charge his mobile just as he’d forgotten to take his contact lenses out — he caught sight of him, threading his way across the crowded concourse with that hospital doctor’s disguised run of his.

Striding towards Stephen, Robert opened his arms. They embraced, awkwardly, their preconceptions of each other failing to accommodate the reality of muscle and bone.

Robert held him at arm’s length, wincing and throwing his head back — a comment on the sunglasses.

Stephen took them off and ogled him.

‘Oh, my God, you look like a terrorist.’ He picked up one of the cases. ‘I’m parked just outside.’

Stephen followed him out of the station, head down into an icy wind that snatched the breath from his mouth. His trousers, too thin for the weather, flattened against his shins.

‘What you going to do for a car while you’re here?’ Robert asked, as he unlocked his own.

‘Buy one.’

‘Nerys got yours?’

‘Yup. To be fair she used it more than I did.’

Robert settled himself into the driving seat, hauling the belt across his chest. ‘How are you?’

‘Tired.’

‘Hung over.’

‘And tired.’

Robert turned the heater on, and within a few seconds Stephen felt himself start to grow drowsy. Blinking hard, he opened the window and gulped the moist air.

‘So that’s it, then?’ Robert said.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Last assignment.’

‘And you actually mean it this time?’

‘I’ve handed in my resignation.’

‘Because last time —’

‘It’s the same as any other business, Robert. You get typecast. When I got back from Afghanistan, I said, Right, that’s it, finished. I don’t want to do it any more. And everybody said, Right, fine. No problem. And the next thing I knew I was being measured for another flak jacket.’

Robert was smiling. ‘You could’ve refused.’

‘Yeah, if I didn’t mind not working.’

‘And where’s the flak jacket now?’

‘I don’t know. On a peg somewhere.’

‘Waiting to be worn.’

‘No.’ Stephen’s face felt numb as if he’d just come out of the dentist’s. He rubbed his cheeks and shivered inside the too-thin jacket. ‘How’s the family?’

‘Fine. Beth’s a lot happier now she’s got somebody reliable to look after Adam.’ He braked, drove slowly through a huge puddle, water curling up on either side of the car. ‘God help us if this lot freezes.’

Looking out over the sodden fields, Stephen was aware of winter in a way that he almost never was in London. There was a rhythmic squeal as the windscreen wipers swept to and fro, creating triangles on the mudspattered glass. Robert pulled out to overtake, and for a second the windscreen was blind, marbled with flung spray. Stephen made himself keep quiet, remembering how competitive they’d been as boys, how furious Robert had been when Stephen passed his driving test first time. Robert had managed it only at the second attempt.

‘So you’re definitely out of it?’

Why did everybody find it so hard to believe? ‘Yeah.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine. It’s the right time.’ Actually, he thought, not fine. More like an unshelled nut lying on the ground, any hope of future germination a lot less convincing than the prospect of being snuffled up by a passing pig. ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me and my problems. How are you?’

‘Fine.’

He hoped Robert’s ‘fines’ were a bit more honest than his, otherwise the whole bloody family was up the creek. But Robert was all right, of course he was. You only had to look at him — happiness and success oozing from every pore.

‘I’ve just applied for a research grant of three million pounds.’

‘What for?’

‘Possible treatments for Parkinson’s and dementia.’

When Stephen didn’t immediately reply, he added, with a slight edge, ‘I’m afraid my line of work’s a bit less glamorous than yours.’

Stephen was wondering if Robert had as many doubts about the coming weeks of proximity as he had himself. They’d never been close, even as boys, and since their mother’s death had met only at weddings and funerals. And yet, when he had rung Robert and told him his marriage was over and he needed somewhere to live, Robert offered the cottage, immediately, without hesitation. Shared genes, Robert would have said. The biological basis for altruism.

They were driving by the side of a lake, its water pockmarked by falling rain. A moorhen picked its way across the boggy ground and disappeared into the shadow of some willows whose bare branches overhung the water. Beyond the lake an immense dark stain of forest spread over the hillside. As they came closer, he could see that it was already dark beneath the trees, and would have been darkish even at noon. No life on the forest floor, or none that he could discern, though a sign warned of deer crossing. At intervals along the road there were small, crushed bundles of flesh and fur: rabbits, mainly, but here and there the gleaming iridescent plumage of a pheasant.

‘Carnage,’ Robert said. ‘The speed people drive through here. They’ve only got to hit a deer and it’d be the end of them.’

Robert’s house lay between the village and the forest. As they came out of the shadow of the trees, Stephen saw a grey stone farmhouse, appearing and disappearing with each bend in the road, fitting in so seamlessly with the surrounding fields that it scarcely seemed to have been made with human hands, but rather to have been thrown up by some natural process, like the granite boulders that littered the valley floor, left behind by a retreating glacier of the last Ice Age. Certainly it was less obviously a human artefact than the forest that crept over the hills towards it.

Robert turned up the drive and stopped in front of the house. Stephen got out, feeling surprisingly stiff, and stood awkwardly as his ten-year-old nephew, Adam, hurled himself over the threshold to hug his father. He didn’t seem to know when to stop, but simply crashed headlong into Robert’s chest. ‘Dad, Dad, I’ve found a badger.’

‘A dead one? Where?’

‘On the forest road.’

‘And you pulled him all the way back?’

‘I put him on a bin liner and dragged him.’ He was tugging at Robert’s sleeve to make him come and look.

‘Hey, hey. Say hello to Uncle Stephen.’

‘Hello,’ Adam said, but he was too shy to make eye contact and seemed to be hoping that if he didn’t look at Stephen he might disappear. ‘Dad.’

Robert let himself be tugged around the corner of the house and, not knowing what else to do, Stephen followed. A path led by the vegetable patch, where last year’s yellowing cabbage stalks stuck out of the muddy ground, white and flabby and marked at intervals with leaf scars like ringworm. A whiff of decay, which Stephen held his breath to avoid encountering, and then they were out on to a long sloping lawn that led down to a stand of trees — conifers of some kind, an advance guard of the invading forest.

The badger was sprawled on his back, legs splayed, a trickle of black blood running down from one side of his mouth. His fangs were bared, snarling at the car he’d seen too late. Bending over him, Stephen had the feeling that if you looked long enough into those golden eyes you’d see headlights on a road at night, just as earlier generations believed that a murderer’s image was preserved on the victim’s retina.

Robert knelt down on the grass and touched the pads of the front paw. ‘He’s still warm.’ He ran his hands across the thick pelt, frost-tipped hairs flattened by his hand springing up again as soon as it passed over them, as if they, at least, were still alive. ‘Poor old thing.’

Adam stood behind his shoulder, breathing heavily through his open mouth, excitement and the pride of discovery struggling with a sorrow he hadn’t known that he felt till now.

The January day was closing in. Stephen was intensely aware of them as three figures, three related figures, in a winter landscape, with the blank windows of the farmhouse behind them. Something to do with Robert’s hand resting on the badger’s pelt. His hand. Their father’s hand.

Even in this weather a column of ants was moving purposefully towards the trickle of blood.

‘He’ll keep overnight,’ Robert said, standing up.

‘Can you cut his head off, Dad?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s not that easy, cutting off heads. The neck ligaments are very strong.’

A machete would do it easily enough, Stephen thought, blinking the images away. Suddenly he wanted to be indoors, somewhere safe, away from the memories of long grass and the skulls you trip over in the dark.

‘Can’t we boil it?’

‘I think Mum might have something to say about that.’

Adam was squatting down, stroking the head. Stephen could see him lusting after the strong secret white structure underneath.

‘Let’s go and have tea, Adam,’ Robert said. ‘And I’ll see what I can do in the morning.’

He got Adam firmly by the shoulder and pushed him towards the house. But Stephen lingered for a moment, looking down at the badger, feeding off the raw power. Then, seeing Robert and Adam waiting for him by the patio door, he hurried up the lawn after them.

Beth was in the kitchen, beating oil and vinegar together in a bowl. She hadn’t so much aged since Stephen last saw her, as faded. Her features had blurred as if somebody had rubbed one of those enormous, squishy artist’s erasers across her face.

‘Hello, Stephen,’ she said briskly, offering her cheek to be kissed. ‘Have you seen the badger?’

‘Yes,’ Adam said.

Beth and Robert exchanged a glance above his head, the intimate, conspiratorial look of co-creators.

Robert said, ‘I think you’d better wash your hands, young man.’ He put a hand on Adam’s shoulder and steered him towards the door.

The adults stood around chatting, while Beth put the finishing touches to the meal. Odd, these meetings with relatives, Stephen thought. The long past stretching out behind you and yet, on the surface, a lack of things to talk about, the daily flotsam of life not available for picking over and comment. They talked about the spate of accidents on the railways, train delays, the foot-and-mouth epidemic that had devastated the local economy… And then, closer to home, how Beth was coping with her new job as a full-time hospital administrator. She’d only ever worked part time before, and she was finding the new job a strain. It took over an hour to get home in the evenings, so somebody had to collect Adam from school and stay with him till she got back.

‘It’s been better since Justine arrived. Mrs Todd just pulled out, no warning, and then Adam went down with chicken pox and of course I was going frantic, but then Robert remembered Justine.’ Beth dipped a ladle into the soup, her face open-pored and steamy in the heat. ‘And she’s been great, hasn’t she? Doesn’t do much housework, but frankly as long as Adam’s happy, I couldn’t care less about the housework. I can do that at the weekends.’

‘She’s very good with Adam,’ Robert said, taking the plates from under the grill where they’d been warming. ‘And he’s not easy.’

‘He’s not difficult,’ Beth said. She turned to Stephen. ‘Adam is a very, very rewarding child.’

Say no more, Stephen thought. He’d been a very, very rewarding child himself, in his day.

Beth served the soup. As they sat down at the table, Stephen asked, ‘Do you know Kate Frobisher?’

‘Yes,’ Robert said. ‘She was one of the judges for the Sci-Art competition, so I saw quite a bit of her for a while.’

‘What’s she like?’

Robert shrugged. ‘Cheerful. Down to earth. Loves her house. Of course, this was all before Ben died.’

‘That house is enormous,’ Beth said. ‘And she’s on her own now. I’d be terrified if it were me.’ She handed the bread round. ‘You knew Ben, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, quite well.’

‘I’m surprised you don’t know her, then.’

‘Ben didn’t spend all that much time in London. I have met her once or twice. But I’d like to use some of his photographs for the book, so I’ll need to go and see her.’

‘She lives, what, about five miles away?’ Robert said.

‘About that,’ Beth said. ‘Oh, and I think you might find her in a surgical collar. She had quite a nasty accident a bit back.’

‘But she’s all right?’

‘As far as we know,’ Robert said.

‘She is,’ Beth said. ‘I bumped into her in the hospital. She comes in for physiotherapy twice a week.’

All this time Adam had been sitting quietly, dipping hunks of bread into his soup but not eating much. He kept pulling at his ears like a much younger child, and clawing at his arms where a few chicken-pox scabs still lingered.

‘He’s tired,’ Beth said, following the direction of Stephen’s gaze.

‘No, I’m not.’

‘So you like animals?’ Stephen asked.

Not looking at him, Adam wriggled acknowledgement.

‘What kind do you like best?’

Adam thought. ‘Dead ones.’

‘He collects bones,’ Robert put in quickly. ‘Going to be an orthopaedic surgeon, I expect.’

Or a serial killer. ‘What’s the best one you’ve got?’

‘Human femurs. Dad gave them to me, didn’t you, Dad?’

Robert smiled. ‘Do you remember, Dad had them up in the attic? It’s amazing, isn’t it? You couldn’t be that casual today.’

‘I remember we used to play pirates with them.’

Even this shared memory brought with it a slight constraint. Robert had followed their father into medicine, whereas he’d gone off at a tangent, pursuing a career that nobody in the family had much respected.

‘You could show Stephen your collection,’ Beth said. ‘After tea.’

Adam nodded, scratching inside his T-shirt.

‘Don’t do that, you’ll break the skin,’ Robert said.

Adam kept still, until the adults started talking again, and then, out of the corner of his eye, Stephen saw him slide his hand inside the T-shirt and rub at his skin again. Poor kid.

After coffee, Beth went upstairs with Adam to put some kind of soothing ointment on the scabs. After she’d gone, Robert raised his eyebrows at Stephen. ‘Do you know, I think I might have a drink. Would you like one?’

‘If you don’t mind,’ he said awkwardly, ‘I think I’d rather have a bath and settle in.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Since Stephen had brought two suitcases and a laptop, Robert drove the short distance down the lane to the cottage. Frost glittered on every twig of the hawthorn hedge that enclosed the small front garden. Stephen stamped his feet, breath pluming round his face, while Robert bent to unlock the door. Above their heads, bare branches netted a shoal of stars.

‘You haven’t brought much with you,’ Robert said, looking at the cases.

‘No, well, I didn’t leave home with much. Nerys’s storing most of it.’

‘Oh, so it’s pretty amicable, then?’

‘Huh! I don’t know about that.’

They went into the hall. ‘You’ll find a few basic things in the cupboards. The fire’s been on all day, so it should be warmed through.’

A low door led into the living room, so low that even Robert, who was a couple of inches shorter than Stephen, had to duck to get through. Stephen bent his head and followed.

A stone fireplace, a huge fire blazing in the grate, logs piled high in baskets on either side.

‘You can buy more logs,’ Robert said. ‘There’s a sawmill just up the road, about three miles, but there’s a coal-house round the side’ — he gestured vaguely — ‘and you’ll find enough there for a couple of weeks.’

The log on the fire had burnt almost to ash, its side creased and cracked like elephant skin. Robert bent down and put another log on top of it. Sparks flew up, and for a moment his face became a bronze mask, and then, as the green wood spat and smoked, darkened to grey. He stood up, scuffing wood chips from his palms.

‘This is ideal,’ Stephen said, looking round.

‘You should be able to work, at least. It’s quiet enough.’ He seemed to be debating whether to say anything more. At last he said, ‘Stephen, are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, Robert, honestly. Just a bit tired.’

They looked at each other, slightly awkward, aware of the silence, then somewhere at the back of the cottage an owl hooted. As if this were a signal, Robert said, ‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’