Long Lankin: Stories

Sanctuary

Julie awoke in the chill October morning to find the air before her face finely traced with a web of blood. In the day’s first terror she reached out blindly beside her. The bed was empty. She whimpered, but already the mist had begun to fade from her eyes. She lay back on the pillow and wiped the sweat from her lips, from the hollows of her eyes. On the ceiling above her, light moved and flowed, reflections from the sea below her window. She got out of bed, a hand in her damp hair. She pushed her feet into slippers, untangled a knot in the sash of her nightgown, stood up unsteadily. Another day, the last, another day.

From the bathroom she went down the stairs, buttoning her blouse. She paused on the last step. Helen was in the living room, sitting on the couch by the window, looking out. Light invaded the room through the long window, soft light from the sea, it touched the legs of the table, glowing, and fell among Helen’s dark hair. Her hand was raised to her cheek, and in the long white fingers a cheroot burned silently, sending up into the cool sea light a narrow line of smoke. Julie said:

— I dreamed all night of something following me.

Helen did not move, but went on looking toward the beach and the morning sea. Only the silent line of smoke wavered in its course, and then was still again. Julie’s eyes narrowed, and her voice was hard when she said:

— And today I’m bleeding. I’m glad this is all finished.

Helen stood up slowly, and slowly turned.

— Why do you say that?

Julie crossed the room and sat down on the couch. Staring at the space between her feet she found a cigarette and fumbled it nervously to her mouth. She left it unlit. Helen looked down at her, faintly smiling, and asked again:

— Why do you say that, Julie?

In the silence both seemed to be pulling on some frail, invisible cord stretched between them. Julie said:

— Where were you when I needed you? Where? You know I can’t wake up alone. You know that. You left me there to wake in that awful room with not a sound anywhere. I hate this place.

Helen looked at the cheroot, holding it upright to save the long tip of ash. She said:

— I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would wake so early. You don’t usually wake so early, do you?

Julie lifted her hands, examined them, and put them away again.

— I have to get out, she said.

Helen went and stood at the window, saying:

— Then you won’t come back to university?

— No.

— You mean that? You have decided? You won’t take the degree?

— No.

— That will be … a pity, Helen said carefully.

Julie closed her eyes and lay back on the couch. After a moment she said in a strange, flat voice, as though reciting a lesson:

— I want to get married. I want to have a baby. My mother worries about me. She asks what are my plans. What are your plans? she asks. What can I tell her? I’m not like you. I’m weak. I feel sorry for her. I want to tell her there’s someone. That everything is all right. But what have I to tell her?

She stood up and wandered about the room, turning away from the barrier of each wall with a look of pain.

— Three months we have been here, she said in wonder. Three months and so much has changed. Helen, why do things change?

Helen looked out at the sea. The sun glittered on the water blue as ice. Far out on the sound a flock of gulls was attacking something that floated there, they fell and turned and lifted with the light on their wings, bright birds. Two sails of yachts lay slanted into the wind.

— You will need someone to be there when you wake up, Helen said. You will need someone for that.

— I don’t know. Is it cold out today?

— It’s a nice day.

— I’ll go for a walk. Yes. A walk. My bags are packed.

— Yes. Julie.

— What?

— Will you be coming back to the flat?

— Maybe I’ll go away.

There was a pause, and once again Julie spread her hands before her and looked at them absently. She said:

— A degree would be useless to me.

— You were a good pupil, Helen murmured. We got along well.

— It was because you were young. It made a difference to have a young professor.

— But I got through to you.

— Yes.

— I felt that I was getting through to you.

— Yes.

— I’m glad you think that.

— Perhaps I’ll go away, Julie said again.

Into the silence between them the small sounds of the sea filtered slowly, the sea which had whispered and sighed through the long nights of the summer. Helen pressed her palms against the glass.

— I’m going for a walk now, Julie said.

Outside, the air struck her like a blade. She walked along the verandah, her sandals knocking on the loose planks, then crossed the tiny garden to the beach. The sand was pockmarked from the night’s rain, and near the waves the prints of gulls pointed outward across the sound. A clear, chill wind blew from the islands, carrying against her face the faint perfumes of heather and pine. She looked back to the cottage, at the figure in the dimness of the window watching her, and as she turned a movement on the rocks at the end of the beach caught her eye. A figure, black against the sun, was coming toward her. In the sky above her head a bird screamed, and its shadow brushed her shoulder. The window was empty now. She felt the black claw of terror at her throat, and she turned and ran back across the garden.

The screen door was locked, and she shook it frantically.

— Helen. Helen.

The door opened, and as she stepped quickly inside Helen looked at her with mild curiosity.

— What is it, Julie?

— Nothing. I … nothing.

She went into the living-room, and Helen followed, watching her. She sat on the couch and squeezed her hands between her knees. Helen stood above her and put a gentle hand on her hair.

— What’s wrong, Julie?

— I don’t know. Something … strange. I saw someone.

— Who did you see?

— Someone. I don’t know.

She began to tremble. Helen looked up to the window and slowly smiled.

— Look, Julie. There’s who you saw. Look.

Julie turned. Beyond the glass glaring with light someone was moving, a hand was raised, signalling.

— Don’t let it in, she breathed, her fingers tearing at each other. Lock the door, Helen.

But Helen was gone. Julie looked away from the window and held her face in her hands. After what seemed a long time she lifted her head, hearing sounds about her.

— Julie. Julie. We have a visitor, Julie, look.

Helen was there before her, smiling, and beside her a stranger.

— Who are you? Julie asked in a small, dead voice.

He was young, not more than eighteen or nineteen, a tall, heavily built boy with a shock of red hair flowing up and away from his forehead. He wore a blue shirt open at the neck, and faded denims. With his hands on his hips he stood and watched her, his wide, handsome face composed and expressionless. He asked:

— Why were you frightened of me, Julie?

She looked from one of them to the other, searching their faces.

— What do you want here? she asked.

— I came to say goodbye to you, he said. You’re going away and I came to say goodbye.

She shook her head and looked appealingly at Helen.

— What does he want, Helen?

— He came to say goodbye to us.

— But I don’t know him, she wailed.

The boy laughed, and shook the flaming hair away from his forehead. He lit one of Helen’s cheroots and sat down on the couch. Julie moved away from him, and he smiled sardonically at her. Helen put her hands on her knees and leaned down to gaze silently into Julie’s face. The boy asked:

— Are you sleeping well now, Julie? Do you sleep well?

She did not answer, and he went on:

— Why can’t you sleep, Julie?

Again silence. He shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the couch he walked about the room, examining it here and there. Julie followed him with her eyes. Helen reached forward and touched her cheek lightly and then went to stand again at the window. Julie’s lips began to move, and she said:

— I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the dark.

The boy stopped in the middle of the floor.

— Well you should leave a light burning. With a light there would be no darkness and then you would not be afraid. Would you?

Julie looked down helplessly at her hands where they lay like dead things in her lap. Without turning, Helen murmured:

— Not that kind of darkness.

— I see, the boy said. Yes I see.

Julie’s hands moved, and she smiled at them.

— You see, I’m afraid that I won’t wake up and yet I’m afraid of waking too. Sometimes I think there is something in the room. Some animal sitting on its haunches in the corner watching me. And I’m afraid.

The boy ambled out the door, and from the next room he called:

— What kind of animal? In the corner, Julie, what kind of animal is it?

— I don’t know, she whispered.

— What? What did you say, Julie?

Helen left the window and sat down in an armchair in the corner. One half of her face now lay in shadow, and Julie looked away from the still, single eye watching her. The boy came back and leaned against the door frame, his arms folded.

— There are some strange things in this house. Shaving lotion. I found shaving lotion.

— I like the perfume, Helen said. I prefer it.

— Ah. You prefer it. But there are other things. In the bathroom.

Helen suddenly laughed, and the sound of her laughter seemed to shake the room. The boy sat again beside Julie. This time she did not move away. She was gazing in a trance at her knees. The boy ran a hand through his hair and said:

— Last year there was a girl here. In this house. She was alone. A very strange girl with blue eyes. I don’t think she was Irish. Maybe English. I came to see her. She used to talk too about things following her. Threatening her. I came every day to see her. I listened to her and she said it made her feel better that I listened to her. One day I found her sitting on the floor crying. I asked her what was wrong and she said she was afraid of the sea. I wanted to teach her how to swim and she said that once she could swim and was a strong swimmer but now she had forgotten. She couldn’t swim now.

There was silence but for the cries of birds out on the sound. At last Julie asked:

— What happened?

— What?

— The girl. What happened to her? Was she drowned?

— Drowned? No. She went away, I think. But I don’t think she was drowned.

Julie stood up and went toward the stairs, her head bent and her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

— Where are you going? Helen said.

— I’m going to … to lie down for a little while. Just a little while. I’m so tired. It’s strange.

In the bedroom she lay with her hands folded on her breast and listened to their voices. Once they laughed, and in a while all was silence. She watched the reflections of the water above her on the ceiling. They seemed to have but one pattern which constantly formed, dissolved, and reformed again. A small wind came in from the sea and murmured against the window, and the curtains moved with a small scraping sound. Her eyelids fell. She struggled against sleep, but the strange weariness she felt was greater than her fear. She watched in fascinated horror her mind drift into the darkness, floating away with the small sounds of the sea, the distant crying of the birds.

— Helen. Helen.

A voice was screaming, but no call came in answer. The room seemed filled with a white mist that pressed heavily against her eyes. She left the bed and opened the door. A vast, deep silence lay on the house, a silence which seemed to hold in it the inaudible hum of a tremendous machine. She moved to the top of the stairs and sat on the first step. From here she could see into the living room. They were down there, on the couch. She leaned against the banister and watched, listening in awe to the strange sounds, the terrifying sounds. There was a faint warm smell, like the smell of blood and bones. She fled into the bathroom, and there she was sick. When the nausea passed she lowered herself to the floor and leaned her face against the cool enamel of the bath. She wept.

There were footsteps on the stairs, the sound of a door opening quietly, more steps, a voice.

Julie. What are you doing here?

Crying out, she opened her eyes, then turned away her face. Helen ran her fingers through her unruly air, and looked down helplessly at the girl huddled before her in terror. She reached down, and taking her under the arms lifted her to her feet.

— Julie, what is the matter with you?

— Has he gone?

— What? Are you hurt? Take your hands away and let me look at you. You haven’t taken anything, have you?

Julie, her fingers pressing her eyes, began to moan. Helen pulled open the door of the cabinet above the handbasin and checked swiftly through the bottles there. She said in exasperation:

— This will have to stop, Julie. You’re behaving like a child. You are looking for attention. Are you listening to me?

But Julie went on moaning. She sat on the edge of the bath now, her shoulders trembling. Helen threw up her hands and groaned at the ceiling.

— You’re impossible, she cried, and left the room. Down the stairs Julie’s cries followed her.

— You hate me! You hate me! You want to see me dead!

Helen went to the window and with trembling fingers lit a cheroot. This would have to stop.

She crushed out the cheroot with a savage twist of her fingers and went into the empty room where their cases were stored. Gasping with the effort she hauled them out and piled them on the couch. Julie came down the stairs, and Helen worked steadily on, pretending not to notice her.

— Don’t leave me, Helen, she said mournfully.

Helen paused, but did not turn. She said:

— We have to leave today, Julie.

— I know.

— And then you’re going away. You decided, didn’t you?

— You decided. You did. I decided nothing. It was you!

Helen beat her fists on the battered case before her, then ran a hand over her forehead, her mouth.

— O Julie Julie Julie.

She turned, and they looked at each other. Julie lowered her eyes and pulled in the corners of her mouth. She touched the cases piled before her, her face betraying an ill-controlled, frantic incomprehension of these square, heavy things. Helen said gently:

— We’re leaving today, Julie. You haven’t forgotten. It’s what you want. You want to leave here, don’t you? The summer is over.

Julie nodded dumbly, and stepped back from the couch. She lifted her hands and opened her mouth to speak, then turned away in silence. As she went to the door Helen watched her, and shook her head.

Julie stood in the doorway and looked out across the sound. The brittle autumn sunlight danced on the water and the far islands seemed to shift and tremble in their distance. Helen came behind her and touched the down on her neck. Julie started, and as though the touch had sprung some hidden switch she began to speak tonelessly.

— I want to get married. I want to have a baby.

— Of course you do.

— My mother worries about me. She asks what are my plans. What can I tell her? And I’m weak. I feel sorry for her. I want to tell her I’ve found someone. That everything is all right. That everything is … all right.

She sighed, and turned back to the room. With her hands against the door frame she halted. Helen spoke to her, but she was not listening. A bird called to her across the reaches of the sea. Helen took Julie’s face in her hands, and covered her ears with her palms, and in this new silence Julie seemed to hear vaguely someone screaming, a ghost voice familiar yet distant, as though it were coming from beyond the frontiers of sleep.