saw there was hardship ahead, and even though it would not involve death or starvation, it was important to know that he could endure and make the best of things. At first the quilt seemed surprisingly thick and soft; he was delighted that enduring was so easy. It just didn’t seem very easy to sleep at the same time.
The heat didn’t help. Byron lay on top of the covers and unbuttoned his pyjama top. He was beginning to doze when the bells struck ten across Cranham Moor and he was awake again. He heard his mother switch off her music in the living room and her slight footsteps on the stairs, the click of her bedroom door, and then the stillness that followed. No matter which way he turned, or plumped up his covers, his soft flesh found the hard surfaces. The silence was so loud, he couldn’t think how people slept. He heard the foxes on the moor. He heard the owl, the crickets, and sometimes the house gave a creak, or even a thump. Byron fumbled for his torch and snapped it on and off, on and off, casting its light up and down the walls and curtains, in case there were burglars outside. The familiar shapes of his bedroom leapt in and out of the dark. No matter how hard he tried to close his eyes, all he could think about was danger. He would be bruised all over in the morning.
It was then that Byron understood. In order to save his mother, it wasn’t enough to keep quiet about the Jaguar. It wasn’t enough to endure. He must think what James would do. He must be logical. What he needed was a plan.
8
An Exit
B EYOND THE SUPERMARKET window, the snow cloud looks so heavy it’s a wonder it’s still up in the sky. Jim imagines it collapsing to the moor with a thud. He pictures it punctured open, spilling white over the hills, and he smiles. And then almost as soon as he has that thought, another follows, and he doesn’t know why but this second one is like a jab in the solar plexus. He can hardly breathe.
Despite the years he has lost, sometimes a memory flies back. It can be very small, the detail that sparks a piece of his past. Glancing at it, another person might not look twice. And yet an insignificant detail can zoom out of its ordinary setting and induce such sorrow he feels twisted inside.
It was a winter afternoon like this, long ago, when they discharged him from Besley Hill the first time. He was nineteen. There was a powdery capping of snow on the moor. He stood watching it from the window while the duty nurse fetched his suitcase and then his blue gaberdine coat. He had to wrestle to fit the coat round his shoulders. When he tried to findthe sleeves, it caught his arms behind his back like a strap and bit into his armpits.
‘It looks as if you’re going to need a bigger size,’ said the nurse, looking up at him. And that was when it occurred to him how long he had been there. She told him to go to the waiting room. He sat alone with the coat on his lap. He folded it into the shape of a small pet and stroked the soft lining. He hadn’t been in the waiting room since they carried him through on the day he arrived and it confused him because he didn’t know any more what he was. He wasn’t a patient; he was better. But he didn’t know yet what that meant exactly. When the nurse reappeared, she looked surprised. ‘How come you’re still here?’ she said.
‘I’m waiting for someone to fetch me.’
She said she was sure his parents would be here soon. She offered Jim a cup of tea.
He was thirsty and he would have liked tea, but he was thinking about his parents and he couldn’t speak. He could hear the nurse singing from the kitchen while she boiled the kettle for herself. It was an easy sound as if everything in her life was all right. He could even hear the little clink of a teaspoon in her mug. He tried to practise things he might talk about with other people. Fishing, for instance. He had overheard the doctors talk about that, just as he had overheard the nurses talk about going to a
The heat didn’t help. Byron lay on top of the covers and unbuttoned his pyjama top. He was beginning to doze when the bells struck ten across Cranham Moor and he was awake again. He heard his mother switch off her music in the living room and her slight footsteps on the stairs, the click of her bedroom door, and then the stillness that followed. No matter which way he turned, or plumped up his covers, his soft flesh found the hard surfaces. The silence was so loud, he couldn’t think how people slept. He heard the foxes on the moor. He heard the owl, the crickets, and sometimes the house gave a creak, or even a thump. Byron fumbled for his torch and snapped it on and off, on and off, casting its light up and down the walls and curtains, in case there were burglars outside. The familiar shapes of his bedroom leapt in and out of the dark. No matter how hard he tried to close his eyes, all he could think about was danger. He would be bruised all over in the morning.
It was then that Byron understood. In order to save his mother, it wasn’t enough to keep quiet about the Jaguar. It wasn’t enough to endure. He must think what James would do. He must be logical. What he needed was a plan.
8
An Exit
B EYOND THE SUPERMARKET window, the snow cloud looks so heavy it’s a wonder it’s still up in the sky. Jim imagines it collapsing to the moor with a thud. He pictures it punctured open, spilling white over the hills, and he smiles. And then almost as soon as he has that thought, another follows, and he doesn’t know why but this second one is like a jab in the solar plexus. He can hardly breathe.
Despite the years he has lost, sometimes a memory flies back. It can be very small, the detail that sparks a piece of his past. Glancing at it, another person might not look twice. And yet an insignificant detail can zoom out of its ordinary setting and induce such sorrow he feels twisted inside.
It was a winter afternoon like this, long ago, when they discharged him from Besley Hill the first time. He was nineteen. There was a powdery capping of snow on the moor. He stood watching it from the window while the duty nurse fetched his suitcase and then his blue gaberdine coat. He had to wrestle to fit the coat round his shoulders. When he tried to findthe sleeves, it caught his arms behind his back like a strap and bit into his armpits.
‘It looks as if you’re going to need a bigger size,’ said the nurse, looking up at him. And that was when it occurred to him how long he had been there. She told him to go to the waiting room. He sat alone with the coat on his lap. He folded it into the shape of a small pet and stroked the soft lining. He hadn’t been in the waiting room since they carried him through on the day he arrived and it confused him because he didn’t know any more what he was. He wasn’t a patient; he was better. But he didn’t know yet what that meant exactly. When the nurse reappeared, she looked surprised. ‘How come you’re still here?’ she said.
‘I’m waiting for someone to fetch me.’
She said she was sure his parents would be here soon. She offered Jim a cup of tea.
He was thirsty and he would have liked tea, but he was thinking about his parents and he couldn’t speak. He could hear the nurse singing from the kitchen while she boiled the kettle for herself. It was an easy sound as if everything in her life was all right. He could even hear the little clink of a teaspoon in her mug. He tried to practise things he might talk about with other people. Fishing, for instance. He had overheard the doctors talk about that, just as he had overheard the nurses talk about going to a
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