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Authors: Christobel Kent
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inside her head. Not the whole family.
‘Maybe,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t know, was that here?’ What else had he said? She took another gulp and to her surprise the glass was already empty. Paul’s pint hardly touched. ‘I suppose when you’re as old as him it doesn’t seem so long ago,’ she said.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Paul, frowning. ‘Thirteen years? A third of my life. Something like that. Half yours.’ He glanced across at the bar. ‘Maybe it seems like last week to him.’
At the bar Stephen Bray was mumbling to himself and the landlord was looking at him with distaste. The sound was malevolent, suddenly, he wasn’t an innocent any longer, not a harmless eccentric, these were the mutterings of a madman, reflected in Ron’s stiff red face. It was the sound that had filled her ears as she crouched beside her father’s body, the sound of the invisible mob pressing against the walls. Had the sound been in her head, in the hall with them, or had there been someone out there, all that time?
The last one to see him.
‘There seems to be one a week, these days, men killing their kids.’ She heard her voice, sad, lost.
‘He did say you were pretty, though,’ said Paul, trying for light-hearted. He took her hand. ‘Maybe there’s hope for him.’
‘Can we go?’ Alison said stiffly. Letting go of her hand Paul looked at his drink in surprise. She pushed back her chair andthe woman dangling her sandals at the bar looked over at the sound. Paul stood and half-drained his glass, and it seemed to Alison as though the bar stilled to watch them leave.
She walked fast in the dark, a buzzing in her ears, Paul at her side keeping up in silence. At the village sign she slowed fractionally and he put a warning arm on her elbow. ‘What’s got into you?’ he asked, and she stopped. She was out of breath.
‘I just … just … it’s been a long day,’ she said. ‘That place wasn’t exactly welcoming.’
‘There’s something else,’ he said, his hand on her elbow.
She placed herself in front of him, hip to hip, blocking him.
‘Let’s get to bed, shall we?’ she said boldly, and in the dark she lifted her face to his.
He said not a word, but once in the room he averted his face from hers as he undressed. The kiss he’d given her on the edge of the village had been cool, as light and dry as a shed snakeskin. She took the slip from her suitcase and laid it on the chair, but he didn’t look or comment.
‘You’re right,’ he said, turning on his side as she climbed into bed naked. The heaped pillows were on the floor and his shoulder was towards her; he reached a hand back and squeezed hers gently, then let it go. ‘Let’s just get some sleep.’
She lay in the dark, her body electric all down its length, sounding its alarm. The old man, Paul, the wedding, this place. This place.
Chapter Nine
Theycame in the night, thick and fast: images, pictures, names, places all returning, stepping up to her out of the darkness. The bad things that had happened here before the one great catastrophic thing, her big bang, had wiped them from her conscious mind. Beyond the window in the night, among the houses and lanes and hedges, the poplars and the reed beds, all the way down to the estuary the village stirred and whispered, reminding her. It seemed to Alison that she didn’t sleep for a minute, the curtains at the big arched window weren’t lined and she saw the leaded pattern of the glass through them, she listed the horrors.
A baby died. It had got on to the front page of the local newspaper.
Newborn dead in blaze.
Eyes closed she knew the house, down to the colour of the front door and the littered front garden. The child’s father howling abuse on his doorstep before collapsing. Mum in tears over the newspaper on the kitchen table, looking up at Dad.
An uncertain summer’s day, hot but cloud thickening on the horizon, a sticky Sunday afternoon and trippers watchingthe
‘Maybe,’ she said vaguely. ‘I don’t know, was that here?’ What else had he said? She took another gulp and to her surprise the glass was already empty. Paul’s pint hardly touched. ‘I suppose when you’re as old as him it doesn’t seem so long ago,’ she said.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ said Paul, frowning. ‘Thirteen years? A third of my life. Something like that. Half yours.’ He glanced across at the bar. ‘Maybe it seems like last week to him.’
At the bar Stephen Bray was mumbling to himself and the landlord was looking at him with distaste. The sound was malevolent, suddenly, he wasn’t an innocent any longer, not a harmless eccentric, these were the mutterings of a madman, reflected in Ron’s stiff red face. It was the sound that had filled her ears as she crouched beside her father’s body, the sound of the invisible mob pressing against the walls. Had the sound been in her head, in the hall with them, or had there been someone out there, all that time?
The last one to see him.
‘There seems to be one a week, these days, men killing their kids.’ She heard her voice, sad, lost.
‘He did say you were pretty, though,’ said Paul, trying for light-hearted. He took her hand. ‘Maybe there’s hope for him.’
‘Can we go?’ Alison said stiffly. Letting go of her hand Paul looked at his drink in surprise. She pushed back her chair andthe woman dangling her sandals at the bar looked over at the sound. Paul stood and half-drained his glass, and it seemed to Alison as though the bar stilled to watch them leave.
She walked fast in the dark, a buzzing in her ears, Paul at her side keeping up in silence. At the village sign she slowed fractionally and he put a warning arm on her elbow. ‘What’s got into you?’ he asked, and she stopped. She was out of breath.
‘I just … just … it’s been a long day,’ she said. ‘That place wasn’t exactly welcoming.’
‘There’s something else,’ he said, his hand on her elbow.
She placed herself in front of him, hip to hip, blocking him.
‘Let’s get to bed, shall we?’ she said boldly, and in the dark she lifted her face to his.
He said not a word, but once in the room he averted his face from hers as he undressed. The kiss he’d given her on the edge of the village had been cool, as light and dry as a shed snakeskin. She took the slip from her suitcase and laid it on the chair, but he didn’t look or comment.
‘You’re right,’ he said, turning on his side as she climbed into bed naked. The heaped pillows were on the floor and his shoulder was towards her; he reached a hand back and squeezed hers gently, then let it go. ‘Let’s just get some sleep.’
She lay in the dark, her body electric all down its length, sounding its alarm. The old man, Paul, the wedding, this place. This place.
Chapter Nine
Theycame in the night, thick and fast: images, pictures, names, places all returning, stepping up to her out of the darkness. The bad things that had happened here before the one great catastrophic thing, her big bang, had wiped them from her conscious mind. Beyond the window in the night, among the houses and lanes and hedges, the poplars and the reed beds, all the way down to the estuary the village stirred and whispered, reminding her. It seemed to Alison that she didn’t sleep for a minute, the curtains at the big arched window weren’t lined and she saw the leaded pattern of the glass through them, she listed the horrors.
A baby died. It had got on to the front page of the local newspaper.
Newborn dead in blaze.
Eyes closed she knew the house, down to the colour of the front door and the littered front garden. The child’s father howling abuse on his doorstep before collapsing. Mum in tears over the newspaper on the kitchen table, looking up at Dad.
An uncertain summer’s day, hot but cloud thickening on the horizon, a sticky Sunday afternoon and trippers watchingthe
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