The Glister Part 7

I knew what he was trying to work out, but I didn't care about that now. I didn't care about his gang; I'd never asked to belong to it anyway. I'd wanted to find out about Liam and the other boys and that was all. Now it was finished. I looked back at Rivers and he wasn't moving at all. Maybe he hadn't been moving before, maybe I'd just imagined it.

Finally, Tone breaks the silence. "You f.u.c.king killed him," he says, though not really to me. He looks at Jimmy. "He's f.u.c.king killed him, Jimmy."

Jimmy shakes his head. "Nah," he says. "He's not killed killed him." He walks over to where Rivers is lying motionless in the corner. him." He walks over to where Rivers is lying motionless in the corner. "You're "You're not dead, are you, mate?" he says. He prods Rivers with his foot. The guy doesn't move. Jimmy shakes his head and ponders the scene for a minute. "You know what?" he says, turning back to Tone. not dead, are you, mate?" he says. He prods Rivers with his foot. The guy doesn't move. Jimmy shakes his head and ponders the scene for a minute. "You know what?" he says, turning back to Tone.

"What, Jimmy?"

"I think he's f.u.c.king killed him," Jimmy says, then he bursts out laughing. Only it isn't funny ha-ha laughing, it's funny peculiar. Like he's just seen some sketch on TV that he isn't sure is funny or weird, or maybe just stupid. He looks at me. "Look what you've gone and done, Leonard," he says.

Eddie laughs then, just one daft laugh, more nerves than anything else. "b.u.g.g.e.r me," she says. "I just worked out who he looks like."

Jimmy turns to her. "What do you mean, you just figured out who he looks like?" he says. "He doesn't look like anything now, does he?"

"Hamburger," Tone says.

"What?"

"He looks like hamburger," Tone says. "That's what he looks like."

Jimmy looks scandalized. "Well," he says, "that's not very nice, is it?"

"What do you mean, that's not very nice?" Tone says. "It wasn't me me what done it." what done it."

"No," Jimmy said, giving me a quick, sideways look. "It was Leonard. Leonard. Still, you shouldn't speak ill of the dead." Still, you shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

Eddie laughs again. "No," she says, "I don't mean what he looks like now. now. I mean, who he I mean, who he used used to look like." to look like."

This makes Jimmy and Tone laugh. I don't know what Mickey is thinking. He's just standing there, looking at Rivers. He looks a bit disappointed, though it might be dismay. Maybe he thinks he's going to get into trouble. "All right," Jimmy says. "Who did he used to look like, before he looked like hamburger?"

Eddie turns and goes over to the far corner. She points at a picture on the wall, above the little desk. "Him," she says. "Psycho." "Psycho."

Slowly, with genuine curiosity, Jimmy and Tone move over too, leaving Mickey still staring at the body. They stand with Eddie, examining a tatty magazine photograph that's been glued to the wall among all the stamps and s.h.i.t. "Oh yeah," Tone says.

Eddie is pleased. She does a tiny dance, like she wants to go wee-wee, then she lets out a microscopic high squeal. "I told you told you he looked like somebody," she says. "It's the he looked like somebody," she says. "It's the Psycho Psycho guy. What's his name?" guy. What's his name?"

"Anthony Hopkins," Tone says.

Eddie squeals again, a little higher up the scale. "That's him," she says.

"That's not Anthony Hopkins," Jimmy says. "He's the Silence of the Lambs Silence of the Lambs bloke." bloke."

"Who is it, then?" Eddie says. She looks disappointed. I think for a minute she is going to cry. But then, I think we are all on the verge of tears, or something, by now.

"Anthony Hopkins is the Welsh bloke," Jimmy says. "This guy isn't Welsh." He turns to me. "Tell them, Leonard."

I think about just going then, but I feel too sad to go. I want to cry. I hadn't meant to hurt the bloke. I just wanted it to be finished. I hope he understood that. "It's Anthony Perkins," I say. "He was the guy in Psycho. Psycho. Anthony Perkins." Anthony Perkins."

"That's right," Jimmy says. "Anthony Perkins." He turns to Eddie, who still looks like she needs cheering up. "You're right, though," he says. "This guy looks just like him."

Eddie grins.

"Looked, you mean," Tone says.

"Yeah." Jimmy stares at Tone for a minute, with the air of having just realized something then he turns and looks at Rivers. "Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he says.

Tone nods. "Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he says.

Jimmy walks back to the far corner and stands over the motionless body. "This bloke didn't deserve this," he says. He bows his head as if in prayer. Mickey joins him. Eddie and Tone hesitate a moment, wondering if this is a spoof or something, then they bow their heads-at which Jimmy immediately looks up. "You know what," he says. "I think Leonard was right. I don't think this is our bloke. Was." He looks at me. "You killed the wrong bloke, Leonard," he says; then, without waiting to see what I will say in reply, he looks back to Rivers.

The others stand watching, waiting to see what he will do next. They are all tired and sad now and they look lost, as if in shock. Or maybe remorse has set in. Jimmy stands silent a moment longer, head bowed; then he turns to the others with a strange new light in his face. "We'll have to raise him up," he says.

"What?" It's me speaking, it's my own shocked, maybe disgusted voice that I hear, though I'd had no intention of saying anything.

Jimmy looks at me; his eyes are shining. "Like Jesus," he says. "I mean, you're a Bible reader, Leonard. Everybody knows that."

"What are you talking about?" I say.

"We'll raise him up," Jimmy says. "Shouldn't be too hard. If we get it right, he'll be good as new in three days' time."

Eddie jumps up and down and makes her odd high squealing sound. "What do we do?" she says. "What do we have to do?"

Tone looks a bit lost. "Yeah, Jimmy," he says, his voice low and worried. "What do we do?" I think he's afraid it might work and that Rivers will rise up in three days and go straight to the police about what we've done.

Jimmy is really getting into this now. I'm not sure what he thinks he is doing, whether he really believes what he is saying, or whether it's all just a windup. Maybe he thinks he needs to give the rest of the gang something to take away with them. Maybe he needs something he can take away for himself. "All you got to do is lay him out right," he says. "So he looks like a cross." He studies the body. "Like Jesus."

They are all involved now, Jimmy and Tone, Eddie, even Mickey has come out of his stupor and is getting into it. I can't, though. I can't go through the motions, and I can't stay in that room any longer, with the faces and stamps and little birds looking down at me from the walls, as if in accusation, and the smell of blood, dark and sickening now. I don't think they'll miss me, anyhow. This is their thing, not mine. So I quietly make my way to the door, and start to leave. Jimmy notices, but he doesn't try to stop me. None of the others see me go. When I leave them, they are laying out Rivers's body, Eddie with one arm, Tone with the other, trying to get them into the right position, while Jimmy stands over them all, murmuring the words he's heard in a film, or maybe read in a book. "I am the resurrection and the life," he says. I slip through the door silently and his voice rises slightly, so his words follow me out and down the stairs. "I am the resurrection and the life. I am the resurrection and the life." It's obvious that he doesn't know any more of the words, so he's just saying them louder and putting more stress on what he thinks are the most important ones. "I am the Resurrection and the Life. I am the RESURRECTION and the LIFE."

His voice follows me out into the windy night, into the darkness, till I want to run to get away from it.

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I don't really know how much of that resurrection stuff was real. Jimmy certainly made it sound real at the end there, when I was leaving, but that was done mostly for my benefit, I think. I didn't imagine for one moment that I had heard the last of it with Jimmy, but I wasn't much bothered about that. I was hoping n.o.body would see me, as I left the house, and then, when I got home and started taking off my b.l.o.o.d.y clothes, I was hoping n.o.body would see Jimmy's crew either, because if they got caught, I got caught, and they would say it was all me, everything, the cuts, the stab wounds, the kicking, the crushed bones, whatever else we had done to the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I didn't want to get caught. I took my clothes off just inside the back door so I wouldn't trail evidence all through the house, then I put them in a black plastic bag and left it under the sink. I knew right away what I was going to do with it, but that would have to wait for later. Then I ran upstairs and straight into the bathroom. The shower was pretty cold, but I didn't care about that. I soaped myself well and washed three times, scrubbing hard, rinsing long; then I dried myself off, took the scrubbing brush and the towel, wadded it all up, and carried it downstairs. I put the washing things into a separate plastic bag, and put that bag next to the other one, under the sink. Then I went straight back upstairs, got dressed, and went to check on Dad. It was late, not that far off dawn, but he was still awake. He hardly ever slept at night. I think, maybe, it gave him some small, lingering pleasure, to lie awake in the early morning and listen to the birds. I don't know, though. You don't know what people like unless they tell you. All I could know was what I liked and maybe if I liked it, he might like it too. Some people like model trains. Some people like crazy golf. People are a mystery, when it comes down to it. I mean, how can anybody like like crazy golf? crazy golf?

I didn't think Dad saw me, but if he did, it didn't matter. He wasn't going to say anything to anybody and, anyway, I was often up and about at night, in my clothes, doing stuff, or just sitting in the kitchen, watching it turn from dark to light, listening to the birds, maybe reading a book. That's what I I like; I like books. When it comes down to it, maybe all you can really trust about a person is what they like. If you meet a crazy-golf fanatic, then you've got one kind of person. If you meet somebody who likes books, then you've probably got another kind of person. I can't imagine there would be much overlap between the two, but you never know. Maybe Marcel Proust used to sneak off from his cork-lined room and go for a few rounds of crazy golf in the Tuileries, or wherever they have crazy golf in Paris. When you think about it, that's quite a nice image: Marcel Proust in his frock coat and top hat, out on the crazy-golf course, early in the morning, when n.o.body else is about, indulging his secret vice. Maybe he'd play a few rounds with Gustave Flaubert, or Andre Gide. I don't know who was alive at the same time and I don't know if there is any mention of crazy golf in like; I like books. When it comes down to it, maybe all you can really trust about a person is what they like. If you meet a crazy-golf fanatic, then you've got one kind of person. If you meet somebody who likes books, then you've probably got another kind of person. I can't imagine there would be much overlap between the two, but you never know. Maybe Marcel Proust used to sneak off from his cork-lined room and go for a few rounds of crazy golf in the Tuileries, or wherever they have crazy golf in Paris. When you think about it, that's quite a nice image: Marcel Proust in his frock coat and top hat, out on the crazy-golf course, early in the morning, when n.o.body else is about, indulging his secret vice. Maybe he'd play a few rounds with Gustave Flaubert, or Andre Gide. I don't know who was alive at the same time and I don't know if there is any mention of crazy golf in a la recherche du temps perdu. a la recherche du temps perdu. There might be, but I can't imagine it somehow. Still, I wouldn't know, because I haven't read the book all the way through yet. It's not that long since I got it out of the library, though it's probably overdue already. I've never really seen the logic of that: you lend somebody a copy of Marcel Proust's magnum opus, or There might be, but I can't imagine it somehow. Still, I wouldn't know, because I haven't read the book all the way through yet. It's not that long since I got it out of the library, though it's probably overdue already. I've never really seen the logic of that: you lend somebody a copy of Marcel Proust's magnum opus, or Moby-d.i.c.k, Moby-d.i.c.k, or one of those big, industrious books by George Eliot, then you tell them they only have three weeks to read it. Really, they should have a sliding scale, so if you got Proust out, you'd get three months, or better still, three years. That would have made so much more sense. or one of those big, industrious books by George Eliot, then you tell them they only have three weeks to read it. Really, they should have a sliding scale, so if you got Proust out, you'd get three months, or better still, three years. That would have made so much more sense.

I decided to take the black bags out on my bike to the landfill before it got too light. I wanted them gone as soon as possible and I couldn't sleep till that job was done. Dad was fine, he would just lie in bed listening to the world waking up for the next hour or two and, with the bike, it wouldn't take long to go to the landfill and dump the stuff. Then I could rest. I was supposed to see Elspeth later on that day, but I didn't think I would go. I had the black bags to do, and I needed to get some sleep after that. Besides, I didn't really want to see her. I thought, if I spent any time with her, she would figure out something was wrong and get it out of me. I was tired and I didn't feel like doing s.e.x, or any of that stuff. I just wanted to stay in my room and sleep. After that, I could fix some food for Dad and me, and just stay around the house and read. I didn't want to be out in the world, where people could see me. I knew all about that Crime and Punishment Crime and Punishment stuff. It wasn't that I was feeling very guilty, or anything like that-I hadn't exactly killed some saintly old lady for no good reason, like the guy in the book, and I always felt the other one, the moneylender, pretty much deserved what she got. I wasn't the bad guy in any of this, or not as much as some people, though I had to admit, that morning, that I'd made a mistake going along with Jimmy and his crew. Still, even if I wasn't altogether to blame, I had done something bad, and you can't read Dostoyevsky without knowing how that worked. All I'd have to do is start walking down the high street and the guilt would be pouring out of me for all to see. Before I knew it, I'd be weeping like a baby and confessing to the Lindbergh kidnapping. Better to stay home, keep my head down, and figure out what to do next. Do some reading, maybe. Maybe I could make some progress with stuff. It wasn't that I was feeling very guilty, or anything like that-I hadn't exactly killed some saintly old lady for no good reason, like the guy in the book, and I always felt the other one, the moneylender, pretty much deserved what she got. I wasn't the bad guy in any of this, or not as much as some people, though I had to admit, that morning, that I'd made a mistake going along with Jimmy and his crew. Still, even if I wasn't altogether to blame, I had done something bad, and you can't read Dostoyevsky without knowing how that worked. All I'd have to do is start walking down the high street and the guilt would be pouring out of me for all to see. Before I knew it, I'd be weeping like a baby and confessing to the Lindbergh kidnapping. Better to stay home, keep my head down, and figure out what to do next. Do some reading, maybe. Maybe I could make some progress with Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Seven Pillars of Wisdom.

After a day or two of this, though, I couldn't stand being in the house anymore, plus we'd run out of all the basics so it was time to get out there and shop. I do like shopping. I always want to buy expensive or decadent s.h.i.t, like asparagus in tins, or those tiny pots of creme brulee or Sicilian Lemon Cheesecake, but I mostly manage to confine my choices to sensible stuff, like potatoes, rice, sausages, frozen peas, all the reliable, filling basics that we've always lived on. Give me two days of dressed crab out of a tin and Asti Spumante and I'd be a happy camper, but I'd probably be s.h.i.tting bullets, or throwing up all over the garden. People like us evolved to eat steak pie, mash, sausages, chips, roast chicken, peas, tinned veg. Feed us on anything else and we are magically transformed into big, sickly babies, all burping and farting and diarrhea. So I stick to what I know. Maybe what I like. I know Dad couldn't handle anything else, though it's not as if he eats that much anyway. He likes Angel Delight. He likes chips. As he slides down the hill toward death, he's getting a second childhood in before it's too late. Good for him. He's one of the few people I can make happy, and it doesn't take any more than whisking some pastel-colored powder up with some milk.

I'm thinking about Dad as I make my way home, dragging my bags of shopping along with me, my mind wandering. It's that old don't-want-him-to-die versus merciful-release argument, and there's still plenty of mileage in that one, so I'm a bit distracted when Jimmy and his crew turn up. So distracted, in fact, that I don't even see them till Jimmy pops up in my path, in my face, my face, and starts on his shtick. and starts on his shtick.

"That Rivers bloke didn't rise again like you said he would," he says.

It doesn't take more than this to wake me up. I put my shopping down to keep my hands free, then I slip one hand into my jacket, where my knife is. I've been carrying it ever since the hunting trip. All I can do now is keep my eye on Jimmy. I know, if anything's going to happen, he'll be the one who decides, so I want to see the sign. When I see it, he's the one I'm taking with me. I think he's working this out for himself too. "I didn't say he would," I said.

"Well," he says, "it's in the Bible, Leonard. You're the Bible expert in this gang." I ignore that. I'm not in this gang, or any other gang. "So, what do you think went wrong, Leonard?" he says. I can see that he's thinking as he says it. He's trying to guess what I will do, if he lets things take their course. I'm not sure, because he still has his gang to back him, but I think he might be scared.

"Him not being Jesus of b.l.o.o.d.y Nazareth might be the place to start," I say.

Jimmy smiles. He wants me to know that he genuinely thinks this is funny. I don't take my eyes off him. Eye to eye, and forget the rest of the crew. It's just me and Jimmy. Anybody makes a move and I am going to cut him up bad. "Well," Jimmy says, his voice slow and deliberate, "maybe you should have thought of that when you killed him."

"I didn't kill him," I say. "We all did."

Jimmy thinks about this for a minute. I can feel Tone getting restless, off to one side. I look for Eddie. Not that I expect anything from her. I think it scared her when I did what I did to Rivers. She's not sure of me now, and probably Jimmy has had something to say to her in the background. So she isn't doing anything, she's just watching. I think, if it came to the bit, she won't pile in with the others, but she won't try to help, either. This doesn't mean she is betraying me, though. If she isn't sure about me, I can't really blame her. More than any of them, she is one of the wild things-a bit formless, maybe, but beautiful too. All she needs is a bit more definition, a bit of focus. Anyhow, I'm hoping she knows that I'm not blaming her. I know she doesn't really know how she feels right now, but maybe later, when she has time to think, she might see that, in spite of who and where we are, I almost got to love her.

Finally, Jimmy decides. He is very deliberately not looking at my jacket pocket. "n.o.body blames you for what happened," he says. "It was just one of those things."

"That's awfully white of you," I say.

He laughs at that. I'd read it in a book somewhere, maybe F. Scott Fitzgerald, and I'd thought it might come in useful. He turns to Eddie and smiles. "Sometimes he goes too far," he says, doing Dennis Hopper out of Apocalypse Now. Apocalypse Now. "He's always the first to admit it, afterward," he says. He has his eyes on Eddie. She smiles. It's a touching moment, really. He's pretending to let me off for her sake. As if she really is in love with me, or something. Maybe she is, in her way, but he put her up to it in the first place, one way or another. That's the thing about people who don't know their own mind, you can leave them to the tender mercies of others and it doesn't matter. Give her a week, and she'll forget everything. Jimmy turns back to me with a sad or maybe a compa.s.sionate look on his face. "It's all right, Leonard," he says. "We won't rat you out." "He's always the first to admit it, afterward," he says. He has his eyes on Eddie. She smiles. It's a touching moment, really. He's pretending to let me off for her sake. As if she really is in love with me, or something. Maybe she is, in her way, but he put her up to it in the first place, one way or another. That's the thing about people who don't know their own mind, you can leave them to the tender mercies of others and it doesn't matter. Give her a week, and she'll forget everything. Jimmy turns back to me with a sad or maybe a compa.s.sionate look on his face. "It's all right, Leonard," he says. "We won't rat you out."

"Jimmy!" It's Tone, missing his pound of flesh.

"Shut up, Tone," Jimmy says. His anger looks momentarily genuine. "Can't you see Eddie's upset?"

Tone looks at me, then he looks at Eddie. He thinks for a minute, and finally the penny drops. "Aw, f.u.c.k," he says.

Jimmy laughs. "You can say that again," he says. "Come on, boys and girls," he says. "Let's go kill something."

And that is that. Jimmy turns and walks away, a sad look on his face, like I've betrayed him or something, and the others follow. First Mickey, then Tone. Finally Eddie. She looks back at me, which is nice. She gives me this silly, hapless, who-knows-what-might-have-been look, and I want to give her a big hug and say some kind of proper goodbye, but I don't.

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That night I went down to the docks and climbed into one of the old cranes above the loading area. All I wanted was to sit out and look up at the stars. From up there, you could see them all, and when you looked down toward the coast, you could see where the lights twinkled and winked across the water like the lights in old movies, perfect geometric patterns that stopped for a moment, when you first looked, then started shimmering again, white and cherry red and the odd point of gold from farther away. That night, though, the weather decided to turn and, by the time I got to the top of the crane, a ma.s.sive thunderstorm was breaking above me, lightning, then a crash of thunder, then lightning again-not just flashes, but the whole sky turning a livid gold over the water, everything reflected and instantaneous. It was beautiful and dangerous, and though I caught myself wondering if I was going to be fried to a crisp up there among all that metal, I couldn't have imagined coming down. Better to die like that, than from some petty ambush at the hands of Jimmy's crew, a blade stuck in my gut, maybe Eddie's blade, and me flopping around on the floor like Rivers, bleeding and cursing and weeping for myself, a lost animal, dying in the eyes of others. If you have to die, die alone, at the top of a crane, and let Nature kill you, with grace and beauty and the gorgeous cruelty of chance. Only, I didn't die; I just sat up there and watched the best light show anybody could ever see, the lightning inches away, it seemed, the thunder echoing in my bones and my muscles. It was beyond description. By the time it was over, I didn't give a f.u.c.k about anything. If I had to, I'd pick off Jimmy's people one by one, including Eddie, or I'd seek Jimmy out and cut him to ribbons in front of his own crew. I didn't care. I would have killed anybody that night, because of the storm. Because I knew, if I belonged to anything, it was to this. Not to them, but to the lightning and the thunder. To the black rain. To the cold metal. To the sky.

When I got home, there was a note from Elspeth saying I'd been a naughty boy, and she was coming round at lunchtime to chastise me. I picked it up off the mat in the hallway, and I was still reading it when I walked into the kitchen and found Dad on the floor, next to the table. He was half kneeling, half sitting, with a puzzled look on his face, as if he'd been perched happily on his chair a moment ago and didn't know why he was on the floor now. I thought, at first, that was all it was, that he'd had a fall; then, when he saw me coming in, he opened his mouth and blood came out. I had thought he was going to say something, but it wasn't words, it was blood, a great ma.s.s of it, spilling out of his mouth. Then he did the same thing again, like somebody repeating a spectacular trick, and a whole lot more spilled out. He looked even more surprised by this, then he toppled over and fell flat on the floor, on his side. More blood came out. I ran over and knelt down beside him. He had a sad look now, a look that took all the disappointments he'd ever had in a whole lifetime and brought them together in one final foregone conclusion. I put my arms around his shoulders and tried to raise him up, but I couldn't do it, even though he'd got so thin over all the years of being so ill. He was too heavy for me. A dead weight. Now his lips were moving, and he looked like he wanted to speak, but he was afraid to open his mouth again. Finally, he whispered something, but I couldn't make it out.

"What is it, Dad?" I said. Then I realized that I shouldn't be asking him to speak, I should be telling him to be still, to take it easy. "Don't try to talk, OK?" I said.

He looked confused at that, but he opened his mouth again, and this time words came out, along with an odd, seal-like cough and a spray of tiny droplets of blood that landed on my face and neck. "Time to come in, son," he said.

"Don't talk, Dad," I said. I didn't know what he was talking about, but he was scaring me with it.

He struggled, then, straightening his legs and trying to haul himself up, but he just skidded and sprawled on the floor like that cow you always see in the films about CJD. He couldn't get up, but he couldn't stop struggling. "Time to come in," he said again, and he tried to get up, while I tried to keep him down, to get him into the recovery position or something, while I thought what to do. "It's getting late," he said. Blood was bubbling out of his mouth now, and I could feel that the skin on his hands was cold, but it was the wild look on his face that frightened me more than anything. I had to get a doctor, I knew that, but I couldn't leave him like that alone. Then, after about a minute of this, he was gone, the life ebbing right out of him. Just gone. It was like when you take a bucket of water and carry it over to the sink and pour it away, all the weight just goes and you're left standing there with this sensation of emptiness and lightness. That was how it felt then. He just emptied.

"Dad," I shouted. He couldn't be doing this. He couldn't be dying, just like that, after all this time. There had to be more to it than this. "Come on, Dad," I said. "Come on. You can do it." For a moment, I even believed he could, then I stopped believing that and sat quiet, cradling his shoulders. I stayed like that for a while, not long I suppose, but it could have been, I don't remember. I was away somewhere, maybe going with him some of the way on his journey, in my mind, or my spirit, or whatever, then I came back to myself and struggled to my feet, letting him slip gently onto the floor. There was nothing to him now. I could have carried him anywhere. I remember, when I came back to myself, I was trying to think how old he was, but I couldn't.

That was when I saw what he'd been doing in the kitchen, before he started bleeding. There, on the table, an old alb.u.m lay open at a picture of Dad and her, some time before I was born, the two of them smiling, a bit shy, maybe, of whoever was taking the photograph, the gray of trees behind them, no place I knew, maybe a honeymoon photograph, or a picture taken when they first met, when they were happy and the future was laid out before them like a blueprint for children and money and happiness. I felt sad then, and I started to cry, because it wasn't f.u.c.king fair that it had come to this, him sitting in his old clothes, looking at pictures of his lost life. His lost love. Because he'd loved her, that was for certain, and she'd just walked out on him when he needed her most. b.i.t.c.h. That was my mother there, in the picture, all smiles, posing for the camera, in a pretty summer dress and her hair all nice, just the way she looked when she left us, pretty and young, with her whole life ahead of her, beautiful, even, if you pushed it. A beautiful woman with her whole life ahead of her. I wished, then, that I knew where she was, so I could write and tell her how her husband died, still thinking of her, his lost love. His lost f.u.c.king love.

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Give me some time to think, and a few clues, and I can usually work things out. And on my first day of being completely alone, wandering around the headland, not sure what to do about Dad, I get the first real clue. That's what the world does, sometimes: sometimes it gives you a gift, pure and simple; other times, it gives you a clue. Which is like a gift that you have to work for. Though you could say that the world is full of clues, if only you know how to read them. Clues, gifts. These are what we use to make sense of the world. Otherwise there's nothing. You don't got to have faith, like Miss Golding says in Religious Ed. Faith isn't a gift. Gifts have to come from the world, not from inside your own head. Clues too. It all has to come from somewhere. I mean, there are perfectly respectable people, philosophers and such, who think that the world is something we imagine, that it's all just an illusion we make up as we go along. Which means I'm making up the plant, and the murders, and my dad sicking up blood all over the kitchen floor. Of course I am.

My clue is a complete accident, a one-in-a- thousand chance. I'd spent my last night sleeping in the attic, just shacking out on the floor with a duvet and some pillows-I didn't want to sleep in my own bed, because I'd started thinking I would be the next of the Innertown boys to go, and they would be coming for me soon, just lifting me out of my own bed, like they did Tommy O'Donnell. I didn't want to sleep out on the headland either, though, because I wanted to be near Dad, that first night at least. I don't know why, it was just a sentimental thing. I couldn't do anything for him, and I knew I'd have to leave him soon. I'd wanted to lay him out neatly on his bed, but then I thought that would remind him of that face in the misty light, old Laura, young woman with all her life ahead of her, etc., etc., and I didn't want that. Besides, it would have been too much of an indignity to cart him up those narrow stairs. So I set him in the big armchair, more or less sitting up, as if he was reading, or listening to the radio. I thought about burning that alb.u.m he'd been looking at, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought about giving it to him to look at while he sat there, waiting for his heavenly reward or whatever, but I couldn't do that either. So I just sat him up in the chair, and turned on the radio. Quietly, but loud enough so he could hear, if there was some wisp of something left in there, some trace of consciousness or memory or spirit burning out silently in his head, like a dying ember. You get people who think that death isn't the end of your life, it's the beginning of the next stage in the journey, and maybe the soul hangs about for a while, taking stock, or whatever. I'm not sure I'd go along with that-probably not-but you have to allow for every eventuality, especially when it's your father you're dealing with. You only get one father, and the one I got wasn't that bad, he just wasn't lucky. On the other hand, maybe he got the luck he wanted. Before that night, I'd always felt sorry for him. Because, his entire life, all he'd wanted to do was love somebody. That was the one gift he had, a strange, quiet talent for loving. The person he loved was Laura, and if she had loved him back, he would have been happy, no matter what else happened. But that night, I wasn't sorry for him at all because, in a way, he'd got what he wanted. He got to love somebody, which meant that he'd been able to use his one good gift. Maybe it didn't matter whether Laura loved him or not. Maybe, for him, that wasn't what it was all about.

So I slept on the floor of the loft, then I packed a bag with a few bits and bobs, food and coffee and such, so I could make myself little camping meals, like the Moth Man does. I figured, if he could do it, so could I. Maybe I'd get myself a van, nick one from the Outertown sometime and drive off, be a nomad, get away from here. First things first, though. I said goodbye to Dad, and I took all the money I could find around the house; then I headed out. It was a fine summery day, warm already, even at that early hour. I made my way across the back garden and out, through the gate in the fence, then down along the little alley behind, all the wheelie bins there, one at each gate, solemn and secret, full of clues and stories, like black tabernacles. At the end, I looked out to check if anybody was up and about, but the only living thing I saw was Mrs. Hatcher's white cat, the one all the kids referred to as Mrs. Hatcher's p.u.s.s.y. The Innertown kids had a lot of virtues, but originality wasn't one of them. I suppose Elspeth was a bit of an original, though it would have been better if she hadn't tried so hard.

Elspeth. When I'd stood her up, she'd left that note saying she would come round later. I'd forgotten about that. What she had said in her note could only mean one thing, which was very tempting. Very. Still, I'd have to be disciplined and stick to the plan for a while. I could get in touch with her later, explain about Dad. Use him as an excuse.

So I'd got safely out of the Innertown and I'd stowed my bag of stuff in my special secret hiding place, like all kids have, even when they're getting a touch long in the tooth for special secret hiding places, then I started out for the West Side, so I could hole up in the woods for a while and get some time to think. That's when I come across Morrison, the policeman, standing all by himself in a little clearing among the trees, all quiet and thoughtful-looking, all preoccupied. So preoccupied that he doesn't even see me, though he looks up just a moment after I duck into cover, like he's felt me there or something. Sensed my presence. Or, maybe, a a presence. Because, as odd as it seems, I think he must have been praying, or something like it, when I came across him. He'd just been standing there, looking at something on the ground, his head bowed down, like somebody who's standing beside a grave, saying goodbye. That's what I should be doing, of course. Standing by my father's grave and saying goodbye. Saying a prayer for him, maybe. presence. Because, as odd as it seems, I think he must have been praying, or something like it, when I came across him. He'd just been standing there, looking at something on the ground, his head bowed down, like somebody who's standing beside a grave, saying goodbye. That's what I should be doing, of course. Standing by my father's grave and saying goodbye. Saying a prayer for him, maybe.

Anyway, I must have disturbed Morrison because, even though he doesn't see me, even if he doesn't think anybody else is there, his concentration is shot, and he just turns round and walks away-quick, like all of a sudden he doesn't want to be there anymore-and I have the place to myself. I wait awhile, a couple of minutes, maybe more, before I come out from where I am hiding. I have the idea that this is is something. I even think it might be a clue. I don't want Morrison coming back and finding me, because if he does, the clue might be lost forever. Sometimes a clue is that slender: you catch a glimpse of someone when he thinks he's on his own, and you see another side to him. Something you didn't know about before. something. I even think it might be a clue. I don't want Morrison coming back and finding me, because if he does, the clue might be lost forever. Sometimes a clue is that slender: you catch a glimpse of someone when he thinks he's on his own, and you see another side to him. Something you didn't know about before.

When I am sure he's gone, I wander out and cross over, all innocent, like some kid just farting about in the woods, to see what it was he had been looking at. It had been low down, on the ground, over by the edge of the clearing. It takes me a moment to find it, or not so much to find it as to figure out what it is. Because at first I think it's just some garden stuff that somebody has dumped out there. It's only when I get close that I can see that it's an actual garden, with carnations and poppy plants and a little rosebush that looks as if it has just recently been planted. All around the plants, around the roots, somebody has set out pebbles, like the ones you get on the beach, all smooth from the sand and the water, bright shiny pebbles and pieces of colored gla.s.s and bits of broken china. It's like a magpie's garden, or maybe those nests that bowerbirds make, the ones you read about in nature books and such. I saw a program about them on TV once-probably one of those bird programs David Attenborough used to do. One of the few complete sentences I remember Dad saying-it must have been when I was still pretty small, maybe even a toddler-was during one of those Attenborough programs. Or maybe at the end, when the credits were rolling. That would have been more likely. It would have been a respect thing. Suddenly I remembered it like it was yesterday and I remembered the exact words he said.

"When you get a program like this," he said, "it's almost worth paying the license."

So here's this little plot of ground, half garden, half Isn't-Nature-Wonderful, bowerbird, hushed-Attenborough-tones natural mystery-but I'm asking myself what it's for. Why is there a garden out here, in the poison wood? A little garden of flowers, like some graveyard plot? And what is Morrison doing here? Is it him, planting flowers out here, in the middle of nowhere, like some nutter?

Even then, it takes me a few moments to see how stupid I'm being. It isn't a garden, it's just what it looked like when I first saw it. Sometimes, you have to trust those first impressions. Even if they're not quite spot-on, they can be clues. This isn't a garden, it's a grave. Something is buried here. Something, or somebody.

And then it occurs to me that Morrison isn't a nutter, he'd gone there for a reason and that reason had to do with the lost boys. He was there to tend a grave. But whose grave? Could it really be that one of the boys is buried out here, where our mysterious policeman has made his little garden? Is Morrison the murderer? Because all the boys are dead, that's obvious. Morrison is the one who's been saying otherwise, he's the one who put it about that the boys had all gone off on a d.i.c.k Whittington, with their little knapsacks and their ten-league boots, their talking animal friends by their sides. You have to wonder why he puts so much effort into that. Does he believe it himself? Or does he have something to hide? Somebody killed the lost boys, and he's getting away with it all these years. Who else to commit a whole series of murders, and then get away with it, other than a policeman? Who else could cover it all up and make sure there wouldn't be any kind of investigation? I mean, he looks capable. He's a bit of a mystery, everybody says so. Even if he isn't the killer, he has to be in on it. The question I am asking myself at that moment, though, is why?

Then I know. It isn't Morrison, of course. It isn't him doing the killing, or kidnapping, or whatever; he's just covering it up. He knows the real killer and he's protecting him. Or maybe there's more than one killer. Maybe there's a whole gang of them. Maybe the boys aren't dead, but somebody has them somewhere, for who knows what reason. Maybe the people in the town are right and it really is some kind of experiment. I feel sick when I think of that, not at the thought, because I've heard it often enough before, but at the idea that it might actually be true. We can calmly entertain the most terrible thoughts, if we're not sure they are true. But then, suddenly, they are are true, and we feel sick to our stomachs. Morrison probably feels sick too, and maybe he's feeling guilty about what he's got himself into, and that's why he's made this little garden in the poison wood. But then, why here? Why not in his own garden at home? His secret plot. Out here, where anybody might come across it, this pathetic little garden is vulnerable. I can just imagine what would happen if Jimmy and his crew found it. Why not put it somewhere else, where he could protect it? true, and we feel sick to our stomachs. Morrison probably feels sick too, and maybe he's feeling guilty about what he's got himself into, and that's why he's made this little garden in the poison wood. But then, why here? Why not in his own garden at home? His secret plot. Out here, where anybody might come across it, this pathetic little garden is vulnerable. I can just imagine what would happen if Jimmy and his crew found it. Why not put it somewhere else, where he could protect it?

But I know why. I look off in the direction where Morrison disappeared, but n.o.body is there. It's just me, in that silent part of the poison wood that even the kids avoid. Long ago, the first boy disappeared in these woods, and after that his best friend vanished too, so the place is a bit jinxed in some people's eyes. Not in mine, though. Nowhere on the headland is bad or unlucky, and everywhere has its own history. This wood has poison running in its veins, in the sap of every tree, in every crumb of loam and every blade of gra.s.s under my feet, but it once was a place where lovers went to be secret, girls whose dads wouldn't let them go out with boys, husbands whose wives didn't give them love, wives whose husbands were never there, sneaking off in pairs to hide among the trees and bushes, f.u.c.king and talking and making plans about how they would get away. That's part of the history too. This garden is part of the history, and my finding it is part of the history. So it's also part of the history when I kneel down and start to dig, pulling out the plants and scattering the gla.s.s and pebbles, digging down into the dark earth to find what is hidden below. Because something is is hidden here. I'm not saying I've found a body, I just know that there is a clue somewhere in all that dirt and gra.s.s and poison. I have to dig a long time: deep, deeper, deepest. I'm afraid that the policeman will come back and find me, but I can't stop; it's part of the history of the place that I should dig, and keep digging, till I find my clue. Though when I do, it isn't what I had expected-but it is a clue, nevertheless. A tiny, significant clue. hidden here. I'm not saying I've found a body, I just know that there is a clue somewhere in all that dirt and gra.s.s and poison. I have to dig a long time: deep, deeper, deepest. I'm afraid that the policeman will come back and find me, but I can't stop; it's part of the history of the place that I should dig, and keep digging, till I find my clue. Though when I do, it isn't what I had expected-but it is a clue, nevertheless. A tiny, significant clue.

A watch. A boy's prized possession, a good watch, fairly expensive by Innertown standards. It's all gummed up with rust and dirt, and the crystal is broken, but I know it's still a clue, not just some piece of rubbish somebody has thrown away out there. So I rub off the dirt and scratch at the rust and, after a while, I see that there is an inscription on the back of the watch, an inscription I can just about make out. It says: To Mark from Auntie Sall. To Mark from Auntie Sall. It seems to me that this is a loved thing, something a boy would only have lost if he couldn't go back to look for it, and though it isn't conclusive, though it wouldn't stand up in court, Your Honor, I know what it is and I know who it once belonged to. Mark Wilkinson isn't buried here, but this is where his ghost has remained, because this is where what he most loved was broken. Morrison knows that. That's why he made the garden. He is praying to a ghost-but why? It seems to me that this is a loved thing, something a boy would only have lost if he couldn't go back to look for it, and though it isn't conclusive, though it wouldn't stand up in court, Your Honor, I know what it is and I know who it once belonged to. Mark Wilkinson isn't buried here, but this is where his ghost has remained, because this is where what he most loved was broken. Morrison knows that. That's why he made the garden. He is praying to a ghost-but why?

Then I guess it. I have no way of knowing for sure, but I know I am right. It's forgiveness. He is praying to this ghost for forgiveness. Yet, surely he knows that forgiveness does not come without repentance? Surely he knows that, to be forgiven, he must confess his sins, if only in his heart, and so make his peace with the world? And how can he do that, if n.o.body helps him?

After that, I leave the grave site, or the memorial garden, or whatever it's meant to be, and I head back into the far reaches of the plant. I'd been thinking, before, about going back to see Elspeth, but I know that will have to wait, for later, or maybe forever. For the moment, I have to be alone. For the moment, I have work to do.

ELSPETH.

AT THIS POINT IN THE STORY, ELSPETH IS THOROUGHLY p.i.s.sED OFF. IF YOU asked her about it, she'd say she was annoyed because her boyfriend has stood her up again, and she really needs a s.h.a.g, but the truth is, she's worried. And p.i.s.sed off too, of course. If he had any sense at all, she thinks, Leonard would come to her with his troubles, not Jimmy van Doren. If he needs someone he could trust, then surely asked her about it, she'd say she was annoyed because her boyfriend has stood her up again, and she really needs a s.h.a.g, but the truth is, she's worried. And p.i.s.sed off too, of course. If he had any sense at all, she thinks, Leonard would come to her with his troubles, not Jimmy van Doren. If he needs someone he could trust, then surely she she is the one-but as far as she can tell, he's gone off somewhere with Jimmy and that gang of his, out to some sewer on the headland, probably, to live with the rats and the mutants. Or maybe it's the girl he's gone off with. What's-her-face? Eddie. As she heads out to the old plant, not quite sure why she's going and with no real hope of finding anyone, Elspeth is telling herself that she wouldn't be surprised if Leonard was s.h.a.gging that weird little b.i.t.c.h because, let's face it, he's the type-can't walk past a sick puppy without petting. Still, if is the one-but as far as she can tell, he's gone off somewhere with Jimmy and that gang of his, out to some sewer on the headland, probably, to live with the rats and the mutants. Or maybe it's the girl he's gone off with. What's-her-face? Eddie. As she heads out to the old plant, not quite sure why she's going and with no real hope of finding anyone, Elspeth is telling herself that she wouldn't be surprised if Leonard was s.h.a.gging that weird little b.i.t.c.h because, let's face it, he's the type-can't walk past a sick puppy without petting. Still, if that's that's what he's up to, it's not as bad as getting all comfy with Jimmy, because Jimmy van Doren is what he's up to, it's not as bad as getting all comfy with Jimmy, because Jimmy van Doren is not not the kind of person you go to when you're in trouble. Of course, if you haven't got any troubles to speak of, he'll be happy to make some for you. Elspeth had asked him about that, when she was still seeing him. Why he liked to see people suffer. Why he hurt them for no reason. the kind of person you go to when you're in trouble. Of course, if you haven't got any troubles to speak of, he'll be happy to make some for you. Elspeth had asked him about that, when she was still seeing him. Why he liked to see people suffer. Why he hurt them for no reason.

"It's a gift," he'd said. He had a big grin on his face. "A gift-and a public service."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Sure," he said. "People feel comfortable when they're unhappy. They know it's as much as they deserve." His eyes twinkled. "When things are good they start to worry. They don't know what to do with themselves. The world suddenly seems strange and frightening and they long for something they know. Something familiar-like pain."

Now, unless Leonard is going for some kind of care-in-the-community s.h.a.g, Elspeth is pretty certain that he and Jimmy are out on the headland, getting into more trouble, and maybe comparing notes. You should always judge a person by the company he keeps. After all, that was what first drew her to Leonard, because he didn't keep company with anybody-he was his own person. He had his books and his films and such, and that was it. Elspeth had never really gotten into that, but she was happy he had something, 'cause it must have been hard for him, looking after his dad by himself all those years. His mum had been a really nice woman-a real looker, too-but after a while she just couldn't take it anymore and she'd run off with some guy she met at the dentist's or something.

Leonard never likes to talk about her, of course-which is fine, because Elspeth has never been very big on the empathy thing. She's not that into reading or films, either, though she did give it a try. Leonard would borrow videos from John, the dope-smoking nut job at the library, and they would watch them in his room, on some old video recorder Leonard had rescued from the landfill, but Elspeth couldn't see the point. There was never any plot, the dialogue was all in French or j.a.panese or whatever, and the subt.i.tles were all fuzzy, so you could hardly make them out. All the time they were watching this stuff, she would be wondering what was so wrong with good old-fashioned Hollywood movies, real stories with real people in them, like that Bill Pullman in While You Were Sleeping. While You Were Sleeping. Elspeth likes Hollywood, she doesn't think there's anything wrong with just sitting back and letting yourself be entertained. TV is good too-even some of the soaps are well acted. But these films Leonard got from John? She still has nightmares about the one where some guy is walking around on a piece of wasteland with a big black dog, and the camera just closes in slowly on a piece of gla.s.s or a book or something, while somebody you can't see talks offscreen and there's water everywhere and that's it, only it goes on for four hours-in Elspeth likes Hollywood, she doesn't think there's anything wrong with just sitting back and letting yourself be entertained. TV is good too-even some of the soaps are well acted. But these films Leonard got from John? She still has nightmares about the one where some guy is walking around on a piece of wasteland with a big black dog, and the camera just closes in slowly on a piece of gla.s.s or a book or something, while somebody you can't see talks offscreen and there's water everywhere and that's it, only it goes on for four hours-in Russian. Russian.

Leonard had been trying to educate her, of course. He'd try to get her to read books. The cla.s.sics: The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina The Brothers Karamazov, Anna Karenina-there we go with that Russian s.h.i.t again-and Moby-fu Moby-f.u.c.king-d.i.c.k. She just took one look at She just took one look at Anna Karenina Anna Karenina and laughed. "Are you kidding?" she said. "Look at that thing. If you dropped it on your foot you'd break your toe." and laughed. "Are you kidding?" she said. "Look at that thing. If you dropped it on your foot you'd break your toe."

He almost laughed at that, but he kept on at her anyway. That was the thing about Leonard, he really cared about all this stuff. He was worse than John the Librarian. "It's one of the best books ever written," he said. "You should give it a try."

"It's one of the longest longest books ever written," she said. "I'll give it a miss." books ever written," she said. "I'll give it a miss."

She did try D. H. Lawrence, but the smart money said he only did one good book, and that wasn't in the library. When she asked John why, he just snorted. She told him she wanted to read the cla.s.sics, to improve her mind and all that. She'd said how she thought she'd start with Lady Chatterley's Lady Chatterley's Lover, Lover, 'cause of the psychology and stuff. That made John laugh. "We don't have that," he said. "We 'cause of the psychology and stuff. That made John laugh. "We don't have that," he said. "We have have got got Valley of the Dolls, Valley of the Dolls, though. If it's cla.s.sics you want." though. If it's cla.s.sics you want."

Elspeth doesn't want cla.s.sics, though. Not really. What she wants- what she really likes likes-is p.o.r.no magazines. Not just the hardcore stuff; the polite, Forumy Forumy type of thing is good too. Because, as she's tried telling Leonard a few times now, you can learn a lot from p.o.r.no mags. You learn about different positions and things you can do to make s.e.x more exciting, obviously. But you also learn a lot about people. Which is what Leonard could do with. If he'd stuck to reading p.o.r.no, or type of thing is good too. Because, as she's tried telling Leonard a few times now, you can learn a lot from p.o.r.no mags. You learn about different positions and things you can do to make s.e.x more exciting, obviously. But you also learn a lot about people. Which is what Leonard could do with. If he'd stuck to reading p.o.r.no, or Story of O Story of O or something, he might have more common sense, and he wouldn't be out somewhere with Jimmy van Doren and his little gang getting into trouble. or something, he might have more common sense, and he wouldn't be out somewhere with Jimmy van Doren and his little gang getting into trouble.