Mercy Seat Page 10

  Did you want to go with him too? I asked.

  Even in the gloom I could see her staring at me as if I were mad. No, she said. I knew by then he was a monster. I was old enough to understand.

  I didn’t ask what she meant, though now of course I wish I had. Maybe everything then would have turned out differently, all the rest of our lives. But I didn’t, and I never did; I was too wary, or innocent, or lazy, and what happened to us happened. Maybe I resisted knowing because we’d both seen so much damage caused by love already in our parents’ lives and more than anything I wanted our own lives to escape all that, to not get too close and become infected. I don’t know, and didn’t know then, but it was one of those lonely, unsignposted crossroads in the life of the mind. Maybe the old Blues singers were right, and the devil waits there for us, patient, under a big empty sky, kicking his heels in the dust. Instead I asked, why did Christine want to go with him?

  She pinched her lower lip between her front teeth and shook her head. It was Christine he wanted. And she was younger. Maybe she didn’t know any better. And we were terrible to each other, you know, the way sisters can be. Maybe she wanted to get away from me.

  That was one of the very few times before her father’s death that Jenny ever mentioned Christine. For a long time after I’d got to know her she was happy for me to think she was an only child – her mother too, on the few occasions I met her – and I remember sitting in bed that night wondering if she’d tell me anything more about this shadowy, wilful little stranger now that she’d got onto the subject, but it didn’t happen. And as so often in the years to come, I failed to help bring anything into the light. She fell silent for a while and finished her tea.

  I’m frightened about this, too, she said eventually, and let her hand drift over her stomach.

  In the dark, an image of what was under her palm came into my mind – a tiny, stubborn, blind clot of tissue, feeding on the blood. I swilled back the last of my tea.

  I’m scared I won’t be allowed to keep it, like a punishment, she said. She avoided looking at me. Do you know what I mean? Do you ever feel that too?

  A punishment for what? I said. That doesn’t make sense. You can’t think like that.

  I know it’s mad; that’s sort of what I mean.

  I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean mad; I meant stupid. Pointless.

  There was quiet between us for a while, and I wished I hadn’t answered her at all. I’m sorry, I said at last. I didn’t mean that you were stupid. I just meant that I didn’t understand. I don’t like it when you talk like that. I don’t know what to say.

  She reached out for a tissue from the bedside table and blew her nose. I’m just tired of losing things, she said. I’m sorry too. Let’s go to sleep. I just wanted to tell you, that’s all.

  Seven

  Before we leave to meet Jenny at the Half Moon I feed Michael and that helps to quieten him down, though he gets big, upset hiccoughs from the baby food and he only really settles when I start strapping him into the pushchair. It often works like that. Sometimes when he’s really playing up we just strap him in and push him round the room, out into the corridor, up and down the scraggy carpet until he sleeps. He stares at my fingers now as I fasten the last buckles across his chest.

  We pass Mrs Clement on the stairs. She’s brushing them hard and collecting big tangles of hair in a red plastic dust-pan which is just about full. She’s not often out of her window seat but sometimes takes it into her head to spruce a patch of carpet up. Maybe her nervous energy builds up day after day and sometimes gets the better of her. The regular cleaner calls once a week but doesn’t touch the rooms or kitchens. We’re all long-stay tenants here and supposed to keep our own nests clean.

  She doesn’t like us taking Michael downstairs in his chair, and she eyes me up now as I lower him onto the step she’s brushing.

  You’ll kill that baby one day, she says confidently.

  I can’t think of any good answer, so I just wait till she moves her gear and lets me past.

  Is he all strapped in? She plucks at his chest-bands as I bump him gently to the next stair.

  I nod and she gives up, taking her hands off him and brushes a few strands of pewter-grey hair from her face with the back of one of the bright pink rubber gloves she’s wearing. The rest of her hair is pinned up in a tight, gleaming bun. She never cuts it, she told Jenny once. A woman’s hair is her glory, she told her, and quoted the biblical reference for it, chapter and verse.

  Once I’m past her big haunches I speed up a little. Michael’s sitting very calm, like a racing driver in his wool helmet and gloves.

  You’ll kill him, you will, she calls after me.

  Righto, I call back.

  All the way along the prom I find myself scanning the backs or faces of women across the street or making their way up the prom ahead of us. Twice I run Michael’s chair blindly over a kerb, jolting him. The second time he bites his tongue but it’s only when a passer-by, a young girl, tells me he’s bleeding that I realise it. I thank the girl and stoop down to see to him. The kid hangs around even after I say, don’t worry, he’s fine, I’ll see to it. In the end I have to tell her she’s making him nervous so she’d better go, and then she turns slowly before carrying on down the street.

  Michael’s chin is a mess, his spittle frothing up the blood and bubbling it all the way down to his neck. I use a handkerchief to get the worst off, and once I’ve cleaned him up it’s obvious there’s not much real bleeding it was just his swollen tongue making him drool it all.

  When we get to The Half Moon I wheel the chair round the side entrance and into the beer garden. It’s deserted and the parasols over the tables are folded and tied despite the sunshine. For a moment I wonder if the garden is out of use for some reason, but then I notice a pair of empty pint glasses on a corner table. I wheel Michael over to the corner, collect the glasses and go indoors to the bar. A few customers are sat quietly on the high stools in front of the taps watching the news on a TV at the end of the bar. The barman’s watching it too, and I have to clear my throat to get his attention.

  Back in the garden, Jenny arrives ten minutes late looking rushed and unsettled. She gives me a weak smile and sits opposite us both, taking a drink from the half pint of cider I had waiting for her. I’ll have to get back sooner than I thought, she apologises. It got busy after I called. Sorry.

  That’s ok, I tell her.

  I picked up some rolls on the way, she says. It’ll be quicker than ordering something. They take forever to do any food here. She takes them from her shoulder bag and we eat them quickly with our drinks.

  What’s wrong with Michael? She puts her glass on the table and crouches in front of him.

  I can feel my colour rise. I take a swig of beer.

  Christ, there’s blood in his mouth. Luke!

  He bit his tongue coming up the prom, don’t worry. I cleaned him up – he’s fine.

  She opens his mouth wider with her fingers and he tries to twist his face away. He’s fine, I tell her again. It’s nothing. He’s not even grizzling.

  When she’s satisfied she gets up and adjusts his bonnet, then comes and sits beside me on the wooden bench. She’s even more edgy now. I thought he’d hurt himself, she says. I thought he’d found some glass and eaten it – there must be lots of bits of glass somewhere like this. We shouldn’t have brought him here. She takes a deep breath and puffs it out.

  What’s wrong? I say.

  She shakes her head. I’m ok. I just got a bit of a scare. Neither of us wants to make eye contact but she rests a hand on my leg. I didn’t mean to make a fuss, she says. She looks like she’s poised to say something more, but it doesn’t come. Instead a young barmaid steps out into the yard and makes for our table.

  I’ll put this up, she says, and leans over the bench to open up the parasol.

  A black cocoon made by some caterpillar plops into my beer from out of the folds, but the barmaid doesn’t notice, or
pretends not to. She hurries back into the bar and I fish out the little casing with a finger. I look at Jenny and for the first time in days she lets out a genuine laugh. I lay it down on the table and roll it gently back and forth with a fingertip, careful not to crack it.

  I’ll get you another drink, she says.

  God no. I’m not bothered. I leave the cocoon alone and take another swig to prove it. Jenny laughs again, creasing her eyes in disgust at the same time, and I’m smiling with her now. I try to recall the last time I made her laugh out loud but can’t seem to picture it at all. Then I realise my mind has shifted onto wondering whether Christine would be laughing at what’s just happened and a cold, quenching hand reaches up inside and kills my smile. How was your morning, I say?

  She grimaces and looks down at the table. Not so good, she says.

  I realise she wants me to chase her a little, but I can’t bring myself to. The girl who opened the parasol comes back out and rescues me. She stands at the table tapping her notebook with the rubber butt of her pencil.

  We don’t need food, Jenny tells her.

  Oh. Ok, she says, then leaves us.

  When I look back at Jenny it’s obvious I’ll find out what’s wrong anyway – she’s got her head bowed and the next move will have to be mine. What is it? I say.

  No answer.

  I look at Michael. He’s staring around, content.

  What? I say, trying to keep the rising panic I feel out of my voice.

  She takes a slow breath. I’m just being stupid, she says. I’m ok.

  Tell me.

  I got a fright this morning, she says at last. She’s put a hand on Michael’s bonnet, twisting the wool ball on top, winding it tight one way, then the other.

  What kind of fright?

  It sounds stupid now.

  Tell me.

  Her fingers are still working on the bonnet. Michael’s trying to reach up to find out what’s going on up there, but she doesn’t notice.

  Well, she says, you know how my office window looks out onto the arcade?

  I nod. The arcade – a crumbling, ratty passageway of boarded up booths and a public toilet – links the far end of the prom and the High Street where Jenny works. I start to guess what Jenny might have seen. Drunks beating each other half to death; maybe some old dosser, dead or dying, getting shovelled into an ambulance. Those kinds of things happened there now and again, and always upset her.

  Well, she carries on, a girl came out with a pushchair and she was wearing a green jacket like Christine’s. And I thought she’d taken Michael. She looks set to cry.

  I force a laugh. Christ, Jen, I say.

  I know, I know. She stops toying with Michael’s bonnet and puts both hands in her lap. I thought oh God, he’s let her take my baby, she blurts suddenly, and I feel my stomach roll.

  We finish our drinks in silence and after a while I reach out to touch her hand where it’s lying flat on the table.

  These last few days, she says quietly, but doesn’t finish.

  You’re just tired, I tell her. Just tired and not thinking straight.

  She draws her hand away and rests it in her lap. It’s getting colder again, she says, and it’s true: when I left Bethesda the sky was a wide, soft blue, but now there’s a mass of dark cloud riding in on a chilly breeze from the north.

  I can smell rain, she says. Make sure Michael doesn’t get caught in it, if it comes. There’s something weary in the way she’s speaking now; withdrawn, almost resigned. This morning in the office, she says, after seeing the woman with the baby, I was thinking how I’ve never really told you things. I haven’t really trusted you, and I should have. I’m sorry now.

  God, Jenny. What’s that supposed to mean? You’re going on like one of us was dying. I take a deep breath, panic stitching inside my guts like a needle. It’s not important, I tell her, feeling my voice tighten up as I speak. It’s up to you what you tell me. I don’t tell you everything either.

  She closes her eyes and doesn’t reply, though I can see I’ve hurt her. We sit awkwardly for a while, then I check my watch. As I let my arm drop she says, why aren’t you frightened of Christine?

  Before I can ask her what she means someone calls her name from the doorway of the bar, a young blond guy with tight, curly hair and a confident, dimpling smile.

  Who’s that? I ask her.

  Drew, she says quickly and quietly, then smiles up at him and waves. He’s already heading toward us. I’m sorry, she says, just before he gets within earshot.

  He stops just beyond arm’s length. So this is where you disappeared to, he says.

  She turns to face me. Luke, this is Drew, he works in the records department.

  In the bowels, he says. We’re in the basement, he explains brightly, turning to me for the first time.

  He can’t be older than eighteen. There’s an easy, well-scrubbed chubbiness about his face that makes me want to punch it.

  Is that your baby? he says, leering at Michael.

  Michael looks back at him.

  What time are you going back? Drew asks her.

  She checks her watch. Ten minutes.

  He sniffs and for a moment I think he’s about to leave us alone, but no. I let the conversation roll over me, though the kid’s voice grates on my nerves whenever he raises it to laugh or emphasise a point, which is often. I try to blank my mind of everything, and instead find myself remembering Jason and his comic books, in that other beer garden, on that vanished afternoon. Finally I reach out for the little black cocoon on the table in front of me and concentrate on rolling it between finger and thumb, building the pressure minutely, feeling for the critical point where the case would give way at the tiniest increase.

  Well, I’d better be getting back. Drew looks at me and lifts his hand. Nice meeting you, he says.

  I tell him it was nice to meet him too, and I can feel Jenny frowning at my tone of voice. The wind feels like it’s getting colder by the minute. I can feel it tugging at my shirt sleeves.

  She’s quiet again once he’s gone. Then she says, you don’t need to be so hostile. You’re always like that with people I know. You get growly, like a bad tempered dog.

  It’s partly true, so I don’t argue. I don’t want to argue about anything, anyway. I realise I’m still holding the cocoon. For some reason I don’t want Jenny to see me putting it back on the table so I let it drop to the ground.

  There’s silence for a while, then she tells me she’ll have to go soon, and I nod.

  Sorry, I say.

  No. I shouldn’t have dragged you out. It doesn’t matter. Look after Michael on the way back. It’s got colder. Don’t hang around with him in the wind, will you?

  No.

  And forget about what I said earlier. I was just a bit upset. I wish I hadn’t phoned now.

  Don’t worry.

  I’m not worried. I just wish I hadn’t. She bends down and kisses Michael, checks the inside of his mouth one more time, then tightens the ribbons holding the bonnet under his chin. When it’s secure enough she stands and slips her handbag over her shoulder. I’ll be back late, she says. I’ve got to get through some of the work that built up last week. What a waste of time that all was, in the end.

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I take our empty glasses and nest one inside the other.

  I’ll be home around seven.

  Jen, I say. I take some air in and steady my voice. Why don’t you take the afternoon off sick? You could take a couple of days. We could go away somewhere. Just for a few days. I don’t know. Suddenly my chest feels like it’s loaded with stones. It’s hard to breathe right and I can hardly bear to look her in the eye.

  She shakes her head. I took all the days I could for Christine. I can’t take more time now. She takes a close, half-puzzled last look at me, like she’s trying to remember who I am, then turns to go. Bye, she says, and then she’s gone, and we’re alone.

  The sun keeps breaking through and disappearing again a
s I wheel the buggy back along the prom. A few cold spits of rain have started to speckle the pavement. A few hundred yards or so before Bethesda I notice Bill Kerrigan on the opposite side of the road, heading into town, hands deep in the pockets of his duffel coat. He’s walking with quick, long strides, glancing every now and then out to sea. He doesn’t give any sign of noticing me and soon we’ve passed each other by. On our side of the street a yellow council cleaning truck is whining ahead of us, crawling along and holding up the traffic, the big flared brushes on its underside spraying grit and storm-shingle off the tarmac and into the hubs and paintwork of parked cars. I speed up and hurry the buggy past it. Michael, sleepy now, half-opens his eyes as we draw alongside but doesn’t seem bothered by the bedlam of engines and rotors flailing just a few feet away from his head.

  As we draw closer I realise there’s some kind of gathering across from Bethesda. A small crowd of dark-dressed people, clustered at the railings overlooking the sea. Then I realise they’re school-kids in uniform, young teenagers, some twenty or thirty of them, standing in a rough semi-circle. At the edge of the group a young woman keeps watch over them. She looks agitated, stalking back and forth at the edge of things, grimacing, though none of the kids are playing up.

  A tall, straight-backed man in a charcoal suit and minister’s collar, is addressing them, staring balefully over their heads at some fixed point beyond them which might be the bay window of Bethesda. I wonder if Mrs Clement is staring back at him. I can’t make out what he’s saying but then the kids start singing, self-consciously, uneasy maybe at the onlookers collecting around them. We rest on thee, they moan, our shield and our defender.