Mercy Seat Page 13

  My chest felt too tight with her weight against it, and I wanted to breathe deep to take the pressure off, but didn’t want her to think it was a sigh. Instead I slipped the tips of my fingers under the tight waistband of her jeans and she drew her stomach in, making space. I slid both hands deeper, till my knuckles caught, and she breathed out to trap them there.

  Footsteps tramped on the staircase over our heads. Students, I said, and let her go.

  She rearranged her shirt, tucking it back neatly into her jeans. Without speaking we made our way past the two girls on the stairs and up to the flat.

  Jenny went out of her way all through that evening to be cheerful and to make up with Christine. She’d made a big pasta bake for when we got in and announced it as soon as we came through the door. I remembered you saying you liked Italian food, she told her sister.

  Christine seemed calm and quietly cheerful and that helped me keep my own mood up, though whenever they were out of my sight together my stomach went into a guilty, fearful cramp.

  At the table Christine chatted brightly about the hotel we couldn’t get into and the fat, fierce woman there. Afterwards she helped with Michael and then with the dishes after Jenny suggested they left him with me while they saw to the kitchen.

  For the endless minutes they were gone I paced the flat’s two rooms with Michael lodged like a deadweight in my arms. I dreaded Jenny’s return, imagining her broken by some tearful confession, but at the same time craved Christine’s presence whatever the circumstance.

  But there was no confession, and once they were back the time passed quickly – they laughed together over simple things and drank more of the wine I fetched from the basement.

  Later still, in bed at night, I lay restless and hard – Go and see, she’d said, that day on the beach; go and see – until Jenny, sensing something, turned to me and ran her small hands over my body, bit my face and neck, chest and sides, nipping and breathing onto the pinked flesh. She can sense the new life in me, I remember thinking with a kind of horror, even as I rolled towards her and lifted myself, then drew her to her knees; she can sense the new life and she thinks it’s for her.

  Nine

  It wasn’t until mid-morning of the next day that Christine mentioned Bill Kerrigan’s party. She’d swum for longer that day, and Jenny had begun to get nervous, waking me and insisting I get dressed in case of some emergency. The wind had picked up earlier than usual and every few minutes she’d drifted to the window to check on the choppiness of the sea.

  When Christine did return her mood had changed from the evening before. She wasn’t high now, though an air of contentment, maybe a kind of triumph, still surrounded her when she smiled or spoke. It unnerved me, and maybe at some deep level it unsettled Jenny, too, though she couldn’t have known why.

  I didn’t know if you’d still want to go, Jenny said to neither of us in particular, and it fell between us awkwardly. We had a nice time last night just the three of us, didn’t we?

  I’d like to, Christine said at last. I’ve been looking forward to it.

  Jenny shrugged and sucked at a nail she’d been biting.

  Do you still want to go, Luke? Christine fixed me with a wide open, innocent look.

  I don’t mind. I’m happy to go if you want to.

  There was silence for a while. That’s fine, then, Jenny said at last, and clamped her fingers between her thighs like that was the only way she could keep from tearing them to the bone.

  Christine unwound herself out of her chair and padded through to Michael’s cot. She’d come down from her shower barefoot, wearing just a faded cotton shift that seemed in some simple, unabashed way to make her body seem more naked than if it were bare. He was banging a toy at the bars and I heard her baby-talk to him, then lift him out. I glanced at Jenny but she resisted calling her sister through or turning to watch her. She closed her eyes and cocked her head instinctively, listening like a wild animal or bird.

  In the afternoon I had a three-hour warehouse shift and it kept me mindlessly busy – there were four deliveries to wait on and though none of the stock was too heavy it was hard, repetitive work shuttling between the lorries and the warehouse stacks.

  On the way home I had nothing to keep my mind off the fact that Jenny and Christine had spent hours together, talking, and so I felt no surprise, just a kind of sickened resignation, when I heard the muffled sounds of a quarrel from behind the flat door. It wasn’t that I imagined Christine feeling remorse for what we’d done, and for what seemed to be happening between us, but that some kind of crisis, some kind of release was simply the next unavoidable stage on the path I was suddenly and haplessly stumbling along, like a sleepwalker following a voice in a dream, and nearing the top of the stairs.

  I waited in the corridor for a few minutes, but couldn’t make out any words. Finally I put my key to the lock, turned it and walked in.

  Just don’t then! That’s all! Just don’t! I heard Jenny yell. Then: Luke, she said, catching sight of me stood in the doorway. Her voice fell quiet, like a switch had been flicked inside her. She was holding Michael tight to her chest, and in an instant I knew the quarrel was over him and nothing to do with me at all.

  Christine didn’t turn to acknowledge me. She was sat rigid on the edge of the sofa, her back straight but shoulders narrowed up like she was flinching from a blow.

  What’s going on? I said, hearing my voice like a stranger’s.

  Jenny shook her head without answering. She lowered Michael a few inches and pressed her lips against the crown of his head. Nothing, she said at last, raising her lips from his hair, but keeping her face bowed. It wasn’t anything, was it, Chris?

  Christine shrugged stiffly.

  Well, I said awkwardly, I’ll make coffee. Who wants one?

  Jenny shook her head again and Christine simply ignored me.

  Despite the tension, as I turned to go my whole body felt flooded with relief, as if a blood transfusion had drained me in seconds and now was pumping me full again. The problem with Michael, whatever it was, just felt like one of the poisons about to be irrigated out. I took the stairs to the kitchen in bounds and drank my coffee there, my whole body quivering. I gave Jenny and Christine twenty minutes, then went back down to them.

  We spent the early evening staring at the TV. Michael, maybe anxious at the tension in the air, cried miserably for hours in Jenny’s arms until the effort sent him into a restless sleep.

  At nine, Christine got up and took hold of a cotton dress she’d left hanging behind the door. I’ll get changed in the bedroom, she said to no one in particular, then went through and closed the door behind her.

  Jenny looked at me and opened her mouth, but after a pause let it close again without saying a word.

  I won’t go if you don’t want me to, I said. I’m not bothered.

  Go, she said. It doesn’t matter. We can’t spend much longer sitting like this.

  What happened earlier? I murmured, listening for the bedroom door. What’s going on?

  Nothing.

  It didn’t sound like nothing.

  She looked over at the bedroom door, as if Christine might suddenly fling it open and confront her. We spoke about things, she said in a quiet monotone. She’s more disturbed than I thought. She’s in trouble, Luke. In her mind, I mean. She’s so angry. I don’t want her near Michael.

  I stared at her and she turned away, and I knew she was ashamed. What are you talking about? What’s it got to do with Michael?

  I don’t want her near any of us. Not until she’s better. She’s ill, Luke. She needs to get better. I can’t help her. I thought I could help her because I’m her sister, but I can’t. She doesn’t want me and she doesn’t want help. She wants… I don’t know what she wants. I could feel it, she said, close to tears suddenly. I could feel it, and now I know.

  What are you talking about? I said. What could you feel?

  She shook her head. It doesn’t matter. She has to leave tomorrow. I�
��ve told her. That’s that.

  Christ, I said.

  She closed her eyes, lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of her nose like she was stopping a bleed. We talked about it while you were upstairs.

  I sank back into the sofa, not wanting Jenny to see my face. I dragged a lungful of air down, silently. Michael squirmed awake and that gave me time to think of some kind of response while she calmed him.

  Jenny, just tell me what’s going on.

  Don’t –

  The door opened and Christine stepped through. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying. Bedroom’s free, she said. I’ll go up to the bathroom to finish my make-up.

  I gave Jenny a last look, which she didn’t meet, then nodded to Christine and went through to get changed.

  On the walk to Kerrigan’s house, as we made our way up behind Bethesda into narrow Victorian terraces and then up again to the broader, leafier streets in the northeast side of town, I asked Christine what had gone on that afternoon. For a while I thought she wouldn’t answer, but when she did her voice was bright and confident, though there was a brittleness too which she couldn’t quite cover.

  I don’t want to talk about it now. I want to enjoy the party. I just made Michael a bit frightened – it was an accident. Jennifer overreacted. That’s what she always did. She flashed me a grim little smile.

  How did you frighten him? I remembered the small stones again, lying there under his face in his sling, but couldn’t begin to find the words to ask her about them. It was too late, I realised. It had been too late the moment I found them.

  I don’t know. I moved too quickly, maybe, she said vaguely. I don’t want to talk about it. Can I come with you in the van tomorrow?

  Jenny said you’re leaving.

  I’m your guest now, remember, she said, and a familiar wave of despair came over me, making me pause for breath though the walking was easy. She waited for me to move again, studying my face. I’ve been thinking about what happened yesterday, she said.

  What have you thought? My legs felt heavy as logs but I forced them to move forward again anyway. I reached out and took her hand but she just squeezed the fingers and let it go.

  I like babies, she said, changing the subject. Jennifer wasn’t fair.

  She’s just protective. Michael’s her first child. She’s bound to be nervous with him.

  She wasn’t fair. But it doesn’t matter – she never was. I’ve been remembering that. I’ve been doing a lot of remembering. She looked around her like she wanted to get her bearings. Are we nearly there yet?

  Just up this hill. I glanced sideways at her. She was stepping quick and smooth, back straight like it had been on the sofa earlier, eyes fixed dead ahead now.

  Chris, why did you and Jenny quarrel? I said, and stopped, but she walked on, only slowing and turning back to check on me halfway along the row of big, detached houses.

  Which number? she called.

  I caught up with her and led the way through Kerrigan’s gate and along his gravelled front path.

  It’s a lovely house, she said when we got to the porch.

  It’s all split into student flats. All the houses round here are.

  The big front door was off the latch. Music was thumping from somewhere inside. I swung the door open and she stepped past me into the hall.

  We followed the music to Kerrigan’s sitting room. It was dimly lit and the air was loaded with smoke. About a dozen figures were sprawled around the floor – mainly students but a few older guests too. One of them, a lean, toothy, crop-headed man who I recognised as one of Jenny’s old tutors, lifted a can of lager to acknowledge me. I’d spoken to him once or twice at parties like this, in the months after Jenny’s graduation. I picked my way over to him and Christine followed behind. He was sat in front of one of the tall speakers and as I took a place next to him I could feel the bass vibrating at the back of my head. It was impossible to speak, which suited me. He reached behind him for two cans and offered them to us. I took one but Christine shook her head and sat staring at the bodies scattered around her.

  Kerrigan was nowhere to be seen, but after a few minutes I looked up to see him coming through the door with a couple of bottles of wine. For a few moments he stood surveying the scene, grinning into the warm fog, his eyes passing over me blank as washers. A girl said something to him as she passed by, leaving the room, and he nodded, put the bottles on the floor and came straight towards us. I lifted a hand to greet him, but all he wanted to do was turn the music a little lower and when he did catch my eye he looked surprised to see me, but nodded and smiled. Luke, he barked above the music, you know Graham? He gestured to the man beside me and I nodded. Good, he said. He glanced at Christine, then swayed off toward a cluster of students in the far corner.

  Now that I’d been reminded of his name I turned to Graham. How are things? I shouted.

  He turned the music lower still. Sorry, he said. I recognise the face, but…

  Luke, I said. I met you a couple of times with Jenny. She was in a few of your classes. A couple of years back.

  He nodded. That’s right. Sorry. I think I’ve seen you round the library, too?

  Probably, I said. I use it now and again. I’m doing some courses with the OU.

  Ah, he said. He took a nip from a skinny rollup he’d been cradling between his bony knees. So how’s Jenny getting on? She’s got a baby now, I heard.

  Yes. They’re both doing fine.

  Do you see her often?

  I laughed. We’re married, I said, raising my voice to carry over the crashing opening riff to a new song.

  Christ! he said. Sorry! He peered at me more closely and took another drag. You don’t look old enough, he laughed.

  I turned to Christine but she was gone and when I scanned the room for her I could only make out the same knots of people that had been there when we came in. I drained my can, got up and signalled to Graham that I was off to get more beer. He gave me a thumbs up, looking bored now and ready to drink all he could get his hands on.

  She was in the kitchen – a huge cold room at the back of the flat – sitting at Kerrigan’s farmhouse table with Kerrigan himself. Behind them a few students were perched on stools around the tall fridge, passing a couple of wine boxes from knee to knee, plastic cup to plastic cup. I helped myself to a brace of four-packs from the fridge, then stood beside her at the table. She looked up at me, stony-faced, as if I were a stranger. I could sense Kerrigan’s eyes on me, and his mild irritation, and despite the coolness of the kitchen my scalp started to prick with sweat.

  What? she said.

  I fixed my eyes on Kerrigan, trying to block her from my mind so I could maybe salvage the situation. Sorry to butt in. Jenny said to say hello.

  I’m sorry she couldn’t come, he said. Would’ve been good to see her. It’s been a while. He looked at the beers in my hand and I was suddenly conscious of not having brought anything.

  Well. Catch you later, I said.

  Yeah.

  I made my way to Graham again and dropped beside him, handing him one of the packs.

  Cheers, he said. I found rum, he went on, and showed me a halflitre he’d hidden behind the speaker.

  Last time I was here I stole his good whisky, I said.

  His body rocked approvingly.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there drinking – hours on end, it seemed. Far on in the night I remember another lecturer who Jenny had once introduced me to – a square, tough-faced American woman called Dr Case – stumping over to Graham and complaining about the amount of dope being smoked in the room. She didn’t recognise me, so I just sat further back alongside the speaker, closed my eyes and listened to the white noise of the party swilling around me. I was helping Graham with the rum by then and at some point I remember crawling slowly past Graham’s raised knees, pulling myself upright alongside an armchair and falling onto the couple who were locked blind together in it. The next thing I remember is stumbling into an empty bedroom and si
tting on a wooden-backed chair in the dark, hoping absurdly that Christine would come and find me there.

  Finally, in a daze of resentment and jealousy, I made my way back to the kitchen. The party seemed to have thinned out and there were only two people there now, a young woman and an older man, slumped facing each other across the debris of glasses, empty cans and ashtrays littering the table. They were smoking and talking earnestly in low tones, the man shaking his head slowly and continuously.

  Do you know where Bill is? I broke in.

  Who? the girl demanded, annoyed at being interrupted.

  Bill Kerrigan. You know, the guy whose party it is.

  No. I don’t know him. Anyway, what fucking party, eh?

  He was here in the kitchen but he’s gone, the man said, slurring. He went into the garden with some other people. He’ll be in with the music and stuff, now, maybe. I don’t know.

  The garden was empty, but the cold night air cleared my head a little and I stayed outside for a few minutes, breathing it in and looking up at the stars between heavy, dragging clouds. A thin grey cat pressed itself against my shin, startling me. It mewed, staring up at my face, then padded across the big, untidy lawn and disappeared in the shadows.

  Back inside I found them in the sitting room, not far from where I’d been slumped against the wall earlier. They’d stopped talking now and Christine looked tired and distracted. All the anger in me lifted away and it was all I could do to stop myself crossing the room sitting abject at her feet in relief. Instead I edged my way around the wall towards them.

  She turned when I tapped her shoulder and gave me a thin smile. Where have you been? I’d like to go soon, she said.

  I nodded. There was no music in the room now, just scattered, drunken conversation. The woman who’d spoken to Kerrigan earlier and told him to turn the music down was picking her way over outstretched legs and prone bodies, gathering bottles and crushed cans into a black plastic sack. One of his flatmates, I guessed. Kerrigan watched her, motionless, his dark eyes hooded and solemn-looking.

  Where did it come from, the Sea of Light? I heard somebody chant, and turned to see Graham reading to three prone students from a slim book he must have found on one of the shelves. He repeated the line in Welsh, then went on with the rest of the poem, translating in fragments as the mood took him; something about a huntsman in the rushes between two fields, a field of grass and a field of flowers.