Dark Angel (80 page)

The man’s jacket was unfastened; his shirt was loose. The nurse pushed them to one side. She directed the flashlight.

The man had taken a bayonet wound in the chest. The bayonet must have glanced across his ribs before penetrating just below the heart. The wound had been poorly sutured. It had left a livid scar, a cicatrice the shape of a crescent moon. The marks of stitches were clearly visible. Around the man’s throat was a thong and a small leather medallion.

“One-nine-three?”

“That’s his number. His hospital number.” The nurse began to sound impatient. She pulled the blanket back into place.

“Did you not give him a name?”

“This one? No, I didn’t. I don’t know why. He hasn’t been here long, and I haven’t nursed him that much. Also, he scares me. Some of them do, you know. The look they get in their eyes. As if they wanted to kill you. He has that. Cold eyes. They look right through you. And they’re a funny color.”

It was as if the man heard her. He stirred, turned, opened his eyes. He lay on his back, staring straight up at them without blinking. He must have seen them, but he gave no sign. He might have stared at a wall.

“Why don’t we have that milk?”

The nurse turned away. Jane did not move.

“Come on. I’ve some cigarettes, too, if you’d like one. Shouldn’t, not when I’m on duty—but the night’s so slow, don’t you find?” She shivered. “I hate these bloody caves.”

“Yes. Very slow.”

Jane knelt beside the bed. She took her own flashlight from her pocket and switched it on. She shone it carefully to the side of the man’s face, so it would not blind him. A thin face. The reddish stubble of a beard, perhaps four or five days of growth.

Why had no one shaved him? she thought. She felt a sudden spurt of anger. Why had no one done this for him, if he could not do it for himself? And his hair was unwashed, as well as uncombed. She lifted her hand to smooth it; the man’s hair was alive; his scalp crawled. Jane jerked her hand away. She almost dropped her flashlight.

“This man has lice.” She swung around accusingly.

The nurse shrugged. “I’ll make a note of it. They can deal with it tomorrow.”

“It should have been dealt with at once. At
once
.”

Jane stopped. The man had turned his head. He regarded her face with a still cold gaze. His eyes turned to her hair, to her cap. He looked downward toward her mouth and chin, then back up to her eyes. His eyes had the vacancy of the blind.

“Look, do you want some of this milk or don’t you?” The nurse sounded impatient. “Leave him alone. Let him get some sleep. I don’t want trouble.”

“I know him,” Jane said. “I know him.”

She leaned forward so that her own eyes looked down into his. The man continued to stare straight ahead, as if he looked through her into the dark. His eyes were green, the left a perceptibly different color from the right. Jane took his left hand and held it between her own. Once he had worn a signet ring on the little finger of this hand, though he wore none now.

“Acland.”

She spoke his name very quietly, so only she and he could hear. There was no flicker of response.

“Acland. Can you understand me? It’s Jane. Look, touch me. I’m a nurse here. I’ve cut my hair since you last saw me, but I’m sure if you look you can recognize me—”

Jane’s voice broke. She felt confused. Her vision blurred. Hair? Why was she talking about hair? How could she be so stupid?

“Look.” She lifted his hand so that his fingers rested against her face. His hand remained stiff and inert. “Look, I’m crying, Acland. Tears—can you feel them? I’m only crying because I’m so happy, Acland. I thought I’d lost you, you see. But you’re not lost. You’re found. Acland—can you hear me? Oh, please, can’t you see me?”

The man below her gave no sign he heard her voice. His hand remained stiff. There was no answering pressure from his fingers, no trace of response in his eyes. Jane thought:
I was always invisible to him; I am invisible still.

“Acland, please, let me help you. You will be safe now. I shall look after you. I shan’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll take you home—Acland, think: Winterscombe. You’ll see Winterscombe. It’s spring there now—”

Jane stopped. She dropped her own hands and drew back a little. Acland’s hand remained as it had been. He did not lower his arm. Jane had begun to shake. A bomb breathed in the distance. The air moved. She tried to force this upraised arm back down against the blankets, but it would not be forced. It was as stiff as the arm of a day-old corpse. She swung around.

“What is wrong with this man—what is it?”

She put the question angrily. The nurse took offense.

“Wrong with him? What do you think is wrong with him? The same as is wrong with all the others. And you’re wasting your time trying to talk to him. Maybe he can hear—but if he can, he doesn’t listen. And he never speaks. Look—come and have a drink. Have a cigarette.” Her voice became conciliatory. “Come on, dear. It’s best to leave him. He’s mad.”

“W
EXTON,” I SAID, “WILL
you read this?”

I held out one of Constance’s black journals. Wexton, who had refused to look at any of them before, took it with obvious reluctance.

“Please, Wexton. I want you to understand why they disturb me so much.”

“After the caves?” He put on his reading glasses.

“Five months later.”

He moved to the window, where the light was strong. A clear, cold autumn day; outside, the sun shone on the gardens at Winterscombe. He bent his head to the page, and, in silence, he read the following entry. Constance had written it in this house, in October 1917.

Full circle. We are all assembled here again. It was Gwen’s idea. The family home, the family circle—Gwen believes this will cure Acland, five months in London and six most distinguished doctors having failed.

The weather is fine. There is a bright new window in the church, Denton’s memorial to Boy. Gwen took Acland to look at this yesterday, against Jane’s advice. He sat in his wheelchair, facing the window. Perhaps he saw it; perhaps he did not. Needless to say, he did not speak. Then, last night, his nightmares returned; his screams were so loud they woke me. I ran out onto the landing. I thought my father had come back.

I stood there listening. People scurried to and fro. Even Montague woke and came out of his room. He saw me standing there; he put his arm around me. He offered to stay with me, but I sent him away. I do not need him now, not for the present. I need you, Acland. I am going to bring you back from the dead.

Now listen to me, Acland, my dearest Lazarus: I’ve been patient, but I shan’t be patient anymore. You’ll get no loving kindness from me—let Jane supply the sops and the prayers. Kindness will not bring you back. They’ve wasted five months on kindness. You need harsher medicine than that: truth, for instance, not the consolation of lies.

You think you’re wounded, Acland? Just wait—I can wound you in ways you wouldn’t believe. Stab, stab, stab. Whatever the Germans did to you, I can do worse.

Shall I tell you about Jenna? Would you like to hear about your baby son, Edgar, whose eyes were exactly like yours—and who died three weeks ago, of a pleurisy? There’s plenty more.

You see? Truth hurts. Words bruise. Time does not stop, Acland, and you cannot ignore that, any more than I once could. Remember that, next time you look through me.

I need to be alone with you. Not for long—an hour would do, but even an hour is difficult, for Jane guards you ferociously. However, Jane is tiring; you are wearing even her optimism thin. So, I shall have my hour soon enough. Tomorrow, or the day after.

Then, when you know how it really feels to have a mind full of rocks, and those rocks grinding, grinding—you can choose. Die if you want. After all, we both know death is the last best secret.

But if you die, at least make it a glorious death, not this miserable dwindling away. Spit in the eye of this trumpery world; go out on a tide of triumphant blood. I’ll help you. What would you like? A gun? A razor?

Or live—if you feel angry enough. Wager yourself against the world. It can be done. I do it. But make no mistake—you must be angry first, and you must keep that anger with you, forever and ever.

Jane will promise you the old solaces: faith, hope, charity—can’t you just hear her? She will tell you there is a valley, and it is a quiet place, a restful place; it is just ahead; you can reach it. Don’t believe her. There may be a valley, but after that there is always another mountain range, and then another, and at the very end, when you have climbed them all, there will be one last precipice, one last stretch of black, black water.

My husband is at the door. Acland, I shall stop writing now and lock this away. Don’t worry, I keep you secret; I still protect you. He is clever—so I have to be careful. Oh, Acland, do you remember the night you came to me and showed me your wound? You made a ring of bright hair and bound it about my finger—dear dead Acland, how alive we were then!

Wait for me now. I shall come soon, I promise. I shall bring you two presents: death in my right hand, and life in my left. Dexter or sinister: think about it, Acland. I shall kiss you, and then you can decide.

Wexton closed the notebook. There was silence.

“Do you see, Wexton?” I said eventually. “She was in love with my father. I think he was in love with her. Always. Everything she says there, she did. Do you see, Wexton? It wasn’t my mother who brought Acland back to life. It was Constance.”

“Odd.” Wexton did not appear to be listening. He pulled first at his earlobes, then his hair. He frowned. “Odd.” He turned. “I can’t remember. Is Constance right-handed?”

“What? Yes. Yes, she is. But—”

“
Dexter or sinister.
I kind of like that. Except”—he paused—“most people, unless they were left-handed, they’d offer death with the left hand and life with the right—don’t you think? She reverses it.”

“I don’t see … It doesn’t seem very important—”

“Oh, I think it is. A mirror image. It’s pretty clear which one she wanted him to choose. The razor hand. Was it a razor?”

“Yes.”

“A cutthroat, huh?” Wexton smiled. “But then a safety razor—apart from the fact it wouldn’t do the job as well—it doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

“Wexton, please don’t make fun of this. I can see—the way she writes. But she always writes like that. She means what she says.”

“Oh sure, I realize that. And I’m not making fun of it. It’s highly colored, but better than I expected. I wouldn’t mind reading a bit more.”

“Wexton, this isn’t literary criticism. This is my
father—
”

“Was she always that in love with death?” Wexton stood.

“What? I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do. Think. This is a love letter, right?”

“I suppose so. In a way. One of many. Those journals are full of them.” I turned away bitterly. “And they’re all addressed to my father.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. She’s writing to death. She just happens to call him Acland.”

“A love letter—to death?”

“That’s how it seems to me. I could be wrong, of course.” He frowned. “You know the line in Keats?
And, for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death?
Only in her case she isn’t half in love—it’s a full-blooded romance. And death isn’t too easeful. In fact, as lovers go, he sounds pretty vigorous, wouldn’t you say?
Stab, stab, stab … Go out on a tide of blood?
It’s full of sex. Death as the ultimate sexual partner.”

He stopped, as if an idea had just occurred to him. His face, alert and interested just a moment before, clouded. He shook his head.

“I wonder …”

He seemed about to say something more, then thought better of it. He was looking toward the future. I know that now, but at the time I misinterpreted his reaction. I thought there was a very good reason why Constance might have associated Acland with death, and it concerned the accident to her father. If Wexton had also made that connection—
Acland, don’t worry, I keep you secret; I still protect you
—it was not something I wanted to discuss then. I wanted those suspicions to go away; I was not ready to confront them yet.

“Wexton,” I said, “you remember India—you remember the day I went to Mr. Chatterjee?”

“Yes.”

“You remember what he said about two women?”

“Uh-huh.” Wexton’s expression became guarded.

“It’s not that I believe in clairvoyance, exactly. Obviously, I don’t.”

“Obviously.” Wexton smiled.

“But two women—they are here, do you see? Constance and Jane. Constance and—my mother. He said I would have to choose between them. And I feel as if this is the place. Right here.”

“One of them cured Acland, you mean? That story?”

“Yes. I grew up with that story, Wexton. I still believe it.”

“So do I.”

“You see, if I could just be sure … which of them it was. Constance always claimed she did it.”

“That sounds pretty typical. What did your mother say?”

“She said it was God.”

“I can imagine that. I mean, Jane—well, she would say that.”

“It was all so
strange
, Wexton. If I could just be sure.”

“You can’t. That’s the point, I’d say.”

He hesitated. He crossed the room; he patted my hand in an awkward, affectionate way.

“Can you hear your mother’s voice now? Constance isn’t drowning her out anymore?”

“No. Not so much. I hear her—I think I hear her.”

“Then think about it. Trust your instincts. Weigh one against the other and decide.” He paused. “And no, don’t ask me. You know what I think, anyway. But then, I’m hopelessly biased—”

“You think it’s obvious?”

To my surprise, Wexton shook his head.

“Oh, no. I don’t think it’s obvious at all. I’ve never underestimated Constance’s powers. I certainly don’t now.” He gestured toward the journals. “As women, she and your mother were at opposite extremes. It was a duel of angels.”

That phrase surprised me even more—Wexton was not usually given to exaggeration. He saw my surprise, and it seemed to amuse him. His face crumpled into his benevolent smile.