Dead of Light (2 page)

“Your sister's here,” he said.

Which was instant chill, a dose of wide-awake potion and my mouth suddenly desert-dry, no question of chucking up.

“I haven't,” I croaked, “haven't got a sister.”
Send her away, get rid of her, get her out of here...

“Well, she says she's your sister. And I wouldn't want to argue, the mood she's in. Very stressed-out, this girl is.”

I disinvested, I divorced her, I disowned them all and denied them thrice before cock-crow; I've got a decree absolute, no family, none of mine...

But yes, that sounded like my sister; and if she was here, she wasn't going away. Not fair, to send Jacko back with unforthcoming messages. She'd just shred him, and then come through to find me.

“Give me a minute,” I said.

“Sure. Make her a coffee, shall I...?”

“No.” That surprised him; the question was pure rhetoric, of course he'd make her a cup of coffee. But, “No,” I said again, and meant it.
Not in my flat. No welcome, no refreshment, no returns.
“Go back to bed,” I said, “I'll deal with Hazel.”

And not in my bathrobe, either. That was a lesson early learned, not to put myself at any disadvantage. I pulled on yesterday's jeans and a sweatshirt, slouched through to the bathroom for a pee and a quick wash, no distractions and no hostages to fortune. I pulled a comb through my hair, checked myself in the mirror, even thought about shaving; but no, no need to go overboard. If I was going to play student for my sister, I had to look the part. So I rumpled my hair again,
I'm hung over, right? And it's Friday morning and I'm cutting lectures, and for God's sake give the girl what she expects to see
, and unbolted the door at last.

We never bolt the bathroom door, Jacko and me; but Hazel was in the flat and I hadn't even stopped to think about it. All my life I'd been snatching refuges from Hazel, bolting doors against her.

And now I walked down the passage damp and fresh and afraid, head numb and stomach twisting for more than all last night's alcohol; and I hesitated by the closed living-room door, and my hand was trembling where I lifted it to the handle.

o0o

And I walked in and yes, there was Hazel.

In her leathers, stood by the window, watching the bike perhaps in this neighbourhood, as if anyone in this neighbourhood would be stupid enough to steal Hazel Macallan's bike.

Her helmet was on the table, her hair was cropped to keep it neat under the helmet, her eyes were hard and sisterly. I looked away, trying to be angry with her for coming,
why don't you, why didn't you ever, ever listen to me? Go away, we're through, it's over, no more family...
But all I could manage was contempt, and that was all for myself.
Too scared to meet her eye to eye, eh, Ben old buddy? Your sister, your twin, and you can't even look her in the eye...

My twin, yes, half an hour older and she'd exploited that all our lives; but I'd let it happen. Along with everything else I'd let happen, just because that was easier than the other thing, easier far than standing up to her or Laura or anyone. I wasn't good at standing up, and especially not this morning; already I wanted to drop onto the sofa, pull a cushion down over my face, give myself away completely.

Didn't do that, still had just a hint of pride left —
family pride
, something whispered,
Macallan pride
, and maybe it wasn't so easy after all, you couldn't just walk away from blood — so I gestured vaguely, said, “Sit down, Hazel,” the first words I'd spoken to my sister in three years, near enough.

And she jerked her head in an abrupt negative, and already I felt foolish and ineffectual; and then my rough and heavy-handed sister did what she'd come to do, used what she had, no compromise and no allowances allowed.

“Marty died last night,” she said.

And then I did sit down, or drop down rather, straight down and lucky the sofa was there or I'd have gone all the way to the floor; and after a second of staring I brought both hands up to cover my aching eyes, to give myself a moment's rest from this world of family and never mind what Hazel thought, she knew it all already.

o0o

My cousin Marty. Three years older, three stone heavier than me: at least that and likely more by now, so long since I'd seen him and
never more and isn't this what you wanted, aren't you supposed not to care?

Of course I was supposed not to care. I'd divorced them all, Marty included; and if not one of the reasons, Marty was at least a symptom of why I'd done it. He was a bully and a bruiser, shaven head and tattoos and scar tissue in unexpected places, that he delighted in showing off; and he was an enforcer, that was his talent and that was how my family used him. To lean on people, to encourage them to be convenient — and to punish if they were obdurate, if they made a nuisance of themselves. Marty used to enjoy the punishments.

But it was Marty who taught me how to swim as a kid, even if his idea of lessons did include a lot of duckings in deep water; and it was Marty who really taught me how to drink, for all that I like to tell that story differently, back when I was fourteen and even the family face wouldn't see me served in any pub in town. And the year after that he got me laid for the first time, he devoted half an hour of his own birthday party to that generous cause; and I hated his life but I loved him regardless, and he was my cousin, and he was dead.

And that didn't happen, not to family. Not at twenty-five.

“How?” I demanded when I could talk again, when I could face a world with Marty gone and Hazel right there, back in my life again.

“You'll hear,” she said like the good soldier she was, always had been. Under orders, clearly. “They've called a meeting. Everyone's coming.”

And
everyone
manifestly included me, except that I was no good soldier. I'd handed back my shilling and decamped.

“Not me,” I said. “Remember?”

“Don't be stupid, I haven't got time. Get some shoes on, and a jacket. I'm leaving in two minutes.”

“You're leaving alone, Hazel.” Marty or no Marty — and
no Marty
, that was the thing,
never any more Marty
— I wasn't putting myself back in the cage again. Escaping once was major, twice would be impossible.

“No,” she said. “Hurry up. Or do I have to do it for you?”

She would, she'd do that; I knew, from past experience. A few years back now, when I was seventeen and only starting to rebel; she'd crammed my feet into Docs and my arms into sleeves and dragged me out by main force, and she'd do just the same again if she chose to. And I might be older now, I might have a body significantly larger than hers, but I still wouldn't use it against her. Couldn't possibly.

So I stared at her, starting to sulk, feeling my grip sliding to nothing; and said, “I don't have a helmet.”

“It's my bike,” she snorted. “We won't be pulled over.”

“Not the point. People have accidents, on bikes. That's what the law's for. I won't ride a bike without a helmet, I've got too much respect for my head.”

So she picked her helmet off the table and chucked it over, and I didn't have an excuse any more; and I went to the family meeting because that was what Hazel wanted me to do, and it had been inevitable ever since the decision was made in her hard and efficient head, same size as mine but so much stronger.

o0o

We passed a patrol car on the way, not even on the dual carriageway yet and Hazel was doing upwards of a hundred with no helmet on; and the car just went on quietly trawling the kerb, the one glance to spot who we were and they didn't so much as look our way again, the brief time they could see us.

No sensible policeman was going to stop a Macallan in a hurry. One of the laws of nature, that; along with
I always do what Hazel wants.
Or you could substitute any other member of my family, more or less, in either position there. Most people did what Hazel wanted, relatives no exception; and me, I could never come face to face with any of them without kowtowing in the end. Among other notable absences in my make-up, I seemed to be missing a spine. Even my escape, my renunciation was only on sufferance; they let me go because they had no need of me. If that should change, they'd whistle me back soon enough.

As now. I couldn't believe that they needed me, I thought that they were whistling only as a matter of form:
this is a family crisis, the whole family should be here and that includes Benedict; Hazel, will you fetch him, please?
And of course she'd be only too pleased to renew her influence over her renegade, her spineless twin.

Influence? Dominion, more like. And she'd always enjoyed that, Hazel. She might have left me alone, but she had never let go of the leash.

o0o

And so we came to my uncle's house that fine and sunny Friday, and my head was snug in my sister's helmet and hammering louder than the engine of my sister's BMW as she raced it down the valley, down and down, all downhill from here. And I sat with my arms around her, but it was she who held me, as she always had; and I watched the swift road unwind in a hurry beneath my booted feet, and I thought it was dappled with death.

Actually the roads were blocked by death, near enough. There were cars parked down the private lane, all the way back to the junction; and the lane is narrow, for all that the civic authorities very kindly keep it well maintained. On four wheels, we'd never have got through to the house. Such a crush, such a gathering: even if I hadn't known already, there would have to have been a death. Nothing else could have brought them all together this way.

Jags and Micras, old Ford Escorts and new Volvo estates: I was seeing symbols in everything, and this long line of cars said that there was nothing united about my family, nothing shared beyond the blood. Blood was enough, though. It fetched them in.

Besides, there was the family business too: what paid for the cars and kept bread on the table, the wolf from the door. Everyone had a share in that.

Everyone except me. Some weeks I ate pride more than bread, and the wolf scratched deep runnels in the paintwork. But
in extremis
, friends would see me through; and I'd take my friends any day, over the people who'd bred me and fed me and held me within the shelter of their strong, strong arms all the years of my childhood.

My sister's strong arms steered her mean, lean black machine past the cars and through the high stone gateway into my uncle's grounds. Gravel spat around us, onto lawns and flower-beds; I didn't look back to see but the way Hazel drove, the way Hazel did everything, hard and fast and heedless, we'd be digging ditches in the drive. Not to worry, though. My uncle employed people to rake and tidy. That was how he lived, he walked a road constantly made smooth before his feet.

That was how he tried to live, at least. Might not find it so easy now. Hard to smooth away the death of a son so many years too soon, so very much out of proper order.

o0o

There were maybe a dozen people in sight as we approached the house. In twos and threes they stood about, darkly dressed, all with something of black about them. The men wore suits, even the cousins of our own generation, Martin's cohorts, as comfortable in collar and tie as they would have been in stilettos and lace. A family in mourning, though. doing the thing properly, as my family did everything properly. Even my sister's leathers were unadorned black; and I might be wearing Hazel's helmet but I was wearing my own clothes: padded ski jacket in electric pink, maroon jeans with purple pockets and turn-ups, scarlet boots.

Ah, well. Maybe they'd think it was a message, maybe they'd read it right.
I don't belong here, I don't belong with you.

They were reading something from me, at any rate: staring and glaring, treating me like an open book with dodgy illustrations. Maybe I should wave, say, “Hi, guys,” something like that. Family, after all. Cousins and aunts. Nobody would want to kiss these particular cousins, but maybe I should offer to kiss the aunts...

Maybe not. I kept Hazel's helmet on, dark visor down. Let my clothes say what they liked, that was all the information I was giving out for free. The rest was silence. A young man's entitled to some privacy, even from his family.

Especially from his family.

o0o

Hands in cool nylon pockets, trying to look oh so casual and not at all like a man with a Daniel complex,
hi, cats, remember me? Nice den you got here,
I followed my sister's eloquent, contemptuous back through that gauntlet of gazes and on into the house.

Uncle James met us in the hallway, fat and fifty-odd, pale in his dark suit; and just for a moment, just briefly he wasn't family at all, he was only a man whose son was dead, and I could feel for him.

But then a girl came to my elbow, to take my jacket and my sister's helmet. She was fifteen, sixteen maybe, and it was a struggle, because I wouldn't have seen her since she was twelve; but I felt the spark in her, my skin tingled when our fingers touched, and eventually I placed her as a second cousin some little distance removed. And my perspective shifted again. Of course Uncle James would be using cousins for his maids today, aunts no doubt for his cooks. He wouldn't want unrelated staff in the house, people not bound by blood; this was family business, and a stranger is by definition a spy.

And that was too much access to his mind, it was all too familiar. Sympathy shrivelled, in the light of such logic. I gave up the shadowing helmet and the proclaiming jacket both, faced him as I was: nephew and rebel, in the family but not of the family, never that.

Held my hand out to shake his like a stranger, like a spy; and he took it briefly, coldly, none of the warmth due to family. No hug, no kiss of greeting for the boy who'd done half his growing up in this house, who'd been practically an adopted son sometimes when things were a little too hot at home.