Dead of Light (8 page)

The others had grinned, and gone with him. They'd crowded the poor guy without even touching him, just making a wall of their bodies around him. Briefly, I lost sight of him; but then there he was, thrusting them heedlessly apart and reeling towards the door like a man long gone in drink when he'd only just come in, he hadn't had one yet. I saw his face good and close, saw the sweat standing out on his pale skin, saw the tremble under his skin. And then his mouth opened and a thin vomit gushed out, and he doubled up around his voiding stomach; and they hadn't even
touched
him, he'd only stood a few seconds too close to too many Macallans.

Some of these civics weren't looking too good even now, even with fresh air at their backs and my family's eyes and minds turned altogether the other way. Those who'd gone to the wake, I thought, would have had a dreadful time of it; and no, I wasn't exposing Laura to the least risk of that. Shouldn't have brought her in the first place, in all honesty. Here despite that, I had a duty to keep her safe, as well as an overmastering wish. I'd keep her physically as far as possible from any congregation of my family, and hurry her away at the slightest sign of distress.

o0o

I couldn't see the grave now, for the mass of people between it and us; but Hamish's rich voice came rolling out to us quite undiminished. Solemn and heartfelt, it talked of sure and certain hope. The only thing that I was sure and certain of was that Marty was dead and gone, far beyond hope, but still I couldn't call Hamish a liar even in the most private recesses of my mind. Hamish
believed
; you had to give credence to that, whatever else you knew about the guy.

The old, traditional service, sonorous and potent; prayers and hymns, and my sister's acid voice cutting through the mumbles all around me, high and clear and doing properly whatever was there to be done, be it singing the soprano line or simply saying ‘Amen'.

The surprise was Laura at my side, warmly contralto and equally loud. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised; I knew she could sing, from sessions at the Irish Centre and kitchen ceilidhs and walks home from the pub. And I knew too that she had as little patience as Hazel with tasks skimped. Of course she would sing out, now that I thought about it, too late. Perhaps I could only legitimately be surprised that she knew the words; but then, a country doctor's daughter, she'd probably been hauled along to church every Sunday, as much as I had.

I loved her voice, as I loved everything about her, but just that day I could have lived without it. Most people go to funerals to be seen by the living, by the relatives, to have their sorrow duly observed and registered; but not I, not that day. Arrive late and leave early, straight after the last ‘Amen', that was the plan. Be there for Marty, but not at all for any other of my blood. What I wanted was to come and go entirely unnoticed, except for the cousins on the gate.

With Laura's rich voice laying umbrous sweetness on the day, there was little chance of that.

Our civic neighbours glanced at us, awkwardly askance,
who is this girl? Doesn't she know what's right, what's fitting at a funeral?

I wasn't worried about them, though. What bothered me was the heads turning from further forward, the attention we were surely attracting from the graveside and the grim and certainly untearful mourners grouped there.

Might just as well push my way through to join them,
hi Mum, Dad, Uncle James. Hullo, Hamish.

Hullo, Hazel.

o0o

Close my eyes and I could
feel
Laura's singing, pulsing through her fingers into mine, beating into the very bones of me.

So I did that for the last hymn, closed my eyes and felt, felt closer almost than ever before; but as soon as Hamish had pronounced the blessing I shifted my hand in hers, from a linkage to a firm grip. Tug and turn, and
let's get out of here...

I tugged and we turned, and it was too late already.

With my eyes closed, of course, I hadn't been watching our neighbours; hadn't seen someone else shuffling sideways, shuffling silently between the civics, drawn like any predator to the sound of innocence, the sound of Laura's voice.

Jamie smiled at me, from barely two feet away.

Pale in his black suit, inevitably shaken at his brother's funeral, it wasn't too striking a smile, but it did the job. It held me, for the time it took to think
no
, to think
no, can't just nod and push by, not here, not today. He's burying his brother, how can I not give him what he wants?

So I stood still, drew Laura a little closer, did my best to smile back.

“Ben,” he said. “I'm glad you came.”

“How could I not?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Right.” and then his eyes shifted, me to Laura and back to me. His face quirked a question, teasing even here as if to show me how far he'd come, how much better he was than he had been, how much more himself:
who's the girlfriend, Ben boy?

“Uh, Laura, this is Jamie,” I said reluctantly. “My cousin, James Macallan. Junior,” because I could tease too, even in this situation, even doing the one thing I'd always sworn to avoid, introducing Laura to my family. “Jamie, Laura.”

“Hi, Laura,” Jamie said, seeming not even to register how little I'd given him there, barely a name and nothing more.

“Hullo.” And she slipped her hand free of mine, to shake his; and she didn't need to do that, he wasn't offering. I saw the tingle hit her, saw her eyes stretch briefly in surprise. She recovered quickly, though, didn't even pull her hand back till he released it. Then, remembering her manners like the nicely-brought-up girl she was, “I'm sorry about, um,” and she glanced at me for help and didn't get it fast enough, because I was off on another track altogether, remembering girls at parties, girls at discos, Marty and Jamie deliberately touching them up just for the shock value, just to see how they reacted. In comparison, Laura had come out pretty well. Naturally.

Meanwhile, she was having to busk. “Your cousin?”

“My brother,” Jamie said; which doubled the reproach in the glance Laura shot at me,
you could have told me that.

“Oh, that's terrible. I'm so sorry; but I don't suppose that helps, does it?”

He shrugged, wordlessly agreeing: yes, it was terrible and no, the sympathy of a stranger didn't noticeably help. Then he turned to me again, said, “You should go and say hullo. Let them know you're here, at least.”

No.
“Why?”

“They'll find out anyway.”

And he was right, of course they would. The cousins on the gate knew already; they'd tell someone, even if Jamie didn't. Even if I hadn't been spotted already, if Laura's voice hadn't attracted more than one cousin's curiosity.

Benedict came
, they'd be saying to each other over the sandwiches after.
Didn't you know? No, I didn't see him, no one did. Not to talk to. Came late, slipped away early. Like a coward
, they'd be saying, no doubt,
like a thief.
Which was more or less what I was, in their eyes: frightened of my rightful place in the world order, and consequently thief of the family honour.

Ordinarily, I could live with that. But Laura was with me today and I didn't want to score so poorly under her gaze, too scared to talk to my own relatives at a cousin's funeral.

Still, there wasn't an option, actually. Which was how I liked it, cowardice made compulsory.

“I'm not taking Laura into that,” I said, jerking my head towards a tight circle, Macallans all in orbit around Uncle James and his anger, his dead son.

They'd both understand that, I thought, though they would understand different things by it. She'd think I meant only the raw emotional aura of a family in turmoil and distress; he'd know how much more I actually meant, how frightened I'd be for her in that company.

“No,” he said. “It's all right, I'll look after Laura. Go on, shouldn't take you a minute.”
They're not going to want to talk.

Laura nodded. “Go. We'll be fine,” looking at Jamie with puzzlement and interest, mixed with sympathy. Her fingers would still be tingling, I guessed.

And now there truly wasn't an option. I nodded, turned away and left her; walked alone into the dangerous circle of my family, as dangerous to me, perhaps, as it would have been to her; found my sister there, of course, and my parents, and Uncle James swollen up by grief and anger, where most self-important men would have been reduced.

And, important to us all, I found Uncle Allan there also.

o0o

Allan Macallan, head of the clan, didn't seem so much at first sight. Line up the three brothers, my grandfather's sons, and the eldest looked far the least of them. He was the shortest by some inches, and easily the lightest; where Uncle James was heavy with purpose and good living, where my father Charles was heavy with beer and inaction, Uncle Allan was lean as a whip. The family features, the nose and the hands looked utterly misplaced on such a small man. He resembled a steeplechase jockey more than a godfather.

But the nightfire burned in his eyes even in daylight, when they were none of them strong. It wasn't only birthright that held the family obedient under him, that gave such weight to his will. He might carry it modestly, but Uncle Allan had more talent to give away than Uncle James would ever possess. Talent was power; we Macallans always listened to talent, and the town listened to us, from long experience of the consequences of not listening. Which gave Uncle Allan more power locally than he wanted or knew what to do with.

Luckily, he was wise as well as talented. I remembered Marty grumbling often when we were kids, grumbling in his father's voice, saying that Allan used his power far more against his own family than in their support; and privately I always thought that was how it should be. Intellectual and constantly questioning, it was the theory of talent that fascinated him far more than its practice. The only time I'd ever seen him in his true light was once when he had to come down hard to contain one of his brother's cruder schemes — a beacon Allan had been that night in his anger, his skin blazing; trees had died that night simply for his standing beside them — and thank God for someone who could do that, who could give the town at least a little protection. With no curbs at all, Uncle James' greed backed by the strength and simple unconcern of my younger cousins could have built a tyrannical hell out of what was in any case an oligarchy of blood.

Shuffling my way through the pack of my relatives, nodding back recognition where it was nodded at me, shaking what few hands were offered me and pausing politely to listen if anyone deigned actually to speak, I thought that this was easy after all, that I could simply slither my way through like grass through a Canada goose and be out and free again, just a little shit hurrying back to Laura.

But I had to be polite to Uncle James; and of course Uncle Allan was standing right next to him. Such an occasion, where else would he be?

Allan had always been special to me. Special to all of us, I think; but to me he was the father-figure my father never was, the god of my childhood and the consolation of my hard adolescence. And I hadn't seen him for three years, he had necessarily been disowned along with the others, guilty by definition; and there was no question of my passing him by with a nod or a handshake or a false polite smile.

No question of that, even if he'd been willing to allow it. In fact it was he who detained me, hand on my arm and, “Benedict. Good to see you,” and no question of that either, he meant it truly. “Can we talk?”

I glanced sideways, but Uncle James had already turned away, after a cold word of greeting and a fleeting handshake.

“Of course we can talk, uncle. Please, I'd like to.”
I need to.

He nodded, receptive as ever, and guided me away, still keeping that grip on my arm. He'd always been one for touching; but he had a purpose over and above the implicit messages.
You're family
, his fingers said on my skin.
Whatever happens, you belong. We belong together, you and I.
All that was there and hard to argue with, because only his fingers said it and no way was I pulling free; but more than that, his fingers asked a question and found an answer in my flesh.

He asked the same question aloud, though, as soon as we were alone, in the shadow of a high mausoleum. Never one to hide his thoughts, he stroked my shaven cheek and said, “Still nothing, then, my poor Ben?”

“Not a glimmer,” I said, trying to sound ebullient. “Believe it, uncle.”
Believe what your fingers tell you, there's no thrill in my blood, no potent tingling.
“Whatever talent there was my father passed down, my sister got it. Came first, and grabbed it all.”

“Mm. Well, it's not strong in your father, of course. And he did marry out.” Briefly, Uncle Allan sounded like nothing so much as a disappointed scientist, seeing a breeding experiment gone wrong. “Too much dilution, I suppose...”

Ever the theorist, he'd been fascinated by me since I reached puberty, and my lack of talent became increasingly evident. There was no history of twins in our family; that came from my mother's side, where for once a Macallan hadn't married a cousin. No one had known what to expect of Hazel and me, so of course they'd expected what was normal between brother and sister, that I would develop a talent and Hazel none. That it had come out entirely the other way around had been a source of profound embarrassment to my father, the cause of many a battle for me until I'd simply stopped fighting, and a matter of endless detached interest to Uncle Allan.

“Uncle?”

“Mm?”

“What, what
happened?
”

“To Marty? I can't say. Yet,” with just the glimmer of a promise in the word,
I'll find out.
“I'm not clairvoyant, Ben, as you know; and I wasn't even in town at the time. But — well, one conclusion seems unavoidable, doesn't it?”