Half-Sick of Shadows (33 page)

The small one is still looking at the cemetery.

The tall one nudges him.

‘What? Oh aye! I’m sorry for your loss too … like him.’

They’re not sorry. Why would they be sorry? They never met Edgar. Mother says thank you and bows her head.

I think the policemen are a pair of pricks.

Farmer Barry’s trolley, let down to its normal height, with Edgar on it in his coffin, rattles over the courtyard avoiding the larger potholes. It’s all a bit unreal. Dead grandmothers is one thing, dead strangers another, but a dead brother is disconcerting – especially when he’s heading straight at you in a box on a trolley. I can’t help thinking that Farmer Barry is bumping Edgar’s head, and, on the tail of that thought, I think that the coffin’s interior is probably cushioned and uniquely comfortable.

Farmer Barry mumbles an excuse me.

We part as he steers the coffin towards the back door. Mother raises a gossamer hand to his arm and he pauses. ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she says. And he replies ‘Not at all’ before encountering the doorstep. The tall policeman helps him to get the trolley over it without losing Edgar over the side. The small policeman just stands there looking like someone with a broken ankle and I feel a strong urge to punch him in the head.

The tall policeman helps Farmer Barry lift the coffin on to the
kitchen
table. Farmer Barry takes a screwdriver from a pocket and begins to unscrew the lid. We have followed Edgar, Farmer Barry and the tall policeman inside. When Mother whimpers, I raise a hand to Farmer Barry and shake my head. He nods and retightens the screw. If we change our minds and want to look in, we can manage to come up with a screwdriver of our own, I am sure.

Farmer Barry puts the screwdriver back in his pocket and stands a while in front of Mother not knowing what to say. Then he does a very strange thing: he falls on her, and, to my surprise, she falls on him. Mother’s little arms spring up round his broad rustic shoulders. After what seems like an hour or two, they part. Mother says it’s very kind of him and he says not at all. Then he leaves.

The tall policeman says to Mother, ‘I realize it’s an inconvenient time, but would you mind if we have a chat?’

She dithers because she didn’t expect to have a chat and doesn’t want to chat. And I don’t blame her. My anger returns, and I’m about to say something, although I don’t know what, when the tall one asks, ‘Is there a Mr Pike?’

‘I’m Mr Pike,’ says Gregory, and looks at me. ‘So is he.’

‘Our father is ill and confined to bed,’ I say. Lying is probably a mistake, but I want to avoid the possibility of the policemen’s asking how Father died. ‘He’s too ill to see anyone. Anything you want to say, you can say to us. What would you like to chat about?’

It must have been my tone; the tall one is taken aback.

‘Let’s go through to the living room,’ I say.

‘You’ll have to excuse me, officers,’ Mother says in the hall. ‘My sons are capable of telling you whatever you want to know.’ She holds on to the banister as if she’s about to faint. Sophia takes her other arm and helps her up the stairs.

The fire smoulders, an orange glow behind the guard. Sunlight enters the front window and cuts an acute line across the room. Gregory slumps in an armchair with its stuffing escaping – which annoys me. I say, ‘Can my brother pour you a glass of wine?’

The small one grins a yes please, but the tall one says not on duty, adding, ‘You have a graveyard in your back garden.’

‘Cemetery,’ says Gregory.

I add, ‘Graveyards are in the grounds of churches and chapels.’

‘Is that where …?’

‘Yes. We do all our own.’

The tall officer eyes round the room as if looking for clues. The small one looks out of his depth.

‘Is there anything specific you want to chat about?’ I ask.

The tall one: ‘Your brother, Edgar. Is he your older brother?’

‘Gregory is first born. Edgar next.’

‘You’re younger than him, then,’ concludes the brain cell, while his tall colleague strays to the window and looks over the heath.

‘That’s the motorway.’ He turns to me with his hands behind his back. ‘He jumped off the bridge.’ When I make no reply – since his statement doesn’t call for a reply – he adds, ‘On his way home from a psychiatric hospital, I believe.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Which one?’ As the tall one asks, the small one takes out a notebook and pencil.

‘You’ll find the name of the institution and other relevant details on file,’ I lie. ‘Your colleagues have already interviewed my mother. She found the experience stressful in the extreme.’

‘How long had your brother worked there?’

‘He didn’t work there.’

‘He was a patient,’ says Gregory.

I add, ‘As information already provided will verify. Our brother had been in care for many years. Mother couldn’t manage him at home. Over the past few years, his minder accompanied him home, here, to the Manse, for occasional short stays.’

‘What was wrong with him exactly?’

‘There was nothing wrong with him; we loved our brother.’

‘There must have been something wrong with him. I’m no expert. Schizophrenia or something?’

‘I’m sure you’ll find that in the file too.’

The tall officer’s face looks as if, out of initiative, it has decided to await instructions. The small one scribbles something out, then keeps writing. When he stops, he looks at me for more.

‘On his way home,’ I say, ‘in fact, having all but arrived at the door, inexplicable and unlikely as it seems, Edgar jumped.’

‘You’ve got it badly wrong, then,’ says the small one.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There must have been something wrong with him.’ I grind my teeth and try to hold my tongue. Were my gums able to do anything, they would be involved too. ‘People don’t jump off bridges when there’s nothing wrong with them.’

My voice becomes louder all by itself. ‘Edgar was essentially the same as anyone else. Are you the same man while on duty as you are while on holiday in the sun? Are you the same man arresting a criminal as you are when making love to your wife?’

‘Yes.’

‘No you aren’t, you fool. You’re a different man depending on the place and the occasion and how they affect you.’

The fellow with the pencil looks to his taller colleague for help. The taller one says, ‘I think what he means is that freedom for Edgar, after so many years of living in an institution, did something to his brother’s delicate brain.’

‘Not just freedom,’ I say. ‘The sight of this place. Have you seen it from the motorway? You can, just about. The Manse must have looked like more of a prison than the institution he came from.’

The tall one: ‘If that’s true, Edgar couldn’t have been well enough to come home. That’s how it looks.’

‘His care was state-funded. Sending Edgar home had more to do with cost-cutting than his welfare.’ I don’t want to continue talking to them. I want them to leave the Manse. ‘If you need our help with
anything
else, please call again. I’m sure you can appreciate that we would like some time alone, as a family.’ I sidle towards the door.

‘Just the five of you here, are there?’ says the tall one.

‘Six. Including Edgar.’

The tall one asks Gregory, ‘Do you have an occupation, sir, if you don’t mind my asking?’ Gregory’s the only one of us who looks old enough to have an occupation.

‘I am an actor,’ my brother lies grandly. ‘And he’s off to university soon. He’s the smart one.’

I add, ‘And our sister, Sophia, works harder than either of us looking after the Manse and our parents.’

‘Would you mind if we have a look around, sir?’

‘It would be a treat; we don’t get many visitors. Let me give you the guided tour.’ I make for the staircase as Sophia comes down it. ‘You’ll have to excuse the untidiness. Give me a minute to—’

‘I meant outside, sir.’

‘Of course.’ I know he meant outside, but I don’t want him snooping. I lead them to the back door, past the coffin. Gregory and Sophia come too. ‘Perhaps I should have shown you the view from the front first, but we hardly ever use that door. Where to start? Over there: they’re the outhouses where Father used to potter when he was able. The barn’s no longer in use; hasn’t been for decades. The cemetery you’ve already met. Feel free to walk amongst our ancestors. There’s a septic tank over there. And that’s the outside toilet. Of course we no longer use it since we had a proper toilet installed. Still pongs a bit in summer. I mean, even worse than it pongs now. Can you smell it from here? I can’t, but I’m probably used to it. I think the tank’s leaking. It gets bunged up. I have a padlock on the chemical toilet to lock in the stench, but it escapes through the cracks in the wood.’

The tall one reaches a decision. ‘Some other time. I’ll leave you and your family alone with your grief for now.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, mightily relieved, and walk with them to the police car. Gregory and Sophia watch from the back door.

After the police left, Gregory lit a cigarette and paced the courtyard while Sophia and I went indoors. I sat at the table beside Edgar’s coffin. She leaned against the sink. We didn’t look at each other and we had nothing to say. We felt the same way: empty. Funny, how we missed Edgar. We hadn’t seen him for years. He was a part of us, none the less.

‘What’s Mother up to?’ said Sophia, and headed for the stairs.

In the absence of something better to do, I followed.

Mother had undressed and got into bed. She stared at the ceiling. ‘Have those people gone?’ Her voice was quiet and weak. Sophia said they had. ‘Your father doesn’t like strangers.’ I thought it peculiar that she referred to two police officers as ‘those people’. I also noticed that she referred to Father in the present tense.

‘Hungry?’ asked Sophia. Mother, still staring at the ceiling, didn’t answer. ‘I’ll make soup. It’ll be ready in about an hour and you’ll feel more like it by then.’

She went downstairs to chop vegetables.

In want of something meaningful to say to Mother, I strayed to the window and looked out. Evening had arrived in late afternoon again, and the motorway lights were on. Like a string of electrified fence posts illuminated orange, holding us imprisoned. I hated those lights. I strayed to Mother’s bedside. She didn’t look at me.

‘We’re going to put Edgar in the cellar for the meantime.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’

If she’d asked why, and left it at that, I would have said something about grave-digging, rain and mud. However, asking what he’d done resonated with referring to Father in the present tense.

‘He can keep Father company down there,’ I said, nonsensically, in a panic, my brain having registered Mother’s confusion and scrambled itself – temporarily, I hoped.

‘What’s your father doing in the cellar? He hasn’t been down there for years.’ Mother turned her head, and her eyes, towards me for a
moment
. Then she turned back to the ceiling, and her eyes closed.

While trying to think of an answer, I heard Mother lightly snoring. Relieved that she required no reply, I left the room.

I had to get away from the Manse. It was all too much. The mess had been accumulating for ages. It had been too much for years! Now, Edgar dead, a corpse in the outside toilet, Mrs Wipple in the Hole, the Manse a conflagration waiting to happen, the roof collapsed in on me. I had whatever medical people call it when your roof collapses. All that weight had been piling up since, since, since … since Granny Hazel died and Sophia promised Father she would never leave the Manse.

‘Where are you going?’ said Sophia as I stormed past her.

‘Out.’

‘Out where?’

Out to steal a moped or walk to Garagh, whichever came first. If I found Gregory sitting on his moped, I’d punch him off it. If walking to Garagh made my legs fall off, so be it. I needed Alf. If he wasn’t in Garagh … He was in Garagh. I knew he was in Garagh, waiting for me, the way I knew North Island University was no place for the likes of me and I’d never get there, never mind get a degree there.

I was wrong about Alf being in Garagh.

‘Haven’t seen him,’ said Leslie.

I didn’t believe her at first. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I should know.’ I ran up the stairs to Alf’s room anyhow. ‘Oi! It’s guests only up there!’ I entered the room without knocking. It was empty. On the way back down, I passed Leslie coming up the stairs after me. ‘You need a lesson in manners, young man.’

Alf had deserted me. That’s what I thought. My mind was, and had been for some time, all over the place. I’d forgotten to check how much petrol remained in the moped’s tank, and it choked, spat and died before I reached Bruagh.

I pushed it the rest of the way back to the Manse.

26

The Final Stanza

Dusk. I looked out on Hollow Heath from upstairs. The motorway lights were an amber necklace far in the distance. Hollow Heath seemed smaller than it did when I was a child. Funny how things change but nothing really changes. This bedroom used to belong to Granny Hazel. It was Gregory’s now, although Mother had moved in.

What’s a bedroom anyhow? A space between walls. It would no longer exist when I burned down the building – and if. Me, Sophia and Gregory would be all right, but Mother needed a sanctuary. The only sanctuary I could think of was Farmer Barry. He’d helped Mother in the past. He would help her now. Why should the future be different?

Something caught my eye out on Hollow Heath. Something moved – or I thought that something moved. It might have been a gust of wind blowing something into a ray of moonlight. It might have been a bird. It might have been a floater in my eye or a ghost in my imagination. I looked long and hard into the heath, but didn’t see it again.

Granny Hazel breathed on my neck. Or Edgar breathed on it. Or, God help me, Father. Or Mrs Wipple or the other body in the bog breathed on it.

Nobody breathed on my neck, really, but the perceived movement on the heath had me spooked. The bedroom was colder than a moment ago. I left it, and closed the door to contain whatever was inside.

Sophia’s voice: ‘Edward.’

The door to her bedroom lay open and she was inside. She was standing at her window. I joined her. Together, we watched the White Lady in the cemetery until she faded and vanished.