Staring At The Light (27 page)

What he liked about John Smith’s teeth, and by the same token what he had liked about Cannon’s, was the fact that they were
so much
worse
than what he normally saw and they belonged to rather unreasonable people. The rest of his patients were
so
reasonable, so prosperous, so educated about the state of their fangs that they arrived at the first sign of trouble and did
what they were told, boringly, so predictably co-operative they scarcely needed him at all.

By eight o’clock the wintry sun began to creep into the corners of the room. There had been a touch of frost as he had walked
down the road and the railings flanking the door felt frozen to the touch. Shop windows, black, and what would he buy her
for Christmas? A rubbish van was collecting black sacks left on the pavement; there was something positive about the place
looking cleaner even as he watched.

One of the blinds was up. William frowned. He could not remember leaving it like that and he was precise about such things.
He pulled up the blind that was down, releasing a shaft of sunlight. It fell on Cannon’s painting, and he stood before it,
lost. A woman in her bathroom, drying herself. Ready for her
toilette
, a dress strewn over a chair, the only furniture in a simple room with painted stone walls, a rough-tiled floor against which
the nude had guarded her feet with bright-coloured slippers. A small selection of glass jars on a shelf, backdrop to her ease;
she would not hurry for anyone; there was no preening in the pose, no apparent knowledge of the observer. Had he, William,
ever regarded Isabella with such frank admiration, been allowed to gaze at her in this way? No; he could not remember it;
nor, he imagined, could she. He could only recall the degree of lust, which did not comprehend details, and could not have
stood back to observe her. Did not look,
only wanted to grasp. He could also recall that the details of her
toilette
were always secret: he would glimpse her going into the bathroom, glance at her during her cursory scrubbing of teeth, but
by and large Isabella never stayed
au naturel
. She emerged from behind closed doors fully armoured for the day. It was the finished product she presented for admiration,
never the body, as if she had hated it.

William felt a great stab of pity for her, and shame for himself. How little they had known each other. How intimately, by
comparison, he knew Sarah, who would sit joyfully naked for all the world to see and not care what it thought. She was the
one happier without the clothes and the accoutrements, a creature requiring no second skin. He must ask Cannon about the painting.
Why did he never
ask
things? In his heart of hearts, he did not want to know it was stolen.

Into the surgery, and yes, on this blithe, refreshed morning, holding on to his high spirits of the day before, he was proud
of the place, too.
Clever
design, William.
No
immediate view of the chair, another little space to sit and talk about it, a corner to turn and a feeling of space. He had
hated tiny surgeries. They got in everyone’s face. There was no painting or piece of distraction facing the chair. How long
since he had decided on that? When Tina had said there was no need, or because he had realized that, whatever he put there,
it would have to be something
he
liked and it followed from that that someone else might dislike it. The wall in here looked bare. Fussily, busily, getting
himself in motion for the day, William
proceeded into the hallway and removed Cannon’s drawing of his hands, placed it on the empty hook opposite the chair. Surely
no-one could take exception to that. Then he washed his hands carefully, reminding himself of how precious they were. Humming,
he admired the order of all he surveyed and pressed the answer-machine button for messages. A sibilant voice, oddly without
resonance, hesitant, instantly familiar.

Tomorrow afternoon, Mr Dentist. The whole afternoon. And no-one else there, you get me? No-one but you, or I’ll go as soon
as I arrive, and you’ll miss out on all that cash. But I can’t have anyone watching, can I? Smith
.

The words themselves were hectoring, but the tone ingratiating, almost pleading, as if attempting an apology.

Click. Beeeeeep. The sunshine seemed to depart from the room. William slumped. Examined his hand for the disappeared mark
of a bite. Didn’t the man realize it would all take so much longer without a nurse to record and assist? But then again, how
would he know? Sarah would say, Do not do this. You have an awkward patient with high expectations; you
never
see such a patient alone, especially females. What defence could you offer if he sued? What protection would you have?

I don’t care. I want to
.

He looked in the appointments book. It was so much easier than the screen. Five for tomorrow afternoon, the names as meaningless
as usual without the notes, all short appointments, no-one booked for
more than half an hour. No sedation, no anaesthetist to inconvenience, all capable of cancellation; nothing major. How
dare
the man give such short notice? Why the hell should he cancel? He hated to cancel, it was unfair and irresponsible, but he
knew as he reached for the phone, formulating excuses and unaccustomed lies, that that was exactly what he was going to do.
Tell them to come back next week or the one after; they were a biddable lot; so
good
; so respectful. Tina would be delighted with an afternoon off. Everybody would be happy.

And yet, when he looked at his hands, they were shaking. Long, elegant fingers, shaking like twigs in a breeze. Not nearly
as confident as the hands Cannon drew. He was not used to telling lies. His fingertips tingled and grew pink. Sometimes he
thought his whole life was his hands.

Cannon had not phoned, had not phoned … had not phoned. The realization repeated itself like a litany. He had rejected the
idea of a mobile phone – typical Cannon, rejecting anything that made life simpler. Addicted to complications. And fantasies.
He must be sulking in response to the increased scepticism that had come to surround him. Cultivating other credulous friends.
Doing something to upset his wife. Making a mess as usual. The bright daylight outside made her angry. She had promised to
find him the new place to live; she had fulfilled the promise; and still no phone call. What the hell did he think he was
doing?

The small space of her office had the effect of multiplying the anxiety she had tidied away; she felt she wanted to push the
walls aside. Maybe the daft bastard had gone on a bender, that was all. Not an entirely unknown phenomenon in Cannon’s unpredictable
life.

Lunch-time, at last an excuse to exit. Running downstairs, carefully past Matthewson’s door, avoiding him, too, in case of
question –
I must account for my time
– the green wool coat flowing out behind, such was the speed of her. A pause in the vast reception area with all its empty
walls; a nod and a grin to the woman behind the desk. Out into the sunny street with an arm already raised for the taxi. Yes,
Cannon was going to bankrupt her. Traffic made her snarl. The taxi-driver wanted to discuss it, as if it was news, but found
her aloof and discouraging.

She had never come to the attic in the middle of the day. More often, it had been in the earlier hours of morning, or long
after the afternoon dark had taken command. The street was busier than she remembered: she felt conspicuous and told herself
she was not. She was an office worker, like all of these coming out into the cold to find sandwiches and dream of going home
soon. No-one would notice her entering the only domestic residence in the street, that empty place no-one cared for. It was
not her, it was Cannon who would look out of place here, but no more so than the man on the corner selling the
Big Issue
. If anything, he was smarter than Cannon. She unlocked the door and went in.

The chill was ominous; she could sense from the first floor that he was not there. ‘Cannon?’ The sound of her voice was muffled
by dust and the creak of the floorboards. Polish these, mend that, it could be a lovely house, she told herself, as she forced
herself onwards and upwards. It was only an empty house with a harmless squatter; the worst that could happen was discovery.
I am John Smith’s lawyer, she would say haughtily. He gave me the key. Take me to your master.

‘Cannon?’

The door to the attic at the last set of creaking steps gave easily as she pushed. The emptiness inside was a relief. Half-way
up, the vision that had haunted her all morning since Pauline phoned had increased in intensity, become sharper, so that she
almost expected to see it. Cannon, dead or dying in here, giving up on his allies because he could sense they were giving
up on him. Cannon, lying on the cherry-red sofa, beginning to stink, victim to his despair; the artist artistically disposed
in death in his garret, an image he might like. Another image had clashed with the first: she had seen herself coming up here
to find there was no roof, that he had blown it all away, leaving nothing but sky and dust. The last thought occurred too
late for her to guard against it as she closed the door behind her. He may have booby-trapped the place. Even if he had sworn
on his solemn oath never to play with fire, he might have done that. He was mad enough. He kept his cash between the first
beam and the roof. The beam sagged dangerously.

There was nothing. A stale smell of nothing, not the sharp smell of turpentine she associated with this place. He had not
been messing about with paint in the last day or more. There was none of his leftover heat; no sign of activity. As tidy,
in preparation for imminent movement, as she remembered it from last time.

There was the single difference that all the sketches of Johnnyboy’s face had been torn. Ripped across and thrown in a heap,
showing signs of systematic, rather than furious, destruction. That was Cannon all over, destroying what he had done, always
at war between the making of something and its breaking down. So he had at least been back, then. There was a half-eaten sandwich
on a chair. Cannon lived on sandwiches and yet he loved good food.

It struck her with a terrible conviction that no-one with Cannon’s love of light would ever consent to live like this unless
they believed it was entirely necessary. Whatever the real nature of the threat posed by his brother, it was certainly real
to him. Utterly real, for him to confine his free spirit into this and insist on separation from his wife. She had not done
him justice. But he had done some sort of justice to her. Her portrait rested against the easel, turned towards the light
from the window in the roof. He had done further work on it, lovingly, it seemed. Toned down the colour of the hair, and then
added more of the red. He had caught the likeness in the body and the face; captured something essential in the attitude of
careless abandon. It was a sensual portrait, which was
not, at the same time, sexual. Not like the Bonnard, which was both. She wondered if he was pleased with it. Moved closer,
admiring her mirror image rather than herself.

We form our impression of a face from a distance of three feet, at least
, William said. It was only a painting that allowed the impertinence of closer scrutiny, touching, squinting, looking for
flaws in the skin. He had found hers, the tiny scars on the breasts, slightly whiter marks against sallow skin, not disfiguring
but oddly enhancing, like freckles on a sunny face. And she had thought he would not notice.

‘Cannon, where are you?’

A pigeon cooed and tapped on the fanlight, startling her, making her want to run. But she did not run. She found a pencil
and wrote a message, ‘Darling, where are you? Phone me,’ and then ran downstairs and into the street, locking the door behind
her as if it were her own house.

I must account for my time; I must account for my time
.

She sat at her desk, facing the screen, typing with disinterested fury. The law required such a vast number of words. There
is
real
life, Cannon, real work: look at it. If I keep on skiving like this, they’ll all lose patience. I won’t be able to help anyone
else because I won’t have a job and I won’t have money and I shall never be able to pay for the flat. There are other clients,
Cannon, you aren’t the only one.

Where did a man go all day? Where did he disappear?

The afternoon seemed endless, anxiety, as well as anger, extending each minute into an hour. Where would he go with his depressive
nature, his capacity for intense joys and miseries? She remembered him running towards that fire, saw it mirrored in the screen;
remembered that he had a valuable life but a frail one, and why, oh, why, had she ever taken on the burden of it to neglect
it now?

Thinking: trying to remember anything relevant about him, affection sneaking back and catching her unawares. Cannon was at
his most unpredictable when he had done something of which he was ashamed; what
might
he have done this time? Unless that fanciful ogre, his brother, had found him and spirited him away. What
did
Cannon do with his day?

You can sit as long as you like in the galleries. They’re half full of weirdos like me. Some of them with sketchpads, some
of them just sitting. It’s the best thing about London. That’s where you learn
.

And which one do you like best, Cannon?

Oh, I circle around. I always come back to portraits. I like the living dead.

This time, leaving the office, she remembered not to run, to look calm and casual as if slipping out to a meeting, even remembered
to invent one and write it into the open diary on her desk. Matthewson sometimes snuck up here to see who was hiding.
Research into art collection; portraits
. He might not believe it, but it was a record all the same and almost true.

Believe in your instincts. The brightness of the day had faded mid-afternoon, and the city began to prepare itself for dark.
A pavement artist outside the National Portrait Gallery began to clear away his chalks, regarding his depiction on the stones
without sentiment, indifferent to its imminent destruction, counting the takings.

She moved through the vaulted rooms of the gallery quietly, feeling foolish and conspicuous. The few guards were yawning towards
the end of the
working day. What a job; what sublime boredom. The thought of that made her quicken her step, moving from one incurious gaze
to the next, wondering what they would do if she was a thief strong enough to snatch one of these heavy frames and run with
it. Surely portraits were too personal for thieves. As if anything were too personal for thieves. She found him finally, sitting,
head propped on his hands, staring at a portrait of a bearded Victorian premier surrounded by his family, and the relief at
the sight of him cancelled out the irritation. She sat. If Cannon was remotely surprised to find her there, there was no indication:
it was as if they had met an hour before and met again by prearrangement. She thought, wryly, that his erratic faith in telepathy
must have extended itself beyond its application to his brother, making him assume the same quality in her.

‘Sometimes’, he said, by way of introduction, waving at the noble lord, ‘it does one good to look at a thoroughly second-rate
piece of work. Which this is. This painter was doing what he was told, as if someone had said to him you can paint it any
colour you like as long as it’s blue. It makes me feel better. If I spent all my time looking at artists with vision who paint
like I want to paint, like Bonnard, it would make me feel hopeless. I’d want to go back and white out everything I’d done.’

‘Or tear up your drawings,’ she suggested.

He shook his head in unfeigned surprise, shocked at the suggestion. ‘Oh, no, I never do that. I’m never angry enough to do
that. Put them out of the way for
a while. Then use the other side of the paper. Paper costs money. Where have you been?’

‘Come on out, Cannon. We can’t talk in here. They’ll think we’re plotting a robbery.’

He followed her, shuffled level with her down the road, into Trafalgar Square. There was the dull roar of traffic, muffled
into background noise by the well of the square itself and the sound of the fountains. Nelson, on his column, towered above
them. There was a dilatory shifting of people, meeting, greeting, crossing; movement towards buses, trains, entertainment,
home. He seemed unnaturally calm for a man who hated crowds, but the space was large enough to absorb them, no-one came close
enough to push or to touch.

‘Never mind where I’ve been,’ Sarah said, pulling her coat around her against the cold of the bench, trying to avoid pigeon-shit.
There was an enormous Christmas tree in the centre of the square. Another year gone. ‘You didn’t phone. I’m sick of you. We’re
all sick of you.’

He nodded in agreement, dull in response. ‘I’m not surprised.
I’m
sick of me. I just don’t know what to do. So I don’t do anything really.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath.

If he chose this moment to cry, Sarah thought she might hit him. He did not cry; she waited.

‘I go and look at paintings of patriarchs and father figures. Wishing I’d ever had one. Wishing I could be one. A man who
was able to look after his own.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets. Even in the cold
open air, the coat still smelled. ‘I thought I might just disappear. It would be better for everyone. Better for Julie in
the long run. None of this had any point. Johnnyboy’s always known where I was. He’s been up to the attic. He’s been to William’s
place. I saw him. He’ll get to you next.’

Oh, nonsense
. She did not say it, thought it. What had William to do with anything? William had been protected from knowledge. She didn’t
believe in unconscious communication. Nobody would have been to Cannon’s dwelling-place: it was an almost perfect hiding-place.
She was sick of pandering to fantasy. Then she thought of the torn-up drawings in the garret.
Oh no, I’m never angry enough to do that. Paper costs money
. The cold from the bench struck through into her back, chilling her spine.

‘I suppose the
other
thing I could do’, Cannon was saying, ‘is simply go back there and wait. He’ll be along, sooner or later.’ His hopelessness
had a quiet intensity she had never seen before. She did not know quite how to rouse him. It grew colder with the darkness;
the lights of the grand buildings surrounding the square began to glow. She did not know if she wanted to humour him or believe
him.

‘Pauline thinks Julie may be pregnant,’ she said. No forethought to the statement. It simply emerged as the only positive
thing she could think of to say.

‘What?’

‘Your wife. Having a baby.
Maybe
. I don’t suppose you take condoms on your nocturnal visits, do you?’

She looked straight ahead, not quite wanting to
see the effect of her statement, guilty for making it on such shaky information. Pauline might have said it for effect; it
might not be the truth. They were none of them masters of truth: they all made guesses and stuck to them. She could sense
him uncurling beside her. Moving from his slump with head in hands. Standing with his hands in his pockets. Then, with his
arms above his head, locked into a stretch. Then one hand on hip, the other raised as he performed a jig, like a drunken Scottish
dancer ignorant of the steps but feeling the tune, hopping from one foot to the other, singing tunelessly, louder and louder
as he moved until he stopped, breathless, punched the air and yelled, ‘Yeah!’ in a voice loud enough to slice across the sound
of the traffic and the water. The pigeons, which had begun to approach their feet with the constant optimism of pigeons, flew
upwards in an untidy arc. Cannon was transformed.

‘Oh, yodleodle
deeeeeee
,’ he sang, pirouetting with his hands on his head, changing the steps into a kind of hopscotch over the paving-stones, not
touching the cracks, as far as the brink of the fountain. She thought he might climb into it, but he put his hands into the
cold water, splashed it into his face, hopscotched back, jumped up and down.
YES! YES! YES
! Sarah leaned forward on the bench
and laughed long and loud because he was comical, and out of sheer relief to see him thus: the other Cannon, reminding her
of why she had fallen into devotion to him, for all his intensity, his absurdities, his intolerance, his moods, his talent
for
outlandish joy, latent in his paintings, patent now. She would always love creatures of extremes; the ones impossible for
cohabitation; those who saw what she never could. He would weep for a fallen leaf and shout for joy at the colours of a tree.
He could make a bomb or paint the soul in a face. She grabbed him and pulled him down.

‘Cannon, I said
might
be … And it hardly improves the situation, does it?’

She hated to rain on his parade; he had the knack of making her feel cruel for the slightest attempt to restrain him – and
how would this man ever stay alive without Julie to direct the dreams?

He sat so abruptly that the solid bench creaked. He was suddenly sober, but his face was still split by his widest grin, which
made his mouth look like a cave. A passer-by glanced at him curiously; he glanced back, then pulled his hand down from forehead
to chin, as if wiping off the smile with a cloth, pretending to be solemn. It reappeared immediately. Sarah adopted her dictatorial
voice, uncomfortably aware that she could sound a younger facsimile of her aunt. Bossyboots.

‘Look, Cannon, whether she is or she isn’t, this whole charade is at crisis point. We don’t just
wait
any more. I’m going to see Julie
now
. You’re going to come with me. You’re going to march in there without thinking of who might be watching. The hell with it.
Why should anyone be watching? Then we sit down and talk about plans, four of us, like civilized human beings capable of making
them. Then we
either take Julie home or arrange to take her another time.’

‘Home?’ he echoed. ‘
Home
?’

She shook him impatiently. ‘Another apartment. I’ve got one lined up. My home if you want. Anywhere’ll do.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Johnny’ll find us.’

‘If I hear that
one more time
… So you say. So you’ve always said. And what if he does? You barricade the doors. You call the police—’

‘Who won’t believe a single thing I say. I’m a con, a liar, a thief who cheated my own brother … The police were never an
option.’

‘Of course they are. For Christ’s sake, if they didn’t weigh in for liars and thieves, they’d be out of a job.’ She paused.
‘Are you a liar, Cannon?’

‘No.’ Without hesitation. He was sober without being depressed, sitting still and thinking, a rare state of stability for
him.

‘Good, just checking.’
You lied at your trial; I helped you
. ‘Shall we go, then?’

‘Wait a minute, let me think …’

‘Don’t think, Cannon. You either don’t think at all or too much, without any good results either way. Come
on
, Cannon.’

‘I’m not sure …’

‘Well, I am.’

The crowds
en route
to somewhere else had gathered momentum; the traffic growl increased; they were leaning close together, heads almost touching
to hear themselves speak.

‘This flat … How will Julie manage?’

‘A bit of rudimentary furniture, enough. More than you’re used to.’

‘Only I don’t want her lifting things.’

Cannon stood decisively, brushing himself down as if what he did would make any difference to the state of his dreadful coat.
‘I’ll have to go back to the attic. Get some money. Come with me?’

She hesitated, furious at his assumption that she should. She did not want to go back there; shuddered at the thought of the
place; wanting to keep a strong hand on his arm, but gripped with repugnance for that grim place and the torn drawings. She
wanted to say, ‘Never mind about the money,’ but she had little enough to give him, twenty maybe, sufficient for the taxis,
not more than that from a bank account looking a little leery at the minute. Surely he could go alone; no sense in duplicating
tasks. And what was it he’d said about William? No time to ask. She fished in her bag for cash. ‘No, thanks. You go, quick.
I half promised Pauline I’d be there at half five. The nuns are out, more space. Meet you there, OK?’

He nodded. She watched him lope across the square, scattering more of the pigeons. He gave a hop, skip and a jump, twice,
took chocolate from that everlasting pocket, threw it. Optimism rewarded.

Perhaps her own would be rewarded, too. Sarah did not want to move; she stretched inside her coat and closed her eyes. There
was nothing but the roar of the traffic and the insistent splashing of the water. She calculated the differing time it would
take at this
crowded hour to reach the convent. Taxi or tube? She thought of economy as much as speed, rose stiffly, listened to the raucous
music of a cacophony of horns and descended, like a thousand others, down to the trains.

He was absurdly happy and he was not going to be afraid ever again. He opened the window of the taxi and let in the cold air
and the noise. He wasn’t going to be afraid any longer because
this
settled it. New life settled it, redefined everything, because there was going to be a child with
his
blood and his bones, and that made all the difference. Because a man could love his wife with his body and his mind, which
he did, and more, but his soul would enter his child. The child would be the ally to make him strong. A male, surely; a little
man. He would hold the child like a shield against Johnnyboy; the child would be the final
proof
that he was gone from Johnny for ever. Gone from being buggered, gone from the intimacy, living on a different planet from
the one they had shared. The child would be proof that he had become not merely a defector but a different species, a new
kind of animal altogether; no longer, in Johnny’s eyes, simply an experimental lover, indulging himself in an affair that
Johnny would find unspeakably repellent and thought he could squash to death like a bug; Johnny would see what he was.
Look what I’ve made, Johnny. Look what I’ve made. Now do you see I can’t come back
?