The Book of Evidence (16 page)

she does not k n o w what. She looks and looks. She had expected it w o u l d be like looking in a mirror, but this is s o m e o n e she does not recognise, and yet k n o w s . T h e w o r d s c o m e unbidden into her head: N o w I k n o w h o w to die. She puts on her glove, and signals to her maid. T h e painter is speaking behind her, something about her father, and m o n e y , of course, but she is not listening. She is calm.

She is h a p p y . S h e feels n u m b e d , hollowed, a walking shell.

She goes d o w n the stairs, along the d i n g y hall, and steps out into a c o m m o n p l a c e w o r l d .

Do not be fooled: n o n e of this means anything either.

1 had placed the string and the w r a p p i n g - p a p e r carefully on the floor* and n o w stepped f o r w a r d with my arms outstretched. T h e d o o r behind me opened and a large w o m a n in a tweed skirt and a cardigan c a m e into the 108

r o o m . She halted when she saw me there, with my arms flung w i d e before the picture and peering wildly at her over my shoulder, while I tried with one foot to conceal the paper and the ball of twine on the floor. 'She had blue-grey hair, and her spectacles were attached to a cord around her neck. She frowned. Y o u must stay with the party, she said loudly, in a cross voice — really, I don't k n o w h o w m a n y times I have to say it. I stepped back. A dozen gaudily dressed people were crowding in the d o o r w a y behind her, craning to get a look at me. Sorry, I heard myself say meekly, I g o t lost. She g a v e an impatient toss of the head and strode to the middle of the r o o m and began at once to speak in a shouted singsong about Carlin tables and jBerthoud clocks, and weeks later, questioned by the police and s h o w n my photograph, she w o u l d deny ever having seen me before in her life. Her charges shuffled in, jostling surreptitiously in an effort to stay out of her line of sight. T h e y took up position, standing with their hands clasped before them, as if they were in church, and looked about them with expressions of respectful vacancy.

O n e grizzled old party in a Hawaiian shirt grinned at me and winked. I confess I was rattled. T h e r e was a knot in the pit of my stomach and my palms were d a m p . All the elation I had felt on the w a y here had evaporated, leaving behind it a stark sense of foreboding. I was struck, for the first time, really, by the enormity of what I was embarked on. I felt like a child whose g a m e has led him far into the forest, and n o w it is nightfall, and there are shadowy figures a m o n g the trees. T h e guide had finished her account of the treasures- in the r o o m — the picture,
my
picture, was given t w o sentences, and a misattribution — and walked out n o w with one arm raised stiffly a b o v e her head, still talking, shepherding the party behind her. W'hen they had g o n e I waited, staring fixedly at the d o o r k n o b , expecting 109

her to c o m e back and haul me o u t briskly by the scruff of the neck. S o m e w h e r e inside me a voice w a s m o a n i n g softly in panic and fright. This is s o m e t h i n g that does not seem to be appreciated — I have r e m a r k e d on it before — I m e a n h o w t i m o r o u s I a m , h o w easily daunted. B u t she did not return, and I heard them t r a m p i n g a w a y up the stairs. I set to w o r k again feverishly. I see myself, like the villain in an old three-reeler, all twitches and scowls and w r i g g l i n g e y e b r o w s . I g o t the picture o f f the wall, not without difficulty, and laid it flat on the floor — shying a w a y f r o m that black stare — and began to tear o f f lengths of w r a p p i n g - p a p e r . I w o u l d not have thought that paper w o u l d m a k e so m u c h noise, such scuffling and rattling and ripping, it must have sounded as if s o m e large animal were being flayed alive in here. A n d it was no g o o d , my hands shook, I w a s all thumbs, and the sheets of paper kept rolling back on themselves, and I had nothing to cut the

.twine with, and a n y w a y the picture, with its thick, heavy frame, was m u c h too big to be w r a p p e d . I scampered about on my knees, talking to m y s e l f and uttering little squeaks of distress. Everything was g o i n g w r o n g . G i v e it up, I told myself, oh please, please, g i v e it up n o w , while there's still time! but another part of me gritted its teeth and said, no y o u don't, y o u c o w a r d , get up, get on y o u r feet, do it. So I struggled up, m o a n i n g and snivelling, and grasped the picture in my arms and staggered with it blindly, nose to nose, in the direction of the french w i n d o w . T h o s e eyes w e r e staring into mine, I almost blushed. A n d then — h o w shall I express it — then s o m e h o w I sensed, behind that stare, another presence, watching me.

I stopped, and l o w e r e d the picture, and there she was, standing in the open w i n d o w , j u s t as she h a d stood the day before, wide-eyed, with one hand raised. This, I r e m e m b e r thinking bitterly, this is the last straw. I w a s outraged.

110

H o w dare the w o r l d strew these obstacles in my path. It w a s not fair, it w a s j u s t n o t fair! R i g h t , I said to her, here, take this, and I thrust the painting into her a r m s and turned her a b o u t and m a r c h e d her ahead o f m e across the l a w n .

S h e said n o t h i n g , or if she did I w a s n o t listening. S h e f o u n d it hard g o i n g on the grass-, the picture w a s t o o h e a v y for her, and she c o u l d hardly see a r o u n d it. W h e n she faltered I p r o d d e d her b e t w e e n the shoulder-blades. I really w a s v e r y cross. W"e reached the car. T h e cavernous b o o t smelled s t r o n g l y o f fish. T h e r e w a s the usual j u m b l e o f m y s t e r i o u s i m p l e m e n t s , a j a c k , and spanners and things — I am n o t mechanically m i n d e d , or handed, h a v e I m e n t i o n e d that? — and a filthy o l d pullover, w h i c h I hardly noticed at the time, t h r o w n in a corner with deceptive casualness by the hidden arranger of all these things. I t o o k o u t the tools and t h r e w t h e m behind me on to the grass, then lifted the painting f r o m the m a i d ' s a r m s and placed it f a c e - d o w n on the w o r n felt m a t t i n g . T h i s w a s the first t i m e I h a d seen the b a c k of the canvas, and suddenly I w a s struck by the antiquity of the thing. T h r e e h u n d r e d years a g o it h a d been stretched and sized and left against a l i m e - w a s h e d wall to d r y . I closed my eyes for a second, and at o n c e I s a w a w o r k s h o p in a n a r r o w street in A m s t e r d a m or A n t w e r p , s m o k y sunlight i n the w i n d o w , and h a w k e r s g o i n g by outside, a n d the bells of the cathedral r i n g i n g .

T h e m a i d w a s w a t c h i n g m e . S h e had the m o s t extraordinary pale, violet eyes, they s e e m e d transparent, w h e n I l o o k e d into t h e m I felt I w a s seeing clear t h r o u g h her head. 'Why did she not run a w a y ? B e h i n d her, in o n e of the great upstairs w i n d o w s , a d o z e n heads w e r e c r o w d e d , g o g g l i n g at us. I c o u l d m a k e o u t the g u i d e -

w o m a n ' s glasses a n d the A m e r i c a n ' s appalling shirt. I think I m u s t h a v e cried a l o u d in rage, an old lion roaring at the w h i p a n d chair, f o r the m a i d flinched and stepped b a c k a i n

pace. I caught her wrist in an iron claw and, wrenching o p e n the car d o o r , fairly flung her into the back seat. O h , w h y did she not run a w a y ! W h e n I g o t behind the wheel, f u m b l i n g and snarling, I caught a w h i f f of s o m e t h i n g , a faint, sharp, metallic smell, like the smell of w o r n pennies.

I could see her in the m i r r o r , c r o u c h e d behind me as in a deep glass b o x , braced b e t w e e n the d o o r and the back of the seat, with her e l b o w s stuck o u t and fingers splayed and her face thrust f o r w a r d , like the cornered heroine in a m e l o d r a m a . A fierce, c h o k i n g gust of impatience surged up inside m e . Impatience, yes, that w a s w h a t i felt m o s t strongly — that, and a g r i e v o u s sense of embarrassment. I w a s mortified. I had never been so e x p o s e d in all my life.

P e o p l e w e r e l o o k i n g at me — she in the back seat, and the tourists up there j o s t l i n g at the w i n d o w , but also, it seemed, a host of others, of p h a n t o m spectators, w h o must h a v e been, I suppose, an intimation of all that h o r d e w h o w o u l d soon be c r o w d i n g a r o u n d me in fascination and horror. I started the engine. T h e gears shrieked. In my agitation I kept getting ahead of m y s e l f and h a v i n g to go back and repeat the simplest actions. W^hen I had g o t the car o f f the grass and on to the drive I let the clutch out t o o quickly, and the m a c h i n e s p r a n g f o r w a r d in a series of bone-shaking lurches, the b o n n e t g o i n g up and d o w n like the p r o w of a boat c a u g h t in a wash and the shock absorbers g r u n t i n g . T h e watchers at the w i n d o w must h a v e been in fits by n o w . A b e a d of sweat ran d o w n my cheek. T h e sun had m a d e the steering-wheel almost t o o hot to hold, and there w a s a blinding glare on the windscreen. T h e m a i d w a s scrabbling at the d o o r handle, I roared at her and she s t o p p e d at once, and l o o k e d at me w i d e - e y e d , like a r e b u k e d child. O u t s i d e the gate the bus driver w a s still sitting in the sun. 'When she s a w h i m she tried to get the w i n d o w o p e n , but in vain, the m e c h a n i s m
I 12

must have been broken. She p o u n d e d on the glass with her fists. I spun the wheel and the car lumbered out into the road, the tyres squealing. We were shouting at each other n o w , like a married couple having a fight. She p u m m e l l e d me on the shoulder, g o t a hand around in front of my face and tried to claw my eyes. Her t h u m b went up my nose, 1

thought she w o u l d tear o f f the nostril. T h e car was going all over the road. 1 trod with both feet on the brake pedal, and we sailed in a slow, d r a g g i n g curve into the hedge-She fell back. I turned to her. i had the h a m m e r in my hand. I looked at it, startled. T h e silence rose around us like water. D o n ' t , she said. She was crouched as before, with her arms bent and her back pressed into the corner. I could not speak, I was filled with a kind of wonder. I had never felt another's presence so immediately and with such raw force. I saw her n o w , really saw her, for the first time, her m o u s y hair and b a d skin, that bruised look around her eyes. She was quite ordinary, and yet, s o m e h o w , I don't k n o w — s o m e h o w radiant. She cleared her throat and sat up, and detached a strand of hair that had caught at the corner of her m o u t h .

Y o u must let me g o , she said, or y o u will be in trouble.

It's not easy to wield a h a m m e r in a m o t o r car. W h e n I struck her the first time I expected to feel the sharp, clean smack of steel on bone, but it was m o r e like hitting clay, or hard putty. T h e w o r d
fontanel
sprang into m y mind. I thought one g o o d bash w o u l d do it, but, as the autopsy w o u l d s h o w , she had a remarkably strong skull — even in that, y o u see, she was unlucky. T h e first b l o w fell just at the hairline, a b o v e her left eye. There was not m u c h blood, only a dark-red glistening dent with hair matted in it. She shuddered, but remained sitting upright, swaying a little, looking at me with eyes that w o u l d not focus properly. Perhaps I w o u l d have stopped then, if she had 113

not suddenly launched herself at me across the back of the seat, flailing and screaming. I was dismayed. H o w could this be happening to m e — it was all so
unfair.
Bitter tears o f self-pity squeezed into my eyes. I pushed her away f r o m me and s w u n g the h a m m e r in a wide, backhand sweep. T h e force of the b l o w flung her against the door, and her head struck the w i n d o w , and a fine thread of blood ran out of her nostril and across her cheek. There was b l o o d on the w i n d o w , too, a fan-shaped spray of tiny drops. She closed her eyes and turned her face a w a y f r o m me, m a k i n g a low, guttural noise at the back of her throat. She put a hand up to her head just as I was swinging at her again, and when the b l o w landed on her temple her fingers were in the w a y , and I heard one of them crack, and I winced, and almost apologised. O h ! she said, and suddenly, as if everything inside her had collapsed, she slithered d o w n the seat on to the floor.

There was silence again, clear and startling. I g o t out of the car and stood a m o m e n t , breathing. I was dizzy.

Something seemed to have happened to the sunlight, everywhere 1 looked there was an underwater g l o o m . I thought I had driven only a little w a y , and expected to see the gates of W'hitewater, and the tour bus, and the driver running towards me, but to my astonishment the road in both directions was e m p t y , and I had no idea where I was.

On one side a hill rose steeply, and on the other 1 could see over the tops of pine trees to far-off, rolling downs. It all looked distinctly improbable. It was like a hastily painted backdrop, especially that s m u d g e d , shimmering distance, and the road winding innocently away. I found I was still clutching the h a m m e r . W i t h a grand sweep of my arm I flung it f r o m me, and watched it as it flew, tumbling slowly end over end, in a long, thrilling arc, far, far out over the blue pine-tops. T h e n abruptly I bent forward and 114

vomited up the glutinous remains of the breakfast I had consumed an age ago, in another life.

I crawled back into the car, keeping my eyes averted f r o m that crumpled thing wedged behind the front seat.

T h e light in the windscreen was a splintered glare, I thought for a second the glass was smashed, until I put a hand to my face and discovered I was crying. This I found encouraging. My tears seemed not just a fore-token of remorse, but the sign of some more c o m m o n , simpler urge, an affect for which there was no name, but which might be my last link, the only one that would hold, with the world of ordinary things. For everything was changed, where I was n o w I had not been before. I trembled, and all around me trembled, and there was a sluggish, sticky feel to things, as if I and all of this — car, road, trees, those distant meadows — as if we had all a moment ago struggled mute and amazed out of a birthhole in the air. I turned the key in the ignition, bracing myself, convinced that instead of the engine starting something else would happen, that there would be a terrible, rending noise, or a Hash of light, or that slime would gush out over my legs from under the dashboard. I drove in second gear along the middle of the road. Smells, smells. B l o o d has a hot, thick smell. I wanted to open the windows, but did not dare, I was afraid of what might c o m e in — the light outside seemed moist and dense as glair, I imagined it in my mouth, my nostrils.