The Hollow Places (27 page)

She had lived
most of her life in freedom, but it had never been so palpable.
Every breath was delicious, but when she released them she was
shuddering. She lit a cigarette while she drove and pulled on it
hard in an attempt to calm down.

Working for
the Third had afforded her an otherness that made her feel superior
to everyone else. Part of her had enjoyed walking among them,
guided and protected by the Third's distant gaze through her. She
remembered that the Third had needed her in the beginning. It used
to enter her mind and they'd go for walks together, shopping for
souls.

Not so much
after Firdy came knocking. Not so much then.

But even
Firdy's presence had had some advantages. He provided everything
she needed so that she no longer had to keep down a job. In all the
time she had spent in her flat in London, she had seen her landlord
twice: once to introduce Firdy to him and explain that the rent he
had been receiving was going to stop, and again some months later,
as he crossed to the other side of the street, pretending not to
have seen her.

She paid a
high price for these boons though, these boosts to her self-esteem.
She had had to give up her life to the Third and then to Firdy. Now
that she had it back she didn't know what to do with it. Her
current plans would keep her occupied for a day or so, but then
what?

She considered
that maybe it was time for her to try to make friends who didn't
kill people, but she didn't know who she was anymore. Every one of
her names felt fake. She couldn't tell anybody about the things she
had done for the Third, so any future relationship would be based
on a lie. What was the point?

She stopped at
the side of the road and lit up a second cigarette and then a
third, hands shaking. Her mind turned to Will, wondering if he had
written his letter or if he had gone straight to killing himself.
She thought that Simon would check on him, despite the risk,
because The Third was dead and Simon seemed to consider that
everyone touched by her had a responsibility to each other now.

The Third had
died.

“My God,” she
thought. “I'm really alone again.”

She couldn't
pretend to have arrived back at Simon's house by accident. She knew
the area too well. Her journey had unfolded of its own accord, but
she had gone along with it. Like her mental journey, it had been
circuitous, but it had led firmly to his door.

There was
danger here. There was a lot to be afraid of, not least of all
rejection, but she had to try. If she was going to begin again,
then here was a foundation of shared experience. Here was the only
person she wouldn't have to lie to.

As she rolled
the car to a stop, Simon opened the door. He was wearing a blue
dressing gown, tied at the waist. He appeared unfazed by her
return. She tried to gauge his expression more deeply, but felt
ashamed and could not hold his gaze. Unsure of what to do, she
rolled down her window. Cold air crept in and she waited.

“When I said
that you should leave,” Simon said, “I meant leave the room.”

“I know you
did,” Clare said. “How is Sarah?”

She saw him
smile for the first time. He seemed unable to help himself. And
there was no need. She reminded herself that there was no need to
keep her guard up either. Maybe one day, she'd let it go, but not
yet. She noted that Simon didn't seem to have suffered her loss of
confidence since the Third had died, but then he had Sarah. He had
someone to care for and someone to care for him. It made all the
difference, she guessed.

“I came to
apologise,” she said spontaneously.

Simon waited,
his smile waning.

“To you and to
Sarah,” she added.

“She can't
hear you out there,” he said. “You'd better come in.”

*

Something was cooking
in the microwave. The sweet smell made Clare want to cry. Wanting
to cry made her want to run. Her mind flitted to the Olive Tree.
They did a good mango ice cream. She could still get there before
lunchtime.

Sarah was
sitting at the breakfast counter in a mauve dressing gown. Her hair
was wrapped in a white towel. When Clare had handed her over to
Firdy, Sarah's eyes had been like melting chocolate. Now they were
red-ringed and could have been carved out of wood. They penetrated
her and made her want to lie, about everything, to slide back where
she felt safest.

“Sarah,” she
said and attempted to hold her gaze steady. “I'm sorry that I gave
you to Firdy. I didn't think I had a choice.”

“You didn't,”
Sarah said.

“There's
something else.” She tried very hard to say what she was thinking.
She tried to admit out loud that she had enjoyed handing Sarah
over, because it demonstrated her loyalty and usefulness, ensuring
her a role in the Third's future, except that there wasn't going to
be one anymore, because she had felt her Gods die, one inside the
other. Her lips moved, but she didn't make a sound.

“I
understand,” Sarah said, though her eyes told another story. Clare
supposed that she was saying this for Simon's sake.

“Thank you,
Sarah,” said Clare.

“What are you
going to do now?” Sarah said.

“I haven't
thought about it much.”

“We can think
about it together.” Sarah pushed out a stool with her bare foot.
Her eyes hadn't become any more gentle and Clare could see that it
had been an act of will to make that gesture.

Simon
concurred by nodding towards the stool, so Clare sat down. She
could feel them exchanging looks behind her back, but it was okay,
she had decided not to stay.

Thirty minutes
later, however, they were eating home-made cereal bars and
laughing. She was trying not to cry at the same time, because she
found that she didn't want to leave after all, but she knew that
she probably should.

“There is a spare room upstairs,” Simon said, “but we
never go in there. To be honest, we don't go in this room either,
but we're going to open it for you.”

A cobweb
stretched and broke as he pushed open the door.

The room was
piled high with things that, for one reason or another, Sarah had
been unwilling to let Simon get rid of. She had regarded this room
with grudging reverence, whereas Simon could not have cared less if
every stick of furniture had been used as firewood. The thought
occurred to him now that it was the season to carry out such a
purge, but without Firdy to oil the gears, they would have to find
legitimate ways of making money and he considered that they could
live off the proceeds of this room for several months.

He had blocked
the contents of this room from memory so completely that he was
shocked by the smell of old books and antique furniture. He saw
brass handles that he used to tug on when he was a boy and a
writing desk where he had sometimes done his homework, back when
things had been more sane.

Clare admired
an enormous landscape painting that had been lent up against an old
chest of drawers. In the corner, an ornate silver mirror faced the
wall.

“Sorry about
the mess,” he said. “I'd forgotten.”

“It's cool,”
Clare said and she wiped dust from a hardback. She fingered the
raised, silver lettering. “Do you mind?”

It felt
strange, her being here.

He said:
“No.”

“I miss
reading,” she said. “Maybe I can borrow a few.”

“You can
stay,” he assured her. “Not only tonight.”

Her eyes
flicked towards the kitchen.

“It would be
good for Sarah if you stayed,” he added.

“How so?”

“She could do
with someone to talk to about what happened. Someone other than me.
I think she'd open up to you.”

Clare nodded
thoughtfully. “And what about you?” she asked.

“I could do
with your help,” he said, avoiding the true meaning of what she had
asked him. She seemed disappointed by his answer, but he didn't
think that he would be ready to open up for a while. Not to her;
not to anybody.

*

The three of them
disposed of the dead dog in Simon's room using gloves, a mop and a
couple of heavy duty rubble sacks. Sarah insisted on helping them
and Simon agreed on the condition that they swap rooms for a few
nights, while he returned some semblance of order to her bedroom.
Later, when she lay down to sleep in his bed, he went to her room
and stood in the doorway, observing the chaos that Firdy had
created. After a pause to take in the enormity of the job ahead, he
set to work, beginning by putting scattered photographs in piles,
separating them roughly into family, strangers he assumed were her
friends, and photos that were damaged but repairable. He disposed
of those that Firdy had destroyed or defiled.

Many items
were saturated with piss, some with shit. Among the worst
casualties was a photo of Sarah, Simon and their father, taken by
their mother outside the entrance to a cave. Simon picked it up
between the finger and thumb of a rubber glove.

He was not
quite 20 years old in the photo. The family had been hiking through
the forest. Sarah and their mother had lagged behind, exhausted,
but his father had taken him by the wrist and hauled him down to
the bottom of a hill, where the stream they had been following
split into two paths, one continuing through the forest and the
other reaching into a hole in the rock face and on into darkness.
At the time, Simon had thought that he was confused, because it had
appeared that the second of the channels ran uphill. With hindsight
he knew that he had seen the Third for the first time.

His father
dragged him into the cave, a few feet into the darkness had been
enough, and threw him to the floor, at which point the water had
grabbed him. Almost all Simon could remember about the experience
was that the water had held him, inside and out. He had choked on
it.

“Don't fight,”
his father said, “and it'll be over quicker.”

He couldn't
have been more wrong.

“Where have
you been?” Sarah had asked them when she caught up.

“Man talk,”
their father had said and grinned, holding Simon by the shoulder
hard enough to bruise him.

Sarah had
demanded that someone take a photograph. Her father was smiling and
she wanted to preserve it, even if it was a lie. She had
successfully ignored the lines that had encroached upon his face
over the last eighteen months and she had managed to look away
whenever he passed a weary, almost hateful look to one of the
others. She needed his smiles, because every week there were fewer
than the week before and she worried that one day they would stop
coming completely.

In this
photograph, everything was fake except for Sarah's smile, which was
desperate but genuine. It would have been worth keeping it for that
alone if Firdy hadn't done such a good job of soiling it. When
Simon dropped it into the rubbish bag, he had to shake it from his
gloved finger.

He slumped to
the floor with his back against the wall, recalling that three days
after his mother took that picture, she had had to report their
father missing and she had surprised herself by crying for him
every night. Simon regretted that he hadn't been much comfort to
her or his sister at that time, but he had been preoccupied. He had
been learning about the thing to which his father had introduced
him. The thing had been busy learning about him. It didn't take him
long to understand that his future was in its hands.

Now he was
free, but there were a few more things he had to do before he could
rest. He had to eradicate Firdy's presence from the house, starting
with this room. He had to sweep up the broken things that Firdy had
kicked around the floor, shove wet sheets into bags for dumping or
burning, reclaim the room for Sarah. It was too little ... too late
... but he had to make her feel safe again ... he had to … with no
surprises … this time …

no hiding
…

no … no hiding
...

no more
...

When he woke, he was stiff and on edge. He heard
crackling and pushed himself up from the floor. His arms, legs and
neck were aching, but he limped towards the window, where he
confirmed that it really was night time.

As he crossed
the landing, a loud crack came from the street. When laughter
followed, he realised that boys were setting off fireworks and his
heart began to slow its pace.

He found Sarah
downstairs with Clare, in her new room, discussing books that they
had uncovered.

“Hi,” the
women said and they smiled at him. He almost stopped on the
threshold, because he didn't want to ruin the moment. Already, the
house had started to feel like a home.

“Sleep well?”
asked Sarah.

“A firework
woke me. Must have been a big one.”

“Me too,”
Sarah said. “I got up, because I wanted to see. Something normal.
The world goes on.”

“And so do
we,” said Clare.

Simon looked
in the direction of the kitchen door. “Shall we go?” he said.

“Yeah,” said
Sarah. “I'd like that.”

*

Local school children
had made an effigy of Guy Fawkes using sacks stuffed with what
appeared to be hollow fibre and straw. It stood at about six feet
tall and had marker pen 'X's for eyes. Its nose was a backwards 'L'
and whoever had drawn the mouth had diplomatically opted for a
straight line.

Over two
hundred people had gathered to watch him burn. An ice cream van was
parked off to one side, a shiny fire engine sat to another.

The bonfire
was tall enough so that everyone would have a decent view of the
burning.

“Actually,
it's sort of sickening,” Sarah said.

“Sort of?”
said Clare.

A government
official made an announcement, but his loudspeaker wasn't working,
so they could barely hear him. A ripple of clapping and cheering
worked its way from the front of the crowd. They joined in
half-heartedly.