The Hunger Trace (30 page)

Louisa closed her eyes. Such as she was about to say did not come naturally to her. ‘Me too. I just feel guilty sometimes. I feel like we never would have been friends if . . .’

‘If David hadn’t died,’ Maggie volunteered the difficult ending.

‘Yes.’

Maggie shrugged. Apparently this was not an original thought. ‘I know you loved David, but it would have been worse for you had I been the one to die.’

Louisa ignored her protestation reflex. ‘Why?’ she said.

‘After the warm welcome you gave me, I doubt he would have spoken to you again.’

Louisa let her head drop. These feelings had been between them for some time. ‘I’m sorry. I hardly got behind the relationship, did I?’

‘I always felt you were behind me. I just wanted you in front of me, where I could see what you were doing.’

Louisa smiled, but Maggie did not. ‘I’m going to Norfolk this afternoon, to see the deer.’ Maggie checked herself, realising how long it had been since she had spoken to Louisa at length. ‘I’ve been thinking of purchasing red deer. I’m going to stay there a while, have a look at the way they do things. I just wondered if you might hold the fort while I’m gone.’

‘What can I do?’ Louisa said.

‘Nothing much. Take the dogs out. I’ve left Philip in charge, but he’s been weird lately. Maybe you could pop in from time to time, but really, I was hoping you would keep an eye out for Christopher. I know you and him are going out tonight. He thinks very highly of you. More than he thinks of me, anyway. If you could make sure he’s okay.’

‘Sure. How long are you going for?’

‘A few days.’

‘Yeah. I’ll look after him.’

‘He doesn’t have many proper friends, you know?’

Louisa nodded. ‘I know.’

‘And it’s been hard work making him believe that the world is an alright place these last few months. Hard fucking fraudulent work, I can tell you. If you feel like you might want to blank him, or say something mean, then it’s probably best to just leave him alone.’

Again Louisa flushed, but controlled herself. ‘I’ll be around if he needs me,’ she said. Maggie reached across the table and took Louisa’s hand, smiling finally. The damp heat from Maggie’s hand warmed Louisa’s. They continued to smile, but there was a little anger in Maggie, a little force in the grip; Louisa felt it.

That afternoon Christopher sat at the back of his den, a notepad on his knees. Library books warped on the damp floor.

The last section of his essay – The Death of Robin Hood – was a daunting prospect. The demise of the historical figure was subject to much revision and debate, just as his life was, and Christopher had begun to find the so-called ‘historical evidence’ as shaky as the many representations in films and books. He wondered how a man could have multiple graves. They must have pulled him to pieces.

There were just so many versions. In the eighties TV series he’d watched with Maggie, Michael Praed found himself outnumbered by the Sheriff’s men on a foreboding hill. He’d already been given a fairly pessimistic forecast by the antlered prophet Herne, so he knew what was coming. He told Marian to save herself. ‘Dying is easy,’ he said – and was swiftly proved right.

Christopher found the episode difficult viewing. In his father’s stories, Robin always escaped. But here, hundreds of arrows were fired, a blur of colour slid down the screen, and that was that. Christopher could not help but think of the things they did not show: Michael Praed’s body, riddled with arrows. There was indignity and humiliation in such a death. Later, in Nottingham Market Square, where he would surely have been displayed by the Sheriff (a scene also omitted from the Yorkshire Television production), the flies would have made short work of his model’s complexion.

Christopher had wanted to talk to someone about it, but the kids at college had never seen the programme. Some of them had seen a recent version on TV, and the new film with that buffoon Russell Crowe, but Christopher did not want to talk about those. It said on his documents that he did not like change or new things.

What he wanted to talk about was the element of betrayal. In the very next episode, Jason Connery arrived, saying, ‘Hi, I’m the new, blond Robin.’ In Christopher’s view, it took a traitorously short time for the merry men (and, more to the point, the merry woman) to accept him. The evidence built against back-stabbing Marian. Christopher found it easy to imagine Maggie Green finding a blond replacement for his father. He had seen
certain other people
leave Derbyshire before and come back virtually betrothed. Maggie Green and Carol-Ann were like Marian, Christopher thought. They were fickle, changeable, naïve. They lacked rock-solid values.

He thought, briefly, of Carol-Ann in the foyer of the Travelodge, the thick make-up which made her face a different colour from her pale neck and made it seem that her whole head had been constructed from bronze powder, right to the core. ‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’ she had said.

‘Erm, no,’ he had said. ‘I think a man like me has to be alone. I don’t think I’ll ever be a part of normal, erm, society. Erm. Bye.’

It may have functioned as an excuse to get out of the foyer, but he truly believed what he had said about normal society. And he also believed that if your face
had
to be a different colour from your neck, they should at least be colours that did not clash.

He had to admit that Cullis, for all his faces, was right about Marian: she was a flimsy addition to the legend.

The account of Robin’s death suggested by the fourteenth-century ballad that Christopher trusted was incomplete. It was said that the readers of that time were so devastated by Robin’s demise that they tried to destroy the manuscript. The remaining pages interested Christopher greatly, because, like all good stories, they combined death with love. So Robin, who was unwell, went to see his cousin, the Prioress of Kirklees – a cousin with whom he had been in love since they played together as children. Christopher let the incestuous element pass. The reason Robin visited the Prioress, against the advice of his friends, was to have his blood let. Christopher reminded himself that they were dark and sometimes medically ignorant times. And if men were men, then women, well. The Prioress was certainly a hard lady.

The ballad said that the Prioress bound Robin to a chair, shifted the buckets, took the bleeding irons to his forearms and opened the veins. The account of her actions after that were sketchy because of the missing pages. Some academics claimed that she was a backstabber, in league with Robin’s enemies, and that she left him there to bleed to death. What amazed Christopher, what left him astounded, was Robin’s profound trust in love. Of all the daring and skilful feats attributed to the outlaw, relinquishing his fate in this way to the woman he adored was surely Hood’s most heroic deed. The fact that the object of his affection left him to die did not, at that moment, interest Christopher.

Of course he was disappointed that some of the pages of ‘The Death of Robin Hood’ were missing. For one thing, it left the door open for some halfwit to write a bestseller where it turned out that Robin Hood was actually Jesus of Nazareth or Robert Kilroy-Silk. But there were benefits, too. If the pages were missing, and the historical evidence was lost, then Christopher would just have to imagine the rest for himself. And in the dank comfort of his brook-side den, with his eyes closed, that is what he did, the stout Prioress appearing in a torchlit room, the black silk of her robe shimmering, riding the contours of her thick calves while Robin’s blood dripped into the pail. Herne stood behind the Prioress, his antlers clear against the light coming through the window. He wore a long green coat. ‘Nothing is forgotten,’ he said. ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ said the Prioress.

In the fire, she scorched the small wooden figurines that she and Robin had carved many years before as children, and she ground the blackened heads of these charms into the stone floor, to make a powder. She rubbed her calloused, squared-off fingers in the dark dust. Then she came towards him, her breasts heavy, her blonde hair spilling from her wimple, her soiled hand outstretched so that he could see the whorls and knots of her calloused fingerprints, and she painted the black dust onto the soft skin beneath each of his bright blue eyes. It was a sensual moment for the faint, captive Robin, his arms pulsing – as it was for Christopher, who woke from the reverie with an erection. He tried to think what film or story or book that scene had come from. He could not place it. The voice and shape of Herne was not that of the TV character, although it seemed strangely familiar. But he knew the face of the Prioress well enough. Yes, he certainly recognised
that
face.

The rain tightened its hold. In the grim light, the brook looked grainy and opaque but also nutritious, like the Japanese soup Maggie sometimes drank. The water had spilled over into the field again, and Christopher thought of the one hundred year event of which his father had spoken. He shuffled further into his den. Once, way back in his early teens, he had woken here to find that it had snowed while he slept; on another occasion, he had woken to find his foot covered with ants. In general, though, it was a place for peace and contemplation. He heard Louisa’s van go past. He was going to the pub with Louisa and Adam later that night. Louisa had promised.

Fearing that the weather might scupper his big night, he had called the White Hart. Brian Wicks had confirmed business as usual. The pub was on a rise, Wicks had said, in more ways than one (Christopher liked that) and some of the evacuated families from Jessop Avenue were staying in the rooms above the snug for a reduced rate. ‘There’s special prices on bottled ale,’ Wicks had said.

‘I’ll be rocking around the alcoholic tree tonight, then,’ Christopher had said. ‘I might lose bowel control.’

When he saw Adam’s car climbing the hill, he walked up to the cottage, a jangling noise accompanying his rhythmic strides.

Louisa answered the door quickly. ‘Come in,’ she said. And then, when she saw his boots, ‘Better stay in the hall.’

‘Erm, just because Maggie’s put me under your care doesn’t mean you get to boss me around,’ Christopher said with a smile. ‘It does mean you get to buy me absolutely, erm, vast quantities of alcohol, though. Is Adamski ready for the night of his life?’

‘He’s upstairs having a shower. He just got back from work.’

‘Man’s got to earn his daily bread,’ Christopher said.

Louisa closed her eyes and nodded.

‘I was thinking I might like to have a go with the falcons again,’ Christopher said, looking at the battered wet glove on the table in the hall.

‘Let’s just take it one step at a time,’ Louisa said.

*    *    *

Four or five drinks later, Louisa looked at the pictures of the village on the pub wall. She enjoyed the way each photograph, going backwards in time, stripped away more of the human traces: roads lost their stripes and curbs; the barn conversions became barns again, and eventually even the pub itself disappeared, replaced by woodland. The cellar had flooded that afternoon, so Bill Wicks had brought the metal casks upstairs, and sold colder-than-usual bottles of beer with a sulphurous smell about them, for half-price. The rain on the windows was like another layer of glazing, and Louisa stared deep into the blue bullseye panel, its comforting circles like a benevolent ghost. Adam bought the next round.

Christopher performed a splashy jig to Dr Hook’s ‘When You’re in Love with a Beautiful Woman’, and then sat down. ‘Did you, erm, hear it, Louisa? “When you’re in love with a beautiful woman, erm, erm, it’s erm,
hard
.” Do you get it?’

‘Yeah, I think I probably do,’ Louisa said.

‘Dad taught me that one.’ Christopher became serious. ‘I often think of the time when I elbowed you in the face,’ he said.

Louisa laughed.

‘Erm, it wasn’t amusing. Now that we’re friends, I feel bad about it.’ He paused. ‘You know, there was falconry in the time of Robin Hood.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Louisa said. ‘I take my birds to the Robin Hood Game and Country Show every year. Have to dress like a man in drag.’

‘Is it the show in Newark?’ Christopher said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I come next year?’

‘You can dress up with me, if you like,’ Louisa said.

‘Really? My excitement levels would go through the, erm, roof. You could be the Prioress of Kirklees,’ Christopher said, slurring his words.

‘I don’t have the morals,’ she said, for she had never heard the story.

Adam returned to the table, set down the drinks and kissed her. Louisa kept her eyes open, and saw some of the locals look over. Christopher watched, too. Louisa squeezed Adam’s wrist in protest but he persisted and she gave in.

Christopher went back to the juke-box, put on ‘The Locomotion’, and began dancing again. His Wellington boots squeezed brown water from the thin strip of red carpet by the bar. His arms flailed, and he knocked over a few of the contaminated beers, which smashed on the floor. He stopped dancing.

‘Steady on, y’daft twat,’ said Bill Wicks.

‘Eh up,’ Adam said to the landlord. ‘That’s not a very nice way to speak to patrons, is it?’

‘Leave it, Adam,’ Louisa said.