The Betrayals(83)

And then … when was it? The memory of – a memory that’s been locked in this room, in the stale air, a dormant germ – of that morning, trying to look for Mam but knowing that she had to keep out of sight because Mam had always said you must not leave, no one can hear you, whatever you do, darling, you must not – but bewildered, almost hoping that one of the grey ones would run into her – wandering the corridors with tears dripping off her chin but being good, keeping quiet – and then—

She crept from corridor to corridor, all of it unfamiliar, a labyrinth of stone. She had never been so far from her room. It was still early. The emerging morning was grey but her eyes stung from being in the dark so long. Her lips were pressed together, one long silent M; she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she’d cry out and Mam would be angry. But the door had been unbolted, Mam had never unbolted the door—

A bell was ringing. Not the clock striking. A tinny, angry bell, like a metallic wasp. She went to the window, careful to look both ways before she crossed the open space. A van drove into the courtyard, squat and mud-green. A cluster of people – some grey ones, some white ones – was waiting for it; one of the white ones hurried to the van. The others split apart, conferring: and she saw what they’d been huddled around. At the foot of the highest tower, spread out on the flagstones. Grey and red – more red than grey – a thing, a person-shaped-but-not thing, a person-but-not – an orange-gold plait of hair, a foot, a little way away a shoe …

Perhaps it was then that she became not-a-person, too. It was like the unlocked door, only worse, because she knew then that Mam wouldn’t come back.

She staggers to her feet. She should never have come back. It hurts too much. Memory like arsenic. Burns out your insides. Dries you to a cinder. She’ll gnaw off her own paw rather than—

‘Where are you going?’

She freezes.

‘Please don’t go. I’m so lonely. I’m going mad. I don’t feel real. Please—’

He’s an enemy. What she’s feeling now is his fault. She wants to pick up the candle and put it out on his hand. He would yell and let her go. She’d run. She’d be safe.

‘Please stay. Please. I’m not angry. I won’t hurt you.’

But this is a trap. His reaching out to her – she knows that trap, the human hand, a hand that might stroke your hair or slap you but one day will not be anything but broken bits on stone—

He is still reaching. What does he want? For a second she’s full of blind, unexpected terror. It’s like being the child she was. Stay silent or bad things. Whatever you do you must not. The walls closing down. The ceiling.

She turns and runs. The room-trap gapes open behind her. He says something but she is already too far away, under the star-spread hole in the roof. Then down the stairs, down more stairs, breathless, sweating. Get away. There has always been danger but never danger like this. Never something wrong inside her, like this.

She won’t follow him again. This was a mistake. This was unratlike. She crawls into her nest and draws her blankets up to her chin.

She tells herself that soon he will die. But when she closes her eyes she can see him in that little room, the same place where she waited for Mam to come back, and there is no comfort in the thought at all.





27


Ninth week

It’s done. Mostly. Oof.

I finished the main theme this afternoon, in the library. I remember looking up and suddenly, suddenly being present. The last strains of the theme echoing in my head, but fading. My grand jeu in front of me, almost done. The symbol of fermeture at the bottom of the page. The window open and grass-scented air blowing in, the blue not-quite-dusk. Spring has sneaked up on us. The servant beginning to light the lamps at the far end of the room. And Carfax finishing his phrase, glancing up at me, then pedantically dotting in his diacritics before he put his pen down. ‘Finished?’

‘The theme,’ I said, and then I had to stop. I took a deep breath and stared out of the window. Stupid to be so relieved. But until it’s there, you don’t believe it will happen at all. No matter how many games you write, you’re always afraid.

‘Congratulations,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I went on smiling. He went on smiling back.

Later

Thought I’d sleep like a baby but I woke up again. Not anxious, but utterly unsleepy. Got up and looked over what I’d done today. I didn’t expect it to be as good as I remembered, but it’s really not bad. Not a work of genius, but that’s all right, somehow. Next year.

Anyway, Carfax’s won’t be that much better.

That thing I wrote, a couple of weeks ago … I was wrong. I was imagining it, of course. I haven’t seen any hint of it since. Just as well, considering.

Sunday, ninth week

Carfax knocked for me this morning, early. I stumbled out of bed, swearing, thinking it was a maid who’d forgotten it was Sunday. When I opened the door he blinked at the expression on my face. ‘Martin,’ he said, ‘I wondered if you wanted—’

‘I’m taking the day off, Carfax.’

‘I guessed that. I wondered …’ He stopped, and shook his head. ‘No. Sorry I got you out of bed.’

‘What did you wonder?’