Peter and Dorothea arrived home soon afterwards, and Justin could hear them at the doorway to the bedroom, whispering. They waited for a sign that he wanted company, but he gave none, and eventually the whispering ceased.
The next time Justin woke up he could hear Peter’s calm regular breathing across the room, and the dial of his watch glowed 2 a.m. He lay awake then, disturbed by images of disembodied limbs and torsos riddled with shrapnel, legs with no feet, fingerless hands.
The memory of Agnes’s photographs sickened him.
He came down the next morning thick-headed and depressed, and found Dorothea and Anna already awake, feeding the cats and talking about Agnes. He asked Dorothea, cautiously, what she thought of the show.
‘It’s very clever in some ways,’ she answered coolly. ‘And the photographs of you are beautiful, even when you look your worst. Most people won’t care that it’s all very horrible as well. They’ll just think it’s new and different and terribly original.’ Dorothea’s eyes were unsentimental. ‘I’m not wild about her angle on friendship, if that’s your question. She’s treated you very badly indeed.’
And that was that. The next minute she was making him a cup of tea and describing a snow leopard documentary she and Anna had seen on TV.
Dorothea’s appraisal of Agnes was a revelation. She was so definitive and matter-of-fact that Justin felt the terrible shame inside him begin to dissipate. Agnes’s power was flawed, so flawed that an eleven-year-old could defy it.
Peter came into the kitchen. ‘Have you seen the paper today?’
Later that day Justin thought back on their conversation and wondered whether the things that kill you were not just the crashes and explosions from without, but the bombs buried deep inside, the bombs ticking quietly in your bowel or your liver or your heart, year after year, that you yourself had swallowed, or absorbed, and allowed to grow.
46
A few days after the opening, Agnes telephoned.
‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch.’
Justin said nothing.
‘What with the funeral and the inquest. And everything.’
There was a long silence.
‘Justin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You just don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself, do you?’
‘You think I should be weeping over Ivan?’
‘A man died, Justin. It’s a great loss.’
‘A great loss to whom? To you, maybe. To you and your career. You’ve lost your precious two-faced mentor.’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to show a little remorse. After all –’
‘After all what? I killed him? Tell me, what kind of genius jumps in front of a car to rescue a coat?’
‘Justin –’
‘But while we’re on the subject of remorse, let’s talk about you’
Agnes inhaled sharply. ‘Justin, look, I am sorry. I should have warned you. I should have asked you about using the pictures.’ She hesitated. ‘It was stupid of me.’
‘But you had more important things to think about.’
‘Well, as a matter of fact I did, but it’s not that. It’s just that I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
‘And what would that have been?’
Agnes hesitated. ‘That I was using you.’
‘Oops. Too late.’
‘Justin.’ Her voice shook. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘OK, I won’t be like that. Let’s simplify things. You tell me exactly how to be and I’ll be like that.’
She said nothing.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘don’t tell me I’ve hurt your feelings.’
‘Justin.’ Her voice was quiet. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you.’
‘IT’S-NOT-THAT-EASY’ He was furious, menacing.
‘I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
‘Do you think I care whether you talk to me or not?’
‘But I still care about you. I want to know what you’re doing, how you’re feeling.’
‘How do you think I’m feeling?’
‘A little angry, at a guess.’
‘How perceptive.’
‘Stop it, Justin –’
‘Don’t tell me what to do.’
Her voice caught. ‘Look, I know I behaved badly. But I wish you would stop being such a –’
‘Such a what? A prat? A child? A virgin?’
‘You make it impossible to explain.’
‘Do I? How rude of me. Please explain.’
‘Whenever I think for a moment I might be talking to someone sensible it just ends up as an idiotic discussion about –’
‘Yes?’
‘About invisible dogs and fate and things I can’t even begin to cope with.’
‘So don’t.’ He spat the words.
There was a silence.
‘Why exactly do we have to be enemies?’
‘Why exactly did you think it was OK to use my unhappiness for your personal gain?’
Agnes said nothing.
‘Why exactly would you have sex with someone and afterwards think it’s OK to ditch them, pretend it never happened and then use their worst nightmares to further your own reputation?’
And by the way, why don’t you love me any more?
‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘Oh well, that’s just fine then.’
‘And I didn’t ditch you, and I didn’t pretend it never happened.’
‘It?’
‘Our little sexual encounter.’
‘A little encounter, was it? You’ve had bigger, no doubt?’
‘You’re behaving like a child.’
‘Sex with a child. Isn’t that against the law?’
‘Jesus Christ Justin! Weren’t you there when it happened? Wasn’t it your choice too? You’d just love it all to be my fault, wouldn’t you? Well it’s not. I’m sorry I had sex with you and if I could take it back I would. Are you happy now?’
No.
‘Look,’ Agnes tried again, ‘I don’t know what you want me to do or say.’
He said nothing for a long time. The silence pooled stagnant between them.
At last he spoke. ‘I don’t know either.’
Liar.
You know exactly what you want her to do and say. You want her to say she loves you to distraction, you want her to beg you for sex five or six times a day, implore you to live with her, remain true to you for the rest of her life. That’s all. That’s what you want her to do and say.
‘We’ll talk again, Justin.’
He had run out of comebacks.
‘Say hello to Peter for me.’
He didn’t reply and she put down the phone. That infuriating boy. How does he expect me to love him? He’s impossible to love.
Each lay awake that night thinking miserably, bitterly of the other.
Justin fell asleep first.
47
When a creature begins to emerge from its chrysalis there is a point at which it is neither one thing nor the other, not quite grown into a new identity nor rid of the old. Its wings are folded and sticky, its colours hidden. Whether it will emerge in shades of emerald and lapis lazuli or the colour of mud is yet to be revealed.
It is that long, still moment of waiting that fascinates me utterly. The suspense of waiting for beauty to unfurl.
48
Four shopping days till Christmas.
Six to his birthday.
Justin stopped off at home to deliver Charlie’s Christmas present and pick up a bag of gifts from his mother: a fruitcake and iced biscuits packed in a tin for Peter’s mother, and carefully wrapped presents for Peter, Anna, Dorothea, and of course himself.
His mother fussed with directions on who was to receive what, all of which she imparted without looking directly at him. Justin felt the unasked questions flapping desperately between them like a fish in a paper bag. The saddish smile on her face jolted his recollection of a time when he had loved her with a passion that was a
ll-consuming, a time he couldn’t be left with a babysitter, wouldn’t sleep in his own cot or take a bottle from his own father.
He watched her holding his brother close, watched the little boy’s head droop on to her shoulder and his open hand laid gently on her upper arm, and for the briefest of instants he remembered himself small and trusting and helpless, remembered the bliss of perfect communion.
What he wouldn’t give for it now, for a tenth, a hundredth of that feeling. He could see it in Charlie’s face, could see how he became soft and calm in the certain knowledge that nothing bad could happen as long as he was safe in those arms.
What a lie, thought Justin sadly. Like the big Santa Claus lie, except it went on longer. ‘We’ll take care of you,’ said the lie, ‘keep you safe from the monsters that live under the bed, the dragons in the cupboard, the ghosts, the murderers and kidnappers. We’ll teach you how the world works, reveal all the secrets of life.’ All of them, that is, except how to know yourself, find your way, be alone, survive loss and rejection, disappointment, shame, and death.
His brother wanted to get down now. His face was aimed at the blinking lights on the tree, his arms waved. He toddled over and touched each tiny bulb delicately, far too young to understand about the birth of Christianity or even Santa Claus, but old enough to grasp blinking lights in his fat fist and wonder at the existence of so many pretty mysteries.
Justin had come to like being born at Christmas, for all the reasons other kids hated it. With a Christmas birthday, his transitions – from child to youth, youth to adolescent – had been muffled, sucked into the hungry, garish black hole of The Holiday Season, leaving him free to ignore the landmarks. Just another Christmas, nothing more life-altering or life-threatening than that.
He wondered if sixteen would feel different, in the way not being a virgin felt different. He wondered if he’d feel jaded in the same way, lose the fear and the excitement all at once. Once upon a time he had looked on sixteen as the gateway to adulthood. At sixteen, everything would become clear.
How could he have been so mistaken? Sixteen would change nothing, unless he got run over by a train on the day.
He looked at his brother who was batting a pink star with one hand, the expression on his face joyous. If you were eighteen months old and lucky, the world was one big shiny gift of needs fulfilled and fears allayed. Charlie toddled over and put his arms out for a kiss, burbling with the pleasure of it all: the stars, the kiss, the ability to initiate action. These things were enough to inspire happiness.
Releasing the child, Justin fetched the large, slightly crumpled parcel he’d hidden under the stairs and stuffed it behind the tree, where it would go unnoticed until Christmas morning. Then he swept up the gifts from his mother and slipped silently out the back door.
49
That night after everyone was in bed, Justin paced. Midnight. One. Two. The longest night of the year stretched ahead, dark and filled with ghosts.
He crept downstairs to find Alice. Boy padded silently after him. Opening the back door, Justin stepped outside and peered into the hutch. Alice was asleep in a mound of straw, but he shifted and raised his ears at Justin’s approach.
The night was cold, the moon a few days short of full. Justin opened the little door, reached in and heaved the great pliant beast out, clutching him against his body for warmth. He could feel the animal’s heartbeat against his own.
He stood waiting for a voice to creep out from behind a hedge, drift down a drainpipe, emerge from Alice’s mouth. But there was nothing, only the outlines of the cats on the wall behind the house, silent tonight, on the prowl. For a moment at least, all was calm.
He stroked Alice, and the rabbit seemed content to slump quietly in his arms, offering the comforting heat of his great body. Boy leant on Justin’s left leg, and with a gentle sigh, dropped to the ground chest first, then rolled over sleepily on to Justin’s foot and lay there, eyes half-shut.
If I were a rabbit, Justin thought, I could stroll quietly through the world, minding my own business, eating bits of vegetation and snoozing. There would be no introspection, no mad flights of fancy. There would still be lust, but I could fuck like a bunny. It would be expected of me.
He laughed.
Gazing mesmerized into Alice’s glossy upturned eye, he thought of the butcher’s rabbit, half skinned, naked, singing its gruesome song.
When he looked up again, the world seemed to have shifted. The semi-dark of the suburban back garden appeared grainy, almost monochrome. His vision felt odd – huge and all-encompassing. The garden appeared brighter. He could see all around him without turning his head.
It felt exhilarating to experience the sky and the ground at once.
I’m a rabbit, he thought with amazement. Huge eyes, 360 degrees peripheral vision, low-resolution colour perception. I’m definitely a rabbit! I wonder how that happened?
Looking straight ahead, he scanned the ground and the sky at once. A bird of prey hovered far above next-door’s garden. He felt frightened. What if it saw him? And those huge feral cats. He was bigger, but they would hurt him if they could. They made his skin crawl. He smelled dog. Where? Oh my god, Boy. Would Boy mistake him for a real rabbit and tear him to shreds? He looked for the dog lying at his feet, but there was no sign of him.
Wait, what was that, there, hardly moving, by the pond?
Oh god, he thought, it’s a fox. A fox! His heart began to hammer. Dorothea’s vixen! RUN. Oh god, Alice, run run as fast as you can!!
The vixen slid closer through the underbrush, tail twitching.
She smells me! She knows I’m here. Where’s Boy? Boy? Here, boy! Oh god, RUN!
In his arms, the panicky rabbit began to kick and scrabble.
Don’t jump down, she’ll catch us! She’s hungry. Look at her move. Look at her eyes! She’s watching us.
Alice struggled free. Despite his huge bulk he was quick, but the fox was quicker. It made a lightning-fast lunge for the rabbit, grabbing him by the loose skin round his neck. At first Alice went limp with terror, but he came back to life and began to struggle furiously. Justin tried to get around the rabbit and kick the vixen away, but she swung left and right opposite him, dragging the terrified rabbit with her. In desperation, he grabbed Alice’s back leg and tugged, using his other arm to grip the rabbit around the middle. Alice squeaked pitifully.
Justin looked over and saw Boy standing quietly, watching from the doorway. For a second, his eyes met the dignified eyes of his dog.
‘Help!’ Justin pleaded. ‘Help me, Boy, help us! You’re a dog for Christ’s sake, we’re just rabbits!’
And then something stopped him. A question. A possibility.
I am not a rabbit, he thought. I am not. He turned slowly away from his dog, locked on to the impassive face of the fox and fixed the animal with his gaze.
‘I am the alpha beast,’ Justin said, his eyes strangely bright. ‘Beware of me’
The fox went still.
The two of them stood, locked in silent battle. Justin’s eyes blazed with unexpressed fury. He opened his mouth, and what emerged was a snarl. Low at first, then rising in volume and intensity.
The vixen turned her head and backed away, loosening her grip on the rabbit. Justin tugged hard, and he and Alice fell backwards on to the paving stones.
He sat up. Alice still squirmed in his arms. There was no sign of the fox.
‘The world is full of predators,’ Justin murmured softly, holding the rabbit and stroking him till he lay still. ‘And prey.’
Boy approached. His tail moved slightly back and forth. Justin freed one arm and placed it around his dog’s neck.
And the lion shall lie down with the lamb, he thought, as Boy leant his long smooth head over to meet Alice’s twitching nose. Neither of them flinched.
They sat like that for a long time.
Eventually Justin replaced the rabbit in his hutch, locked the back door, and, with his dog padding silently behind him, retur
ned to his room.
Outside, the vixen shivered, her eyes dull, ribs sharply visible through her ragged coat. By the light of the moon you could see that she was starving.
Justin slipped into bed across the room from Peter, who didn’t stir.
50
My brave little rabbit!
Let me remember you exactly as you are tonight.
Alive.
51
Justin awoke the next morning with a headache.
He took two painkillers.
It’ll go, he thought, it’s probably just the weather.
The weather was, in fact, humid and heavy; the air had the unpleasantly charged feeling that only a thunderstorm will clear.
By the time he managed to struggle through maths, geography and English, the pain at the base of his skull had set up branch offices in his temples, at the top of his head, and behind his eyeballs. He experimented with the pain, turning his head left and right, testing his fingers against each throbbing pulse, seeking remedy in pressure, position, movement.
By lunchtime he was in too much pain to consider eating, and he carried himself stiffly so as not to cause unnecessary movement in his neck and shoulders.
He had cross-country after school; his last practice before the Christmas break. He made his way to the track in a trance of habit. Boy brushed against his legs as he walked,and he leant a hand on the dog’s back to steady himself.
Peter smiled with pleasure at his arrival, and Justin nodded, causing a jolt so intense he had to grasp the wooden edge of the grandstand to keep from falling over. He concentrated on distributing the weight of his body evenly across both feet, clenching his teeth and groaning slightly with exertion.
Migraine, he thought. This must be what it’s like to have a migraine. He could smell the fetid black blood, sticky and foul, pooling in ugly wells under his skin. The light hurt his eyes. When he squeezed them shut, tears oozed from beneath his eyelids: murky, dark, corrupt. He wondered if he could find a doctor to punch holes in his skull, insert a shunt to suck out the corrupt beings breeding within (jagged black bats, winged griffins with screeching voices). They fed on his brain, thrusting greedy mouths into the sweet yellow jelly.