Ancient Echoes (25 page)

And before he could speak, she
slapped
him, a hard blow that brought Angela running.

‘What’s happening? Oh Christ … Jack?’

Suddenly the girl giggled and squirmed in her father’s arms. Jack’s face was stinging and Angela could see the reddening mark. ‘He’s here?’ she whispered, but Jack shook his head.
I don’t know.

Natalie said, ‘There
aren’t
any elephants with short trunks and no tusks. That’s just one of your stories.’

‘And quite a story it is too.’

‘I want to ride a hippa. A tiny horse.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

Feeling sick with exhaustion and uncertainty, he let Angela drive him home.

The day after his return from the Midax Deep was difficult for several reasons. Primarily, his sleep had been disturbed by lucid, crazy dreams, echoes of his experience during the controlled journey, but maddeningly accurate on many of the points that he had either missed, or chosen to ignore. And in particular: that William had been a fair-haired, fair-bearded reflection of Steven Brightmore, and the affronted fisherman, the sturgeon-catcher who had harpooned him to the lake shore, then shunned him from the village, was … himself.

He had woken in a state of damp, cold anxiety, and was made more irritable to find Angela in her small study, poring over the day’s transcripts, scribbling marginal notes and talking to herself.

‘Come back to bed.’

‘I can’t sleep, Jack. This is too wild. My head’s buzzing.’

‘I need to hold you. I’m wild too, my dreams, they’re crazy. I feel very stressed.’

‘I know. You’re sweating like a man with a guilty conscience! Make some tea. Oh, and check on Nattie, would you?’

Too confused to demonstrate the sudden anger he felt at his wife’s apparent complacency, he stalked the house in the deep dark, and finally made tea when he saw the first, faint glimmer of light along the ridge of hills behind the house.

And as if awakened by that same first light, the girl came into the kitchen clutching her favourite stuffed toy, a grinning fox, and declaimed that she wanted to find a tiny horse to ride. She was wide awake, raring to go, urgent to find a black-striped, three-toed
hipparion,
and her activity was so noisy, so determined that the rest of the world awoke, and the birds stirred,
and the light increased nervously outside, brought into being by this small focus of energy.

Having been unable to sleep, now Jack felt tired. It was four-thirty in the morning.

He spent the first part of the day ringing round to riding schools and stables. ‘A small horse, preferably black or grey, three toed if possible …’

Natalie was racing around the house, already convinced that she was going to ride a ‘hippa’. She became frustrated towards midday when no arrangement had been made and Jack began to think that he was being manipulated, just slightly, just ever so slightly …

At last he found a stable that might supply the required beast, but the riding hours were at weekends only. ‘It’s really important. I’ll pay your price. My daughter is five, she’s ridden twice before, she’s quite competent. It’s a very special treat.’

And at two in the afternoon he was standing by a paddock gate, watching his helmeted daughter bouncing on the back of a scraggy-looking Shetland pony, an animal in its declining years, its back so sagging in the middle that it might have spent a lifetime carrying gold bullion, a look in its eye that could kill: but black and grey, temporarily dignified by being identified as the last representative of an extinct species of the
equidae,
and not at all inconvenienced by the humane amputation of its second and third toes which, Jack had explained to the girl (guilty at the continuing fabrication) had been essential if the horse was to be ridden by a human being.

She’d believed him, of course. Storytelling was his trade!

He had expected to return home at five o’clock, but Natalie had tired of the ride, refused the chance of an ice cream, and the traffic had been easy through Exburgh. He pulled into the drive an hour earlier than arranged and was incensed to see Brightmore’s blood-red Lotus sprawled, rather than parked, across the gravel, its front wheels embedded in the flower borders.

‘Steve’s here! Steve’s here!’ the girl said, surprising him with
the unexpected intimacy of her relationship with Brightmore. And as she ran to the front door, Jack banged his palms against the steering wheel, bitter, angry, confused, willing himself not to look at the bedroom window to see if the curtains were closed, but he did, they were, and for a moment he sank into himself, feeling cold and very clear in the head.

Then he laughed quietly. ‘Harpoons at dusk, you bastard. You walk ahead of me.’

The front door was open and his daughter was waving him into the house. ‘Daddy! Come
on,
Daddy.’

He slammed the car door, used his key to quickly scratch the paintwork of the Lotus, just above the brake-light (felt good!) and then smiled.

Angela was in the kitchen, making coffee with one hand and pouring lemonade with the other. She looked kempt and relaxed.

‘Was it a good ride?’ she asked as Jack entered the room, flinging his jacket onto the table.

‘I don’t know. Was it?’

Angela frowned. ‘Did she have a good ride? On the prehistoric horse?’ She emphasized the last words, playing the game with him for the child.

‘Half an hour’s mad gallop.’

‘It was fun,’ Natalie said, draining her glass of lemonade noisily and with great finality. Angela watched Jack carefully.

‘You all right?’

‘Where’s Steve?’

‘Outside. Smoking. He’ll be in in a moment. You seem strange. Has something happened?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me. What the hell’s he doing here?’

Angela got his drift and turned away from him, unplugging the percolator then folding her arms. ‘We’ve been working out a strategy for your next journey …’

‘And it was necessary to do that in the bedroom, of course.’

‘No. Of course not. Jesus! Jack …’

‘The fucking
curtains
are pulled.’

‘That’s because someone is
resting
there. Laura! Steve’s assistant. Remember? She’s got a migraine. She’s been sick. I didn’t think you’d mind her using our room.’

The glare held, and Jack felt sick himself, turning away from his wife.

‘I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry.’

‘So am I,’ she said. But there was an odd tension in her voice. He fought to ignore it.

‘No. You have nothing to be sorry about. It’s me. I’m still a bit crazy about Steve, I suppose. He was in my dreams last night. He was part of the Midax journey. It’s something deep-rooted. I know you had a bad time with him a few years ago, and I know that everything’s professional now … but I can’t … I can’t shake it off.’

She didn’t speak for a moment, wouldn’t look at him, and his mouth went dry again.

I don’t want to know.
‘I’m sorry,’ Angela repeated, her face tense, her eyes half-closed. She looked as if she was about to cry. Everything in the kitchen was in high focus, sharp edged, very clear, and he started to understand.

I
don’t want to know. Not now. Not yet …

‘You don’t have to be sorry, love. It’s me. It’s my mad imagination. I need to stop being so bloody paranoid.’

‘Jack … We need to talk …’

No!

And Brightmore was suddenly in the doorway, brushing his fingers together, first looking quizzically at Angela, then at Jack himself. ‘Everything OK? Not intruding, am I?’

‘Your front wheel has gouged into my flower border. What sort of parking is that?’

‘Hello Jack. How’re the wounds?’

‘Healing. Though some wounds heal slower than others.’

‘I’m sure that’s true. Laura drove, by the way. At my request. Always pass the buck, if possible.’ He grinned. ‘I was writing my report on your Midax transfer. I didn’t know she was ill, and I didn’t notice the damage. You want me to move the car?’

‘Forget it. And if it’s of any interest to your report, coming out of a Midax journey is far more of a re-adjustment than just coming out of a deep, lucid dream. I’m very shaky. In the last hours in the other land I felt called back here. Now I feel very strongly called back to the world … wherever it is. It’s like I’ve abandoned people, and a place, and the mission isn’t finished.’

Brightmore was instantly professional. ‘This is important. Can I get a record of what’s happening to you? How you feel?’

‘Of course. Walk ahead of me. I’ll bring the harpoons.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

Angela still stood by the cooling coffee percolator, her head low, her arms folded. Brightmore glanced at her then walked into the small study.

Upstairs, the toilet flushed and there was slow, unsteady movement back to the front bedroom.

An hour later, Brightmore drove Laura back to Cambridge, and Jack started to regret his transparency, his moment of uncontrolled irritation. He had given himself away, of course; the New Zealander had instantly made the connection between the reference to harpoons and the earlier account of the Walk to the Shore. And that look between him and Angela, that quick glance, the question expressed in the merest narrowing of eyes.
Does he know? How the hell could he know?

I don’t want to know! Not yet
…

Natalie had made a drawing of the wild, tiny horses. There were ten of them, running among tall trees, and although the girl was only five, the effect of her imagination, combining what her father had told her and what she had experienced on the decrepit, grey Shetland pony, was astonishingly vigorous.

‘This is as good as a cave painting!’ Jack informed her. ‘It’s got a real feel about it. I can hear those little devils snorting as they stampede.’

‘What’s a cave painting?’

He sat down heavily. He’d forgotten the extent to which Natalie questioned everything.

‘It’s a painting in a cave: usually of hairy elephants called mastodons and horses with huge fat bellies.’

There aren’t any hairy elephants, silly
…

‘Is there a hairy elephant in the zoo?’ she asked.

‘No. Only in the permafrost.’

What’s the permafrost, Daddy?

She was frowning. ‘Why do the horses have big fat bellies?’

Damn! Why do you have to be so unpredictable?

‘They ate too many hairy elephants.’

‘Horses don’t eat elephants. That’s one of your stories!’

‘I suppose it must be. Anyway, what’s wrong with stories?’

‘
Steve
doesn’t tell stories.’

‘No. I don’t suppose he has the time.’

She was fussing with the green canopy of the giant trees. ‘He makes Mummy laugh. He tells jokes.’

‘
Isn’t
that nice.’

‘When I’m playing outside with Baalka, he tells funny jokes to Mummy. I can hear them.’

Baalka? Playing with Baalka? What the hell do you play?

Torn between two concerns, Jack said, ‘I always thought you liked my stories.’

‘I
do
like your stories.’

‘And I like your horses. Though don’t forget they had
three
toes on each foot.’

Extra toes, eighty in total, were duly crayoned in, a tedious process which Jack watched with patience, his mouth dry, his mind an insistent chant:
I don’t want to know. Not yet. Not yet.

Angela came in and praised the crayon drawing. ‘Time for bed, young lady.’

There was no protest. The girl packed up her crayons, slid from the chair and ran to the tall window, looking out over the garden towards the city.

‘He’s not here yet,’ she announced, and ran back across the room, grabbing her drawings and scampering up the stairs. In
her own room, she undressed, ready for a bath. As Jack stood in the doorway, Angela sat the girl down and said, ‘What have we said to you? Haven’t we asked you not to play with … Baalka?’

‘I won’t get dirty,’ Natalie said earnestly. She looked at her father, her pale, pretty face suddenly sad. ‘I like dancing with him. He doesn’t hurt me. If I say he’s dancing too fast, he always stops. He always brings me home. All he takes is a dream, and I’ve got lots of dreams. Baalka said so. Oh please … don’t stop him coming.’

She was looking at her father, ignoring Angela’s stem words, her affectionate hug, her reassurance that it
was
alright to tell Baalka to go away.

Jack whispered, ‘If she wants to dance with Baalka, maybe she should.’

Without looking up, kissing the girl’s fair hair, Angela said, ‘Why?’

He wanted to say: because he’s peeling her life away, strip by strip. Because she’s incomplete, though she seems fine. Because there’s a shade of her in the
shimmering
and I don’t know how important it is to get that ghostly echo back. Because! Because! Because maybe we should keep the bastard happy. Maybe if he thinks I’m trying, he’ll bide his time.

And most of all … maybe he could be reasoned with …

‘Will he come tonight?’

Natalie grinned and nodded. ‘Every night. But he doesn’t hurt me.’

‘When you’re tired of dancing, tell him you want to come home and go to sleep. Promise me?’

‘I promise.’

‘Goodnight, then.’

‘Night …’

‘Sweet dreams …’

Angela followed him downstairs to the kitchen. ‘What are you going to do? Why are you suddenly encouraging her? I thought you said Greyface was dangerous. I only have your
word for this, Jack. You realize that, don’t you? If you tell me something, I have to believe it. It’s only you that can see it! Why the change of heart?’

‘It’s not a change of heart,’ he said, levering the top from a bottle of beer. ‘It’s a change of strategy.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’

‘I’m going in. I’m following him in. Tonight, when he comes out to play, I’m going into the
shimmering
to play a game of my own. Any objections?’

‘Yes. It sounds dangerous. And I need you. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’

He drank beer, watching her angrily. ‘Of course I don’t. I feel like I’m in some crazy film. Cities slip out of the earth, whirlpools suck forests, prehistoric animals crush my breakfast, my daughter dances with ghosts, my wife screws a man she once told me she thinks is a shit. Of
course
I don’t know what I’m doing.’