The Invisible Ones (31 page)

“I don’t know, kid. I really don’t know.”

“I can talk to him tomorrow, they said.”

Mum says, “Goodness, the poor man.”

Great-uncle says, “Yup. There’s a lot of it about. Jimmy’s brother Bill was taken poorly the other week. Horrible, it was, he said.”

Mum says, “I brought you some grapes, love. And some biscuits. Look . . . your favorites.”

“Thanks, Mum . . .”

I offer them the bag of grapes.

“No, you keep them for yourself. Don’t want you to fade away, do we?” Grapes are a special treat. She must have bought them downstairs,
from the hospital shop, where everything’s really expensive. As far as I can remember, she has never bought grapes before; I’ve eaten them only once or twice, at school. In Katie’s house there was a huge bunch of them, purple and foggy, spilling over a glass plate on the breakfast bar—or was it the tea table? They looked so perfect I didn’t dare touch them. I thought maybe they weren’t real.

Mum says, “Didn’t he come back the other day? The day I came to see JJ. What was that for?”

Great-uncle shrugs. “I dunno. Something about Christo, I suppose. He wasn’t there long.”

“Making friends, apparently, him and Ivo! That’s nice, isn’t it?”

Mum winks at me. Great-uncle clears his throat.

“You mean Mr. Lovell went to see you again, at the site?” I ask.

Great-uncle looks at me sharply, then looks away again.

“Yeah. That’s his job, isn’t it?”

He seems uneasy, though. I have that sensation again, the one I felt outside Mr. Lovell’s room, the prickly cold thing that walks up your spine.

“Sweetheart? Are you all right? You’ve gone all peaky.”

The thing is, there’s another word for
chovihano
.

Mum leans over and strokes my hair back from my forehead. “It’s getting so long, you look a right hippie . . . Are you tired? Do you want to go to sleep?”

“
Mm.
Yeah.”

She kisses me on the forehead and makes some cooing noises. I’m afraid I might cry, so I shut my eyes. I wish I could just enjoy it. I wish I was her baby again, just a kid who’s too young to see things and too young to worry about anything, but I’m not, and never will be again.

I know too much, and I’m pretty sure it’s only going to get worse. The other name for a
chovihano
is
drabengro
, which means “man of poison.”

40.

Ray

I went to get beers and ended up having to drive around to find a pub that did takeouts, so it was more than half an hour before I got back to the site to find Ivo cooking with a cigarette in one hand. I suppose after Rose left, he had to get used to fending for himself. But it still strikes me as odd—a Gypsy man in the kitchen is a rare sight. There are packets of crisps on the table, and he indicates that I get started on them.

“I’ll go back up and see Christo tomorrow,” he says.

“Oh, good . . . You’re staying with your aunt?”

“Yeah. Handy that.”

“Yeah. Do you see a lot of her?”

“No. Haven’t seen Auntie Lulu for years.”

She couldn’t have said anything, I decide.

“He’s a lovely boy, Christo,” I say.

Ivo smiles at the pan. “Yeah, he’s the best.”

He stops smiling.

“You must miss him.”

“Yeah.”

Ivo scrapes something from a bowl into the pan. I can’t see what it is. Then he throws in lots of salt. He stirs the pan’s contents—some sort of
stew. He leans his hip on the counter, keeping an eye on the pan, chain-smoking. The stew doesn’t seem to need much attention, but he doesn’t leave it. He needs something to do, and this way, he doesn’t have to look at me . . . or be looked at. He doesn’t have to talk.

“You never thought of giving him up to another family? Your cousin, say?”

Ivo gives me a brief shocked look, then shakes his head. I ask because Gypsy men don’t often bring up small children on their own; it’s not uncommon for a widower to pass his children to a female relative to look after.

“I never thought of that—no, never,” he says quietly. “Christo’s all I got. And I understand him, you know, knowing what it was like.”

“Yes, of course. You must know more about it than anyone.”

I’m fascinated by his survival. It’s truly extraordinary, when you think about it.

“Can I ask . . . Was it painful?”

He sighs. “Sometimes. Not all the time.”

“Were you just like him?”

“Not as bad.”

“So how old were you when you started to get better?”

“Fifteen . . . sixteen. Lot older than Chris.”

I sip my beer. Ivo washes potatoes in a steel bowl, then peels them, hunched over his work.

“Your father said you had uncles and brothers who died from the disease. You must have been incredibly lucky.”

“Yeah.”

“A medical marvel. The doctors will be interested to see why you got better.”

Ivo drops a potato back into the bowl, splashing himself.

He grunts.

“Has anyone else recovered, like you?”

There is a silence for a moment.

“I think one of my uncles—Dad’s uncles—got better. I didn’t know him. It was ages ago.”

“And it’s just men who suffer from it, is that right?”

Another pause. “I’m not sure. I think so.”

He’s mumbling into the saucepan, reluctant to talk about it.

“Well, I know Gavin’s very keen to get to the bottom of it.”

Ivo cuts the potatoes into chunks and drops them into boiling water. He turns around for the first time.

“I’m glad that you got him to see Christo. We all are. Really grateful.”

“Well, I’m sure once they know what it is, they’ll be able to help.”

He makes an attempt at a smile.

“I’ve just got to get something from Dad’s, okay?”

“Sure.”

I let out a deep breath when I’m alone. It’s an uphill struggle getting him to talk. Being asked about the disease is clearly painful for him, and the overwhelming impression I get is of extreme shyness. I open another packet of crisps and a second beer—Ivo doesn’t seem to be much of a drinker—and try to think how to work the conversation around to Rose.

Ivo comes back after a couple minutes and resumes his perch at the counter. We sip our beers in silence for a while.

“Nearly ready,” he says.

“I’m just going to nip outside,” I say.

In the clearing it’s getting dark, but there is a soft golden light in the sky. It’s still and humid. Under the trees a hush holds fast; there is no birdsong, no sounds from the other trailers. After a short wander, I find an earth toilet among the trees, sheltered by a green tarpaulin. It’s more than I was expecting. And Ivo’s left a metal churn of water outside his trailer for washing—he pointed this out as I left. My grandfather had the same arrangement. I pour the cold water over my hands, hoping that will do.

I am gone for about four minutes.

Is that when it happens?

When I go inside again, Ivo is already at the little table. He has poured two shots of dark rum, and two plates of food are laid out. I take my place. He lifts his glass in a toast.

“Well, here’s health.”

“Absolutely. Here’s health.”

I tap his glass and swallow the rum. Tears spring to my eyes—it’s over-proof, something cheap and naval. Ivo swallows his, screwing his eyes shut briefly as it hits.

We eat.

“It’s good,” I say, and really it isn’t bad. Ivo has switched off the light in the kitchen, and we sit in semidarkness. I suppose they have to save the generator for when it’s really necessary. He eats as if he is starving, head down. He dips a slice of bread into his stew, folds it into quarters, and stuffs it in his mouth. He’s almost finished with his plate when he speaks again.

“Had a sister, you know. Christina. She gave her life for me.”

I stare at him—presumably, what he intended.

“I thought she died in a road accident?”

Ivo shrugs. “If it wasn’t that, it would’ve been something else.” He sounds casual, as if he’s discussing the weather.

“I don’t understand.”

Ivo chews a piece of gristle and takes it out of his mouth, inspecting it. “Dad wanted a miracle. For me. But you have to pay for that, if you’re a Gypsy. It’s a life for a life, isn’t it? That’s what the Bible says.”

“Um, not in that way, I don’t think.”

“’S true though. That’s the way it turned out. Only one of us could live.”

“I suppose you . . . could see it like that, maybe . . .”

Ivo puts down his spoon and takes out a cigarette, lights it without looking at me. I look away, irritated. I’m feeling slightly sick, I now realize.

“Dad knew he would lose another child. He knew it. And . . . Ivo Janko was the last one. The only one with the name. And I have to pass it on.”

I register that this sounds a little odd. But I’m feeling a little odd. Not myself.

“Is this . . .”

I’m trying to think of the word Lulu used . . . what was it?
Pri
— something? I can’t quite grasp it. It’s annoying.

“What’s that thing . . . like karma?
Pri
. . .
kada
. . . No . . .”

Why is my heart beating so fast?

“Prikaza?”

He looks at me. A direct, curious look. His gaze, when he wants, is perfectly steady.

“You know. If you’ve done wrong, you are punished. Christina was punished. It’s not fair, is it? Sometimes, I think, would’ve been better if she’d . . . but the family . . . it’s dying.”

“You’re young. You could always . . . marry again.”

Is that a heartless thing to say? As though ashamed, I’m tremendously hot all of a sudden. I take a swig of beer to try to cool down. I have a nasty feeling some of it dribbles over my chin. Ivo looks down, so doesn’t see. He gives a sort of sigh.

“You could have more children.”

Ivo looks up then, his eyes wounded. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t speak. My tongue feels thick, but I struggle on.

“You could . . . the odds . . .”

Why am I so hot? My heart is hammering. My face is burning—it must be red. I pass my right hand over my forehead. It feels heavy and uncontrollable.

“Ray? Ray?”

My hand slaps down on the table with a crash, as though it has a point to make. I stare at it in horror. I suddenly realize there is something crawling toward me, just visible in the corner of my eye.

“Could I . . . have some water?”

“Are you all right, Ray?”

Ivo is leaning toward me, looming over me. The last thing I remember is his look of concern. A look that is almost . . . tender.

41.

St. Luke’s Hospital

Hen and Madeleine have come to see me. They bring grapes and flowers; both are her idea. I know it’s nice of her, but I wish she hadn’t bothered. Around Madeleine I need all my energy not to feel hopelessly oafish and inferior. Lying in bed in a paper smock, with a thick tongue and a dead arm, I haven’t a chance.

“How are you, Ray?”

“
Erm
, not bad, really.”

“It’s so good to see you looking better. We’ve been so worried.” She looks at Hen. “You gave us a real scare.”

I have to resist the urge to apologize.

“Still, you’re all right now, they said.” Hen leans forward, shaking my good arm. “You seem so much better than the other day.”

“Yeah. Have you been to the site?”

“The site?”

“The Janko site. You need to speak to Ivo.”

Hen and Madeleine exchange glances.

“Don’t worry about work. It’s all under control.”

He looks almost smug. He doesn’t know. This is not his fault—I didn’t tell him.

“There’s something I have to tell you . . .” I look meaningfully at my partner. “I’m sorry, Madeleine, could you . . . ?”

“Oh.” Madeleine gets up. “Of course. I’ll go and get a coffee.”

She smiles brightly on her way out. Hen sighs.

“She came all this way to see you, you know. Could you be a bit more . . . civilized?”

I’m startled. “Sorry. It’s important.”

“So important it can’t wait fifteen minutes?”

He raises his eyebrows at me.

“Ivo poisoned me.”

“What?”

“Did you talk to the doctors? Did they tell you? I have been poisoned with ergot and, um, and henbane. How do you think that happened?”

Hen looks at the floor.

“What do you think I was doing in a wood in the middle of nowhere?”

“Okay, tell me what happened.”

I tell him what I remember. Or rather, I tell him what’s relevant—not about seeing Lulu, and our conversation, or meeting Jen, for that matter. He frowns when I tell him about the find at the Black Patch.

“When were you going to tell me about this?”

“It was Saturday. You know—weekend. I thought Monday would be soon enough. But on Sunday I went down to see the Jankos.”

Hen looks more and more disapproving. I suppose I should have told him that, too. But then, he would only have stopped me.

“Then Ivo invited me for dinner. And here I am.”

“You didn’t tell him about the human remains?”

That was what I had gone there to do. But the thing is, I don’t remember saying anything about it.

“Um . . . I don’t know.”

“So . . . why do you think he poisoned you?”

“I must have told him. To see what sort of reaction there would be.”

Hen sighs.

“Leaving aside your judgment about all this . . . You’re presuming that
he already had the poisonous plants to hand . . . Or did he go off into the woods and collect them while you were there?”

“He could have. I went to buy beers . . .”

I stop, because I know I didn’t say anything to him before I went to the pub. Unless my memory, in returning, is playing me false.

“The police said you had the plants in your car.”

I stare at him, genuinely puzzled.

“There were traces of henbane in your car.”

“How could that be? Unless Ivo put it there . . .”

Hen looks stern.

“I don’t know, Ray. Maybe you put it there.”

“Me? Why on earth would I do that?”

I still don’t understand what he’s getting at. He shrugs.