The Invisible Ones (38 page)

The voices inside are raised, anxious, argumentative.

I begin to feel a cold dread. There is nothing I can do except stand and wait, since Hen has, at my insistence, discreetly left me alone, and is not due back for some time.

Please, God, don’t let him die.

After a few minutes, the door opens and JJ comes out, alone. He comes over to me. His face is worried and wary.

“He’s all right now. Just a bit groggy. He hasn’t been all that well recently.”

“Oh. Thank God. I’m sorry to hear he’s not well. He’s recovering, though, now?”

“Yeah . . . He’s talking.”

JJ shrugs, uncomfortable. Now Kath Smith bursts through the door and strides over to us. Her cheeks are mottled with blood, mercury-bead eyes vindictive.

“What the bloody hell were you saying to him?”

“I came to tell him that we have found Ivo’s wife . . .”

Kath stares at me, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. I hear JJ’s sudden intake of breath.

“Well! For fuck’s sake. And are you happy now? You’ve only gone and given him a stroke!”

My blood stops in my veins. Please, no.

“I’m terribly sorry that it was a shock, but he had to be told.”

“Well, now you’ve told him and nearly killed him, so I think it’s about time you fucked off, don’t you?”

Her hand, loaded with a lit cigarette, darts toward my face. I take a small step backward.

She looks around for my car, is affronted that there isn’t one.

“I’ll have to wait for my colleague to pick me up. He’ll be here soon. We could drive him to hospital if that would help . . .”

“If he needs to go to hospital, we’ll take him, thank you very much. I think you’ve done enough damage.”

“Gran, he’s been—”

Kath swats him aside like a gnat.

“And you—get inside.”

“But we’ve—”

She points her finger in his face.

“Inside! Now! And wait till your granddad gets back . . .”

JJ gives me a despairing look, filled with questions, then slinks off toward his trailer.

Kath mutters something inaudible to me and slams back into Tene’s trailer. JJ turns to me, looking miserable.

“Sorry about Gran. She’s upset.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“No, but it’s . . . He hasn’t been well lately. Listen, do you want to come inside?”

“I’m fine, honestly.”

“Please . . .”

Inside the trailer, we stand facing each other, a little awkward. He seems unsure what to do next. He fiddles with the dirty bandage on his arm.

“When you said—you’d found Rose . . . Is she . . . ?”

I suddenly realize I hadn’t finished the sentence.

“Oh, no, no. Rose is alive. She’s fine!”

His mouth falls open, his face works.

“You mean . . . she’s all right?”

“Yes.”

A smile spreads over his face, and keeps spreading.

“But that’s fantastic! That’s great . . . I thought it was bad news!”

I smile, too; it’s infectious.

“Yes, it is good news. I must say it’s . . .” For the first time, it seems that this part, at least, really is great. “It’s such a relief to know that she’s well, after all this time.”

“Where is she? Where has she been?”

“Um . . . she’s in this country. She’s remarried . . .”

“So, then, Uncle Ivo didn’t . . . do anything.”

“No one else was responsible for her disappearance. It’s usually the case, you know; when people disappear, it’s usually because they want to.”

JJ looks at me shyly.

“Would you like some tea, Mr. Lovell?”

“Oh, no, thanks, I’m fine.”

“I’m going to make some, anyway . . .”

“Oh, well, if you’re making it . . . Thanks.”

Relieved, he goes to the kitchen. I look outside and see a car driving away.

“They must be taking him to the hospital. That’s good.”

JJ drops tea bags into mugs.

“How’s your arm getting on?” I ask.

“All right. Itches like crazy.”

“Good. Good sign.”

Then, as he’s pouring in the milk, his face falls. He doesn’t speak for a minute, then turns to me, his face stricken.

“Will she want Christo now?”

“Want Christo?”

“She’ll want him back, won’t she? I mean, she’s his mum . . . He was going to come to us, and we were going to get a house and everything, so we can look after him, me and Mum . . .”

Momentarily, I am nonplussed, until I realize he’s talking about Rose.

“No. No. She won’t. Not at all.”

“But she’s his mum.”

“Well, that’s the thing . . .”

I hesitate. I suppose they’ll all know before too long. And so I tell him.

50.

JJ

They sent Great-uncle home from the hospital yesterday after a few hours. They said there wasn’t anything badly wrong with him; apparently, he hadn’t had a stroke at all, but they gave him some pills, anyway, and told him to cut down on smoking—like that’s ever going to happen.

Gran and Granddad drove off this morning in the lorry. They are being quite mysterious at the moment. And Mum has gone to work. She’s got a job delivering pizzas. I think she really hates it, but there’s nothing else around. She got the sack from delivering flowers, although she hadn’t done anything wrong. They said there wasn’t enough work to go around, although they didn’t sack anyone else. Normally I like it when there’s no one else about, but today I feel hollow, like there’s not enough of me to fill the trailer on my own. Anyway, Mum made me promise to go and check that Great-uncle is taking his pills and to cheer him up.

When I go over, he is asleep in his chair. I tiptoe around and do a bit of silent washing up (Very good, JJ!), but although I’m really careful and make hardly any noise at all, when I’ve finished clearing and tidying the kitchen, I turn around to see that he’s looking at me. I nearly have a heart attack—it gives me quite a shock that he’s looking at me and he didn’t say anything. He smiles.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Hello, Great-uncle!” I say. My voice sounds loud and a bit hysterical. “JJ, my darling. Make yourself some tea.”

“How are you feeling? You’ve got to take your pills about now, Mum said to say. Are these them?”

I hold up a plastic bottle. He nods and takes it but doesn’t open it yet.

“How are you, kid?”

I smile at him, because it’s such a weird question. I literally don’t think he’s ever said that to me before—like he doesn’t really know me. Or I’m an adult. Or he really wants to know the answer.

“Um . . .”

I feel like saying, I’m JJ—you know how I am.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a good boy, JJ.”

I bury my face in the fridge so that I don’t have to look at him. Then I bring him his cup of tea, nice and stewed, with lots of sugar. I find the remains of a loaf of white sliced and make bread and butter as well.

“Shall I put some music on?”

“If you like, yes. Why don’t you do that.”

I flip through his records—grateful to have something to do, to be honest—and pull out a Sammy Davis Jr. double album. It’s got some of my favorites on it. I put it on but turn the volume down low, since he hasn’t been well.

“Look.” He pops a pill into his mouth and washes it down with the tea. “You can tell your mum.”

I sit down with my tea, cradling the mug in both hands, even though it’s a bit too hot. I can’t think of anything to say. All I can think about is Rose. Then I wonder if maybe Great-uncle didn’t know about it, either. What if, say, Ivo had a secret girlfriend and she had a baby and didn’t want him, so Ivo brought him home and that was that. It doesn’t need to be so sinister. Maybe Great-uncle had never met her—after all, it was while Ivo was married to Rose. I mean, it may not be very nice, but it happens. Look at my so-called dad.

I want to ask him, but I’m scared he’ll have another funny turn.

Great-uncle clears his throat. It takes a while.

“How’s school, kid?” he says.

I look at him, really worried. Maybe he’s losing his mind.

“It’s the holidays. We broke up on—”

“I know, kid. I know. But I mean in general. How is it? Are you going back to do your exams?”

“
Um
. . . yes. I think so.”

“That’s good. You should. You really seem to be learning something. We need that.”

“Yeah.”

I don’t know what to say. Although he does ask me about school now and again, he’s never seemed that interested.

“Just don’t let them
gorjify
you too much.”

“Course not.”

“I’m glad Christo is coming to you and Sandra. You’ll be fine.” “Well, unless Uncle Ivo comes back.”

At this, Great-uncle just grunts and blows on his tea.

“You don’t think he’ll come back?”

He sighs. I hold my breath.

“Why’re you asking me?”

“You’re his dad. You know him better than anyone.”

Great-uncle shakes his head slowly.

“Ivo’s not coming back. I should never have tried to make him stay.”

I didn’t know he tried to make him stay. I suppose that means they talked about it.

“Do you know where he’s gone, then?”

“No,” he whispers.

Great-uncle hangs his head, as though it’s a great heavy weight and his neck might break.

Something, or someone, walks over my grave.

“I love this song,” I say loudly, to change the subject. I do. It’s a true story. The man who wrote it was in jail in New Orleans when all the
down-and-outs were arrested after some murder. He got talking to one old guy who told him stories of dancing for food, and how his dog got run over, and that made him so sad he became an alcoholic. All the down-and-outs had nicknames so the police couldn’t identify them, and his was Mr. Bojangles.

I would rather think about this than why Great-uncle is talking to me in this odd way. When I look up again, Great-uncle is looking at me in a way that makes me squirm.

“We never paid you enough attention, did we?” he says. “We should have.”

I mumble, because I don’t know what he means. “Course you did.” I smile, to make things normal.

“You were there all along.”

“What? What do you mean?”

But Great-uncle shakes his head again.

Sammy gets to the bit where he lets rip, and all the brass and violins swoop together into a beautiful climax. And I watch in horror as a drop of water slithers down Great-uncle’s cheek, leaving a gleaming trail.

“What’s the matter, Great-uncle? Are you feeling ill again?”

He shakes his head.

“No, I’m all right.”

“Are you sure?”

He attempts to smile at me, though his eyes are wet.

“Yes. I’m all right, my kid.”

“What can I get for you? More tea?”

“No . . . Nothing.”

“You’re probably tired, yeah? Do you want me to go?”

My chair seems to be pushing me out. It’s excruciating. I’ve never seen him like this before, and I don’t know what to do.

“I’m all right.” He looks up at me, jigging around. “Well, yeah, I am a bit tired, kid. Maybe I’ll have a bit of a kip.”

“Okay, then. Are you sure?”

I’m standing up, smiling, with no intention of staying. Because if I smile, then it will all be all right.

I go back to our empty trailer and turn all the lights on, but I can’t sit still there, either. I look through the videos but can’t find anything I want to watch. I put some music on and immediately turn it off, because it makes me feel guilty. I hate myself. I am useless and pathetic, and, what’s worse, unkind. Great-uncle is ill and sad, and I can’t even bring myself to sit with him. I’m too much of a coward, is the truth.

I go back outside and pace around the site, torturing myself with what might be happening inside his trailer (but doing nothing!), glancing up at his unlit windows, on the verge of tears, until the day has faded so much that I am shivering in my T-shirt, and the birds have stopped singing, and I can’t tell the color of anything.

51.

Ray

Last night I signed the divorce papers and put them in an envelope ready for posting. I signed them without emotion. Now, at last, I thought, I am getting on with my life. I am moving on.

This morning I have one of those dreams that seems more real than anything in your waking life. I dreamed that I was still with Jen, in our house. She came in and casually introduced me to her lover, who was Hen. There is nothing more of the dream that I remember, just the shock of finding out: a sensation like that of having a chest wound ripped open. There was never anything between Jen and my business partner—he has never been unfaithful to Madeleine, nor, I think, has he ever wanted to be—this is pure masochism on my part.

I switch on the bedside light, which makes the grayness outside turn back to black. It is not yet dawn. I blink, sticky-eyed; my mouth is dry; my teeth feel rough and taste of monosodium glutamate. At this hour there is never anyone to turn to. Never was. I go to the bathroom, drink noisily from the tap, and splash water on my face. And on the way back to bed I am stopped in the doorway by the reflection in the window.

Yesterday, I had a strange impulse. I was walking back from the Chinese
takeaway when I passed the late-night newsagent’s. My eye was caught by a patch of red among the buckets of flowers. I didn’t know their name, but their color, their waxiness, reminded me of Lulu. I bought all the red ones, took them home, and put them in the biggest jug I could find. I put them on my chest of drawers, where I could see them from the bed. Rows of little red bells with pale, freckled throats, a sweet, cloying perfume. I went to sleep thinking of her. I was happy. So how could I have been ambushed like this? Brought down by memories that still have the power to draw blood?

The reflected room bears little relation to this one. A warm glow of light falls on the mass of red flowers, which pulse with a horrible vitality. Beyond them, a figure of a man is a shadowy, sinister presence. When Jen finally told me of her affair—I have forgotten the exact words she used—she started to cry. As if my reaction genuinely surprised her. As if she had convinced herself I wouldn’t mind. I was insulted, furious at her stupidity: how could you not know how much this hurt? How could she be that dumb? I wanted to howl like a wounded animal. I wanted to set fire to her car. Beat whoever the fucking cunt was to death with a shovel, and carve patterns on his tawdry, self-justifying face. Perhaps out there, in the other room, is the man who did that.