The Possession of Mr Cave (10 page)

Of course, I would never have done anything to hurt him.
Yet at the time I did not trust myself. Part of me wanted to
blame a crying baby for what was really my own responsibility.

'Do something,' she had said. Do something. Do something.
Do something. But I had done nothing. I stood and did nothing
and let her die. Never had I realised, before then, that I was
this type of man. A coward. A man of fear and selfish instinct.
So what else had I to discover about myself? What further
shadows could be cast across my conscience? Such questions
lead to all kinds of fears. Fears that did not cease when Andrew
Hart, your mother's killer, was sentenced for his crimes.

He was a human. That was the hard thing to stomach. A
human with a human name. In the courtroom, stripped of his
balaclava, I had to acknowledge he was of the same species, a
man with a strangely warm and stoic kind of demeanour. When
I saw him, sitting there, with the intensity gone from the dark
eyes, I knew I would never be able to trust a man's face again.
A killer, I realised, can lurk in even the gentlest of smiles.

They sent him away, eventually. They locked him up in
Ranby Prison.

And as for me? I was a weakened man, but a man who had
got through. Even if I was never again able to look into my
son's crying eyes without thinking of his mother's death.

My experience of grief has never been that of intense sadness,
as people often claim to feel. Sadness slows things down, presses
you into the sofa and drags out the day. Grief doesn't do that.
Grief throws you out of a plane. Grief is terror, in its most
undiluted form. The moment in the fall when you realise the
parachute is not on your back. You pull the cord, but there
is nothing. You keep pulling and pulling and pulling, and you
know it is no good, but you can't stop because that would
mean accepting the rather appalling fact of the ground, a fact
that is moving at an impossible speed towards you, and that
will smash you to pieces. And you want to stay whole,
unbroken. But there you are, falling, and there is nothing you
can do except keep believing in that parachute.

*

And so, there I was, two months after your mother died,
pulling that cord.

I had gone to Nottinghamshire, for the Newark Antiques
Fair, where I found myself at an arms and armouries stand.
Amid the cutlasses, civil war helmets and Scottish dirks there
was the usual collection of firearms, organised neatly along
the front of the table. Normally, this was precisely the type
of stand I would walk by without interest, avoiding the
malodorous and ill-bred miscreants who crowd such places.
Yet there I was, gazing with wonder at the fine and varied
collection of pistols.

In particular I was staring into an open case, admiring the
weapon lying on a burgundy velvet lining. A solid, powerful-looking
percussion-lock pistol dating from the American
Civil War, with intricately rendered leaf motifs engraved on
the brass frame. '
New Haven Arms Co. No. 1. Pocket Volcanic
Pistol with cartridges
' read the yellowing certificate, in Wild
West font. The cartridges were still there inside a lacquered
tin, untouched and patiently waiting for their moment.

'A beauty, isn't she?' said the man behind the stall. An overweight
specimen wearing a lumberjack shirt and drinking
flask-hot coffee from a plastic cup.

'Yes,' I said. 'A beauty. Indeed.'

'She's a rare beast, that one. You won't find an American
pistol from the 1860s in such a condition. Serial number 28
if you look at the grip. That makes it quite a collector's item.'

'So, it's in full working order?' I looked him straight in the
eye and troubled him with the intensity of my gaze.

'Yeah. Yeah. It is.'

I laid it in my hands, and felt reassured by its weight. 'If I
wanted to shoot, say, a rabbit at fifty paces I'd have no trouble?'
I enquired.

He laughed, uneasily. 'Depends on your aim, I suppose.
Not that I advocate actually using the weapon of course.'

'But I could?' I said, staring at the tin of bullets.
'Hypothetically. If Abraham Lincoln was shot today, in that
same theatre, with this gun, he'd still die? Am I correct?'

He scratched his rough stubble. 'Yeah. You are.' Even within
the unsavoury context of firearms collectors I could see I struck
this lumberjack as a rather worrying character.

'Right,' I said. 'Good, good.'

You see, I was convinced it would happen again. Convinced
there would be another break-in and I would be faced a
second time with men in balaclavas threatening those I loved.
'Do something, Terence.' Her voice, in my mind, as I watched
the man demonstrate how to clean the barrel and load the
cartridges. The words still echoing as I pulled out my chequebook
and made the purchase.

'Now, be careful with her,' the man warned, as if selling me
his daughter.

'Yes,' I said, as my free-falling soul slowed its descent. 'Of
course.'

You've always been a deep sleeper. That was the first difference
we noticed between you and your brother. You slept,
he cried. Even so, it was a risk setting up the baby monitor
while you were in bed.

Indeed, I begin to wonder if I took such risks purposely,
as though a hidden part of me always wanted to be caught.
Something inside that was always working against my
conscious intentions even when Reuben wasn't there.

You didn't wake, though. I plugged the monitor into the
wall socket behind your wardrobe and hid it underneath, directly
behind your rolled-up poster of Pablo Casals. You turned, in
your bed, and I waited at your door for you to settle.

That same evening, in my room, I tested the speaker. I
could hear you, I was sure. The reassuring rhythm of your
breath shaping the quiet crackle that came out of there, through
the same holes that had once transmitted your brother's fatal
wail.

I heard your voice through the baby monitor. You were talking
to Imogen on your mobile telephone about me, and about
that boy.

'He came around,' you said.

'My dad wouldn't let me see him,' you said.

'It's like living with Hitler,' you said. 'Or Stalin.'

'If there was a search engine for brains he'd be searching
mine right now,' you said. 'If he wasn't such a Victorian and
could actually use a computer.'

'I've got to see Denny,' you said.

'You don't understand. I've got to,' you said.

'All right, I'll tell you. It's like I've known him for ever,'
you said.

'It's like, when I'm with him, nothing else matters. It's like
playing Beethoven or something. Like it's real. Like the whole
world is just a bad dream and when I'm with him I wake up,
like into myself, and know that everything is all right,' you said.

'Don't laugh, that's how I feel,' you said.

'I don't care,' you said.

'Shut up,' you said.

'No,' you said. 'No.'

'It's not like that,' you said.

'You're filth,' you said. 'Pure filth.'

'I don't care where he lives,' you said.

'Well, I find ways,' you said. You were quieter now.

'Last week,' you said.

Your words sunk quieter still, hiding secrets in the crackle,
but I stayed determined to uncover them.

So, the next evening, two nights after your birthday, I
dropped you off at the music college and I pulled away only
to park further down the street. After what had happened on
your birthday, I knew I couldn't be too suspicious.

When I saw you leave the building just two minutes after
entering, I got out of the car and followed you. Where had
you left your cello? You must have stored it somewhere inside
the college, I suppose. Was there another student, helping you
in all this? Weren't you feeling just a modicum of guilt, or
worry, with the York Drama and Music Festival just around
the corner? I never knew. All I could know was what I saw.
And what I saw was your back, walking away from me, walking
fast towards Clifford's Tower.

I stood, in a darkened doorway on Tower Street, and watched
you sit in your new clothes on the sloping grass, waiting for
him. You sat there for ten minutes and then he appeared,
wearing a padded jacket, and gave you that parcel he had
wanted to give you the day before. You opened it. Something
in a frame. Denny placed himself next to you on the grass.
Light was fading, and I couldn't see you clearly, but he was
talking to you.

What was he saying? I had no idea. Maybe he was congratulating
himself on his 'heroic' display at the stables. Maybe this
was how he had claimed possession of your heart. Indeed,
what else did he have to win you over? I prayed for you to
see through whatever spell he had put on you. True heroes
don't seek rewards, I thought to myself. They protect from a
distance, from a shaded doorway, and stay invisible.

A lofty aim in this city, of course.

I heard feet and voices behind me, walking up the street.
A procession of some kind. I turned and saw a man in a mock-Georgian
long-coat and a wild blond beard, holding a lantern.
Behind him was a group of around twenty tourists, walking
in a thin line of couples and loners.

I could hear the guide's voice as the procession got nearer.
'You can see Clifford's Tower up ahead. Now, according to
at least thirty witnesses over the last century, anguished
screams have been heard from within the tower. Often this
mortifying sound has been accompanied by the crackle of
fire, which suggests they are hearing the long-dead victims
of the Massacre of March . . .

I stepped back further into the doorway, knowing that you
would soon notice the lantern or the voice and look towards
Tower Street. I also had the feeling I knew this voice, but my
mind was too busy with the fear that you would spot me to
realise who this man was.

It is strange, how deep this fear was. Any other father might
have stormed right over to you and dragged you home. Yet I
had tried that, hadn't I, that night in the field? And where
had that got me? No. I needed to stay unseen, and watch you
undisturbed. If you knew your secrets were exposed you would
have only sought more elaborate lies, and I would have been
struggling to catch up. This way, I would stay a step ahead.
That was how I rationalised it at the time. Yet wasn't there
another part of me that wasn't so rational, a part that needed
to watch you so that . . . ?

Never mind.

The ghost tour was only metres away from me now. I held
my breath as the man with the blond beard walked past. He
was explaining about those twelfth-century Jews, suffering
under the anti-Semitic practices of Richard I, who chose to
burn themselves in the tower rather than face certain death at
the hands of the mob.

Then, just as I thought I was safely out of view, I heard
another voice.

'What's that? Is that some kind of ghost?' An American boy,
pointing and laughing at me before his mother hushed him.
It was too late.

The guide raised his lantern and looked back in my direction.
Recognition flickered with the flame. 'It's you,' he said,
a smile pushing through his beard like a highwayman from
the bushes.

'No,' I said. 'No, it's not.'

'Mr Cave?'

'No.'

'Mr Cave?'

'Please,' I said. 'Just go. Just leave me.'

'Terence Cave?'

I felt so weak, so vulnerable, with my name bouncing off
those medieval buildings. His voice was so loud I was sure
you, and half of York, must have heard.

It was Mr Weeks. George's father. Reuben's dreaded history
teacher. I had seen him twice before. Once at a parents'
evening, where he offered sympathy for my having such a
difficult son. The other time was in the shop, with Mrs
Weeks, when they had bought the pine mule chest your
mother had died next to. The one I had only just put back
on sale. I remember how quiet Mrs Weeks had been around
him, too timid to show her usual interest. Such a strange
pairing, I had thought at the time. The giant hairy yeti and
the neat golden fieldmouse.

They had separated, of course. I hadn't been surprised
when Mrs Weeks had told me. Indeed, she had already given
the occasional hint of his unreasonable behaviour – a bullying
tendency towards both her and George – and there had been
that undisclosed 'incident' that had caused him to finish
working at St John's. Yet it was still a surprise to see him
reduced to leading ghost-hunters around the evening streets.

He leaned in, with the lantern, and I backed into the shop
doorway.

'Listen,' I said, 'It's great to see you, but you're obviously
very busy and I don't want to hold you up.'

He smiled at me, revealing a gap in his front teeth I had
never noticed before. 'I hear you had a little trouble with
George, Mr Cave.'

'Oh,' I said. 'It was nothing. Honestly. Nothing.'

'That's not what I heard, Mr Cave.' There was something
bitter about his tone, a barely suppressed anger. I remembered
the letter I had found in Reuben's bag.

'Well, it's over with now.' I smiled meekly at the audience
of tourists, who were watching the scene with confused interest.

'It's not easy raising children, is it, Mr Cave? Especially
boys. We understand them too well.' He tapped his forehead
at this point. 'But of course, you know all about difficult
boys.'

I closed my eyes and tried to remain calm, but knew Reuben
was pressing in. The changes were happening quickly. 'My son
is dead,' I managed to say.

'Yes, Mr Cave,' he said, as if my statement had been beside
the point. 'I know.'

As his smile retreated back into his beard, the black veil
descended.

'You useless, pathetic boy!' He was shouting, loudly, without
even moving his lips. 'You hopeless child! Someone stole your
homework but you can't tell me who? I'm meant to believe
that, am I? What kind of idiot do you take me for? Sorry?
Excuse me? Speak up, child! Speak up! You are a sorry case.
A sorry case. Wipe that look off your ugly little face. Now,
wait outside and I'll deal with you later. Class, stop laughing!'

And then, with his lips: 'Goodbye, Mr Cave. Right, everyone,
on with the tour.'

I experienced one quick last wave of darkness and then he
was back in view. The smile, the beard, the missing teeth.
Reuben had left me, unable or unwilling to hold on.

Mr Weeks said no more and, with a wild beckon of his
arm, turned to lead his people towards the tower.

'Bye, ghost,' the American boy said, as he passed.

I said nothing. I took their curious glances and stayed exactly
where I was.

One foot forward and you might have seen me. Your gaze,
surely, was now aimed in that direction. I had to wait quite
a while before I could afford to peek my head past the
wooden entrance and, when I did, the view was obstructed
by the ghost tour making its way up the path towards the
Tower.

Between the flicker of walking bodies I saw you and Denny,
sitting so close you were one formation. He was kissing you,
I was sure. A roving hand probably somewhere upon your
torso. His new-found land. I felt appalled, repulsed, but did
nothing except watch. My eyes strained against the distance
and the growing dark, the procession passed you, and he was
standing, you both were, then walking down the slope.

'Oh no,' I think I mumbled. You were crossing the road,
heading for Tower Street. I felt the swell of panic and shot
out of my hiding place, exposed like a fox on the pavement.
I walked away from you, as fast as I could, then dived down
a snickleway. My heart beat to an ominous rhythm and I heard
your voices getting nearer.

You were talking about boxing. He boxed. My daughter
with a boxer. It was getting worse! At least you had the sense
to say you didn't understand how he could enjoy it. I held
my breath, as if visibility was a matter of exhaling, and you
didn't turn to see me. You walked on, and I followed at a
distance, watching as he put an arm around you, hearing
your voices but not your words, down Spurriergate and
through St Sampson's Square before you disappeared back
inside the college.

I went back to the car and sat there, still weary from the
encounter with Mr Weeks.

You came out, after a while, an innocent girl with her
cello, and I was there to meet you. You lied to me, and I
let you lie, knowing that if I exposed you I would have to
tackle an even greater cunning. No. I wasn't going to let it
happen. Reuben had died because I hadn't known enough.
With you, I was going to know everything, so it hardly
made any difference whether that information came from
your lips or not. And what was I going to do when I acquired
all the information I needed? Well, I was going to correct
the mistake I'd made when your mother died. I was going
to listen to her voice. 'Terence, do something.'

Although, of course, I ended up doing far more than even
I had intended.

I remember standing in the rain, in the middle of the night,
and not knowing why I was outside.

It was five minutes after four, and my body was trembling
from more than just cold. At first I had not the faintest clue
of my whereabouts. I was at a corner, a meeting of unpeopled
streets. I saw a sign. WINCHELSEA AVENUE.
The street was familiar now. I knew it as our previous short
cut to Cynthia's. But what was I doing there? Had I sleepwalked
nearly a mile from my bed? I was fully clothed, but
couldn't remember dressing.

I noticed something cold against my stomach, something
tucked inside my waistband.

I pulled it out and held it in my hand: the antique percussion
pistol I had bought after your mother died. The one I
always kept behind the counter. Hastily, I hid it again, and
jogged back home, taking the quiet streets. An ascending horror
as I thought of the house which had caused me to feel so
strange on our walk to Cynthia – number 17.

What had I done? Or what had your brother done?

I didn't know, but the question stayed with me for the rest
of the week. I kept expecting policemen to enter the shop and
take me down for questioning, but of course they didn't.
Perhaps I should have gone back there, to 17 Winchelsea
Avenue, and found the answer out. The only reason I never
did was because I didn't trust myself to stay in control of my
own soul. I didn't want to risk another blackout.

And there was also an even stronger concern: if I had done
something, if my hands had committed an act beyond my
mind's knowing, I didn't want to risk incriminating myself.
This was not a selfish fear, I assure you. It was a fear as selfless
as they come.

Without me, who was going to be able to look after my
Petal, and keep her safe?

Cynthia and I were having considerable difficulty moving the
walnut dressing table to be closer by the window.

It was your grandmother's idea. You know what she was
like about window displays. She'd stand back, pinch her lip,
and analyse the whole layout with such a thorough intensity
you'd think she was directing Chekhov.