The Possession of Mr Cave (4 page)

'Dad?'

I can tell you, in all honesty, that I have never felt so much
love for you as I did inside that moment. To see you standing
there, alive and intact, was all I had wanted. And there you
were, in that baggy Picasso-print T-shirt, yawning like a baby.
I know this must be hard for you to believe, given how things
progressed, but I swear it is true. I wanted to hug you, I wanted
to thank you for being such a miracle, but then I said it.

'Where were you?' and I kept saying it, the question backing
you into the room. 'Where did you go?' My head was heating
up, the mental bonfires raging away at my being, and the sunlit
room was sliding into shade. I felt something rising within me.
A violent force that weakened me, causing me to lose control.

'Nowhere. I've been here. I've just woken up.' Your lies,
your lies, your lies. 'What are you on about? You're mad. I've
been here. I've been asleep.'

I caught it, on your breath, something corrupt beneath the
toothpaste. 'You smell of smoke. And drink.' Then you laughed.
You shouldn't have laughed, Bryony. And you said a profanity,
which I will euphemistically put as 'go away', the word I cannot
write so ugly and vile in your mouth that when I did it, when
I struck your face, I wasn't really striking your face but the
word on your tongue, this alien thing that had got inside you,
this new presence that wanted boys and didn't want your father.
And the fuzziness cleared, along with the dark, as though the
outside force that had been pressing in suddenly fled like a
villain. And I know this was it, I know this was the pivotal
moment when the wind swerved in our story, and even now
I can still hear your sobs and see your hand on your reddening
cheek and I said it then and I'll still say it now, 'I'm sorry, I'm
sorry, I'm so, so sorry,' but I know these words are worthless
healers and cannot restore a single thing.

*

Oh, this is useless. I should stop right now. What is the point?
I can see that look of sickened disdain on your face. If only
I could put my soul into these words, if only I could make
you feel precisely what I felt, then you would see the truth.

I suppose I expect too much. Every writer, every artist
since the first cave painters has been trying to find a way to
articulate their experience and are we any closer to seeing
ourselves as we truly are? No. The distance we have to travel
is exactly the same as it always was. So how can I expect to
do what no writer has ever managed?

People say that humans are the superior species on this
planet because we have minds that are conscious of their
own existence, and therefore we have the capacity to create
a culture, to create an art. I look at sheep, at peace on the
moors, and wonder exactly how much of a delusion are our
arrogant souls prepared to share?

There may be no bovid equivalent of a Michelangelo but
there is no need for one. They accept their existence in a way
we never will. They do not try to build artistic mirrors –
books, paintings, orchestral symphonies – by which to capture
and reflect their own nature. Even if they could, they wouldn't.
They have that understanding in-built. All these human things,
all these arts, these religions, these sciences, what are they really
but ways of trying to make up that difference? If we could
accept like animals then there would be no Sistine Ceiling,
no
Madame Bovary
, no Fantasy and Fugue. Out of our
mistakes, out of our pain, arrives everything we love in this
world. All that humans create serves solely to lessen the terror
of existence. The terror that Beethoven and Keats and Van
Gogh and every supreme artist has ever felt, the collective
terror of a humanity that still stumbles around, looking at
dark and untrustworthy shadows rather than true reflections.

If we found a perfect art, a perfect mirror to reflect our
plight, one which helped us see ourselves from every angle,
then it would mean the end of all creative endeavour. Art
would have killed itself. Or it would live on in the way it
lives in horses and cats and sheep. The art of living, and
letting live, that our human souls have yet to learn.

It was a week after Rome that I first met Imogen. I say 'met'
although I realise this is somewhat of an overstatement. It would
be more accurate to say that I spotted her in various locations
around my house, the way a birdwatcher might spot a chaffinch
in his garden. Every time I got closer, trying to identify her
chief characteristics, you both immediately took flight.

Now I was close-up, I didn't like what I saw. What had
happened to your other friends? What had happened to Holly,
for instance? I used to enjoy hearing your mini string section
when you practised together. Or what about that girl from
the stables? Abigail, was it? That good old-fashioned hearty
girl, who loved looking around the shop. I always thought
she was lovely.

These were studious, freshly aired girls. The type of friends
that justified your school fees.

Imogen was something different. How different, I couldn't
quite tell, but I needed to find out.

'You must be Imogen,' I said, to the face behind the fringe,
when I cornered you both on the stairs.

'I must,' she told the carpet, and then you gave me that
unforgiving stare you had recently cultivated, as if I had
violated some secret pact simply by identifying your friend.

Did she know about what had happened in Rome? I have
no idea what you had told her about me or what you said
to each other in your room. Your music drowned out your
voices, and that was probably its point.

Did you ever read the book on philosophy I bought you
for your birthday? If you did you might remember the section
on Plato's cave. Well, let me tell you that to be a parent is
to be permanently confined to that cave, forever trying to
understand shadows on the wall. Shadows that only half
make sense, and may be easily and disastrously misunderstood.
You can never understand what really goes on in the
world your child keeps from view. The reports you hear from
her mouth are the shadows against the rocks, shadows that
can't be interpreted without stepping outside, into the light.

'Terence?' Cynthia was calling me from the shop. 'Terence?
Terence?'

You see, that is what I had decided to do. Ever since Rome
I had decided to stop trusting your mouth and start trusting
my eyes.

'We're going out,' you told me, that Wednesday afternoon.

'Oh?' I said. 'May I ask where?'

'Terence?' called Cynthia, her voice rising now to a
theatrical pitch.

'In a minute,' I called back. Then softer to you: 'Where?'

'Around the shops', you said, in the minimalist fashion I
was becoming used to.

'Fine,' I said. 'Fine.'

You expected more, I could see that. Some kind of obstruction.

But I gave you nothing.

'We'll be back,' you said. 'Later.'

'What time?' you expected. But I gave you: 'Fine.'

The defiance that had creased your forehead softened into
blank confusion.

'Okay,' you said, almost as a question. 'See you . . . later.'

'All right. See you later. And see you too, Imogen.'

You left and I watched you walk out of the back door,
into that fearful day.

I ran into the shop.

'Cynthia, can you look after everything here for a bit? I
won't be long.'

Your grandmother gave me one of her unforgiving looks.
That tight, crinkled mouth offset with those tough eyes that
once had her cast as Hedda Gabler. 'Terence, where have you
been? I was calling you. Mrs Weeks came in wanting a word.'

'I was upstairs. Listen, I've got to nip out.'

'But, Terence –'

And so I left the shop and followed you, out of Cave
Antiques, out into the light. I followed you down Blossom
Street, through the city walls and down the length of
Micklegate. I held my distance when you disappeared inside
a clothes shop. I held my breath when you crossed over the
road, turning your head in my direction. You didn't see me.

You carried on, over the river, on to Ousegate. I bumped
into Peter, the vicar, and he blockaded me with mild smiles
and charitable words. He asked how we were bearing up.

'Fine,' I told him, although the anxious looks over his
shoulder probably gave a different story. 'Honestly, we're
getting there. We have our bad days but . . .' I saw you turning
left, heading out of my view. 'Listen, I'm terribly sorry, Peter,
but I'm in a rush. Another time.'

I ran towards Parliament Street and saw two crowds of
youths loitering around the benches near the public toilets.
The nearest group was made up of boys sitting on stationary
bicycles. Or standing: eating chips, sucking on cigarettes or
typing into their mobile telephones. Boys wearing the kind
of clothes Reuben always wanted. Trainers, tracksuits, their
faces shaded by caps or hooded tops. The warm fuzziness
inside my mind returned for a second.

I recognised one of them as the small boy I had seen
vomiting his innards out onto the pavement the night Reuben
died. He nudged his friend and nodded over to the other
group. The boy had his back to me but turned, smiling. The
smile died as he looked across. It was him. It was Denny.

I followed his gaze over to the others. I scanned this
second tribe. Boys with odd haircuts, dressed for the French
Revolution. A rather rotund girl with a painted Pierrot tear
on her cheek. T-shirts with macabre designs and Gothic fonts.
The Remorse. The Pains of Sleep. The Cleopatras. Daughters
of Albion. Instructions for My Funeral. Teenage Baudelaires,
plugged into music machines or eating bagel sandwiches.

My heart fell as I spotted you, right at the very centre.

The boys buzzing around your beauty as I had feared. I
saw one of them talking animatedly to you and Imogen.

He seemed older than the rest, rake-thin, dressed in tightest
black, and despite the weather he was wearing a blood-red
scarf. He had a long, pale, fleshless face with sleepy eyes. A
cadaverous face, Dickens would have said. What was he saying
to make you both laugh? I itched – no, burned – to know.

There was someone else, on the furthest fringe of that
group. A boy I recognised but didn't know why. A tall, overweight
boy trying loudly to fit in. He had blond hair with
a pinkish fringe and wore thick-lens glasses. And then I
realised. It was Mrs Weeks' son George.

Up until recently he had always accompanied his mother
on her Saturday-morning visits. The reason it took so long
to place him was that George Weeks had always struck me
as a quiet, studious kind of child. For all his heft it had been
easy to imagine him bullied, what with his bad breathing
and shy manner. And having had his father teach at the
school wouldn't have helped matters. I remember once trying
to get Reuben to talk to him, as George was a year above
him at St John's, but your brother slipped away and made
an excuse, as was his fashion. (I remember the letter I had
found in his schoolbag. Perhaps Reuben resisted George
because he hated Mr Weeks. Or perhaps it was simply out
of allegiance to his tribe. I don't know. I have no answers.)

I wondered if Mrs Weeks knew her son mixed in such circles.
I wondered if she knew her asthmatic child was a smoker. I
wondered what she would do if she did know these things.

Anyway, there he was, being loud and boisterous, trying
like all the others to steal your attention. And there I was,
peeping around the corner of Marks & Spencer, as invisible
to both groups as the thousand shoppers and tourists that
swarmed around.

It would have been a risk to move any closer so I had to
stay there, unable to hear a word except for those of the
African lady with the loudhailer, filling that carless street
with the Book of Revelation.

'The kings of the earth, and the great men . . .' she raged
with her fundamental anger, giving proof of nothing except
its own doubt.

Denny's group began to laugh at the woman, and throw
chips at her. All except Denny himself, whose dark, unreadable
eyes were still staring at you.

'. . . and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the
mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid
themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains . . .'

I saw Denny walk away from his group, past the doors to
the toilets and over towards you. The boy with the cadaverous
face, the Uriah Heep face, turned and said something that
Denny ignored. And then Denny spoke to you and you spoke
back and I wished I could have read your lips, but all I had
were the words of warning boomed angrily in my direction.

'. . . And said to the mountains and rocks, Fall on us, and
hide us from the face of him that sitteth upon the throne . . .'

The words bulging her eyes, her eyes bulging her words.

'. . . and from the wrath of the Lamb: for the great day
of his wrath is come, and who shall be able to stand?'

Uriah Heep pushed Denny away and Denny pushed him
back, as the others tightened around them. Chips and insults
flew through the air. Denny won the push and Uriah fell at
your feet. I saw another of Denny's tribe wade in. It was the
shaven-headed boy whom I had seen at the tennis courts,
kicking Uriah in the stomach.

You looked at Imogen, scared, stranded in the middle of
all this.

I had to do something.

I started walking, towards you, but things calmed.

Denny's tribe pulled the skinhead away as Denny himself
disappeared out of the scene. Imogen helped Uriah to his feet.

I stood stuck to the ground as you walked away with your
companions, to the rising cheer of Denny's friends. Any
moment you were going to see me and I would have no excuse
for leaving the shop. None that you would have believed. And,
after Rome, I couldn't afford to push you further away. Inside
the sun-red darkness of a blink I saw Reuben, crooked on the
ground, and I took this as a final sign.

'God shall wipe all tears from their eyes.'

My watch told me it had been an hour. And enough of
the old Terence was there to return me to the shop, to help
Cynthia on this busy afternoon.

'Where on earth have you been?' she asked me, in a hiss
quiet enough not to disturb the old couple having a browse
around the furniture.

I found it difficult to answer. 'I had to . . . I went to . . .
Bryony was . . .'

Cynthia closed her eyes and released an exasperated sigh.
'You didn't follow her, did you?'

The old couple glanced towards us, and made their silent
decision to leave.

'Yes,' I said. 'Yes, I did. I followed her. But I'm back now,
aren't I?'

'I don't know. Are you? Are you
back
, Terence?' The 'back'
was given further emphasis with her ascending eyebrows.

'What is that supposed to mean?'

Cynthia inhaled, preparing for a verbal onslaught, but she
changed her mind. Her tone softened. Her eyebrows lay back
down. She stared over towards the spot where the old couple
had been standing only moments before. 'Nothing, Terence.
Nothing. I just think you might need someone to talk to.'

'Someone? What someone? About what?'

'A third party. A bereavement counsellor. Someone you
don't know and can open up to. I found it so helpful, you
know, when Helen . . . Knowing that I could go somewhere
every Tuesday afternoon and sit and blubber away and make
a show of myself.'

'No,' I said. The idea of sitting on a plastic chair in a
room filled with mental-health leaflets and the smell of cheap
instant coffee, talking to a total stranger about all this – well,
it was abhorrent. 'No, I don't think so.'

She smiled, hopeful. 'Well, perhaps you should talk to me.
Perhaps we should talk together. Perhaps it would do us both
some good. It's not healthy, you know, to keep it all caged
in. You can make a monster of your emotions by ignoring
them. You need to open the doors every now and then. You
need to let some air in.'

I sat down on the wooden stool, while Cynthia remained
seated in the chair. 'Perhaps,' I said. And it was a faint but
sincere perhaps. A soft echo of the old Terence, the Terence
who knew what good advice was and how to take it.

'He was such a kind boy,' she said, the breadth of her
smile increasing in line with the sadness in her eyes.

'Yes,' I said. 'He could be.'

She chuckled at something. 'I remember when he was at
the bungalow and he said, "Grandma, why do you have all
these twigs in vases?" And I gave him that book to look at.
Andy Goldsworthy. Do you remember? He liked the ice
sculptures. "Wow, that's well cool. How did he do that?" It's
so strange, isn't it? It must have only been about two months
ago. A Sunday. He still wanted a toffee after his meal though,
didn't he? Oh no, he was never too old for a piece of Harrogate
toffee!'

'No,' I said, struggling to remember that same Sunday.
'No, he wasn't.'

Cynthia filled the afternoon with anecdotes and stories
from that finished and irretrievable world. I smiled and nodded
and mumbled but had little to contribute. In truth, I was too
busy thinking about you, and praying you would stay safe.

The prayer was rewarded. You returned at five to five,
alone and intact, hating me no more and no less than when
you had left.

'Your father and I have had a good chat, haven't we,
Terence?' Cynthia told you, as you stood in the hallway.

'Yes,' I said. 'We have.'

Cynthia's widened eyes and nodding head gave my words
an unwarranted endorsement.

You smiled, for your grandmother's benefit. 'Oh,' you said.
'Right. Good.' No more than that, I think.

And you trod softly upstairs, away from us, while Cynthia's
whisper tried its futile best. 'See, there's nothing to worry
about. She'll be all right. She'll find her own way home.
Now, come on, be a good boy, Terence. Why don't you make
us a lovely pot of tea?'

*