The Possession of Mr Cave (5 page)

If you had always been a dream of a child, then Reuben was
the dark sleep I could never comprehend. I struggled to compete
with Cynthia's anecdotes, partly because even while he was alive
Reuben never let me in. I had to pick up whatever clues I
could, fragments of evidence that never gave me the complete
picture: the vague comments of teachers; the half-formed monosyllables
that rumbled at the back of his throat; the sound of
his feet walking across his bedroom; the friends he used to visit
but never talked about. Yet there were occasions when I would
gain a sharp glimpse into his state of mind. One incident, in
particular, I remember very well. Now when was it?

You were practising for a school concert, so you still weren't
home. That would make it a Wednesday, wouldn't it? Yes. And
I'm reckoning it was about a week before you both turned
fourteen. Yes, I'm sure it was. Anyway, the other details are
much clearer.

I was in the shop, aware of Reuben's presence only as a
series of sounds. The turn of his key, the slow clump of
the back door as it closed behind him. I'm sure it was at
this point I said, 'How was your day?' or something of
equivalent non-significance. He didn't answer. Hardly
unusual. He was probably lost in his own world. He might
simply have been ignoring me. Whatever the reason, I thought
nothing of it, as I was having a bit of a nightmare with the
bureau I was trying to restore.

After however long, I heard feet leave his room and head
for the bathroom, then the sound of running water from
upstairs. He had the tap on at full blast.

I left the bureau and went upstairs. Pausing on the landing
I heard something else, above the water.

Now, to describe it. The noise.

A kind of panting, I suppose. What sounded like fast and
heavy breathing but accompanied by an occasional whimpering.
In retrospect, I realise I should have opened the door sooner.
But I didn't. This inaction, I hasten to add, was not due to
any kind of parental lethargy but was rather a father's intuition.
When a man happens to hear his adolescent son panting
heavily in the bathroom it makes certain sense to hold back
from intervention. So, I held back, and tried my very hardest
not to think too much about it. You see, at that time I still
believed there were some things that a parent shouldn't enquire
about. I imagined I was protecting my son from his own shame.

It was only when his whimper became more pronounced that
I decided to intervene. 'Reuben? What are you doing in there?'

He didn't hear me. Or, at any rate, he didn't answer. The
water kept on, so I spoke a little louder. 'Reuben? Do you
really need that much water?'

Now I was closer to the sound I realised it was one of pain
and not pleasure.

He switched the tap off, and I heard his heavy breath.

'Dad,' he said. 'I'm just . . . I . . . I won't . . .'

Panic and pain competed in his voice. I tried the door. He
hadn't locked it. Maybe he'd forgotten. Or maybe, subconsciously,
he'd wanted this to happen. Maybe he wanted me to
swing the door open and see what I saw, what I still see as
vividly as if it was a second ago.

Your brother, in front of the mirror, turned towards me
with wide-eyed dread. There was something in the basin, but
I didn't notice that at first. What I noticed was the blood. It
began in a deep shining scar by his left cheek.

'My God, Reuben, what have you done?'

He didn't answer. I think he was too ashamed, but the information
I needed was in the basin. His toothbrush, cradled
there, its bristles pink with diluted blood.

'You did this to yourself?'

I looked at the scar again and realised its purpose. He had
been trying to rub off his birthmark. He had been standing
there, all that time, brushing away at his own skin.

'Reuben,' I was speaking softer now. 'Reuben, why would
you –'

The smack of shame, the pain, the leaking blood, were all
working to weaken him. He turned pale and wilted sideways
in a kind of half-faint. I moved fast, and held his body.

I saw to his wound. I pressed a plaster onto his face. I gave
him a paracetamol.

'I don't want Bryony to know,' he said.

'I won't tell her,' I said. 'We'll just say you had an accident
playing rugby.'

'I don't play rugby.'

'Football, then.'

(You never believed that, did you? At least now you know
the lie wasn't Reuben's.)

I asked him, obviously, why he did it, but never heard an
answer.

The standard parental condolences were offered and, in my
arrogance, I believed they might have had some effect. In truth
he probably just wanted to leave the bathroom, and the eyes
of his prying father, as soon as he could.

I stayed there, and washed the last remnants of blood from
the brush.

Even after it had all gone I kept the tap running, not
caring a fig about the wasted water, and found a strange
therapy in the sound of it blasting through the white
bristles and down the drain.

*

Come on, Terence! Drag yourself out of the quicksand before
you sink any deeper.

Right, the next incident: Cynthia's grand meal out.

Yes. You didn't go, do you remember?

'Bryony,' I called. 'Bryony, your grandmother's here. Are
you ready?'

Cynthia was standing in front of the mirror, combing her
hands through her freshly dyed black hair, and running
through various thespian poses. 'Liz Taylor, eat your heart
out,' she said.

I kept calling you. 'Bryony? Bryony?'

'Oh, Terence, hasn't she told you?'

'Told me?'

Cynthia pointed a black nail up towards your room. 'Other
plans,' she whispered.

'What?'

'She phoned me an hour ago.'

'Phoned you?'

'On her mobile.'

'Phoned you on her mobile telephone? When?'

'I told you,' Cynthia said, exasperated. 'An hour ago.'

'Well, I'm afraid, Cynthia, you've been misinformed. She
promised you she was coming and she's coming. Now,
Bryony? Bryony?'

The taxi honked outside.

'Bryony? Bryony?'

Your voice, somewhere above: 'What?'

'Why did you tell your grandmother you weren't coming
with us?'

'I'm going to Imogen's,' you said with cool defiance.

'Imogen's?'

At which point Cynthia's fingers played a quick four notes
on my arm, her nails shining like onyx jewels.

'Apparently her friend's very upset,' she whispered. 'She's
just split up with her boyfriend and wants to have a girls'
night with Bryony. You know girls like sleepovers, don't
you? Now, come on, Terence, don't make a big hoo-ha.'

I went upstairs and you handed me a piece of paper you
had already prepared, complete with Imogen's address and telephone
number. You assumed, no doubt, that I would do
nothing with this information.

A third baritone blast of that taxi horn and Cynthia's voice:
'Come on, Terence. We'll be late.'

And me looking directly in your eyes saying: 'So, it's just
going to be you and Imogen?'

Your eyes conjured their wide innocence. 'Uh-huh.'

'And how, may I ask, are you getting there?'

'Imogen knows a pimp who works this part of town and
he's kindly offered me a lift,' you said, before puncturing your
tease. 'Imogen's mum. She's picking me up.'

'All right,' I said, thinking of Cynthia. 'I trust you.'

Even if that had been true, I would have still spent the
night in panic.

In the taxi, we passed an accident near the racecourse. A
mangled car, high and hunched like an angry cat, nosed up
with the barrier.

'Poor soul,' Cynthia said, as a raised shape in a blanket was
pushed into an ambulance.

'Yes,' I said, and wished I had your grandmother's empathy.
Wished I could feel for a faceless victim, rather than my
daughter, in the back of a stranger's car, driving to a house
I had never seen.

At the Box Tree I smiled and nodded my way through
the meal, giving myself indigestion as I wolfed down my
grim-lipped turbot, listening to the tale of when Cynthia
tripped over in a long-past production of
The Tempest.

I hardly remember anything about those people.

Her old am dram friends.

Well, no, I can remember one or two. I can remember Ray.
An infuriating man with a face like a toby jug who found
great sport in vulgarising my name: 'So, Terry . . . is that right,
Tel? . . . pass the wine, would you, Tezzer?'

He kept on testing me with quotations, as his wife cringed
and shrank by his side.

'"He who aspires to be a hero, must drink brandy,"' he said,
as he leaned back in his chair and stared at the wine list. 'Dr
Johnson, in case you didn't know. Are you a brandy man, Telly?'

'No,' I told him. 'No spirits for me.'

He stroked his preposterous chin and looked at me in a
rather smug fashion. 'Didn't think so,' he said.

I believe it was at this point Cynthia started talking rather
loudly about her life-drawing classes.

'Would you ever take your clothes off, Tel?' asked the toby
jug. 'For art's sake, I mean.'

'No. Would you?'

'Well, if old Ollie Reed saw no shame in it I don't see why
I should,' he said.

A man next to me came to my rescue. That homosexual
chap. Snowy-haired, canary-sweatered, facially reminiscent of
a neatly groomed camel. I think you've met him before. You
saw his Widow Twanky in the
Aladdin
pantomime years ago.
Michael. Is that what they call him?

'Oh, Ray, I don't know,' he said. 'Aren't you more Ollie
Hardy than Ollie Reed?'

The table burst into wild guffaws and the toby jug threw
a stern glance at his giggling wife.

Later, Michael's sombre voice in my ear: 'Cynthia has told
me everything. I'm so sorry. It must have been impossible
for you. I met him at the theatre once. He was on work
experience, wasn't he? Having trouble with that damn
donkey.'

'Yes . . . yes . . . ,' I said, staring down at the fish skeleton
on my plate. All the time, in my mind: where were you? What
were you doing? Were you in the car yet? Were you strapped
in? Were you going where you said you were going? And I
felt rather ill with it. With all those people between us. All
those people occupying the physical space between you and
me. All those personalities. All those narratives we had no part
of, who wouldn't care if you stopped existing. 'You'll have to
excuse me . . .'

I remember going to the toilets and calling the house to
see if you had gone, and listening to that depressing bleat of
the ringtone for over a minute. Then I tried your mobile telephone
and was informed by a female replicant that you were
unable to answer.

Back at the table I couldn't cope with it. With the oppressive
lightness. With the nothing-talk of those guests. With
the sickening cheesecake or my palpitating heart. I wanted
to go. I wanted to leave. I should never have gone there. I
was so out of place. A miserable caterpillar among the social
butterflies. What was the point of it? I had only gone out
of duty to Cynthia, after all her help, but now other duties
were taking over.

It must have been eleven thirty by the time we eventually
arrived back. Cynthia insisted on coming in for a late coffee
but I couldn't settle.

'I have to call Imogen's mother,' I said.

'Oh, Terence. Don't be such –'

'I'm sorry, Cynthia. I'm phoning her. I just want to speak
to Bryony, that's all. I just want to check she's safe.'

Cynthia shrugged a surrender. 'It's your daughter. Do what
you want.'

'Right,' I said, picking your note out of my pocket. 'I think
I will.'

We drove out of York and fast through twisting country lanes.

Cynthia was furious. I was over the limit. 'In more ways
than one,' she added. But what was I meant to do? As there
had been no answer to the number you had given me I was
spiralling fast into thoughts of car accidents, rapes, abductions.
Now we were heading towards the address, hoping beyond
hope you had written the correct one down.

I had told Cynthia I could have dropped her off at home,
or called for a taxi, but she had decided to come too. 'I don't
want you doing something silly, Terence.'

Ah yes, something silly.

Before we reached the village where Imogen supposedly
lived, we detected a dull golden light somewhere ahead of us.
Turning the next corner we saw it: a fire in a field, with people
dancing around. It was a scene from before civilisation, or
after it, beyond the apocalypse. A ceremony of victory, or initiation,
or sacrifice.

We pulled in to the side of the road and waited a while.
'She's there,' I said.

'Oh, Terence, you don't know that. Come on, let's keep
driving to the house.'

'No, look, she's there.' I pointed towards a girl, a dancing
silhouette against the fire. It was you, and Cynthia knew it.

She sighed. 'Leave her.'

'What?'

'Leave her. You can talk to her later. Tomorrow.'

'Are you joking?'

'No. I'm not. For God's sake, think about it, Terence. If
you went over there now she'd never forgive you. These things
stay with a child, you know.' She said this mournfully, and I
wondered briefly at the humiliations her own childhood had
brought her.

'I'm sorry, Cynthia,' I said, 'but I want to deal with it now.
She's my child. What if something happens to her, tonight,
while she's in that state? Fire, alcohol, boys. It's hardly the
most comforting combination.'

Cynthia turned to me, light words passing her dark-painted
lips. 'You don't know if she's in any kind of state. Now, come
on, Terence, let her enjoy herself.'

I was getting crosser. 'Look. Look at them. For Christ's sake,
look. They're out of their minds.'

'They've probably had a bit to drink. They're teenagers. It's
a Saturday night.' She leaned in close, and spoke in a deep
whisper. 'Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises./ Sounds and
sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.'

Cynthia mistook my frown for a query.

'
The Tempest
,' she said.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was being over the top.
Maybe her wise witch's face was about to win me over. But
then I heard it. The scream. A scream that gave me the same
ache as when I heard your brother, hanging. Indeed, now I
am reliving that scene I do not hear your scream at all. I hear
Reuben's, in its place, but at the time I knew it was you and
I knew precisely what it meant. You were in trouble, terrible
danger, and we were the only ones who could protect you.

'That was her,' I said.

'What was her?' Your grandmother's question pursued me
out of the car. 'Terence, I think you're making a terrific
mistake.'

I ignored her, and clambered over the fence. Cows were
close to the road, away from you and your friends. They were
lying down, sleeping their empty sleep.

I called your name.

'Bryony!'

My voice axed its way through the boys' laughter. What
were they doing to you? I had no idea. No, not true. I had
ideas. And these ideas pushed me again.

'Bryony!'

Three girls, four boys. Throbbing orange by the fire. Standing
there, like the world's last survivors, and turned towards me.

'Dad? Dad?'

'It's all right,' I said. 'You're all right.'

Laughter of a different kind now. Trapped and tight, like
flies in a jar. I looked among them. I saw Uriah Heep, with
his thin, child-catcher arm around Imogen. The other boys
I'd never seen. And George Weeks, laughing loudest of all,
raising his bottle like a trophy.

You walked fast, towards me. Then your face was there, full
of anger and shame, flashing gold.

'What are you doing?' Your tone was disbelieving, betrayed.

'I heard you scream. Were they trying to hurt you?' I
pointed to the nearest boy. 'Was he trying to hurt you? That
boy? Who is he? Was he trying to hurt you? You were upset,
I thought you were hurt.'

'I can't believe it,' you said. 'I can't believe you. Just go away.'

Disgust made a stranger of your voice. You sounded like
you hated me.

I was numb.

I couldn't speak.

Behind you, the fire crackled, and drunken conversation
began to bubble. You wanted to be with them. You wanted
me to disappear.

'You said you were at Imogen's. I phoned and there was no
answer. Your grandmother and I came to look for you.'

Not even a shrug.

'I heard you scream.'

You looked away and said it again. 'I can't believe you.' As
though I could evaporate with the right evidence.

'I thought you were in trouble.'

'Just leave. Please, Dad, just leave.'

'Yeah,' shouted one of the boys. 'Just go away.'

'I'm not leaving without you. It's midnight, for God's . . .
what time were you planning to go home?'

'Never.' You were drunk. I could see it now. Hear it.
Smell it.

The wind switched, and brought smoke towards us.

I grabbed your arm. 'You're coming with me, young lady.'

You slipped my grip and ran further towards them.

And then the changes. The tingles. The sliding between
stations. The dark on top of dark. It was as though everything,
even the fire, was set behind black gauze.

I tried to follow you, but felt strangely off balance. A
short way into my pursuit I tripped over something, landing
close enough to the fire for a spark to singe a hair off my
hand.

I turned to see George Weeks, an ominous white vision
through the dark veil. A grotesque colossus above me. A
juvenile Nero, blond and overweight, a baby swollen to a
man. So near the fire his face had a monstrous appearance,
with his white pallor rendered devilish red and his eyes invisible
behind his glasses. Two gleaming squares of light.

I pushed myself up off the grass and stood facing him,
trying my best to ignore the sensations in my mind. 'George
Weeks, does your mother know where you are? Does she know
you are smoking and drinking and tripping adults into fires?
Does she . . . know?'

At which point, as you may recall, he insulted me loudly.
'—— off.' He was inebriated beyond all reckoning, and he
thrust forward.

'Have you lost all respect for your elders, George? What's . . .
what's happened to you?'

My dulled senses stopped me dodging his hands. He pushed
me, I staggered back, but didn't topple. George looked around
for laughter that never came.

'Leave him alone,' you said.

'Leave it, Georgie, you dumb ——,' said another of them.
A boy. The vulgar, archaic word hit George like a stone, and
he retreated from me.

In his place you appeared. My beautiful girl. Slowly, the
black gauze lifted.

'I won't forget this,' you said.

We walked back to the Volvo. Behind us, one of the boys
made a noise like a dying aircraft.