The Summer We All Ran Away (29 page)

He thought he could see someone in the distance, walking slowly down the driveway.

Jack was in New York when the packet from Alan caught up with him. In an age of electronic communications, the notion of sending a physical object thousands of miles to communicate one's wishes and desires seemed like a charming whimsy from a forgotten time. He let it lie on the bureau for weeks, knowing it would be Alan's semi-regular selection of Jack's
most obscene, amusing or baffling fan mail. He finally got around to opening it one boring, sticky afternoon when the outside world felt like an armpit and his room like an air-conditioned cell.

He was always amazed by the inventive banality of the human race. If a teenage boy could make a copy of the
Landmark
cover from clippings of his own pubic hair, what would that same boy be able to achieve if he really put his mind to it? At least Alan had taken the time to put it in a plastic wallet first. The blank envelope was the last thing he found. Alan had scribbled a note in the corner:

Classic of the genre, this one. Apparently it's for you. Apparently. Hand-delivered to the office. I had a look, it's not a letter bomb. Fuck me, mate, but your fans are strange little boys and girls
.

He opened it, expecting another pubic-hair picture.

Inside was a blank sheet of paper.

Ten minutes later he plunged into the angry, sticky New York heat, and frantically flagged down a taxi to take him to the airport.

The figure walking down the drive was coming into focus; a thin man with grey hair and a lived-in face, travel-worn and unsuitably dressed, a guitar slung over his shoulder.

“I need to tell you something,” said Davey desperately.

“I might have to rethink the ending, though,” said Priss. “It needs more violence, this story. A proper murderer would have gone down a treat.”

“There is a murderer in this story,” said Davey. “Well, there might be, anyway. I'm not really sure but, um - ”

“Maybe a bit more about the hospital. That might do it.”

“Priss, sorry, but we haven't got much time.”

“Or some extra back story. Or compress the timescale a bit, get them back together in ten years, not thirty.”

“Will you please just shut the fuck up and listen?”

“What are you on about, soft lad?”

“I'm trying to tell you. The day I - the day I left. You wanted to live with a murderer. Well um, I - I might be. Sorry I didn't tell you before. But I might be.”

“Are you having me on? You killed someone?
You
did?”

“I don't know. It was the day I ran away. My stepfather, he b-b-b he b-b-b-b - ” he took a deep breath. “He beat me up. For failing my A-levels on purpose. He came back just as I was leaving. I - I shoved him down the stairs. I'm not sure, but I think I might have killed him.” Priss' expression was impossible to read. “When I remember it, I can sort of picture it both ways. I can see him with his neck sort of b-b-b-b-broken and floppy, and I can see him just lying there, out of it but basically alright. And I d-d-d-don't know which is the real version.” He shrugged. “I suppose I'll have to go home and find out now.”

“You,” said Priss, “are a garden of hidden wonders, mate. Why did you keep that quiet for so long? Actually, scratch that. Why are you telling me now?”

“Because it's nearly over. We'll have to leave soon.”

“Why? Look, just let me finish the rest of this and we can talk about it, I just need to see how it ends - ”

“It's ending right now,” said Davey. “This is it. This is how it ends. But how did he know?” Priss was thumbing frantically through the last few pages. “Oh, will you please put that book down and come and look?”

“Will
you
come and fuchin' look?”

“But I am looking,” said Davey, in a daze. “How did Isaac know – he must be a witch or something – how on earth did he
know?”

And Priss and Davey looked up from the last page of the notebook to see the same scene repeated in front of them; the man stopping in front of the door, hesitant even though he stood at the door of his own property; and Kate, her arms held wide, flying out of the door and into his arms, both of
them sobbing out loud, gasping, clinging to each other as if, after years adrift on the wide ocean of time, they had finally sighted land.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mathilda,

Here's what I won't do in this letter. I won't beg you to come back. I won't try to prove you were wrong to leave. I won't threaten to do anything stupid. And I won't try and pretend that, just because I love you and always will, you're obliged to feel anything for me at all.

Here's what I will do in this letter. I'll acknowledge I was wrong. I'll be honest about how I feel. I'll tell you my plans. And I'll tell you how you can find me.

I understand why you left me. I do. You're right. I'm possessive and selfish, and I want you to myself. I wish I could say I could change that, but I probably can't. I can't imagine a future where I'll love you less, or when I'll want less of you to belong to me.

But because of that, I'll always,
always
wait, if you ever decide you're ready to leave the life you're living and come home to me. I say this with no expectations. I know it may never happen. But my heart's yours until the day it stops beating.

I know how much you hate people who mope. If there's one thing you've taught me, it's that life is for living, not dreaming. So this morning, I called Alan and told him I'd do the tour. And when I've done it, I'll write another album, and maybe I'll tour that one as well, if the fans will pay to come and see me. I can't say I'm looking forward to it. In fact I'm scared as hell. But I want to live a life that's worthy of yours. I want to live a life you can admire.

I know you all the way through, my love. So I know you're
stubborn, you despise being wrong, and you hate admitting to any kind of weakness. I understand how coming back to me would be difficult.

So, I'm leaving the house for you, as a place of shelter, or not, whatever feels right. I'll leave the power on, and pay someone to go in once a year to keep it watertight. The key will be under the mat; in the same place I always left it. If you ever need somewhere to shelter, you have my absolute and unconditional permission to use it. If you want to move in there and never see me again, that's fine too. It's been my haven. Now it's yours.

But Mathilda, my love - if you ever want me, just say the word and I'll be there. If a phone call is difficult, send a letter. If a letter is too hard to write, send a blank sheet of paper. Put a lamp in the window and some coffee on the stove, and I'll come home to you, my love. Wherever I am in the world, Alan will always be able to find me. And wherever I am, whatever I'm doing – even if that envelope arrives the moment before I walk onto the stage at Carnegie Hall – I'll walk away from it all, and come back to you.

If I never see you again, it was still worth it.

Jack

 

 

 

 

 

 

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