What I Tell You In the Dark (23 page)

‘It isn't a dream, though, Billy. This is reality. You need to start focusing on what's real. Use that big brain of yours.'

‘I know,' I say again. But it sounds a little weak this time, so I add, ‘Your old men dream dreams, your young men see visions.' She's looking at me like it's just some more random nonsense. ‘As it says in the bible,' I tell her, by way of explanation.

She has stopped pushing Paco. She reaches up and touches my cheek. Her face is strangely contorted, her neck flushed. She's crying.

‘What are we going to do with you?' she says.

I give her a hug and tell her I'm sorry.

‘I'm the one who should be sorry,' she weeps into my shoulder – the second person to do that today. ‘I'm asking too much. You can't just turn it off – I know that really – I suppose I thought that … I don't know what I thought.' She pulls back to look up at me. ‘Maybe you do need a rest. Some time to get yourself right again.'

‘Yes,' I tell her, because it makes no difference what either one of us says. ‘I think I do.'

After that we pick up the pace a bit and go for what Izzy calls a proper walk – she needs to work off those biscuits, she
says. The fog begins to lift and we notice that many of the hedgerows we have been passing are thick with damsons or blackberries, perfect for the harvest festival display at the church. Paco shrieks and gurgles with excitement as we return from bending into the bushes with our handfuls of fruit, which we stow in the bottom of his pushchair. He is even allowed to try a blackberry. He mashes it up enthusiastically and lets it dribble down his chin and on to his coat. It gives him a sinister air, I think, like one of those bald devils in a Bosch painting that bites the heads off things. Izzy finds it hilarious, though, and she takes a picture with her phone. I notice she doesn't invite me to be in it but I can hardly say I blame her. The blood on my face is real.

Speaking of which, the cut on my hand is not healing as well as I'd hoped it would. It's not really healing at all, in fact, and now that it has been scratched and stung during our hedgerow harvesting it has started to properly hurt.

‘You'd better get Luc to take a look at that too,' is Izzy's verdict when I show it to her. ‘It looks infected.'

She has a few scrapes of her own across the backs of her hands and up her wrists, and like mine, her fingers are stained purple from the berries.

‘Worth it, though,' she says, as we get moving again. ‘It's one of the biggest dates in the calendar for Dad, believe it or not. It's still pretty rural around here.'

‘Yes, except it's … funny … because it's … not even …' I'm getting out of breath trying to keep up with her. It's more of a jog than a walk. Paco loves it, though, his
Da-da-da
a ringing descant to the hiss of pushchair wheels on damp tarmac.

‘Good God, Billy, when was the last time you did any exercise? You're like a wheezy old man.' But she does slow down a little, enough at least to allow me to get my words out.

‘I was going to say, it's not even a religious holiday.'

‘What do you mean? Of course it is.'

‘No, Izzy, it's not – it quite clearly has nothing to do with Christianity.' An aggressive edge has crept into my voice, which I can hear but am unable to stop. ‘It's just a pagan salute to the seasons. It's just typical of the church, taking the credit for whatever they can get their claws into. Like it has anything to do with them that crops thrive or fail. They should go back to their celestial spheres and their holy wars.'

I leave it there but she is already clearly shaken by my little outburst. She pretends not to be, though, and what she says next has that deliberately jovial quality you hear people using when they find themselves in the kinds of mildly threatening situations that make them feel silly for being scared. Confronted by a growling dog, say.

‘Okay, smarty pants,
technically
speaking it's not a religious festival. I'm just saying it's still a major bums-on-seats event for Dad. Which is great, right? And it brings people flocking to the church,' she adds. ‘No pun intended.'

‘It's not a pun. It's just where the expression comes from. It's a metaphor.'

‘Look,' she stops again, as seems to be her wont when there's something serious to say. Paco emits a mildly interrogative
Da?
from beneath the hood of the pushchair. ‘Don't start getting hostile with me, okay? That's the one thing I won't put up with.'

We walk on in silence, the dusk gathering around us.

‘You need to address some of these issues,' she says as we get close to the lights of home. ‘It's not enough to just take your pills and go to work and … whatever else it is that you do. You need to confront some of this stuff that is plaguing you.'

‘What stuff?'

‘Oh come on, Billy, we both know what I'm talking about – the religion, the guilt. We both know that's what set all this off. You felt bad about ditching your religious studies. You felt bad
for Dad and,' she makes an exasperated gesture at everything around us, ‘for God, or whatever.'

We've arrived outside the house and she's unstrapping and hoisting on to her shoulder the sleeping Paco. ‘He's going to be a nightmare at bedtime now,' she mutters, momentarily sidetracked.

Then back to me, ‘You need to make your peace with it. That's all I'm saying. You didn't go into the church like Dad wanted – but so what?' She has lowered her voice, not because she doesn't want to wake Paco, which she's in fact actively trying to do, jigging him around in her arms, to his evident displeasure, but because she doesn't want to be overheard. ‘It wasn't easy for me either, you know, growing up with all the religious stuff ringing in my ears the whole time. As you know,' she steals a glance at the windows of the house, like she did earlier when she was talking to Will's mother, ‘I was no angel growing up. I have guilt of my own, by the sackful, but you can't let it ruin your life, Billy. Do you understand? You have to learn to let go of things.'

‘I know.' And this time I really do. I know it better than anything I've ever known.

But she's no longer looking at me. Her face is turned towards a man walking down the lane towards us, the crisp white band of his collar floating in the gloom.

14

Dinner is a far more successful meal than lunch was, due in no small part to the wine that is brought out. Izzy practically has a whole bottle to herself. Even Will's father allows himself to be talked into trying a glass, despite there still being work to do on tomorrow's sermon.

‘Cheers!' we all say, glasses raised like nothing is wrong.

‘So what's it about?' I ask Will's father. ‘Your sermon – what are you going to say to them tomorrow?'

It's an uneasy moment – clearly they all think we'd be in much safer waters if I hadn't broached the subject of religion. All, that is, except for Will's father, who has either not noticed or else simply doesn't care about the tension my question has caused. He seems to be the only one who isn't afraid of Will on some level, of what he might say.

‘It's an opportunity to speak about inequality, I suppose,' he says, not seeming hugely enthused by the prospect. The down-lighting above the kitchen table has put deep shadows under his eyes. He looks worn out. What he needs, as Will's mum has pointed out several times, is an early night. But he finds the energy to rouse himself, and as the animation returns to his face I begin to see a resemblance to Will – same intensity in the eyes, same face, just older.

‘Scripture has much to say about those who have and those who have not. The lessons of the past have not changed – there is still a great deal for us to learn.' He's beginning to sound as if he may be about to launch into a mini version of his sermon.

He straightens up in his chair and leans forward to better look at us all. Izzy pours herself another glass of wine.

‘If Christ were alive today …'

And that's where I let myself tune out. I simply can't bear to hear what the next part of that sentence might be. I let the unheeded drone of his words carry me along, a weightless spore borne by the river. I remember the professor's house in Jersey, lying cradled in darkness, wrapped in fresh linen, ready for sleep …

The noise of his voice has stopped. They are all looking at me. Clearly the father, who is looking most intently of all, has just asked me a question.

‘I'm sorry, what?'

Will's mum tries to put a stop to it there. ‘Let's not spoil a perfectly lovely supper with any silliness.' She looks at her husband. ‘Now is not the time,' she tells him. ‘Please.'

But he pays no attention to her. ‘I asked what you think the right message would be.' There's a challenge in his voice, nothing aggressive, just serious. These aren't topics to be treated lightly, and he can see that I feel the same.

‘The right message – what, for harvest time?'

I know, I know – I shouldn't even be engaging with this stuff, it's a waste of my time – but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't a part of me that feels grateful that someone actually wants to hear what I think. It's tragic, really. Abaddon would love it.

‘The first thing I'd say,' I tell him, ‘is that it cuts deeper than just some rich/poor morality tale. I mean, share, feed, clothe …' I raise my eyebrows in a
Really?
kind of way ‘… love enemies, hug neighbours – that's just the surface story. It's kids' stuff.' And since it was me who went round preaching it all in the first place, I feel justified in saying so – although, sadly, that's not really a point I feel I can make right now.

‘So what am I missing?' His face is capable of a watchful, almost hawkish quality – the same look that has sometimes surprised me in my own reflection.

Will's mum shakes her head and starts clearing the plates. Luc mutters something about helping and slips away too. Only Izzy sticks it out with us, eyes down, hands in lap.

‘You shouldn't be telling them that greed is ruining the world – they know that already. But what they
don't
know – and what you should be explaining to them – is where that greed comes from. You should be talking to them about gold.' He looks like he's going to interrupt but I talk over him. ‘Think about it: what is it about gold that has always fascinated mankind? It's something more than just greed. Gold isn't about wealth, not really. It's a symbol, a seam of light in the dark, closed earth. We look up at the sky and we see how very far from our reach are the sun and the stars. And yet we long to be near them, to bring our beastly lives closer to their orbit.' I hear my chair scrape. I feel giddily high above him, on my feet, looking down from the vast height of my knowledge. ‘The call of God:
that
is why men burrow into the ground – so they can chip out the golden light of heaven. They emerge from their holes with their gold, their rubble of diamonds, so they can …' I hunt for the words ‘… it's an attempt to be with Him. You see that don't you? It's a way of showing that we love Him.'

‘Billy!' He's had to raise his voice to be heard. I've been shouting. Staring and shouting. I let go of the napkin I've been twisting and sit back down in my seat. All my energy has ebbed away. I slouch forward, elbows on knees. Izzy stands at my side, holding me against her, making a gentle shushing noise.

‘Take a breath, Billy,' he says. ‘It's okay.'

‘No, Dad, it's not.' For so many reasons – because I have failed, because I am reduced to calling this stranger my father, because no one will ever care about the truths I carry – I just let
it all go. My back, my shoulders, everything heaves with the force of my crying.

Many hands lead me from the room.

‘Gold, Dad, you
must
tell them about gold.' My words are so urgent but they all act like they can't hear them. They look through me. ‘Please.' It's Luc, that's his arm I'm gripping. ‘Please, Luc.'

He too tells me that it is okay.

‘Please,' I weep.

Maia is transferred, limp and mumbling, from Will's bed. It is the mother who undresses me. She cries a little too at the sight of my bruises and the skin drawn so tightly across my bones. The bed is warm and smells of the little girl. In the small circle of lamplight I can see the cover of her storybook, a picture of a rabbit in a swimming costume leaping along a strip of unnaturally yellow sand.

The mother leaves the room for a moment. There are voices in the corridor. I think about what the pages of the book might look like. It is called
Bérénice au Bord de la Mer
. I see colourful umbrellas and sea and rocks and gulls that wheel overhead.

Luc comes in and sits on the side of the bed. He gives me two blue tablets and a glass of water. I prop myself up on my elbow and swallow the pills without a word.

‘It's okay,' he says again.

I roll over on my side. There is a small audience of stuffed toys arranged on the carpet, a couple of them have been knocked over, their wide-eyed grins now aimed at a blank strip of skirting board. I feel Luc's weight lift off the mattress.

‘It's not gold – remember that. It's God.'

Will's mother is still here, in the background somewhere. She tells me to rest, to save my talking for the morning.

‘Just an
L
between them …' I slur ‘… the twelfth letter … His twelve legions …'

‘Try to get some sleep,' is the last thing I hear as the light clicks off. Then the door is quietly closed, sealing me in with the darkness.

I am the first one to rise, awake even before Maia. I feel sick and muddled from the pills, and there's a bruised soreness where Luc did his manipulations. As I begin to move about, the ache radiates from my back into the pit of my gut. In the bathroom spots of light cavort in the air around me. I have to steady myself against the cold porcelain of the basin.