Long Lankin: Stories Page 4

  Once again he struck a pose with arms folded and finger under his chin.

  —Look, he said, and turned up his hands for her to examine. Nothing there, right? Now wait.

  She watched him eagerly. He made fists of his large hands and held them out before him, tightly clenched. He was quite still, concentrating, and suddenly he opened his hands again. In the hollow of each palm there lay a small white object. She stepped forward for a closer look, and cried:

  —Eyes! They’re eyes!

  She reached out to touch them, but he quickly closed his fingers over them.

  —O let me see them again, she begged. Please. Let me touch them.

  He shook his head.

  —Forbidden.

  —O please.

  He grinned delightedly and shoved his fists into his pockets. Out came the tip of his tongue once again.

  —No, he said softly.

  —All right then, keep them, see if I care. I bet you had them up your sleeves. Anyway they’re not real.

  She turned away from him and gave the rear wheel of his bicycle a kick. He pulled the machine away from her and glared at her in outrage.

  —Watch what you’re doing, he threatened.

  He gave her another black look, and with an expert little hop he was in the saddle and away down the hill. She watched him go, biting her lip, and then she galloped after him, crying:

  —Wait! Wait!

  He stopped, and with one foot to the ground he looked back at her. She came up to him, panting, and said:

  —Listen, I’m sorry for kicking your bike.

  He said nothing, and she lowered her eyes and fingered the rubber grip on the handlebar.

  —Would you … she began hesitantly. Would you give me a carry down the road a bit?

  He considered this for a moment, and the sly grin crept over his face.

  —All right, he said, and giggled.

  She pulled herself up and sat on the crossbar, and they bowled away down the road. She glanced over her shoulder at him nervously, and he winked.

  They moved swiftly now, the hedges flew past on either side and the tyres threw up water that drenched her legs. She looked into the sky, at the swirling clouds, and the wild wind rushed in her hair.

  —Allez up! he cried out gaily, and the little girl shrieked with laughter, and plucked the red scarf from around his neck and waved it in the wind. Down they went, and down, faster and faster, until at the bottom of the hill the front wheel began to wobble and when he tried to hold it still the machine twisted and ran wildly across the road to tumble them both in the ditch.

  She lay smiling with her face buried in the thick wet grass. A hand pulled at her arm, but she shook it off and pressed herself against the ground. All was quiet now, and somewhere above her a bird was singing.

  —Eh, listen, little girl. Are you hurt? Hey.

  She turned on her back and looked up at him, her fingers on her lips. She smiled and shook her head.

  —I’m all right.

  He brushed the grass and flecks of mud from his jacket, and all the while he was looking worriedly about. He began to wipe his shoes with his handkerchief. The girl sat up and took the cloth from him and rubbed at the damp leather. He put his hands on his hips and watched her.

  —Now, she said, and gave him back his handkerchief.

  He took her hand and helped her to her feet. Hurriedly he retrieved his bicycle from the ditch and wiped the saddle with his sleeve. He paused with his foot on the pedal and turned to look at her. She stood with her hands joined before her, and there were leaves and bits of grass in her hair, and a long streak of mud on her cheek. He put a hand into his pocket.

  —Here.

  She took the little glass ball from him and looked at it. On one side two dark circles were painted, the pupils of an eye.

  —Thank you.

  He grinned, showing his yellow teeth, and said:

  —They weren’t real.

  —What harm.

  Now he cast another look around, and whispered urgently:

  —Listen, you won’t say you saw me, will you? I mean you won’t say I took you on the bike. I might get into trouble.

  She shook her head, and he gave her a wink.

  She watched him go away down the road. He did not look back, and soon he was gone around a bend. She turned and walked slowly up the hill. The sun had fallen behind the mountains, and the clouds, like bruised blood, were massing.

  Tantey stood in the doorway, and when she saw the little girl come wandering along she cried:

  —There you are. Come here to me. Where have you been? And look at the state of you! I should box your ears.

  She caught the girl by the shoulder and gave her a shake.

  —I went for a walk, the girl muttered sullenly.

  —Went for a walk indeed.

  She led her down the hall, and to the kitchen. While the girl scrubbed her hands at the sink the old woman fussed about her, straightening her dress and pulling the pieces of leaf from her hair.

  —Were you rolling around in the fields or what? An infant wouldn’t be the trouble. A nice sight you’ll be to greet your papa.

  The girl turned from the sink and stared with wide eyes at the old woman.

  —Has he come? she asked, and her lip trembled.

  —Yes child, he’s come. Now tidy yourself up and we’ll go in to him.

  The girl slowly dried her hands, staring before her thoughtfully. At last she said:

  —I don’t want to see him.

  —What are you saying? Hurry up now.

  —I won’t go near him.

  —Have you lost the bit of sense you had? He’s come all the way from London just to see you.

  —I don’t care.

  The old woman stepped forward with her lips shut tight and caught the girl’s hair in her hand.

  —If you won’t come by yourself I’ll drag you. Come on and stop this nonsense, you little rip.

  She pulled the girl struggling out into the passage and along the hall.

  —No Tantey, I don’t want to see him! No Tantey, you’re hurting me!

  The old woman pushed open the door of the dining-room. Inside, the tall grey-haired man was sitting at the table, twisting the brim of his hat in his long fingers.

  —No Tantey, no, you’re hurting my hair!

  The girl clutched at the door frame, tears on her face, while the old woman tugged furiously at her hair. The grey-haired man rose uncertainly and peered out at them with raised eyebrows. When she saw him the girl sent up a fearful wail, and lifting her arm she flung something, something white flashed past him and there was the tinkle of glass breaking. He spoke, but his words were drowned by the cries of the girl:

  —No Tantey no, leave me alone, I don’t want to see him, I don’t want to, you’re hurting me, Tantey, let go you’re hurting me …

  Sanctuary

  Julie awoke in the chill October morning to find the air before her face finely traced with a web of blood. In the day’s first terror she reached out blindly beside her. The bed was empty. She whimpered, but already the mist had begun to fade from her eyes. She lay back on the pillow and wiped the sweat from her lips, from the hollows of her eyes. On the ceiling above her, light moved and flowed, reflections from the sea below her window. She got out of bed, a hand in her damp hair. She pushed her feet into slippers, untangled a knot in the sash of her nightgown, stood up unsteadily. Another day, the last, another day.

  From the bathroom she went down the stairs, buttoning her blouse. She paused on the last step. Helen was in the living room, sitting on the couch by the window, looking out. Light invaded the room through the long window, soft light from the sea, it touched the legs of the table, glowing, and fell among Helen’s dark hair. Her hand was raised to her cheek, and in the long white fingers a cheroot burned silently, sending up into the cool sea light a narrow line of smoke. Julie said:

  —I dreamed all night of something following me.

  He
len did not move, but went on looking toward the beach and the morning sea. Only the silent line of smoke wavered in its course, and then was still again. Julie’s eyes narrowed, and her voice was hard when she said:

  —And today I’m bleeding. I’m glad this is all finished.

  Helen stood up slowly, and slowly turned.

  —Why do you say that?

  Julie crossed the room and sat down on the couch. Staring at the space between her feet she found a cigarette and fumbled it nervously to her mouth. She left it unlit. Helen looked down at her, faintly smiling, and asked again:

  —Why do you say that, Julie?

  In the silence both seemed to be pulling on some frail, invisible cord stretched between them. Julie said:

  —Where were you when I needed you? Where? You know I can’t wake up alone. You know that. You left me there to wake in that awful room with not a sound anywhere. I hate this place.

  Helen looked at the cheroot, holding it upright to save the long tip of ash. She said:

  —I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would wake so early. You don’t usually wake so early, do you?

  Julie lifted her hands, examined them, and put them away again.

  —I have to get out, she said.

  Helen went and stood at the window, saying:

  —Then you won’t come back to university?

  —No.

  —You mean that? You have decided? You won’t take the degree?

  —No.

  —That will be … a pity, Helen said carefully.

  Julie closed her eyes and lay back on the couch. After a moment she said in a strange, flat voice, as though reciting a lesson:

  —I want to get married. I want to have a baby. My mother worries about me. She asks what are my plans. What are your plans? she asks. What can I tell her? I’m not like you. I’m weak. I feel sorry for her. I want to tell her there’s someone. That everything is all right. But what have I to tell her?

  She stood up and wandered about the room, turning away from the barrier of each wall with a look of pain.

  —Three months we have been here, she said in wonder. Three months and so much has changed. Helen, why do things change?

  Helen looked out at the sea. The sun glittered on the water blue as ice. Far out on the sound a flock of gulls was attacking something that floated there, they fell and turned and lifted with the light on their wings, bright birds. Two sails of yachts lay slanted into the wind.

  —You will need someone to be there when you wake up, Helen said. You will need someone for that.

  —I don’t know. Is it cold out today?

  —It’s a nice day.

  —I’ll go for a walk. Yes. A walk. My bags are packed.

  —Yes. Julie.

  —What?

  —Will you be coming back to the flat?

  —Maybe I’ll go away.

  There was a pause, and once again Julie spread her hands before her and looked at them absently. She said:

  —A degree would be useless to me.

  —You were a good pupil, Helen murmured. We got along well.

  —It was because you were young. It made a difference to have a young professor.

  —But I got through to you.

  —Yes.

  —I felt that I was getting through to you.

  —Yes.

  —I’m glad you think that.

  —Perhaps I’ll go away, Julie said again.

  Into the silence between them the small sounds of the sea filtered slowly, the sea which had whispered and sighed through the long nights of the summer. Helen pressed her palms against the glass.

  —I’m going for a walk now, Julie said.

  Outside, the air struck her like a blade. She walked along the verandah, her sandals knocking on the loose planks, then crossed the tiny garden to the beach. The sand was pockmarked from the night’s rain, and near the waves the prints of gulls pointed outward across the sound. A clear, chill wind blew from the islands, carrying against her face the faint perfumes of heather and pine. She looked back to the cottage, at the figure in the dimness of the window watching her, and as she turned a movement on the rocks at the end of the beach caught her eye. A figure, black against the sun, was coming toward her. In the sky above her head a bird screamed, and its shadow brushed her shoulder. The window was empty now. She felt the black claw of terror at her throat, and she turned and ran back across the garden.

  The screen door was locked, and she shook it frantically.

  —Helen. Helen.

  The door opened, and as she stepped quickly inside Helen looked at her with mild curiosity.

  —What is it, Julie?

  —Nothing. I … nothing.

  She went into the living-room, and Helen followed, watching her. She sat on the couch and squeezed her hands between her knees. Helen stood above her and put a gentle hand on her hair.

  —What’s wrong, Julie?

  —I don’t know. Something … strange. I saw someone.

  —Who did you see?

  —Someone. I don’t know.

  She began to tremble. Helen looked up to the window and slowly smiled.

  —Look, Julie. There’s who you saw. Look.

  Julie turned. Beyond the glass glaring with light someone was moving, a hand was raised, signalling.

  —Don’t let it in, she breathed, her fingers tearing at each other. Lock the door, Helen.

  But Helen was gone. Julie looked away from the window and held her face in her hands. After what seemed a long time she lifted her head, hearing sounds about her.

  —Julie. Julie. We have a visitor, Julie, look.

  Helen was there before her, smiling, and beside her a stranger.

  —Who are you? Julie asked in a small, dead voice.

  He was young, not more than eighteen or nineteen, a tall, heavily built boy with a shock of red hair flowing up and away from his forehead. He wore a blue shirt open at the neck, and faded denims. With his hands on his hips he stood and watched her, his wide, handsome face composed and expressionless. He asked:

  —Why were you frightened of me, Julie?

  She looked from one of them to the other, searching their faces.

  —What do you want here? she asked.

  —I came to say goodbye to you, he said. You’re going away and I came to say goodbye.

  She shook her head and looked appealingly at Helen.

  —What does he want, Helen?

  —He came to say goodbye to us.

  —But I don’t know him, she wailed.

  The boy laughed, and shook the flaming hair away from his forehead. He lit one of Helen’s cheroots and sat down on the couch. Julie moved away from him, and he smiled sardonically at her. Helen put her hands on her knees and leaned down to gaze silently into Julie’s face. The boy asked:

  —Are you sleeping well now, Julie? Do you sleep well?

  She did not answer, and he went on:

  —Why can’t you sleep, Julie?

  Again silence. He shrugged his shoulders, and leaving the couch he walked about the room, examining it here and there. Julie followed him with her eyes. Helen reached forward and touched her cheek lightly and then went to stand again at the window. Julie’s lips began to move, and she said:

  —I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the dark.

  The boy stopped in the middle of the floor.

  —Well you should leave a light burning. With a light there would be no darkness and then you would not be afraid. Would you?

  Julie looked down helplessly at her hands where they lay like dead things in her lap. Without turning, Helen murmured:

  —Not that kind of darkness.

  —I see, the boy said. Yes I see.

  Julie’s hands moved, and she smiled at them.

  —You see, I’m afraid that I won’t wake up and yet I’m afraid of waking too. Sometimes I think there is something in the room. Some animal sitting on its haunches in the corner watching me. And I’m afraid.

  The boy
ambled out the door, and from the next room he called:

  —What kind of animal? In the corner, Julie, what kind of animal is it?

  —I don’t know, she whispered.

  —What? What did you say, Julie?

  Helen left the window and sat down in an armchair in the corner. One half of her face now lay in shadow, and Julie looked away from the still, single eye watching her. The boy came back and leaned against the door frame, his arms folded.

  —There are some strange things in this house. Shaving lotion. I found shaving lotion.

  —I like the perfume, Helen said. I prefer it.

  —Ah. You prefer it. But there are other things. In the bathroom.

  Helen suddenly laughed, and the sound of her laughter seemed to shake the room. The boy sat again beside Julie. This time she did not move away. She was gazing in a trance at her knees. The boy ran a hand through his hair and said:

  —Last year there was a girl here. In this house. She was alone. A very strange girl with blue eyes. I don’t think she was Irish. Maybe English. I came to see her. She used to talk too about things following her. Threatening her. I came every day to see her. I listened to her and she said it made her feel better that I listened to her. One day I found her sitting on the floor crying. I asked her what was wrong and she said she was afraid of the sea. I wanted to teach her how to swim and she said that once she could swim and was a strong swimmer but now she had forgotten. She couldn’t swim now.

  There was silence but for the cries of birds out on the sound. At last Julie asked:

  —What happened?

  —What?

  —The girl. What happened to her? Was she drowned?

  —Drowned? No. She went away, I think. But I don’t think she was drowned.

  Julie stood up and went toward the stairs, her head bent and her arms hanging loosely at her sides.

  —Where are you going? Helen said.

  —I’m going to … to lie down for a little while. Just a little while. I’m so tired. It’s strange.

  In the bedroom she lay with her hands folded on her breast and listened to their voices. Once they laughed, and in a while all was silence. She watched the reflections of the water above her on the ceiling. They seemed to have but one pattern which constantly formed, dissolved, and reformed again. A small wind came in from the sea and murmured against the window, and the curtains moved with a small scraping sound. Her eyelids fell. She struggled against sleep, but the strange weariness she felt was greater than her fear. She watched in fascinated horror her mind drift into the darkness, floating away with the small sounds of the sea, the distant crying of the birds.