BiteMarks (24 page)

Granddad is shaking now, losing the battle to keep his composure, gritting his teeth as if in pain and looking over the top of my head out of the window at the vivid past playing out scenes of cruelty and failure.

“
When he does the same thing to you it's my hand that strikes you, not his. We revisit our pain on each successive generation, waiting for somebody else to come along and break the cycle where we couldn't. I'm so sorry, son, I can't let you think that I'm any kind of man and all the sorrow in the world isn't going to put things right. My legacy is alcohol and pain.”

The storm clouds on his face break now, tears running into the deep creases on his cheeks and an animal howl rising from him that makes me jump. I am mesmerized by the tear tracks. The effect of their progress giving the impression that they have carved out gullies in his skin. I move towards him and he wraps fiercely strong arms around me; I am shocked by the physical power that still lives on in this shattered form. He smells of sweet tobacco, whiskey vapors and the faint organic green of the disease that is consuming him.

“
Don't become this.”

He pushes me out to arms length, hard fingers pressing into my bony shoulders and his voice a savage stage whisper. “Break that cycle, refuse to be that thing, be free.”

* * *

As the car pulls up outside, the rain starts up again; fat sad droplets crying down to saturate the ground. The world looks sombre and reflective, as if it has been fundamentally changed by the recent horrors, becoming slightly more empty and prone to introspection as a result.

The large trees lining my road are dark and hulking, mourners at a funeral, water running off their leaves in those persistent streams that search for the space between neck and shirt collar.

“
Are you all right, mate?” Marcus' soft voice from the driver's seat.

“
I need to talk to you.”

“
Go ahead.”

“
Not here, up in my flat. This might take a little while. There are things that I need to say that I've never said to anybody before.” He follows me out of the car and up the stairs without a word.

It is only mid afternoon, but the oppressive weather steals the light from the room, casting deep shadows over the contents and lending them a brooding anonymity. I fix a couple of drinks, bottled Mexican beer – all fizz and no substance but I need to keep a clear head while I sort my thoughts into a semblance of coherent order. I steal anxious glances at Marcus whilst I fix the drinks and pour out some honeyed cashew nuts into a bowl, seeking distractions to delay the decision that I know I've already made.

Dark agitated clouds gather and accelerate in the sky outside the window, and the first distant grumble of thunder ripples through with a promise of more to come as the wind picks up pace. I am not aware of beginning to speak, but images begin to swim into view, the dead coming back to visit, refusing to remain silent for any longer. The room retreats and the past hits me like a tidal wave and I am consumed.

* * *

I carefully place the blade between slightly parted lips, the tip of the razor resting on my tongue as I contract my mouth and grip the ornate metal as tightly as I can bear. I release my hold, trembling slightly as I allow gravity to part my flesh; half-fancying that the small viciously sharp knife whispers with joy as it carves a delicate trail through the dark fleshy pink of my lower lip.

I turn to face the mirror, observing with interest the stark crimson droplets escaping down my chin, each one wrenched apart by collision with the fine hairs barring their way, before continuing down my naked torso only to be dashed into dark oblivion on the waistband of my jeans. They leave intricate patterns as a testament to their struggle, a bold contrast against the paleness of my skin.

I press my lips together, enjoying the tacky feel of this new lipstick, tongue probing the injury inquisitively and filling my mouth with the familiar taste of copper. I feel no need to explain my actions, merely recognizing the release of personal fears concomitant to the letting of my life's fluid. The silvery slightly raised network of scars covering my body are a map, scars on the outside to mirror those on the in.

My restless attention shifts to the objects on the pitted surface of the black ash table; a glass full of clear fiery liquid and a tightly rolled joint to soothe away the nightmares. A solitary anemic beam of light points an accusing finger at these objects that I substitute for my own endorphins, and I reflect on the past that seems so distant. I can recall a warm summer's day camping among the long grasses not far from home but far enough. Acquainting myself more closely with the properties of alcohol, lapsing slowly and easily into a slow world of drifting consciousness where nothing was important any more, and where I could ignore the violence and taunts.

The camping trip had been the idea of one of my mother's friends; she had a son a year older than me and they tried to force our friendship out of some misplaced maternal sentiment. The truth was that he was a straight forward child, uninterested in me and lacking any common ground that I could discern we might be able to share. I returned the disinterest with cool indifference of my own, used to keeping my own counsel in the main anyway. The camping 'expedition' was really a small gesture towards gifting us a measure of independence, since we were staying at a campsite two miles down the road with occasional adult supervision to check on our safety and well being. 

Having experienced the initial excitement of setting up the tent and organizing our sleeping quarters inside, we cooked sausages and beans on a disposable barbecue whilst sitting overlooking the still waters of a large pond. The strange boy reminded me that his name was Tom, and took charge of attempting to turn the sausages over occasionally with plastic cutlery. By the time he'd finished they were deeply scorched on the exterior and dappled with the occasional fleck of white molten plastic, but mercifully, not too pink in the middle as to be considered inedible.

As the sun began to set and the final parental check of the day had passed, Tom rummaged in his bags and emerged with a battered looking liter plastic bottle of coke. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow grimacing slightly before handing it over to me with a conspiratorial grin. I sniffed the contents, detecting an aroma of something that was evidently not coke mixed in there, and took a long gulp of my own before passing it back.

Drink forged a bond with me that night; offering an alternative escape to the knife for a while. It marked the beginning of this willful descent, the drugs came along a little later on. I reach for the slowly smoldering joint and inhale deeply, relishing the flavor, spicy, exotic and poisonous green; relishing the fact that it's another flirtation with death. 

The death of Meg's father was supposed to draw a line under her pain, to give her the freedom to be herself again without his hovering attention casting a dark cloud over her life. We had thrown ourselves into the planning with enthusiasm, thinking through the minute details, or so we had believed, and not allowing the word 'murder' to creep into the conversations. He deserved this and the world would be a more benign place without him in it, we had even begun to discuss what might be done to resolve the problems with Will's mother and the outbursts of violence that left her only son bruised and scarred on a regular basis.

Nothing had worked out that way though. Meg had been consumed with a deep sense of guilt that wrapped a blanket around her senses and made her see the world in shades of gray. She was a killer now and the comfort of others was small consolation. I could see in her affection for Will that she held me responsible for this sorry state of affairs and that there would be a growing distance between us until I could free her from her new torment. Will had lost his stomach for any proposed act of retribution towards his mother, after all he could see all too clearly the impact on his beloved Meg, and he too drew closer to her and ever so slightly further away from me with each passing day.

I've carried their change in attitude around with me like a rock, desperately trying to make things all right for them again. I've supplied them with alcohol and drugs to numb the thoughts of reproach, carved their names onto my body with a razor blade, taken their blood and shared my own with them in turn. I have instigated every kind of intimacy that I can conceive of, have touched, tasted and penetrated each of them, inviting them to explore me in any ways that they chose to; but as I looked into eyes that cleared for an instant regaining vitality with the experience of these sensations, they clouded over again just as soon as it was finished. No matter what I do, the specter of the act and the enormity of what has been done casts a shadow over everything.

The minor discrepancies highlighted by the investigation into his death have not pointed a beam at either me or Will, and Meg is not an official suspect since the case is not officially being treated as murder. Yet. I need to free them from this and there is a single recurring thought circling my subconscious every time I search for the answer to the problem.

I stand back up, having been pulled down onto the bed by the weight of memory and shared experience, and walk out of the room. The other two get up and follow me out into the frosty night, a magical icing sugar landscape silent and full of wonder and  watchfulness. We walk onwards without speaking, and I study the chipped black polish on my gnawed fingernails, trying to slow my frantic thoughts back down. The darkness is littered with the skeletal figurines of trees that have frozen to death; they are obscured from time to time by the billowing plumes of my exhalations. The sharp glassy surface of the ground tears at the bare soles of my feet, and as we enter the woods branches with jagged ice arms slash gleefully at exposed flesh.

I lead them into a small copse, heavy with hanging crystals and the sounds of isolation; the hush feels unbreakable and full of ill-contained expectation. The moon is visible through gaps in the overhanging branches, casting a strange silvery light down on us and on the three nooses slung over thick boughs of the trees in front of us.

“
I wanted us all to be free. When we first met it was like electricity in my veins, like feeling the missing connection that I hadn't dared to believe could be real. I looked at you, both of you, and it was like looking in the mirror and seeing that reflection smile back and reach out to touch you. Now I see pain and weariness and resignation in your eyes; you're both waiting to be caught and punished for what we've done, but even having crossed that boundary and actually having done something to make Meg's life better you can't enjoy existence.”  I gesture to the ropes. “That's what these are about. If you can't live with what's been done and can't accept the consequences of our actions then the only other option is to see if the next life holds more for us. I'm going up there and I'll wait for your decision.”

I climb the nearest tree and shuffle out along the cold sturdy branch, carefully sitting down and slipping the loop of rope over my neck and tightening the knot. The pause before the other two begin to climb is mercifully brief.

* * *

“
I didn't want to die in the end, Marcus. I was on the verge of calling the whole thing off but Will slipped off his branch on the ice and Meg just looked at me and then let go and followed him. I took my head back out of the noose, but I didn't have anything to cut the ropes with.” I laugh a short barking sound devoid of humor. 

“
Me the self harmer, never without a knife, but the one time that I really need one I don't have one to hand. I jumped back down, convinced that the drop would have made it quick at least, maybe broken their necks or separated the spinal cord from the brain somehow – I'd done all the reading. When I stood up with my feet stinging from the impact they were writhing with their hands at their throats, choking and swinging with their eyes rolled back in their heads, trying to live.” I can't mask the derision and loathing saturating my tone.

Marcus is unnaturally still I don't know whether he's still looking at me in the gloom.

“
I grabbed hold of Meg's feet first and lifted her up a bit, I thought if I could give her some slack in the rope then she could free herself, but she was hanging too high up and I couldn't do enough to give her a chance. Will wasn't moving much by then anyway and I didn't know what else to do, my phone was back in my bedroom, too far to go to have any chance of either of them surviving. I hung on her legs with all my weight to make the end as fast as it could be and then I ran away.” 

I can hear Marcus breathing slowly and steadily but he still just sits in the same position at the other side of the room.

“
I can see their faces every time I shut my eyes, death masks with ice frosting their open eyes. They were staring at me as if they blamed me for what they'd both done, but I didn't make them climb up there and I didn't make them jump.”

I still can't read his expression in the gloom; the shadows are hiding his eyes and mouth, replacing them with hollow ebony smudges. The storm outside is much closer now with wind screaming around the eaves and flipping a tile off the neighboring rooftop. The flat musical chime as it breaks on the paving slabs twenty feet below is cut off by the roar of thunder, followed a few moments later by a searing flash of lightening over the distant chimneys. I break the silence first.