Clay (11 page)

six

“Did you ever see anybody die?” whispers Stephen.

I shake my head.

“Me neither till that night. It was like there was a sudden storm inside him, then the look of terror in his eyes, then the gasping of his breath, then the drop, then nothing more. By the time me and Mam was kneeling at him, everything had stopped. No breath, no pulse, no heart, no nowt at all. He was dead and still as this lovely man is now. And already turning cold, already turning back to clay.”

He lets his tears fall again and we’re silent.

“I could have saved him, Davie,” he says. “If only Mam hadn’t gone mental on me.”

“What?” I say.

“She was howling. She was all for running straight out into the night, straight out to the phone box across the street. ‘We got to get an ambulance,’ she said. ‘Wait,’ I told her. ‘I can bring him back again.’ I grabbed her arm. But she was far gone. She walloped me with her open hand. She ran out into the street. I saw her through the window, in the phone box, jabbering stupidly down the phone. I locked the front door on her. I lay down with Dad. I talked into his ear. I called on his spirit. ‘Come back to us. Come back into the world, Dad.’ I held his head between my hands. I called on the powers of the moon and the stars and the sun and the whole universe. I called on the power of God himself. ‘Send my father back to us!’”

He looks down at his hands, like he can still see his dad’s head between them. He looks across at me and his eyes are weird and wild.

“This is true, Davie. This is as true as we’re together in this cave in this quarry in this night. Tell me you believe me.”

“What happened?”

“Tell me you believe me and you’ll know.”

I stare back at him. He waits for me. And I say the true and crazy words.

“Yes. I believe you.”

“Yes!” he gasps. “I hold my dad and I call him back, and it starts happening, Davie. I feel the life coming back into him. I feel his spirit move. I feel a tiny breath. I feel a faint faint beating of his heart. And oh, Davie, he’s coming back to me and it’s so so wonderful…. Then the door’s broke down and the ambulance men is shoving me away and thumping my dad’s chest and he’s dead again.”

He sighs.

“And my mam’s hands is clamped across her face and she’s jabbering and mental and she’s looking at me like the mental one is me.”

And we look at each other, and there’s dead silence in the cave, and there’s no more shifting, no more shimmering. Stephen Rose, and I, are definitely there, in the cave, in the quarry, in Braddock’s ancient garden. And I watch Stephen Rose lean forward and whisper into the ear of the clay man lying on the floor.

“Now. Come into the world. Come to me, to Stephen Rose. I call on you. Live, my creature. Move.”

And I see the man move. His limbs twitch, he turns his head and looks straight into Stephen Rose’s eyes.

seven

What would you do? Kneel there while a slab of the dead earth starts coming to life before your eyes? Kneel there and just watch while a man of clay shifts his shoulders and rolls his neck like he’s stretching himself awake after a long sleep? Kneel there and say, “Haven’t we done a brilliant thing, Stephen Rose? Haven’t we got amazing powers?” Stephen’s transfigured. He’s filled with dreadful joy. One hand points to Heaven, the other points down to our creature. He whimpers and howls and prays and sings. Me? I’m off.

I jump across the two of them. I slither through the clay-pond, struggle through the quarry, through the hawthorn, through the fallen gates, and stand on Watermill Lane beneath the moon, surrounded by silvery rooftops, pitch-black windows, dead still gardens, and over everything is Felling’s deep dark silence. I expect to be struck down there, to die. I expect the earth to open up and grisly clawing hands to reach up and drag me down to Hell. But there’s nowt.

I rip the shift off and use it to wipe the muck off myself. I throw it through the gates, back into the garden; then I run on all alone, my footsteps falling on the solid earth, echoing from the sleeping houses. I creep back into my house, back into my bed.

I tell myself to tell myself it’s all a vision or a dream. I tell myself that none of it’s happened really but that I’ve been in bed all this time, that I saw an imaginary boy called Davie doing imaginary things with an imaginary creature out in an imaginary night. I tell myself not to scream, to stop whimpering, to stop trembling. I tell myself that come the morning everything will be all right. And then it’s morning and Mam’s yelling upstairs at me and telling me it’s time for church, time for me to get ready for the altar. And I wash and dress myself and go downstairs and stand stupid and pale as they ask if I’m all right.

“Aye!” I snap. “I am all right.”

And they roll their eyes and shake their heads and turn from me and start talking about some dog.

“Dog?” I say.

“Aye,” says Dad. “Miss O’Malley’s poor dog.”

“Boris,” says Mam. “Her lovely Labrador.”

“Seems some bugger bludgeoned it in the night,” says Dad.

“Poor Boris,” says Mam. “Poor Miss O’Malley.”

“Who’d believe it?” says dad.

“Here in Felling,” says Mam. “Who’d believe it?”

I leave the house, head for church. A brilliant morning. No wind. Bright terrifying penetrating light. People hurrying through the streets, filled with friendliness and goodness. “Morning, Davie,” they call as they pass by. “Hello, son,” as they touch me kindly on the shoulder.

Geordie and I don’t look at each other, don’t speak, as we put our cassocks and cottas on.

“You two all right?” says Father O’Mahoney.

“Aye, Father,” says Geordie.

“That’s grand,” says the priest, and he turns from us and lowers his head and murmurs his prayers.

All through Mass, I think I’m keeling over, falling, passing out. When communion comes, I lower my head and won’t take it. Father O’Mahoney whispers, “Davie?” but I squeeze my eyes shut and keep my head down and won’t take it. I hold the silver dish beneath the faces of friends and family and neighbors that I know so well, and my hand trembles as I gaze at all those faces lifted so innocently up to us.

After Mass I try to rush away, but Father O’Mahoney stands in front of me.

“Now then, Davie,” he says, and his voice is tender, gentle.

“Yes, Father,” I whisper.

“Are you all right, Davie?”

“Aye, Father.”

“Are you happy, Davie?”

“Don’t know, Father.”

He rests his hand on my head.

“It’s a grand life,” he says.

“Aye, Father.”

“But it was never designed to be easy.”

“No, Father.”

“That’s grand, then.” He sighs and stares at the ceiling and ponders. “I think you were not at confession last night, Davie?”

“No, Father.”

“Maybe you should come soon.”

“Yes, Father.”

“Yes, Father. That’s grand, then. Now, go on, catch up with your pal.”

I go out of the vestry, through the church, out of the front door. Dozens of people stand about in the courtyard, talking and laughing. I try to move through without being seen. I hear Frances and Maria laughing. I hear Mam calling out to me. I try to ignore her. Then there’s an intake of breath nearby, a burst of low concerned chattering.

“Dead?” someone whispers. “Dead?”

Then Mam’s at my side.

“What’s wrong?” I say.

“A dreadful thing. A boy has been found dead.”

I close my eyes, don’t breathe, don’t speak.

“His name,” she says, “is Martin Mould.”

eight

Next thing I know I’m on Watermill Lane, part of a scattered crowd that stands beneath the trees, leans against hedges, sits on benches and on low front garden walls. We stand singly and in little gossiping groups. I’m alone, ignored, terrified. There’s two police cars parked in the roadway. There’s a policeman guarding the entrance to Braddock’s garden. The silver on his helmet glitters in the Sunday morning sun. He stands with his legs apart, with his arms crossed. He keeps turning his head to look back into the garden. The other policemen are inside.

I want to yell, “Get them out! The monster’ll get them and you as well! Run! Run!”

Somebody pokes me in the ribs. I turn. Geordie. He has the marks on his face from our fight.

“Dead!” he whispers.

He keeps his face straight. He makes a fist and widens his eyes. “Dead, Davie!” He allows a grin to cross his face. He lowers his voice further. “A bliddy dream come true!”

Then Mam and Dad come to us and Geordie’s face is straight again.

“Seems some lads found him,” says Dad. “Seems he must have gone over the quarry edge.” He lowers his voice. “There was an ambulance earlier. Took his body away.”

“He went over?” I say. “Fell, you mean?”

“Must have. Probably sometime in the night. Story is he’d have been full of…”

“Poor soul,” says Mam.

“Aye. You two have much to do with him?” says Dad.

“Not if we could help it,” says Geordie.

“Troublemaker?” says Dad.

“Hard as nails,” says Geordie.

“I’ve heard,” says Dad. “And all that drinking for a lad of his—”

“He fell?” I say.

“Aye. I’ve said. What else?”

“He was dead scary,” I say.

“Aye?” says Dad.

“Aye!” I say. “Definitely!”

“Hush,” says Mam. She puts her arm around me. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, Davie.”

“It’ll be the end of the garden, anyway,” says Dad. “There’s nowt now that’ll stop them shutting it up and filling it in.”

We all look towards the gates.

“It’s always been a place of danger,” Mam says.

“And adventure,” says Dad.

“Aye,” she says. “And adventure. All the way back to when we were…Oh, look!”

Another police car draws up. A little shuffling woman steps out of it. A policewoman helps her towards the gates. The whisper travels through the crowd.

“It’s Mrs. Mould,” says Mam. “Oh, poor soul.”

The policewoman leads the woman into the garden.

“She just wants to see the place,” says Mum. There’s tears in her eyes. “Wouldn’t you just?” She holds me tight, as if protecting me. I hold my breath. I wait for the screams. I wait for them to come running out in terror with the monster coming after them, but nowt happens, and all around, the pity and the gossiping intensify.

“Poor soul,” says Mam again. She turns to her friends, talks and whispers with them again. “Oh!” she says. “I know. It’s such a sad sad tale.”

I turn my eyes to her. A sad sad tale? With a brute like Mouldy in it?

She clicks her tongue, nods, shrugs.

“It’s common knowledge down in Pelaw. The dad worked as a welder in the yards. He fell into a ship’s tank, broke his back and quickly died. The battle for compensation lasted years, as these things always do. But it came at last, a few hundred pounds, a pittance set against what had been lost. By then, though, Mrs. Mould was frail and drained, the boy was growing wild, she had no control of him. Who’s to know what pain and loss’ll do to any family and to any heart? The boy turned young to drink. Seems she couldn’t refuse him the cash for it. He was big and strong and he looked like a man and there was plenty pity for them, so many looked the other way. And now he’s fallen too, and she’s lost him, too. And what’s she left with now, sad soul?”

We watch the gates. Nowt happens.

“And she won’t want us lot standing gawping,” she says. “Come on. Let’s go back home.”

I stand a moment more, watching, waiting. Nowt happens. The sunlight pours down upon the world, so bright and so clear. I reach down and scratch a little dirt from the verge. I hold it in my palm. “Move,” I mutter, and of course nowt happens. Everything outside this morning on Watermill Lane seems imaginary, unreal, a thing of dream. I try to tell myself that the tragedy across the road has nowt to do with me. Mouldy was drunk. He fell. And me? I try to tell myself that I’ve been fooled, I’ve been deceived, I’ve been hypnotized, I’ve been…

“Davie?” says Mam.

“Aye.”

I let the soil fall back to earth. I stand up and start walking away with her and Dad. We move through the onlookers. We pass by Miss O’Malley and her dog. There’s a bandage wrapped around the dog’s head. It whimpers and shifts away as I pass by. Mam leans down, touches it. She touches Miss O’Malley, whispers comfort to her, murmurs about the wickedness that’s in the world. Miss O’Malley blinks her tears away.

Crazy Mary’s at her garden gate with Stephen at her side. Her eyes widen as we approach.

“It’s the good altar boy!” she says. “And his lovely mam and dad.”

“Hello, Mary,” says Mam. She rests a hand on Mary’s forearm. Mary beams, delighted. “Are you all right now, Mary?”

“Aye,” says Mary. “I just woke up!”

She holds Mam’s hand.

“What’s happening across there?” she whispers.

“Oh, a little bit of trouble, Mary.”

Stephen looks at me, so calm.

“While all of us were in our beds,” he says.

“Aye!” says Mary. “Would you believe it? I just woke up!”

A look of wonder passes across her face.

“And such a funny dream!” she says.

She closes her eyes, and puts a hand to her head as if to pluck the memory from the darkness in her.

“A monster!” she says.

“A monster?” says Mam.

“Aye! A monster come into my house! Heeheehee! It did!”

She opens her eyes and holds her hand across her mouth and giggles and grins.

“Great clarty footprints all through the hall! Heeheehee! And now he’s sleeping in the shed. He is! Heeheehee! He is!”

nine

That afternoon, two policemen come. Dad goes to the door but it’s me they want to see. He brings them in. One of them’s called Sergeant Fox, the other’s Police Constable Ground. They stand there with their helmets under their arms and their notebooks and pencils in their hands. They won’t sit down.

“Now then, son,” says Sergeant Fox. “A couple of questions, then we’ll be on our way.”

“Nothing to worry about,” says PC Ground.

“OK,” I say.

“Number one,” says Sergeant Fox. “Did you know the lad who died?”

“A bit,” I whisper.

“Speak up, Davie,” says Mam.

“Yes,” I say.

I’m trembling. Inside, I’m screaming.

“Very good,” says Sergeant Fox. “Now then.
What
did you know of him?

“Like what?” I say.

“Like, what kind of lad he was. What he got up to. His…interests, things like that.”

“His inner life, so to speak,” says PC Ground.

I shrug.

“Dunno,” I say.

“He kept well away from him,” says Dad.

“Is that right?” says Sergeant Fox.

“Aye,” I say. “I was…”

“You were…?” says Sergeant Fox.

“Scared,” I say.

The policemen scribble in their books.

“And when did you see him last?” says Sergeant Fox.

I search my memory.

“Friday. After school. Outside the Swan. He was…”

“Drunk?” says PC Ground.

I nod. They sigh and shake their heads. They know. He often was. They whisper with Mam and Dad, then turn to me again.

“Was he a bother to you?” asks PC Ground.

“Sometimes,” I say.

“That’s why he kept away from him,” says Dad.

“Correct,” says Sergeant Fox. “We’ve spoken to your pal George Craggs. He put us in the picture.”

“Now, then,” says Sergeant Fox. He flicks through his notes. It’s now that I expect them to bring out the painted shift, to start asking me about what happened in the cave last night, to start talking about a clay monster, to start asking me what I know about a dog. But nowt happens.

“It’s a sad sad do,” says the sergeant.

He looks into my eyes.

“Anything else you want to tell us?” he says.

“Any important-looking facts and figures?” says PC Ground.

“No,” I say.

Sergeant Fox touches my shoulder.

“Don’t take it to heart,” he says. “Such things happen. We grow away from them. They’re mebbe even part of…”

“Growing up,” says PC Ground.

Dad takes them to the door. I hear him say that I’m a sensitive sort but I’ll get over it.

Mam hugs me.

“We’ll send some flowers to Martin’s mam,” she says.

She shivers.

“There but for the grace of God,” she says.