Furnace (6 page)

The fish he’d hooked today was nowhere near as monstrous. Though he supposed there was no way of knowing for sure – it had thrown the bait so quickly. Just two sickening arm and
heart-wrenching thumps and then gone; back to the big stones and weed forests of the bottom; lost to him forever, probably. It occurred to him that as a boy he’d taken the loss of such fish
badly, as a kind of bereavement even, which could wake and torment him at night with frustration and sorrow; now, the thought of failing to draw something so heavy and secret out of the loch
brought him a morbid, premonitory sense of relief. What fun is it? she’d asked. And she was right – it was something, but not pleasure. Not that at all.

Mal, what’s wrong?

He turned to her, startled. Nothing, he said. He got up and stretched, glad to move his tight chest. He picked up the remote and switched channels on the TV, finding what was left of a film and
then watching it, still standing. Suddenly he looked up from the screen. Christ it’s dark in here, he said. He reached over to the dimmer switch on the wall near the door and turned the
lights right up.

Don’t Mal. You can see the lights on the screen. Turn it back.

He looked at the screen and saw it was true; the lights made ghost-lamps on the screen. He turned the switch back again and the reflections faded to pinpoints.

Now I know where they are I can’t take my eyes off them, she complained.

He didn’t know the film but there were plenty of half-familiar faces in it. He started trying to remember what other parts he’d seen the actors playing. The film was some sort of
detective story with a priest in it. Mainly he wondered what else he remembered the priest as. Something in uniform, he guessed.

We ought to get a dog, he said.

She looked at him, surprised. Not a dog. I’d rather a cat. I love cats.

Not for a pet, he said. He belched quietly, holding his chest. I mean for protection. To warn you.

Cats can warn you too, with sixth sense, she said.

He shook his head. A cat’s no good, he said. What use is a fucking cat?

A cat could eat all the filthy fish you bring home. Anyway, I thought you’d like a cat. You’re a bit of a tomcat yourself, aren’t you? With your fish. Like a big daft cat
dropping dead stuff on the doorstep. She reached out from under the downie to prod his ribs. Aren’t you? she teased.

He realised he didn’t want to talk anymore. He felt tired, and thought of the rain drumming onto his head and back, heavy and steady like it might never stop. I’m going to bed, he
told her.

I’ll come too, she said. I’m tired too.

He turned the TV off, then made his way through the kitchen to the bathroom.

She got up, pushing herself straight. She heard the bathroom door close and the bolt slot into place.

Lock up, he called out to her from behind the door. Both locks.

Carrying her cigarettes she walked into the dark kitchen and flicked on the light. Outside, the rain sounded heavier than ever. She took a cigarette and lit it from the hob. She turned to the
pike resting on the steel drainer and inspected them, running a fingertip lightly over one of the smooth dry eyes. There was no sound of movement from the bathroom. She paused, then padded to the
front door and opened it.

From the doorstep she looked up to the street above and saw the police cars had all gone. The night was quiet except for the rain. There was no traffic; no footsteps or voices. It was pleasant
to stand there, listening and smoking. Beyond the step most of the sunken yard was awash now.

Suddenly her right eye pricked and blurred and as she blinked she felt something give under the wet lid. She cleared her eye and looked up again and noticed the gnats, a cloud of them lifting
and falling in the brightness streaming out from the kitchen at her back. She watched them and up above, through the downpour, a car sped past, its wet tyres making a sound like leaves soughing in
the wind. For a little while she tried to remember the last time she’d seen the old woman from the flat above. Maybe crossing the road with a small dog. Did she have a dog, though? She
couldn’t really remember. Maybe that was a different old woman. She swept something, another gnat, out of the hair above her eyes, then brushed at her face as it fell. She wondered at them
coming so near – in the day her cigarettes always kept them at a distance. They were certainly getting close now though, drawn to the light, she guessed. In the yard itself her old cigarette
ends were swimming around the flooded slabs close to her feet. The rainwater had welled them up from the drain where she’d dropped them and there were four of them butting against the raised
grill like little tied boats. Others drifted in the opposite corner of the yard, just under the surface, soft and fat, making big, lazy circles. She took a long, deep draw, then let the smoke go
slowly. Another gnat whined in her ear, making her flinch, and in disgust she dropped her cigarette and lashed at them, one arm cradling her stomach. She felt tiny forms hit and stick to her palm.
She reached out again, further, straining forward into space.

I saw them coming down the old mountain road at noon. I was looking out the little side window of the hotel kitchen, cutting radishes into claw shapes for the salad. Just
behind me, Luke was hacking through bones, thumping his favourite old cleaver into the chopping board, swinging so hard the steel worktop under the board boomed and rang like the metal was taking
the hits:
bang! bang! bang!

They came slowly down the road, one tall, one much shorter and heavier built. They both carried big back-packs and stooped under the weight of them. It was a hot day, hot as any that summer, and
they looked like they’d been walking a long time in the heat. The shorter one stopped just as they reached the school at the edge of the village. He bent himself nearly double and shucked his
pack forward towards his shoulders, then tightened the straps. The tall one waited, staring into the village. They both stood there a while, talking, just beyond the long, shady tunnel of trees
that stops where the mountain road ends and the High Street begins.

Luke tapped my shoulder and handed me a fresh rabbit’s foot. Hang it in the sun, he said, and don’t let it get wet. Wet’ll make it rot.

I turned it over in my hand. Soft, like something for a baby.

It’s a luck-charm, he said.

I put it in the big front pocket of my waitressing apron. When I looked again, the walkers were gone.

It was early afternoon when they came into the bar. I was clearing the dessert plates for old Pastor Williams and his sister. The two walkers dumped their rucksacks by the door and took a good
look around. The shorter one, a fair-haired boy not much older than me, I guessed, was red in the face and sweating. His tall, darker friend looked easy with the heat, and calm. He walked to the
bar while his friend took a seat in the shade. I put the dirty plates down on an empty table and hurried to get behind the bar before Mr Whitfield came through.

The stranger smiled, but not enough to show his teeth. Two bottles from the fridge, he said, pointing. Beer, please.

He sounded foreign and I felt my mouth go dry. Budweiser? I said.

Anything, he said.

In bottles we’ve got Budweiser or Heineken.

Either.

I could feel old Williams watching me but served the drinks anyway and took the money. When I went back for the dirty plates he said: Sarah fach, you leave that kind of work to Mr Whitfield,
now. He looked from one stranger to the other, then back again to me.

He’s not here, I said in Welsh, feeling my face burn.

He carried on in English. There’s Luke back in the kitchen there, he said.

The tall one was staring at Mr Williams now, but still smiling the same smile. Then Mr Whitfield came up from the cellar anyway and nothing else was said.

I took the plates through to the kitchen and when I came back to the bar the younger stranger was looking at the blackboard near the door. It said ‘Today’s Special – Trout
Fresh From The Lake’. I’d written it out neat that morning, in yellow chalk. They spoke quietly and the tall one went up to the bar.

Thanking you sir, said Mr Whitfield after taking his order. Then he waved me over.

Tell Luke he’s back on, he said under his breath, and tell him no pissing and moaning.

I went out through the kitchen and started up the fire escape to Luke’s room. He must have heard me clunking up the metal steps because before I got to the top he was out on his little
platform looking down. All he had on were white underpants. I stopped. The metal was burning in the sun and he hopped from foot to bare foot.

No way, he said, before I could speak.

He says you’ve got to. There’s two late customers.

Ah! Ah! he said, still hopping. Tell him to kiss my arse. I laughed. Okay, I said, and turned to go down.

My fucking feet! he yelled. I looked back but he’d disappeared.

In the kitchen I took down the big pan, got the lettuce bowl and trout out of the cabinet fridge and arranged it all ready for him.

Back in the bar Mr Whitfield was sitting with Mr and Mrs Williams, talking lambs in Welsh. It had been a terrible spring and dozens froze in the fields. Now, this early summer was the hottest
anyone could remember.

You can’t question, though, I heard Mr Williams say in his throaty old preaching voice.

No, you can’t question, said his sister, wobbling her head.

I noticed that the two strangers were watching them talk. They’d finished their first drinks and had two fresh bottles in front of them.

I found a few things to do at the bar. I emptied the slop trays and shuffled some bottles. Now and again I looked over at the strangers, sideways on. The tall one caught me every time. There he
was, smiling like he knew something. Soon I heard Luke clattering pans in the kitchen, which is what he does when he wants me through there to help him. I went through fast before he broke
anything.

Luke was still in his underpants. He’d put on shoes but that was all.

That’s not hygienic, I said.

They’re clean.

They weren’t. I went over to the fridge and got out a mini-trifle. I found a spoon on the draining board and ate the trifle fast, watching Luke work.

He picked up the trout from the chopping board. You can smell that shitty lake in these things, he said. You can taste it when you eat them. You can taste the silt. He laid the fish in a pan of
hot butter and tossed some mushrooms and chopped bacon and sliced almonds in with it. Put out the salad, he said.

I rinsed out the metal trifle dish, then got the salad ready. I threw in some extra green to use it up, all round the plate, then set it down next to Luke.

Jesus, I said a salad, not a garden. He lifted the trout onto it, then scooped the mushrooms, bacon and a few greasy almond slivers over the top. He cut a wedge of lemon and rustled it into the
lettuce and cress.

It was quiet back in the bar but I could feel the bad atmosphere. Mr Whitfield was staring at the two walkers. The younger boy was looking down at his feet. Mr Williams shook his head, though I
couldn’t tell why. I walked on over and put the plate in front of the tall one.

It’s not for me, he said, and pushed it in front of the boy. Any vinegar? he asked.

I went to fetch it from the bar and when I handed him the glass drizzler he took the stopper right out and splashed vinegar all over the boy’s fish, drenching it, washing the almonds off.
I almost laughed with surprise, imagining what Luke would say, but the boy just watched, showing no emotion at all.

Back in the kitchen there was no sign of Luke and Mr Whitfield stayed put in the bar, watching the strangers, probably. The kitchen was hotter than the bar and I had a terrible thirst. I ate
another trifle and drank cold water from the tap before going in to clear their table.

The bar was empty. I went to the window, quickly, and looked out onto the street. The air smelled of dust and tar. I leaned out and in the distance there was Mr Williams, stooping and slow,
helping his sister up the road. Then a big heavy hand squeezed hard behind and in-between and I nearly jumped out into the street.

Tidy up after them grubby hippies, there’s my girl, Mr Whitfield said.

Get off me, I shouted, and slapped at his hand.

He let go but I could still feel the throb where his big filthy fingers had been.

Be grateful someone gives you a bit of attention, he said. Then he went back behind the bar and started going through the till.

The boy had finished off almost all the fish, but he hadn’t touched the salad. The skeleton was left there, in the middle of it all. There was vinegar pooled all round the rim. I picked up
the plate, careful not to spill, and carried it through.

After washing up I hung my apron behind the door. There was a dark brown stain, just a spot, on the front pocket and I wondered for a second until I remembered the rabbit’s foot. I fished
it out to see – there was a little black knob of blood crusted on the tip of the bone. I wrapped it in foil so Luke wouldn’t find it, then buried it down with the rubbish.

Somehow I knew where I’d find the two walkers when I got out. I could feel it. I ran across the road and along to the wicket gate that gives onto the fields around the
lake. Near the water the fields stop dead and drop just a foot or so down to stones and mud, like a step or a bench, and they were sitting on it, down along the shore in the distance. Thin milky
clouds had come over and taken the glare from the sun, but that just made the hot air seem trapped and suffocating. I was breathing hard and trying not to swallow the tiny grey flies coming off the
muddy shore like puffs of smoke. The further on I went the thicker the gnats seemed to swarm, sticking to my sweating face, tangling in my hair.

Just a short way down from the strangers a man was fishing for trout. He’d waded in up to his waist and the two boys were watching him. The water was as still as I’d ever seen it.
Even when the fisherman moved to cast the ripples seemed wrong – they started to flow out, but then just flattened back into the surface. As I got close I tried to look surprised, as if
I’d chanced on them. The tall one smiled and waved me over. It was a big smile this time, showing off his crooked teeth. I could smell dope in the air, and the younger boy’s eyes were
nearly as glassy as the lake. I sat close to the tall one.