Holes for Faces (32 page)

I spent Saturday morning in dread of the phone. It was silent until lunchtime, and while I kept a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese down too. I lingered at the kitchen sink as long as I could, and then my mother said “Better be trotting. You don’t want it to be dark.”

“I haven’t got to go.”

“Why not?” my father said before she could.

“Uncle Phil, Uncle Philip said he’d phone when he wanted me.”

“Since when has he ever done that?”

“Last week.” I was trying to say as little as they would allow. “He really said.”

“I think there’s more to this than you’re telling us,” my mother warned me, if she wasn’t prompting.

“It doesn’t sound like Phil,” my father said. “I’m calling him.”
            My mother watched my father dial and then went upstairs. “Don’t say you’ve nodded off again,” my father told the phone, but it didn’t bring him an answer. At last he put the phone down. “You’d better go and see what’s up this time,” he told me.

“I think we should deal with this first,” said my mother.

She was at the top of the stairs, an exercise book in her hand. I hoped it was some of my homework until I saw it had a red cover, not the brown one that went with the school uniform. “I knew it couldn’t be our work with the community that’s been preying on his nerves,” she said.

“Feeling he hasn’t got any privacy might do that, Rosie.  Was there really any need to—”

“I thought he might have unsuitable reading up there, but this shows he’s been involved in worse. Heaven knows what he’s been watching or where.”

“I haven’t watched anything like that,” I protested. “It’s all out of my head.”

“If that’s true it’s worse still,” she said and tramped downstairs to thrust the book at my father. “We’ve done our best to keep you free of such things.”

He was leafing through it, stopping every so often to frown, when the phone rang. I tried to take the book, but my mother recaptured it. I watched nervously in case she harmed it while my father said “It is. He is. When? Where? We will. Where? Thanks.” He gazed at me before saying “Your uncle’s had a stroke on the way home from shopping. He’s back in hospital.”

I could think of nothing I dared say except “Are we going to see him?”

“We are now.”

“Can I have my book?”

My mother raised her eyebrows and grasped it with both hands, but my father took it from her. “I’ll handle it, Rosie. You can have it back when we decide you’re old enough, Craig.”

I wasn’t entirely unhappy with this. Once he’d taken it to their room I felt as if some of the ideas the house in Copse View had put in my head were safely stored away. Now I could worry about how I’d harmed my uncle or let him come to harm. As my father drove us to the hospital he and my mother were so silent that I was sure they thought I had.

My uncle was in bed halfway down a rank of patients with barely a movement between them. He looked shrunken, perhaps by his loose robe that tied at the back, and on the way to adopting its pallor. My parents took a hand each, leaving me to shuffle on the spot in front of his blanketed feet. “They’ll be reserving you a bed if you carry on like this, Phil,” my father joked or tried to joke.

My uncle blinked at me as if he were trying out his eyes and then worked his loose mouth. “Nod, you fool,” he more or less said.

I was obeying and doing my best to laugh in case this was expected of me before I grasped what he’d been labouring to pronounce. I hoped my parents also knew he’d said it wasn’t my fault, even if I still believed it was. “God, my shopping,” he more or less informed them. “Boy writing on the pavement. Went dafter then.” I gathered that someone riding on the pavement had got the bags my uncle had been carrying and that he’d gone after them, but what was he saying I should see as he pointed at his limp left arm with the hand my mother had been holding? He’d mentioned her as well. He was resting from his verbal exertions by the time I caught up with them. “Gave me this,” he’d meant to say. “Another attack.”

My parents seemed to find interpreting his speech almost as much of an effort as it cost him. I didn’t mind it or visiting him, even by myself, since the route took me nowhere near Copse View. Over the weeks he regained his ability to speak. I was pleased for him, and I tried to be equally enthusiastic that he was recovering his strength. The trouble was that it would let him go home.

I couldn’t wish he would lose it again. The most I could hope, which left me feeling painfully ashamed, was that he might refuse my help with shopping. I was keeping that thought to myself the last time I saw him in hospital. “I wouldn’t mind a hand on Saturday,” he said, “if you haven’t had enough of this old wreck.”

I assured him I hadn’t, and my expression didn’t let me down while he could see it. I managed to finish my dinner that night and even to some extent to sleep. Next day at school I had to blame my inattention and mistakes on worrying about my uncle, who was ill. Before the week was over I was using that excuse at home as well. I was afraid my parents would notice I was apprehensive about something else, and the fears aggravated each other.

While I didn’t want my parents to learn how much of a coward I was, on another level I was willing them to rescue me by noticing. They must have been too concerned about the estate—about making it safe for my uncle and people like him. By the time I was due to go to him my parents were at a police forum, where they would be leading a campaign for police to intervene in schools however young the criminals. I loitered in the house, hoping for a call to say my uncle didn’t need my help, until I realised that if I didn’t go out soon it would be dark.

December was a week old. The sky was a field of snow. My white breaths led me through the streets past abandoned Frugo trolleys and Frugoburger cartons. I was walking too fast to shiver much, even with the chill that had chalked all the veins of the dead leaves near Copse View. The trees were showing every bone, but what else had changed? I couldn’t comprehend the sight ahead, unless I was wary of believing in it, until I reached the end of the street that led to the woods. There wasn’t a derelict house to be seen. Shady Lane and Arbour Street and, far better, Copse View had been levelled, surrounding the woods with a triangle of waste land.

I remembered hearing sounds like thunder while my uncle was in hospital. The streets the demolition had exposed looked somehow insecure, unconvinced of their own reality, incomplete with just half an alley alongside the back yards. As I hurried along Copse View, where the pavement and the roadway seemed to be waiting for the terrace to reappear, I stared hard at the waste ground where the house with the occupant had been. I could see no trace of the building apart from the occasional chunk of brick, and none at all of the figure with the sticks.

I found my uncle in his chair outside the front door. I wondered if he’d locked himself out until he said “Thought you weren’t coming. I’m not as speedy as I was, you know.”

As we made for Frugo I saw he could trundle only as fast as his weaker arm was able to propel him. Whenever he lost patience and tried to go faster the chair went into a spin. “Waltzing and can’t even see my partner,” he complained but refused to let me push. On the way home he was slower still, and I had to unload most of his groceries, though not my Frugoat bar, which he’d forgotten to buy. When I came back from returning the trolley he was at his window, which was open, perhaps because he hadn’t wanted me to watch his struggles to raise the sash. “Thanks for the company,” he said.

I thought I’d been more than that. At least there was no need for me to wish for any on the walk home. I believed this until the woods came in sight, as much as they could for the dark. Night had arrived with a vengeance, and the houses beyond the triangle of wasteland cut off nearly all the light from the estate. Just a patch at the edge of the woods was lit by the solitary intact streetlamp.

Its glare seemed starkest on the area of rubbly ground where the house with the watchful occupant had been. The illuminated empty stretch reminded me of a stage awaiting a performer. Suppose the last tenant of the house had refused to move? Where would they have gone now that it was demolished? How resentful, even vengeful, might they be? I was heading for the nearest street when I heard the feral snarl of motorcycles beyond the houses. Without further thought I made for the woods.

Arbour Street and Shady Lane were far too dark. If the path took me past the site of the house, at least it kept me closer to the streetlamp. I sidled through the gap in the railings and followed the track as fast as the low-lying darkness let me. More than once shadows that turned out to be tendrils of undergrowth almost tripped me up. Trees and bushes kept shutting off the light before letting it display me again, though could anyone be watching? As it blazed in my eyes it turned my breaths the colour of fear, but I didn’t need to think that. I was shivering only because much of the chill of the night seemed to have found a home in the woods. The waste ground of Copse View was as deserted as ever. If I glanced at it every time the woods showed it I might collide with something in the dark.

I was concentrating mostly on the path when it brought me alongside the streetlamp. Opposite the ground where the demolished house had been, the glare was so unnaturally pale that it reduced the trees and shrubs and other vegetation to black and white. A stretch of ferns and their shadows beside the path looked more monochrome than alive or real. My shadow ventured past the lamp before I did, and jerked nervously over a discoloured mosaic of dead leaves as I turned my back on the site of the house. Now that the light wasn’t in my eyes I could walk faster, even if details of the woods tried to snag my attention: a circular patch of yellowish lichen on a log, lichen so intricate that it resembled embroidery; the vertical pattern on a tree trunk, lines thin and straight as pinstripes; a tangle of branches that put me in mind of collapsed shelves; a fractured branch protruding like a chair arm from a seat in a hollow tree with blanched ferns growing inside the hollow. None of this managed to halt me. It was a glimpse of a face in the darkness that did.

As a shiver held me where I was I saw that the face was peering out of the depths of a bush. It was on the side of the path that was further from Copse View, and some yards away from my route. I was trying to nerve myself to sprint past it when I realised why the face wasn’t moving; it was on a piece of litter caught in the bush. I took a step that tried to be casual, and then I faltered again. It wasn’t on a piece of paper as I’d thought. It was the queen’s portrait on a plate.

At once I felt surrounded by the deserted house or its remains. I swung around to make sure the waste ground was still deserted—that the woods were. Then I stumbled backwards away from the streetlamp and almost sprawled into the undergrowth. No more than half a dozen paces away—perhaps fewer—a figure was leaning on its sticks in the middle of the path.

It was outlined more than illuminated by the light, but I could see how ragged and piebald the scrawny body was. It was crouching forward, as immobile as ever, but I thought it was waiting for me to make the first move, to give it the excuse to hitch itself after me on its sticks. I imagined it coming for me as fast as a spider. I sucked in a breath I might have used to cry for help if any had been remotely likely. Instead I made myself twist around for the fastest sprint of my life, but my legs shuddered to a halt. The figure was ahead of me now, at barely half the distance.

The worst of it was the face, for want of a better word. The eyes and mouth were little more than tattered holes, though just too much more, in a surface that I did my utmost not to see in any detail. Nevertheless they widened, and there was no mistaking their triumph. If I turned away I would find the shape closer to me, but moving forward would bring it closer too. I could only shut my eyes and try to stay absolutely still.

It was too dark inside my eyelids and yet not sufficiently dark. I was terrified to see a silhouette looming on them if I shifted so much as an inch. I didn’t dare even open my mouth, but I imagined speaking—imagined it with all the force I could find inside myself. “Go away. Leave me alone. I didn’t do anything. Get someone else.”

For just an instant I thought of my uncle, to establish that I didn’t mean him, and then I concentrated on whoever had robbed him. An icy wind passed through the woods, and a tree creaked like an old door. The wind made me feel alone, and I tried to believe I entirely was. At last I risked looking. There was no sign of the figure ahead or, when I forced myself to turn, behind me or anywhere else.

I no longer felt safe in the woods. I took a few steps along the path before I fought my way through the bushes to the railings. I’d seen a gap left by a single railing, but was it wide enough for me to squeeze through? Once I’d succeeded, scraping my chest and collecting flakes of rust on my prickly skin, I fled home. I slowed and tried to do the same to my breath at the end of my street, and then I made another dash. My mother’s car was pulling away from the house.

She halted it beside me, and my father lowered his window. “Where do you think you’ve been, Craig?”

His grimness and my mother’s made me feel more threatened than I understood. “Helping,” I said.

“Don’t lie to us,” said my mother. “Don’t start doing that as well.”

“I’m not. Why are you saying I am? I was helping Uncle Phil. He’s gone slow.”

They gazed at me, and my father jerked a hand at the back seat. “Get in.”