In The Garden Of Stones (14 page)

“
And what about you?” Grace asks gently.

“
Me?” A hollow laugh. “I got away easy. Left leg clean off
at the knee, right oan mashed ta pulp, set on fire from neck to
backside, showered with white hot pieces of metal–”

There is
a sudden blinding light, accompanied by an instantaneous cannon
fire crack of thunder, and it makes Grace look to the leaden sky.
“Crikey, that was–”

“
GET DOWN!”

Her head
snaps rounds to see Colin launching himself at her, his face
contorted as he yells out his warning. He grabs her and wrestles
her to the ground, knocking the wind out of her.

He’s
heavy, solid bone and muscle pinning her face down into the leaf
mould and soil. She can’t breathe, only managing a stifled,
“Gerroffme!”

The gut
churning noise rumbles on its way, and in its wake the sky opens
and the rain pours down as if from an upturned bucket, forming
instant puddles. The choice facing her now is be crushed or be
drowned.

She
wriggles furiously beneath him, lashing out with a free foot. “Get
off me, Colin!”

The
flailing foot strikes home and Colin cries out, the hold lessens
and she crawls out from under him, rolls away and scrabbles to her
feet in the slippery earth, swearing and gasping for
air.

“
What the fuck do you think you’re–?” She stops. Stares. “Oh
no! Oh shit! Colin? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to–”

In dirt
rapidly turning to mud, Colin is curled like a Quaver, legs
pistoning like he’s riding an invisible bicycle, arms pulled tight
over his head, face the colour of ash, teeth clenched, keening and
whimpering like a beaten dog.

A kick
to the balls would have hurt, sure, but her lifting and separating
his testicles with her foot couldn’t have done this. This is
something much worse.

She
squats down and takes hold of his sodden shirt sleeve. “Colin,
you’ve got to get up. You’re getting drenched.”

He
flinches, bats her away and draws himself into an ever smaller
ball, shivering and whining. He’s not going anywhere, and when the
thunder and lightning come again, she realises why. She kneels down
in the wet dirt with him, leaning over him, sheltering him from the
deluge of rain hammering against her back, water streaming down her
face in a river.

“
Shhhh, it’s alright,” she whispers, moving her hand over
him in soothing comforting strokes. “There’s nothing to be
frightened of. You’re safe.”

“
That was quite a downpour,” Grace says, dabbing her hair
with the piece of rough fabric towel. “You’re soaked to the skin.
You need to get out of those wet things or you’ll catch
cold.”

A
furnace flush of embarrassment burns Colin’s neck and cheeks, and
he keeps his eyes on the floor as he wipes his red shiny face on
his sleeve. “So do you.”

“
What?”

Still
not looking, he wafts his hand at her. “Ye’re…showing.”

She
looks down at her blouse, at her lacy underwear clearly visible
through sodden mud streaked fabric turned transparent and clingy.
She squeaks and clutches the piece of cloth close. “Ah! Oh
dear…yes, I’d better go and … erm…” She hands him the rag. “You
going to be okay?”

He takes
the rough cloth and wrings it in his hands. “Aye.”

“
You sure? That was quite a turn you had there. I can stay
if you like, keep you company … if you’ll lend me a shirt or
something.”

He dabs
at a rivulet of water leaking from his own hairline. “It was
nothing. I’m fine.”

“
Didn’t look like nothing–”

“
I said I’m–”

“
Fine? Yes. I heard. Okay. If you’re sure.” Pause. “Can I
stop by and see you again?”

He looks
at her from under the makeshift towel. “Why?”

“
To make sure?”

He
shrugs. “There’s nae need…unless ye…unless ye want ta.”

“
I do want to, but it’s up to you.”

He dabs
his hair some more, frowns, nods. “’Kay.”

“
Tomorrow perhaps?”

“
I’ll be here.”

“
Splendid.”

Grace
pulls open the door “Right, I’ll leave you in peace and you can get
changed.” She looks to the sky. “If I get a move on, I might get to
the gate before another soaking is unleashed on me.”

She
steps outside.

“
Grace!”

She
turns back. Colin is hovering in the doorway, that awkward smile
tugging at his mouth. “Thank you,” he says.

“
What for?”

“
For no running away when you could have. For staying with
me … even though ye got soaked through. It meant a lot.”

A
difficult admission, she can see. “Not a problem.”

“
Please…come tomorrow?” he says.

She
sneezes. “If I haven’t got the flu, you can depend on
it.”

Grace
does not have the flu, or even a cold, she never got wet because
the rain wasn’t real. Yet although her blouse is dry, the skin
beneath is sticky and unpleasant with the clammy dampness of a cold
sweat.

A bone
deep chill makes her shiver. She takes a long warm shower, dresses
in a fleece lined sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, adding her
fluffy bed socks and rabbit eared slippers for extra
warmth.

Still
cold, she stands at the French window, wrapped in the throw from
the settee and clutching her cat in her arms. It oozes warmth like
a furry hot water bottle.

She
gazes out toward the abandoned and neglected walled garden she
knows is beyond the houses across the way. Idly she strokes the
cat’s fur and the creature closes its jade green eyes and commences
to purr, rumbling and vibrating from deep within its throat, the
quivering against her arm making her think about Colin and the way
he shook and shivered under her hand as she tried to comfort
him.

“
It was only a crack of thunder, but he was scared to death
of it,” she says. “I’ve never seen anyone in such a state. If it
was something he was afraid of, he wouldn’t allow it into his world
would he, no more than I would allow in a big hairy spider? So
where did it come from?”

Grace
takes a closer look at the townscape, at roof slates slick with
wet, at the standing puddles in the gutter swirling with iridescent
oil residue from the tarmac, noticing how the leaves on the trees
have taken on that strange yellow green, post rainstorm
fluorescence, and it all becomes clear.

“
Colin didn’t do it at all, it was me. The
thunderstorm happened here, and
my
subconscious picked it up and recreated it
where we were.” She sags and groans. “Thunder and lightning, huge
noise, flash of light, just like an explosion. Colin was talking
about a bomb. If the storm came through me and gave him some kind
of flashback, then that makes me responsible.” She nuzzles the
cat’s ears, feeling guilt-ridden and dreadful. “Oh God, what have I
done?” Sigh. “Somehow, Pickles, I don’t think an apology will be
anywhere near enough this time.”

Chapter 16

Grace
rolls the brown bottle between her hands, back and forth, back and
forth.

“
Ye look like ye’ve got something on yer mind,” says Colin.
“Want ta talk about it?”

She
takes a long slow sip of her beer. “I owe you an apology,” she
says. “Actually two.”

“
Fit fer?”

“
First off, for kicking you in the nuts. I hope I didn’t do
too much damage to your … prospects.”

Colin
shifts in his seat and winces, hand dropping beneath the table to
offer some comfort to his battered balls.

“
Brought a tear to ma eye and I’ll no be able to sit down
without a cushion for a week or two,” he says. “But I ken ye didna
do it on purpose, so give me time and an icepack and I’ll consider
forgiving ye.”

“
Thanks.”

“
Ye said two apologies.”

“
Yeah.” Another sip. This time the beer tastes like diesel
in her mouth. “What happened here yesterday,” she says. “The storm,
the thunder and lightning, what it did to you … I did it. Not on
purpose, but I am responsible.”

“
Pish. Naeb’dy’s responsible for the weather.”

“
Not outside, no, but here, in this case–”

“
In this case what? Nothing happened.”

“
Yes it did. You–”

“
Nothing - happened.”

“
I know what I saw,” she says. “And I appreciate you’re
probably a bit embarrassed and it’s a sensitive subject you’d
rather not talk about, but I think you should–”

“
For the last time, get it through yer thick heid, there’s
nothing ta talk about so drop it will ye? Swear ta God, I’ve never
kenned anyone talk mair bollocks than you.”

“
There’s no cause to be vulgar.”

“
Oh aye.” Colin puts his bottle to his lips. “Newsflash fer
ye, darlin’, its fit I am.” He takes a gulp of beer, sucks at his
teeth, and lets out a derogatory snort. “I’m no really an officer
and a gentleman, ye ken. That’s all flash and manners, part o’ ma
job, a show fer the masses, fer you. The real me is as vulgar and
offensive, as common and dirty as the next man. Swearin’ an’
spittin’ an’ scratchin’ ma arse in public. I fart in bed, piss in
doorways and puke in the gutter.” Sniff. “Don’t like it, tough …
ga’way.” He takes a drink and wipes his mouth with the back of his
hand. “Now if ye don’t mind–”

He’s
halfway out of his chair when Grace reaches over the table, clamps
her hand around his wrist and holds on tight. He looks first to her
hand and then to her.

“
You want ta let go?”

Grace’s
eyes shine with indignation. “No.” She tightens her grip.
“Sit-down.”

Her hand
may be small and his wrist broad, but her hold is solid. He has a
choice. Lose some skin, or sit down again. He sits.

“
You finished?” she says. “Feel better for that little
outburst?”

Piqued
silence.

“
Now let me tell you something,
Captain
,” she says, her voice low and tight. “You
might get away with using that kind of filthy talk on your men, but
it won’t wash with me. Slipping into the vernacular, using
profanity, putting on a show of lewdness hoping I’ll walk out in
disgust and never darken your door again, it’s all a waste of time
theatricals played to the wrong audience. Believe me I know a
defensive front when I see one, and yours might be ten feet high
and lit up like Blackpool promenade at the illuminations, but it’s
made of glass and I can see right through it to you hiding behind
it.” She leans toward him. “Ye-ken?”

He glares at her, mouth pulled into an angry cat’s bum
pout, swallows, but says nothing. She holds onto his wrist for a
couple of beats more as they stare at each other across the table,
then she lets go,
gets up and slopes outside.

After a
while Colin follows, to find her sitting hunched on a low grave
slab at the path, poking at the gravel with her toe. He sits beside
her.

“
I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know where that came from. It
was gey rude. Unforgivable. Ye were right. It was all a show, and a
pretty shoddy one at that
. You touched a nerve, a pretty raw one, and being
rude and boorish was just me being defensive, lashing out because
I’d been humiliated by ye seein’ ma skelped arse exposed ta the
world. I didn’t know what else ta dae. I’m sorry for what I said,
fer being so offensive. You didn’t deserve it.”

“
No I didn’t.”

“
Still friends?”

“
I’ll think about it.”

“
You have every right to be outraged.” He rubs his wrist.
“Quite a grip ye’ve got there for a wee one by the way.”

Silence.

“
Tell me yer theory, about what ye think happened
yesterday,” he says.

“
So you are admitting something did happen?”

“
Aye, there’s no denying it. So tell me. I’ll keep quiet. No
rudeness, I promise. Scouts’ honour.” He pops up his right hand,
three fingers extended, little finger and thumb touching across the
palm. “Dib dib dob and all that.”

Grace
gives him a withering look. “Idiot.”

He drops
the salute, clears his throat and tucks his hands into his armpits,
out of harm’s way.

She
shifts the chuckies about some more, rolls her head back, eyes
closed, and sighs.

“
Yesterday, at the same time I was here with you, there was
a storm out where I live,” she says. “It was pretty localised,
thunder and lightning, a really heavy downpour, flash flooding, the
works, although having other things on my mind I wasn’t really
aware of it. My theory is that it made its way here via my
subconscious. If I hadn’t been here–”

“
Pure conjecture. A coincidence.”

“
No it’s not. It’s conclusive proof that what happens
outside can affect things here. Think about it. It stands to
reason. If everything here is formed from our own experiences, our
memories, our thoughts, desires, needs and wants, and we can make
nice things like beer and strawberries, then it makes sense that
not so nice outside influences can creep in and have an effect.
Things like a thunderstorm…or the pain you are in.”