Mercy Seat (14 page)

A tall, straight-backed man in a charcoal suit and minister's collar, is addressing them, staring balefully over their heads at some fixed point beyond them which might be the bay window of Bethesda. I wonder if Mrs Clement is staring back at him. I can't make out what he's saying but then the kids start singing, self-consciously, uneasy maybe at the onlookers collecting around them.
We rest on thee
, they moan,
our shield and our defender
.

Halfway up the steps I see Clement lurking behind the glass panels of the front door. He opens it for me as I arrive at the top step, then nods sombrely as I steer Michael past him.

Well, Luke, he says meditatively, leaving the door open to stare more easily out at the singers. Look at this, he murmurs, and prods the steel bridge of his spectacles to bring the lenses closer to his grey eyes. Look now, he says again, and I stop despite myself and turn to watch with him. He shifts a little to let me get a clearer view and as he moves I catch a faint scent of stale sweat from his shirt. As the hymn draws to a close he starts to sing along, his voice soft and narcotic.
Victors we rest, with thee through endless days. Vic-tors-we-rest with thee through end-less days
. A local boy, see, he says. Swept away last week.

I nod, remembering the yellow helicopter sweeping
back and forth over the bay. I hadn't thought much about it at the time or afterwards – it wasn't too rare a sight, and might have been a training exercise for all anyone could know.

Man is as grass, see, Luke. As grass, he sighs. Well, well.

Across the road the minister goes through his benediction, lifting his arms, face turned to the sky. The kids all bow their heads, though the young teacher keeps a furtive watch. Then it's over and they're all herded back up the prom, some of the girls linking arms, looking like they might be sobbing, or gossiping. There's a white wreath tied to the rail where the minister was standing. The onlookers linger for a while, some of the more curious stooping to read the cards attached to the flowers. Then everyone drifts on and I'm left listening to Clement humming the tune of the hymn again.

I'd better get going, I tell him, I've got to drop off Michael with Mrs Clement and get to work. He stops mid-note and peers at me as if I've startled him awake.

Eight

The Monday evening passed slowly and quietly after Anzani's phone call. Jenny complained of being tired and seemed to shut herself off from all of us, even Michael, for long stretches of time. I read and watched TV on the sofa with Christine while Jenny, curled in the big armchair opposite us, leafed through some of the magazines she'd bought while they'd wandered the shops and cafes in the week before. At ten she suggested an early night. Christine agreed and that was just about the only communication they had all evening.

At breakfast on the Tuesday, when Christine had showered after her swim and was towelling her hair in front of the window, Jenny mentioned that maybe Anzani wouldn't be too happy about her riding with me in his van. He might think you're taking advantage, she said.

Advantage of what? Christine asked, watching me rather than her sister.

Jenny finished feeding Michael a blob of mush she'd scraped together from what was left of his rusks. It just might look odd, she said, if he sees you. He doesn't know who you are. You could be anyone. It might put Luke in an awkward position.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I can pick Chris up after I collect the van, I said. He won't see her then.

For some reason neither of them seemed satisfied with that and the atmosphere stayed uneasy. Jenny shrugged
and scratched together one last spoonful of rusk for Michael. He pursed his lips and tried to butt it away. Jenny let him be and dropped the full spoon back in his bowl. Is everyone done? she said. She looked at the empty plates and bowls on the table, then started stacking them briskly on top of her own.

Every other morning since she'd arrived Christine had cleared the breakfast things and brought back coffees from the upstairs kitchen. Now, taken by surprise, she folded her towel and stared at Jen. I can do that, she said.

There's no need.

I'd like to.

Well, so would I today. I don't like sitting around looking at dirty dishes.

Christine's cheeks coloured faintly. I would have done it, she said.

Jenny shrugged. I just feel like doing it now.

Okay. Thanks. Christine left the towel on a radiator and joined me on the sofa. I could smell apples in the shampoo she'd used.

You see to Michael, Jenny said quietly to me, as if speaking privately.

As soon as Jenny left for the kitchen, Christine got up from the sofa, found her trainers and tugged them onto her feet. I'm going for a walk, she said. What time are you going to get the van?

Not till the afternoon. About three.

Well. I might not be back for lunch. If I'm not, where should I meet you?

I could pick you up here.

No. Somewhere in town. She shifted her weight
restlessly from one foot to another and I could tell she wanted to get away before Jenny returned.

What places do you know?

She shrugged. The castle, museum, library… some pubs and shops. I know all the big shops so I could meet you outside any of them.

They'd be a pig to park a van in front of, when there's traffic. How about the library?

She was already edging to the door. Fine, right. At three?

Just after. About ten past.

The water pipes behind the wall groaned as someone ran hot water somewhere in the building. Probably Jenny in the kitchen. I'm your guest now, she said, calmly and definitely. You know that, don't you? She looked me in the eye and I had to turn away. I'm going then, she said. Bye. She left without closing the door, her hair still damp and limp.

I checked Michael's nappy, cleaned his face, then took him to the window and waited for Jen.

Where's Christine? she asked as soon as she stepped through the open door.

Out for a walk.

Oh. That's nice. I take extra days off work so she doesn't have to get bored and she disappears without me. That's really nice. She went through to the living room and folded herself into the armchair, legs drawn up under her.

She might not be long, I lied.

Jenny didn't bother answering. Bring Michael through, she called after a little while.

I took him to her. I'll make coffee, I said, handing him
down.

Thanks, she said, standing Michael on her thighs, propping him under his armpits. He swayed wide-eyed but disinterested. She jiggled him, wanting a response, and he dribbled. I put the kettle on to boil while I was up there, she said. I meant to bring the coffee down with me but I forgot when I heard somebody going down the stairs. Sorry. She leaned forward and let Michael down onto the floor.

There were three mugs set out ready in the kitchen. I put the kettle on and while it came back to the boil I rinsed the paste of coffee grains, milk and sugar out of Christine's cup. Back out on the stairs I passed the tall, middle-aged man I'd seen in the corridor with Clement the week before. He was wearing a shapeless blue tracksuit and had a grey towel slung around the back of his stooped neck. He let himself into the bathroom without a word.

Jenny's mood stayed low all through the morning. I escaped the worst of it by shutting myself in the box-room and working on a new study pack that had been waiting for me when I'd checked the post downstairs in the morning. Every so often Jenny put her head around the door and offered to make more coffee, but I was jumpy enough without it.

At twelve she interrupted again to find out if I was ready for lunch. I told her I was and finished the paragraph I was reading while she lingered in the doorway, watching. Do you think she'll be back for lunch? she asked.

She might eat out. She didn't say she'd be back.

It's just I don't know whether to make enough for two or three.

Well, just make enough for three and we can eat a little
extra if she doesn't come.

I know. I know it's not a problem. I was just wondering if she'd be back for it, that's all.

She's just gone for a walk. That's not a problem either, is it?

No. It's not. I don't know. I just feel bad. I don't want to feel hurt. Or angry with her. I don't want to spoil things, or I know I might never see her again.

You won't spoil things. She's not a child.

Jenny frowned. No, I know, she said. I don't know why I feel like this. But I do. So that's that.

Well, Christ, Jen. It's nothing.

She nodded absently, yawning, suddenly seeming far away and not bothered at all. Maybe I'm just tired. These last two weeks… I'm not sleeping well. She rubbed her face with both hands.

Well, if you're not sleeping you must be tired.

Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe that's it. Anyway, are you ok?

Yes, I said, trying to sound surprised that she should ask. I'm fine. I fixed my eyes on the page in front of me. There was a fingerprint where I'd been touching the paper and I realised my hands were sweating right to the fingertips.

Come through then, she said.

We ate lunch without saying much. Michael was sleeping soundly in his cot for once and Jenny seemed content to enjoy the peace and quiet. Now that I could see her in the full daylight from the window I realised she looked not tired but exhausted. Her face was puffy as if it hadn't woken up yet; her eyelids hooded down low each time she looked up from her soup dish and swallowed.

At around one there were footsteps on the stairs and along our corridor and Jenny twisted round in her chair to face the door. But it must have been either Alex home on his lunch break or the new tenant I'd passed earlier because no one knocked or came in and Jenny turned away again, unsettled.

Let's put the news on, she said once we'd finished. I want to see the weather – they said earlier there may be storms blowing in.

I switched on the set and turned the volume low enough not to carry through to Michael. Jenny watched it but her eyes kept drifting from the TV to some other place: the magnets on the door of the mini-fridge, or one of Michael's toys left lying on the floor.

Are you still upset? I asked, immediately regretting it because I couldn't keep an irritable edge out of my voice.

She drooped her head and sighed. Just ignore me. I don't know what's wrong with me. I just need to pull myself together. Christine can't help being odd, can she? She just didn't have a normal childhood or adolescence or anything. God knows what damage that man did to her. All those years under his influence. All those lies. I'm just lucky I got away. Oh God, she said. It's not too late, is it Luke?

I didn't know what to say, so said nothing.

She straightened her neck, then let her head tilt back and closed her eyes. I could see the forked vein at the side of her neck ticking under the taut skin.

I turned away. I'll wash up, I said. Tell me what the weather report says, if I miss it.

I will, she said, and brought her head swinging forward. I'm watching properly now.

The sink in the kitchen was loaded with debris. Someone had cooked porridge, burned it stuck onto a big steel pan and left it to soak in cold water. Then they'd dumped what seemed like a week's load of crusted up plates and cutlery on top of it. Tucked down the side was an ancient baking tray with a burned pie base soldered to it. Where the pastry hadn't burned black it was swollen and ready to break up in the water. It looked like dead flesh and when I delved into the bowl a smell like cat food rose up from the meat left clinging to it. Alex, I thought, though of course it might have been anyone on the upper floors. I remembered Christine's drunken, knowing scorn in the bar. I hauled enough of the crockery out to give me room to rinse the soup plates and spoons under the hot tap. I swilled them through quickly, dried them and stowed them away.

When I got back to Jenny I thought she was sleeping, but she opened her eyes when I got close. The TV was still on but the news and weather had finished and Neighbours was playing, the volume so low I could hardly hear a word.

Storms on the weekend, Jenny said, then yawned. What time do you have to go?

About half two.

She looked at her watch but didn't comment.

Why don't you sleep for a while?

She shook her head. I don't like to sleep in the day. You know I never can, anyway. It makes me depressed.

You could lie on the sofa and just rest. You don't have to sleep.

She yawned again. Maybe, she said. Will you lie down with me? Just for a while?

Ok, I said.

Do you mind?

No, no. I've finished reading.

She rose stiffly out of the chair and moved to the sofa where she arranged a couple of cushions as pillows. Then she half sat, half lay and swung her legs up to settle full length on her side.

I went to switch the TV off but she called me back. Don't, she said. Leave it on low. I like the voices in the background.

I left it and stretched out alongside her, facing her, my chin resting against her forehead. I laid one arm over her body and tucked the other between our chests. I could feel her heart tapping at the back of my hand.

Are you comfortable like that? she asked. Your arm's not trapped?

I told her it was fine, and gradually she seemed to relax. Don't let me sleep, she mumbled, and soon she was gone, breathing small unconscious breaths into the hollow of my neck.

For a while I listened to the television running behind my back, then felt my own eyelids getting heavy and knew I should wake Jenny and sit up in case I slept past two. Part of me wanted to give in, though – the thought of meeting Christine was like a stone inside and the easiest way was to let it pin me there on the sofa, like some blind, deaf creature on the seabed, until the time to make decisions was over.

Lying still and letting my thoughts drift to anything except Christine, a memory came into my head from a bible reading I'd heard at a cousin's funeral when I was sixteen or so – just after I'd started my apprenticeship at the pit. He'd died in a hit-and-run, walking home drunk in
the middle of the road between Pontypridd and Glyncoch. It was from the Old Testament somewhere, about some prophet who raised a boy from the dead. The prophet laid himself full-length on top of the corpse – mouth to mouth, toe to toe – and the boy revived. I hadn't known my cousin very well at all, and grew bored and uncomfortable on the hard chapel pew as the minister spun out the story, but it came back to me with a sudden, weird clarity as I lay there on the sofa with Jenny, feeling her weight on my arm and her breath on my bare throat.