The Blind Eye (22 page)

You know
, she said,
I can understand why you didn’t want to see me. I even understood it then
, she grimaced slightly, hating the memory of what she had been like,
but I never understood Victoria
. She looked away.
She was my best friend
.

And still I didn’t say a word.

6

I do not know whether Greta asked Silas to try a little harder, whether she urged him to attempt to talk to me again, but when he arrived for our next appointment, I sensed a greater desire in him to speak the truth.

He was tense when he sat down, his entire body rigid as he braced himself for what he knew was bound to follow, and his answers were, at first, monosyllabic to even the most innocuous of questions.

We spent the first part of the appointment talking about the isolation of his life, and he soon tired of it. He felt we were simply going around in circles.

I was always someone who just went along with whatever was happening
, he explained.
I never made any attempts to assert an identity. Even my rebellions, for what they were worth, were no more than what you would expect a bored rich kid to do. I was easygoing, so people hung around. And there was also my money
.

I asked him whether he had ever considered the possibility he might have been liked by some of the people he had met. He did not respond.

And now?
I sat back.

Silas looked at the ceiling without blinking.
I’ve removed myself. It’s just the way it has to be
.

I had chosen more regular follow-up visits than I would normally schedule because I had felt a concern, a need to closely monitor his progress, but I had delayed prescribing further treatment. I had wanted to assess the effect of the initial remedy over a period of time before I considered whether I should select another. When I told him this, adding that I am not always orthodox in my approach, that I sometimes choose a more dynamic intervention, he finally smiled.

He said that the initial remedy I gave him had not appeared particularly dynamic. The drops had simply tasted like sugar. He had felt no radical impact, although he did have to admit there had been an undeniable lessening in his heart pains, and he looked surprised, as though the realisation had not occurred until that moment.

We could probably go on using it
, I said.
In fact, everything you have told me would seem to indicate that it is more than appropriate. But
, and I smiled at him,
I’m always open to stirring things up. A shake-up can sometimes work wonders
.

Silas shrugged.
Whatever
, and he pulled at the hem of his sleeve, trying to cover the fresh sores puncturing his flesh.

I told him we needed to go back to what we had begun to discuss at the last appointment and I saw him scratch at
his ankle, crossing and uncrossing his legs as though he could not find a comfortable position in which to sit.

The most recent episode, it was last night?
I glanced quickly at the notes I had made and Silas nodded.

Did you see anything? Hear anything?

He had already told me that he had not been surprised to find himself awake at four in the morning, inspecting the fresh wounds under the light of his bedside lamp. He had come home at midnight, agitated, anxious about sleeping.

I had been out, drinking with Greta
, he had explained.
It was the alcohol, I suppose. It made me think I could ask her home, it made me forget what I do to myself. But she was in a strange mood. She had told me stuff. About herself
, and he had looked away, his face betraying the discomfort he had suddenly felt in discussing her with me.
So we parted
.

He had still not told me whether he had experienced any sensations prior to waking, and he knew it. He swallowed, his mouth dry as he finally attempted to answer my question.

I guess I’ve been lying
.

In the stillness I could hear the clock in reception click over and, from the other end of the building, the soft thud of the heavy doors that lead onto the street. This was the time when we closed them. People who were booked in for after-hours appointments were instructed to ring the buzzer. Fortunately, I had made no additional appointments
for the day, knowing Silas was last on my list and that we would need time.

His voice was tight as he attempted to explain.
When I told you that I don’t know, that was when I was lying
.

Know what?

What I am doing to myself
.

It was the sweetness, the rich headiness of Constance’s flowers that he always smelt, somewhere in his subconscious. As he tried to describe it, I saw a trickle of sweat running down the back of his neck, and I watched as he wiped at it, agitated.

So, you see, I am not entirely unaware
.

I nodded.

And the thing is, I can stop it, at that stage, I can wake myself up. I don’t have to do this
, he held out his arm.
It’s a choice.

And you choose this?

He looked at the ground.

Why?

He shifted in his chair.
Because I want to
. He pushed his sleeves up and stared at the wounds.

I did not speak for a moment. I was hoping he would continue, and I watched him as he struggled for an explanation. He bit his lip, the flesh white beneath his teeth. He scratched at his wrist. He closed his eyes. Finally, I leant a little closer.

And do you see anything? When you are hurting yourself?

He was about to shake his head, but then he stopped. There was no point in further lies. Staring out the window, he finally answered my question, and for a moment I did not understand.

Myself
.

I looked at him.
Are you watching yourself hurting yourself
?

Silas shook his head.

Are you doing anything?

No. I just see my own face
.

I waited.

Silas’s intake of breath was sharp.
It is hatred
.

I opened my mouth to speak but I did not know what to say. We looked at each other in silence for what was only an instant, a missed beat, but felt longer. I remember that I wanted to touch him, I wanted to reach out and hold his arm in my hand, wrapping my own fingers around the wide open sores, but I knew that if I moved, he would only pull away. I could see it on his face. All that he wanted was to go. He could see no point in any of this; there was nothing I could do. With his hands pressed down on the arm of the chair, he attempted to stand, and that was when I moved, laying my fingers across his elbow.

So, what is it this time?
Silas’s voice was tired.
Another spider?

I shook my head.

A snake?
As he uttered the words, I wondered at the disgust in his voice.

I smiled.
No
. I tore the page off my notebook.
This
, and I pointed to Silas’s arm,
is not a snake
.

Silas looked at me.

I needed my voice to be gentle.
A snake is too self-possessed to act in this way
. I held out the page for him to take.
I’d like to try Belladonna this time
.

Silas sighed.
It can’t change what I did. Nothing can — poison, venom, plant, animal, what does it matter?

I didn’t understand.

I didn’t act quickly enough. I saw she had been bitten and I didn’t know what to do. I went to get help, but it was too late
.

It still made no sense. What he had done was not so bad.

And that’s all?
I asked, unable to hide the confusion in my voice.

He did not reply. He was tapping his fingers on his knees, drumming them, trying to distract himself from the sudden desire he had to weep, because he knew how close we had come; we were standing right at the brink of the hole that was himself and he could not bear it.

There was more to his story, that much was clear. Later, I would wonder at my inability to see what was obvious, but at that stage I simply wanted him to understand that we were not seeking to change the past. No one can do that.

It is a question of being able to make peace
.

He looked at me.

Being in a position to do that
.

That’s what I would like
, and although his expression was one of doubt, it was as though he had suddenly realised he had been searching for the wrong goal.

I watched him, the awareness flickering across his face, and as we stared at each other, I let the pain go, because it was only in that instant that I realised I had been holding it in my own flesh, the hard hatred of the wounds I had been touching, there in my own body, and I breathed in, slowly and deeply, desperately needing the sweetness of the air fresh in my lungs.

7

The night after Silas attempted to tell Constance that he loved her, he came back to Thai’s to find them all on the verandah: Steve, Jason and Mick. Not one of them looked in his direction as he passed. In his room, his belongings had been pulled out of his bag and hastily repacked. He had not bothered to hide the little cash he kept on him. It was there, next to his bed, underneath a pile of papers, but whoever had searched through his room had missed it.

He sat on the floor, the dry, bare boards creaking beneath his weight, a single fly buzzing loudly near his head. From outside, he could hear the shattering of glass as Steve threw another empty bottle onto the pile. Silas put his head in his hands, the dirt caked into every crevice of his skin, and closed his eyes. Tonight he would pack. Tomorrow he would tell Constance that if there was no place for him out there with her, he would go.

He had sat through lunch, trying to eat the roast duck Rudi had served, the fat congealing on the enamel plates, the meat sinking heavy and indigestible to the pit of his
stomach. He was aware only of her opposite him, and the realisation that he had meant what he said, he wanted to be with her, he needed to be with her.

It was Rudi who had done all the talking.

Everything you eat, all of it
, he had told Silas several times,
has no poison, no chemicals. See how good it is
, and he had smacked his lips in pleasure at the taste.
Look at my daughter, this is what she eats; see her skin, her eyes
, and his own eyes had softened as he had looked across at Constance.
This is good health. This is how it should be. But do they listen?
and he had nodded in the direction of Port Tremaine as he had repeated his old refrain.
Not a word. And then they wonder what is happening to their country, their town
.