The Good Girl (38 page)

By the time Ailsa and Romy reached the sweat lodge Harry was already on his hands and knees, pulling at the neat cross-stitch of ropes that held the door shut. He called Ben’s name and shouted the same instructions over and over again: ‘Wrap your top around your face. Try to crawl towards my voice. Take shallow breaths.’ Ailsa waited for Ben’s response but there was none.

Harry’s face glistened with sweat. Every couple of seconds he stepped back for a moment and wiped his forehead. As Ailsa got closer she understood why. Heat radiated from the building. She touched its shiny surface with the palm of her hand and quickly withdrew it. It wasn’t so much the heat, although that came as a shock, it was the realization of what was at stake.

‘He must have lit the fire,’ Harry explained breathlessly, echoing her thoughts. His face was distorted with tension. He began tugging at the rope again and continued shouting to Ben. Ailsa noticed his hands were trembling. ‘I can’t open the damned door. It’s fastened tight from the inside.’

‘He knows knots,’ Ailsa said. Their exchange was economical; the priority was to free Ben as quickly as possible. Ailsa’s eyes darted back and forth across the building, searching for another way in. At work she was
valued for her ability to respond practically and decisively to any emergency. At least that was what the head of the board of governors had said to her this morning when he phoned to say that she had their full backing and could return to work immediately. But right now she couldn’t chase any thought to its logical end.

She wished she had listened more attentively to Wolf’s long-winded description of how he had constructed the sweat lodge. All she could recall was how it embodied the womb of Mother Earth and that at its peak the ambient temperature reached 39 degrees Celsius. Would a nine-year-old be able to survive such heat? She tried to calculate how long Ben might have been inside. Could she be certain that he was at home when they left for the Fairports? He might have slipped out of the house earlier. They had been in Harry’s office in the basement for most of the afternoon. How long were they arguing in the Fairports’ sitting room? It seemed like hours but it might have been minutes.

The sun had almost dropped out of sight. The arc of trees surrounding the sweat lodge cast long shadows and she squinted to try and adjust to the dusky light. Ailsa noted the multiple layers of plastic-coated canvas stretched across the surface. She searched for a seam where they overlapped, using her hands to feel her way. But when she finally found a join and tucked her fingers beneath the edge to lift the canvas, she knew instantly that it was too heavy and slippery to get any purchase. She imagined peeling back this layer and uncovering another one beneath and another beneath that. Like an artichoke.

Romy pulled at her shoulder. Ailsa didn’t look at her in case she detected reproach in her face. If Ben didn’t make it, she would have to look Romy in the eye and convince her that this wasn’t her fault. She couldn’t explain that everything had happened because of her. For a split second Ailsa wished it was Romy, not Ben, stuck in the sweat lodge. They could tell people that the wretched boy in the house next door had driven her to it. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, but instead of the usual earthy scent there was the acrid taste of burned plastic. What was she thinking? She loved Romy. She was a good daughter. After all that had happened that week, her mind was as treacherous as white water.

Poor Romy. It wasn’t fair to condemn her for the gulf that had opened up between their aspirations and her fall from grace. She had been the repository of so many of their hopes. They had always expected more of her than they did of Luke and Ben.

‘Mum, we need to find something sharp to cut the plastic,’ Romy said.

Ailsa turned to Romy and saw she was savagely massaging her temples in the way that she did when she was stuck on Further Maths homework. Luke called it her hyperbolic function look. They nodded at each other and dropped to their hands and knees. Romy used her nails to comb through the grass and mud. She found a beer bottle left over from the party and smashed it on a flint. Ailsa pointed at the seam where she had tried to peel back the canvas and Romy used a piece of the glass to attempt to
cut the plastic. It skidded and skated across the surface. She renewed her efforts. When she couldn’t even inflict a superficial graze, she resorted to stabbing at the canvas.

‘It’s triple-layer woven PVC,’ shouted Wolf, who had just reached them. ‘Tougher than glass. Impossible to cut.’

He dropped down on his haunches beside Harry. The sarong was now knotted around him like a loincloth. Ailsa waited for him to take charge and redirect the rescue effort because as the architect of this building he would surely know exactly how to get inside. He would take responsibility. She was momentarily revived by the possibility of a resolution. There was a point in any drama with children where you dared to think everything was going to be all right. Where you could almost imagine looking back and laughing at your ridiculous panic. Surely this was it. Wolf was a practical man and would have a plan. Ailsa gave him a hopeful smile but Wolf offered nothing and instead fell in with Harry, tugging at the rope. He was devoid of ideas.

She tried not to panic when their combined efforts brought no reward. The door was fastened as tight as a corset. The idea that Ben was so close but so out of reach became unbearable. She called out his name again and hammered on the lodge with her fist but it only made a muffled thud like a heart beating. Ailsa didn’t recognize her own voice. It struck her that the last time she had made a sound like this was when she had given birth to Ben. She finally surrendered to the overwhelming feeling of dread.

Did she make all this happen?
Ailsa wondered as she
banged on the sweat lodge. Everything seemed connected, each new drama a reaction to something that had happened before. She hated the idea of destiny because if it existed Ben’s death would undoubtedly be her punishment for the trail of events that she could trace back to the night before her wedding.

She wanted to tell Harry everything but now there was no time. She remembered the first time they had sex and woke up together the next morning entwined in his tent. She had described it as a
coup de foudre
. He had responded by describing how every decision, movement and emotion required the combined firepower of millions of neurotransmitters across entire areas of the brain. Everything acted in tandem. ‘You have sex with your brain not your heart,’ Harry said. ‘It’s matter over mind.’ She had laughed. She had never met anyone who thought like Harry.

At that time he was a junior member of an international team doing research into how the brain makes decisions up to seven seconds before people make a conscious choice. Harry could predict what choice a volunteer would make before they were even aware they were making one. ‘The idea that we have control over our lives is an illusion,’ Harry said. ‘Most decisions are made in our subconscious.’ He described consciousness as a biochemical afterthought. ‘Are you saying there is no such thing as free will?’ she had asked. ‘The concept that we have control over our life is an illusion,’ Harry had replied.

She thought of the moment when Matt had slid his arm around her back to test whether she had the capacity to be as reckless as him and she responded by pressing herself against him. Perhaps her brain had decided to do that before she was even conscious of the impulse. Matt’s discovery about Luke didn’t constitute a real excuse for her betrayal. She found salvation in this concept. Not because it negated her responsibility but because it suggested that nothing was inevitable. There was no chain of events. If Ben died, it wouldn’t be because Harry wasn’t Luke’s father.

She focused her efforts on rescuing Ben, turning her attention to the metal-framed eyelets through which the rope was threaded. Their edges were new and shiny and perhaps the friction caused by pulling the rope back and forth might cause it to fray. She bent down to examine the eyelets more closely and saw tiny funnels of smoke wafting through.

‘I blocked off the chimney for Marley’s party,’ explained Wolf quickly when he saw that she had noticed. ‘There’s nowhere for the smoke to go. The heat isn’t dangerous. It’s the fumes.’

‘Why didn’t you say that before?’ asked Ailsa.

‘Carbon monoxide?’ said Harry. Wolf nodded. Ailsa didn’t want them to agree. She wanted them to argue over who had the best idea and come up with a radical plan. She took off her belt and used the buckle to try and prise apart the thick threads of the rope. Beside her,
Romy cupped her hands against her mouth and pressed them against the sweat lodge.

‘Lie flat on the floor, Grub,’ she ordered. Romy explained how carbon monoxide was lighter than oxygen. If he could hear her, Ben would do this for Romy. Ben would do anything for her.

Ailsa turned to the roof of the sweat lodge. She was surprised by its height. On top of the chimney she could see what looked like an upside-down metal bucket covering the flue. She stepped back a few paces and stumbled into Luke.

‘What’s going on?’ Luke was puffy-eyed as if he had just woken up, oblivious to what had taken place. ‘I can’t find anyone at home.’

‘Ben’s stuck inside. He’s fastened the door and lit the fire. The chimney is blocked.’

Ailsa pressed her hands down into his shoulders, uncertain whether she was trying to underline the sense of urgency or use him as ballast. Her fists were tight balls of tension and fear. Luke, taller than her, leaned down towards his mother and their foreheads touched momentarily.

‘Don’t worry, Mum,’ Luke said. ‘I promise I’ll get him out.’

He called for Harry to boost him up onto the roof, a manoeuvre he managed in a single fluid movement. Once Luke had got his balance he tried to crawl up towards the chimney, but the combination of the sagging, slippery
canvas and the steep angle meant that each time he slid back down. He stretched out his arms and legs to spread his weight and called down for someone to pass him a long stick. A branch was found. It was thick and heavy and took two people to lift it up to him, but once Luke laid it flat on the roof at least it reached the chimney pot.

He jousted at the chimney and managed to hit it several times but without dislodging the cover.

At some point soon after this Jay appeared with a bread knife. Ailsa hadn’t been aware of his presence before and didn’t know if this was his own initiative or whether someone had ordered him to fetch it. Harry snatched the knife from his hand and began sawing through sections of the rope. Each time he severed a new section, Wolf released it from the eyelets. Jay tried to help. They ordered him away. He wandered over to where Ailsa was shouting instructions to Luke, who couldn’t see the chimney pot and was dependent on her to align the stick with his target.

Jay was at her side, waiting for her to give him instructions. Ailsa took in his wide shoulders and narrow torso. He was a man-child. She remembered how those shoulders had hung like two broken wings when he confessed the extent of his problem in front of them all. Four years. Six hours a day at its peak. Always searching. Never satisfied. At times his voice was almost inaudible, his embarrassment a stain that tainted them all. His remorse and shame were real. She had almost begun to feel sorry for him. Not wanting to let go of her anger quite yet she
had focused on his flaky parents. How could Wolf and Loveday not have noticed? But hadn’t she missed what was going on under her own nose? Her guilt was exhausting and without resolution.

Ailsa remembered herself at the same age, practically living with Billy, taking drugs, failing her exams. Her parents were too wrapped up in their own problems to notice what she and Rachel were up to. And it was a relief to be ignored. Back then you could mess up in private and move on. Memory has its purpose. But so does forgetting.

‘One more try, Luke,’ she shouted. He called down that he thought he had wedged the pointed end of the stick in between the chimney pot and the bucket and was going to try to lever it off.

‘No, Luke! Don’t!’ Romy yelled. She had just noticed what Luke was trying to do. It was basic chemistry, but Luke had failed his GCSE and forgotten the effect of oxygen on a fire.

‘Let him,’ shouted Harry, who knew all about combustion experiments.

‘Don’t listen to Dad,’ shouted Ailsa.

Harry turned to Ailsa. ‘I love him like my own son, Ailsa,’ he said, anticipating her thought before it had even fully formed.

Luke shoved the stick as hard as he could and the cover flipped off. The reaction was dramatic and immediate. Ailsa’s recall of the exact sequence of events was hazy. There was an explosion and the hiss and lick of flames hitting the roof of the sweat lodge to consume
the plastic sheeting. Luke disappeared through the gaping hole that appeared as if he had been gobbled up by the lodge. Ailsa felt as though she were sacrificing her children to assuage an angry Aztec god.

‘I’m in,’ shouted Harry, rolling up the canvas door until it was wide enough for Romy to crawl inside. Ailsa followed.