The Possession of Mr Cave (19 page)

and I was inside his head and I was pressing all the lights keeping
them all pressed all the time as I looked out of the windows that
weren't windows and down at you and it was so hard pressing
all the lights that I could hardly hold on inside there but when
he steadied I looked at you down from the watchtower and saw
you lying there and saw you
PLEASE GO
no I saw you and I
saw through your unhatched eyes the dream of you
STOP
and
I saw you and you saw the time we went for tamsy beetles little
green tamsies and you saw and the lights kept flashing but I kept
smoking them out and you remembered
STRENGTH
you
remembered when he wasn't looking at us when he had his back
in front of us and I grabbed your mouth and you bit my hand
REUB
and I pushed you and I left you on the nettles and I felt
the hundred
EN
stings you felt trying to get out and he saw and
you told on me like the green goody grass you always were and
I felt him smack me and I felt the pinkness and the shame of
your bite and your bites he made me look at and the sadness
when he put the penicillin on you and the smell of pink milk
back when we were home
LEAVE ME
and the lights kept shining
and I kept looking behind his eyes and raised his hands and
walked slow towards your bed and I was so close from making
it happen so close to freeing you from his love but I stopped and
lost the power to stay inside the solid tower of him and the lights
got brighter and brighter white as the sun like the lights that
shine now and the hands fell by his side and he stood still as I
left him as the light burned me out of the lies and into the truth
and speeding me fast around the earth getting so foggy all the
time and I couldn't get back couldn't find his light
LEAVE ME
and I went again to the place I go now without you
ALONE

Through the whispered crackle of the baby monitor, I heard
you speak to him on your mobile telephone. You were planning
to see him. You were meeting him at the shed at
Rawcliffe Meadows and you were going to run away that
night. Rawcliffe Meadows! Rawcliffe Meadows! Oh, Aristotle
himself would have grimaced at such pathos. Rawcliffe
Meadows. Where I had once taken you and your brother to
hunt for tansy beetles. Was that your idea, to meet there? I
didn't know. I didn't know where you were planning to go
next. Maybe you were intending to stay hidden in the wild,
catching rabbits and fishing for polluted carp in the river. I
didn't know. All I knew was the time and the place.

You stopped talking. You opened your door.

'Bryony?'

Your feet stopped, but your mouth said nothing.

'Bryony? Petal? Is that you?' Ridiculous question, unanswered.

I went out of my room and saw you. 'What do you
think you're doing?'

'I'm going out,' you told me. 'And you can't stop me.'

'No,' I said. 'No, you're not.'

'Dad? What are you doing? Get out of the way!'

I shook my head and stretched my arms out. A makeshift
crucifix, blocking your path. 'I'm sorry, Bryony, but you are
not yourself. And until such a time has arrived when I am
confident that Bryony is Bryony again then I am very much
afraid to say that your actions are under my command. You
do understand that this is for your own good, don't you?
You do know that the most irresponsible thing for me to do
right now would be to let you walk out of this house? You
do know that I can't let you see him, don't you? That animal.'

'What?'

'That animal. Denny. I can't let you see him. Not after what
I saw in your bedroom.'

'What are you on about? I'm going to Imogen's.'

'Stop that,' I told you. 'Stop those lies.'

'I'm not lying.'

'You're not going to Imogen's and you know it. You're not
friends with Imogen any more.'

Was it then you pushed past me and reached for the door?
Was it then I took your mobile telephone out of your pocket?
Was it then I grabbed your arm and pulled you upstairs towards
the attic, while you screamed like a banshee. You scratched
my arm, do you remember, as we climbed the last few stairs?
You even pulled my hair, causing me to treat you more roughly
than I would have intended, and I apologise for that.

'What are you doing?' You spat the words. 'Where are you going?'

'Never mind where I am going,' I told you. 'The important
thing is you are not going anywhere.'

You looked at me in disbelief. 'You can't lock me in the
attic, you Nazi psycho.'

'I assure you I can and I will.'

'That's abuse. That's illegal. You're mad. You need a hospital.'

'It's for your own protection.'

'I hate you,' you said and I know you meant it. Your mouth,
your eyes, and your kicking legs – you all meant it.

I pushed you back. 'I'm sorry, Bryony.' And then I locked
you inside there, amid the old boxes and your mother's and
Reuben's belongings.

Your feet and hands thundered against the door. 'Let me
out! Let me out! Fascist!' I must confess I feared you then,
feared this force inside you, as people fear the most violent
and unpredictable weather. Yet it was my only choice, and
I had a new courage in my actions. The door would hold.
The thick Tudor oak would take its beating, and the iron
lock wouldn't give. Closing my eyes, I placed the key in my
pocket, and let it be.

I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more is none.

I knew precisely what I had to do. It was as though, all
of a sudden, the future had become as solid as the past. I
was being guided by something outside myself, as though
I was being written by another hand, caught inside a story
I couldn't quite control. Not Reuben's story, and not my
own, but someone else's. It was impossible to tell if I was
the hero or the villain of this narrative, and it made no real
difference, for my actions were already written.

'I am going out, and I will open the door on my return,'
I said, above your kicks and wails. 'I will be three hours at
the most. There are some old books in one of the tea chests.
An early
Alice in Wonderland
. The eight hundredth ever printed.
Or somewhere around there. It's got the number on it still, I
believe, on the inside cover.'

'Open the door!' you screamed above my words. 'Open the
door!'

I stood there in the hallway, still baffled by the force of
your emotion. A possession I knew I could never grasp.

Your scream melted into tears. 'Open the door.'

'Goodbye Bryony,' I said, too soft for you to hear, and trod
my way downstairs to the shop.

*

The mahogany case was open and that old gun lay before me,
the engraved steel of the trigger-guard shining in the dark like
a waking eye. It looked so beautiful, so exquisitely crafted, it
was almost impossible to believe it could perform the task I
had in mind.

I picked it up. I took the old bullets from their tin box. I
loaded the pistol.

As any father would, I tried to keep you safe. Every waking
moment I thought about it, the ways I could ensure you a
long and happy future. Yet it occurs to me now that every
single attempt I made had a reverse effect. Each time I tried
to interfere in your life I pushed you away from me, and lost
a little more of your trust and respect.

Even when my actions were hidden, and you saw the puppet
but not the strings, they were equally futile. It was as though
there was an enemy within my own mind, a double agent
who was willingly jeopardising every task. Of course, this is
not so far away from the truth.

Indeed, over the past few weeks and months I have come
to a greater understanding of the invisible forces that thwart
our best efforts. I see that there is not such a great difference
between the psychic and physical landscapes. Both, in
their separate ways, are continuous narratives within which
the actions of the living are determined by those who have
gone before.

In our own city, with its Roman foundations, with its Saxon
streets and Norman defences and Victorian railway, we understand
how things connect. How the old and antique contains
the present and how, in turn, that present manages to seal our
futures. You live and walk and breathe among these layers.

Minds are the same. They are not cities shaped in our own
image. They are cities shaped by the whole human experience,
by all that has gone before, all this knowledge that has been
built by those who exist in memory, in books, in possessions.

Yet if minds are cities they can be vulnerable to attack,
invaded by forces coming at us in the night, when we are
weak, when there is no one manning the towers.

You see, Bryony, this is what has been happening. Everything
I have done to protect you has only served to aggravate him,
and stir his unrested soul in jealousy. As I have been watching
you, I too have always been observed. If I had done things
differently, shown you a little less attention, displayed to him
a little more grief – then perhaps I would never have gained
this new knowledge. Perhaps I would never have been forced
to realise that our minds are no stronger than those of animals.
They are territories that can be invaded and taken over the
same as any other.

Yet only now do I realise there is a way to calm his soul, and
quench its horrendous thirst. In doing so, I truly believe he will
love you again, and rest in the peace we prayed would be his.
It is my last hope, and will prove to be my last action. I will
raze my mind's city to the ground, and create a fresher, clearer
space, where avenging spirits float through without pause.

It was quite a walk, but I had time. Once I had crossed the
park, and passed under Reuben's lamp post, I headed towards
the river. I went the quiet, longer route, via the cycle path,
so there were fewer eyes to witness my journey. On and on,
in the dark, with the pistol weighing against me. Onwards,
over Lendal Bridge, and further down Stripe Lane. I could
smell the wild flowers, the hedgerow plants, and heard the
skylarks, and knew I was getting closer. What was the plan?
Were you going to stay the night there, before heading north
to Beningbrough and catching a morning train to somewhere
else? Or were you going to stay living out in the wild, like
Neolithic hunters, outside our civilisation?

My suspicions grew. Why had he wanted to meet you in
the middle of nowhere? I had seen what he had done to
George. I had heard what he had done to Alison Wingfield.
I knew only too well what his father was capable of. Maybe
he was meeting you there to do unthinkable things, more
unthinkable than I had already seen – things he could get
away with, knowing everything was constructed to look like
two teenage lovers escaping happily into the night.

A mute swan blocked my path. I didn't see it until the last
moment and then there it was, wings outstretched, hissing its
warning. He may have had a family to protect but as far as I
could see he was a sole operator, a highwayman swan, looking
for spoils I couldn't provide. There was something of a standoff.
To my right, the river. To my left, the copse. As the swan
showed no sign of moving I was forced to venture into the
dense, low woodland and steer around.

When I was back on the path I heard a voice behind me.

'Daddy? Daddy? Look.'

The swan wasn't there.

It had disappeared completely.

In its place was a young boy, about seven years old, with a
birthmark on his face. He was holding out his hand. 'Look,
it's on my finger. Look!'

I crouched down and he came over to me. It was fully dark
now, but the luminous bottle-green beetle crawling over his
hand could be clearly seen, as could Reuben's young eyes. That
intense look he used to have, sternly inquisitive, his eyes
pressing me to respond.

'Reuben,' I said.

'Is that a tamsy beetle? Have I found one?'

'Reuben? Why are you here?'

His voice became cross. 'Is it a tamsy beetle?'

'Yes,' I said, and got caught in the memory. 'But it's tansy.
Tan-sy.'

He looked sad. 'I didn't mean to push Bryony in the nettles.
I'm sorry, Daddy.'

'It's all right, Reuben. Bryony's fine.'

He frowned at me, as though I was lying. 'She's gone.'

'No,' I said.

'We've lost her. In the dark.'

'No. She's safe. She's at home.'

'She's gone invisible. She's not here.'

I became cross. Not with Reuben, but with myself, with
the nervous mind that had conjured this apparition. 'No,' I
said. 'You're not here.'

'Where am I?'

I tapped the side of my head. 'In here.'

'Where's the beetle?'

I kept tapping. 'In here as well. You're not real. You're not
real. Now, I've got to go.'

'Don't leave me, Daddy,' he said. 'Don't leave me, don't
leave me, don't leave me . . .'

The hallucination began to cry. I closed my eyes and begged
reason to stay with me. 'Oh, let me not be mad,' I said. 'Not yet.'

I could not afford for the possession to take hold tonight
so with clenched eyes my hand reached out slowly, cautiously,
towards that imagined face. Of course, I expected to feel
nothing at all. I expected my fingers to glide through empty
air and confirm it as a delusion. Instead, I received a sharp
and most painful bite.

You must remember I was already crouching down, and
so the action of yanking my hand away, combined with the
sight of the swan returned to where it had been standing,
caused gravity to gain the best of me. I dropped backwards
to the ground.

Given that the swan was violently beating its wings and
hissing like the Devil, I desperately tried to scramble to my
feet but was still too slow. Trapped in this awkward position
the wild bird was upon me, its neck thrusting forward, its
wings full-stretched beating my legs.

There was no stopping this creature.

Again I tried to get up but received such a winding blow
to my chest I was knocked down, lower than before, landing
in mud. He would have killed me, I am sure, and with
hindsight we might see this as having been God's intention
(or whatever unseen author was still shaping my quest),
yet I needed to make you safe and survive a few more hours.
So I reached inside my coat, drew my pistol, and while my
other hand wrestled helplessly with the bird's neck I shot
him in the breast. After that loud, echoing clap there was
a final hiss and then the neck collapsed. Dark blood leaked
fast out of him, glugging almost, and I was momentarily
paralysed by the sight. Life cut away very quickly and after
the smallest of fits the poor bird fell limply across my legs.

Now, in a rotten panic, I carried the bird to the river and
tried to keep any more of its blood from staining my clothes.
When I saw its previously unseen family in the shadows, asleep
in their watery nest, I felt such a terror fall over me that I
cannot describe it to you. Oh, Bryony, it was such a hideous
feeling! Those blameless, unclaimed animal souls. Once the
bird had been washed away on the current, half sinking, I
vomited amid the rushes and tried to clear my mind by inhaling
that chilled air, but it was no good. If I was ever to live past
this night I knew that pale swan would haunt me, as the albatross
did the old mariner, for the rest of my days.

*

At the end of the copse the path thins out and makes way for
the hay meadow. As I could see the shed from there, I decided
to stay back, hiding among the last of the bushes.

The incident with the swan had taken longer than I had
realised. My watch told me it was ten past nine. Denny would
have arrived. Yet I stayed amid the blackberry bushes and
creeping thistle, and waited for him to appear. It was there I
caught a smell. Something overpowering the wild flowers. A
burnt, toffeeish smell. In the distance smoke rose from the
sugar factory, erasing stars. A night shift. People would be
there. They might hear the gunshot and come to inspect before
I had time to discard the body.

I saw a dark shape pass across the shed window. It was
him. I could recognise the outline of that hideous padded
jacket I had seen him wear when he had met you at Clifford's
Tower. A dark swollen chrysalis. It disappeared back out of
view. My thoughts became questions. What was he doing in
there without a light on? Had he broken in? Did he know
someone who owned that shed? What was he getting
prepared? How long would he wait for you before leaving?
And where would he step out from?

I couldn't see a door. There obviously was one – which had
probably been forced open – but I couldn't see it from this side.

Oh please, picture me there.

See me amid those bushes. Crouching in the dark. Damp
with swan blood and mud-water. A trembling antique pistol
in my hand. I want you to understand the rapid madness of
my thoughts. The creeping doubts that weakened my resolve.
The familiar sensations in my brain, bringing the alien images
of other experience.

*