The Possession of Mr Cave (21 page)

Your face was so pale and smooth, lying on that thin hospital
pillow. I prayed for a frown, for a chip in the vase, for life to
fracture your beauty.

'Please, Bryony,' I begged you, as I had once begged your
brother.

A thin slab of light shone across the blankets, curving as it
acknowledged your presence underneath.

'Please.'

Denny was somewhere else, talking to the police.

I was unwatched, except by the nurse. The nurse who had
asked me if I wanted a drink. I had said 'No', despite my dry
mouth. It seemed a crime beyond all the others, to sustain my
body as yours lay so helpless. The nurse gave me a soft, undeserved
smile and she trod in quiet footsteps back to her desk
and the paperwork that awaited her.

I sensed you were going to die and so I had no incentive
to leave you. The police were going to identify the bullet soon
enough, and trace it back to me, even if Denny didn't give it
away. The Weeks' bodies would be found at any moment and
further evidence provided. But I didn't care. Nor did it seem
to matter whether or not Reuben returned to infect my soul
with his own. If you were gone, what further damage could
he cause?

I glanced briefly at the other patients in the unit. Those
sliding souls, engaged in their own silent battles with death.
Old, wasted and fully-lived bodies, so different from your own.

'Leave her.'

I looked back at your face, the source of the whisper. I had
imagined it, surely. You were still unconscious. Still undented.
Maybe it was another imagining. My mind so frail after those
events at the Weeks' house.

I leaned in towards you. 'Bryony?'

My nervous hand touched your arm. The thin slab of light
dissolved into the blanket. I looked over at the nurse, filling
in a form at her desk, and was ready to tell her you might be
waking.

I was beginning to realise what was happening here. I understood
that everything was still hanging in the balance, and
that the victor of your own silent battle was still far from
decided.

I took a deep breath. 'Reuben, tell me, what is it you want?
What is it? I'll do anything. Please.'

The nurse stopped filling in her form and looked over at
me. I offered a weak smile, and my hand retreated from your
arm. The nurse frowned and deliberated whether to leave her
desk, but eventually went back to ticking boxes.

'Reuben?' My voice was barely audible, even to myself.
'Reuben? Please, don't hurt her. Please. You love her. She's your
sister. None of this is her fault. It's my fault. Everything. All
of this. It's my fault. It's about me, not her. Please. I didn't
want to hurt either of you.'

'Leave her.'

The slab of light returned, and with it the realisation.
Suddenly it became clear. I had left him. For fifteen years I
had left him, blaming a wailing baby when I should have
blamed myself. All his jealousy, all his frozen anger, it had
come from me. And if I had caused it, then I could end it,
and that is what I vowed to do. I would return to him.

A flicker, at first. So slight it might not have been there
at all.

'Petal?'

And then a second time. A movement behind your eyelids.
Dreams on the boil, bubbling away beneath the surface.

Your nose twitched, your frown arrived, your mouth chewed
the last of its sleep. And then the eyes blinked open and you
were there, my darling girl. Alive and awake, staring tiredly
up at me.

'Dad?' The thinnest of voices.

'Bryony? Petal? Don't worry. You're in a hospital. You've
been hurt, but you're going to be all right.'

You looked frightened. 'Denny?'

'It's okay. He's okay. He's fine. He'll be back in a moment.'

And you seemed to understand so much in these words.

'I have to go, Bryony. But I'll be back.' I delivered the lie
at the last moment, as I leaned to kiss your brow, so you
weren't able to assess my eyes. 'I must leave, Petal. You will be
all right. Everything will be. You'll see.'

And I walked away from your bedside, and told the nurse
you had woken. She left her desk and went over to check
that I was right, speaking words I couldn't hear. At the door
I turned to have one final look at you. You frowned as you
watched me, and something about that frown told me you
would be fine, whatever else happened. You would survive
all the dents my life and death could inflict, because you
were as tough as your mother had been, and you would
tackle life as it should be tackled. The pain and the shame
I had caused would eventually fade, and become caged safely
in the past. You will go on without me. Surviving. Yearning.
Loving.

Living.

I hope. Yes, I hope.

I used to imagine how your life would turn out. Oh, it was
a beautiful existence that I saw waiting for you – you would
marry the right kind of man, you would live in the country,
you would play in an orchestra – and my job as your father
was to help navigate your way through the dangerous territory
that lay en route.

I now realise my own folly. I understand that like the amateur
restorer who rips the canvas he is trying to repair, I have ruined
this portrait. Your future will be textured differently to how I
imagined, and it has every right to be. The only purpose of
living is to accept life itself. To trust our children to find their
own course, and realise there isn't a single one of us who has
the right answers. How can we, when we haven't even discovered
the question? All I pray now is that your life is devoid of
the mistakes that have blighted my own course.

I hope that if and when you have children you will note
their differences but love them equally. I hope you know that
we can create new life but never own it, and that we should
never let our desire to protect become the will to possess. I
hope you will know that children have achieved the whole
world just by entering it, because we live and breathe its glories
in every waking moment.

And there is glory in abundance up here, with the vast
sweep of the land in front of me. I remember walking these
moors years before you were born, standing here and looking
out at a whole wild atlas of green and purple. This was in
July, when the heather was in flower, and so different from
this evening. It holds a bleaker beauty now, but a beauty
nonetheless. A beauty I can breathe inside me, as I sit out
here, away from the car, and bring my task to a close. Bryony,
I am so tempted to linger but I know I will be found before
too long. I feel them getting nearer, with the night.

Two small final requests. Please tell Cynthia I am sorry for
leaving her that note – she must have had a terrible fright
when she opened it this morning. I know she will look after
you in the proper way, and help repair the damage I have
caused.

Also, the old picture of my mother in the living room. It
is on the wall, tucked behind the door as you walk in. You
know it. The one where she's looking out rather crossly, with
Greta Garbo's face painted onto her own. I want you to keep
it. I know you owe me nothing, but if you are still reading I
might be able to presume you would be willing to do this one
task. So please, if you could, keep it safe. You don't have to
put it up on your wall, but keep it. Somewhere, anywhere, but
make sure it's safe.

Now, it is over. That is everything. The paper has been
filled, and I am so close to the finish that the fear is leaving
me. There is nothing further to be afraid of, even as I look
ahead and see them. All of them.

They stand in front of me, their silent spirits. Those I have
lost, those I have killed, with Reuben one step forward. His
hand beckons, but he looks finally at peace.

I have no fear as I reach the end. I will offer him the love
he needs and I will watch you in this beautiful world and let
it shape you as it plans.

The day's last breath brushes my face, and tells me it is
time.

I will go to him.

Goodnight, Petal.

Goodnight.

I would like to thank:

Caradoc King, my agent, for his complete and unflinching
enthusiasm for this novel from the start.

Dan Franklin, my editor, for letting me head into the dark
without insisting I bring a torch.

Alex Bowler, Rachel Cugnoni, Alison Hennessey, Chloë
Johnson-Hill and everyone at Jonathan Cape and Vintage.

Elinor Cooper, Judith Evans, Christine Glover, Louise
Lamont, Naomi Leon, Teresa Nicholls and Linda
Shaughnessy at A.P. Watt.

Alan Moloney and Tim Palmer at Parallel Film.

Matteo Moretti and everyone at the Hotel Art in Rome.

Michel Faber, Toby Litt, Scarlett Thomas and Jeanette
Winterson, for providing me with advice and assistance at
various points over the last few years.