This Is Not Forgiveness (15 page)

How can two brothers be so different? Jamie is inquisitive, sensitive. Intuitive. Wants to know everything, but ignores what is right in front of him. Rob’s the opposite. He doesn’t ask anything but I end up telling him. He’s the same way with me. Tit for tat.

He goes straight over to the shooting trophies, like Jamie did, they are hard to miss, but he doesn’t ask questions or comment. Just asks:

‘Where are they?’

I take him upstairs and unlock the gun cabinet. He takes the guns off the rack one at a time and inspects each one carefully. When he does this, he’s like a different person – no messing, no joking, no wisecracks. He doesn’t say anything but handles each gun in a quick, sure way. His movements are deft and instinctive; the weapons look like part of him.

‘These are legal. He has permits?’ I nod. ‘Where does he keep the others?’ he asks.

We are in Trevor’s study. Trevor is so deeply ordinary. Wouldn’t say ‘boo’ normally. The handguns are his one transgression. He’s a collector. Owning them is illegal but he can’t resist the lure of possession. Having them gives him a thrill.
She
thinks that they are non-firing replicas. I know they are not. He keeps them in a safe along with the bullets, heavy in the hand, snug and lethal. The safe is behind one of the pictures on the wall. I know the combination.

Rob takes out each gun, examines it, working the mechanism, feeling the heft of it, seeing how it feels in his grip.

‘Sound pieces. Bullets?’

‘In there with them.’

He takes out a box and shakes it, nodding to himself, then he puts it all back. I shut the heavy steel door and spin the wheels on the lock.

Rob is the perfect instrument but like the safe, I have to get the right sequence for the tumblers to fall into place. He’s not very receptive to political argument. I have tried that and he either falls about laughing or pretends to go to sleep. When I point out what’s happening right now, out on the streets he says, ‘Send the lads in.’ He’s conflicted. When I talk to him about soldiers and the illegal wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, I can see that he’s listening but he won’t admit any interest. He understands perfectly. In his own way he’s as clever as his siblings. It’s just that with anything serious, his instinct is always to take the piss.

I have to find another combination. I work on my own ways to release his rage, to channel all that violence into constructive action.

You show me yours. I’ll show you mine.

My dad went out one day and never came back. He went off as normal to go to work, except he never made it. He hadn’t made it to the office for a while. In fact, there was no office. Hadn’t been for months. He’d been sacked, pending investigations for fraud. That all came out afterwards. Where did he go when he was supposed to be at work? What did he do all day? Maybe he just drove around, up and down the motorways, sat in cafes, parked up in lay-bys waiting for the day to go. Who knows?

He went out that day like any other day. I’d like to say that he kissed us goodbye, but it didn’t happen like that. They weren’t speaking. Hadn’t been for a while. He slept apart. I remember the spare room showed definite signs of habitation. His shoes were under the bed in there. His pyjamas on the pillow. His brush was on the bureau, along with bits of change, crumpled handkerchiefs, pocket detritus lying where he dropped it. I hardly saw him. He’d become like a shadow in his own house.

‘He’s busy with work.’ That’s what she said.

We used to go out, spend time together as a family. Take picnics to Beldon Hill. My mother would sunbathe while I did roly-polies down the hill. He’d chase after me, then scoop me up and carry me to the top, riding on his shoulders. He’d fly kites for me, holding my arms, showing me how to make the sail dance in the wind. But now he was ‘busy with work’. Always busy with work – even at the weekends. He came back when I was in bed and left before I got up or when I was otherwise occupied – in the bathroom or having my breakfast.

When I think back to that last day, I’d like to be able to say that he’d kissed me on the top of the head and called me his ‘little chick’, then kissed his wife on the cheek and hoped that she had a good day. I’d like to imagine that I’d gone to the window to wave, or stood at the end of the drive, watching his car out of sight, like I did when I was small, but that’s not what happened. He just let himself out of the house. We didn’t even notice that he’d gone. He got into the car, drove to a wood not very far away and shot himself in the head. I hadn’t been enough to keep him alive. Worse than that, I hadn’t tried. I’d failed him somehow. If I had shown him how much I cared, then maybe he’d have chosen to go on living. But even worse than that was the feeling I had that he hadn’t loved me enough to stay alive. I couldn’t get that out of my mind. He’d left me alone to survive on my own. Just her and me.

With him gone, everything was my fault. It was my fault she couldn’t go out. If she didn’t go out, how was she going to meet anybody else? With the debts he’d left her, she couldn’t even afford a babysitter. She couldn’t afford anything. All her friends were going on holiday and she couldn’t afford that, either. Even if she could afford it, she’d have to take me with her and what fun would that be? She was too young for this to be happening to her, but what did that matter? Her life was over. He might as well have finished us all off while he was at it.

Sometimes, I wish he had.

Chapter 20

I’m not really alive unless I’m with her. I feel as though I’ve never been fully awake, as if I’ve been sleepwalking through my life. She makes everything new minted. I think I love her, I really do, but when I try to tell her, she shuts me up, or changes the subject, so I don’t know what she thinks, or feels.

I can’t figure out where I am with her. I never know exactly where we are going, or what we’re going to do, or even if I’m going to see her. She never calls or texts me. She’s either there. Or not there. She brings an element of mystery. Something like adventure. She introduces me to new things. Things I’ve never done before. I can’t get enough of her, but she teaches me to wait, to taste and savour; she teaches me the difference between greed and appetite. She likes to be in command.

I don’t stop to think what it would be like, how she would react if things got seriously, and I mean seriously, out of her control; if somebody came along who refused to obey her rules.

‘I like to plan things out. Choreograph them,’ she says. ‘Direct the action.’

‘Like a play.’

‘More like a film.’

‘Is that what you want to do? Make films?’

‘No. I want to change the world.’

She is testing me, pushing me, into doing things I wouldn’t ordinarily do. Some I don’t mind so much. Like having sex in public places.

Some things I do.

‘Do it,’ she says, ‘do it for me. You aren’t scared, are you?’

Being scared is not something she understands.

I’m not scared. It’s just that this particular thing she wants me to do is betraying a trust. She doesn’t understand that, either. I don’t think she trusts anybody and doesn’t expect anyone to trust her.

She wants me to take a punt out at night, take her down the river. If the boats belonged to anyone else, I wouldn’t have a problem. But these are Alan’s boats. I know how much they cost. I know how much he worries about theft and vandalism. He’s just invested in a heavy-duty chain that runs along the line of them, linking them together, secured by a massive padlock.

I don’t say anything, but she senses my reluctance and the reason for it. We are beginning to know what the other one is thinking. At least, she knows what
I’m
thinking. With her, I can never be sure.

‘You
care
what he thinks?’ She says this like it’s a bit of a revelation.

‘Yeah. I do.’

She shrugs, like that is an alien concept  and gives me a look, like she knows I’ll do it anyway, so what’s the problem? I’d do anything for her and she knows it, anything she asked me to do.

The chain is shiny and new, some kind of special alloy, impossible to cut through, but I don’t need to because I have the key. She stands on the bank, her slim shape dark against the willows and the lights from the town, while I squat in the mud, trying not to drop the key into the water, or fall in myself. I don’t want to look nervous, jumpy, but the key slips in my grip a little bit and my hand is shaking slightly as I fit it into the hefty padlock. I’m rubbish at locks at the best of times. My fingers feel banana thick and I wish I’d brought a torch with me. I steady myself and take a breath. The more you think something won’t work, the more it isn’t going to.

‘Having trouble?’ Her voice rings down the river, setting the ducks quacking.

I want to shout, ‘Shut the fuck up, will you?’ But I don’t.

I just work away until I hear the key click home. The big hasp comes loose in my hands. The chain slithers down the line of boats as it slackens, rattling in the quiet of the river like machine gun chatter. I sense her impatience like a breath on my neck but I have to be careful to secure the other boats or they could all go floating off down the river and over the weir. She wouldn’t care about that – she might even think it was funny – but Alan doesn’t deserve that. Plus I have to keep the one I want steady or we’ll be going nowhere. Usually, it takes two of us to free the boats.

I’m not even thinking about getting caught or who might be watching, just getting the boat free and ready.

I thought she might act as lookout or even help me. Fat chance. She just stands staring at the river, like she’s admiring the play of lights on the water. Like it’s nothing to do with her. First sound of a siren, she’d be walking away, leaving me to face the music. Guaranteed. I know it and I don’t care. It’s a price I’m willing to pay.

When it all looks sorted, she comes down the bank to join me, as nonchalant as if it’s Sunday afternoon. I wait, patient as a ferryman, there to serve her. There’s no question who’s in charge here and I know it. I offer my arm and she smiles as if she sees what I’m thinking. She knows it, too.

I take the pole and guide us out to the middle of the river. The water slips under the till, the black surface rippling with silver, orange, red and green reflected light. The effect is hypnotic; I try not to look at it, concentrate on what I’m doing. She stares at the patterns sliding by. Once we are away from the bridge, we are out of danger. I relax a bit. The town lights fade from the water, replaced by the matt shadows of the trees, the silver moonlight. From the bank comes the slap and slosh that marks our passage, the secret rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth, the croaking call of a coot in the rushes, the sleepy settle of ducks, huddled together, quacking quietly on a bare patch of bank. We are getting near. The ait is a solid, dark shape in front of us. I can hear the rush and churn of the weir. I take us in under the willows, find the landing point, ship the pole, jump out and tie up. We don’t say anything. We just hold hands tightly as we go on to the island.

The willows close behind us, swishing together like ribbon curtains. It’s dark inside the tent that the leaves make. I stumble over a root and swear.

‘Should have brought a torch.’

‘No, she says, ‘no torches. I told you before.’

I think that we will stop here, but she leads me on.

‘I want to go to the other island,’ she says, ‘the one across the weir.’

I don’t want to do that at all. I find it hard enough in the daytime, let alone at night, but I can’t show her that I’m frightened, or even reluctant. She holds my hand tighter and leads me.

Water plunges over the broken lintel, rushing down the sloping concrete, churning and foaming white above the blackness. The river is deep below the weir, the surface dimpled with eddies and plaited with currents. A branch tumbles over and does not reappear.

She skips across. I stand and watch her. I should just do it. Don’t think. I can hear Rob’s voice in my head.
Just do it. You think too much.
She beckons, calling me on. I step out. Halfway across, a stone rocks and nearly tips me down on to the concrete weir. It’s always the same one but this time it’s even further out of position, right over the edge. I nearly lose my balance and seesaw backwards and forwards, the dark water flowing past my feet so fast that it looks glossy and solid, like glass. It hisses with the speed of its falling, seething white and frothing at the bottom of the concrete slope. I see the branch bob up again, turned and tossed like a twig in the white water. How long was it under there being tumbled over and over? One minute? Two minutes? Long enough to drown.

‘Come on. Quickly,’ she calls to me. ‘Do it quickly. Look at me.’ She holds her hand out, crossing back for me, the water flowing fast over and round her bare feet. ‘Don’t look down.’

Our hands don’t meet, but it’s as if there is an invisible rope joining us. She steps backwards as I move forwards. She gains the bank and suddenly I’m there beside her. I don’t mean to but I nearly push her over, we both stagger back, falling on to a soft bed of silvery leaves. I lie there, shivering and sweating. She sits with her hands clasped round her knees. In the moonlight, her face is washed of colour.