This River Awakens (17 page)

‘Is he getting treatment?’

No.

Roulston turned away and slowly pushed the chair back to the desk. ‘You’ll be in the hospital for at least two weeks. After that,’ he faced her, smiled, ‘we’ll see what we can do.’

II

His wife was outside planting flowers around the maypole. Rolling a cigarette, Hodgson Fisk paused to watch her for a moment before setting the paper to his tongue.

God, she was still so beautiful. So graceful. She was on her knees, concentrating on her task, carefully removing the flowers from their pots – they had spent the winter indoors, and were now only days away from full bloom – and gently lowering them into holes she had dug in the rich black earth.

Beyond her the field lay black and overturned, ready for seeding. He would be working a whole quarter-section this summer; if he didn’t lose any to hail he’d be hiring a couple of hands to help him with the harvesting. Fisk never knew whether it was him or her that was sterile – he told himself that it didn’t really matter, that it was something you couldn’t blame someone about. They’d talked, years ago, about adoption, but nothing ever came of it, and even that didn’t seem to matter. He had a woman he loved, and she loved him, and that was all that counted. Come the harvest, it was easy enough to hire hands.

Full of contentment, Fisk lit his cigarette. It was a beautiful spring, wasn’t it. Just enough rain, no flooding from the river, and at the very least a break-even harvest ahead.

‘Hodgson?’

Fisk grinned at his wife. ‘Yeah?’

‘Could you mix me up some Alka Seltzer?’

He frowned. ‘Heartburn again?’

Walking towards him, she nodded.

He rose to his feet, flung away the cigarette. ‘Bad?’

She nodded. ‘Getting there.’

‘I’ll bring it right out.’ Fisk entered the house, walked to the kitchen, vaguely worried. He filled a glass with cold water, dropped two tablets in it then returned to the back porch.

His wife lay on the ground, and the only part of her that was moving was her hair and apron, fluttering in the warm spring wind.

*   *   *

Sitting in his chair on the porch, Fisk stared at the weeds crowding the base of the maypole. Those weeds, he knew, were a kind of defamation. And yet, he did nothing, he felt nothing. She had been gone eleven years to this day – he had waited a long time to die. It seemed he was going to have to wait for ever.

And all the while he would be sharing this world with the weeds, the black field, and a sea of glittering eyes watching his every move.

They’re all waiting for me to break, but I won’t. If I have to wait for ever, I will. If that is my punishment, so be it. I can just sit here and stare at the growing shadows. I can wait for the darkness that’s coming, I can watch this world go to hell. I can watch those little punks walking across my field, I can keep them locked up in my cellar and those cold little black eyes can stare at me all they want – we’ll see who blinks first.

His hands twitched. It had been some time since he had made his captives sing. Just staring at them had been enough to bring his loins alive, and he exulted in the luxury of taking his time, of letting the temptation pull him taut. And he loved to watch them eating the intestines he fed them – they were so avid when they tore into the rotting guts of their kin – the way they licked their muzzles and forelegs afterwards – it was beautiful.

The little punks, with their twisted little brains full of brave thoughts, all the while sucking my blood dry. Sure, we handed them everything on a fucking silver platter – we fought for those snivelling bastards, and what’s the first thing they do? Spit on our feet, and shake their fists in our faces – hell, it’s all there on the news, isn’t it? Peaceniks. As if peace is free.

Bastards. But now, oh, now, I’ve got ’em where I want ’em. And I can do what I want with them, that’s the clincher. I can lock ’em up, feed ’em guts, and I can make ’em sing. That’s the clincher.

Nobody spits in my face and gets away with it. This is my land and on it I’m king. And I can line them up in rows and I won’t be the one who blinks first. Their eyes aren’t the only ones that glow at night. Not here. Not on my land.

Fisk began rocking in his chair, and he watched his hands slowly wrap themselves around its arms. They waited for him down there, in that black cellar. They waited for him. But he wasn’t in any hurry. He would just sit here in the shadows, rocking, staring at the weeds and at the black field – they couldn’t reach him now.

With darkness came a cold wind, the last sigh of slumbering winter. It slipped through his clothes, plucked the sweat from his flesh, and slowly stole the gleam from his bared teeth.

III

It was as if she had just left every room he entered. Sten could swear he saw the swirling air of her wake, the telltale currents of her imminent presence, but he knew he was just fooling himself. Another game, cynically cheered on by the thousand monsters mobbing his thoughts. But where was she?

Outside, his dogs were whining. They were hungry, and he’d run out of food for them. He entered the kitchen and stood by the window, trying to force a decision through the cacophony in his head. The dogs were hungry. She was gone. And he was thirsty. Statements, nothing but statements. They didn’t go anywhere, just went on over and over again through his brain, a child’s rhyme. And all the while the monsters laughed – oh, how they loved his helplessness; they laid suffocating deadness in his inner rooms like carpets, absorbing the echoes of his screams, his rants, his pounding fists.

Sten rubbed his hands on his thighs, but it was hopeless – the sweat just kept oozing out, and everything kept slipping from his grasp, and it didn’t help him decide what to do. He knew he was trapped, that there was no way out, now. Just that endless spiral down into the seething darkness – but God! how thirsty he was!

And yet the dogs whined, and she was gone, and he didn’t know what to do.

Sten frowned, then shook his head. The dogs were hungry. He’d have to phone Fisk. Anything to make them stop their whining. He’d get them food, all right. He stumbled from the kitchen. Holding his arms out to either side, he negotiated the hallway and then pushed open the back door. He paused on the steps, reeling slightly.

She was gone.
Listen to them whine!

Rage poured outward from his skull, filling his limbs with fire. The back yard dissolved into a swirling haze as he staggered down the steps. He saw the three dogs lined up in an expectant row with their noses pressed against the wire, watching him. And their tails –
oh yes, so bloody hopeful, weren’t they?

Sten roared when he collided with the cage, a wordless explosion of sound that sent all three dogs bolting for the far end of the kennel. His fingers curling savagely around the chain links, he pressed his face into the wire.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ he screamed. ‘Shut your fucking whining! She’s gone! Don’t you fucking get it yet?’

IV

It was supper-time, but Jennifer wasn’t hungry. The playground was empty, as usual, when she entered it and approached the swing. It wasn’t much of a playground, actually. Just a swing, a slide, and an open field. But it had been there all her life, in all its mundane familiarity. She sat down on the swing, gripping the cold chains on either side, but did not rock herself into motion. She faced the open field, her house a mere twenty yards behind her.

Dimly, she remembered her father’s hands at her back, strong yet gentle. And she remembered her own childish laughter, as she flew higher and higher into the air, and it seemed it would go on for ever – she’d never imagined that those hands could get tired, she’d never dreamed that they’d eventually turn away and leave her suspended there, clutching at chains that would only pull her back down. She’d never known what it was to be betrayed.

Times had changed, she told herself. The foolishness was over, no more senseless laughter. The times of asking Mommy and Daddy ‘why don’t I have any brothers and sisters?’ were gone. That question had been answered a thousand times since then, in the silences and murmured evasions, in glances exchanged over her head, in sheets tucked up to her chin and swift, empty darkness.

Jennifer knew about accidents, now. Unwanted pregnancies – the little girl nobody wanted, sitting there on the swing wanting to be pushed higher, higher, higher. Wanting wings, wanting to soar into the world, forever demanding strong, gentle, supporting hands.

She jumped when her father roared behind her. Pushing herself to her feet, she whirled and faced the house. He was nowhere to be seen. And then came his screams. At the dogs – it had to be at the dogs. A sickening chill pooled in her stomach.
He’s gone insane.

The slamming of a car door turned her attention to the road. A car had stopped at the edge of their driveway, and a man was now standing beside it, facing the house.

Slowly, she walked towards him. She didn’t know who he was but she didn’t want him to go to the house. He began walking around the car, noticed her and stopped.

Jennifer studied his face. His broad forehead was clenched in a troubled frown, and he ran a long-fingered hand through his thinning blond hair. For some reason this deepened her fear. She opened her mouth to speak but he was quicker.

‘Are you Jennifer Louper?’ he asked, his voice deep and soft.

Her breath caught. She nodded.

‘I’m Dr Roulston.’ He stepped forward, smiling.

Jennifer did not return the smile. ‘What do you want?’ she demanded stiffly.

Roulston seemed unperturbed by her attitude as he continued walking towards her, his smile still in place. ‘Perhaps we could go inside? I’d like to speak with you.’

Jennifer shook her head. ‘No. Not inside.’ She hesitated, a part of her mind noting with some satisfaction that his smile was becoming fixed. She said, ‘Where’s my mother?’

Stopping a few feet in front of her, Roulston looked away, sighed, then returned his gaze to her. ‘In Riverview General Hospital.’ His blue eyes narrowed. ‘She has a broken jaw and it’s infected.’

Somehow Jennifer managed to clamp a hold on her emotions. Without inflection she asked, ‘How long will she be in there?’

Roulston’s frown deepened. ‘Two, three weeks,’ he replied. ‘Depends on how well the antibiotics work.’

Detached, she watched the doctor’s growing discomfort while his words slowly sank into the numbness inside her. She blinked. ‘Could she die?’

His eyes widened briefly. Then he shook his head. ‘It’s not likely, but the chance does exist.’ He looked away. ‘I mean … uh, no, I don’t think she’ll die.’ His gaze returned to hers, and it had suddenly hardened. ‘Look, is your father in the house? I’d like to speak to him.’

Jennifer could feel the blood drain from her face. ‘No. He’s not home, I mean.’ Her shoulders jerked a shrug. ‘He’s gone out.’

Roulston stared at her for a long moment, then he nodded. ‘I see.’ He turned back to his car, then paused and faced her again. When he spoke his tone was cool. ‘In case you’re interested, visiting hours are between one and three tomorrow afternoon. Maybe you might bring your mother some flowers, or something…’ His voice trailed away, and once again he stared at Jennifer.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘she’d probably like that. Flowers.’

A flash of anger showed in Roulston’s eyes for a brief moment. Then he spun around and quickly entered his car. He started it, released the brake, dropped it into gear and drove away without once looking at Jennifer.

She returned to the swing and resumed her seat. It was a struggle to keep pushing the feelings, the thoughts, away, but at last she succeeded. She told herself she’d think about it tomorrow. Maybe she’d even visit Mother. And as for telling her father, well, let him rot a little longer – it might do some good, couldn’t hurt.

Footsteps scraped on the road’s gravel shoulder. Swinging in her seat, Jennifer turned, thinking for a moment that the doctor had returned. But no, it wasn’t the doctor.

‘Hey!’ she called out. ‘Hey, you!’

The boy stopped, faced her.

‘C’mere!’

He didn’t move for a few seconds, then slowly walked towards her.

The first thing about him that Jennifer noticed was his eyes. They were a cold, impassive blue, unwavering in their gaze. A small gasp escaped her lips – he was, openly and deliberately, appraising her. Suddenly she felt a lot less sure of herself, and so said nothing until he stopped in front of her and asked: ‘What?’

His tone took her aback. It had sounded angry, almost affronted. After a moment she recovered, and slowly looked him up and down. He was long-limbed, though barely her height. His hands hung at his sides as if he had forgotten they existed. For some reason this struck her as meaningful. Most boys she knew always hid their hands in their pockets, or hung them from their thumbs on the belt loops of their jeans – but whatever the means, the gesture was always self-conscious. But not this boy. Not the new kid.

Her eyes returned to his face, and she smiled sardonically. But even this seemed to leave him unimpressed. His long face remained expressionless, his eyes flat and cold. She realised then something about the way he stood that was strange, somehow off kilter.
He’s tense! He’s tense as hell!
Her smile broadened with this realisation –
he’s scared of me, and I’ve got him now.
‘You’re the new kid, aren’t you?’ She began casually twisting on the swing. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Owen Brand. Who’re you?’

‘Jennifer.’

His nod told her he knew about her.

She said, ‘You’ve got an older sister, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Older than you.’

‘So what?’ Jennifer snapped. This wasn’t going the way it was supposed to at all.

Owen shrugged, said nothing.

She took out her cigarettes. ‘Want one?’

‘No.’

Pulling one out she laughed. ‘Chicken shit, eh?’

He turned and began walking away.

Jennifer gaped at his back. ‘Hey! Where you going?’

‘Nowhere,’ he answered without turning around.