Winterton Blue (19 page)

In another life, Wayne grabs his hand and says, I'm here, brother. Sleep now, yeah? So finally, Lewis slept.

The fits came more frequently, despite the medication. There was never any warning. Lewis would be going with Wayne to watch the Bluebirds play on a winter evening, joking, laughing, their breath pluming out before them, and all at once, Lewis would be on his own. Behind him, Wayne would be in the road, kicking up dust. Or they'd be out shopping on a Saturday, arguing about what to buy their mother for her birthday, and Wayne would be persuading him, bringing him round to the idea of the china plate with the poem that they'd seen on a market stall, when the talk would suddenly stop. Wayne would be making shapes with his mouth, but there'd be no volume, only his lips moving minutely, as if chasing the words. The fits were never predictable, and never quite the same: some came invisibly, a series of small flickers across Wayne's face, a lostness in his eyes; some came like a storm.

Lewis learned to dread the moment, and then quickly got over the dread, and went about the business of taking care of his brother. Usually there was no event or reason; they'd be lying in their bunks at night and Lewis would sense that
Wayne was fitting, could even feel his own limbs twitch, as if he were attached to his brother by an electric leash.

It's not like that, said Wayne, when Lewis asked him about it, That's just something you heard the doctor say. It doesn't feel electric to me at all.

This time, Wayne was lying on the gravel. The shadow of the slide fell in a slant across his body. Small children stared from the safety of the roundabout, the ones nearby reined in their swings like ponies, and watched, gaping. Lewis tried to think what brought it on: the cigarettes they stole from their mother's handbag, the cider they'd been drinking, the pair of them messing about on the top of the slide; it must have been something they were doing—something wrong. Wayne had been shouting at the top of the slide, gleeful, careless, and then he dropped like a rock, landing on the gravel below with a dull thunk. He'd vomited, which wasn't unusual, but he hadn't wet himself. After each episode, Wayne would be ashamed; he'd heard enough descriptions to make him feel that way, but at the moment of recovery he was calm, his pale face tranquil.

What is it, then? asked Lewis, What is it like?

He was cradling his brother's head in his lap, wiping Wayne's face with his sleeve. Where the gravel had bit into his cheek there were speckles of red, pricking the skin like measles. Lewis checked for blood, for broken bones; as far as he could see, there was nothing. But at the second when Wayne let out his cry, of joy—of disbelief—Lewis had felt his own body falling from a great height, and a collapse deep inside his chest.

I feel something too, said Lewis, wanting to be his brother at that moment, But I don't see what starts it. I don't
get
it.

Wayne looked up at the trees that bordered the playground.

It's them, he said.

Lewis could see nothing but the leaves, trembling in the breeze, and spangles of sunlight winking through them.

It's that, Wayne said, fluttering his fingers, That light. It makes me feel weird and then . . . nothing. I'm gone. Like that alley at the back of our house. That stuff the ground's made of—it's too glittery. It's way too glittery.

Lewis knew the alley; they always avoided it, after the first time.

What does it feel like, then, if it's not electric?

Wayne turned his face away.

I can't tell you, he said, I'm not there. It's before that's really bad. The second I know I'm going, I've already gone. That's the worst.

He looked up at his brother.

But it's always nice to come back, he said, with a faint smile, See your ugly face again.

Lewis feels a pain in his chest at the memory of it. He takes out his tobacco and rolls a loose cigarette: he will give it to Anna. If he sees her.

When he lifts his head, the blackbird has gone, and he finds himself eye to eye with a squirrel. Sensing movement, it freezes, holding its position perfectly and keeping its eye on Lewis, who in turn holds his. After a moment, the squirrel darts up to the bird-table, steals a crust, and jumps a length into the trees. Behind him, Marta coughs.

Don't tell Mrs Calder, she says, But I like to watch them. They're very cute.

She smiles as he turns, placing her hand on the back of the bench and craning round him like a nurse in an old people's home.

Can I get you some breakfast? she asks, Only Mrs Calder and Mr Savoy are eating down here this morning, what with the flight and everything. So it's no trouble.

He waves away her offer.

Not for me, thanks, he says, I'll get out of your road.

Anna's mother catches him just as he's about to leave. She's wearing thick make-up and a sweet, dense perfume. She stands too close, hanging on to the open door, trying to block his escape.

Mr Caine, she says, I hope you're not running away again?

He's down the steps and gone from her sight before the door closes.

Anna's mother leans over for a refill, waving her cup in front of Vernon's face. He stretches across the table and snatches it from her with the air of a reluctant minion.

Well, what if he
is
a spy? she says, Good luck to him. As long as he settles up, what business is it of ours?

I didn't say he was a spy, mum, says Anna, trying to keep her voice level, Only that he likes his privacy. If he doesn't want to have breakfast, that's entirely his choice.

They are sitting round the window table in the dining-room. Anna has her back to the door, her head angled slightly to catch any sound in the hall. Outside the window, the sky is a soft, vaporous blue.

Tea? cries Vernon, and then seeing Anna flinch, lowers his tone to a stage whisper.

You know, Anna, Rita only thinks he looks like a spy because he puts her in mind of Napoleon Solo.

There's a petulant edge of jealousy in his voice. He pours a slosh of milk in the cup, holds up the teapot with an enquiring look. When he sees Anna's response, he thumps it back down on the table.

Napoleon what? asks Anna, distracted.

Her mother laughs.

Never mind, dear. Cabbage is peeved because I happened to say I thought our man was attractive.

He'll attract the flies, I'm sure, mutters Vernon, which makes Anna's mother laugh again.

Actually, Cabbage, he scrubs up very nicely. I thought he looked quite dashing this morning, she says, Didn't you, Anna? Rugged.

If you say so, mum, she says.

He didn't mention where he was going, she continues, looking slyly at her daughter, Perhaps he's gone for a stroll on the beach.

Anna pretends not to hear. She'd been avoiding Lewis, spending the time in her room making last-minute adjustments to her packing, not really caring about any of it, but in need of something to do. She tried to put some detail in her notebook about the wind-farm, but the words wouldn't come, and the sketches she made were hopeless. She'd told him her room was called Bogart. He could have come and found her. She stayed up there the whole evening, waiting for a knock on the door. After a while she began to seethe, thinking he owed her an apology. A longer while later, and she decided it would just be good to see him before she went away. Waking fully dressed on her bed in the early hours, she saw how ridiculous she was. Now, the feeling is the same: her heart is heavy as a plumb. She was sure they shared something—a real connection—plainly, as usual, she was wrong.

I was saying, Anna . . . that Mr Caine, says her mother, He's got a proper film star name. Don't you think?

I
think
I'll take a walk before we set off, says Anna, pushing back her chair, Get a bit of fresh air.

We'll have nothing but fresh air by this time tonight, says her mother, shooting a knowing look at Vernon, And that taxi's booked for ten sharp. Don't go making us late!

Left, left, I had a good job and I

Left,

I left my wife and fourteen kids

Was I right?

After a while, Anna stops marching and stands, hands on hips, alone on the long stretch of beach. She has been walking in the direction of the wind-farm, trudging across the wet sand and climbing over the groynes, for what feels like miles. When she set off, the air was clear; she had good sight of the horizon. Now the weather blows thick and thin, clearing its throat of yesterday's fog. She tells herself it must be a trick of light, the way the turbines looked so close; they seem no nearer now than when she started. And there's something missing about them today, but she can't fathom what it is. She thinks perhaps their spell on her is broken. Only when she's turned round and walked a good mile back towards home does she realize what's wrong. She turns again to check. They look even more flimsy now, as if they're dissolving into the landscape. Soon they'll be invisible. She stares hard, opening her eyes wide to let in the available light. Sure enough, the blades aren't moving: they are as still and sharp as knives, forming a line of crosses against the sky. Anna shakes her head at herself. How could she not have noticed? She feels it like an omen, as if time will stop too, until she comes back. The thought gives her courage. She will find Lewis and talk to him. She's got nothing to lose by telling him how she feels; it will be awkward, but she does awkward very well. What would Brendan say, if he were here?
Any man would be lucky to have you.
Anna tries to ignore the other voice inside her, reminding her that Brendan is capable of saying just about anything, but it grows more persistent, louder than the waves and the gulls, and the gusting wind singing through the groynes. She hits on a new song to march her back, crunching her feet into the sand, blocking the doubt with a rousing chorus,

Ars'ole, ars'ole, ar soldier I shall be—

When she raises her head, she sees Lewis, walking in her footprints. Against the white sky, he's sharp as an X-ray.

What kind of navvy taught you that? he says, feigning shock. Anna smiles at him.

Kids at school, she says.

Nice school, says Lewis, closing the gap.

Yeah. But not nice kids.

She is at his shoulder now.

How not nice? he says, his head on one side, mirroring hers.

She has to stretch up to kiss him. Slips on the sand a little so his arm catches her just at the elbow to hold her there. His other arm closes round her, pulling her body in line with his. It's awkward and perfect. He tastes of silver.

Afterwards, her blood will run quick with the memory of it. But right now, she tells him how he tastes.

He holds her to his chest, puts his lips on her hair. He takes her hand and slips it with his into his pocket. His skin is sandpaper rough. He leads her fingers deeper, so she looks up at him, widening her eyes in mock outrage at where she might be led. She finds the cigarette he has rolled.

For you, he says, laughing, In case you don't get on with those foreign fags.