Staring At The Light Read online

  ‘He stole from me.’ It was a flat statement, without undue emphasis.

  You have plenty left. The obvious remark was on the tip of his tongue, but Andrew refrained from making it. From lawyer to client – albeit one in strictly unofficial consultation, moonlighting and currying favour without the knowledge of his employers – that would have been impertinence, and John Smith, man of mystery, was a perfect client. A cow for the milking, with an undefined business that seemed to consist of acquiring and selling. Others collected newspapers, conglomerates, manufacturing plants, shops; John Smith, on a lesser scale, collected houses. Started life as a builder, Andrew recalled, not the first to reach such a pinnacle of reclusive respectability, which made it even odder that he should spend so many of his waking hours now thinking of nothing but his twin brother. He, Andrew, would never be like that. Once he was rich (a state of life devoutly to be wished, by any means whatever, and soon), he hoped he would abandon all resentments, relinquish all tedious family ties and realize when enough was enough.

  Smith gestured to the wall above the fireplace. ‘All my life I tried to get Cannon to paint something like that,’ he said carefully. ‘But would he ever? Like shit he would. He wanted to paint tables and chairs and draw silly little patterns and women, for God’s sake. Mind, he was good with a bomb, I’ll grant him that.’

  ‘Good with a what?’

  John Smith sat. ‘You heard me. A bomb. If you’re going to build anything, you nearly always have to clear something away first. Trees, earth, another building. Besides, a small blast late at night can bring down the price of a house wonderfully. I’ve had a few bargains that way. Lord, we had such fun. Raised in Belfast, you see. Bombs are only toys, and boys are boys and they play with them. My daddy taught us how so we could wreck places and he could make money building them up again. Taught us everything, the bastard. You could always find a use for a bomb. Don’t ask whose side we were on, I can’t tell you. A shame you couldn’t find his lovely wife.’

  John Smith was not a conversationalist. Andrew knew he was privileged. He remained silent. For a moment he had relaxed, but the creeping feeling of unease was back, like a breeze round the nape of his neck, making him feel as if someone else was in the room, the other persona of polite, respectable Mr Smith, stalking behind him like a tiger. Andrew Mitchum told himself, with the wisdom of his over-qualified years, that Smith was not a gangster. But gay, for sure, in the current use of the word; not at all the same sort of thing as being festive, in the other sense. This was homosexual screaming for release, and then another appalling thought crossed Andrew’s mind. Perhaps that was why John Smith wanted to find his brother. No, no, no. Incest had gone out with the Middle Ages.

  ‘He stole from me,’ Smith repeated.

  ‘Yes, he used the business to make things for other businesses. He siphoned off some money,’ Andrew said impatiently. This was old ground.

  ‘No. Love. He stole love. As if it were simply a commodity. He stole my love.’ The shrill, unnaturally high voice rose to a shout.

  ‘What will you do if you find his wife, sir?’

  ‘Hurt her so much that this time she’ll run. Thought I’d done the worst I could, but no. This time she’ll really scream. He won’t want her back. He’ll come home to me. But I’ve only got a couple of weeks more. I promised him, fool that I am. We always played games, but you have to have rules. Like a boxing match. She stole him. The bitch.’

  Suddenly Andrew craved to be beyond these doors in the street, jogging for a bus, home to his lover or back to his office. Out. Instead, politeness ruled hysteria, so instead of taking his leave he laughed nervously. The sound was subdued by the room. There was nobody else in this house, except the silent fat man, the house servant and factotum who opened the door. The one Andrew knew had been deputed to track down the dentist and find out, casually, what the damn dentist did with his weekends. Smith had mentioned that over dinner. I want to get a look at him, he kept on repeating, measure him up, the cunt, see if he’ll do, but I don’t want him seeing me. What strange and pointless preoccupations he had. This client was warped, but rich. Exceedingly rich. Too rich to be needing love. ‘Love? Oh dear, if that was all, everybody would be suing,’ Andrew spluttered. ‘For love? I mean, suing like mad.’

  Smith had opened one of the windows, which led on to a small balcony. ‘I bought him a house,’ Smith said, with a hint of sadness. There was never more than a hint of any emotion. Spread across the desk was a double-page article about someone who had won the lottery, and bought seven houses with the proceeds for members of his family. It was possible to imagine Smith doing that: there were houses enough, although only God could guess at his motives. It takes the average family man twenty-five years to pay for a house, Andrew thought, with contempt.

  ‘I’m grateful’, Smith was saying over his shoulder, ‘that you were able to get here so early in the morning. Even if there is so little to report.’

  Andrew shrugged modestly. ‘He’s gone to ground. The wife entirely so. I, er, didn’t tell a soul about my researches, like you said. Or this meeting,’ he added.

  There was an approving nod.

  ‘Do come and look at the view.’

  Mollified, Andrew approached. After all, they had dined together the week before. Hadn’t that been some sort of overture? Smith, asking questions, eliciting hopes and fears, apparently confiding his own. Telling him about a deserting mammy and a builder daddy, who had sent him and his brother away to make good here when they were fifteen, and hadn’t they just? Well, he had. Told him about the freakish brother who had somehow learned to paint, even when all they had been was a pair of urchins, abandoned by women, abandoned by everyone.

  They stood together as the sun rose, slowly dispelling the mist. The view from here might be tremendous on a good summer day. It was an area of vast older houses: on his way down the long road, Andrew had passed a convent and two nursing homes, suitable uses, he thought, for houses of that size. He felt John Smith’s massive hand, tracing with a gentle touch the cleft of his buttocks, under the flap of the jacket, one finger only along the smooth fabric of his new Marks & Spencer suit. Thrilled to the touch. Stared ahead, muscles tensed, not even suppressing the thought that this could be the way to serious money; a house, perhaps. The man had plenty of houses and he, Andrew, was a very handsome boy. Then John Smith put his right hand onto Andrew’s left shoulder, turned him to face himself, the jowled face lit with a smile, the powerful body bent. ‘Andrew? You’ve been a great help, a real comfort to a fool like me. Really.’ The charm was sincere; felt like a breath of summer.

  ‘Whatever you want, sir.’

  They seemed to have arrived at an embrace. John Smith was touching him with both hands, grasping for hold; Andrew suddenly floppy, preparing himself for his own reaction to a kiss … And then, in a shade of second, he went over the balcony, hoisted by his groin and his shoulder as if he were a lightweight. Two floors down, crashing softly through the branches of the tree, bouncing from each to each, clutching at twigs, first suspended by his jacket, then snarled by his tie, at once upside down, then scrabbling for purchase until he clung by his hands, more by luck than by judgement, oblivious to the scratches and the grazes, looking at the ground. The branch dipped; the buttons on his shirt ripped. He swung like an ape in a cage, a child at play the way Mother said, ‘don’t,’ and finally plumped to earth on a damp, dark lawn, before he had time to scream. The seconds had felt like minutes. There was blood on his forehead, razor grazes on his hands, and nothing he saw fit to notice yet. The last drop had been a mere ten feet from the last, dipping branch. A game, that was all, with a tree especially designed to save him.

  He told me too much. If I repeat it, he’ll kill me.

  The mist drifted back. He watched it in a peculiarly disinterested way, as he lay on his back, stunned by the sky and the omnipresence of the branches rustling angrily, as if scolding, shaking themselves in indignation.

  He moved his limb
s slowly, propped himself up on his elbows, had some dim, unpleasant memory of where he was. Including the realization that if John Smith thought this was a game he did not care about the consequences.

  He shuffled forward until he was in a kneeling position. Felt the first surge of relief that he was whole, if not entire. Then saw the man looming above him.

  ‘Don’t wink at me, boy. Don’t you dare. What do you think I am? Some pansy? Such lovely teeth you have, my boy, you useless little cunt. All the better for smiling with. Now, go and tell your boss how you were moonlighting. See how long you keep your job and how long it takes to buy your house. Greedy little faggot.’

  He saw the piece of wood in John Smith’s hand, the size of a piece of fence, crashing into his face as he made to stand, his mouth open in a scream of protest. Felt three of his teeth crack, his jaw shudder. Rose to his feet with his hand clapped over his lips, backing away, choking the scream, hawking blood into the carpet of leaves and damp grass.

  The fat man bowed and showed him to the gate of the garden, as if he had been an honoured guest.

  No-one was going to get close to John Smith.

  Whistling on the walk to work; that was the way to do it. Planning as she went, but not a precise form of planning. Thinking with glee of the excuse Ernest had given her to bunk off work, wondering if he had realized it yet; contemplating the rest of the week and how to manage it. Go to see one of the lovers, the one she called Mole, pick up a tip or two on how to form an art collection: he would know, there was always someone who did. Look up where that exhibition was that showed them all; check on Cannon, and if he rang, as he often neglected to do, ask him to go with her. With all that, the done and the undone, the other clients with their divorces and problems, Sarah was glad to be alive.

  She stopped by the fruit-and-flowers stall. Michaelmas daisies, shaggy and purple, or should it be three of the monstrous, drooping orange chrysanthemums, or no flowers at all but pounds of the cold russet apples for biting later? When in doubt buy both, and take a full five minutes in a talkative set-the-world-to-rights chat along with the purchase. Early yet. The reception hall was empty. She paused for a minute, picturing those barren walls alive with decoration and, as she envisaged some large canvas of huge colour and conspicuous obscenity fit to make the senior partner choke, she grinned to herself. Then she whistled up the endless stairs, proving she could whistle without breaking step or breath – it was the swimming that did it – kicked open the office door, which was scuffed from this daily attention because she always seemed to arrive with her arms full.

  There was that peculiar smell, instantly recognizable only to those who knew it. Blood, unmasked by antiseptic. Andrew Mitchum sat in the chair facing the desk on which he was more accustomed to place his feet, stemming blood from his lips with a teacloth he had found, rocking back and forth, moaning incoherently, dabbing at the droplets on her desk, mixed blood and tears. There was a hideous sense of déjà vu. Her step arrested in horror, until the horror receded into a kind of weariness. He, too, had got up all these stairs; he wasn’t dying, only bleeding. She should be used to this, seemed to attract it. Don’t make a fuss. And don’t run screaming for help without checking first. When she had been rescued after being attacked, it was the last thing she had wanted anyone to do, so she herself was not going to do it now. Touch him, tell him it’s all right. Don’t scream and dial 999 until she had found out what he needed. She should know by now that not every walking wounded wanted to go public. She dropped the burdens; the apples rolled across the floor while she pressed his shoulders lightly to quell the shaking. ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘Tch, tch, what have you been doing? And you such a handsome man, too.’

  He quivered. Gently, she prised the cloth from his fingers while his eyes remained fixed and wide, looking in terror for a verdict on the damage. Vanity mixed with fear, a sign of health. She remembered what she had done, looked for a mirror, wanting to know the worst.

  ‘Seen worse,’ she commented. ‘You’ll be as gorgeous as ever inside a week, I wouldn’t wonder. Who did this, you daft bastard?’

  Seen worse. Herself. Cannon’s wife, Julie. She was trying to shake herself free of the purely personal remembrance of injury, the shame of it, the humiliation; trying to make him realize that it was temporary while already it must feel endless. Trying to refine her own memory of what it was she had needed then. Touch; reassurance; the apparition of despised common sense. A joke in bad taste.

  ‘A man … I thought he fancied me … Didn’t …’

  ‘And what did he want? Sex? Something easy like that? You shouldn’t be so desirable.’

  The nod was painful but clearly negative.

  ‘Yesh. But he didn’ wanna. I didn’, either. Hit on me … hit me …’

  ‘Sure about that, are you?’ she asked, chafing his hands, examining him. If she buttoned the blue serge of his jacket and wrapped him in her shawl, favoured today over the favourite coat, the blood on the shirt would not show sufficiently to shock. She could pass him off as a nosebleed; she suspected that that was what he would want.

  ‘Inna club … Nithe place … Nithe client …’

  You made a pass at him, you little tart, she thought without saying it. Andrew was always making passes at clients with money. Oddly, the thought of ambition frustrated made her more sympathetic. The boy had had injury and rejection, not nice at all and not any easier to bear just because he was a creep. There were sounds downstairs, Matthewson’s voice shouting an order, his first-thing-in-the-morning attempt to exert control. Andrew’s eyes closed in a different kind of terror.

  ‘You were moonlighting, weren’t you?’

  He raised a hand in acknowledgement. The shaking was slightly less.

  ‘And you wouldn’t want anyone to know that, would you?’

  The hand moved.

  ‘So I think we’ll go out the back way, don’t you?’

  When Isabella came to William’s surgery, she was treated like royalty, red-carpet service except that the front-hall carpet was claret-coloured already. The thought of her filled William’s day with a shadow of grief.

  ‘Mummy’s got a bib on!’

  ‘Yes, she has, hasn’t she? Are you on any medication, Mrs Oakley? Turn your head slightly to one side for me … Feeling OK, are we?’

  William knew he should get out of the habit of asking more than one question at a time. Even during a check-up, which in this case was half designed as a pantomime exercise to teach the child to feel at ease. Mummy first, you next, the child a new patient, three years old, and William with no idea of what he would find – a mouthful of caries or nothing at all.

  ‘I’m on the pill,’ she whispered, as if the information was classified or somehow embarrassing in front of the child. ‘Doth that coun’?’ He was probing the gums, half of his mind elsewhere, with the muted sound of the radio, the joyful memory of the previous patient, the disturbed memory of the night before, while the other half registered what he did and heard. The surgery was blissfully quiet. He had taken in what she had said about the pill and shaken his head. Long may she remain on it: the previous pregnancy had wrought havoc with her teeth and he did not want his mending undone. Isabella and he … Would it have been different with children? No, she didn’t want them; she wanted the perfect house; she would still be searching for it now.

  ‘An X-ray this side, I think.’ Nor should he ever say I think: he must sound definite. ‘Bite down. Lovely. Thanks.’ He moved to the door, beckoning the child with him, stepped back after the button was pressed to remove the saliva-coated square and hand it on behind her head. Never pass anything across the patient’s face, least of all a syringe: let it find its way into the mouth before they knew it was there. William’s mind went back to the last patient. Such a nice man. Impervious to the whine of the drill, the hiss of the aspirator and the final ignominy of the impression. Lying there dreamily peaceful, with his mouth full of bright red gum, so gentle and vague and comfortable that h
e had had to be persuaded to bite. William wondered if he would insist upon crowned teeth at that age – such a nice old man. Probably not, but everyone was allowed their priorities. The rules in this practice were dictated entirely by what came through the door. William strove to see himself merely as an engineer and a pragmatist. It wasn’t the demands that fascinated him: it was the challenge of technique.

  The child clambered into the chair without a qualm and happily revealed a set of even milk teeth. Mother’s dental history made her careful; she would be strict on his diet and do her damnedest to make Baby brush, although no-one would save him from accidents; no-one could.

  ‘Very good,’ Mummy was crooning. William’s mind wandered again. An unbusy morning, but he missed the hyperactivity of his former National Health practice, as well as the anonymity of sheer numbers. Conversation had been minimal in those days, the patients mainly stoic and silent. He did not miss the ignorant and terrified children who had to be anaesthetized to keep them still. That had been barbaric. What he resented now was the expectation from every one of his fee-payers that he should form some sort of personal relationship with each of them.

  ‘Do you like sweeties?’

  ‘Yeth.’

  Such beauty would not last. Better to eat the sweeties and never bother brushing at all.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a photograph? I’ll give you a copy. The teeth are so perfect.’

  ‘Course.’ The mother was pleased, as if he had complimented the child’s brain. He could see it now: a photo of the child’s teeth alongside one of his face in school cap. A photograph for the family records, alongside those of innocent, babyish nudity, produced some time to embarrass a girlfriend, a reminder of fluoride, genetic good fortune or sucrose-free babyhood. The child obliged for the camera, then waved from the door. William felt the vaguest stirring of affection, and then remembered the children of his nightmares: the one with the suffocating chest and the one with the missing teeth, the others crowding crooked into the gap.