Furnace (22 page)

She read over it again in the kitchen of the summerhouse, then with a strawberry magnet fixed it to the fridge door.

As evening came on she gave up on her books and sat outside with Charlie. She picked a handful of grapes but they seemed more bitter than before and after chewing the juice from them she spat
the skins out onto the dirt path. Out on the water meadows she could see one of the Hearn kids, a young girl, walking two of the wolfhounds. In the distance, against the low sun, the great, loping
dogs seemed weirdly gaunt and stylized, like cave paintings brought to a brief, twilight life. No sound carried from them and even Charlie seemed unaware of their passing.

When it grew too dark to see the river she stood and stepped down to the path. Charlie, she said, and tossed him one of the grapes. He snapped at it and, to her surprise, not only gulped it down
but lifted his head expectantly, eager for more. Amused, she lobbed another towards his muzzle, knowing that the next day she would study his stools for the skins.

VI

The next morning she woke at first light from a nightmare of vomiting up, wrenchingly, a long, burning stream of undigested grape skins. When she lifted her face away from the
hot dent of her pillow she was astonished to see dry, unsoiled sheets surrounding her. Her stomach throbbed from the violence of retching and the stink of bile seemed real in her nostrils but when
she touched her lips they were clean. She caught sight of the white dish still sitting by the side of the bed. The skins clinging to its rim were desiccated now: hard, waxy and smooth like
fingernails.

Dazed, she let her head fall back to the pillow and suddenly remembered helping her mother bring in washing from the clothesline in the big, windy backyard of her childhood home. The bed sheets
needed folding and as they each took their corners a rain of tiny black beetles fell from the opened folds. They seemed to wake on landing and swarmed for new shelter in the cracked paving around
her feet. Her mother, always so nervous, had jumped back, shrieking, and dropped her end of the sheet. Later that day, eyes wide with drama and disgust, her mother had kept saying to her over and
over again: But what if we hadn’t noticed? My God, what if we’d put that sheet back on the bed with all those black bugs on it?

And lying on her own bed now she heard the dog scratching and keening at the door and felt the skin of her bare legs crawl with tiny pincers and limbs. She clenched her thighs, her whole body
rigid under the covers. She’d been nine or ten, but even at that age had known with an awful, childish sense of doom that it was a crazy thing for an adult to be saying, a crazy way to
think.

How could you
not
notice? shed demanded at last, and already her young throat had felt as if it might choke on fury and despair.

Leyden had seen her naked once, slipping out of his son’s room in the small dark hours of a winter’s morning, padding cat-like to the bathroom door. It was towards
the end of the school term and he’d been working through the night, bleary-eyed and wired on caffeine at the kitchen table, marking exam scripts. She’d glanced up the long hall towards
the light but hadn’t noticed or hadn’t cared about him staring back at her over his stacks of papers. Embarrassed, he’d got up and moved out of sight of the hallway, then waited a
while after the flush had been pulled to be sure she’d had time to flit back.

That had been early in her stay, just a week or so after she’d moved in to share a room, and bed, with his nineteen-year-old student son, Matthew. After a long, bitter quarrel with the boy
that had made him feel morally petty for objecting to the girl’s arrival, he’d finally given in, realising, even as they raged at one another, that a part of him was intrigued by the
idea – was hungry for any change in their deadlocked, fierce life together. After saving face with a few petty rules and restrictions he’d allowed the two youngsters to get on with
their arrangement, secretly fascinated.

To his surprise, he’d soon found himself actually enjoying the extra presence in the roomy, unhomely Edinburgh flat. Though he rarely saw the girl, Emma, other than in passing, and even
then never exchanged more than a few polite words with her, he sensed a contentment about her, a stability that seemed to make the flat a busier but much more placid space than it had been before.
The ugly silences he’d often endured with just Matthew for company became almost a thing of the past, though the boy still communicated only when necessary, and never with warmth. Above all,
Leyden enjoyed having the tokens of a woman’s presence around him after years of living without them: the bewildering toiletries in the bathroom, pastel buntings of underwear on the
radiators, the scent of lotions or perfume sometimes lingering in the hallway.

Then, after six peaceful months, without warning Matthew decided that Emma had to leave. Typically, the boy had explained nothing but asked Leyden, in a tersely written note pinned to his
bedroom door, to drive her home to Kettick, a small fishing town on the east coast. It would be a four hundred mile round trip at least, Leyden knew, maybe half of it on slow country roads; but his
son had never learned how to drive and over the winter months the girl had moved in much more than she could manage on a train or bus. Gripped by a fury he couldn’t fully explain to himself,
Leyden had stalked through the flat, hoping to find the boy alone. But the couple were out or lying low behind their locked bedroom door and for the girl’s sake he resigned himself to a long,
embarrassing journey.

That Saturday morning, Leyden collected the hired van he’d booked and drove it back through a cold, light drizzle to the pile of luggage, boxes and plastic bags Matthew
had brought down from the flat. The youngsters were standing watch over the boxes, careless of the rain. They stood hand in hand, Leyden noted, and a surge of distaste towards his son made him turn
his face away as they approached the van. There was a bang against the side of the vehicle – the flat of a palm – and he heard Matthew shout for him to come and unlock the doors.

Neither of the youngsters seemed willing to make eye contact with Leyden as he joined them on the pavement and hauled back the van’s big, sliding side-door. You should get in the cab out
of the wet, he said to Emma. We’ll see to the loading.

Ignoring him, she detached herself from Matthew and took hold of one of the suitcases. A freshening breeze was tugging at the plastic bags amongst the boxes, rustling them and flinging cold
drops of heavier rain.

Okay, Leyden said, as if to himself, and set to work alongside her. For a few moments the boy watched them, blankly, then followed their lead.

Once the loading was done, Leyden climbed inside and waited at the wheel while they got through their goodbyes. The rain, strengthening all the time, had begun to drum onto the roof of the cab
and when she heaved herself up into the passenger seat Emma’s long dark hair was lank and dripping. She gasped as she sat back, wiping the wetness from her forehead. There was a whiff of
spirits on her breath and Leyden looked across at her, searching her face for signs of what to expect in the hours to come. Her smooth, pale, distracted face gave nothing away. As Leyden indicated
to pull out from the kerb she squirmed to stare out at Matthew. Hunched and grimacing under the downpour he offered up a perfunctory wave, and Leyden again felt an upswell of exasperation and
shame.

Thanks for the lift, she said, turning from the window once they were out of sight of the tenement.

He shrugged and cleared his throat. Listen, he said, I’m sorry about all this – the way he’s acted. He wet his lips. Getting you home safe and sound is the least I can do. The
collars of his shirt and jacket were wet through after the loading and as he moved his head to address her he felt the cotton rub against his throat. She wasn’t looking at him, she was
looking straight ahead. He turned his own eyes back to the road and shivered. The rain was washing down hard onto the windscreen and the inside of the glass was clouded with moisture from their wet
skin and clothes. It was hard to see out into the traffic. He turned the fan heater to high and the cab filled with the sound of rushing air.

Shifting in her seat she stared hard at him for a while. There’s no need to be sorry, she said, raising her voice to be heard over the fan. Matty just needs some time; then we’ll get
married properly and be back together again for good.

Surprised by the authority in her voice, Leyden glanced across at her. You think so?

She nodded once, decisively.

Well, that’s good. If you think you’re ready for all that.

She made no reply and in the awkward lull Leyden was suddenly aware not just of the heater’s loud blast of air but also, behind it, the churning electric motor driving the windscreen
wipers. He listened to it flailing the blades against each swill of rain. He knew without looking at her that he had made some mistake.

You don’t believe me, do you? she said abruptly. You think I’m just being young and naïve.

No, he said. I didn’t say that. He turned the fan down to a lower setting. He could feel his temperature beginning to rise and with a finger loosened the damp collar of his shirt where it
stuck to his neck. She was still facing him, he realised, though he didn’t turn to make eye-contact. He caught another trace of alcohol on the stuffy air and wondered grimly how much she had
drunk.

Matty told me you don’t believe in anything, she said, as if noting the weather. He said you’re too bitter. He told me you’re the most cynical person I’ll ever meet.

For a long, stunned moment, Leyden replayed the girl’s words in his head. He heard himself laugh, humourlessly. Heat was spreading over him now, prickling at his scalp and neck. Did he? he
managed to say. He nodded as if in approval. And what does Matthew believe in then?

She was doing something with her hair. Out of the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of her bare white forearm rising and sweeping back. She took her time answering, then said simply,
Matty’s very spiritual.

Spiritual! he almost blurted, but checked himself. He nodded again instead, labouring for some response that might put a quick stop to the conversation.

That’s why we’ve got to be apart for a while, she went on.

Leyden realised he was still nodding, and stopped himself. Matthew was always the… serious type, he managed at last.

At noon he turned off into a service station and asked her if she was hungry, taking a close look at her face again. She had pulled her hair back tight over her scalp, knotting
and pinning it above the nape of her neck. She looked very white and distant and shook her head when Leyden repeated the question.

Well I’m getting a coffee at least, maybe something to eat, he told her.

I’ll go to the Ladies, she said, opening her door.

Okay. I’ll be in the Burger King. He followed her through the rain across the car park and into the foyer.

He was already eating at one of the window tables by the time she came to find him. She eased herself into the cramped seating opposite him and smiled. She looked better, Leyden thought, now
that there was colour in her cheeks.

I was sick, she announced. I had a drink this morning before we left. She laid a hand over her stomach. I feel fine now, though. I’ll get a burger too.

I’ll get it, he mumbled through a full mouth, but she was already freeing herself from the table.

Across from him a burly, shaven-headed man was struggling into his seat. His thickly muscled arms and neck were blue with crudely drawn tattoos – a death’s-head, slogans in gothic
script, swastikas. The man ate slowly, thoughtfully, staring straight ahead.

Emma returned with two small plain burgers and a milk shake. She bolted them quickly but neatly, dispatching one after the other with just a few swift, precise bites. Once the food was gone she
slowed down, dawdling over the drink. Twice Leyden caught her eyeing him as he turned from staring out at the rain. She smiled briefly each time and then looked down at her drink, or across at the
skinhead’s tattooed arms and neck.

Still feeling okay? Leyden asked finally.

Much better. I just needed to be sick. She laughed self-deprecatingly.

He smiled, glad that the silence was broken.

For a while she stared at the skinhead again, then turned back to Leyden. How long were you married? she asked.

Leyden frowned but managed to keep smiling. He reflected for a while, looking sidelong at her open, strangely impassive face, realising with some surprise that he felt a growing sense of
pleasure at the thought of being open, perhaps a little vulnerable, with this peculiar, awkwardly mannered girl. Maybe somewhere inside her, underneath all the callowness, lay a seed of sympathy,
even recognition. The thought pleased him, but in a way that made him shift nervously in his plastic seat. Fifteen years, he said.

That’s a long time.

He shrugged, faintly gratified by her response. It sounds a long time when you’re young.

Her mouth twisted into a thin half-smile and once again he knew he had slipped. Sensing what was coming next, he braced himself.

Why did it go wrong? She took a draw on her milkshake, her eyes fixing him. Do you mind me asking?

No, he laughed. No, I don’t mind. It’s, ah, water under the bridge. He paused as if to reflect though he knew exactly what he was about to say. He cleared his throat. We just married
too young, etcetera etcetera, you know. The old story. To his surprise he realised he was blushing and his chest had grown tight.