House of Bells (16 page)

No, of course she hadn't. She'd seen a bishop being laid, but she decided not to say so. Georgie wouldn't dream of such a thing. She said, ‘No, I haven't. Is that what you call it? I thought you just planted hedge plants, and they grew . . .'

‘No, it's a real craft. And at the start, it's all about discipline: chopping back what's there, cutting and bending the green wood and weaving it into a sort of frame, so that the new shoots will bind together the way you want. Then you can encourage all the growth and variety you like, shape it if you want to or just leave it alone, let it run rampant. That's what the captain's after, you see? Something enduring, where every individual adds to the strength of the whole, and everyone can flourish. It's why he needs the big house; it's a big ship he has in mind. And this is just the start. We'll be a beacon, and a seed pod. People will go out from here, spread the word, set up daughter-houses all over. We can change the world. Everyone will want to live like this, once they've seen how it works.'

‘What, smoking pot and dancing round the fire? I know a lot of people who absolutely wouldn't.' She knew a lot of people – in houses like this, mostly – who'd come stomping down the hill with shotguns, if people tried to do it on their land.

‘Not that, no. Even now, even here, not everyone wants to get high. Some of us do, sure – but that's not what it's about. The captain doesn't, and he's our guiding light. Give us ten years, time to settle in. Time to make a mark. Already we're doing what we can in the neighbourhood –' ladders on a roof rack, screaming at passers-by: she wasn't impressed – ‘but we'll be a power in the land, once we're settled. People will see, people will listen. And they'll want this, and eventually they'll realize they can have it, just for the asking.'

She couldn't say so, but she didn't think she wanted it herself. She would never have come here, if not for Tony; having seen it, she wouldn't stay, if not for Tony. What did this house have to offer her? She wasn't some older generation that could safely be outlived, so that the young and hopeful could inherit the world. She was Tom's own kind in every way that mattered, or ought to matter, except this one. Which was, of course, the only one that mattered. She was a city girl, he was a hippy freak. Back-to-the-land meant nothing to her, and what else did he have in his gift?

She said, ‘This isn't paradise, you know.' That was OK; she could say that. Cynical Grace would have said it already, but even vulnerable Georgie would work her way up to it at last.

‘Of course not, but we can make it a garden of Eden. A guiding light. Word will spread, people will come. You came, all the way from London.'

‘Yes. Yes, I did.'
I wouldn't have. Don't call me as a witness. I'm being paid for this.
She'd almost forgotten the money. She shouldn't do that; it was the only reason she was here. Georgie didn't care about money, she'd never needed to. Grace, though, oh yes. And it was Grace she'd go back to, when she went.

Poor Grace. Even this little distance gave her perspective, to show just how mean and cramped and bitter Grace's life had become. A good-time girl who was just not having a good time: how sad was that?

But it was still the life she had, the life that waited. She couldn't afford to get too judgemental about that, nor too sentimental about this. It was an effort just to roll on to her side, to look at Tom more clearly. She made that effort, grunted as her body settled again into a delicious languor, and said, ‘Yes, I did. I don't suppose I was the first, either.'
Tell me about Frank
– except that she didn't give him the chance. It was like opening a door and walking on by, not even glancing in, never mind waiting to see what came out. ‘But I've only been here a night, Tom, and look at me. Look at Kathie.'

What they could see of her was insensible under the covers, and just as well. Even if her burns were superficial she'd be horribly sore when she woke up. No comfortable way to lie. Grace might envy her unconsciousness; Georgie was happy just as she was, and couldn't imagine ever wanting to move again.

Well, Georgie could stay here when Grace moved on. Shrugged off and left behind, she could be, like an old coat no longer wanted. Right now, all Grace wanted to do was move Tom just a fraction, shake him out of his complacency. He was a true believer, and they were dangerous: to themselves, and to everyone around them.

He said, ‘Accidents happen, in any community. What matters is the way we meet them.'

‘No,' she said. ‘What matters is the way they happen. What makes them happen. There's no such thing as accidents.' She did, perhaps, believe that. Certainly she believed it here. Maybe she was a true believer too; maybe this place made them so. She took a breath, took the plunge; said, ‘How come you think I keep bleeding? I'm not cutting my own arm open, just to be dramatic. There's something here that cuts me, every time you ring your bloody bells. You know that, you were there the first time. You wanted to think it was brambles, remember?'

He was quiet, smoking, listening.

She pressed on. ‘And Kathie, she didn't trail her skirt in the fire, to have it catch like that. She wasn't that stoned. You couldn't get that close, anyway; it was way too hot. Something reached out for her. I saw it. It was hands, fiery hands . . .'

Now he was laughing at her. Softly, not unkindly, but still laughing.

He said, ‘Never mind how stoned Kathie was – how about you? What had you been smoking?'

‘Nothing. I don't.' Well, Grace did, if some man passed her something. Georgie, not. Something to be grateful for, that she needn't pretend to want it.

‘Well, you must have caught a backblow from someone; there's enough dope in the air here to send anyone high.' Indeed, he added to it deliberately, blowing out a thick cloud into the small room. ‘Or you've taken too much acid in your time, and you were having a flashback. There's nothing in the food, I know that. We don't spike people. But straight up, Georgie love, come on – hands reaching out from the fire? Something collapsed in there, that's all, an old cupboard or whatever; everything else fell in on top of it and blew out a shower of sparks. We ought to be more careful. So should you. How did you cut yourself anyway, the first time?'

‘With a razor,' she said nastily.

He sat over that for a while, smoking, thinking. Then he said, ‘Why?'

‘Because . . . Because I was in trouble, and I couldn't stand it any longer.' Let him sit over that. He'd think she meant
I was pregnant
when she said
I was in trouble
, and he already knew about the baby. Let him do her lying for her. Lying for herself was far too much effort, with this warm lethargy laid over her like an extra blanket. It wasn't really lying anyway, if she just allowed him to misunderstand.

‘I'm sorry, love. Poor Georgie.'

She thought he might let it go at that. He was a nice boy; he might be too nice to bother her further. Maybe she could just drift off again; she only felt half awake anyway. Mary's drugs, or his: she was breathing a lot of that smoke. If this kept up, she really could find herself high on the backdraught.

Perhaps she already was. She had to be, didn't she? He did have to be right. Fire and bells . . .

As if reading her mind, he said, ‘Bells, though, Georgie? What do you mean about the bells?'

‘Just the sound of them cuts right through me. I hate bells.' And then, because that wasn't enough – his silence said so, and her own creeping honesty, masks slipping one by one until she was almost dizzy with confession – she went on, ‘They let me out for my baby's funeral, and the bell, the bloody bell . . .'

They'd tolled a single bell that morning, on and on. Three strokes three times, to say they were burying a man, though he was just barely begun, not properly born even; and then a hundred and one strokes more, because the parish custom was to ring the number of years the dead had lived, but stillbirths counted none-at-all so they did the other thing, they rang their bell for ever. And she'd stood there for every stroke in her foul black coat and veil, and they'd pounded through her like body blows while the camera shutters clicked and journalists yelled questions across the wall of the graveyard – ‘How do you feel, Grace? And how are they treating you? And have you got anything more to say, any secrets to share while we're waiting? And how do you
feel
. . .?' – and she bled and bled on the inside while her face showed nothing at all.

And no, she'd not been punished enough.

Still not.

Really, it had been no punishment at all, nothing but relief when they took her back to jail to wait for her trial; and it was no release at all when the judge then let her go. He was so pleased with himself, with his own generosity, lecturing her pompously from the bench and then throwing her back like a tiddler, too small to be worth keeping; and the baying pack outside the Old Bailey, so much worse than anything or anyone in Holloway; and they followed her home and bayed all night outside her flat, and followed her all the next day, and some of them just kept on following.

‘What do you mean,' he said slowly, carefully, ‘they let you out? Out of where?'

Oh. Damn. ‘Out of hospital,' she said: which was true, sort of, almost. ‘They didn't usually have a proper funeral for a stillbirth – I think they just went into the furnace with all the, you know, waste. But I couldn't stand that. I'm afraid I made a fuss, and then they made an exception.' Or really it was her lawyer on the outside who made the fuss, scenting advantage in it, scenting release: which would work in his favour, at least, if not hers. She really didn't believe he'd thought at all about her. ‘So I did have a funeral,' she said, ‘and I really wish I hadn't, now.'

‘Still,' he said, coming back to where this had started, ‘it's not the bells that make you bleed, Georgie. Really, it's not. That's just in your head.'

Of course it was in her head, she knew that. Her head was a dangerous place. She thought about things, she worked things out, and then there they were: in her head and in the world, doing damage. Hurting her and hurting others.

In her belly, going bad. Hurting her, from now on in.

All her own fault, but Tom didn't need to know that.

She didn't say anything, only lay there watching him while he puffed his joint down until he was sucking on the roach and burned his tongue and yelped like a little boy and stubbed it out crossly against his jeans; and she might have laughed but really she was too sad and too sleepy, and she closed her eyes and listened to his breathing until he went away, or she did.

When she woke again, it was still dark, darker. No smoking-glow, no smoking boy. The night light was still burning, but all that did was define the edges of every shadow, to show her where was darkest.

Between her and the slumped form of Kathie –
lucky Kathie
, she was starting to name that girl privately: lucky to be alive, perhaps, and lucky to be as little hurt as she was, perhaps, and lucky for sure to be sleeping so soundly, hurt as she was – at the foot of their beds was the darkest point in the room, just where it ought to have been brightest. Where there was no furniture – nothing to block the fall of moon and starlight from the window with the night light's glow to back them – darkness had gathered itself together. Shape and substance, all of a piece, physical dark: she could have touched it if she sat up, if she reached out, if she dared.

It wasn't the lethargy now that held her motionless. She felt frozen, bitter cold where she had been so warm before; and frightened, where she had felt protected.

Tom, where did you go? Weren't you supposed to be watching?

But no one ever watched over Grace, not in a good way, not to keep her safe. They gathered by the pool to see her swimming, naked and tipsy and
look at me!
; they watched her in prison, on remand, every hour of every day; they watched her flat for sight of her; they watched her at parties and on the street and in the papers; they watched her for opportunities and for pay.

When she really wanted watching, there was no one there.

Tom had saved her once, in the woods, by chance perhaps and all unknowing. He wouldn't come again.

There were no feral pigs in the house here, snorting among the leaves, shoving though undergrowth, coming.

This was that sucking solid emptiness she'd seen between the trees, come for her again.

Waiting for her, perhaps, only that she couldn't move.

That was odd, maybe: to be saved by her own terror, if anything could save her. It didn't seem to be coming any closer. Settling, maybe, like a little boy sitting in the dark to watch his mother while she slept. If she lay here long enough, still enough, perhaps it would go away, like a little boy disappointed.

She held her breath, not like a mother at all: like a little girl, trying desperately not to be noticed. It was like being underwater again, sinking, helpless. Her wrist ached fiercely, her muscles cramped with the effort of not moving, and she found herself listening for the sound of bells—

—and almost thought she caught it, that deep-sunk distant tolling, rising from the lake. Her hand spasmed beneath the blankets, and the shadow perhaps drifted closer.

She didn't think she'd ever really been bad at heart, not to say evil. Only out of her depth all her life and struggling, snatching for something to hold on to, perhaps not caring too much who she hurt in the process, or how badly. Perhaps not caring enough.

She might have liked a little boy, she thought. Something to hold on to. She might have made a terrible mother, but she would have liked the chance to try.

Too late now. You never, ever got the chance to go back and try again.

What she had was what she'd given herself, what she'd made: a terrible hollow at the heart, absence made flesh, brought here, set now between two beds.