Now I Know (31 page)

If I'd let myself think about it, I might have given up right then. But I didn't. The grey summer dawn was lightening now every minute. The sun would be up soon and so would people. No time for pondering. If I was going to do it, it had to be done at once or I'd be too late. And I certainly wasn't going to give up.

Besides, I felt a weird kind of excitement. From the moment Michelle had left me, fleeing on my bike, I'd worked with steadily increasing speed and passion. Everything I did went perfectly, as if I knew exactly what I was doing because I'd practised many times. And by the time I'd rigged the crane I was sweating and breathing hard, almost as I had been earlier when I arrived on the common. Only, instead of feeling utterly whacked, I was elated, surging with energy. I can remember thinking,
I am as one possessed
, and laughing out loud.

Now, two days later, when in my memory I see myself scurrying about Fred's dump in the early morning light, I know something I was not aware of at the time: a sensation of being utterly absorbed, of being wholly myself and yet also more than myself, a part of something inevitable and beyond that moment. I think what I felt must have been what people mean when they talk of fate and of meeting their destiny. That is why now I feel no guilt or shame or regret, the way some people (everybody?) think I should. I know it was a ridiculous thing to do, dangerous and stupid really, but when I think of it, I find myself smiling.

The cross prepared, the crane revving, its hook lowered and ready with the noosed rope attached. All that was left was for me to slip my arms and legs into their polythene bindings, take hold of the control cords, and pull the up lever.

I took my shoes off but found that my jeans were snagging on the polythene strip. So I pulled them off; decided to make a proper job of it, and pulled off my T-shirt as well, which was wet through for the second time and uncomfortable anyway. That left me in my underpants.

Without encumbrance of clothes my legs and arms fitted easily into their straps. I took hold of the ends of the cords, settled myself as best I could on the bars of my cold metal bed and, taking a deep breath, tugged the up cord.

Which is when things went slightly wrong.

†

‘This better not be another stunt,' Tom said as they approached the dump. He had driven down from the common in sullen silence.

There's nothing so funny, Michelle was thinking, as a randy boy when he's thwarted. Nor so dangerous, sometimes, neither. She performed to herself her mother's frequent refrain: Men, they're all beasts!

‘Pull up just there.' She pointed ahead at Arthur Green's workshop.

Before she went in she banged at the rattly door, calling: ‘Mr Green, hello. It's me, Michelle.' But Tom swept her inside on the bow of his temper before there was time for reply.

The place was gloomy and cavernous, lit only from skylights. But everything was neatly kept and arranged. A carpenter's bench, ancient in use but as cared for as front room furniture; tools hung and laid out in meticulous order; a circular saw, a band saw, a planing machine, all giving sharp metallic winks; even the sawdust on the floor looked as if scattered by order rather than neglect. One corner was occupied by stacked piles of wood in various cuts and sizes, a library of timber. Another, the farthest corner, half hidden by large sheets of blockboard standing on end and leaning against a main rafter, was an inner sanctum, a den where a naked light bulb dangled from the roof, shining above an old kitchen table, at which sat Arthur Green, his knotted hands curled round a large mug, his head bent over a newspaper spread in front of him.

He turned to peer at Michelle and Tom standing just inside the door but did not rise.

‘Now then,' he called.

‘I've brought him,' Michelle called back.

‘So I see.'

Tom made his way through the workshop, Michelle following slowly like an indulgent mum behind an over-eager child. He stopped by the partitioning boards, where he could see all of the den—its chipped sink and water-blackened draining board, its long-out-of-date oven, its couple of battered armchairs angled towards a wood-burning stove, presently dead. But other than the man at the table, nobody.

Michelle arrived at his side; Tom glanced and saw her undisguised pleasure at his puzzlement.

‘So where is he?' Tom said. ‘I thought he was here.'

‘Aye, well he's not, is he?' Arthur Green said. ‘He's gone.'

‘I talked to you this morning,' Tom said. ‘Out there.'

‘You did.'

‘You said you knew nothing.'

‘No, no! I said there was plenty of gossip.'

Michelle couldn't help chipping in, ‘Mr Green is Nik's grandad.'

Tom's face betrayed that he felt like kicking himself.

‘Where is he?' he demanded.

Arthur Green chuckled. ‘He is risen, he is not here.'

Tom said, ‘This is no joke, Mr Green. It's a police matter.'

‘You're right, lad,' Arthur Green said. ‘It's no joke, and it's nothing to do with the police neither.'

‘Your grandson is crucified and you don't think it has anything to do with the police?'

‘Why should it?'

‘Because it's a criminal offence. GBH at least. Don't you want the people responsible to be caught?'

Arthur Green turned to Michelle. ‘You didn't tell him?'

Michelle shook her head. ‘Didn't think he'd believe me.'

Tom said, ‘Believe what?'

Arthur Green pushed his mug away, sat back in his chair, placed his work-warped hands flat on the table in front of him and said, ‘He crucified himself.'

INTERCUT
:  
The scene at the dump. The cross lying on the ground with Nik strapped to it. He pulls the sashcord. The crane begins to wind in. The rope connecting hook to cross takes the strain. The cross begins to rise, pivoting on its foot. At first all goes well. But then, suddenly, Nik's unevenly balanced weight causes the cross to tip to one side. It slews and turns over. The control cords are snatched from his hands. This takes Nik by surprise. He cries out. Now, instead of lying on the cross, he is hanging under it.

NIK
'
S NOTEBOOK
:   I had worked out the mechanics. But not the dynamics.

When I said that to Grandad afterwards, he said: The story of your life.

So there I was—suspended, stuck, helpless, suffering, and alone.

It took six hours before J C was broken enough to ask that. It took less than six minutes before I knew why he asked it and exactly what he meant.

‘I don't believe you,' Tom said.

‘Told you,' Michelle said, slumping into one of the armchairs.

‘Tell him, girl,' Arthur Green said.

Michelle said: ‘I found him on Selsley Common last night, not long before dawn actually. He was lying on the ground, flat out asleep, nothing on, only jeans and trainers. I thought he must be ill or something. But when I woke him he was okay and we talked a bit, well, quite a lot actually. But only talked, I mean, nothing else.'

She gave Tom a look that defied contradiction.

‘He told me all about the bomb and the girl he was with, how he felt about her, and about him and her and religion. And about how the girl didn't love him like he loved her, and he'd just found out. He was pretty upset about that, I think. Well, I'm sure he was actually.'

She drew a deep breath, the way people do when they're talking about a hopeless situation.

‘Anyway, he asked me if I'd do something to help him, and I said I would, and he brought me down here. But he didn't say till we got here that he wanted me to help him crucify himself. I couldn't believe it! I said: No way, I said. No way am I going to help you do nothing like that, I said, that's crazy, you must be off your noddle, I said, even to think such a thing. It's that girl, I said, and her religious stuff, she's a fanatic, I said, she's mangled your brains. And lying around on the common with nearly nothing on in the middle of the night, and soaking. He was wringing wet with sweat when I found him. You must have caught a fever, I said, and he did look flushed, no question.'

Michelle took another deep breath before going on.

‘Well, he said, don't worry, I expect you're right. It was just a joke anyway, he said, I didn't really mean it. I'll just stay here for a bit, he said, and make myself some tea in Grandad's workshop. You take my bike, he said, and go home. I'll use an old one of Grandad's. You can fetch mine back later, he said. Though, to tell the truth, I was really glad of the excuse to see him again because—'

She glanced at Arthur Green, thought better of saying what she had been about to say, sat forward in the chair, coughed and went on: ‘But when I got home I couldn't sleep for thinking about him. And the more I thought about him wanting me to help him crucify himself, the more I was sure he hadn't been joking. And I thought: What if he does do it somehow? It'll be terrible, I'd never forgive myself for not staying with him and making sure he didn't and for not helping him a bit more. I mean, he's had an awful time lately, hasn't he? He can't be very well, can he, even if he looks all right? And people can do crazy things when they're really in love, can't they? Especially if they're rejected. I mean, everybody knows that. Anyway, in the end I couldn't bear it. And I thought: It'll be my fault if anything happens.'

The abstracted glare of desperation in Michelle's eyes allowed no doubt. She swallowed hard and continued: ‘I didn't know what to do. And then I thought of ringing the workshop so I could talk to him and make sure he was all right but I could only find the number for his house. So I thought of ringing Mr Green but then I thought: What if he goes racing off to the dump and nothing's the matter, he might give Nik a bad time, and Nik would hate me for telling his grandad, and—'

She glanced at Arthur Green again and shrugged, a resigned apology.

‘Go on, girl,' Arthur Green said. ‘Don't you mind.'

Michelle gave him a grateful nod, snuffled against imminent sobs, drew a staving breath, and managed to add: ‘I got that worried I decided the only thing to do was ride back to the dump. So I did . . . and there he was . . . hanging—' before undeniable tears welled and burst, sluicing with them the trauma and distress she had hidden from view all day.

INTERCUT
:  
The dump. Early morning sunlight. Michelle comes cycling hectically along the road. She sees Nik before she reaches the dump and begins yelling his name in a panic-stricken voice
.

‘I better be sure I've got this right, Mr Green,' Tom said. ‘You drove here on your motorbike at about six fifteen this morning in response to a phone call from Michelle Ebley. You found your grandson suspended on a cross from the crane on the dump. You got him down, and with Miss Ebley's help, carried him into your workshop. Then, while Miss Ebley looked after him, you removed from the scene the cords, the metal block your grandson had used against the accelerator, and the crane's ignition key.'