chapter SIXTEEN
ROYLE USUALLY WENT over to Vanessa’s place once a fortnight for dinner. He wasn’t sure why they did this, or what she got out of the experience, but it meant that they could at least maintain regular face-to-face contact. It was part of the unspoken terms of their separation. Even though they were no longer officially together, neither of them could stand the thought of being apart, so they went through this stylised charade on a regular basis.
It had been her decision to temporarily separate – most of the major decisions in their lives were down to her – and although he’d never wanted it to happen, he could see the logic in her proposal. A bit of space; some time to contemplate what it was they both wanted; the distance he needed to pull himself together. His main fear – his only fear – regarding the situation was that she’d discover she didn’t want him back and that would be the end of them.
Vanessa still lived in the house they’d pushed their budget to the limit to buy, while he slept in that cramped little flat above the shops. He didn’t mind the arrangement, but he missed going home to her after a long, hard shift, missed pressing his body against hers in their double bed. But she’d never understood his anxiety as manifested in the Crawl, and his lasting obsession with the Gone Away Girls. His obsession with every case he’d ever worked on, if he was honest... it was this precise intensity that he failed to bring to their marriage, and it hurt her that he reserved it only for his work.
The car engine made a soft burring noise as he drove out into the Northumberland countryside, heading towards the small village where they’d set down roots. Royle had always been a city boy but Vanessa preferred to be out in the sticks, surrounded by trees and green fields and spaces that weren’t filled with the stench of motor vehicles and the sounds of a hemmed-in, overstimulated population.
It was dark now; the stars were out. The sky looked like a perforated black sheet backlit by a weak bulb. His hands ached as they gripped the steering wheel and his mind was filled with images whose collective meaning he found hard to define: a scarecrow with a missing girl’s face, a small crawling thing that remained out of sight, the mortally wounded body of a young man lying in a pool of blood.
These, among others, were the pictures he was forced to carry around with him, like unwanted family portraits of people he’d rather not be related to. He lived with these images; they were part of him now, central to who he was and what he had become. He wished that things were different, that he could have been a bus driver or a shopkeeper, or an internet millionaire... but he was a copper, and he always would be. Some things, it seemed, never changed, no matter how hard you wished they would.
When he pulled up outside the small detached house, he sat there for a little while, staring at the lighted windows and trying to define a shape beyond the glass. The Crawl was far behind him now; he could almost pretend that it didn’t exist, that it was something he’d once read about or seen in a film. This was real: the small, neat house in the country, his pregnant wife, the baby they’d made together, the untapped potential they had cherished before the darkness had come between them, driving a wedge between their feelings for one another.
Then, out of habit more than any sense of perceived menace, he glanced in the rear-view mirror to see what was behind him. Darkness bulged along the street, like food caught in a giant throat. Something flickered; a sense of quick, nervous movement. Even here he wasn’t safe.
None of us are, he thought. Not ever.
The skin of his back and shoulders started to prickle; then it spread along his arms, reaching round to his chest, almost hugging him. The Crawl – it was here, even here, where he had mistakenly thought there might be safety. Somehow it had reached out, following him from the Grove, and managed to grasp hold of the rest of his life, tainting everything, polluting his thoughts and even his dreams.
He opened the door and got out of the car. A gust of wind blew along the street, buffeting him, almost knocking him off his feet. Then, a second later, the air was calm and still; there was not a trace of the wind he’d felt. Royle stared back along the street, in the direction he’d come. The darkness twisted, corkscrewing. He half expected to hear disembodied laughter.
Something’s coming, he thought, but he had no idea where the thought had come from or specifically what it meant. It’s on its way.
Someone crossed the street, turning their head to glance in his direction. It was a small girl. She was wearing a dress but no coat. It was much too late for children to be out, unless they were up to no good – and this one didn’t look like the kind of kid who hung out on street corners, smoking fags and drinking cider with her mates. She was too sensibly dressed, and there was a sense of innocence about her that he could make out even from this distance.
The girl stopped in the middle of the road and stared at him. She lifted her arms as if she were about to take flight. Darkness webbed in the space between her arms and her body; black gossamer wings unfolding. Royle took a step forward, and the girl’s image seemed to waver, like a faulty piece of film.
He shook his head, closed his eyes. Opened them again.
The girl was no longer there. Wind gusted but he could not feel it. A soft clicking sound, like someone running a stick along metal railings, moved away from him along the dark street, fading into the distance. It was a sound he’d heard before, but he couldn’t remember where or when. He never could; it was like some kind of primal echo, a memory from a time that was lost to him.
Royle turned away and headed towards the house, the lights, his wife and unborn child. He opened the gate and walked up the path, flanked on either side by tiny lawns, flower beds Vanessa kept looking neat and tidy, even during the winter months. He took a few panicked breaths, trying to calm down, and then knocked sharply on the front door. Waiting, he gazed through the glass panel in the door and saw a wide, blurred figure approaching along the hallway.
The door opened and she stood there, an engorged angel, on the threshold.
“Hi Craig.” She smiled.
“Hi.” He stared at her narrow, pretty face, the bright maternity dress, the bulge she was massaging softly with both hands.
“Come on in.” She turned and walked into the house; he followed her, close to tears, tottering on the edge of absurdity.
The house smelled of beef casserole and Vanessa’s coconut body lotion. He glanced up the tight staircase as they passed alongside it, wishing that he could stay the night, sleep in their bed, hold on tightly to the woman he loved, had always loved, would never stop loving. Like a shadow of the past (or the future?), he saw a faint image of himself walking across the upper landing, heading for the bedroom they’d once shared.
“How are you today?”
She sat on the sofa as he entered the living room, stretching out her legs and resting her feet on the leather pouffe. “I’m achy.” She smiled. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes were heavy-lidded, but still she was beautiful. “Had a few cramps, several hard kicks or punches in the stomach. I think this one’s going to be a kick-boxer.”
Royle sat down in the armchair opposite, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “Anything I can do for you, or get you?”
She shook her head.
He tried not to look at the framed photographs on the mantelpiece, the pictures on the walls, the magazines in the rack. Each ornament reminded him that he no longer lived here; every new knick-knack on a shelf was another barb in his heart because she’d bought it alone, without him.
“What about you? What kind of day have you had?”
“Weird,” he said, without thinking.
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
He shook his head, scratched his right knee with his index finger. “Somebody’s playing silly games on the Grove estate, leaving scarecrows in people’s gardens. Nothing major, just stupid stuff. Some kind of wind-up.”
“I see,” she said, leaning back on the sofa, her interest having dried up and blown away. “I’ll serve up dinner shortly. It’s beef casserole... your favourite dish.” She narrowed her eyes when she said it, as if to make clear that she meant nothing by the gesture. It was just a meal, nothing more.
“That sounds good. Really good actually. I’m starving.” He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, or even what he’d eaten. Probably some kind of junk food: a burger, a TV dinner warmed up in the microwave. Had he even taken breakfast this morning? But why the hell was he thinking about food when he should be down on his knees begging Vanessa to take him back, to give it another go? It was an indication of how his life was unravelling. Nothing was straightforward, every road had too many bends and he always got caught up watching the scenery.
Vanessa stood and waddled across the room to the kitchen door.
“Need any help?” He began to follow, but she turned around.
“No, I’m fine. I can still serve a meal. You just sit down and I’ll call you in when it’s ready. I’d offer you a drink... but...”
He smiled. “I’ll be happy with a glass of water with the meal.”
She nodded. “I’m pleased to see you’re making an effort.” Before he could add anything more, she vanished into the kitchen.
Royle was too restless to sit, so he walked to the window, glancing out at the street. The old stone wall opposite the house held back a line of trees whose branches flapped and twitched in the breeze. The sky was black and distant. No traffic passed by; the road had always been quiet, hardly ever used except by the people of the village. He stared at the swaying tree branches, their leaves gone; they resembled spiny fingers grasping at the air, trying to gain purchase in the world. Some of those leaves had fallen to the ground, and they looked black in the darkness.
“Okay, you can come through now.”
He reached out and shut the window blind, then turned away from the window. He walked across the room and opened the kitchen door. Vanessa was already sitting at the big dining table, pouring water from a clear glass jug into two glasses. Large bowls of casserole sat steaming on the table.
“Looks good,” he said, sitting down opposite her.
“Thanks. You always say that.”
They started to eat and said nothing. There was a strange tension between them, as if they barely knew each other. Perhaps they didn’t; maybe that was the problem. They’d never known each other, not properly, and now the cracks were starting to show.
“So you’re keeping off the drink?”
Her question took him by surprise but not enough to faze him. “Yes,” he lied. “Well, as best I can, anyway.”
She stopped eating, put down her spoon. “What does that mean?” Her eyes were wide. In their depths, he saw everything: the life they’d had, the way things had been cut short because of his behaviour, the possible future they had together if only they could work things out. Behind this, pulsing in the darkness, were so many questions that had so far remained unasked.
“I keep slipping, a bit. I’ll go for days without even thinking of drink, but then I’ll suddenly find myself in a bar, or sitting at home with a glass in my hand. It’s nothing major. Not like it used to be...” He reached for his glass, gulped down the water, and refilled it. “Need a top-up?”
“No thanks.” Her eyes didn’t leave his face.
“I really am trying my best, you know. I want you back... I want us back together, with the baby. It’s the only life I see ahead of me, the only viable option. If I don’t have that, I have nothing.”
Her eyes gleamed beneath the kitchen lights. He wasn’t sure if she was crying or if the bulbs were too bright.
“I am trying.” It seemed pathetic that this was all he had: a promise, one that was only partially true. Words, empty reassurances, like pleading for forgiveness. He felt the Crawl upon his flesh, making him shudder. His skin prickled, his shoulders began to tense. He thought of those black leaves on the ground outside, a charred pathway to oblivion.
“Eat up,” she said, picking up her spoon. “It’ll go cold.”
Royle couldn’t help reading too much into her statement. Did she simply mean the casserole, or her love for him? Might that also go cold if he couldn’t pull himself together in time? Was she trying to say that there was a finite time span on this separation, and if they couldn’t get past these current obstacles he would lose her forever? Her and the baby...
He ate his casserole, but it was tasteless now.
After dinner he washed the dishes and she dried and put them away. They stood side by side at the sink, their hips occasionally touching, their hands moving in some kind of pattern designed to achieve a common goal.
“We could have used the dishwasher, you know.”
He glanced sideways, catching her profile. She was smiling.
“This is better,” he said. “This is much better.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is.”
When the dishes had been put away, they went back into the living room and sat together on the sofa. He had a glass of orange juice and she was drinking herbal tea. The television was on; they stared at the screen without watching what was playing. Some old film: Paul Newman and Natalie Wood.
Royle wanted to reach out his hand and place it on her thigh, but it was too soon for such an intimate gesture. Instead he tried to be content with the minimal contact: thighs touching, breath mingling, feet resting side by side on the same low footstool.
“Oh...”
He turned, putting down his glass. “What’s wrong?”
Her face looked shiny, as if she were sweating. Her eyes were huge, glowing. “I think... I think baby’s kicking.” She grinned.
“You said it had been restless all day.”
“Yes, I did. Maybe excited about you coming...” She was still smiling, but he could tell that she was in pain.
“What can I do?” He swivelled his body on the sofa, ready to get up and fetch whatever it was she needed.
“Give me your hand.”
He wasn’t expecting that; he needed an errand to run, a task to perform. He always worked better if he had a specific job to do, a problem to solve.
“Come on.” She reached out and opened her fingers.
He slipped his hand into hers, shaking, feeling as if this was a pivotal moment, that it meant something in a way that no other moment in his life ever had.
“Gently...” She slowly pulled his hand towards her body. She placed the tips of his fingers against her belly. “Don’t be scared.” She’d never done this before. Here was progress, at last. She was warming to him again, forgetting about the pain he’d caused, remembering that they’d created this life together, out of the raw material of love.
He opened his hand and pressed the palm flat against her belly. Even through the thin cotton of the maternity dress, her body was hot, as if a fire burned somewhere under her skin. He waited for some movement, holding his breath, perched on the edge of a miracle.
The baby kicked. It happened once, a sharp little prod, as if it was trying to hit his hand.
“Did you feel it?”
He was unable to speak. He nodded, feeling the heat of his tears as they rolled down his cheeks.
“This is what you’re fighting for. Keep it up, stay off the drink, forget about the job and the stress... fight for us, Craig. For us: all three of us. We’re a family, and that’s how I want it to stay.”
“Can I... can I listen?”
She nodded. “Yes, if you like.”
He slid off the sofa and got down on his knees in front of her, a supplicant before this goddess, this carrier of immense power and promise. When she clasped his head in her hands and drew him in towards her, he remembered all the times she’d carried out the same movement before, but for a different reason. He tasted a ghost of the tang of her sex on his tongue, smelled the musk of her juices. He ached for her; every part of him, each single cell, wanted to be with this woman.
He placed the side of his head against her swollen belly, his hands going up, and his arms slipping around her widened waist. He closed his eyes and he listened; he listened for the heartbeat of his saviour, the answer to his pathetic secular prayers. At first he could hear nothing, and then he began to detect her heartbeat... and beneath that, or alongside it, he swore that he could hear a second frail rhythm. It was the heartbeat of his son or daughter; the only sound in the world that really mattered.
Then, he heard something else.
It began softly at first, and he thought it might be the droning of a distant motorbike disturbing the moment as it raced along the empty village streets. Then he realised that the sound was coming from inside Vanessa. It was originating from the same place as those two heartbeats.
A faint clicking sound, like castanets muffled by a pillow. It grew slightly louder, clearer, and then began to wane. The sound didn’t last long – just a couple of seconds – but as he listened, the Crawl seemed to answer its song. His entire body went cold; gooseflesh rose on his skin; he started to shake, to tremble like a frightened child.
He pulled away from Vanessa, stumbling across the floor and falling onto his backside.
“What’s wrong?” Her face went slack. Her eyes narrowed. He didn’t want to see the distrust in her face, not again, not now.
“Nothing.” He stood, running a hand through his hair. “I just... it was the emotion. I was overwhelmed. That was a heartbeat. I heard its f*cking heart beating.”
Vanessa relaxed, reaching out to pat the sofa beside her. “Come and sit by me, Craig.”
He moved to the sofa and sat down. He was cold. He tried not to shiver.
She clasped his hand, squeezing his fingers. Her skin was warm; it took away the chill.
“I’d like you to stay the night,” she said.
He turned to face her but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the television, her face serious. Paul Newman was standing in the street, looking up at the sky.
“I don’t want you to go, not tonight.”
“I...”
“No, wait. Just hear me out.” Finally she looked at him, and her eyes were hard, like chips of ice. “I’ve had this feeling all day... a feeling that something’s on its way and it won’t be good for you. For us. I’m scared. It’s probably just hormones, but the fact is... the fact is, I’m scared. I want you to stay. I want you to sleep beside me, in our bed. I don’t know what this means in terms of us, but I think it says a lot that I want you close to me, I want you holding me in the night.”
His lips were dry, but he was no longer cold.
“You can say something now.” A flicker of humour crossed her face.
“Of course I’ll stay. There’s nothing I’d like better.”
She looked down at her knees. “Thank you.” Her voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper.
She squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, desperate not to break the fragile connection.
They stayed that way for a little while longer, holding on to each other yet still maintaining a short distance between their questioning bodies; intimate strangers waiting for some kind of sign or signal. Then, when the film ended, they went wordlessly upstairs to bed and fell asleep in each other’s arms.