‘Girlfriends? Or,’ said the doctor, sounding a bit too casual, ‘boyfriends?’
Benedict supposed they had to tread carefully with sexuality, and he guessed the doctor was wondering if there was any conflict there. He said, ‘There’s been one or two girlfriends. No one serious yet, but I live in hope.’ This seemed to strike a lighter note and he felt slightly better. ‘I honestly think I’ve had a relatively normal life,’ he said firmly.
‘If you’re being honest – and I think you are – it sounds as if you have had a relatively normal life,’ said the doctor. ‘And there’s no reason why you shouldn’t continue to do so.’
‘Thank you,’ said Benedict.
But putting a sane and logical name to Declan’s invasion of Benedict’s mind did not banish Declan himself. Declan and that misty world he inhabited remained on the edges of his mind. But it’s all right, Benedict thought. It’s just this complicated mental imbalance.
‘The pills will help for the moment,’ the neurologist had said, and at first Benedict took them obediently. But he had an uneasy feeling that something had torn down what defences he had and that Declan, no matter how unreal he might be, was finding it easier to reach him. This conviction increased over the Christmas week in Nina’s flat. You’re closer to me than I like, he said silently to Declan.
Staying with Nina was easier and more relaxing than he had expected. She did not pry as much as he had feared, although she mentioned Declan once or twice, referring to vague memories of how he was said to have been a bit of a charmer. ‘So I suppose it’s not unusual you should latch on to him as an alter ego. Have you thought of talking to any of the great-aunts to find out a bit more about him?’
‘I’m not sure if it would be the right thing to do. It might sort of feed the whole thing.’
‘Oh yes, so it might,’ said Nina, ‘how intelligent of you. Oh, and while I think about it, would you mind terribly if we don’t join the family Christmas dinner this year, because I’ve got so much to do, you wouldn’t believe.’
Benedict was deeply grateful for any excuse that would mean he did not have to see the family, most of whom would want to know how he was and what he had been doing and whether he was going to sell Holly Lodge. Nina was booked to provide two dinner parties and a buffet supper for people who did not want, or had not time, to cook for their guests, and Benedict was pressed into service to peel potatoes or chop parsley. It was vaguely soothing; it reminded him of how he and Nina used to make toffee when they were children, until the saucepan exploded one day, showering the walls with caramelized sugar and Aunt Lyn had been furious.
But when, on the day after Boxing Day, Nina said she had invited Nell West for a drink so she and Benedict could meet properly, Benedict was aware of a stab of panic. Nell would need to talk about Holly Lodge, and he did not want to even think about the place. But he would have to do something about the house and its contents, and Nell West had apparently found him flat out unconscious in the house, called the ambulance and probably saved his life. Benedict had sent her a note of thanks, but she was owed a bit more than a few lines scribbled from a hospital bed. So he said, in an offhand way, that he would look forward to meeting her.
‘She said something about finding a chess piece while she was there,’ said Nina.
The chess piece. The black carved figure that Declan and Colm had taken from the dying Nicholas Sheehan, and that Benedict had found in the desk at Holly Lodge. The memory of how Declan and Colm crouched on the cliff face while Sheehan slowly roasted alive rose up vividly.
‘I didn’t know there was a chess set in the house, did you?’ Nina was saying.
‘No,’ said Benedict. Then, ‘D’you mind if I shut myself in my room for an hour or so? I ought to sort out some of my holiday work for next term.’
He managed to reach his room before Declan’s claws sunk all the way into his mind, and before Declan’s misty, wild Irish world – the world that did not exist – pulled him down once again.
ELEVEN
Ireland 1890s
It was not until Declan and Colm were nineteen that their dream of leaving Kilglenn suddenly became possible.
Colm’s mother died just before his twentieth birthday, and he told Declan that there was no longer anything to keep him in Kilglenn. ‘And I’ll have to move out of the house anyway.’
‘Why? Isn’t a man’s house his own forever?’
‘Yes, but the house wasn’t my ma’s in the first place,’ said Colm. ‘It was rented and the black-hearted landlord won’t let me have it in her place. He says he had enough rent arrears from the Rourke family to last him a lifetime. But I don’t care, and anyway Fintan’s letting me have the shack for the time being.’
‘You can’t live in the shack,’ said Declan, horrified. ‘It’s falling to pieces. It’s a shanty house. A tumbledown hut stuck on top of an earth mound.’
‘It’s either that or the hedge behind Fintan’s Bar,’ said Colm carelessly.
‘But you can’t live there. Listen, I’ll talk to my father – you could share my room and—’
‘I could not share your room, or anybody else’s room. I’m not taking charity, not even from you,’ said Colm angrily.
‘All right, the shack it is,’ said Declan. ‘When will you move in?’
‘Tomorrow. If I’m not gone by midday the evil landlord says he’ll carry me out bodily.’
‘Let’s make sure you’re gone before that then. Will we take a few things from the house to make the shack a bit more homelike?’
‘Yes, and we’ll do it before the villainous English landlord gets his claws on anything,’ said Colm.
‘You sound as if you’re about to revive the old Kilderry Rebellions,’ said Declan.
‘If the Wicked Earl of Kilderry can fight the British, so can I.’