Jonathan Buckley - Invisible

for Susanne Hillen and Bruno

Die Welt die hält dich nicht, du selber bist die Welt,

Die dich in dir mit dir so stark gefangen hält.

Angelus Silesius

Dedication Dedication Dedication Epigraph one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty About the Author By the same author Praise Copyright About the Publisher for Susanne Hillen and Bruno

Epigraph Epigraph Epigraph one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen twenty About the Author By the same author Praise Copyright About the Publisher Die Welt die hält dich nicht, du selber bist die Welt, Die dich in dir mit dir so stark gefangen hält. Angelus Silesius

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About the Author

By the same author

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

It was an afternoon in late summer, Edward remembers, and they walked through a wood until they came to a circle of sunlit grass in the midst of tall ferns. The picnic was laid out on the scratchy plaid rug, and when their parents had fallen asleep Charlotte took his hand and they wandered off, along a path through the bracken. At the top of a hill they came upon a track of packed earth that had a ridge of matted grass and dandelions running down the middle. One side of the track was bordered by a high wall, which they followed. Walking two or three steps behind his sister, he dragged his fingertips on the blocks of stone. When a motorbike came along she stood beside him as it passed, and put a hand over his face to protect his eyes from the dust. At an angle of the wall there was a wide iron gate, and beyond the gate lay vast beds of scarlet flowers, on both sides of a wide white path that rose towards a pale yellow building. She left him by the gate and walked a short distance up the path, between child-sized shapes that might have been urns or animals. Her footsteps made a loud crunching noise, he remembers, and the building reared up like a castle in fog.

He lets go of the iron gate and begins to walk up the gravel driveway, staying close to its edge. After half a dozen paces he strikes a heavy object. He reaches forward, and touches, at the height of his waist, a curved surface of pitted stone or concrete. His hand reads the grooves of a mane, protruberant eyes, a jaw of granular teeth. He walks on, up the shallow gradient, to a flight of three low steps which conducts him between columns of finely grained stone to a glass door, open. Standing in the doorway, he waits for someone to speak, but his querying cough receives no answer. He advances, treading on polished tiles. The sound of his shoes is absorbed by a space that sounds broad and tall, like the foyer of a town hall or law court. Twenty paces straight ahead, or more, bring him to the foot of a wide carpeted staircase. Plates are being stacked in a distant room, to his left. A sweep of his cane to one side finds empty floor, then an obstruction: a high desk, with a glass-cowled lamp and a bell. He folds his cane, slots it into a jacket pocket, and smacks the bell lightly. As the chime vanishes into the high ceiling he hears a hiss, the hiss of a door’s draught excluder, followed by footsteps, approaching rapidly on a wooden floor. High above him, at his back, a woman’s voice says: ‘Hello? Hello? Wait, please.’ Startled, he turns to face the source of the call, and the footsteps are coming into the hall. A man speaks his name.

‘Mr Morton?’ the man says, ‘I’m so sorry. I thought someone was at the desk.’

‘Not to worry.’

‘I do apologise.’

‘Only this instant arrived.’

‘It’s remiss of us. I didn’t hear the taxi.’

‘He left me at the gate.’

‘Really? That’s –’

‘At my request.’

‘Ah,’ says the man, and from the dragging of the vowel it is clear that he has scrutinised him and understood. A large sheet of paper is turned, and another. ‘Good journey?’

‘Not bad. On time, more or less.’

‘Good, good,’ he says, writing with a harsh nib. ‘And no problem getting a taxi?’

‘None at all.’ High up behind him, near where the woman’s voice came from, an aerosol gushes.

‘Now, we have a single room reserved for you, on the second floor. But if you’d prefer there’s a double on the first floor. A very nice room, large. I can offer it to you at no extra charge.’

‘That’s kind of you, but I don’t need a lot of space. Just a bed and a bath and a table for my laptop,’ he says, hoisting the bag in which he carries it.

‘Well, there’s a small table in the single, a bureau in the double. I would recommend the double, Mr Morton. It’s an extremely comfortable room and very quiet. I’m afraid we don’t have air-conditioning. You knew that? With this weather we could do with it, but we just have the breeze.’

‘I prefer the breeze.’

‘Good, good. So the double it is?’

‘Thank you, Mr –?’

‘Forgive me. Caldecott, Malcolm Caldecott. The manager. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ He holds out his hand and Mr Caldecott takes it, giving a grip that is firm and brisk. Someone wearing steel-tipped shoes approaches and halts at the desk, brushing his sleeves with gloved hands. ‘One other thing, Mr Caldecott. Is it possible to send e-mail from my room?’

‘It is, yes. David here will show you.’ A key clinks, being detached from its hook. ‘David will take your bags up. The lift is very close.’

‘I’d rather take the stairs. You know where you are with a staircase, if you see what I mean.’

Ascending the staircase behind the porter, he slides a palm on the curving handrail, which has the coolness and smoothness of naked metal and is interrupted by a stout column of glossy stone, marble probably, and resumes with a tight angle that steers him round to a landing, where they pass through a fume of furniture polish. ‘This way,’ says David, turning left into a corridor where the air is considerably warmer than in the hall and has a dusty tang. ‘Here we are,’ he announces.

A lock grinds and snaps, and a freshening waft of rose scent arrives. He rests his hand on wallpaper that is embossed with a florid pattern and slightly greasy. A hand gently hooks his other cuff to draw him forward.

‘OK,’ says David, uncertainly. ‘Well, what you have here, sir, basically, is the bed over here, in the middle of the room, against the wall.’ David pats a quilt three times and moves further away. ‘Over here is the bathroom.’ Another door opens, making a soft boom, and now there is cooler air, which has a weak glassy smell in which there is an element of bleach. ‘Right. OK. Well, basically what you’ve got, sir,’ he continues, his voice amplified by the bare room, ‘is the basin on your left. It comes out quite a way, and the bath on your right, yes, a bit more, that’s it. And then there’s quite a gap, a bin there, careful sir, yes, and right down the end here, towel rail there, and down the end here there’s the toilet,’ and as if to prove its existence he flushes it, with a clank like an ancient water pump.