Pat Barker - Border Crossing

Tom asked whether she was enjoying the course.

‘Do you know, I think I am. It’s not what I expected, but Angus is a brilliant teacher.’

Tom lay awake for a long time in the narrow bunk bed, listening to the snores of the recovering alcoholic. One of the beautiful young men came in — the sausage-squeezer, whose name was Malcolm — and got undressed in a shaft of moonlight. The lay preacher got out of bed and started to pray again. They had five days of this, Tom thought, turning on his side. He was worn out after one evening.

He must have drifted off to sleep, because the screams confused him. Somewhere out there was a woman or child in pain, and he struggled to sit up. The others were already awake.

Is it a woman?’ the lay preacher asked.

‘No, it’s an animal,’ said the recovering alcoholic.

‘Can’t be,’ said Malcolm.

He got out of bed and reached for his dressing gown. Tom and the recovering alcoholic followed him downstairs — bare feet slapping on the cold tiles — and through into the living room. Empty bottles, full ashtrays, an air of desolation. Somebody asleep on a sofa.

‘Do you suppose the doors are alarmed?’ Malcolm asked, pushing them open anyway. He strode off down the lawn, Tom following. Another scream cut the air. The ham on the nape of Tom’s neck rose. The lights went on in the tutors’ cottage. Rowena, wearing a white neglige, came out on to the grass. Then Angus, draped in a sheet. They all stood and listened. Just as they were beginning to hope it was over, another scream tore the darkness.

Rowena, her drawling voice suddenly clear and cold, said, ‘It’s a rabbit. They do sound incredibly human.’

‘Should we kill it?’ the ex-alcoholic asked.

‘No, it’s coming from the other side of the valley,’ Angus said. ‘It’d be dead before we got there.’

‘Christ.’

‘Look,’ Malcolm said, ‘it’s going to die, and there’s nothing we can do about it. I’m going back to bed.’

He strode away up the lawn. Very sane and sensible, Tom thought, and yet, not. An hour ago there had been talk, laughter, companionship, lights, warmth, wine, food, and the screams had blown it all away. Each one of them stood there, shivering, condemned to the isolation of his own skin. How fragile it all is, he thought.

He felt Angus’s hand heavy on his shoulder. ‘Back to bed,’ he said, pushing Tom gently towards the house. ‘There’ll be a fox along soon.’

‘Will we see you at breakfast?’ Rowena asked.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Tom said, over another scream. ‘I have to get back.’

He’d forgotten that he was dependent on other people for transport. It was ten o’clock before anybody was free to drive him to the station, and then the train was late and he missed his connection in York. He’d intended to be in the house when Lauren arrived, though she had a key. She wouldn’t be waiting in the street.

They were between Durham and Newcastle when his mobile rang. ‘Tom, is that you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Look, I’m in the house. You remember I was coming back to collect some of my stuff? You said today would be all right.’

He could tell from her voice she was worried. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘You know the boy you pulled out of the river? He’s here. He said he had an appointment. I thought you must just have gone round to the shops, so I let him in.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I think so.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Walking up and down.’

Her voice dropped to a whisper, difficult to hear. The reception wasn’t good anyway. The next thing he heard was: ‘I’ve tried talking to him, but it’s no use.’

All along the carriage people were standing up and reaching for their bags. In another minute they’d be queuing in the aisle. The train terminated here.

‘Look, leave him alone. We’re coming into Newcastle now. I can be there in twenty minutes.’

If he got off now before everybody else. If there was no queue at the taxi rank. He grabbed his bag and pushed his way to the door, where he waited, jittery with impatience, for the light to turn green. Then he ran, weaving between hurrying people, and burst out of the station to reach the taxi rank before anyone else.

Once inside the cab, he drummed his fingers on his bag, ignoring the driver’s attempts at conversation. The traffic was reasonable, and the journey took fifteen minutes.

Outside the house, he stuffed a handful of coins into the driver’s hand and waved away the change.

He let himself in as quietly as he could, and stood in the hall, listening. A murmur of voices from the kitchen. At the foot of the stairs were two suitcases,one of them open, half full of small objects wrapped in newspaper. Stacks of paintings wrapped in brown paper rested against the wall. Through the open door of the living room he saw grey ghost squares on the walls where the pictures had hung. Some pieces of furniture had been pulled out and placed in the centre of the room. He felt a pang of grief, for the end of his life with Lauren, for the joint person they’d been. And into this intensely private trauma had come Danny, whose voice he could hear downstairs. He hadn’t known till now how little he trusted Danny, though there was an irrational element in his anxiety. The screams of the snared rabbit lingered in his mind, and he hadn’t managed to get back to sleep.

He walked slowly downstairs. Through the banisters, he could see Danny’s feet in black-and-white trainers. Nothing else. A floorboard creaked, and he heard Lauren say, with a rush of relief in her voice: ‘That’ll be Tom now.’

She stood up as he came into the room. He would never know how they would have greeted each other if they’d been alone. She came across the kitchen and offered him her cheek to kiss. He saw the moistness on her upper lip where pinpricks of sweat had broken through the make-up, and there was a peppery smell that came from her body, not from deodorant or scent.

‘Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late.’ He turned to Danny. ‘And Ian, this is a surprise.’

‘I think I may have got the wrong day.’

Even as he offered Tom the easy way out, Danny looked pleadingly at him. Lauren was standing with her back to the kitchen table, her thin arms crossed over her chest. Her lower teeth nibbled at her upper lip. Tom felt as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was extraordinarily distracting: this feeling of a pivotal moment in his own life being played out in front of an uninvited audience. Danny’s hands were twisted in his lap, a knot of white knuckles, like worms.

‘Well, never mind, you’re here now, though I’m afraid I can’t manage the full hour. But I’ve got a few minutes.’

He took Danny into his consulting room. All the way there he was aware of Danny noticing dust squares where paintings had been, a table pulled away from the wall, gaps in the book shelves, the remaining books collapsed on to each other in slack heaps. Danny’s face showed nothing but embarrassment, and yet Tom was aware of a line being crossed. Danny was inside, now.

Perhaps the anxiety got into Tom’s voice. He said sharply, as soon as they sat down: ‘Now, then, Danny, what’s this about?’

‘You’ve seen the news?’

‘No, I haven’t.’ This was obviously not the moment to mention his meeting with Angus. ‘What’s the matter?’

Briefly, Danny explained. Two little boys, eleven and twelve years old, had been charged with themurder of an old woman. Two newspapers, and the late-night news on the BBC, had run ‘think pieces’ on the story. What is happening to our children? etc. Since the Kelsey murder was sub judice, and therefore not available for public debate, they’d illustrated their points with references to Danny’s crime. Even more seriously they’d used his school photograph.