Pat Barker - Border Crossing

‘Goodnight,’ he said, as he prepared to close the door. ‘Don’t worry, there’s a phone in my room, so I’ll hear it all right if Martha calls.’

Tom lay in the dark, too tired to think, too tired not to. He had all the physical symptoms of fear, and this surprised him, because there was nothing of which he needed to be afraid. He was worried about Danny’s state of mind, but that was a different matter. No point thinking about it now. Resolutely, he turned on his side, and soon after dropped over the edge into sleep.

His dream-self was not so biddable. He was on a demolition site standing by a fire, and a man whom he did not recognize was walking towards him from the other side of the fire, a dark shape shimmering in the heat. The man, still faceless, came closer and began throwing tapes on to the fire. Not cassettes, but the tape itself, masses of it, brown, shiny coils that lay on the hot timbers, not shrivelling in a single spurt of flame — as, even in the dream, Tom knew that they should — but writhing, in what looked like prolonged agony.

He woke, sweating, wiping the back of his hand across his neck, convinced he could smell burning, though a second later he identified this as an illusion left over from the dream. Then, as he was turning over to try to get back to sleep, he heard Danny moving about downstairs, dragging something heavy across the floor.

In the context of their last session it was the most horrible sound he could have heard — he played with her.

Grabbing his dressing gown, Tom went out on to the landing. The hall carpet glowed orange in the flickering light from under the living-room door. There shouldn’t have been as much light as that. He ran downstairs and had just enough presence of mind to put a hand on the door to check that it was not hot, before he burst into the room.

The fire burnt furiously, piled high with logs. Danny had dragged the log basket on to the hearth rug and was kneeling beside it, a log in each hand, watching the fire burn. Tom went across to him, and saw what until now had been hidden by the basket. A log had toppled out of the grate and fallen on to the hearth rug. Quickly, without thinking, Tom stooped, picked it up and threw it back on to the fire. A second later he was bent double over his burnt hand, stamping on the singed rug with his slippered feet. It hadn’t caught fire, and wouldn’t now. To make doubly sure, he fetched the jug he’d brought up with the whisky and poured water over the blackened patch. There was a nasty smell of singed wool. He tried to straighten up, but the pain forced him down again. It was almost as if he’d been winded rather than burnt. ‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ he said.

Danny raised his sleepwalker’s eyes. ‘I must’ve nodded off to sleep.’

Kneeling on the floor, Tom wanted to say, with two more logs in your hands? But he didn’t say it.

They stared at each other without speaking. Then: It’s terribly hot in here,’ Tom said, keeping his voice casual. *I don’t think we need any more logs on the fire.’

He prised Danny’s fingers loose and put the logs back into the basket. Then he said, ‘Shall we pull the chairs further back?’ Keep the speech slow and soft. Don’t crowd him. He was giving Danny lots of room. But the chairs had to be moved. The room was full of the smell of scorched material — a different smell from the singed wool of the rug — and these were old chairs. Whatever stuffing had been used to fill the cushions, it wouldn’t be fire-retardant.

At last, with sofa and chairs restored to their original positions, the room looked less like a bonfire waiting to be lit. Danny sat at one end of the sofa, hands clasped between his knees, still staring at the fire. He hadn’t spoken or made any move to help Tom with the furniture. He seemed hardly to be aware of his presence.

Tom opened the window and, still half turned towards Danny, leant out, gulping in cold air. Somewhere out there, invisible, though only a few hundred yards from this hot box with its leaping flames, the river flowed, past rotted jetties and crumbling steps, out towards the sea.

The room was cooler now. Sitting in the armchair, Tom began to talk, slowly and calmly. The words didn’t matter. At first nothing that he said went in, but then gradually the dazed, swollen look faded from Danny’s face. Once he cleared his throat and seemed about to speak, but no words came out.

‘Why don’t you lie down?’ Tom said at last. ‘Even if you can’t sleep, it might help to rest.’

Danny seemed to understand and stretched out on the sofa. Tom would have liked to dampen down the fire, pile ashes on to the blazing logs, but he didn’t dare risk doing that yet. Danny’s eyes were still fixed unwaveringly on the flames.

Tom had just brought the footstool closer to his chair, when the front doorbell rang. Who on earth —? It was two o’clock in the morning. Of course it could only be one person. ‘Martha!’ he said, not bothering to disguise his relief, and ran to let her in.

He opened the door on to a wall of cameras. A storm of blue flashes. Blurred hands, clicks, whirrs, questions, voices calling his name, this way, that way, an outdoor microphone like a dead animal hanging over his head. He slammed the door just before the first foot jammed in the crack, and rattled the chain into the slot.

Danny had come to the door of the living room. ‘Get back inside,’ Tom said. ‘I’m going to check the back.’

He ran downstairs and into the kitchen, feeling horribly exposed in the lighted room. But the door was locked, and, as far as he could see, pressing his cheek against the cold glass, there was nobody in the garden or on the riverside path. He drew the curtains, and stood, for a moment, with his eyes closed. The cameras had shaken him. Those whirrs and clicks were like the shards on a beetle’s wings rubbing together. And the lenses. It was like being surrounded by insects. It was easier to believe there was a swarm of killer bees out there, than to believe they were human beings.

The phone rang. He snatched it up, thinking this must be Martha at last, but instead an unknown man’s voice, wheedling, plausible, asked him to come to the door to be interviewed. He put the phone down without replying, and immediately it rang again. He couldn’t disconnect it because of Martha. Slowly, he went back upstairs, feeling that for the first time in his life he understood what it was to be hunted. He was trying, through the pain in his hand, to keep calm, to think straight. He couldn’t assume they knew Danny was in the house. Obviously they had a pretty good idea, or they wouldn’t be out there, but they might not know. And until he was sure that Danny’s identity as Ian Wilkinson had been blown, he couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. He needed to talk to Martha.

Danny was standing by the fireplace when he came in.

‘How many?’ he asked.

‘Ten, fifteen? I don’t know.’

Danny managed a smile. ‘I don’t think Ian Wilkinson’s got very long to live, do you?’

‘No, probably not.’

Danny shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. Never liked the guy anyway.’

He seemed to be pulling out of it. Tom wondered how much — if any of it — he remembered. Til make some coffee,’ he said.

The phone rang. They looked at each other, waiting for the answering machine to click in.

As soon as he heard Martha’s voice, Tom snatched the phone up and began gabbling an explanation.

‘Why don’t you phone the police?’ she said. ‘There’s no point hiding anything about Danny now. They must be causing an obstruction, and even if they aren’t you can say they are.’ She sounded entirely calm. Til be round as soon as I can.’