Sarah Hall - The Wolf Border

Please don’t, Rachel. Don’t. I’ll be no good around a baby. I don’t want to fuck that up, too. Please don’t make me.

She does not understand. Only later will she understand.

What? Lawrence, no. You are a fantastic uncle. Charlie loves you. I –

He is weeping now, muffled, and she feels her eyes sting. Someone passes him on the road, makes some comment that she cannot hear, asking him if he is alright perhaps, or calling him a name.

Lawrence, she says, as firmly as she can. I’ll see you tomorrow.

He arrives the following night, by taxi, with one small bag. Emily must have kept the Audi, she thinks, as well as the house. Any relief she had anticipated in seeing him quickly ebbs. He looks extremely run down, thin, ten years older. His face is greyish and furtive. There’s a small black scab near his upper lip. He follows her into the kitchen, puts down his bag.

Sorry it’s late. The trains were fucked up.

That’s OK.

The baby has already been put to bed. He shakes his head when she offers to get him up. She gives him a beer and starts to make supper. Her plan was to gently investigate the situation, enquire about the possibilities of patching things up with Emily. But he is in no fit state. Terrible, lasting damage seems to have occurred. Lawrence cuts onions listlessly, standing next to her at the counter. He finishes the beer and opens another. There’s an odd smell to him, not unwashed, not unsanitary, but slightly sick, metallic — bad breath, or the tinge of blood.

Small enough? he asks.

Great. Could you do the garlic?

She passes him a bulb. She tries not to watch him. The skin on his arms looks dull, and there are more picked sores. The unspoken weighs heavily, and she begins to feel out of her depth, his depression seems much more serious than she anticipated. Lawrence dices a couple of cloves, puts the knife down on the board. He sits and drinks the beer while she finishes the meal. At the table the conversation never gets going. Lawrence makes little effort, and she does not push him. He eats mechanically, looking at his plate, taking no enjoyment in the food. He is very pale. He drinks two more beers — too many for the tempo of the evening. At one point she catches his eye, not confrontationally, but with intent. You can tell me . He looks away. He stands and clears the plates.

Don’t worry; just leave them on the counter. I’ll load them up later.

He sets them down. The knives and forks skitter off and clatter on the countertop. She sees him wince.

Do you want some coffee?

She is tired but willing to stay up, if it means helping him, or just being companionable.

No, that’s OK.

They move to the lounge, sit by the fire. Her brother sits uncomfortably in the armchair, leaning awkwardly to the side and staring hard into the flames, as if he would, if he knew how, consume their lustre. The evening wastes away without television, talk, or progress. Soon, Lawrence excuses himself and goes to bed, and Rachel follows his lead.

In the early hours she hears him get up, move around the room, and use the bathroom. He goes downstairs. The front door opens and shuts. She listens for a car engine, in case he has called a taxi and is leaving surreptitiously, but it is quiet. She checks on the baby, goes downstairs, and opens the front door. A black wall of night — beyond which she cannot see him. Cool, after-rain dampness. The trees rustle invisibly. Even this far inland, she can smell traces of the sea: briney, ionic. She peers down the lane, waits for her eyes to adjust. The trees begin to loom, shouldering out of the darkness. There is no sign of him. He must simply be restless — why should he not be? — and needs some air. She closes the door, leaves it unlocked, and goes back to bed. She is dozing when she hears the stairs creak.

In the morning Charlie starts up, loud enough to wake their guest, but Lawrence stays in his room, and half an hour later, after the baby is fed, she cracks open the spare-bedroom door. He is asleep, still has his shirt on and the covers are knotted about his waist. The penalty of insomnia — mornings surrendered to late-arriving rest. Downstairs she calls Huib and says she is going to work from home today.

If there’s anything urgent, call me.

Sure, he says. Gregor is due back today.

Oh shit. I completely forgot.

Hey, listen, that’s OK. I’ll meet him and take him inside.

Thanks. Is there anything else?

Not really, he says. But you should know — Lena is not doing so well. She’s in hospital again, having tests.

I’m sorry to hear that.

I’ll pass it on.

They hang up. She moves from room to room, listens for movement upstairs. The baby senses her anxiety and acts up, squalling and shouting, tossing his toys away. His wail is loud and penetrative. She keeps expecting Lawrence to emerge and brighten at the sight of his nephew. She is sure the baby will act as a tonic, if not a cure. She answers emails, speaks briefly with Huib again, checks that Gregor is safely in the enclosure. She eats lunch. In the early afternoon she hears Lawrence stir and go to the bathroom; he spends a long time in there. She stands at the bottom of the stairs eavesdropping, feeling like a spy. She hears coughing. A flush. The lock on the door opening. She waits for him to come down, but he crosses the landing and returns to the spare room.

She puts the baby down for a nap, thinks about taking her brother up some tea, but does not want to disturb him — he clearly needs to recover his strength. On a spur, she decides to call Emily, find out her side. Emily is curt, not rude, but neither is she glad to hear from Rachel as Lawrence proposed she would be.

I haven’t spoken to him in days, she says. Look, I’ve got to go into a meeting in a few minutes. I really don’t want to talk about it.

It’s just that I’m worried, Rachel says. He doesn’t seem himself at all. He seems depressed. I mean, properly depressed.

No. He’s not depressed.

No?

No.

So, what is it? What’s going on?

There’s a pause. Emily sighs.

Look, it’s great he’s up there with you. I’m glad, and maybe it’ll help him. But I’m done with it all. I don’t care any more. You’ll have to talk to him. It’s not my place.

What do you mean?

Rachel, please. I’m so tired of it all. It’s been years. I can’t do it any more.

Rachel does not understand the sudden void of care. Only a few months ago Emily was standing by him, loyally trying to fix the relationship. She must still love him. The coldness, the blockade of feelings must be to protect herself.

Is he having an affair again? she asks. If so, he’s an idiot.

Another sigh, deeper. She can feel Emily’s exasperation mounting.

No. You know what the problem is? He admires you. He doesn’t want you to think badly of him. But it’s not up to me to tell you. I have to go. I hope it works out.

The line goes dead. Rachel sits for a moment, thinking, scenarios flashing through her mind. Other men. Schoolgirls. Sex workers. Nothing makes sense. What is this unspeakable thing her brother is keeping from her? She checks on the baby. He’s asleep in his victory pose, arms flung up, fists resting either side of his head. She crosses the landing and goes into the bathroom. There’s the smell of digestive upset; the toilet bowl is cloudy with unflushed matter. She opens the door of the spare room. The curtains are drawn, but the window is open and it’s very cold. The sour, ironish smell is there again, like rusting metal and dirt, somehow agricultural, like the aroma around the decrepit farms in her old village. Lawrence is in the same position, but his breathing is quicker, shallower. She steps into the room. His shirt is patched with sweat, and he is shivering.