Nicola Barker - Wide Open

“No.”

“So…” She was confounded.

“I wrote down his letters,” the man said casually, “that’s all.”

Connie couldn’t understand him at first. “I’m sorry…? You wrote Ronny’s letters?”

“No. I copied them. For your father. From the walls.”

Connie was stunned, then wobbly. She sat down with a bump on the carpet. “You’re saying that Ronny wrote those letters himself, and that he wrote them all on the walls? ”

“Yes,” the man sounded unperturbed, “he scratched them into the plaster. It was a strange habit. But when I moved into the cell I really wanted to redecorate. I made a request for paint. Then your father turned up at a good moment and sorted it all out for me.”

“But you copied the letters?”

“For your father. Yes. Before we painted. He found them interesting.”

“Interesting.”

Connie’s mind was spinning. “And your daughter? You said she was sick?”

“She’s on the mend now. For a while we thought we’d have to take her to America for special treatment. Private treatment. She has a problem with her ears. But they sorted it out here after all.”

“Good.”

“Your father was a kind man,” he said, “and extremely generous.”

“Yes,” Connie sniffed, “ he was a kind man. He was a generous man. Thank you.”

They said good night and hung up.

Connie pressed her hands to her diaphragm and took a deep breath. She felt her own ribs with her fingers. She was dizzy.

“I’m relieved,” she muttered softly, “and that’s why my chest feels this way. It’s only relief.”

She looked around her. Oh Jesus, she so much wanted to leave this place!

But she remained where she was. She rocked back down on to her heels. She listened to the house creaking around her and to the vague tick of the kitchen clock, and to the rain.

Ronny was no longer interested in what was happening outside. He was sitting on the sofa, his hands folded on his lap, saying nothing, staring straight ahead of him. This time it was Jim’s turn to take heed, to stand at the window and scrutinize. He turned the light back off to facilitate his observations.

Eventually the players returned to the boar and Jim saw plenty. He saw Nathan and Sara and Lily struggling with the carcass. He heard cursing and hearty expostulations. He saw Luke rolling up his sleeves and lending a hand. Luke was stronger than the others.

The forklift was difficult to utilize on the beach. It kept sinking into the sand or lurching over sideways. Eventually they abandoned it and opted to drag the carcass manually to the harder dirt road behind the prefabs, with Nathan and Luke to the fore, a trotter each between them, and Sara and Lily to the rear.

Jim kept up a running commentary in a thin, bleak voice, even though Ronny gave not the slightest indication of comprehending him. But Jim kept it up just the same, feeling that it was the least he could do in the circumstances, to try and distract Ronny and to buoy him.

“Sara seems to be having problems with her back…” he observed gamely, and then, “Lily isn’t helping much. I think she’s feeling the cold…Luke’s tougher than you might think…”

At no point did Jim mention Nathan’s involvement in the proceedings, but his eyes strayed more to Nathan’s hard endeavours than to anybody else’s. Yet at no point did Nathan direct his gaze towards Jim’s prefab. Not even for the shortest or meanest of glances.

Lily came and knocked at the door three times. Each time Jim imagined that she would turn the handle and walk straight in. But she did not. Each time she knocked, waited, knocked again, but she didn’t try to force things. She exhibited an admirable restraint.

“It’s Lily,” Jim muttered, each time she knocked. “It’s Lily at the door.”

He almost wished Lily would rush on in and snap Ronny out of it. But she didn’t, and Ronny remained on the sofa, studiously dumb and numb and motionless.

♦

Sara played a leading role in all of the manoeuvrings, but her back started to niggle her half way through so eventually she abandoned the lifting and the humping and decided that it was preferable to oversee the entire operation instead, with her hands placed firmly on to her hips and with an eye to maintaining the ultimate good condition of the carcass. This was business, after all. This was lunch and dinner. This was a full freezer. And now that the main drama was over she felt no pity for the dead creature, no spark of sentiment. She couldn’t afford any.

Once they’d moved the boar to the dirt road they loaded it on to the forklift without too much difficulty and Sara prepared to haul it to the farm on foot.

Lily had climbed into the back of Nathan’s car to shelter from the rain, and was sitting there expectantly, hoping shortly to be driven home again.

“I’ll need you to give me a hand, Lily,” Sara said, beckoning her out with a peremptory finger, “I can’t manage this thing myself. The road’s getting really muddy.”

“What?” Lily tried to look disparaging.

Luke stood nearby. He touched Sara’s arm to attract her attention. “I’m happy to help out,” he said quietly, “my car’s parked over at the farm anyway.”

Lily observed Luke’s hand on Sara’s elbow, and expected it to be removed at any second. But the hand remained there, and Sara did not shrug it off.

“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” Lily said determinedly, yanking up the hood on her mac and preparing to clamber out of the car again.

“Luke’s stronger,” Sara said, and then smiled at him.

Finally he removed his hand, then busied himself turning the forklift around in the road, grunting as he shifted it. Nathan started up the engine. Lily didn’t move.

“Will you close your door?” Nathan asked.

Still Lily did not move. Sara stepped forward and slammed the door shut, seemingly oblivious to Lily’s pique. “Do we turn,” Nathan asked, “or can we head back this way?”

“Did you notice the fish?” Lily answered.

“What?”

“The fish. He stinks of fish.”

Nathan shook his head. “No,” he said, “I didn’t notice.”

“Fuck him.”

Lily delivered the back of the passenger seat a ferocious jab with her boot. Nathan turned on the ventilation and fervently hoped that her shoes were clean.

They were no such thing.

♦

“So, will you eat this thing?” Luke puffed, a full five minutes after they’d begun pushing.

“Of course. I can’t sell it.”

“Why not?”

“Regulations and stuff.”

After a short pause Sara added, “I appreciate your help.” She removed some hair from her eyes. “And I am truly sorry about the pornography mix up.”

“I know you are,” Luke smiled, “and your photos were great too. I was just a little intimidated initially.”

“Watch out for the pothole…”

Luke steered sideways.

“You saved my life back there,” he grunted, “this thing could have killed me.”

Sara shook her head. “He would never have escaped in the first place if I’d been doing my job properly. It was poor husbandry.”

“I’d love a picture of you with the boar and a gun,” Luke grinned, “like a hunter. Foot on the body, hands on your hips…”

“With the carcass?”

“Yes.”

Sara visualized what he’d described. After a while she said slowly, “And would I be wearing any clothes in this photo?”

“Uh…” Luke thought for a moment, “probably not, no.”

Sara smiled to herself.

“I could do a series of them,” Luke said, quite delighted with the idea.

Sara took her hands off the forklift and shoved them into her pockets. Luke positioned himself more centrally at the handle.