Nicola Barker - Wide Open

“I could do a spread,” he said thoughtfully, “in the Sunday Telegraph Magazine . Very wild, very rural.”

Sara glanced at him sideways to see if he was joking. He didn’t seem to be. But he was frowning and concentrating principally on the load.

That I could have shagged this man and enjoyed it, she thought amazedly. Then silently congratulated herself on her sharp use of the modern sexual idiom.

Snagged . Now that was surely progress.

♦

“What can I say?” Jim stood in front of Ronny, but Ronny stared straight through him. “Is there anything I can do to make things easier?”

Ronny felt an impulse to respond to Jim’s question, but failed to summon up the energy. He was elsewhere. Miles away. Somewhere grey.

“I’ll even read you the letter,” Jim said finally, “if you really want me to.”

Ronny struggled to focus. “You will?”

His hands rested passively upon the bundle of letters on his lap. The final letter was on top of the pile.

“It’s very short,” he said, brightening visibly, “it won’t take you long.”

He passed the letter over. “Will you need more light?”

“No.”

Jim took the letter. It was too dark to read it properly but he knew what it said. He didn’t consider altering the content or varying the words. He saw no reason to employ cunning. Anyway, he believed that everything in the world had its own kind of truth. Its own integrity. Even lies.

Ronny , he began, then he cleared his throat and his voice grew softer, Ronny ,

♦

I dreamed I saw you dead in a place by the water. A ravaged place. All flat and empty and wide open. Not like here at all. Not full and moist and dense. Not like here: all blocked up and hot and savage. But on a moon’s surface. And you were covered in some kind of binding. Like a mummy. Cotton. Or plastic? Something white and reflective. From head to toe .

And the light shone on you. Oh, how it shone on you! It glanced off you and it was like a pure bright silver. The wind was singing. It sang: you have suffered enough. You have suffered enough .

Then Death came and he kissed you. Lightly. Gently. Upon the lips. There is nothing beyond, he whispered, only me, only me .

There is nothing beyond. Only me .

♦

Jim finished speaking. When he next spoke his voice was louder.

“It’s cold,” he said, “don’t you think?”

Ronny said nothing.

“Ronny?”

“I can’t talk,” he whispered, “I feel so happy.”

“Happy?”

“Yes. Happy.”

“May I tell you something about Monica?” Jim asked.

“No more words.”

Ronny closed his eyes. “It’s too beautiful in here,” he said, touching his hands to his temples, “my head’s all golden inside.”

Jim watched Ronny, silently. The need to unburden, he reasoned, was a selfish need. Words were cruel things. So he held his tongue and savoured the discomfort it afforded him, continuing to savour it, quietly, passively, as the night gradually dragged its heavy black belly the length and breadth of the patient heavens. Was Ronny sleeping? Bolt upright with such a wide smile on his face? Was he waking? Was he dreaming?

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Jim guarded him with every inch of his attention, every shred of concentration, perched on the sofa next to him, all eye, like a loyal, gentle, wordless cyclops.

They pulled up outside the farmhouse. Nathan killed the engine and switched off the lights.

“It’s late,” he said.

“Will you drive home now?” Lily seemed unconcerned by this prospect.

“I think I may need a map or something.”

“A map? You’ve spent half the night trawling up and down these roads.”

Nathan glanced over towards the farmhouse. The kitchen light was burning.

“Do you have one inside?”

“A map?” Lily scratched at her head with all the uncultured abandon of a flea-ridden torn. “I don’t know.”

She clambered over the gearstick and into the front passenger seat. “But I want to stay out here for a while yet,” she confided, settling herself down.

“Why?” Nathan frowned. “You must be chilly.”

“Not really.”

Lily stared at Nathan evenly for a duration. He took her scrutiny without a flinch.

“You didn’t speak to Ronny earlier,” she said, “and you had plenty of opportunities.”

“I know. Bad timing.”

Lily digested this, but not fully. She changed tack. “So how did you come to meet Connie before?”

Nathan cleared his throat. “Lost Property.”

“Really?”

“Yes. She’d found some letters and she needed to trace Ronny.”

“So you sent her here?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“And now you’re here.”

“Yes.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

Nathan smiled weakly. Lily smiled back. “Do you like her?”

Nathan looked surprised. “I don’t know her terribly well.”

Lily nodded. “Even so. I think she likes you.”

Nathan shook his head.

“Honestly,” Lily was wide-eyed and emphatic, “you should both drive home together. It’s the same route.”

Nathan inspected his car keys. They were silent for a while.

“So are you going inside now or what?” Lily spoke.

“You want me to?”

“Yes. Get yourself a cup of tea or something.”

Nathan nodded. “Fine. I might just do that.”

He climbed out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

Lily sank down in her seat, shoved her cold hands under opposite armpits, then watched through hooded eyes as Nathan tramped over towards the farmhouse.

♦

Connie was drying her feet on a towel next to the Aga when Nathan walked in. She looked up, guiltily. “I hope this isn’t a tea towel,” she said, “because my feet were filthy.”

Nathan noticed his book still lying open on the table. He walked over to it. “You’ve been looking at this?” he asked, touching the glossy page with a tentative finger.

“Yes.”

“And did you reach any conclusions about it?”

“Conclusions?”

Connie threw down the towel and went over to stand by him. “What kinds of conclusions?”

“About the picture.”

She pulled out a chair and sat on it.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “and it’s very sexy…”

“And the angel?”

Connie looked up at him. He was utterly engrossed. “You don’t think this is a little strange, Nathan?” she asked softly. “You come all the way down here with a picture of Jesus and then ask me what I think of it?”

“I didn’t really consider it that way.”

Nathan pulled out a chair and sat down himself.

“Are you finding religion or something?”

“Me?” He looked amused. “I don’t think so.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Connie picked up the book. “I suppose that in a quite poor light the angel looks a tiny bit like I do, and Jesus, if I screw up my eyes, he looks a little bit like you do…”

“It’s odd that you should put it that way,” Nathan said, slightly unsettled by her bluntness.

“You asked what I thought,” Connie smiled, “and so I’m telling you. The truth is,” she continued, “that I don’t think this picture is about me at all. Or you for that matter. I think it’s about Ronny.”

Nathan inspected his fingers. He didn’t like what he was hearing.

“It’s about forgiveness,” Connie said, putting the book down, “and it’s about sex.”

She pointed. “I was looking at Jesus’s hand earlier. Do you see it? His left hand. It’s curled up on his thigh as if he’d just finished masturbating with it. And his mouth is open. His eyes are closed. He looks kind of…ecstatic.”