John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

— If he got to the stables he could come in through the side door. If he did I’d hide him.

He stared at her, and feeling his eyes on her she set her mouth firmly and said:

— I would, I’d hide him. And then in the morning I’d get him out and bring him to Dublin and put him on the boat for England, for Liverpool or some place.

She reached out blindly and took his hand. There were tears on her face, they fell, each gathering to itself a little light and flashing in the darkness of the window.

— We could do that if he came, couldn’t we, Mor? It wouldn’t be a bad thing to do. It wouldn’t be a crime, I mean, would it? Out there in the dark with the rain and everything and thinking about all the things — thinking and thinking. It wouldn’t be wrong to help him, Mor?

He took her in his arms and held her head on his shoulder. She was trembling.

— No, he said softly. It wouldn’t be a bad thing.

She began to sob quietly, and he lifted her head and smiled at her.

— Don’t cry, Liza. There now.

The door-bell rang, and her eyes filled with apprehension. Without a word she moved past him and left the room.

Mor stood and looked about him. Long ago when he first saw this room he had thought it beautiful, and now it was one of the few things left which had not faded. The shaded lamps took from the warm walls of lilac a soft, full light, it touched everything, the chairs, the worn carpet, with gentle fingers. On the table beside him a half-eaten sandwich lay beside his bottle. There was an olive transfixed on a wooden pin. Muted voices came in from the hall, and outside in the fields a shout flared like a flame in the dark and then was blown away. Mor lifted his glass, and when the amber liquid moved, all the soft light of the room seemed to shift with it. He felt something touch him. It was as though all the things he had ever lost had now come back to press upon his heart with a vast sadness. He stared at the table, at the little objects, the bread and the bottle, the olive dead on its pin.

Liza came back, her hands joined before her, and the knuckles white. She stopped in the middle of the room and looked blankly about her, as if she were dazed.

— What is it? he asked. Who was at the door?

— A guard.

— What did he want?

— What?

— What did he want? The guard.

— O, the guard. He wanted to use the ’phone.

She looked at him, and blinked rapidly twice.

— They found him, she said. He hanged himself in the long meadow.

She examined the room once again with vague eyes, then she sighed, and went away. He sat down to finish his drink, and after a time went out and climbed the stairs.

Liza was lying in bed, the lamp beside her throwing a cruel light over her drawn face. He sat beside her and watched her. Her eyes were open, staring up into the dimness. In the silence there was the sound of the rain against the window. She said, so softly he barely heard her:

— We missed so much.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead. She did not move. He put his hand over her breast, feeling the nipple cold and small through the silk of her nightgown.

— Liza.

She turned away from him, and when she spoke her voice was muffled by the sheets.

— Bring me a glass of water, Morris. My mouth is dry.

He moved away from her, and switched off the light. He went down the stairs in the darkness, the air cold and stale against his face. On quiet feet he returned to the drawing room and poured another, last drink. Then he went and stood at the dark window, and listened to the wind blowing in the trees.

… Shalt thou hope. His truth shall compass thee with a shield. Thou shalt not be afraid of the terror of the night, of the arrow that flies in the day, of the business that walks in the dark, of invasion or of the noonday devil.

The old voice droned on, and the boy wondered at the words. He looked through the window at the countryside, the fields floating in the summer heat. On Hallowe’en people must stay indoors for fear of the devils that fly in the darkness. Once he had heard them crying, those dark spirits, and she said it was only the wind. But to think of the wind in the black trees out on the marsh was almost as bad as imagining devils. And late that night from the window of his bedroom he saw huge shadows of leaves dancing on the side of the house, and the circle of light from the street lamp shivering where it fell on the road.

— Are you going to ask her?

— What?

The little girl frowned at him and leaned close to his ear, her curls falling about her face. She whispered:

— Ssh, will you. Are you going to ask her can we go? He said seven days and the tide will be up in an hour. Go on and ask her.

He nodded.

— In a minute.

She stuck out her tongue at him. Through his crossed legs he touched his fists on the cool tiles of the floor. The old woman in the chair before him licked her thumb and turned a page of the black missal. The thin paper crackled and the ribbons stirred where they hung from the torn spine.

— I will deliver him and glorify him. I will fill him with length of days and I will show him my salvation.

She raised her eyes from the page and glared at them over the metal rims of her spectacles. Crossly she said:

— What are you two whispering about there?

— Tantey, can we go for a swim? the little girl cried and jumped to her feet. The old woman smiled and shook her head.

— O it’s a swim is it? You’d rather be off swimming now than listening to the words of God.

— Ah but it’s a lovely day, Tantey. Can we go, can we?

— I suppose so. But mind now and be careful. And you’re not to stay out late.

She closed the missal and kissed reverently the tattered binding. Groaning she pulled herself up from her chair and hobbled to the door. There she paused and turned, and said to the boy who still sat on the floor with his legs crossed:

— Mind what I say now. Be back here early.

When she was gone the girl went and sat in the armchair, and with her shoulders bent she mimicked the old woman, intoning:

— Achone achone the Lord and all his angels are coming to damn us all to hell.

— Ah stop that, said the boy.

— Nor you needn’t be afeared of the devil in the day. Achone achone O.

— I told you to stop it.

— All right. All right. Don’t be always bossing me around.

She made a face at him and tramped from the room, saying over her shoulder:

— I’m going to get the bikes and if you’re not out before I count ten I’m going on my own.

The boy did not move. Sunlight fell through the tiny window above the stove. The radiance of the summer afternoon wove shadows about him. Beyond the window a dead tree stood like a crazy old naked man, a blackbird hopping among its twisted branches. The boy stood up and went into what had once been the farmyard — the barn and the sties had long since crumbled. After the dimness of the kitchen the light here burned his eyes. He moved across to stand under the elm tree and listen to the leaves. Out over the green fields the heat lay heavy, pale blue and shimmering. In the sky a bird circled slowly. He lifted his head and gazed into the thickness of the leaves. Light glinted gold through the branches. He stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides, listening, and slowly, from the far fields, the strange cry floated to his ears, a needle of sound that pierced the stillness. He held his breath. The voice hung poised a moment in the upper airs, a single liquid note, then slowly faded back into the fields, and died away, leaving the silence deeper than before.

— Are you coming or are you just going to stand there all day?