John Banville - Long Lankin - Stories

— I see.

She bit her lip, and leaned close to the old man’s ear and whispered. He listened a moment, then turned and stared at her from one yellowed eye.

— What? What? You don’t want to see a thing like that. Do you? What?

— We do. That’s why we came. Isn’t it?

She rammed her elbow into the boy’s ribs.

— O yes, he said quickly. That’s why we came.

The old man stared from one to the other, shook his head, then got to his feet, saying:

— Come on then, before your men come back. Begod, you’re the strange ones then. Hah. Aren’t you the strange ones? Heh heh.

They walked back along the pier, the girl rushing excitedly between the old man and the boy, urging them to hurry. When they reached the sand the old man led them down behind the sea wall. At the edge of the waves a bundle covered in an old piece of canvas lay in the shade of the pier. The girl rushed forward and knelt beside it in the sand. The old man cried:

— Wait there now, young one. Don’t touch anything there.

The three of them stood in silence and gazed down at the object where it lay in the violet shade. Out on the rocks a sea-bird screeched. The old man leaned down and pulled away the canvas. The boy turned away his face, but not before he had glimpsed the creature, the twisted body, the ruined face, the soft, pale swollen flesh like the flesh of a rotted fish. The girl knelt and stared, her mouth open. She whispered:

— There he is, then.

— Aye, the old man muttered. That’s what the sea will do to you. The sea and the rocks. And the fish too.

The boy stood with his back to them, looking at his hands. And then a shout came from far up the beach.

— Hi! Get them children away from there! Get out of it, you old fool!

The boy looked up along the sand. Figures were running toward them, waving their fists. The old man muttered a curse and hobbled away with surprising speed over the dunes. The girl leaped to her feet and was away beside the waves, her bare feet slapping the sand and raising splashes that flashed in the sun like sparks. The boy stood motionless, and listened to her wild laughter that floated back to him on the salt air. He knelt in the sand and looked down at the strange creature lying there. He spoke a few words quietly, a message, then with care he gently replaced the canvas shroud. Then he ran away up the beach after his sister, who was already out of sight.

Some time later he found her, sitting under a thorn tree in the fields behind the beach. She was rubbing the damp sand from her feet with a handful of grass. When she saw him she sniffed derisively and said:

— O, it’s you.

He lay down in the warm grass at her side, panting. Bees hummed about him.

— Did they catch you? she asked.

— No.

— That’s a wonder. I thought you were going to stand there all day.

The boy said nothing, and she went on:

— Jimmy was here a minute ago. He said I was a right little bitch getting him into trouble. He’s worried as anything. That fellow’s not a bit mad. Anyway, he’s gone now. I don’t care.

She looked down at him. He was chewing a blade of grass and staring into thorns above him. She poked him with her toe.

— Are you listening to me?

— No.

He stood up, and said:

— We’ll have to go home. Tantey will be worried.

— Ah, sugar on Tantey.

They found their bicycles and started home through the glimmering evening. Clouds of midges rode with them. The tiny flies found a way into their hair and under their clothes. The girl cursed them and waved her hands about her head. The boy rode on without a word, his head bent.

The old woman was indeed angry with them.

— I warned you before you went, she said, and glared at them from her chair beside the stove. I warned you. Well now you can just hop it off to bed for yourselves. Go on.

— But what about our supper, Tantey?

— You’ll have no supper tonight. Get on now.

— I’m tired, anyway, the girl said carelessly when they were climbing the stairs.

By the window on the first landing the boy stopped and looked out over the countryside down to the sea. The sun was setting blood-red over the bay. He stood and watched it until it fell into the sea. When it was long gone he heard the girl’s voice calling plaintively from above.

— Where are you? Where are you?

He climbed to her room and stood at the end of the bed, looking down at her.

— I have a pain, she said, as she twisted fitfully among the rumpled sheets, her legs thrown wide, her hand clutching her stomach. He leaned his hands on the metal bedpost and watched her. As she twisted and turned she glanced at him now and then through half-closed eyes. After a moment he looked away from her, and with his lips pursed he considered the ceiling.

— Do you want to know something? he asked.

— What? O my stomach.

— You know that fellow today? The one that shouted at us on the hill? Do you know who he was?

She was quiet now. She lay on her back and stared at him, her eyes glittering.

— No. Who was he?

— He was the other fellow. The one that got drowned. That was him.

He turned to go and she leaped forward and clutched his hand.

— Don’t leave me, she begged, her eyes wide. I’m frightened. You can sleep here. Look, here, you can sleep here with me. Please.

He took his hand from hers and went to the door.

— All right, the girl cried. Go on, then. I don’t want you. You didn’t need to be coaxed last night. Did you, mister? Ha ha. Mister.

He left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. Strange shapes before him in the shadows of the stairs. For a while he walked about the house, treading carefully on the ancient boards. All was quiet but for the small sounds of his sister’s weeping. On the top landing a black, square thing lay precariously balanced on the banister. Tantey’s missal. As he passed he casually pushed it over the edge. The heavy book tumbled down the stairs, its pages fluttering.

He went into the bathroom and locked the door. On the handbasin he knelt and pushed open the small window of frosted glass set high in the wall. Darkness was approaching. Black clouds, their edges touched with red, were gathering out over the sea, and shadows were lowering on the ugly waters. A cold damp breath touched his face. In the distance a long peal of thunder rumbled. He closed the window and climbed down from the basin. He scrubbed his hands and dried them carefully, finger by finger. For a moment he was still, listening. No sounds. Then he went and stood before the mirror and gazed into it at his face for a long time.

He sat in the garden under the olive tree, looking past the headland toward Delos, the holy island, where it trembled on the mist. In the night the fierce wind had died, and today the sea was calm. He lit a cigarette, and the blue threads of smoke curled away into the burnished leaves above him. Cicadas sang about the scorched fields, and now and then there came the plop of a pomegranate bursting in the sun. The day would be hot.

Anna came from the cottage, a wooden tray in her hands. He watched her idly as she laid the table of rough olive wood before him, two cups, bread and white butter, grapes. She would not look at him, and her mouth was set in a tight line. From the taverna below the hill came faintly the gobbling of the turkeys. With his eyes on the road he said:

— Ever think that those birds can talk? Listen to them. You haven’t you haven’t you haven’t . That’s what they say.

She did not answer, and he glanced at her.

— Are you still angry? he asked.

— I’m not angry. Who said I was angry?