Winman, Sarah - When God Was a Rabbit

‘That’s great,’ my brother said. ‘You’re doing so well. Keep to the middle, let the boat search for deep water,’ and I did, and only occasionally heard the sound of shingle against the wooden hull.

I cupped my hand across my brow; the sunlight was piercing and caught the surface of the water, highlighting the ragged spume. It was one of the last days of summer, and both nature and my brother responded. He lay down on the seat slats and placed his fishing cap over his face.

‘Wake me up when we get there,’ he said lazily, and in that one action I felt the responsibility for our safe return in my unsure hand.

I watched him doze. He seemed older these days, so much older than I was, and he’d grown into the landscape as if he’d always lived here and always would; but he would be gone by the following year, to finish his schooling in London, a sudden decision taken on a whim.

I looked at my watch; it was still early and they wouldn’t miss us. We had the shopping for dinner and the guests wouldn’t be back for hours. I cut the engine and let us float along with the tide, ducking under overhanging branches of trees that leant out at precarious degrees. I heard the faint sound of ducks gossiping in the weedy banks ahead.

‘Everything OK?’ my brother asked from under his hat.

‘Yes,’ I said, and picked up a small oar as a precaution against the shallow sandbanks that suddenly reared like seal backs.

A buzzard flew on the thermals overhead. I watched him hover against a backdrop of pink and violet heather until he swooped down into the hillside and emerged with a terrified vole clutched between his talons.

A grey mullet was flanking the hull, in search of company. It was large – four or five pounds, I think – similar to the one my brother caught the first autumn we arrived.

He’d taken so much pleasure in gutting it; he sliced under the gills and sharp along the belly, and soon the innards were floating downstream before being scooped up by a patient heron. My brother placed a small translucent orb into my palm.

‘That’s his eye,’ he said. ‘It still sees, even in death.’

‘Shut up,’ I said, and flicked it into the water.

He grinned and looked happier than I’d seen him in weeks. We cooked the fish on a makeshift fire next to the jetty and I said that if we were shipwrecked we’d do OK by ourselves now, and we wouldn’t need anyone else. He smiled, but his eyes gave away that he’d always need someone else. No amount of self-sufficiency could dispel the craving he still felt for that person we no longer talked about; that person who’d taken him apart and left a piece missing that none of us could find.

I punted the boat under the branches and saw damson berries on the bushes ahead. I’d be making jam with my mother soon. I liked making jam. Swapping schoolbooks for activity.

‘Joe,’ I said, completely unthinking, ‘Charlie would have liked this, wouldn’t he?’

‘Fuck off, Elly,’ he said, suddenly sitting up, and I recoiled at his sharpness.

I lost my balance and fell onto the side of the boat, just missing a rowlock and a worse injury. The pain shot into my shoulder and I reached for my arm; rubbed it hard and stifled the tears wedged in my throat. I wanted him to look at me, to help me, but he wouldn’t; instead his eyes narrowed as he looked into the sun, as if blindness was preferable to the sight of my betraying face. Unhelmed, the boat floated aimlessly and became wedged on a bank of shingle.

‘See what you’ve done,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ I said, rubbing my arm.

‘Fucking idiot.’

It was a fallacy that time had healed him; it had simply allowed him to hide and file his experience away under the simple labelling of: Him and Me.

We waited silently for the tide to catch up, and as I rubbed the bruising on my elbow, I vowed never to mention his name again. To me he was dead. And he disappeared once again from our lives back into our convenient amnesia, until that strange night in December when he unexpectedly returned. And when his name was unexpectedly mentioned. But not by us.

The crisp smell of rime awoke me from my sleep and I got up swiftly to secure the window. I looked out onto the milky landscape; perfectly silent, eerily untouched except for the staggered imprints of a lone chaffinch in search of life. Winter had fallen heavily and precisely that morning across an unprepared valley. Everything felt slow. Movement, thought. Even breath. Until, that is, the frantic screaming of my name cut through the white like a saw through steel, propelling me downstairs on the swift tread of fear. The television was on:

‘The sixteen-year-old boy was named as Charlie Hunter, our sources can reveal,’ the newsreader said. ‘He was kidnapped at approximately ten o’clock at night when masked men broke into what was considered a secure house on the outskirts of Beirut. He was with his father, an oil executive working for an American company in Dubai. They were visiting friends at the time. A ransom note was left behind at the scene, although this has not been confirmed. No group has claimed responsibility for the kidnapping and we are so far unsure as to whether the demands are political or financial. We shall keep you updated of any further developments.’

The scene suddenly changed and a reporter started to talk about fuel prices. My father turned the volume down until the room was left in silence and images flickered upon our faces.

‘Good God,’ said Nancy.

‘I can’t believe this,’ said my mother. ‘Charlie? Our Charlie?’

‘Scrum half Charlie?’ said my father.

‘ Joe’s Charlie,’ I said supportively, but it had the opposite effect, and Joe ran from the room.

‘I’ll go,’ said Nancy, and she got up and followed him out.

She sat down with him on the bed.

‘I wanted him dead, Nance,’ said my brother, choking for breath. ‘I always wanted him fucking dead, like Golan.’

I stood and watched from the door. Waited for a command that might help to ease the situation or would have me running from room to room to kitchen on an errand that only I could fulfil. But none came.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Nancy quietly.

‘And now it might happen,’ Joe said.

‘It won’t happen,’ she said.

‘How could I live with myself?’

‘We just say these things,’ said Nancy. ‘It’s not real. It’s hurt and anger and tiredness, and a whole load of other shit, and it doesn’t mean it’ll happen. You’re not that powerful,’ she said, kissing his head.

‘I don’t care any more. He doesn’t have to be mine, I just want him found, I want him safe, nothing more. He doesn’t have to be mine.’ And he pulled the pillow over his face. ‘Please find him,’ I heard him say. ‘Oh God, please find him.’

I smelt her perfume first and that’s what made me turn round and watch her tentatively climb the last of the stairs. She stood next to me in the doorway; in time to hear his truth.

‘I loved him so much,’ said my brother as he pulled the pillow away from his face.

His grainy image stood out from broadsheet to tabloid, and under any other circumstances it would have been exciting to see his dark, handsome face again, smiling out at us from beyond a beach; a beach we might one day have visited if only their hearts had taken a less potholed route. He looked happy (happier than us), and so unaware of the violence about to trespass on his life. I wondered how much his kidnappers thought he was worth; how much my parents thought I was worth, and wondered if worth was connected to things like goodness or usefulness or helping people less fortunate. I thought that probably I was worth more when I was younger.

At night, as I lay in bed listening to the owls, I saw him in a dark cellar, chained to a wall and surrounded by bones. There was stink on the floor and a cup of dirty water. Things crawled in the darkness, black backs shimmering green. I heard a chant, a call to prayer. A scream. I sat up. Just a fox.