Breaking and Entering (39 page)

He let his fingers tease down between his thighs, then deep between his buttocks; slicked them up again, grazing with his nails from root to tip. He glanced back at the bath. Penny wasn't looking at him, but had turned towards Corinna and was tonguing her taut nipples. Happy, for her part, was fondling Penny's breasts, rubbing her warm body not against the husband but the wife. He felt himself go limp; grabbed another woman in his mind – naked panting Claire. No. She, too, was resisting, and, however hard he tried, he couldn't get excited by her gawky boyish figure. He attempted to change her shape, add voluptuous breasts, but above them were her glittery glasses, which refused to go away; her lank and dirty hair.

He shifted on the bed, still only semi-erect, but restive after eight days without sex. Noises were drifting up from the bar below, cars passing on the road outside, but all the sounds seemed muffled, as if he were sealed in a cocoon of indolent heat. Another car purred past. He turned it into Juliet's car – a sporty little Alfa in gleaming silver-grey. He could see her at the wheel, clothed only in her hair, which was streaming out in the wind. He leapt on board, ran his fingers through it, let them feather down her body to her thighs. The car began to buck and veer as he kissed her while she drove, kissed between her legs. They were heading for a peach orchard in southern Italy, and suddenly they'd arrived and were lying on soft grass. She was feeding him with peaches, pressing their soft fuzz against his naked skin; juice trickling down his belly, dribbling from his mouth. Juliet was Eve – Eve to his Adam, who'd been disporting in that lake. They'd been created for each other, created to do nothing else but swim in cool green grass, suck peach-juice from the other's mouth, entwine their languorous limbs.

He was so stiff it was hurting; his breathing heavy, feverish. A lorry rumbled past, followed by another, and the roaring from the road outside seemed to reverberate with the rhythm in his head. Now he was in Rome – the holy, dangerous city – Rome pulsing and vibrating under Juliet's white thighs; Rome fermenting in its seethe of summer heat. His hand pistoned up and down – whole body braced, eyes shut – and he was shouting to her, ‘Come, yes
come
!; incapable of holding back even a second longer. He was bursting like an overripe peach, juice spurting on to his chest, oozing slowly down his stomach. The rhythm was resolved now, and the whole of Rome lay hushed; the traffic at a standstill, listening as he panted out, ‘I love you, Juliet.'

He flung the map on the passenger seat. He was bloody lost again. The ruined Cistercian abbey he was looking for must have crumbled into dust. The guide-book had marked it ‘worth a detour', but hardly worth a fruitless thirty miles. He had passed a host of other ruins – castles, quarries, mines, and especially ruined holy places. Wales seemed strewn with the hulks of its discredited beliefs: once-sacred wells now fetid, or used as rubbish-bins; moss-grown stumps of Celtic shrines; roofless abbeys; dilapidated monasteries; Nonconformist chapels open to the sky. Did he really need to see another heap of holy stones in this suffocating heat?

He used his sodden handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his face. He had better stop in the next town and buy a giant-sized box of Kleenex. His cold was worse – like his mood. All his earlier elation was punctured like a pricked balloon, despite his lavish meal and luxurious bath. He should never have had that bath, then he wouldn't have been tempted to lie on the bed and make love to Juliet. He was furious that she'd returned, after his heroic efforts to leave her in the past, and a ton-load of new guilt (especially for the ‘I love you') hung round his neck like an albatross. He also felt a vague sense of betrayal towards his fellow campers, however crazy that might sound. He had broken the rules, which somehow wasn't fair; could imagine Claire's reproachful expression if he admitted what he'd eaten and drunk. And he was bound to get ribbed by Tony when he appeared at the next meal clean-shaven and spruced-up, in contrast to the others' general scruffiness.

The road led past a cemetery – ruined bodies, this time – and he realized he was approaching a town, as scrubby trees and scrappy fields gave way to rows of houses. It was still oppressively hot, although the sun had disappeared. Everything was grey now, and there was a brooding stillness in the air, as if the sky were holding its breath; the town beneath it paralysed. It was only four o'clock, yet all the shops looked shut; no one in the streets save a perspiring woman pushing an old crock in a wheelchair, and a long-haired hobo hunched up on the pavement.

He parked in the main street, scanning the immediate, shop-fronts: a deserted flyblown café, an Oxfam shop with limp dresses from another era hanging in the window, and an alarming-looking establishment selling trusses, medical corsets and orthopaedic footwear. He trudged past knee-supports and bunion-bracers, and on to a stretch of narrow terraced houses, wedged between more shops. He increased his pace deliberately, hoping he might boost his spirits by putting a spring in his step. There was no reason for his gloom, for heaven's sake, beyond his usual niggling guilts. He was still out on his spree, with several hours in front of him, and now that he was here, he might as well explore this town, which must surely have a few redeeming features. Perhaps there was an interesting old church, or a local museum or building of some note, and he could always stop for tea and Welsh-cakes.

He continued up the street, crossing the road when he saw a general stores – a tiny dingy-looking place which just might just run to paper hankies. He entered to a fusty smell of aniseed balls and carbolic soap. The shop was dark inside, and a few loaves of none-too-fresh bread sat like unclaimed luggage beside a tray of wilting vegetables. The woman behind the counter was talking to two customers in Welsh, but she broke off as he approached, and all three women turned to stare accusingly, as if he had gatecrashed a private gathering. He stuttered out his request, embarrassed to be addressing them in English. The shopkeeper merely pointed to a shelf, and her two compatriots eyed him in beady silence as he grabbed the first box he could see and searched through his pockets for some money.

‘Thanks,' he said, scooping up his change. ‘Good afternoon.'

His words went unacknowledged, but the minute he'd slipped out, the women resumed their talk, as if the power had been switched back on – doubtless now condemning his intrusion.

He quickly crossed the road again, to escape their recriminations, yet aware that he was becoming really paranoid, overreacting to everything. They had probably meant no harm, but were just sparing him the discomfiture of having to listen to a language he couldn't understand. He opened the box of tissues, only to discover that they were flimsy squares of pastel-pink, when he wanted man-size white. He plucked out half a dozen and had a really good blow, then walked briskly up the hill, keeping a constant look-out for anything of interest. But once he reached the top, he was faced with virtual wasteland; the road trailing away past vacant lots and ancient tattered hoardings. So – that was the town! He had more or less explored it, without stumbling across a single building of any grace or merit. There wasn't even a tea-place, let alone a book-shop or an art gallery.

He felt a sudden pang for London, where he'd have the choice of going to a cinema or theatre, sitting in an air-conditioned wine-bar, visiting any number of churches and museums, or sampling every cultural delight from medieval music to modern ballet to exhibitions of rare manuscripts or prints. Yet wasn't it perverse to be hankering for a city of seven million strangers when he'd so recently discovered the simple pleasures of living in a community in the wilds? JB would say that his apparent thirst for culture was really an attempt to deny his inner emptiness. By overloading his life, first with work, then with so-called leisure interests, he was seizing on anything he could to fill the void. Without such pursuits, time stretched ahead empty and unending, as it had at Greystone Court. The problem was, he felt torn between two worlds; actually missing the camp, strange as that might seem, while tempted to return to his usual round of safe distractions.

JB was certainly right in claiming that he couldn't enjoy the ‘now', the precious present moment – at least, not for very long. He had managed it this morning, but already he was back to dejection and regret. He was like an adolescent, continually changing moods, and unsure of his identity. But then Wales was much the same: scowling and sullen one week, with grumblings of thunder and heavy lashing rain, then smiling and coquettish the next, with disarming sunshine and blue skies.

He mooched back to the car, passing a gaggle of teenage girls emerging from a sweetshop, armed with dripping ice-lollies of a violently orange hue. They were talking in Welsh – of course – and once again he felt totally excluded. The language no longer sounded intriguing, only impenetrably foreign.

He fumbled for his car-keys and drove off from the town, not bothering to consult his map. He was heading south, and that was good enough: he should eventually find the camp, allowing for various wrong turnings and meanderings off-course. The houses thinned out rapidly, and he found himself in a parched and barren landscape; its shallow soil too poor to conceal the rock beneath, which was thrusting through relentlessly. This was a hard country – hard in every sense – once a battle-land, steeped in the blood of maurauding English and fiercely defending Welsh.

He passed an abandoned copper mine – a scrawny desolation which had poisoned all the vegetation; scaly orange deposits blistering the ground like puckered scabs on old wounds. Everything looked sterile, as if man had extracted not just wealth and ore, but every spark of life and scrap of green.

It was a relief to leave it behind and follow the course of the river, whose glints and dappled shadows restored his faith in nature. He even caught a fleeting glimpse of a heron – a patient feathered fisherman, motionless at the water's edge, waiting for the split second to pounce down and seize its prey. Then the road curved up again, veering away from the river and proceeding through a woodland copse until it reached a deserted crossroads. He slowed to peer at the signpost. ‘Llancaern Castle, seven miles'. He slammed on the brake, the car shuddering to a halt. Llancaern Castle had overlooked his school, its forbidding tower dominating the countryside around. His hands tightened on the steering-wheel as he stared at the sign in shock and disbelief. How could he be this close to Greystone Court? The healer's insinuating voice echoed in his head: ‘
It would probably be enormously helpful if you returned to visit
…'

‘No!' he protested, as vehemently as he had before. And he was even shivering the same way, too – an unnerving sensation in such sweltering heat. Yet his mind was working at fever pitch, trying to make sense of what had happened. His day's excursion had taken on a completely different complexion: no longer a simple escapade in which he was free to go where he chose, as whim dictated, but the healer's way of ensuring that his words were not ignored. Somehow, JB had directed him here; was controlling his every move, even from a distance.

Ridiculous! It was pure coincidence. Central Wales wasn't that extensive, so motoring anywhere around here was bound to bring him close to the school. What seemed more extraordinary was that the possibility had never even occurred to him; that with all his fear and dread of the place, he hadn't made a deliberate effort to avoid the whole area and head resolutely for the mountains or the sea. Well, he could always do that now. A sea-breeze would be glorious on such a stifling day.

He wrenched the car into reverse, turning it round so violently that it scraped against the hedge, and hurtled off in the opposite direction from the dreaded Llancaern Castle. The coast couldn't be that far. He'd start again, set off on a second jaunt – sunbathe on the beach, remove his sweaty shoes and socks and cool his feet in the shallows, buy an ice-cream cornet and saunter along the promenade – above all enjoy the ‘now'.

He realized he was driving dangerously fast. If another car came round the corner, there could well be a collision. He forced himself to slow, suddenly noticing that the scenery looked familiar – ominously so. He knew this road, didn't he? – that jagged spur of hill with a single skinny poplar on the skyline, this series of gentle bends winding its way through a tunnel of trees, whose enclosing shade stippled the car with flickering light and dark. How could things still be the same after twenty, thirty years – his feelings still be the same: hopelessness and terror? Yet, this time, he didn't stop, didn't run away, didn't even ask himself how he could possibly be approaching the castle again, when he had taken the other road. Of course, it was perfectly feasible that the locals had turned the signpost round, as they often did in this part of the world, to spite the hated English. But it was just as likely that, with JB in control of things,
all
roads led to Greystone Court.

He drove on in subservience, losing half a dozen years with every mile he covered, until he was back in short trousers; his scratchy socks too tight around his knees, his feet locked in heavy clomping shoes, when he was used to barefoot Africa. There were snakes in the pit of his stomach, a writhing tangle of slithery yellow vipers, poised to strike as soon as he reached the school drive. That drive was as tortuous as they were, serpenting its way between sombre speckled laurels and darkly poisonous yews, and so close now he could feel himself being drawn into its coils. The castle was just looming into sight, glaring from its promontory – a nightmare castle, forlorn yet menacing; the ramparts crumbling and weed-infested, the tower impregnable. It had always seemed like a second prison, but despite its massy walls and real-life dungeons, it had never induced the same blind fear as Greystone Court itself.

And yes, here was the drive; its entrance half-concealed by shrouding trees; the wooden plaque announcing the school name masked by tendrilling brambles. He looked away. He had no need to spell it out – the name was tattooed deep into his flesh. He signalled right and turned in; wheels scrunching and protesting on the gravel, as if the very car was expressing its revulsion. He remembered how deceitful the approach was; tempting him into believing that there was nothing sinister at the end of all those bends. They simply meandered lazily towards some nature park or pleasure garden, or even a palace from a story-book. But then suddenly, horrifically, the grim grey buildings reared up in reality, dwarfing the scared seven-year-old and demanding his submission.