Cross Country Murder Song (2 page)

And did they? asked the therapist.

I don't know, he said. They covered my head with a bag and then we pulled over somewhere and they put me in the trunk.

He was standing suddenly and someone was pushing him from behind. He fell to his knees on to grass and then was pulled to his feet again. Come on, up, a voice said, and then he was hoisted over someone's shoulder and lowered gently (almost tentatively he'd think later) into the trunk of the car. He smelt the rubber of the spare tyre and the damp permeating the soiled tartan rug beneath him. Watch your legs, said the voice, and he instinctively balled himself up as the daylight shrank to leave him in isolation.

What do you remember after that? asked the therapist.

The box, he said, the disused garage and the box, more the box than anything else.

The therapist was quiet behind him.

After I got out of there I used to have this dream where I was in the kitchen in my father's house, he said. It was late and the house was quiet and I was getting milk when I heard my father coming in so I climbed into the fridge to hide.

The fridge? said the therapist.

It was a dream, he said. It was one of those old fridges, white and tall with a steel handle to lock the heavy door into place and stop the cold air from seeping out. It was the same one that we had at the house.

And you hid in it, said the therapist.

I hid in it, he replied. I had my dressing gown and pajamas on but my feet were bare and cold. I was standing on my tiptoes to alleviate the pain and I had the belt of my dressing gown in the door so it wouldn't shut. I could see my father and his friends sitting at the kitchen table, they were smoking and talking and my father got a bottle of whisky down from one of the cupboards. I remember my father asking if anyone wanted a glass of milk instead and they all laughed. They were talking about me, how they'd rescued me.

What were they saying? asked the therapist.

I don't know, he said. One of them made the shape of a gun with his hand and fired it off at something one, two, three times and they all laughed at that. Then someone mimed karate-chopping someone and that got a big laugh too.

Did you know what your dad did? asked the therapist.

Not then, he said. My mother always told me he was a businessman. That's what everyone's dad was at my school, a businessman.

What happened in the dream then? asked the therapist.

The kitchen was quiet and my dad was clearing the glasses away, he said. Turning the lights down, emptying the ashtray and then he came towards the fridge. I'd left the milk out, but I hadn't noticed until then. My dad was holding it and then he saw my belt caught in the door. He said, what's this? He pulled it loose and held it up before him and stood looking at it and then he leant forward and locked the fridge door shut and the light went out and all I could feel was the cold on the soles of my feet.

And then? asked the therapist.

Then I'd wake up, he said.

It's an understandable dream given what you went through, said the therapist.

You think? he said, his glance was suddenly venomous. Try telling that to a ten year old.

Can you remember the last time you had the dream? the therapist asked.

Two nights ago, he said.

Eventually his father came to get him. He'd developed a pattern of sleep or near sleep by then, like a long-term patient coming to terms with his hospital ward, almost oblivious to his surroundings. Even when he was awake it was in a listless, half-conscious state; as though scales were growing over his eyes. He felt the panic filling the room, jolting him to life; someone he didn't recognise pulled the lid back on the box and made to grab his arm until someone else shouted to leave him and the box was closed again. He lifted the unlocked lid slowly and peered out. The room was empty, the far door stood open and he saw someone run past. He heard a shotgun thunder into life and more shouting and then the short, furious pitch of handguns, the sound ricocheting sharply off the concrete walls. He heard his father's voice and it made his stomach tighten. Through the open door he could see his father talking to someone slumped on the floor. Then he knelt next to them, took a knife from his pocket and made a sudden, violent upward movement with his hand and the figure shook and then was still. He closed the lid and then his father was gently opening it and pulling him towards him, saying his name.

Do you remember anything about being rescued? said the therapist.

Nothing, he said. Just my father taking me from the box and then carrying me outside and taking me home to my mother.

The therapist's alarm pinged quietly and they both stood to face each other. The therapist took his hand and held it as he spoke.

I think we're making real progress, he said, I think you're really coming to terms with what happened to you. You okay? he asked. He nodded and pulled his jacket off the coat stand and made his way past the receptionist and took the elevator seven floors down to the street. His car was waiting for him; his driver held the door and they exchanged the briefest of glances as he got into the back.

Just home, he said. He felt tired and without resolution. They drove south through traffic and out to the city's borders, the cars thinning out around them with each mile.

When his mother had died from cancer he was nineteen and away at school. His father died broken-hearted just over two years later. He'd stood head bowed at the grave, his estranged sister at his side. It had taken death to bring her back into his life. She'd left home a long time before, refusing to blinker herself when it came to the machinations of his father's business. She was older and at war with the world, and at college and rattled by the guilt she felt for her privileged upbringing on the broken backs of others, she'd cut the family free. His father wouldn't have her name spoken in the house after that, he'd rage and snarl if it came up, but they all knew it was only to hide the hurt he felt.

The day of the funeral the rain beating on his umbrella had drowned out the words of the priest's eulogy. He still wondered what he'd found to say about a man who had bullied his way through the world. He travelled back to the house alone, his sister taking a car to the station; he waved at her through the window, the water smearing her features. At the wake, his father's friends gathered around him and he recognised some of them from the disused garage; he'd caught sight of them over his father's shoulder carrying the dead bodies into the back of the building, into the shadows. One hugged him especially hard and lingered there looking into his eyes as if searching out the damage caused that day.

He was a good guy, he looked out for you, was all he said before crossing the room to grasp someone else's arm.

The drive up to the house was long and cut between the extensive gardens and the lake. His mother had loved it here, this stately pile set as an absurd notion in the New Jersey countryside. We should get a butler, she'd joke, but there were always enough of his father's men around to fetch them anything they might need.

He let himself in through the kitchen at the back. He rarely used the main doors, they were too unwieldy, too imposing, he always expected someone to be standing at the foot of the stairs announcing his name whenever he came through them. He walked into the main hall, checked the post and a note from the housekeeper who travelled out from the suburbs three times a week to administer to his and the house's needs. She'd used his credit card for groceries and to pay the gardener. He looked out at the immaculate gardens reaching into the distance; worth every cent, he said to himself, folded the note and put it in his pocket.

He went into his study, reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk and unlocked it. Inside it were two handguns and a bunch of keys on a bronze ring like a school janitor might keep. He took the keys and closed the drawer. He went down the stairs and back into the hall. Beside the heavy gilt frame of an oil painting of the house was the cellar door. He selected a key and undid the padlock and then unlocked the door itself. The cellar was vast even in the gloom; he turned on the lights and the room lit up in stages, the overhead lamps buzzing into a white glare as squares of light brought every corner into stark relief. The back wall was set with tall racks of wine reaching nearly to the ceiling, a stepladder set against its corner. There was a workbench and tools and in the corner nearest to him were six boxes, matching oblongs of cheap wood with hinged doors. Two were open and empty, the other four bound with heavy chains and padlocks. He walked towards them; the figures inside were asleep, one stirred as he laid a reassuring hand on the lid. Hello, said a very small voice inside, as if in a dream. He shushed gently and put himself between the overhead light and the box to shield it from the glare. He stood there for a moment enjoying the stillness, his hand resting against the rough wood. He breathed deeply, traced a finger over the heavy links of the chain; and closed his eyes.

At the top of the stairs he turned out the lights and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness so he might make out the boxes once more. He pulled the door to and cupped the padlock and secured it into place. He waited there a moment and listened for the police sirens to start up, but everything was still. He walked towards the study, taking the stairs two at a time. Once there, he laid the keys on his desktop, tore a sheet of paper from his notepad and wrote a note to his housekeeper in pencil. He placed it on his desk and secured it with the ring of keys, they jangled pleasingly as he set them down. He turned to go and then paused, squatted, opened the drawer, took one of the handguns and pushed it into his waistband. He stood and admired the line it made in his reflection in the picture window. He picked up his bag as he left the room, whistling absent-mindedly as he took the stairs. He swung the expansive front door wide open and stepped out into the sunshine; someone had been kind enough to bring his car around for him. He threw the bag in the back seat, put the house behind him. Pointed the car west and drove.

Song 1: Fallen

The wind came at him at an angle, almost knocking him off his feet. The upturned colander on his head let the rain through, soaking his skull and pouring into his eyes. Should have taken the saucepan, he muttered to himself, but when he'd placed it on his head in the kitchen at home he couldn't find an angle to suit him. The handle stuck out awkwardly at the front and drew his eyes to a point, made him cross-eyed, but then when he switched it back or to the side he felt like he was wearing a baseball cap propped back on his head. It didn't feel like it had the impact he needed, it didn't suit the gravity of the situation. He caught sight of his reflection in the overhead ceiling lamp, his image even more stretched and absurd. He snatched the pot from his head, reaching for the colander with his other hand.

He clanked and clanged in the wind. The sheets of tin and steel hanging off him in irregular oblongs and squares bounced and hummed against his ribs. One piece of sheeting kept catching him below the knee, causing him to wince and curse with the impact. It was dark, the winter night chasing the light blue out of the day with the promise of a night that threatened to keep falling. The field had belonged to his father; he was at its upper point, a slight rise set at one corner abutted by the right angle of a wooden fence. He held his arms out like he'd seen scarecrows do, scarecrows in this very field, but the weight of the dozens of iron rings on each arm and the working gloves, fingers riveted into place with small badges of protective steel, and the two squares of tin hanging on strong string from each arm pulled his determination down. From a distance he looked like he might be trying to fly, but in truth he could barely raise a steel-toed boot. The wind buffeted his body; the rain dashed itself against his makeshift armour. In the distance, miles away in the black sky over the nearest town, his town, somewhere over the gabled roof of his house, the clouds broke to reveal a small window of stars and then engaged again as he waited patiently for the heavens above him to splinter with white light, to judge the distance before the lightning was drawn inexorably to earth, to spear the field at his feet. A trail of knives, forks and spoons led away from him. He counted to ten before the brightness burst through the darkness, defining the edges of the sky as it flared and died. As if on cue he thrust himself forward, chin outstretched; rising up on his toes. He looked like an athlete bearing down on the finishing line, trying to win a race.

There was no such thing as the Space Race when he bobbed above the Earth in his miniature capsule that caused him to crouch as he entered its door. He could stretch out both arms and place his flat palms against each curved wall. If he unbuckled his harness he'd float little more than a foot or two upwards in the anti-gravity air before gently colliding with the control panels above him. As the 1950s faded, America was exploring the stars, firing rockets into the night sky, denying sightings and keeping a wary eye on their Russian counterparts. In 1946 America had sprung life on the Cosmos, shooting fruit flies at the night sky a full eleven years before the Soviet Union sent a dog into orbit. While he hung there in space he had often wondered if the dog had felt the loneliness he felt; strapped into her harness, electrodes attached to her chest, food and water just in reach. She'd been a stray rounded up on the streets of Moscow. They called her Laika, it translated as Barker in English. Funny, he thought, the things you remember. She was three when they gave her up to the sky. A cross-breed, a mongrel, mostly Siberian husky they said. The American press nicknamed her Muttnik and she'd died within days, two thousand miles away. He thought about her tracing her line around the Earth as he made his own lopsided circles through space. He caught sight of himself in the blackness of the glass, his image rebounding back to him as the night became its own void, always still yet always falling away. He wondered about the scientists who had sent Laika here, if they'd embraced her, tears filling their eyes, as they loaded her into the capsule, knowing they weren't going to be bringing her back?