Crustaceans (20 page)

Time froze then. I remember the stillness. There was your stillness on the bed, your absolute deadness, but also the stillness that surrounded you, in which you'd taken your place. And until time resumed, until I became conscious again of the machines all around me, and the cold hard press of your bedframe, Ruth at my side and your grandfather hunched in his chair, I was there with you. Reality, awareness, returned in convulsions, racking sobs, reflexive spasms, many seconds or minutes apart, and as we trailed away, none of us touching, every moment and distance seemed longer. One foot in front of the other required concentration, an effort of will. We passed down corridors lined with children's paintings, hung with their mobiles. There were plastic tables and chairs, and boxes of toys, a rocking horse, piles of comics and books. There were children asleep in the wards. And as we came from that nursery world into the long stone-flagged tunnel that led to the Parents' Room, it seemed I heard your voice in me clearly –
where are you going?
– to which I hadn't an answer, for I was leaving you, Euan, no longer your father, and the velocity of that realisation winded me; it caused me to fall.

My whisky now is half empty, your hagstone warm in my hand. I crook my arms on the bench and drag myself upright. I place the stone in our bowl, and for a few moments then I stand over it, my weight pressing down on the table, my gaze shifting, unfocused. I am very drunk now, and when at last I step backwards I find I am lurching, tilting out to the passage. I steady myself on the cooker, and blunder ahead to your room. The door slams into the wall – the wooden partition – and of course there is nothing, no sense of you, not even your absence, only your things, your bunk and your boxes, a faint smell of mildew, and the noise of our caravan trembling. The air is cold on my face, and this is no more than a room. There are orange swirls in the carpet, pink drapes at the window, pale wood veneer on the cabinets. There's a stain in the curve of the ceiling, a leak in the roof. And then I don't know. I am turning, sweeping plates and cups from the drainer, knocking things over, whatever there is. I grab for the cushions and hurl them behind me. I swipe at the books on the window-ledge, and our souvenir ornaments, all the kitsch Ruth collected, and then I reach for our bowl. I slide it to the edge of the table, watch it tip as it falls. The pebbles tumble on to the carpet, scatter out to the corners. They cluck into each other, slowly settle in clutches, and soon after that there is silence. The bowl has broken cleanly. There are five or six pieces. I slump back on the bench, and stare down at the mess I have caused, and it seems my whole body is shaking, as if I was sobbing, but I am not crying, Euan; not now. Blankly I look to my hands, the nicotine stains on my fingers, and I reach then for my tobacco, my lighter and papers. I hold the pouch in my left palm, and trembling, I pinch out some more fibres. I draw them down the V of a Rizla.

The drive from our house takes ninety minutes, but of course there is snow, and darkness, patches of ice on the roads. And if Ruth has remembered – if my note was enough to remind her – she will have gone first to her own house and collected your casket. Perhaps she'll have spoken to Julie. She may have taken a shower, changed out of her workclothes. I suppose she'll have packed a bag for the night. She may have stopped off on the way. But I am tired now, Euan; I want only to be done with all this – the waiting, remembering, your unceasing questions. I want only to sleep now. I finish my cigarette and toss the butt to the hearthstone. I swill the taste from my mouth, and pick my way through the debris, the cushions and books on the floor, smashed vases and plates, and gently I close the door to your room. I extinguish the lights, slowly turn down the dials; I watch the flames faltering, the mantles gradually fading. Then I clear a space on the carpet. I drink again from my bottle, and gaze around at our caravan, the shadows and spaces, the stillness, and lowering myself to my knees, I turn off the fire. I wait a few moments, allow it to cool, then I raise the setting back up to
ign.
I wrap myself in my coat and lie down on my side. I reach across for your patch, close it into my fist. I pillow my head in my arms, and as I feel myself drowsing, no sound but the hiss of the gas, I remember Ruth's bedsit, the wind blustering outside and her oven door open, rain lashing the windows. It was Christmas, nine years ago, and she wore a pink cardigan. What do you want? I asked her; what would you most like to have? Oh, you know, she replied, her arms looped around me, her legs. We've discussed it, she said. There would be a Euan or a Jessica to begin with, and a place by the sea, a beach-hut, a caravan, somewhere to drive to at weekends. We never imagined a future without you, and I no longer supposed she would leave me. Perhaps soon she'll be here. I lift my head from my arms and blearily look to the windows, the dwindling snow, and it does seem to me now that there's something, the barest disturbance, the faintest of noises. I try to reach for the gas, but it's too much, I let my arm fall. My face is pressed to the carpet, my eyes heavy and closing, but I can feel a vibration, the thrum of an engine. She will not find me like this. I force my eyes open, and heave myself to the fire. I close off the dial, turn on to my back. In a few moments more I will see the sweep of her headlights. I will hear her suspension, the wheels bumping over the divots and tyre tracks, and then her handbrake, the blip of the alarm, and the pause before she opens the door. She will smell the gas, and hurry back out to the box, disconnect the supply. She will hook open the door, and call out my name, cautious and frightened, and then feel her way towards me, kicking through the mess on the floor. And I will sit up; I will let her know that I am here, and she will open the windows, and sit heavily, as if she too has been walking all day. I will read many things into her expression, the tightness of her lips, the tautness in her jaw. She will be relieved, and wary; I suppose she will be angry. She will shiver perhaps, and tie a knot in her scarf, zip up her jacket, and we will sit in our customary silence, but I'll know that she is waiting. It's a long time since she has looked at me. She will expect me to speak; it is time that I spoke. And I will reach for my whisky, my tobacco and papers. I will begin to roll up a cigarette and then she will harden; she will get to her feet, and take her hat and gloves from her pockets. She will glance at me briefly, and make her way to the door.

She will leave me, and though I'll make no motion to stop her, the grief will seize hold of me then, catch and release me, and I will pull on my scarf, find my gloves and my hat, and I will follow her. She will be walking out to the cliffs, the rickety steps to the beach, and as she begins her descent I will light up my cigarette. The cold will flood in from the darkness, and I'll hold tight to the handrail, the boards layered with snow, crushed by Ruth's footsteps, and when I come to the sands I will keep my head down. I shall have to walk sideways, shielding my cigarette. I will inhale with my back to the wind. And when at last I glance round she will be there at the strand, dark against the dark of the sea, and perhaps you will be with her, holding on to her hand. For a moment I will hope so, but no, you won't be there. For you are dead now, Euan; and it is time that I left you, allowed you to go. Ruth alone will be facing out to that cold, which I have not managed today. And I will stand beside her, hunched into my coat. I will bring my cigarette to my lips, and taste the staleness of the ash. I will throw it aside, and pushing my hands in my pockets, I will lift my face and look out, Ruth's presence beside me. I will feel it, her closeness, the fact that she is there, and that will be all. It will be enough. The sea will be howling in the darkness, the white crests igniting.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My thanks are due to the Authors' Foundation and the Eastern Arts Board for financial assistance during the writing of this novel.

For their help and advice I would also like to thank Neil Taylor and Carole Welch; Chris Wright; Lynn and Phil Whitaker; Judy Coggon; the sculptors of Hardingham Workshops – Pete Blunsden, John Foster and Andy Sloan; and above all, Lynne Bryan.

Also by Andrew Cowan

Pig

Common Ground

CRUSTACEANS
. Copyright © 2000 by Andrew Cowan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Picador USA, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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First published in Great Britain by Hodder and Stoughton, a division of Hodder Headline

First U.S. Edition: March 2002

eISBN 9781466892033

First eBook edition: February 2015