Only We Know (21 page)

‘Maybe you should get changed,’
she said quietly, and I heard the coolness in her tone. ‘Karl’s been here
for almost an hour. We need to get going.’

I knew that it was not finished between us –
this row, if you could call it that. But how could I explain why I went to Katie? How
could I explain the inextricable bonds that exist between me, Luke and her? How could I
explain that I needed to understand why my brother had done this and that the only
person who might help me was Katie? My apology did not seem enough. And because I was so
dog-tired and we had a whole day ahead of us, sitting in a hot truck, I couldn’t
trust myself to start explaining something that confounded me – the
thing that sits in the very depths of my past, beating like
a black heart.

Before we get into the truck, I say:
‘Lauren … I want you to know how sorry I am.’

‘Nick, this is hard for me too.
It’s not just about you and your brother.’

I don’t know what she means. Besides,
she says no more. She simply climbs into the back seat and stares at the clouds
overhead, and I see that she is containing her disappointment. Saving it. It feels like
a form of torture. Her rage would be more welcome than this. She is pensive, her brow
furrowed at the glaring sun, her eyes squinting up at a lone single-engine aeroplane
passing high above us. She is biding her time, and I find myself waiting too, while the
words
Who cut the knot? Who cut the knot?
trip through my head, forming a music
all of their own, haunting the passageways of my inner ear.

There are words too – lyrics written not by
me but by my brother. His letter is in my shirt pocket – I can feel its hard corners
rubbing my chest, burning a hole there, demanding to be read again. A letter written on
plain ivory paper, the kind our mum used. A letter written in a jagged, hurried cursive,
the rushed slant of the letters on the page, the
t
s crossed quickly, the dotted
i
s wayward and panic-stricken.

But I don’t take the letter out – I
don’t need to. I’ve read it countless times since Julia gave it to me, and
each time it’s as if Luke is whispering into my ear, as if his breath is brushing
the back of my neck, causing goose-bumps to rise all the way up my spine. I feel them
now as I close my eyes and hear his voice, remember words he wrote to me:

Dear
Nico,

First up, a confession.
I’m writing this with a few drinks inside me … and I know, I know,
it’s a mistake to put pen to paper when you’re three sheets to the
wind, but it’s been a strange day and I feel somehow compelled to write to
you, even though you probably won’t read this, won’t answer. All the
same a big part of me feels that there isn’t a single person on this earth
who understands what I’m going through right now – except you,
Nico.

We’ve spent the day –
Julia and I – going through Mum’s things. Her ‘effects’, as
Julia calls them – how ludicrous and Dickensian a term! As you know, Mum was a
hoarder, and after eight hours of wading through paperwork and photographs,
there’s still a mountain to climb. Most of it’s junk, though I kept
finding myself dithering over whether or not I should keep something or throw it
out – honestly, I was getting myself into a panic over receipts and holiday
snaps, postcards of obscure places sent by people I don’t even know.
Ridiculous, isn’t it? But this is what grief has reduced me to –
paralysing indecision. And I do grieve, Nico, believe me I do. I was able to
hold it together during the funeral, and for the first couple of weeks, but now,
with the seasons changing, the reality of her absence is kicking in and I feel
bereft, like a part of me has just leaked away without my noticing, but now
it’s gone I can’t seem to get it back.

Today, all day, I felt the
pull of the past. I’m sitting, now, at Dad’s desk, writing to you on
paper that I found in Mum’s writing box. Even writing you a letter rather
than an email or a text seems like something more real, if old-fashioned –
it’s like something Dad would have done. There are times I sense his
presence, when I am alone here in the office, late at night, leaning on this
desk of his. Sometimes I wish I could summon his ghost, even once, to put to him
all the questions and doubts I struggle
with, like he might offer up some sort of wisdom,
tell me what to do, help me see my way through the fog.

As for Mum, I don’t
feel her presence now at all. Not since she passed, and I can’t help think
of her passing as some sort of abandonment. Like she’s well and truly done
with me now.

I think we made a mistake,
Nico. The weather here has turned very cold, and when I think of her lying out
there in the frozen earth, it seems so wrong to me that I have to stop what
I’m doing, try to calm myself. I know we buried her next to Dad because it
seemed like the right thing to do, but now I wonder, was it? Think of her
spirit, Nick, her very essence – she was a creature of heat, she worshipped the
sun. It always seemed to me that she was a different person in Africa – happier,
carefree. But I suppose we were all different then … Anyway. Maybe it was wrong
to bury her in a cold climate. Not that I’m suggesting we exhume her body
and take it abroad. I guess I’m just telling you that I have regrets and
that is one of them.

When my time comes, I
don’t want to be lowered into the cold damp Irish soil. Have me cremated,
will you? And then scatter my ashes somewhere the sun shines – Kenya, why not? I
said the same to Julia today but she just said I was being maudlin. I
don’t think she takes anything I say seriously right now, thinks
it’s just the grief talking. But it’s not, Nico. That’s why
I’m telling it to you. When the time comes, I want to go back to Kenya.
Back to the Masai Mara. Scatter my ashes by the river Mara. Think of it as a
form of atonement.

Jesus, I’m so tired.
Head swimming in brandy. But you do what you can to get you through the day,
don’t you? Lately, I need more and more help with the passing hours. I
think I’ve taken on too much, Nick, but I don’t quite know how to
shed the load. Mum left everything in my care, but this was always
her thing – and while it gave her a
lift, visiting Nairobi whenever she got a chance, it’s not something that
appeals to me. I fear going back there, and yet there is the constant pull of
the place. I considered asking you to take it on. But that day – the day we
buried Mum – when you and I were here in my study, talking, I could tell you
didn’t want it. That you needed to get away. To distance yourself. After
all, haven’t you spent your whole life doing that, Nico? Don’t be
offended now – I don’t mean that in a bad way. If anything, what I’m
trying to say is: I understand.

I think I’ll stop now.
It’s late and I’ve drunk enough to sleep. I’m going to seal
this letter and maybe I’ll send it to you, maybe I won’t. I’ll
sleep on it. But whenever you read this, wherever you are, I hope you are happy,
Nico, and I hope that you think well of me,

Your loving brother,

Luke

As we drive through the dry landscape, the
letter replays itself to me. It’s there in my shirt pocket, next to my heart, and
as the day deepens, drawing me back there, I feel the words pumping through me in an
unshakeable rhythm:
Think well of me, brother.

A rap at the window. I sit up, blinking.
The truck has stopped and through the muddy windscreen the sky is streaked with thick
swathes of orange sunlight. I don’t know how long I’ve slept, but
we’re at the banks of the Mara river and Karl is outside lighting a cigarette,
Lauren standing a little way off, her arms crossed over her chest. I get out, feel pain
travelling through my body as I stretch and try to shake off the heavy daze.

The mourners gather
in a confidential circle by the water, waiting for us. Figures darkly dressed, standing
silent by the river’s edge, regarding me from a distance.

The sun is slipping down, casting the trees
in long shadows. Now that I’m out of the truck, I’m suddenly cold. I feel
the sweat on my back drying, my shirt stiff with it, and my whole body shivers.

‘Are we late?’ I ask Karl
hoarsely, as I close the door behind me.

‘Just in time,’ he says,
dropping his cigarette and stepping on it. ‘Come on, buddy. They’re
waiting.’

With Lauren, we walk through the sweet
red-oat grass and the circle greets us with nods and murmurs, like a troupe of
theatregoers recognizing guests who have arrived late.

‘You made it,’ Murphy says,
coming forward to embrace me.

It’s only as he draws away that I see
the urn clasped in one of his hands and with it comes a rush of sound into my ears.

‘Just about,’ Karl replies.

My mouth is dry. I feel dizzy. I take a deep
breath, then feel a hand in mine. It’s Lauren. I squeeze her hand, grateful for
the gesture, even if this peace between us is only temporary.

You can hear the movement of water nearby,
some creature surfacing further along the banks of the river. A herd of impala are
tugging at the leaves on the lower branches of the acacia trees in the next field. You
can see, too, the lights coming on from lodges and camps all around us and along the
horizon. But it’s not how I remembered
it. Not at all. It’s so different I could be somewhere
else. I know back then I was a child and I may have misremembered certain things. I know
time can play tricks on the mind. But it’s not as I remembered it. The river is
wider and brighter here, the vegetation cut back. It doesn’t feel like the same
place at all.

I feel kind of disappointed, cheated in a
way. And guilty, too, because in my mind we’re doing Luke a disservice. This is
not the place he thought it was.

‘“Scatter my ashes by the river
Mara.” That was Luke’s last wish and that is why we are here,’ Murphy
says, breaking the low murmur of unease between us.

He takes his glasses off and looks at each
of us with a kind of ceremonial deliberation. We fan out around him and he begins his
sermon.

‘We’re here where Luke wanted to
be laid to rest, where he wished his last remains, his ashes, to be scattered.
“Scatter my ashes by the river Mara. Carry me home,” he said. We’re
here where Luke Yates wanted to become again part of the land he loved so much, a land
he first came to as a child, and that land, here, the Masai Mara, held out its arms for
him, welcomed him, his brother Nicholas and their parents, Sally and Kenneth, into its
welcoming embrace, and it is with great sadness that we now bid farewell to one of
Africa’s returning sons. Let us pray.’

He starts the psalm: ‘The Lord is my
shepherd; I shall not want.’

And we, all of us, join in as a faltering
chorus, our voices weak at first, but slowly gaining strength as the light fades:

‘He maketh me to lie down in green
pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he
leadeth me in the paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil …’

The light is fading. I can see the smoke of
a bonfire rising in the distance, hear the rhythmic chant of tribal music from nearby. I
can’t tell if the music is for tourists or not, though most things here now seem
to be.

But not back then. Not when we were here:
Luke, Katie and I. I wonder if some of the people with us knew what had happened here,
all those years ago – I wonder if they would have come.

Not Julia. Not Karl. Not Lauren. Surely.

Maybe none of us should have come back.
Maybe this is all a very bad idea and we should simply have ignored Luke’s
outlandish request.

Listening to Murphy’s voice now, I
can’t help but think of that time when we fled this country, as if we left in
shame and silence, and how when we arrived in Dublin everything had changed.

Shivering in the cold of that house in the
Wicklow hills, all of the words locked fast inside me, swathing myself in silence. Our
parents had grown distant with one another. I remember, too, Luke’s sudden
unnerving stammer. It seemed as if we were two different families. One family in Africa.
One in Ireland. One was the negative print of the other. Back in Ireland we were all in
darkness, growing quickly apart, each of us gravitating away from another.

I remember one time Luke crashed Dad’s
car. He was seventeen. I was fifteen. Mum was out visiting an aunt who was ill in
hospital. Dad had gone to his old rugby club in Donnybrook for a reunion. I was in my
room listening to
Dexter Gordon’s
brilliant disc
True Blue
. Luke stood in the doorway twirling Dad’s car
keys around his fingers. I pulled out my earphones and he said: ‘Fancy a
spin?’

I thought he was joking and laughed. He
walked out to the car and I followed. ‘Jesus, Luke, what are you thinking?’
I wanted to say, but I was so pleased he had asked me that I said nothing and climbed
into the old red Mercedes.

When we got to the road that leads up to the
Featherbeds, he said: ‘You have a go.’

I slid into the driver’s seat as he
stepped out.

‘Clutch, brake, accelerator,’ he
said, and I remembered it from one of the few lessons Dad had given us under what he
called ‘controlled conditions’.

‘Take it handy,’ Luke said.

I got the hang of it without difficulty,
flew up the Featherbeds to Military Road, then stopped at the Viewing Point. A rake of
cyclists flew by us, and I was picking up speed as I took the corner for Kilakee, but I
misjudged it and slammed the car into a tree.

Luke and I were flung forward hard against
out seatbelts. Luke forced me out, inspected the damage and got back into the car. It
started, but the front bumper was mashed.

On the way home, I said I was sorry. But
Luke told me to shut up and let him deal with it.