The Ballerina and the Revolutionary (17 page)

A cold, female voice answered. ‘He’s not well. I thought you’d better know. The funeral’s tomorrow. Two o’clock, Cadford.’

The line went dead before I could ask about my brother. I sat there, cradling the phone against my ear. Silence. The room spun out of focus, my ear burned and my muscles stiffened. I felt hands on my shoulders: gentle hands. One pulled the phone away from my ear, then after a pause, maybe to listen, placed it gently on the kitchen table. I stared at it then snatched up Catherine’s phone and threw it at the wall. It shattered and fell to the floor in pieces.

Hands remained on my shoulders. I tried to shake them off, but their light yet insistent touch endured. Spinning around, I pulled back my fist and let it fly. It made contact with Scott’s jaw and he stumbled back, cupping his chin with one hand while the other twitched by his side. I stared at him, defying the sting of accusation I sensed in his blue eyes.

‘Crow.’ Blood and spit dripped from his mouth. ‘Crow, it’s me: Scott.’

I didn’t care who it was. The desire to hurt him, anyone, pushed me forward. I punched again. He caught my fist mid-swing then embraced me. I tried to pull away, grunting at him through bared teeth like a wild animal, but he held me firm. I stamped on his naked feet, but he didn’t let go. Burrowing my face in Scott’s t-shirt, I wept as my muscles lost their rigidity and I felt like jelly, unable to support my weight. Scott held me up, and I soaked him with my sorrow.

When I was empty of tears and my throat felt raw from crying, I looked up at the mess I had made of his face and stroked his cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m so ashamed. I don’t ... that’s not ...’ I let the sentence trail off. Finishing it would be a lie.

He looked at me and tried to smile, although the movement made him wince. He tried to answer, but spat blood in my face.

‘Let’s clean you up.’ I fetched a glass of water for him and took him to the sink. As he rinsed blood from his mouth, I found an ice pack.

He sat at the table, holding the ice against his swelling chin.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve done worse.’

I didn’t believe him. My gentle Scott wouldn’t hurt anyone. He probably meant he’d had worse. That I could believe.

Staring at me, he shook his head, slowly and deliberately. ‘When I was a kid I pushed a girl under a car.’

I tried to absorb the information - he was a child, it was an accident, but he had said pushed. ‘Why?’ I asked.

‘She was bullying me and I’d had enough. I’m not proud of it, but it happened. Everyone’s anger gets out of control sometimes.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Thirteen,’ he shifted about in his chair.

Thirteen, the same age I ran away from home. Perhaps it was the age when kids stopped accepting abuse and took action instead. It was obvious the subject was making him uncomfortable, and I knew I should stop asking. I decided I would, after one more question.

‘What happened? After I mean.’

‘I had to have a psych evaluation and I changed schools. The girl died, and I changed schools.’ He looked at the floor. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow rhythm.

I broke the silence. ‘That was my brother’s wife on the phone. The funeral’s tomorrow. Will you come with me?’

Scott nodded.

‘We’ll go from here, after our ... session. Is that okay?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Two, at Cadford.’

‘It’ll be fine.’

‘I guess I’d better buy something to wear?’ I sighed.

‘Do you have any money?’ he asked. He looked at the array of food we had been devouring then my face. ‘I thought you were skint.’

My cheeks burned and I turned away. ‘I got some more.’

I felt the weight of his stare and wished I had kept my mouth shut about clothes. I’d probably end up wearing my t-shirt and combats anyway - why not? Or I could lift something black from Vivienne’s wardrobe just as easily.

He watched me carefully. ‘It just doesn’t seem like a priority you’d have, Crow.’

He was right. I felt his disappointment and wanted to explain. ‘I don’t want to offend anyone with my clothes.’ It was a lame excuse, but the only reason I could dredge up to offer him. I felt ridiculous, after punching him and hearing his painful confession, I had talked about what – clothes? What was happening to me?

Scott sighed. ‘I guess I’d better go then. Thanks for lunch. Eleven again tomorrow?’

I nodded. ‘Thanks Scott. Really thanks for everything ...’

He shrugged and left.

After closing the door behind him, I returned to the kitchen and sat at the table, cradling my head in my hands. I thought of the watch I had sold and wondered whether I felt guilty, but that didn’t make sense. It was just a thing, a worthless possession, probably a gift from a man who wanted more from Vivienne than it was worth. That’s why Mother never wore it, but Scott was right - my priorities had become skewed. I shook my head and tried to remember what was important – freedom, equality, love. My thoughts sprinted towards my sister. Would she be at the funeral? Did she even know Vivienne had died? I thought of my brother. He would be dressed in a black suit and tie, his wife also shrouded in mourning garb, would he care if I wasn’t? My relationship with him felt more precarious now than ever before. I could lose him so easily and the thought terrified me. I justified my desire for sensible funeral clothes by thinking of him. I wanted to make it easier for him and that, at least, was important.

37

I woke, clutching my head, and heard people moving around downstairs. Panicking, I searched my heavy head for an answer. Perhaps the sounds were ghosts or maybe burglars were robbing the house. I wasn’t even sure whether it was morning or night? A bright shaft of sunlight, poking its way through the gap in my curtains and into my brain, was the painful answer. It was definitely day time.

I pulled the knife from my backpack and pinpointed the source of the sounds: the kitchen. I crept down stairs, knife ready in my fist. Adrenaline twitched through my muscles as I paused outside the kitchen door. The voices were female and unfamiliar. I strained to see, but had to nudge forwards, my knuckles white around the knife-handle. There were at least two in the room, but my foggy head prevented me from understanding their words. I wanted to return to bed. What did it matter if the place was being robbed? Maybe the voices belonged to squatters moving in to what they thought was vacant property.

I inched forward. The room was so bright it was hard to focus. I heard a gasp then a shout.

‘Giselle!’ A woman rushed towards me. ‘What are you doing, Giz?’ asked a voice so shrill and loud it threatened to shatter my skull. ‘Put the knife down.’

I narrowed my eyes to restrict the light, but it was still too bright. I retreated into the shadowy hallway and the noise followed. It was Catherine.

‘Cathy,’ I gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Vivienne’s wake,’ was the contemptuous answer. ‘Well you didn’t think our house would be big enough did you?’

‘But, but ...’

‘Put the knife away please, then you can come and make yourself useful.’

I loped away, returning to my room, feeling like a chastised puppy. Resentment bubbled inside me and I wished my head didn’t hurt so much. Going back to bed seemed like the safest option. When I woke again, hopefully, Cathy would be gone. I curled up under the covers and begged for the pain to subside. Hurtling adrenaline denied me my return to sleep and my quickening heart felt like a tribal beat inside my head - a deafening drum roll. I felt sick.

I ran to the bathroom, bent over the toilet bowl and emptied my stomach. In the distance I heard someone call my old name, but I didn’t care. Let them call. I flushed and washed my face, feeling a little better, but still unable to stop my body shaking. I squinted at the contents of the medicine cupboard and pushed a couple of white tablets through silver foil then rinsed their bitter taste from my mouth with a palm full of water.

I returned to my room and hunched under the covers, trying to ignore the sounds from the kitchen. I managed to doze in and out of consciousness for a few hours and, when my headache started to subside, I opened my eyes. I stared at the door, searching my head for echoes of the earlier pain, but there were none; the pills had worked. It seemed quiet downstairs too. Maybe the women had left?

My mouth felt cracked and dry, in desperate need of water. I forced my stiff and awkward body downstairs. My dull head warned me to be careful, promising pain if I moved too fast. I clung to the banister and descended. My perception of distance felt warped and I could not trust the stairs would be where I anticipated. I stumbled at the final step and turned towards the kitchen unable to hear any sounds.

It was empty. I poured a mug of water and gulped it down, then another, and another. My stomach sloshed about, threatening to erupt. Ignoring it, I put the kettle on and concentrated on rolling a cigarette, but my vision cheated and the paper moved, doubled then moved again. I closed my eyes to concentrate on the breath moving in and out of my lungs then opened my eyes and tried again. The cigarette was messy but stayed intact while I smoked it.

The doorbell rang. Reluctantly, I shuffled towards it, dragging a funnel of smoke behind me. I greeted Scott with pathetic puppy eyes and he responded by petting me, stroking my hair and asking if I was ill. I relayed my headache and the strange events of the morning and he frowned.

‘Maybe we shouldn’t send you in today,’ he said.

Disappointment crushed my features as if they were made of waste paper. He seemed to soften.

‘Look, have something to eat then we’ll see, okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll get smudging. Clear some of this hostility.’

I nodded and returned to the kitchen. In the fridge, I saw the fruit of Cathy’s labours. It was packed solid with sandwiches, salads, vol-au-vents and more. I didn’t want to eat any of it. Where was my hummus? I glanced towards the bin near the back door. No, she wouldn’t have. Stuffed inside the black bin bag was all my food. I growled,
fucking bitch
, gathered my food and stuffed it back into the fridge, crushing dainty triangles of bread and cheese.

Sage smoke wafted through the kitchen door and before I realised what was happening I was in my sacred space. The woodland around me looked menacing. Shadows moved within it, prowling around the edges of my circle.

I headed towards the pathway, pushing past branches obstructing the route. The shadowy path seemed alive and dark patches moved like heat haze. I stepped cautiously over them, trying to walk only in the light.

There was my stag. I wondered whether I should name it, or whether it already had a name. It took mere moments to decide the stag’s name was Scott. I stroked his face as his gentle eyes looked into my soul. I kissed his nose then we walked together along the path.

Sounds of frantic crying escaped from the shadows between the trees. I turned toward the noise, trying to make out its source, but the forest was too dark.

‘I’ll be right back.’

The stag nudged me with his soft nose. He seemed agitated as if he didn’t want me to leave his side, didn’t trust the sounds.

‘It’s okay. I’ve a great sense of direction. I’ll be back.’

Again the stag pushed me to the centre of the path. His flanks blocked my way. I growled, darted past him and ran into the darkness. The crying echoed between tree trunks making it hard to pinpoint its origin. I walked straight ahead, only deviating to avoid the trunks of trees that blocked my way. I felt the path and my stag fade behind me until the forest was everything and the track, mountain and pool were nothing. The crying got louder and I saw a teenage girl curled up beneath a tree, hands covering her face. She grew quiet as I approached.

‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘They won’t let me keep my daughter,’ she wailed.

A twig snapped behind me and I spun around. A heavy hand slapped me across the face. My jaw shifted sideways and I fell to the ground. I curled my body tight, to protect myself from being kicked, but no kicks came and after a time I unfurled and pushed myself up. The aggressor had vanished and so too the girl. I moved my jaw, trying to establish whether it was broken. It burned, but the pain was bearable. I stood in silence, part of me hoping to hear the cries again, but all I heard was the lonely caw of a crow. No that wasn’t all I could hear - there was a low humming sound, getting closer, moving through the trees towards me. I saw a shifting ball of black. The noise grew clearer, a buzzing that took on a higher pitch like a power tool until the mass of insects were almost close enough to make out each wing, every antennae. I turned and fled from the swarm, but the bees gained on me. I felt their wings beat against my face and their tiny legs alight on my scalp. I screamed and the furry bodies rushed to fill my mouth then pain, like ten-thousand electric shocks, hit every inch of my skin. I toppled over and hit the ground in agony as my throat swelled and I tried to cling to consciousness until absolute blackness took over.

Hands landed on my shoulders again and I struggled, unable to hold back my panic.

‘Open your eyes,’ a familiar voice called.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to see. If I couldn’t see what was happening then perhaps it wasn’t real. I whimpered and tried to push the heavy body away.

‘Crow, it’s okay. Just open your eyes.’

I knew it was a trick. I must keep them tightly shut and wish the pain and fear away, but he never called me Crow. It was always Petal or Princess – we were his little prince and princess, his secret toys. I opened my eyes, shielding them with my eyelashes, trying to keep my curiosity secret. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Granddad. I opened my eyes fully.

‘Scott!’

He was trying to cling to me, but I couldn’t stop my body from jerking against his hold.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

My forehead felt cold and wet and I realised Scott was holding a damp towel against my brow.

‘I went there, except, except it wasn’t there ... or maybe it was. I don’t know. I went into the woods. You told me not to, but I heard something. It was a girl. Then he hit me.’

‘Who ... who hit you?’

‘I didn’t see him, not really. He was huge. I felt so scared, but, but I knew him. I know when I lost myself.’ I shook my head, trying to put together the fragments of a memory long buried, but they felt slippery in my fingers. I knew where the answer lay: in those books in my bag, but maybe the memory should be buried, along with the man. The memory of him hanging from that rope stirred in my mind. He did this to me. I didn’t know how, perhaps I didn’t want to know, but he had made me incomplete. Granddad had stolen my power and only I could recover it.

‘I want to go back,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Crow.’ His eyes were full of concern and his damp touch on my head was gentle. ‘It’s too late. It’s almost time to leave for the funeral.’

I nodded and tried to stand up, but my legs wouldn’t stop shaking and my head felt hollow.

Scott held my elbow to support me. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t go.’

Not go?
I had to go. I looked at him and knew he understood my plea.

‘I’ll call a taxi then,’ he told me. ‘Can I use your phone?’

I nodded and he lowered me back into the chair then I remembered the fragments of my phone lay shattered on the kitchen floor.

‘The land line’s dead,’ he called back from the hallway.

And the mobile’s fucked.
I tried to stand up again.

He opened the front door. Where was he going? As I waited for him to return I felt my mind wandering. Not back to that place not now. Biting my wrist, I concentrated on the pain. He was taking too long. We would never make it there in time.