Pig Island (37 page)

“What who did? Lexie, you mean?”

“Yes,
Lexie. You know what she did. Why c-can’t you forget her
?”

“Why can’t I… ? No. It’s not just her—not just her any more.”

‘Then it’s my dad. It’s about him.“

“Yeah, him,” I said. “Him too. It’s about lots of—‘

‘And that’s just as bad. Can’t you see—can’t you see? If you let him stop you writing then he’s won. He’s won again and you’re just sitting there and letting the world go past us both.“

“Yes, but—hey, hang on –‘

She lurched past me, out of the kitchen, up the stairs and into her room. I stood for a second, listening, not knowing if I was supposed to go after her. I could hear her moving things around, and after a couple of minutes I went into the hallway, following the trail of mud from her single boot up the stairs. On the landing I stopped. The bedroom door was open. She was in there, hobbling around, pulling things off the shelves in big handfuls. I hadn’t been in her room for weeks. She’d filled it with library books and notebooks. Sheets of paper printed off the Internet.

“James Poro.” The moment she saw me on the landing she flung a book on the floor. It was open at a black-and-white photo. I didn’t have time to register it before another book came down. And another. “Lazarus-Joannes Baptist Colloredo, Betty Lou Williams …‘ She turned to the shelves, sorting through the other books, leaving me to blink at the one on the floor. It showed a photo of a traffic-stoppingly pretty girl in a frilled prayer-meeting dress. Arranged in her lap were four small limbs, plump and black against the white dress. If there was a head you couldn’t see it: it was buried in the girl’s stomach. I went from the limbs to her face and back again.

“Betty Lou.” Angeline limped over to me, holding more books. She squatted down, the books wedged between her knees and her chest, and put her hand on the girl’s face. She wasn’t crying any more. The tears had dried on her cheeks and there was a fixed look in her eye. “Betty Lou’s twin was epigastrus. Do you know what that means? No. Why would you? It means the twin is attached here. To your chest.” She opened another of the books and slammed it down. “Most of them are epigastrus, but some are like me. Look at this—Frank Lentini. He was just like me, an extra leg. Look, Joe, look where it’s attached.”

I held up a hand, stalling her. I couldn’t process it all, this science fiction, this Victorian bestiary she was showing me. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real.”

“ ”The deeper aspect of the parasite is composed of large, cystic and tubular structures.“‘ She picked up a piece of paper and read, her voice fierce: ’ ”And solid organs resembling liver and—“‘

“Angeline—‘

‘
“Resembling liver
and spleen. There are rudimentary gastrointestinal structures, some bowel sac, for example, a rudimentary genito-urinary system, severe skeletal anomalies compromising the autosite’s vertebrae …”’ She held up another book, pushing it in front of my eyes so I had to look. “It’s real, Joe. It’s real.”

This book showed a young man with a small
pagri
on his head. He was smiling graciously into the camera and holding up two tiny limp arms protruding from the front of his embroidered tunic. A matching pair of legs dangled below, reaching just below his belt. “© Barnum and Bailey collection‘, said the photo tag line. ”Until the era of prenatal scans and microscience, circuses were littered with parasitic twins.“

“That’s Laloo. He was famous. Made a fortune. But you know the worst thing for him? For Laloo?”

I pushed the book away. I sat down with my back to the doorpost, my hands on my ankles. I couldn’t look any more.

“The worst thing was he couldn’t stop his twin urinating.”

“Please—‘

“He never knew when it was going to happen. He couldn’t stop it happening. And you think I’ve got problems.”

She stood in the doorway above me, breathing hard, the colour darkening in parts of her face: the tips of her ears, her nose, her mouth. The shadow of a branch outside the window moved back and forward across her face. It struck me that I’d never really studied her face before, never taken it in, never noticed she was pretty. All I’d ever thought about was her body. I dropped my eyes, heart thumping. Couldn’t look at her.

“Joe,” she said, in a low voice. “Joe, you can’t let me keep this secret any more. I can’t not talk about it. I can’t be on my own with it any more.”

I sat there, my face hot and rigid, staring at the fabric of her skirt, fighting the feeling that this moment had been crashing towards me all my life. Face it, old man. Do it. Do or die. I cleared my throat and knelt up, tipping forward so the change in my jacket pockets jangled softly on the floor. I reached across and put my hand under the hem of her skirt. She stiffened, but I didn’t take my hand away. I found her small warm calf and circled it with my thumb and forefinger. The cuff of her boot pressed against my wrists. We stayed in that weird position for a long time, not looking at each other, the only noise the wind blowing in the attic over our heads.

“You’re not on your own,” I said, after what seemed like for ever. “Can’t you tell?”

Chapter 3

“Well, isn’t
this
the arsehole of London?” Finn came in, flicking the rain off his coat, like Kilburn rain came out of the sewers instead of the bottled Evian stuff they got in Chiswick. It was Thursday. He’d come over because I’d told him I was ready to talk. “I’d forgotten how crap it was. I mean, the sheer turdiness of it is awesome.”

He pulled off his coat, dropped it over the chair. He wore a suit, but hints of the subversive Finn lingered—ironic 1970s sideys almost to his jawline, a shiny kipper tie fixed with a Playboy pin. A Zenner symbol stud in his ear and his vague out-of-season suntan. He bent to check his reflection in the hall mirror, swiping at the raindrops scattered in his hair. Then he paused and looked sideways at me.

“You don’t look as bad as I expected.” He patted my arm. He wasn’t going to say it, but he was worried about me. He’s my cousin. Some things don’t need to be said. “I mean, you look crap ‘n’ all, but not as crap as I expected.”

“You don’t have to stay long,” I said, checking my watch with great deliberation. “I’ll kick you out at eleven.”

“Yup.” He held up his hand. “Good to see you too.”

We went into the living room. Angeline was standing near the kitchen door pulling on her gardening coat and fastening the scarf round her head. When she saw Finn she came forward, smiling, one hand extended in greeting, the other pushing the stray curls off her forehead. She moved smoothly, coming across so regal, so weirdly at ease, her brown eyes focused and serious, that I was a shabby coach tourist next to her, in my fading shirt and chinos.

“Finn, this is Angeline.”

“Angeline. Hey!” Finn said, holding up his hand to salute her. He took her in, her hair, curly and dark, her small nose, kind of moulded-looking, like it was made of china. There was even a bit of lipstick on her mouth. “How’s it going?”

“Fine, thanks.”

Wicked, Angeline,“ he said. ”Wicked to meet you.“

“Angeline was just going into the garden,” I said. “Weren’t you?”

She held up her gardening gloves. “I’m afraid I’m an addict.” She went into the kitchen calmly and out of the back door. When she’d gone, there was a pause. Then he turned and stared at me, a look of amazement on his face.

“What?”

‘
What
?“ he mouthed. ”You never said a word about her. She’s totally
fit
.“ He went into the kitchen and drew back the curtain. He stood on tiptoe, his nose against the glass so he could see her moving round the garden. ”What’s wrong with her? She got a limp or something?“ He turned to look at me. ”Is she hurt?“

I stood silently, looking at him without expression.

“What?” he said. “What you looking at me like that for? The girl’s got a limp, I’m asking you about it. Don’t get PC on me here.”

“Come upstairs. I’ve got something to show you.”

“What?” He dropped the curtain and followed me bad-temperedly to the staircase. “You going to seduce me?”

In the study I switched on the light and fired up the laptop. “I’ve got the proposal. A proposal and the first ten chapters.”

“So you’ve seen the light. You’re really ready to go?”

I hesitated. I drummed my fingers on the desk. Didn’t meet his eyes.

There was a pause, then Finn seemed to read my mind. He shook his head and sighed. “Dude, the man is dead. Dead and gone. If he wasn’t we’d have heard.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” I paused. I kept trying to imagine Dove’s body—somewhere up in the Highlands. “If we do it, how long’ve we got before publication?”

“Depends on which house takes it. If they’re really pushing … three, four months?”

“Three months?”

He sighed. “Oakes, pardon my rudeness, but you get me over here because you say you’re ready.”

“I am. I am ready. I’ve thought about it. You’re both right. You and—‘ I nodded towards the window. ”You and Angeline. You’re right.“

“She pulling your strings for you? What’s she got to do with anything?”

I was silent for a moment, holding his eyes steadily. Then I swivelled the chair round to face the computer, clicked on the media-player icon and found the tourist video. “Ever seen this? Did I ever show you this?”

“Sure.” He leaned forward and watched Angeline’s hazy figure crossing the beach. “It’s weird as all fuck. Knobhead kids. Have you spoken to him yet? Like I said?”

“It’s not a kid.”

He turned his eyes to me. “What?”

“Not a kid.”

“Oakesy,” he said, smiling cautiously, “you told me it was a kid.”

“I lied.”

“Then who was it?”

I looked back at him, then turned my eyes slowly to the video.

“What?” he said. The video played again, Angeline walked across the beach. The colours from the screen moved over Finn’s puzzled face. He frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked at me and I could see the beginnings of something dawning. Slowly, almost woodenly, he put his hands on the desk and peered closer at the video, watched it for a moment or two, then turned and let his eyes drift out of the window to the garden.

“No,” he whispered. “No fucking way…‘ He was suddenly pale under his tan. ”You’re kidding me.“ Slowly, moving like in a dream, he went to the window and stared into the garden for a long time. Angeline was out there, tapping a plank into place beneath the gate, edging it under the cross-bar to keep the gate firmly closed. Then he turned and looked at the computer screen, licking his lips, a look of half revulsion, half excitement in his eyes. ”What the fuck is it?“ There was a line of sweat on his forehead. ”What the fuck has she got down there?“

“A parasitic limb.”

“A
paia-what
?”

“A limb. Part of a twin that never formed right. You’d call it a Siamese twin. It’s not weird, Finn. Whatever your face is saying, it really isn’t that unusual.”

“Not
unusual?”‘

“No.” I clicked the video off. “It’s not. There are kids born like this every year.”

His eyes got even wider, filtering all the information. Then the clouds parted for him—and he got it. “Shit, shit, I mean
shit
I’ve just come in!” He sat down abruptly on the sofa, staring at me in awe, his hands on his temples, like he was trying to keep his brains from falling out of his skull. “Holy fucking Christ. You’re
clicking
her, aren’t you? That’s what this is. You’re dicking her.”

“Yes,” I said quietly. “Yes, I am.”

Chapter 4

When he’d gone I went to bed. It was still daylight. I took my clothes off and I lay on my back, watching the grey sky out of the window. After a while Angeline came in from the garden. She’d taken off her coat and scarf and was wearing a belted olive-green cardigan. When she came into the room I rolled on to my side, my head resting on one hand, looking at her.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” She’d come up because she knew I was there. But she was timid. It was new to us, this. It hadn’t really sunk in. “Well,” she said, when I didn’t say anything. “I’ll—I’ll come to bed.”

She undid her belt and cardigan and dropped them. Underneath she wore a skirt and a thin-strapped vest, showing her narrow shoulders. She took it off, unzipped the skirt and stepped out of it, and then she was naked, wearing only a pair of grey knee-high socks. You could see the long muscles in her legs even though she wasn’t moving.

She gave a small laugh. Shy. She stayed for a moment or two, resting her left foot on the right. She knew I was looking at her body. Peeping from behind the calf was the end of the extra limb, tapering unevenly to the battered, deformed foot resting against her ankles. I pictured its roots high up inside the smooth basket of her stomach: a bundle of limb, bone and sinew packed away inside it. Something else living inside her. I looked at her belly, at the little crease above her pubic hair.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“Finn?”

“What did he say?”

“He said.” I scratched my head. Tried not to smile. “He said he loved it.”

There was a pause. A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. She got into bed, pulled the cover up and mirrored me, her elbow on the pillow, her head resting on her hand, holding my eyes, fighting to keep a smile off her face. We looked at each other without speaking. In the slanting light from the window I could see microscopic details of her face: fine downy hairs, cushiony diamond creases of the skin. Last night we’d sat here on the bed for two hours. She’d been half turned from me and the limb was lying on the sheet between us. She let me examine it. I’d held in my hand the pea-sized nodules inside the skin where toes were meant to be. I’d moved them around, letting them click and grind against each other. I’d rested my hand over a swollen place half-way up the limb, where the flesh strained against the skin: a weird tension of muscle tethered to bone. A knee.