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‘Well, once and for all: do you want to go back to Manchester?’
Her reply was simply repetition. ‘I know I can’t stay here.’
‘Fine,’ Hugo replied. ‘We’ll move back. Never mind that we sold the house. Never mind that we’ve spent thousands of pounds moving. We’ll just go back.’ His voice was rising in volume; so was the sound of Eleanor’s sobs. Will had heard enough. He retreated from the door, and scurried upstairs, disappearing from sight just as the living-room door opened and his father stormed out.
ii
The conversation threw Will into a state of panic. They couldn’t leave, not now. Not when for the first time in his life he felt things coming clear. If he went back to Manchester it would be like a prison sentence. He’d wither away and die.
What was the alternative? There was only one. He’d run away, as he’d boasted he would to Frannie, the first day they’d met. He’d plan it carefully, so that nothing was left to chance: be sure he had money and clothes; and of course a destination. Of these three the third was the most problematical. Money he could steal (he knew where his mother kept her spare cash) and clothes he could pack, but where was he to go?
He consulted the map of the world on his bedroom wall, matching to those pastel-coloured shapes impressions he’d gleaned from television or magazines. Scandinavia? Too cold and dark. Italy? Maybe. But he spoke no Italian and he wasn’t a quick learner. French he knew a little, and he had French blood in him, but France wasn’t far enough. If he was going to go travelling, then he wanted it to be more than a ferry trip away. America, perhaps? Ah, now there was a thought. He ran his finger over the country from state to state, luxuriating in the names. Mississippi; Wyoming; New Mexico; California. His mood lifted at the prospect. All he needed was some advice about how to get out of the country, and he knew exactly where to get that: from Jacob Steep.
He went out looking for Steep and Rosa McGee the very next day. It was by now the middle of November, and the hours of daylight were short, but he made the most of them, skipping school for three consecutive days to climb the fells and look for some sign of the pair’s presence. They were chilly journeys: though there was not yet snow on the hills the frost was so thick it dusted the slopes like a flurry, and the sun never emerged for long enough to melt it.
The sheep had already descended to the lower pastures to graze, but he was not entirely alone on the heights. Hares and foxes, even the occasional deer, had left their tracks in the frozen grass. But this was the only sign of life he encountered. Of Jacob and Rosa he saw not so much as a boot-print.
Then, on the evening of the third day, Frannie came to the house.
‘You don’t look as if you’ve got ‘flu,’ she said to Will. (He’d forged a note to that effect, explaining his absence.)
‘Is that why you came?’ he said. To check up on me?’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said. ‘I came ‘cause I’ve got something to tell you. Something strange.’
‘What?’
‘Remember we talked about the Courthouse?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, I went to look at it. And you know what?’
‘What?’
‘There’s somebody living there.’
‘In the Courthouse?’
She nodded. By the look on her face it was apparent whatever she’d seen had unnerved her.
‘Did you go in?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘I just saw this woman at the door.’
‘What did she look like?’ Will asked, scarcely daring to hope.
‘She was dressed in black—’
It’s her, he thought. It’s Mrs McGee. And wherever Rosa was, could Jacob be far away?
Frannie had caught the look of excitement on his face. ‘What is it?’ she said.
‘It’s who,’ he said, ‘not what.’
‘Who then? Is it somebody you know?’
‘A little,’ he replied. ‘Her name’s Rosa.’
‘I’ve never seen her before,’ Frannie said. ‘And I’ve lived here all my life.’
‘They keep themselves to themselves,’ Will replied.
‘There’s somebody else?’
He was so covetous of the knowledge, he almost didn’t tell her. But then she’d brought him this wonderful news, hadn’t she? He owed her something by way of recompense. There’s two of them,’ Will said. The woman’s name is Rosa McGee. The man’s called Jacob Steep.’
‘I’ve never heard of either of them. Are they gypsies, or homeless people?’
‘If they’re homeless it’s because they want to be,’ Will said.
‘But it must be so cold in that place. You said it was bare inside.’
‘It is.’
‘So they’re just hiding in an empty place like that?’ She shook her head. ‘Weird,’ she said. ‘How do you know them, anyhow?’
‘I met them while I was out walking,’ he replied, which was close enough to the truth. Thanks for telling me. I’d better…I’ve got a whole lot of things to do.’
‘You’re going to see them, aren’t you?’ Frannie said. ‘I want to come with you.’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’re not your friends.’
‘They’re not yours either,’ Frannie said. ‘They’re just people you met once. That’s what you said.’
‘I don’t want you there,’ Will said.
Frannie’s mouth got tight. ‘You know, you don’t have to be so horrible about it,’ she said to Will. He said nothing. She stared hard at him, as if willing him to change his mind. Still he said nothing; did nothing. After a few moments she gave up, and without another word marched to the front door.
‘Are you leaving already?’ Adele said.
Frannie had the door open. Her bicycle was propped up against the gate. Without even answering Adele, she got on her bike and was away.
‘Was she upset about something?’ Adele wanted to know.
‘Nothing important,’ Will replied.
It was almost dark, and cold. He knew from bitter experience to go out prepared for the worst, but it was hard to think coherently about boots and gloves and a sweater when the sound of his heart was so loud in his head, and all he could think was: I’ve found them, I’ve found them.
His father was not yet back from Manchester, and his mother was in Halifax today, seeing her doctor, so the only person he had to alert to his departure was Adele. She was in the midst of cooking, and didn’t bother to ask him where he was going. Only as he slammed the door did she yell that he should be back by seven. He didn’t bother to reply. Just set off down the darkening road towards the Courthouse, certain Jacob already knew he was coming.
IX (#ulink_07cda32a-ab56-5fcb-85db-2d501d4e53f4)
The soul who had taken the name of Jacob Steep stood on the threshold of the Courthouse, and clung to the frame of the door. Dusk was always a time of weakness for both himself and Mrs McGee. This dusk was no exception. His innards convulsed, his limbs trembled, his temples throbbed. The very sight of the dimming sky, though it was tonight most picturesque, made an infant of him.
It was the same story at dawn. They were both at these hours overtaken with such fatigue it was all they could do to stand upright. Indeed tonight it had proved impossible for Rosa. She had retreated into the Courthouse and was lying down, moaning, calling for him once in a while. He did not go to her. He stayed at the door, and waited for a sign.
That was the paradox of this hour: that when he was most unmanned was when he was most likely to hear a call to duty, his assassin’s heart roused, his assassin’s blood surging. And tonight, he was eager for news. They had languished here long enough. It was time to move on. But first he needed a destination, a dispatch, and that meant facing the sickening spectacle of twilight.
He did not know why this hour was so distressing to their systems, but it was one more proof – if he needed it – that they were not of ordinary stock. In the depths of the night, when the human world was asleep, and dreaming its narrow dreams, he was bright and blithe as a child, his body tireless. He could do his worst at that hour, quicker than the quickest executioner with his knife, or better still with his hands, taking lives away. And by day, in countries where the noon heat was crucifying, he was just as tireless. Death’s perfect agent, sudden and swift. Day, in truth, suited him better than night, because by day he had the proper light by which to make his drawings, and both as a maker of pictures and a maker of corpses he liked to pay close attention to the details. The sweep of a feather, the slope of a snout; the timbre of a sob, the tang of a puke. It was all worthy of his study.
But whether light or dark had hold of the world, he had the energy of a man a tenth his age. It was only in the grey time that the weakness consumed him, and he found himself clinging to something solid to keep himself standing. He hated the sensation, but he refused to moan. Such complaints were for women and children, not for soldiers. That was not to say he hadn’t heard soldiers moan in his time; he had. He’d lived long enough to have known many wars, large and small and though he had never sought out a battlefield, his work had by chance brought him to a place of combat more than once. He had seen how men responded to their agonies, when they were beset. How they wept, how they called for mercy and their mothers.
Jacob had no interest in mercy; neither in its dispensing nor its receiving. He was set against the sentimental world as any pure force must be, entertaining neither kindness nor cruelty in his dealings. He scorned the comfort of prayer, and the distractions of fancy; he mocked grief, he mocked hope. He mocked despair also. The only quality he revered was patience, bought with the knowledge that all things pass. The sun would drop out of sight soon enough, and the weakness in his limbs melt into strength. All he had to do was wait.
From inside, the sound of motion. And then, Rosa’s sighing voice: ‘I’ve been remembering,’ she said.
‘You have not,’ he told her. Sometimes the pains of this hour made her delirious.
‘I have. I swear,’ she said. ‘An island comes to mind. Do you remember an island? With wide, white shores? No trees. I’ve looked for trees and there are none. Oh…’ Her words became groans again, and the groans turned into sobs. ‘Oh, I would die now, gladly.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘Come and comfort me.’
‘I have no wish—’
‘You must, Jacob. Oh…oh, Lord in heaven…why do we suffer so?’
Much as he wanted to stay out of her range, her sobs were too poignant to be ignored. He turned his back on the dying day, and strode down the corridor to the Courtroom itself. Mrs McGee was lying on the ground in the midst of her veils. She had lit a host of candles around her, as though their light might ameliorate the cruelty of the hour.
‘Lie with me,’ she said, looking up at him.
‘It will do us no good.’
‘We may get a child.’
‘And that will do us no good, either,’ he replied, ‘as well you know.’
Then lie with me for the comfort of it,’ she said, her gaze fond. ‘It is such agony to be separated from you, Jacob.’
‘I’m here,’ he said, curbing his former harshness.
‘Not close enough,’ she said with a tiny smile.
He walked towards her. Stood at her feet.
‘Still…not close enough,’ she said to him. ‘I feel so weak, Jacob.’
‘It will pass. You know it will.’
‘At times like this I know nothing,’ she said, ‘except how much I need you.’ She reached down and plucked at her skirt, watching his face all the while. ‘With me,’ she murmured. ‘In me.’
He made no reply. ‘Are you too weak, Jacob?’ she said, still pulling up her skirt. ‘Is the mystery too much for you?’
‘It’s no mystery,’ he replied. ‘Not after all these years.’
Now she smiled, and tugged the skirt to the middle of her thighs. She had fine legs; solid, meaty legs, her skin pearly in the candlelight. Sighing, she slipped her hand beneath her dress, and fingered herself, her hips rising to meet her touch.
‘It’s deep, love,’ she said. ‘And dark. And all wet for you.’ She pulled her skirt up to her waist. ‘Look,’ she said. She had spread herself, to give him a look at her. ‘Don’t tell me that isn’t a pretty thing. A perfect little cunny, that.’ Her gaze went from his face to his groin. ‘And you like the look of it, and don’t you pretend you don’t.’
She was right, of course. As soon as she’d started to raise her skirt his dunderheaded member had started to swell, demanding its due. As if his limbs weren’t weak enough, without having to lose blood to its ambition.
‘I’m tight, Mr Steep.’
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Like a virgin on her wedding night I am. Look, I can barely fit my littlest finger in there. You’ll have to do me some violence, I suspect.’
She knew what effect this kind of talk had upon him. A little shudder of anticipation passed through him, and he proceeded to take off his coat.
‘Unbutton yourself,’ Mrs McGee said, her voice bruised. ‘Let me see what you have there.’
He cast his coat away and fumbled with the buttons of his mud-spattered trousers. She watched him, smiling, as he brought his member out.
‘Oh now look at that,’ she said, not unappreciatively. ‘I think it wants a dip in my cunny.’
‘It wants more than a dip.’
‘Does it indeed?’
He knelt between her legs, and, reaching out, removed her hand from her sex, to give himself better sight of it. Then he stared.
‘What are you thinking?’ she said.
He fingered her for a moment, then ran his moistened digit down to her arse. ‘I’m thinking…’ he said, ‘…that I’d rather have this today.’
‘Oh would you?’
He pressed his finger in a little way. She squirmed. ‘Let me put it here,’ he said. ‘Just the head.’
There are no children to be had that way,’ she said.
‘I don’t care,’ he replied. ‘It’s what I want.’
