Boneland. Part 3

'As you wish. Whatever you want.'

'It'll be rough.'

'I understand the implication.'

Colin got up to go.

'Eric.'

'Yes?'

'You were spinning the chair anti-clockwise. That's unlucky. Always turn with the sun.'

The sun worked, and the cold gripped more; but it would pa.s.s. He had to travel the White Rocks before the clonter of spring began and the waters blocked his return.

The time came when day and night moved the world from winter. He took a bag of skin and went in the dark to the Bearstone and smelt the wind. It was in the Flatlands, where the sun now set. He watched Crane climb the sky, pulling the day up from below the hills, and as it reached above his head, night became empty of black, Crane faded into the light, and the coming sun hardened the edges of the hills as it rose behind him.

He took the leg bone of a crane from the bag and he went down into Ludcruck and faced the wall of the bird spirits. He danced the day and put the bone to his lips and played. He played the cranes from their sleep. The bone made their cry, and the cry answered from the spirit wall and joined with the sound, growing, back and to, back and to, so that his playing was lost in the greater cry. He stopped, but the sound went on, until all Ludcruck was a waking of cranes.

Over the Flatlands black lines and dabs rose in the sky cave, swirling, bulls, s.h.i.+fting, hinds, horses, antlers, horns, haunches as the cranes rose, wheeled and firmed into heads of spears.

He danced in the sound, and the sound of Ludcruck was loud and louder as the cranes flew above. He danced and he danced. He danced to join them. The spear shadows darkened. He danced. He danced his spirit wings, and lifted out of the rock into the company of the birds.

The cranes flew beyond the Bearstone, and he with them. His legs lay behind, his head stretched before, and his throat called. He flew in the spearheads over the Black Peaks towards the White Rocks, and across the White Rocks, by ridges and ice and down to the Lower Lands where the pines grew; on and on, calling, calling in the gale of feathers, through the day, until the Valley of Life showed.

Strength left him. The Valley was his journey. The cranes flew above, but he sank beneath, and his voice lost the music of the greater cry; and with the last beat of his wings he came to the edge of a crag and was a man.

Colin built momentum to above Beacon Lodge so that he freewheeled from there. The gradient as far as the lay-by at Castle Rock could be cancelled by the wind. It depended on the camber, and cars blared at him as he wobbled to the crest of the Front Hill; but he made it and began the drop past Armstrong Farm.

'Down in Pennsyltucky where the pencils grow There's a little spot I think you ought to know.

'Tis a place, no doubt, you've never heard about; It isn't on the map, I do declare.

It's a spot they call the Imazaz, Nestling itself among the hills.

'Twas there I learnt my prayer.

'Twas there I learnt to swear.

'Twas there I took my first two Beecham's pills, Ta-rah-rah!'

He pa.s.sed the notice at Whinsbrow. THIS HILL IS STILL DANGEROUS. Straight down from Rockside to the five-lane-ends and the roundabout.

'There's a cottage so sweet At the end of the street, And it's Number Ninety-Four.

Oh, I'm going back to Imazaz: Imazaz a pub next door!'

At the bottom he braked to lessen momentum, so that by leaning hard over and trailing his foot he cleared the roundabout and veered right into London Road and the traffic. He worked among the flocks of cars. They all had black gla.s.s in the windows. Then the station approach made him pedal. Two point zero four kilometres; approximately.

After the station he went by Brook Lane and Row-of-Trees, urging past Lindow Moss, along Seven Sisters Lane to Toft. The house stood at the end of a drive, among rhododendrons. He lodged his bicycle and rang the doorbell.

'Whisterfield. Colin Whisterfield.'

'Do come in, Professor Whisterfield. Doctor Ma.s.sey is expecting you.'

The entrance corridor had a side room.

'Please wait here.'

Colin waited.

He waited.

'Doctor Ma.s.sey is ready now, Professor.'

He was led into a bigger room, lined with books. French windows opened to lawns. A woman lay on a chaise longue, reading a file. She wore a suit of dark silk. 'Hi,' she said, without looking up.

'You're quite young,' said Colin.

'"Quite".'

'Your hair's black.'

'That's this week, darling. Tomorrow may be a different story.'

There was a diamond-paned cabinet. The tumblers and decanter inside were of crystal.

'Are you looking for a drink?' she said.

'May I? Is it allowed?'

'No. But there's ice and water over there. Help yourself.'

'Thanks.'

'Cheers,' she said, and continued her reading.

Colin scanned the books. 'You have a fascinating library. Eclectic.'

'Yes, I have.'

'I could make myself a tome here. That's a pun; which is a play on words to exploit ambiguities and innuendoes in their meaning, usually for humorous effect.'

'Oh, ha-b.l.o.o.d.y-ha. Sit down.'

Colin sat in a deep leather chair on the other side of the marble fireplace from the chaise longue. By the chair there was a low table on casters, and an open box of tissues. He was facing the windows. The chaise longue and the woman were silhouettes, the light on the silk picking out her form.

Colin held the tumbler in both hands and drank.

She shut the file, swung her legs round and sat forward. Pendant earrings broke the light, and her eyes were violet green.

'And-Action. You're Colin. I'm Meg. What's up?'

'I-'

A clock ticked. There were crystal chandeliers.

'Do you like crows?' he said.

'I can take 'em or leave 'em.'

'I-'

'"I" what?'

Colin drank again.

'I-don't know.'

'Well, I'm b.u.g.g.e.red if I do,' she said.

'I-'

Colin emptied the tumbler. 'What am I supposed to say?'

'What do you want to say?'

'I-'

'Where's the pain?'

'I don't understand,' said Colin.

'So why have you come? Because you're in pain. Right? Something hurts. Right? Go there.'

'Go where?'

'Go to where the pain is most and say what it tells you.'

'Tells me what?'

'Holy macaroli. Spare me the smart-a.r.s.es. We're not talking the square root of minus one.'

'That's i,' said Colin. 'i's imaginary.'

'Is you indeed?' said Meg. 'Is that a fact? Oh, switch your sodding brains off. Don't think. Feel.'

'How?'

'He says "How?" How? Ask it. It hurts, too. It wants to tell you.'

'"It",' said Colin. 'What's "it"?'

'Search me.'

Colin looked at the tumbler. The tumbler flashed. He looked around. The diamond gla.s.s. Light. Blue silver. He looked up. The chandeliers. Lightning.

'Can't. Can't. Nothing. It's-'

Her earrings. Blue, silver. Blue silvers. Lightnings.

'-No!'

He stood, smashed the tumbler on the marble and fell back, curled, his arms covering his head. The blaze from the fragments lanced his mind. He roared. He screamed. The howl tore his chest, and ran to wordless s.n.a.t.c.hes of sound. She leaned forward and pa.s.sed him the box of tissues.

'I'm sorry,' said Colin. 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I am so sorry.'

'There's nothing to be sorry for, Sunny Jim. It's those question-begging reductive pharmaceutical plonkers that should be sorry. They've put you through the wringer. They've even fried your head. Or tried to. Eric suggested ECT? I'm surprised. Good job you stopped. But that's spilt milk. Someone should have read this file before it got to me.'

'What happens next?'

'You go home,' she said.

'Go home. Yes. Go home. But then. I've only just come.'

'You've been on the road to here for a long time, Colin, and you've had a tras.h.i.+ng now. You need to settle. Same time next week? Sooner, if you want. Or not at all?'

'Next week. Home. Thanks.'

'You're welcome.'

'I'm-'

'Mm?' She put her feet up on the chaise longue.

'I'm not being-difficult-on purpose.'

'Who's saying you're difficult?'

He left the room, to the corridor, out, and was sick into the rhododendrons.

Colin lifted his bicycle, but could not ride. He pushed it. The traffic, the black windows. Trucks to and from the M6, so high that they were not a part of the world, but blocks moving. He walked on the verge and turned to Seven Sisters Lane.

Here was quiet. Colin sat astride the saddle, and fell, retching. The spasm stopped. He tried again. He had balance. His legs moved. The need to pedal sucked air to his lungs and worked his heart, and by the time he came to Lindow he felt the chill off the Moss. The pull of Brook Lane parched his mouth, leaving the taste of bile on the skin. But he had to walk the Front Hill and rest at Castle Rock lay-by. His empty stomach spewed more bitterness. The road here was too loud for him. He walked, still quivering.

Colin reached the trees and the peace of the quarry, went to the hut and pumped water into a bowl. He rinsed his mouth and cleaned his teeth. Then he washed his hair, and the crusts of vomit from his beard, laid the fire and filled the lamp. He took a box from a shelf and opened it. Inside were layers of paper smelling of cedarwood mothb.a.l.l.s.

Colin removed the layers, one by one. Between, there was folded clothing. He lifted each piece and placed it on the table, and when the box was empty he stood back and considered.