The Leaping Part 21

'I love you too,' Erin said.

'We should lay him down on one of the beds,' I said, gesturing at Francis. 'Erin. Could you lead the way with the candles?'

On the way to the bedroom we saw streaks and splashes and smears and gobbets of dark red all over the walls, and the stone steps were slippery, but Erin didn't lower the candles to see why, and none of us spoke a word about it. Upstairs Taylor and Erin kissed again, more deeply this time, and we left her with Francis in the room with the blue and white striped wallpaper, him lying on the bed, the bed surrounded by little candles, the candles dipping and swaying and lowering before springing up again. Fragile in the draughts.

I stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen, before realising that the pale figure hunched at the table was Graham.

'Jack?' he whispered, quietly.

'Yes,' I said. 'And Taylor.'

'Thank G.o.d,' he said.

'What's wrong?' Taylor said.

'I don't know,' he said, and I could tell he was shaking his head. 'I don't know where to start. Just. Don't go into the barn, Jack. Taylor. Don't go into the barn.'

FRANCIS.

I'm itchy. Like I've been sleeping in a bed infested with fleas. There is a blanket or something lying over me. And it's heavy and rough. And I'm hot. Too hot. I'm lying on my back and scratching my shoulders. I grit my teeth and move my hands into a blur. My nails leave lines in my skin. I move my digging, stabbing nails down over my chest. Twisting and turning in this pit I find myself in. I reach my lower ribs and stop. I've found something. Soft and fleshy, protruding from my body. Another one. I can't move my hands over my stomach because it's covered in huge, lolling growths. A forest of flat, wide skin tags is covering my belly. It stretches from the bottom of my chest to my groin. They feel so dead. I try and pull one off. But the skin that connects the lump to my body is strong. It really hurts. I feel the rest of the skin around it tent up. I'm sweating. All these horrible things are so itchy. And the skin in between is itchy. And the skin underneath and all around and all over my whole body is so itchy that I'm drawing blood and tearing strips out of it.

'Francis?' The voice is gentle.

'f.u.c.k OFF! f.u.c.k OFF!' I scream. 'f.u.c.k OFF!'

'Francis, it's just me! It's just Erin. Hey. Francis. Calm down. Are you awake?'

Suddenly my skin is coming off in great swathes. I feel like there is something inside me. Growing bigger and bigger. Or maybe just getting nearer and nearer from a great depth. Casting a shadow upwards on to my brain. I'm screaming. I open my eyes. Erin is looking down at me. She smiles. I stop screaming.

'I don't know how you're still alive,' she says, and shakes her head.

'I feel like there's something wrong with me,' I say. 'I had a dream.'

'You've been unconscious for hours. Something happened to you, out there on the mountain.'

'What?' I say. 'What happened?'

'We don't know.' She shrugs. 'But you're badly hurt. We thought you were dead. We tried to call an ambulance. We thought you were dead. I didn't know, Francis. I didn't know if you would wake up. You're so badly hurt. That's probably why you feel like s.h.i.+te.'

'There's something wrong with me. Something growing inside me. I can feel it, Erin. I have a lump. In my consciousness. There is something different in my body.'

'Francis,' she says.

'It's cancer,' I say. 'I know it.'

'Francis,' she says. 'You don't have cancer. You've got a f.u.c.k-off hole in your neck. That's what you've got.'

'Where is everybody?'

'Jack and Taylor are looking for Jennifer. Still don't know where she is. We don't know about Graham. And everyone that came to the party we don't know about them either. It looks like something awful has happened. We're on our own in here.'

I look up and around. The room is full of tea-lights and other candles. The wallpaper looks black and white in this light. I see a rope a noose hanging from the beam. It is moving, as if somebody is hanging from it. But the noose is empty. I frown and shake my head.

'What?' Erin looks up behind her. Following the direction of my eyes. 'There's nothing there.'

'Erin,' I say. 'There's something wrong with me.'

We are silent for a length of time. Gradually the light from the candles diminishes. I prod the hole at the back of my neck. The flesh feels dry. Hard. Like fresh meat that's drying up.

I close my eyes. I think of a Radiohead poster that I have on the wall of my bedroom. I remember the words printed across the bottom: I AM AWAKE AT 4 A.M. TO THE TERRIFYING UNDENIABLE TRUTH THAT THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO TO STOP THE MONSTER.

The terrifying undeniable truth. I can feel a presence inside my brain. Something inside my brain is slowly getting bigger. It mutates the cells around it and they clump together, all in one place, and have a big f.u.c.king party. I keep my eyes closed. I know that, ultimately, nothing is going to be OK. together, all in one place, and have a big f.u.c.king party. I keep my eyes closed. I know that, ultimately, nothing is going to be OK.

'Erin,' I say. 'Tell me some stories. I need you to make me think of other things.'

Erin looks at me. Her eyes are dark and difficult to read. But she nods.

'OK,' she says. 'OK. Well, this is it. The End of the Party. Francis, Jack, Jennifer, Erin, Taylor and Graham arrived back at the house wet, cold, laughing, exhausted. The sky was deep black, the stars a bright white dust. Below them the mountain stretched down to the lake at the bottom of the valley, and the lake shone like the moon that hung above it. Several thin plumes of smoke rose from chimneys across the valley floor and the six of them looked out over what would normally be a patchwork of dark woodland and pale fields criss-crossed by hedgerows. Tonight, however, everything was blanketed by a layer of fresh white snow. The mountains were friendly guardians standing watch over the people that lived beneath them. Scattered across the valley floor were warm orange lights that signified where those people were the places that they had found and settled in and come to rest at.

'"Where is everybody?" Jack asked. "All the music's stopped. There doesn't seem to be anybody around."

'"Let's go and have a look," Jennifer replied. "I'm sure everything is OK."

'She took Jack by the hand and squeezed it gently in hers before leading the others inside.

'"This is a beautiful place to live," Francis said, casting one last glance over the magical landscape. "You two are very lucky."

'The lights were still on inside the house, but it was empty of people. There was leftover food scattered across the brightly striped tablecloth and Graham picked at it.

'"We can't let all this fodder go to waste," he muttered.

'"Where is is everybody?" Jack asked, again. "It's like they've all just disappeared!" everybody?" Jack asked, again. "It's like they've all just disappeared!"

'"Hey!" Graham exclaimed, stopping in his slow hoovering-up of the crumbs. "There's a note. Here, Taylor. Read it out. I'm going to get some ginger beer."

'"OK," Taylor agreed, and took the note from Graham's hand. "Dear Jennifer and Jack, Sorry if our sudden departure has alarmed you it's just that everybody's parents all arrived to pick us up at the same time!" Taylor looked up and grinned, the relief evident in his face. Everybody looked around and smiled at each other. "We just left this note to explain what's happened and to say thank you for such a wonderful party. We're sure you'll both be very happy here at Fell House and wish you all the best. Enjoy the rest of the night! From all your friends."

'"That's nice," Jennifer said. "It's a shame we missed them but I'm glad that they had a good night."

'"Fancy that," Francis said. "All the parents turning up at once!"

'"You know what we should do?" Graham said. "Gather up all these helium balloons, tie them to a tin can, put a message in the can and let the balloons go and take the message with them. It could end up a message in the can and let the balloons go and take the message with them. It could end up anywhere anywhere!"

'Erin wrote the message. She wrote: Yesterday, upon the stair I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today; I WISH TO G.o.d HE'D GO AWAY.

'"I know those aren't the original words," she said, "I know."

'The six of them emerged from Fell House as the sun was coming up, and let the balloons go. They stood there watching until the balloons had disappeared into the sky. By that time everything was sparkling in the rays of the newly risen sun.

'The air was cold, so the friends, smiling, turned and went back into the house for breakfast.

'The sun rose higher and higher, and when it hit the windows of Fell House, they shone out like beacons across the mountains.'

Erin's voice is rich. Her eyes are half closed as she finishes the story.

'That was nice,' I say.

'Thank you,' she says.

Behind her, hanging from the noose, the body of a man sputters into existence. Like a candle going out, but backwards. My eyes widen. Erin turns at the expression on my face.

'Why do you keep on looking up there?' she asks, looking back.

'It's nothing,' I say. The dead man spins slowly around. He was maybe in his sixties or seventies when he died. He has thick grey hair. He wears a checked s.h.i.+rt, and heavy-looking dark jeans. His hands are huge and gnarled. Strong-looking and weather-beaten. I touch my temple with the fingers of my right hand. Close my eyes. Shake my head. 'It's nothing, Erin.'

'Another story?'

'Please.'

'This is about Taylor,' she says. 'Or somebody like Taylor. Wanting to drive across America. Maybe I'm with him.'

'Maybe?'

'I don't feel like it's up to me.'

'OK,' I say.

'They picked up a four-wheel drive in Minneapolis and drove for days until they reached the point that they had worked out was the very centre of America. A boy and a girl, using maps, rulers and money that they'd earned serving chips and sandwiches to climbers in a country pub called The Shepherd Sleeps. They were both twenty-five and by the time they reached their destination they were thin and tanned and more pale-haired than they had been in England. They turned the engine off and the sun washed over them like hot thick water. They closed their eyes and fell asleep. After they woke up, they took a pair of shovels out of the boot and started digging. They were looking for some sort of energy source, or explanation, or ma.s.sive pivot. They dug and dug and dug. They took their clothes off because they were so hot the sweat was running into their eyes and they hadn't stopped for water since they had started. The sun went down and the desert got cold, but they carried on digging. They were still hot. They were naked and covered in red sand. They dug and they dug and they dug until the hole was ten feet deep and ten feet wide. or ma.s.sive pivot. They dug and dug and dug. They took their clothes off because they were so hot the sweat was running into their eyes and they hadn't stopped for water since they had started. The sun went down and the desert got cold, but they carried on digging. They were still hot. They were naked and covered in red sand. They dug and they dug and they dug until the hole was ten feet deep and ten feet wide.

'"I don't think there's anything here," declared the boy. "But maybe we knew that there was nothing here all along."

'"You're right," she said, and nodded. "Maybe the fixed point that everything revolves around is just a kind of empty s.p.a.ce." She gestured carelessly at the world with her empty hand.

'They threw the shovels up on to the desert floor and climbed out of the hole. They were exhausted and their arms were on fire. Their skin was stinging because of the radiation from the sun. Their hands were stained red. The sky seemed bigger than ever before and they both felt incredibly small, incredibly unimportant. The boy was filled with a kind of ultimate peace and the girl was filled with a savage despair. She picked up her shovel and swung it at the boy's head with such force that it chipped the top of his skull right off so that the inside of his head was exposed to the elements. He remained standing and slowly raised his hand so that he could feel the texture of his brain with his long, dextrous fingers. The girl hit him again and this time she knocked his hand into his brain and he died and fell into the hole. She spent the rest of the night and the following morning burying him. She then got back into the four-wheel drive and fell asleep. Next time, she thought. Next time somebody comes looking they'll find something here.' brain and he died and fell into the hole. She spent the rest of the night and the following morning burying him. She then got back into the four-wheel drive and fell asleep. Next time, she thought. Next time somebody comes looking they'll find something here.'

'Erin,' I say. 'That was a horrible story.'

'What?' She refocuses on me. She is incredibly pale in the gathering dark. 'What did you say?'

'I said, that was a horrible story. Where did you get it?'

'Oh, I don't know. I just made it up. Did you like it?' Her smile is wan as she asks the question. Behind her the dead farmer swivels around in mid-air. I know he is a farmer because I imagined him. This is my logic. He is some sort of hallucination brought on by the thing in my head. And because he has come from me and only from me, I can tell you that he is a farmer. Also, he killed his wife. And then he killed himself. In my mind's eye, he rows out into the lake and dumps her body.

'Did I like it?' I repeat, absently. But I don't answer the question. My pain suddenly diminishes. Then I feel movement inside me. It can't really be movement inside me. But it doesn't feel like anything else. It feels like my bones are realigning and clicking back together. The pain flows out of me. Erin starts again.

'This one's called "Depth Perception". It's about a woman. I never knew her, but I always imagine her reading; curled up in an armchair under a standard lamp, the room bathed in a lovely warm light, and she is very pretty, with thick, curly brown hair and the vestiges of a healthy tan. Without thinking, she puts her hand to her mouth every time the story gets tense, or some mystery is about to be resolved. She doesn't realise she's doing it it's a reflex thing, like blinking. She's wearing heavy gold jewellery and it suits her. tan. Without thinking, she puts her hand to her mouth every time the story gets tense, or some mystery is about to be resolved. She doesn't realise she's doing it it's a reflex thing, like blinking. She's wearing heavy gold jewellery and it suits her.

'This is an image that I have in my head as vividly as if I'd seen her only yesterday.

'I don't know his name, and I never knew what he looked like. But he did it at night, and so it would have been dark (very dark it was cloudy, the way I imagine it, and there are no streetlights in Wasdale) and so what he looked like doesn't matter. We can't see his face.

'It's possible that there were a lot of rowing boats moored around the edges of the lake in the sixties. So either he found one of those, if they were there at all, or he had his own. The only boats there now are a few rotten old sh.e.l.ls in the boathouse at the western end, but the boathouse is too far away from the road. Too far to carry the body.

'He is parked on the road on the northern sh.o.r.e. To avoid being seen, all of his car lights have been turned off. For the sake of this story, he has brought his own boat. He has taken it from the trailer and dragged it to the little pebbly beach. At this time of night, in this weather, the lake is difficult to see. There is no light for the surface to catch. It's windy; it sounds as if the lake is whispering. He's scared. He's scared that at any minute a car might approach, and slow down, and stop, and that somebody might wind down their window and ask him exactly what it is that he's doing out here, in the dark, in the cold, all alone ... he's scared that, after coming all this way, he'll be found out. He's scared that all his planning might amount to nothing. He looks out at the invisible, whispering water. He's scared that he might capsize. He's scared that he might drown. He's scared, suddenly, of the deep, dark cold ... he is scared of forgetting how to swim. He is scared of whatever might be hiding at the bottom. He wonders how many people have had the same idea as him. He is rea.s.sured by the fact that he has never heard of any of them. By the fact that they have never been found out. He opens the boot. He lifts his dead wife, wrapped in the dirty bed-sheets, easily. She had always been quite light; slim. He carries her over to the boat, lays her down gently, her head towards the stern. He takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his trousers. He pushes the boat out and, once it's freed from the ground and he can feel it floating, pulls himself in. He is sitting with his back to the prow, facing the body of his wife. He loses himself in his thoughts for a moment, looking at the corpse. Am I going to sell the jewellery? Am I going to pretend that all of her books are mine? Oh G.o.d, he thinks. I always envied the way she could lose herself in a book like that. Oh G.o.d. How much she loved reading. I would come in from the farm and lean in the doorway and watch her just reading. And I loved the way that she would express so much through her face and her body, even when she thought she was on her own. If the people she was reading about were happy, might wind down their window and ask him exactly what it is that he's doing out here, in the dark, in the cold, all alone ... he's scared that, after coming all this way, he'll be found out. He's scared that all his planning might amount to nothing. He looks out at the invisible, whispering water. He's scared that he might capsize. He's scared that he might drown. He's scared, suddenly, of the deep, dark cold ... he is scared of forgetting how to swim. He is scared of whatever might be hiding at the bottom. He wonders how many people have had the same idea as him. He is rea.s.sured by the fact that he has never heard of any of them. By the fact that they have never been found out. He opens the boot. He lifts his dead wife, wrapped in the dirty bed-sheets, easily. She had always been quite light; slim. He carries her over to the boat, lays her down gently, her head towards the stern. He takes off his shoes and socks, rolls up his trousers. He pushes the boat out and, once it's freed from the ground and he can feel it floating, pulls himself in. He is sitting with his back to the prow, facing the body of his wife. He loses himself in his thoughts for a moment, looking at the corpse. Am I going to sell the jewellery? Am I going to pretend that all of her books are mine? Oh G.o.d, he thinks. I always envied the way she could lose herself in a book like that. Oh G.o.d. How much she loved reading. I would come in from the farm and lean in the doorway and watch her just reading. And I loved the way that she would express so much through her face and her body, even when she thought she was on her own. If the people she was reading about were happy, she would actually smile. If they were in danger, she would look worried. Oh G.o.d. These are his thoughts. she would actually smile. If they were in danger, she would look worried. Oh G.o.d. These are his thoughts.

'He realises that he is drifting in the wind. He takes the oars from the bottom of the boat, places them in their brackets, and begins to row out into the middle of the lake. As he does so, he notices that there is water in the bottom of the boat. He panics; he asks himself, how long has it been since I used it? Did I check it for leaks? Am I sinking?

'He keeps on rowing. He rea.s.sures himself that this is the way with rowing boats. He is not sinking.

'He wonders what he will do with the boat. He cannot tolerate the idea of waiting for it to dry out so that he can burn it. Besides, somebody might see the flames and ask questions.

'He thinks that he has rowed far enough. We can't blame him for this; he doesn't know the lake, he doesn't know where the shelf ends. He doesn't even know how far he is from the sh.o.r.e. It's all a question of depth perception, and let's not forget it's very dark out here. He takes the corpse in both arms and lifts it over the edge and drops it into the black, and the white of the bed-sheets disappears immediately. The boat rocks alarmingly, and suddenly he feels very alone. He realises that now he can't get caught, he was expecting the worry and tension to run out of him, like water, and into the lake. But it hasn't happened. Instead, the lake is draining into him, the night-water creeping in through cracks in his mind and filling him with a lake's worth of fear.

'Oh G.o.d, he thinks. She's gone.'

Erin rolls her shoulders as she finishes. Her eyes change. It is as if she is waking up. I am sitting up. I am staring at her.

'Francis,' Erin says. 'My G.o.d. You're sitting up.'

'Where did you get that story?'

'Francis.' She looks amazed. 'How on earth are you sitting up?'

'Where the f.u.c.k did you get that story?' I ask again. I climb out of bed. I am naked. I am whole.

'What do you mean?' she says. 'Francis, you're standing up. Here, put some trousers on.' She throws me my jeans. 'What how are you standing up?'

'Never mind that. Where the f.u.c.k did you get that story? I had that story in my head. It was in here.' I point at my skull. 'It was in there.' I am salivating uncontrollably. 'Erin. Erin. Tell me.'

'I don't know,' she shrugs. She leans back just a tiny amount. Enough to show me that she's uncomfortable. Her white dress is torn and muddy and b.l.o.o.d.y. I sit back down. I put my head in my hands. A moment's silence.

'Erin,' I say. 'Imagine the clothes that the man in your story was wearing. But don't say anything. Imagine what he looks like. You got a picture in your head?'

She nods, hesitantly.

'Checked s.h.i.+rt,' I say. 'Dark jeans. Grey hair, in his sixties or seventies. Big hands.'

She nods, eyes wide. Around the house, the wind cracks like thunder. But the skies are clear now. We know that it's not thunder. I can smell sweat. It's mine. The scent of it rises in waves from the damp bedding. I am hot. Energy courses through me. Or maybe I can just feel the blood in my body. 'He's here,' I say. 'I can see him. Hanging from the beam. After he dumped his wife's body, he hung himself here in this room. I can see him, Erin. Look up there. Behind you.' it's not thunder. I can smell sweat. It's mine. The scent of it rises in waves from the damp bedding. I am hot. Energy courses through me. Or maybe I can just feel the blood in my body. 'He's here,' I say. 'I can see him. Hanging from the beam. After he dumped his wife's body, he hung himself here in this room. I can see him, Erin. Look up there. Behind you.'

Erin turns and looks up at the beam. Slowly. She turns back. She opens her mouth to speak. She croaks something before clearing her throat and shaking her head. 'I can't see anything.'

'There's something wrong with this house,' I say. 'There is something here. Some history. Something getting into our heads.'

'Maybe that's what's wrong with Jack and Jennifer. They don't seem so happy.'