The art of drowning, p.29
The Art of Drowning, page 29
Rachel wanted to talk to Grace about Ivy, but the tiredness seemed to mushroom between them into apologetic smiles; there was suddenly little to say, punctuated by awkward silences, without Ernest. Grace did not ask her about Carl, and Rachel did not say what she wanted to say, and it seemed as if Grace wanted her out of the kitchen. Grace was ashamed of being tired, so sorry, love, not like me, it’s the stress, you see, and I’ve been so worried about Ernest. It’s sometimes hard to be cheerful. At least I can be tired with you. It’s just this. You being in the kitchen, like Ivy was, when he came back into the house without Cassie. Him coming here, it’s like an anniversary, brings it all back. Makes me stupid and sad. I can’t think of anything else. I haven’t been sleeping. Let’s call it a day, shall we? Tomorrow, well, tomorrow, this time we’ll really be celebrating something, won’t we, love?
‘Tired’ varied from flu-type exhaustion, to nice exhilarating tiredness after a long swim, to this kind of tiredness which was like amnesia, and felt like being drunk, although Rachel wasn’t. Just tired, from anxiety and relief, punching from different sides and making bruises, tired from the effort of suppressing unease. She was glad to be back in her very own room, with a spray of lavender by her bed. It reminded her of Carl’s flowers. She struggled to stay awake; she had a huge desire to phone him and say, It really is nice here, it will all be fine, then she fell asleep. Everything was taken care of, everything.
She was halfway awake, then dozing again, dreaming of voices and closing doors and the sound of an owl. Her eyes opened wide and recognised the clock by the bed, reading three a.m. Grace was shaking her shoulder, jolting her awake, her voice high with anxiety.
‘Rachel, love, can you help me? Ernest hasn’t come back. Sorry, sweetheart, we’ve got to put on our boots and go and find him. Sorry, petal, it shouldn’t take long, he’s probably fallen asleep somewhere. Come on.’
Grace was clad in a floor-length nightie and a very old dressing gown. She held out another one to Rachel. Rachel got out of bed and put it on.
‘Boots downstairs,’ Grace said. ‘What a bugger. Sorry.’
They went down, down, down to the kitchen, which felt as warm as toast. Tired as she was, Grace had cleared it, and it was as clean as a surgery.
‘Won’t take a minute,’ Grace repeated, proffering a pair of boots, which Rachel scooped over her feet. They were too big, her feet slopped around in them, and they were out into the night, the air chill after the kitchen, flapping along with Grace in the lead, talking over her shoulder.
‘Wouldn’t have bothered you, lovey, but it might be a bit difficult to rouse him by myself.’
‘Does this happen often?’
‘No. Once or twice.’
It was all different in the darkness; she would not have known the way. The path seemed smooth; Rachel followed, trying to keep up, infected by Grace’s urgency. Grace carried a torch which wavered ahead, scarcely piercing the darkness. Rachel remembered the route to the cow barn and milking parlour as being a couple of hundred yards, tried to remember the layout of the place, wishing she had paid more attention, the cow barn first, the pigs and their stench furthest away, the hay barn to the left, and then the buildings looming ahead of her, with the milking parlour first, lit up like a ship floating on a dark sea. They drew close, Rachel stumbling and Grace sure-footed.
The milking parlour was empty. The well of the room, surrounded by the higher railings and stalls, was sluiced down, clean and wet, achingly silent apart from the hum of machinery. It smelled of milk and detergent and the lingering presence of animals, a factory at night, with all the contours stark in the harsh overhead light.
‘Ernest!’ Grace yelled.
She went through to the anteroom with the milk tanks, from which the humming sound came. Then she came back. She was trembling.
‘Come on. Maybe in the shed.’
They went down the ramp into the cows’ barn. Semi-lit, it seemed far larger than it had looked in daylight. The sweet smell of hay, silage, molasses caught at Rachel’s throat. The standing cows stirred; the place was suddenly full of the subdued noise of shuffling movement, and all she could see was a series of enquiring eyes, resenting disturbance. Her feet moved awkwardly across the hay-strewn floor, clumsy in the boots. Grace shone the torch around the feet of the cows as she walked past slowly. Perhaps she thought Ernest had lain down with his beasts. Rachel kept close. The cows lumbered towards them; Grace shooed them away; they came back. Rachel could feel the presence of tons of flesh and bone ready to walk over them, mash them into the ground with the hay and the shit, and she wanted to scream. She clutched at Grace’s sleeve. Grace pulled away.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Grace said angrily. ‘They’re only curious. Where the hell is he? Come on.’
The cows were so close, Rachel could smell their breath. It made no difference that they meant no harm; it was the crushing weight of them. They reached the far side of the barn, facing open fields and fresher air. Grace paused.
‘The daft sod’ll have gone to say good night to the damn pigs. That’s where he’ll be. Come on.’
‘I don’t want to go there,’ Rachel said.
The smell of the pigs was already in her nostrils and her legs were trembling. Grace turned on her and shone the torch in her face.
‘Oh come on, Rachel love. Don’t be so selfish. You really don’t know much about the real world, do you? Do you want me to go by myself? If he’s in there, we’ve got to get him out. What kind of daughter are you?’
She moved off, confident that Rachel would follow, and Rachel did. There was another faint sound of humming as they passed the incinerator of which Ernest was so proud, heating itself at night, for what? The small box of stone radiated heat as they passed. She remembered it was like a safe containing fire, remembered the small particle of bone Ernest had given her. She was ashamed of her cowardice. It was all beginning to feel like a bad dream, and yet she was stung. You really don’t know much about the real world, do you? What kind of daughter are you?
She stumbled again on the steps leading into the pig barn. Grace pulled at the great wooden bolt of the door, a piece of rustic efficiency Rachel had admired for its simplicity before she had been stunned by the smell. Pig smell, a reeking, penetrating, throat-filling acidic stench which clung to clothes and hair worse than any real filth. Such clean animals to stink like that with their own unforgettable smell and revel in the way they repelled those who did not love them. A pig was a pig was a pig. It knew what it was, and loved no one but its own. Rachel thought of Ernest, talking about pigs. Maybe he had come to talk to them.
‘Ernest!’ Grace yelled. ‘Come on out, you daft sod.’
The pigs had none of the silent curiosity of the cows. The sows and the piglets in the ten pens, ranged five each side with the aisle in the middle, reared in their confinement and squealed and snorted. The long, narrow barn was lit by two wavering lights, which moved in the draught from the open door, and the light of Grace’s torch, which showed the exit door at the far end and the contours of the metal pens, full of writhing, moving, stinking shapes, pushing snouts through the bars of their cages. They knew no reason for human presence other than food or violence. Someone was there to give food or take the babies away. Rachel felt a snout, protruding through a metal bar, making contact with her bare knee, and heard deafening squeals underlaid with a cacophony of grunting. She swayed on the uneven wooden floor, steadied herself on the nearest rail, and felt another pig nuzzling her hand, and she recoiled as if stung, her scream inaudible above the din, the stench of them making her gag. She crossed her arms and took a tentative step forward, telling herself, they’re pigs, where’s Grace, where’s Ernest, this is hell, and why … are they always hungry? What makes them so angry? Why am I here?
She screamed for Grace.
Then it grew quieter.
‘If you stay still and do nothing, they’ll stop in the end,’ Grace said. The voice seemed to come from a distance.
Grace was sitting at the far end of the barn on the step which led to the other door. The light of her torch played on her feet; the light of the building showed the glow of a cigarette. Rachel moved towards the light and the boots, which was all she could see.
‘Just stay still, would you?’
The pigs shuffled, disappointed, resigned, grumbling.
‘What I really want to know is are you going to help us?’ the voice said. ‘I thought you would; now I’m not sure. C’mon, darling, give us a hug. Everything’s going to be all right.’
Rachel tottered towards the end door. The torchlight swung towards the ceiling. The pigs began to squeal again. She felt a fist connect with her stomach, and all the air went out of her as she stumbled over the boots and fell to her knees and stayed there, clutching herself.
A door slammed, far away. Everything was quiet. Someone was stroking her hair. She was crouched at the foot of the step, still curled. The torchlight played on booted feet. Not the same feet.
‘Honestly, Rache, you’re such a patsy. Fancy believing a single thing my bloody mother says. Or anyone else for that matter. But you do, don’t you? Because it’s all true. In a way.’
Ivy.
Rachel raised her head and stared. She could do nothing but stare and saw nothing when she did. She was crouched at Ivy’s feet, saying nothing, doing nothing, listening.
Ivy lifted her, effortlessly, so that she sat on the step with her torso grasped between Ivy’s knees, Ivy’s big hands on her shoulders, pinning her down, and Ivy’s hand on the back of her neck. She remembered that. She had a dim memory of when that was nice.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ Ivy said. ‘Nothing to say? Well, I bloody have, you bitch. Who’s been cosying up to my husband with lots of chummy mobile calls, then? You. Who’s the one person I love best in the world? You. Who do my mummy and daddy love so much? Who wants to manage everything and goes in my room when I’m not there? You. Who’s sorting everything out where I can’t? You. Who’s sicked some fucking policeman up on my doorstep, making old Blaker spill his guts, and you don’t even tell me except by mistake? You.
‘You were supposed to help, you bitch. You were supposed to stop me.’
Rachel leant back against her and nodded. The world and the stench of the pigs came back. There was no sound except shuffling, grunting. Ivy’s granite knees increased their grip, forcing Rachel’s arms to stick out in front from her hunched shoulders. She could see Ivy above her, adopting a pose. Venus clutching a serpent between her knees. She wondered why she was not so surprised. Ivy the savage, what a nice word that was. She could see her own hands, resting on her own knees; she looked down the alley of the barn. Cows were nothing. Her head could not stop nodding. She was beginning to get the picture she should have got. Bile filled her throat. She hurt all over. Grace loved me. She said I was a daughter.
‘So are you going to help us, or what?’
‘Do what?’
‘What I was always going to do. Kill Carl. Oh, sweetheart, you’ve been very good. You’ve got him to come here, do you think I didn’t know? I’ve been practising to kill Carl for months now, ever since I found him. Knew I didn’t have the nerve, not without practice. Animals are one thing, humans are another. You’re not supposed to do it, for a start, can’t think why. Killing the thing you loved takes nerve, you know. I’ve had to learn cold blood. They were all a waste of space, why not? They steadied the hand. But I’ve got to get away with it, which is all that matters. I’ll get away with this now, and bring Sam back. You’re my friend, Rache. You should have stopped me.’
Rachel bent her head. There was a click as Ivy lit another cigarette.
Rachel heard the sound of her own, controlled, admiring voice.
‘You’re amazing, Ivy. I love you. Who did you kill for practice?’
‘Got in the neck, like Cassie? Oh, one by persuasion, a man who stayed here. He was awful, he had no respect, you know, couldn’t swim as well as he thought either. Shit face. Carl can’t swim at all. A man in an office who wanted to die, so I helped him swallow it. That one in the ambulance, had to be so quick, I just had to do it, so I’m ready and skilled, Rache, for the main kill. Nerves like steel now. Not quite sure of the method, sure of the nerve. Everything’s gotta be learned. So, are you going to help? Are you with us or against us?’
‘Does Grace know?’
It was a stupid question.
‘Does Grace know what, you silly little thing? It was Grace wanted you here in the first place. Grace suggested it. Grace thinks ahead, see? She said dear Carl would like someone like you. Far less risk if we got him here and killed him than if I killed him somewhere in London. That was the original plan. Flush him out, scare him, kill him, as soon as I knew I could do it. But not good enough, do you see? Not after he sent back Mummy’s letters and we knew he would never let me see Sam as long as he was alive. He’d stop Sam coming home to Granny, it would be over his dead body …’
‘That’s not true.’
She could feel the stirrings of anger. She could see more clearly now, wanted to explain, kept her voice low.
‘It’s Sam who doesn’t want to see you. Carl’s a good man, he’ll do everything reasonable. He must be a good man, because he agreed to this. Oh, Ivy, have you thought …’
‘So you admit it, you bitch. You’ve got into bed with him. Yes you have. You’ve fucked my husband, you’ve got it out of him. Well, you weren’t quite supposed to do that. Christ, you’ve probably fucked my son as well. I’ve watched you, Rache, this last week, ever since you snuck out on the Sunday, you’ve been in some fucking dream. His number on your mobile, messages from coppers you don’t tell me about. Quite funny, really. I should kill you now, but I love you, you know, and I thought you loved me. You’re a thief.’
‘I do love you. If you love me, let me go. Let me tell him not to come. Let me stop you.’
Ivy stroked her hair. She tried not to flinch from the touch, and failed. Ivy noticed.
‘Oh no, my darling. Too late for that now. Things have changed, ambitions change, you said that once. I don’t just want him dead, I want him to know. I want him throttled and drowned in the lake, and I want him to know, right to the last minute. Like Cassie did.’
‘Why? Ivy, why?’
‘Because it was all his fault. Because he killed her, and then he killed me. He shut me out and shut me away. He poisoned Sam against me, he made my life hell, he sent me right down to the bottom of hell. And when I got better, when I got to know he was a fucking judge, well, that was it. I tell you, Ivy love, it’s like having a cancer eating at me, just knowing he’s strutting around there, and I can’t live knowing that. Strutting round in the big wide world, with my son. Not his son, my son. I can’t live with that.’
Not his son, my son.
Ivy giggled. It was a horrible sound, worse than the pigs who looked on, quietly now, still hoping for food. Rachel could feel them breathing from the shadows of the pen.
‘You’d better not tell anyone else I said that,’ Ivy said. ‘Ernest only wants Sam because Sam is Carl’s. Grace’d go demented. Carl’s fucking grandson is all he wants. Now, are you going to help or not? I think I know the answer. Ernest said you wouldn’t. Grace said you would. She didn’t know you’d fucked him.’
Rachel knew she was damned either way. Ivy was strong and Ivy was mad, and the pigs stank. All she felt in the semi-darkness was an overpowering hurt.
‘Didn’t I make any difference?’ she said. ‘Didn’t knowing me make any difference? Didn’t I make anything better for you, the way you did for me? Did I really not make a difference to that cancer of yours?’
The stroking of her hair had stopped. In the silence that followed, she began to hope that Ivy was pausing for thought. Ivy laughed. She laughed like a hyena.
‘Of course you made a difference. It was through you that I could see what it would be like to have life without a curse on it. Not a care in the world, a father who loved you instead of wishing you were a son, no real losses, no mistakes, nobody’s victim. Lucky you, no scars to speak of, just your pathetic little tragedies and pathetic little morals. I doubt if you’ve ever made any difference to anyone in your life.’
She laughed again.
‘Although you’ll certainly have made a difference to Carl’s. God, you useless, innocent women make me sick. Besides, you didn’t really love me. You don’t know what love is.’
She bent forward and whispered in Rachel’s ear, her breath on her neck.
‘It means being willing to do anything for that person, anything to make them better. I would have done that for you, Rache, but you’re not going to do it for me, are you?’
Rachel jerked her head away. She felt icy cold, but she could speak. She could open her silly big mouth.
‘You’re mad, Ivy. Madder than you know if you think I’d watch you kill another human being and not try to stop it.’
She could feel Ivy nodding, rocking, still gripping her and holding her still.
‘Grace realised that. She said you didn’t love us enough. Well, I’m sorry about it.’
She got up to her feet, talking as if to herself. ‘Strange, isn’t it, I can’t actually kill you myself. I can only do it to men. Big mistake, you being here, but Grace didn’t think Carl would come unless you were here first. Sorry about that. Shame you don’t love us enough.’
Rachel did not move. She wanted to plead, she wanted to spit at Ivy, she wanted to fight, but she did not move. She felt a massive punch to the side of her head and sprawled forwards to the floor. The pigs began squealing again. Rachel was lying with her face against the rough wooden slats of the aisle between the metal pens, facing the curious snout of a huge young pig. They were touching distance.
