God help him
some kind of a disease, maybe).
She tried to quell her increasing agitation by telling herself that Fleetd seen development all around him (they were in a new-build property in a newly built area); the builder, the digger, the lorry, were all part of his locality; change was part of the milieu in which he lived and breathed and grew
But it didnt work. It didnt mesh. It didnt entirely ring true.
Space was increasingly at a premium (the inside mirroring the outside in an funny kind of way). Everything Elen observed, with an encroaching sense of terror
Oh no
Im
Cant
Cant breathe
was now thuddingly equal (Flat. Reduced. Like a beautiful, five-course meal, tossed into a large bowl and then devoured all in one go). Nothing took precedence. Nothing was ever rounded off (finished, honed). There was no sense of an end to it, of a neat conclusion. Of curtailment. Of release.
Elen knew all about the brochure in the kitchen drawer. Shed found it, looking for a tea-towel, and had made the connection. Its placement, she presumed, indicated something she wasnt sure what about Fleets unconscious desire to involve her (she was, after all, the only person in the house to do the drying up; Isidore, in general, preferred to wash).
Shed kept it a secret. Isidore still firmly believed that The Cathedral was just part of some magical dream landscape, that it was simply another perplexing facet of the boys highly developed if distinctly wayward imagination (he needed to believe this, and Elen responded, automatically as any considerate partner would to whatever his needs were).
But she knew better. Shed been to the library and had looked up Sainte-Cecile in a Rough Guide travel book. Shed expanded her search on to the internet. There shed seen a series of modern, photographic images of Albi, in all its glory (clinging to its hill, surrounded by water); then (with an increasing sense of claustrophobia) the Cathedral Basilica, the adjacent La Berbie Palace, the dramatic Dungeon Tower, the hooped colonnades of the St Salvy Cloister. Even the mill, sitting quietly downstream on the River Tarn.
And the bridge.
The link
Oh God
There it was
She traced its familiar, looping grandeur on the glaring screen with her index finger
Yes
But of course
Her wait was over. The worst had finally happened. This was the beginning.
This was the crossing.
Theyd pushed the two boys together in class (what else to do?). They were both a little dippy. Steven Bradley had a Gameboy and a registered learning disabilitydyspraxia; but very mild (words spilled out of his mouth in entirely the wrong order; he made regular trips to see the speech therapist in Canterbury). He could be clumsy
Bless him
Came from a family of ten, so it was difficult, sometimes, for his parents (who were extremely well-meaning) to give him all the attention he so desperately required. He could be slow on the uptake, obdurate, even, but he was fundamentally a solid, sweet-natured boy.
Fleet on the other hand
Hmmn
Fleet had
What did Fleet have? Whatever it was, the parents wouldnt deal with it (were uncooperative, wouldnt face facts), which automatically rendered them a part of the problem. To care too much was a weakness all parents could quite reasonably be found guilty of, but to actively obstruct? To smother? To deny? Not only was it unhealthy, but in the voluminous wardrobe of parental misdemeanours, this was that fine-seeming, well-laundered garment hanging neatly alongside the foul and mouldering suit of abuse (contamination was always a real possibility when two items were hung so close).
Fleet wasnt a lost cause. Absolutely not. Because when all was finally said and done with a modicum of support, a few one-toone sessions, some firm guidance they might actually be able to straighten the poor boy out (although hed never benot quite what you might callwellvertical, exactly).
It was nothing insurmountable, in other words. But it was something (a blip, a phase rather hard to put your finger on, really, without the benefit of professional input).
One thing was for certain: the boy was much smarter than he might initially appear. He was no Will o the Wisp. No charming, harmless Puck. He was evasive, sly, elusive. And
Why not lets just call a spade a spade, eh?
you didnt have to hunt very far to find out who he mightve learned that particular mode of behaviour from.
The mothers sat in Elens brand-new kitchen (pale ash units, double-sink, waste disposal, grey marble counter) and enjoyed a pot of tea together. Fleets father the German, terribly handsome Dory? Isidore? had popped in to say Hi (shook Mrs Bradleys hand, very formally, before heading upstairs for a quick nap. Hed been out on a job, he informed her with an apologetic yawn since eleven oclock the night before).
Fleet (who didnt initially seem entirely delighted by their arrival) took Steven up to his bedroom and guided him, nervously (the boy was just an accident waiting to happen) around his model of Albi (which currently took up a significant proportion of the floor-space in there).
Steven (extremely polite, but essentially unmoved by the tour) listened, blankly, waited until it was all over (offering no comment), then perched himself on the edge of Fleets bed, took out his computer and instituted his own kind of play (his head at an angle, his mouth falling slack, his fingers convulsing).
Okay
Fleet squatted down, picked up a boxful of matches and shook them, meditatively. He appraised his work. He mused. He calculated.
This arrangement suited them both perfectly (no pressures here, no expectations, no demands). Fleet worked away diligently on The Dragon Tower, leaving Steven entirely to his own devices.
Everything was proceeding in the best possible manner, and then
Eh?
Fleet scowled. He suddenly found himself distracted by the computers tiny voice. A tune. So simple. So repetitive. It hung in the air around him like a busy hover-fly. It buzzed. It troubled his ear. It reminded him of something. A folk memory. He cocked his head quizzically and focussed in on it, fully
Zzzzzzzzzeeeee
Click
Ah
He closed his eyes, briefly.
Steven pressed pause and glanced up. What?
Fleet looked straight back at him (his fingers slightly glue-ey). Huh? Steven frowned, then looked down, released pause, and continued to play. He tried to concentrate, but something was interfering. He pressed pause for a second time.
Stop that, he demanded.
What?
Fleet didnt even turn around, he just continued to build, methodically.
Steven cocked his head to one side. Couldnt he hear it? The humming? Didnt it? Wasnt he?
It filled the air around them.
That! Steven exclaimed, pointing at nothing (his tongue twisting awkwardly).
Fleet slowly shrugged his shoulders and then continued on doggedly with what he was doing.
Steven sat in silence, frowning. He studied Fleets breathing patterns from the back, to see if they might give him away.
Its not songnot even same, he eventually stammered.
It is the same, Fleets voice was deadly calm, only it came from before.
He continued to build.
No, Steven stammered. Not.
Fleet merely shrugged.
Not!
Steven looked down at his Gameboy. His hand was shaking slightly. He wanted to play he needed to but he was suddenly overwhelmed by an extraordinary sense of dislocation. He blinked, then he gasped. A gulf was opening up around him (was being scribbled in thick, dark crayon over the gleaming surface of his everyday world).
He sat on the edge of the bed, like a frightened nestling on the lip of a precipice, remaining perfectly still, hardly even breathing, until his mother had finished her tea and was standing at the bottom of the stairs, calling him
Steven? Steven!
Then, and only then, could he blink back the darkness and run.
For the next two days, he didnt feel even the remotest inclination to turn his Gameboy on again.
The second time she literally had to drag him there. He kept telling her that he didnt like Fleet, that Fleet was mean, that he really didnt want to go and visit him any more. But the school had recommended it, and Mrs Bradley thought Elen was incredibly charming (quite the loveliest person. It took a little while to get to grips with hersurewhat with that severe, home-spun look; the dark, sober clothes, the long hair, the thinness, the birthmark but once you did, there was something soso friendly, so informal, so calm, so intelligent).
And the house was so nice. And the area. Everything so new. Everything soShhhhhh! (Cant you hear that? The silence? No traffic, no dogs barking, no stereos blaring)
Although on this occasion it soon transpired the marvellous quiet was to be interrupted (and quite notably), by a series of strange noises emanating from above.
Elen was cutting into a small, home-made fruitcake when the pandemonium first began. The mothers eyes had met in mutual alarm across the table-top.
Are theyare they singing? Mrs Bradley asked (she couldnt actually remember ever having heard Steven sing before).
Elen gently pushed a slice of cake towards her.
Yes. Yes, I think they must be
But isnt your husband still working nights? Wont they disturb him? No. ThatsIts fine, honestly.
Elen stood up slightly flustered and went over to close the door. Then a few minutes later, while she was refreshing the pot, she casually turned on the ovens extractor-hood.
All subsequent extraneous sounds were expunged by its whirr.
Shed gently questioned Fleet about his project (this matchstick structure now took up the best part of their dining table his bedroom having long since been evacuated because of the leak). She was especially interested in why it was that he hadnt completed the cathedral itself before moving on to some of the surrounding buildings.
But what about this section? shed asked, standing on the cathedrals south side, where a large hole still gaped, unattractively, at the entrance.
Its not finished, Fleet had murmured.
Then finish it, shed said.
Hed scowled up at her. Its not finished, he repeated, as if speaking to an imbecile. They havent built it yet.
Steven had the most beautiful voice, and once hed been set off, there was literally no stopping him (although he only ever really sang one song, and he sang it in what appeared to be a foreign tongue). When he did sing, though, his usually jumbled pronunciation sounded smooth and unhalting.