Clay (14 page)

nineteen

There he is, down below the streetlight, huge round face turned up to me, arms hanging at his sides, great feet planted on the pavement.

“Clay,” I whisper to myself.

I am here, Master.

I find that I’m still dressed. I leave the house. I go to him. His head turns like a clockwork thing to follow my approach. There’s no expression on his face or in his words.

“Clay,” I whisper.

Command me, Master.

I stare. What could
I
command?

“Just follow me,” I say.

I lead him from the single streetlight. He plods beside me like a massive faithful pet. We walk in silence, deep in gloom; then I find my voice; a simple stupid voice.

“This is Felling,” I say as we start to pass the houses and their gardens, as I lead him through my world. “This is the town I come from. This is where I live.”

We walk uphill, towards the top of town, through Chilside Road, Rectory Road, Crowhall Lane, up Felling Bank.

Not a soul to be seen. Hardly a light. The moon is dim behind a veil of clouds. I name names as we walk.

“The Hagans live in there. Douggie’s in my class at school. His sister’s Catherine. That’s the Wilsons’ house. Mr. Pew the parkie lives upstairs in that one. Vincent Grant, Elizabeth Grant, Aloysius Thomas Grant. The Flynns. The Mintos. The Dougalls. The Carrs.”

He doesn’t respond. I keep looking at him. I keep telling myself he isn’t there, he can’t be there. But he is there, and he’s walking at my side. I allow my hand to brush against him, to assure myself that he is there. When I stop talking, I hear him again.

I am here, Master. Command me, Master.

“The Kinkaids that live here have got a dog called Buster and a cat called Kit. The Potters go to Crimdon Dene in their caravan each August. Mrs. Penberthy once met Elvis Presley. The Turners lost a son to diphtheria. Teresa Duffy has a fragment of the one true cross.”

Once or twice a car passes by but we stand dead still in shadow and they don’t seem to see and then we move again.

I point different directions into the night.

“The baths is that way. Bryan Phelps practices diving there. He’s been in the Olympics. Over there’s where we play football. We support Newcastle. They’re not that good but they’re the best. The school is just beyond it. School’s where we learn about the world and us and where we try to find out what we think and what we can imagine and create. Prat Parker is a prat but he’s OK. My granda’s allotment’s that way. His tomatoes are lovely. My grandma turns them into chutney.”

I turn to face him.

“Are you listening?” I ask him.

He stares straight back at me.

“Are you thinking?” I say.

His eyes are dark, like sycamore-seed-shaped gaps in the clay that nothing enters and nothing leaves.

“Where did
you
come from, Clay?”

I am here, Master. Command me.

I lead him on. Higher up, there are many lights on in Queen Elizabeth Hospital. We don’t approach. An ambulance turns in at the hospital gate.

“This is the hospital, Clay. It’s where lots of us are born. Where we come into the world.”

His eyes swivel to me again.

“We start as nothing,” I say. “Then we appear inside our mothers, then we leave our mothers and come into the world.”

A siren starts to blare. Another ambulance appears.

“It’s also where lots of us leave the world,” I tell him. I ponder what I’m saying. “Or where some part of us leaves the world,” I say. I think again.

I am here, Master. Command me.

“Just follow me,” I say.

We turn downhill again. I name the names. The post office. The Black House. Windy Nook Club. Lasky’s pig farm over that way. The chip shop. George Lang the bookie’s shop. Pearson’s, where you get beautiful boiled ham, brown ale, butter cut from inside a barrel. Mays’ Fashion’s with its mad apostrophes. The hill drops steeply to the square. A drunk totters past us, lifts his cap, staggers.

“Evening, boy and great big bliddy giant,” he says, and he giggles and stumbles and belches and totters on.

“That’s Geordie’s uncle Joe,” I say. “But he’ll remember nowt.”

We pass Dragone’s coffee shop. I tell him that we all go there, young and old, that people whisper secrets and tell tall tales and learn to smoke and fall in love in there. And I tell him that the ice cream is the best and that I first found out the deliciousness of Horlicks in there. And I lead him on and I show him the Corona Cinema and the Palais de Danse and the shops that line the High Street and the abundance of things that fill the windows there and I see Clay and myself reflected in the glass and I halt and I feel that my heart will stop with the astonishment of it.

“Do you see, Clay?” I whisper. “There’s me, there’s you. We’re together in the world.”

We move closer to the window. We stand in the middle of the street. We face ourselves looking back at ourselves. I wave. “Raise your hand,” I say, and Clay raises his hand like he’s waving too. Then I lead him on. I show him the closed gates of Howie’s junkyard, the alleyway to my uncle’s printing shop. I tell him about Myers’ pies and pork sandwiches and about the gossiping groups and the playing kids that fill the street by day. And then St. Patrick’s Church is looming over us.

“That’s where God is,” I tell him. “Or where we think he is. Or he’s everywhere, but this is where he is most of all, where we can get closest to him. Or something like that.”

The steeple appears to be toppling below the drifting clouds. I watch it toppling but of course it’s an illusion and it doesn’t fall.

“God made everything,” I said. “And he sees everything, and knows everything.”

I am here, Master. Command me.

I sigh.

“Or maybe he’s stopped seeing us and knowing us,” I say. “What do
you
think, Clay?”

Nothing, of course.

I lean so close to him.

“Do
you
believe in God, Clay?”

No answer, of course.

“Did God make you?” I ask.

Silence, of course.

We stand together, and each of us is silent, and dark, and purposeless.

“What can I do with you?” I sigh.

No answer again. And we stand there in silence for minute after minute after minute, and Clay becomes dead still.

“Are you gone, Clay?” I whisper, and I know that part of me, most of me, wishes that he has gone, that he is nothing but a lifeless lump of earth again, that he will never come back again. I touch him. Clay cold.

“Clay?” I whisper.

And I feel the life trickling back into him.

“Come along,” I sigh. “Now I’ll show you where we go when we are gone.”

twenty

He has to stoop to enter through the gate. The bats are out. Owls are hunting, hooting. The veil of clouds is clearing below the moon. Clay’s feet rasp on the gravel path as we walk deeper in.

“This is the graveyard,” I say. “Thousands of the dead are buried here. Many of my family are here. My ancestors.”

I show the ancient leaning graves. I show the Braddock grave.

Once again, I find I’m naming names. I crouch close to the earth, and read by the moonlight the names carved into the stones.

“Elizabeth Grace McCracken,” I say. “Born 1789. Taken into Glory 1878. Beloved wife of…Beloved mother of…William Edward Carr. Georgina Fay…”

I want to explain, to make him understand, even though I know he can’t understand; I know that the things I say must be beyond him.

“We’re brought here when life has gone from us,” I say. “When we’re nothing but a body, we’re put into the earth.”

He turns the empty channels of his eyes to me.

Command me, Master.

“Dust to dust,” I say, and I realize that the things I say, the things that we all say, are beyond me, too.

I move on. I take him past the newer graves. I continue naming names as we go. Soon we’re near the fence that separates the graveyard from the bypass. There’s a newly dug grave, with a few boards across the opening, and a mound of earth beside it. I tug away a board. I peer down into the dark.

“This is the earth, Clay. This is where we start and where we end.”

I take a handful of earth. I roll it into a ball. I throw it down into the dark.

“Earth to earth,” I say. “Clay to clay.”

We stand together at the grave’s edge.

“This is where Martin Mould will go,” I say.

Command me, Master.

I throw another handful of earth into the earth. I turn away, and he follows.

“Now we must go back to the garden,” I say.

twenty-one

There’s a police sign, readable by moonlight:
NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS MAY ENTER
. A skull and crossbones, glaring white.
DANGER OF DEATH
.

I lead Clay past them and through the ruined gates.

“This is the oldest place in Felling,” I tell him as we push through the hawthorn, as we head for the quarry.

“This is where you started,” I say. “Do you remember?”

I point up to the quarry’s rim.

“That’s where Mouldy fell. You were with Stephen Rose. Do you remember?”

We come to the clay pond. I take out a handful of clay.

“This is you,” I tell him.

I spread a handful of it on his chest. It starts to dry on him, becoming him. He pays no attention.

I am here, Master. Command me.

I take out another handful. I form it into a tiny human shape.

“Live,” I whisper, and though it stays dead still, I imagine life squirming in it. Could Stephen and I fill the garden with such creatures? Could we populate a whole new world? For a moment I have a vision of our stubby little creatures running through the undergrowth. I see them with the frogs and the snake beneath the sparrow hawk wheeling high above. I see them moving out of the garden and into the world. I shudder, and cast the vision from me, and I allow the handful of clay to fall back with a splash into the pond.

“It wasn’t long ago,” I say. “You lay there on the ground. We were beside you, Stephen Rose and I. You were so beautiful. We made you and we begged you to live and prayed for you to live. I wanted to believe that life could enter you just like it departs the dead. I wanted to believe that dust to dust might mean death to life just as it means life to death. But you don’t understand me, do you? This is all beyond you, just like it’s all beyond me.”

I sigh at the uselessness of my words.

“I’m just a boy,” I say. “You’re just a lump of clay. I can’t do this. I want nowt to do with you and nowt to do with Stephen bliddy Rose!”

I look into the sky. The moon is sliding over us. The night is passing by. I find myself thinking of Geordie, of laughing and joking and swaggering around the streets with him. I think of us setting up traps in the quarry. I think of battling with Skinner and Poke. I think of Prat Parker catching jelly babies in the air. I think of Maria, her face, her skin, her voice, her lips against my lips.

“I’ve got my own bliddy life to live!” I say.

Command me, Master.

“I don’t want a great big stupid living lump of clay!”

Command me, Master.

I try to look deep into his sycamore eyes.

“I want you to lie down, Clay,” I murmur. “You’ve been walking all night. You must be tired. Lie down.”

There’s no response.

“Do it, Clay.”

I take his arm, tug it gently downwards, towards the earth.

“Please, Clay.”

Master.

“Lie down.” I say it more loudly. “Lie down. Be still!”

And he obeys. He sits on the ground and slowly turns his face to me.

“That’s right,” I say. “Good Clay.”

Master. My master.

“Now lie down properly.”

I shove his shoulder gently. He resists for a moment; then he lies down.

“Well done,” I whisper. “Now sleep. Sleep.”

He lies there, so still.

“We all do it,” I tell him. “We close our eyes and the darkness and nowtness come into us. Sleep. Sleep.”

I hear his voice inside me, distant and diminishing and so faint.

Master…Oh, Master.

I crouch beside him.

“Relax,” I say. “Be still. Let the darkness come into you.” I lean so close. I breathe the words so softly into his ear. “Goodbye, Clay.”

Master. Oh, Master.

“Die, Clay. Please die.”

And I feel the spirit leaving him. I feel him retreat to the very edge of existence. But suddenly there are footsteps in the garden, coming closer.

twenty-two

Stephen Rose, gentle at first. He stands there by the clay pond, hands on his hips.

“What you doing, Davie?”

“Nowt.”

“Nowt?”

“Nowt.”

“What you doing with Clay?”

“He came to me. He found me. We been walking.”

“Walking?”

“Aye. Round Felling.”

“Hell’s teeth, Davie.”

“Nobody saw us.”

He comes a little closer.

“And what you doing now?” he says.

“Nowt. Just being with him.”

“Ahhh, that’s nice. Come here, Clay. Clay, get up and come to your master.”

“Stay,” I whisper.

I rest my hand on Clay’s brow. He’s so still. He’s almost gone. There’s almost nothing in him.

“Looks like I came just at the right time, Davie,” says Stephen.

“Does it?”

“Aye. Looks like you were doing wicked things out here, Davie.”

“Aye?”

“Aye. I think you were doing away with our creation, Davie.”

His eyes glitter like stars in the deep black shadows of his face.

“Am I right, Davie?” he says.

I don’t reply. He comes closer, stares down at our creature.

“Clay,” he says. “Clay! Move!”

He shoves Clay with his foot. “Clay! Move!” And Clay stirs, and life moves in him again, and Stephen smiles.

“See, Davie? You haven’t got the strength to finish him off properly. Now get up, Clay. Live!” He shoves Clay with his foot again. “Come to your master.”

“No,” I say. “It isn’t right!”

“Get up, monster!”

Clay raises himself. He rolls over, gets onto his hands and knees. I stand beside him. I try to hold him. There’s no voice in him. He gets up slowly, clumsily.

“Leave him alone! Can you not feel how scared he is?”

“Ahhh, that’s nice,” says Stephen. “Davie’s worried about you, Clay. Get
up,
monster!”

Clay kneels, he stands.

“He’s in bliddy pain, Stephen!”

Clay stands at Stephen’s side. Stephen leans through the dark that lies between us.

“You think I care how scared he is? You think I’m bothered about his pain? Mebbe this is how to make a proper monster, Davie. Drag him back and forward between life and death. Make him suffer, make him bliddy terrified.” He grins. “Then give him a job to do.”

He stands tall, speaks softly into Clay’s ear. He watches me while he speaks.

“Clay,” he says. “This is Davie. This is the one that helped to make you. This is the one that should have loved you and looked after you. But this Davie is a devil. He was putting an end to you, Clay. He was killing you. What do you think about that?”

And they watch me, the boy and the monster, and they seem to be in such harmony—the monster dead still, the boy’s voice so soft and his smile so sweet as he whispers his commands.

“Now, Clay,” says Stephen. “I want you to destroy this devil called Davie. I want you to kill.”

The monster steps towards me. Its hands reach out to me.

Stephen’s teeth are bared. Saliva’s dripping from them.

“Kill!” he snarls. “Kill, Clay! Kill!”

I’m backing away with my arms raised.

“No, Clay!” I say. “Stop, Clay!”

But he’s got me by the throat.

“Please, Clay. No! No!”

His hands are tightening on me. I can’t speak. I can hardly breathe.

“Yes!” says Stephen. He comes closer. “Do it, Clay. Now, Clay!”

I look up into Clay’s sycamore eyes. And now his own words are inside me, and they’re so frail, so filled with pain.

Oh, Master. Oh, Master…

His hands start to relax.

“Clay,” I gasp. “Please let me go.”

And he can’t go on. His hands fall away from me. He slumps to his knees, and his head hangs towards the earth.

Stephen spits.

“Pathetic,” he whispers. “There’s too much of the Davie in you, Clay.”

I gather my strength, my breath.

“So come on,” I say to him. “Finish me like you finished Mouldy.”

He reaches towards me and moves his hand across my eyes. I shove it away.

“Come on,” I tell him. “Try it, Stephen.”

We circle each other; then we jump.