A Man Melting (15 page)

4EVA

‘We certainly aren’t the first,’ Danny said, and walked into the middle of the clearing. He crouched in the long grass and rapped his knuckles on the hard ground.

Barry walked towards him, but his thoughts seemed miles away.

‘I think it’s bricks.’ Danny pulled out a clump of grass, roots and all. ‘Yup. Bricks. The grass is growing through the gaps.’

‘Do you think there’s something under there?’ Barry asked.

‘Don’t know.’

They set about pulling up the grass, Danny working in
a slowly growing circle, Barry pulling random clumps as he walked around the clearing, soon losing heart.

‘If you stay in one spot —’ Danny said.

Barry put his hands on his hips. ‘There’s nothing underneath, is there? It’s just brick on dirt.’

‘But it’s still something we didn’t expect.’

‘This could have been a prison.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Do you think people died here?’

‘I don’t know.’

Danny sat cross-legged in his crop circle and pulled a ladyfinger and his lighter from his top pocket. The cigar drooped when placed in his mouth and the lighter tore at his thumb but didn’t light.

‘Guess I got wetter than I thought.’

Barry joined him in his circle and sat down.

‘So,’ Danny said. ‘Do you have a new school lined up yet?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You do? When are you leaving?’

‘Soon.’

‘That’s good. I mean, for you.’

Barry reached behind him and pulled a clump of grass from the outer rim of Danny’s circle and began tearing each blade into inch-long strips.

‘Danny?’ he said, not looking up. ‘How did you know Sophie liked you?’

‘Shit, I mean, gee. That’s a good question, there, Barry. Is there someone here —’

‘No!’

‘Someone at your old school?’

Barry gathered all the torn pieces of grass into a pile, reached behind him and pulled out another clump.

‘Well,’ Danny said, ‘I think I knew Sophie liked me when I asked her out and she said yes. It was pretty clear cut.’

‘How’d you know you should ask her? How’d you know
you
liked her?’

Danny swept a lock of hair behind his ear and tried to remember a time before Sophie. A life without her. All he got was a golf ball of apprehension in his chest — this was how he’d felt without Sophie. Was he doing the wrong degree? Was he funny looking? Where was he going? But when he met Sophie, these questions weren’t around. She melted the golf ball in his chest and everything felt open and exciting. There was nothing scary about asking her out. Nothing scary about talking to her, or kissing her, or the prospect of fumbling with her bra the first time. He’d just asked. But how to explain this to a twelve-year-old kid?

Before he could come up with anything, Barry asked, ‘Do you still like her?’

The question socked him in the face.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Jesus. Of course I do. I love her. Why would — What makes —’

‘Just asking.’

‘You don’t see us together much, is that it?’

Barry shrugged and began reshaping his pyramid of grass.

‘We’re good. Sophie and me. Don’t worry about us.’

‘Okay.’

‘This girl you like. Tell me about her.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know any words for it. I don’t know anything for the way I feel about anything.’

‘I’ve been there.’ I wasn’t twelve when I felt it, he thought, but I’ve been there.

Barry pulled another clump of grass.

‘Was this girl anything to do with you being expelled?’

Barry stopped tearing grass.

‘What’d you do? Barry, come on. I want to know.’

‘I tried to express myself. Last time I do that.’ He sent the back of his hand flying into his pile of grass fragments and sprayed them towards Danny.

As Danny paddled the canoe back to the camp (Barry refused to have a go once again), he thought about how a twelve-year-old kid could get expelled — not just suspended, but expelled — for trying to express himself to a girl his own age. He thought about the time he caught Barry and the other boy looking at porn. Maybe they weren’t looking up Sappho; maybe they’d built that excuse into the act. He thought about Sappho’s poetry: those icy posthumous titles (Fragment 32, Fragment 94), but full of burning words and lacunae, as if the paper couldn’t stand the heat of her feelings, of her heart. 

…
love has brought the brightness

And the beauty of the sun
…

That night he told Sophie about his talk with Barry, but left his own lacunae, like the fact it took place on the island, and Barry’s questions about whether he still loved her.

‘That’s good,’ she said.

‘It’s not good. There must have been some
misunderstanding
at the school. It breaks my heart.’

‘That’s what’s good about it.’

‘You want my heart to break?’

‘I want it to melt. You’ve hung out with this kid for four months —’

‘Off and on.’

‘— and you’re only now cracking the nut.’

The lights were out and they were both lying on their backs. A pause like the one the conversation entered could easily have been terminal, as both drifted deeper into their own thoughts, which spread out into the mist from which their dreams would form. But Danny’s thoughts kept running into the very solid, very real proposition of the woman lying next to him. When was the last time he’d cracked her nut? Of course Barry had asked,
Do you still like
her
?
When was the last time he gave any evidence that he did? To any onlooker, they might as well have been business partners. He had put Barry straight at the time, told him of course he loved Sophie, but had he ever really thought about it? Had he looked at their relationship as anything but a given?

Danny sat up, not sure how long had passed since those last words were spoken, not caring. ‘I want to take you somewhere.’

‘Now?’

‘No. Now would be difficult. Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘What about dinner?’

‘Holly can supervise. I’ll sort our food.’

‘Okay.’ He felt her hand climbing up his back. When it
reached his shoulder, she pulled him back down. ‘But now, we sleep.’

When Barry arrived on the beach after breakfast, Danny had already loaded two canoes with supplies.

‘What are you doing with this one?’ Barry asked, and kicked the light green one that had sunk with him in it.

‘I’ve been over her, there’s no leaks. It was just overloaded last time with two of us in it. By yourself, you should be fine.’

‘—?’

‘I’ll have the brown one,
and the paddle
, and I’ll tow you.’

‘I don’t know, Danny.’

‘You’ve lost two stone since we sank. Two stone!’

The right corner of Barry’s mouth slowly curved upwards, and he placed his thumbs in the belt loops of his baggy jeans.

With Barry’s help, Danny got into the light brown canoe, positioned the lanterns, rugs and hedge clippers around his legs, and paddled out till the rope linking the two vessels was taut. Barry, sitting in the beached green canoe, gave the thumbs up, and Danny paddled hard while Barry used his hands to push his craft along the shingle and into the water.

‘It’s working,’ he shouted.

Danny let out a grunt. ‘Keep it steady.’

‘Woo!’

He pulled his paddle from the water and looked back to see Barry with his hands in the air, his canoe ploughing through the water. With both craft in the water, paddling was a breeze, or so it felt for the first twenty strokes. Then the shortness of breath kicked in. Halfway, he had a coughing fit.

‘You can do it, Danny. No turning back.’

When they made it to the gap in the vegetation where they had landed the day before, he wasn’t sure if he had the strength to propel his canoe (and tow Barry’s) into the bank with sufficient force to lodge it so that he could clamber onto land, then haul Barry in.

And the first attempt bore this doubt out.

But on the second go, with Barry clapping, slowly increasing the pace like at a high jump competition, he found a second wind.

‘Are you going to read poems to her or something?’ Barry asked once they’d unloaded everything from the canoes.

Danny patted the breast pocket of his shirt where his ladyfingers normally sat but now there were two A4 pages folded in half and half again.

‘Astute as always, Barry. Nothing like a bit of Lesbian poetry to set the mood.’

‘Ha.’

‘Every time a coconut.’

‘Huh?’

‘Don’t worry.’

Danny picked up a lantern and held it up, picturing what the clearing might look like after dusk.

‘What were her poems like?’

‘Sappho’s?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Most are only fragments of longer poems. Sometimes it’s just a few lines. Sometimes it’s a whole page, but the page is so old and damaged, no one can work out what the missing words are.’ He removed the pages from his pocket. ‘See.’
He unfolded the pages and held them out for Barry. ‘Those dot-dot-dots, that’s where we’re missing words. So you’re reading along just fine:
And
I said to her this: /
Go and be happy, remembering me
, /
For you know how we cared for you. / And if you don’t, I want to remind you
… And then there’s this gap.
And if you don’t, I want to remind you
what?’

‘Of a fire engine.’

‘Maybe. But does it fit with what comes next?
And if you don’t I want to remind you of a fire engine / and the lovely things we felt / with many wreathes of violets / and roses and crocuses / and
…’ He rolled his hand. ‘And?’

‘A really long fire hose.’

‘
And I
…’ He rolled his hand again.

‘Put out lots of fires with it.’

Danny nodded and continued, ‘…
and you sat next to me / and threw around your delicate neck / garlands fashioned of many woven flowers / and with much
…’

‘Wellingtons.’

‘…
and costly myrrh / you anointed yourself with royal
…’

‘Pain in the bum.’

‘…
and on soft couches
…’

‘You farted.’

‘
Your tender
…’

‘Butt cheeks.’

‘
Fulfilled your longing
.’

‘Aren’t you hot in that thing?’ Danny asked when he had finished hanging lanterns around the clearing.

Barry looked up from the last patch of uncut grass, then performed a serious lop with the hedge clippers.

You’re sweating like mad.’

‘Leave off. I’m nearly done.’

‘I can finish if you want.’

‘Leave off, Danny.’ Barry stared at the clippers for a moment before throwing them down. He rose up, ran to the corner of the clearing, paused, then pushed through to the edge of the island.

Danny could still see an orange mass through the leaves. He walked up so that he was touching the hedge that separated them.

‘Mate, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just trying to understand. Some people don’t have the time to understand, or the inclination — but I do. I have so much time. But I haven’t done anything. It’s like in
The
Simpsons
, where the doctors tell Mr Burns he has every disease known to man, but they’re all trying to get through the same door, so no diseases get through. I have all this time and I’ve done nothing. I want to understand why you’re here, Barry. I don’t care if you have trouble putting it into words, because I have the time and inclination to work it out. With you.’

‘Danny!’ The scream sounded as if it came through clenched teeth, like he was close to tears.

‘Please, Barry.’

They stood, silent and still, either side of the hedge.

Two lines crossed oceans and centuries and languages and appeared in his ear:

from the shimmering leaves flows

the breath of sweet sleep

Through these leaves he saw the orange mass wriggle, rise up, narrow to a single band, then drop to the ground.
He stepped back as Barry pushed through the hedge. His hands were the first to emerge, then his bowed head, then his bare, crimson and violet torso. Barry lifted his head, looked him in the eye and said, ‘This is why.’

The triangular burn stretched from his left shoulder to the start of his right clavicle, then down to a point a few inches above his belly button. This is only minor, Danny thought, and tried to convey this with his expression.

Barry brought his hand up to his chest. ‘I tried to show her. I said, “I am damaged, so I can do this.”’ He tapped his chest.

Danny leant closer. There, on the scarred left breast, was a thin, asymmetrical outline of a heart. Inside was a letter A.

‘Her name was Abby.’

Danny, his eyes still level with this second scar, placed a hand on Barry’s shoulder and pulled him in. He could feel the boy go slack in his embrace. He squeezed tighter as the sobs began.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Barry, I understand.’

They were not on the island, but they could see it from the log on which they sat.

‘Sophie, the camp is losing money.’

‘But I thought —’

‘I’m not sure why I didn’t tell you sooner. It was a money thing. All I had to look after was the money. I wanted … I didn’t want to fail you.’

‘How long —’

‘We’ve never made it out of the red. If it wasn’t for your uncle’s money —’

Sophie spun and punched him, hard, just below the
breastbone, winding him.

He wanted to say, ‘What was that for?’ but by the time he had regained his breath, he knew how stupid a question it was.

When he looked up the sun had dipped behind the island. The loch was maroon. Sophie’s face was granite.

‘You punched me quite hard.’

‘Good.’

‘That was how Houdini died. Punch to the solar plexus.’

He could barely see her hitch her shoulders in the sooty dusk. Soon they would just be voices.

‘I’ve wanted to punch you like that for ages,’ she said after another long pause.

‘Feel better?’

He tensed his stomach muscles in case another blow was on its way, but none arrived.