In The Garden Of Stones (12 page)

“
Ah.”

“
Does that mean something to you? Do you think something is
coming to an end?”

“
I did.”

And now
he understands what she means. “Ahh, you thought our relationship
was over … after last time?”

“
Yes. Could that be relevant?”

“
If it’s been playing on your mind, very
possibly.”

“
And the new beginning?”

“
You’ve just moved into your flat. You’re on your own for
the first time. The start of a new chapter of your life. Looks like
things are starting to fall into place for you at last. I’d call
that a new beginning, wouldn’t you?”

Chapter 13

They are
sitting in the dappled shade of the beech tree. Colin is leaning
with his back against the trunk, the peak of his cap pulled down
low over his eyes, while Grace has her feet in the stream and is
reading aloud from his battered copy of The Woodlanders. At the end
of the chapter, she closes the book and turns her face to the
sun.

“
This is a wonderful place,” she says with a dreamy sigh.
“It’s just perfect in every detail; every leaf, every flower, the
birds, the bees. I can actually feel the ripples in the water
running through my toes. The imagination is a powerful thing don’t
you think? I thought I would have preferred the beach, but this is
much nicer. I’m so glad I made it. And I’m glad I made you,
too.”

Colin
pushes up the peak of his cap. “Made me? You didn’t make
me.”

“
Of course I did. You are an integral part of my therapy
package, although I have to admit that you are not exactly what I
was expecting. And some of the other things that are here–” Grace
points to some nearby nettles. “I have no idea why they are here.
Nasty stingy thing. And wasps. There is no place in anybody’s
world, imaginary or otherwise for wasps. Unless, of course, they
represent something negative in my –. Where are you
going?”

Colin
has rolled onto all fours, used the trunk of the tree to get to his
feet, and is striding in his awkward gait back toward the
hut.

Grace
scrambles to her feet and follows him, catching up with him at the
chopping block where he already has a log balanced.

“
Colin?”

He takes up his axe, steadies himself, swings it in a wide
arc and brings it down on the log with a dull
crack
, burying the head in the
wood.

“
I’m talking to you, Colin.”

“
Talking? Aye, ye do a lot of that,” he says. “Pish mostly.
Made me my sharny arse.”

He frees
the axe and swings again, splitting the log into two even
halves.

“
You
do
know none of this is real, don’t you?” she says.

Another
axe strike makes quarter logs. It also sends a splinter flying off
to catch Grace on her bare arm.

“
Ow! Son of a–” She eases the spell of wood from her arm and
a small red bead erupts from the puncture, bringing with it a cold
wave of fear and panic. “Okay, that’s real blood and that’s real
pain,” she says. “Nothing made up about it. What the hell is going
on here?”

Colin
says nothing as he throws the quarters towards the woodshed, takes
up another log and balances it on the block.

“
Will you stop that for a minute?” Grace demands.

Colin
continues to ignore her as he drives the axe head into the log
again, dividing it neatly.

“
Colin? I need to talk to you, and I mean right
now.”

“
There’s nothing ta talk about,” he says.

“
Oh yes there is.” She puts herself between the axeman and
the log. “What’s going on here? Where is this place?”

“
Get outta ma way.”

She
stares at him wide eyed, a gabbling slew of words pouring from her.
“Are we inside your head, or mine? Or both at the same time? Or
neither? Where the hell are we? Are you having the same therapy as
I am? You are, aren’t you? That’s how this has happened. I created
you to be my imaginary friend, therefore it stands to reason that
you must have created me to be yours. Doesn’t explain the blood and
the pain through. That’s what we need to talk about.”

“
Will ye shut yer yap!” he bawls at her. “Ye’re talking
bollocks.”

“
Quite possibly, and as talking is part of my therapy,
bollocks or no, you’d better get used to it.”

“
Well it’s no part o’mine. Now shift!”

He lifts
the axe and she skips out of the way. “Aha! So you admit it, you
are in therapy?”

The axe
falters on the backswing, disrupting the momentum, and when he hits
the log the strike has no power, and he just knocks it
over.

“
God’s sake!”

He
throws the axe to the ground and walks off toward the water trough,
swearing through clenched teeth.

Grace
follows. “So how long have you been doing it? Whose idea was it to
make this place … and where is here exactly? The house looks
familiar, but then again most fancy piles look the same, don’t
they? Big house, fancy garden, great big boundary wall, wrought
iron gate? What?”

Colin’s
mouth is drawn into a tight knot, eyes narrowed to dark slits,
voice a deep rumble. “Say one more word, I dare ye; ask one more
senseless bloody question, and I swear to God I’m gain ta throttle
ye wi ma bare hands.”

He gives
her a look of singular hardness before turning his back on her and
taking hold of the water pump’s priming handle.

“
What’s on the other side of the gate for you?” she
says.

Colin’s
shoulders stiffen and he gives the handle a savage
heave.

“
I’ve found that when I put myself at the gate I have to
fully focus on it,” she says, “because the second I turn away from
it, I’m back where I started – in bed, on the sofa, meditating on
the rug. Is it the same for you? Where are you coming from? You
must be somewhere. Everybody is somewhere.”

Water
gushes from the pump’s spout.

“
What’s gone on in your life that you made this place as an
escape, closed the gate on the world? You can tell me.”

He cups
his hands, fills them with cool water and splashes it over his face
and hair.

“
Colin?”

He folds
forward, eyes closed, nostrils flared. “Fer cryin’ out loud, woman!
Take the bloody hint and leave it alone will ye?”

“
I can’t. I’m like a dog with a bone once I get going. I
have to know everything. I have to know why you need a refuge like
this. Is there something outside that scares you? Because if we get
together, talk about it, we can–”

He
wheels on her, droplets flying from his wetted hair, a deep scowl
hooding eyes flashing with indignation.

“
Fit dae, eh? Facing yer fear is half the battle won, and
talking aboot it will be the silver bullet that’ll mak it all go
awa’. That’s pishing nonsense and ye ken it well
enough.”

His
growing anger is strengthening his accent, edging it toward
indecipherable and she’s struggling to understand him, but she
doesn’t let it stop her taking one more step.

“
If you want to go to the gate, face your fear of what’s on
the other side, we can go together–”

He
drives his hand into the trough, sending up a wave of water. “Are
ye no listening ta me, woman? I said I’m nae goin’ anywhere!
Everything I need or want is here. I don’t need ta go outside
‘cause there’s nothin’ theer fer me. So what if none o’ this is
real, if it’s all an illusion, or make believe or airy fairy land.
I dinna cair! It’s better than what’s oot theer – a world full o’
war and crime and violence, where life is cheap and if you dinna
fit inta the mould they make fer ye, ye can just get stuffed.” He
snorts a sardonic laugh down his nose. “Aye, I can see the
attractions. Wouldn’t want ta miss out on a bit more murder and
mayhem and pain and disease would I? I’m better off out of
it.”

“
It’s not all bad,” she says. “There are some good things
still.”

“
Such as?”

She
shrugs. “Ice cream?”

Her flippant response only serves to inflame him further.
He takes a step toward her, a thunderous scowl clouding his face,
hands balled into fists, and for a moment she thinks he’s going to
hit her. Instead he holds her with a steely gaze, and his voice
falls low and flat and hollow. “Oh really? Then tell me Grace Dove,
if things outside are oh so fluffy kitten wonderful, so bloody
perfectly jolly nice, why do
you
keep coming back here, eh?” He jabs an accusatory
finger at her. “What are
you
hiding from?”

“
I’m not hiding,” she says. “I can come and go as I please.
I’m not afraid to go through the gate.” Sigh. “I know the world
outside isn’t perfect, but that’s not the reason I come here. I
come here because I happen to like it. It’s a nice place and
I…we’ve both worked hard on getting it just right, and now I’ve
come to know you a little better, and when you’re not acting like a
spoiled baby, I like spending time here with you.”

He
snorts again. “Mair pish! Naeb’dy wants tae spend time wi me, and I
don’t need yer pity. I dinna need nosey wee quines like you
interfering with my life, people who think they ken better than me
what I want, what I need.”

“
And what is it you need, Colin?”

“
Ta be left alone! Obviously a concept alien ta ye as ye
canna respect a polite request ta leave, so I’ll tell ye straight
instead, in words of one syllable only. SOD-OFF! Go on! Away wi ye
and take yer sanctimonious hoity toity psychobabble wi ye—” He
reels away and in a few awkward strides he is inside the hut. “And
don’t come back!”

The door
slams closed.

Grace,
stung by the ferocity of this unexpected turn of events, stares
mutedly at the newly vacated Colin shaped space. She waits silently
for the door to open and for him to re-emerge to apologise, but he
does not.

When
after ten long minutes Colin does finally venture outside again,
she has gone.

Chapter 14

“
I think I stuffed it up,” Grace says, clutching the fat red
cushion to her stomach.

Mal, as
always, sits opposite her, his expression immutable,
inscrutable.

Like patience on a monument, he smiles at grief.

“
How so?” he says.

She
squeezes the cushion. “We were having such a nice time, relaxing by
the stream. I was reading and he was just sitting there under the
tree, having a doze I think, and there were birds and sunshine and
- and I opened my big fat mouth and said something and ruined it
all.”

Silence.

“
Why don’t you tell me everything?”

And so
she does, from when they settled down at the stream, via her attack
of verbal diarrhoea, through to the slamming of the hut door, and
Mal listens without interrupting her, nodding in all the right
places.

“
So have a screwed it all up? Is that it … over? Do I have
to go back to the drawing board and start again?”

Mal
interlaces his fingers, forming a little church, thumbs crossed
over to make the door, index fingers pressed together to make the
steeple resting against his pursed lips.

“
I don’t think so,” he says. “I think what you have here is
simply a representation of your own deep-seated insecurity, your
worries about whether this therapy is the right thing for you, your
uncertainties about whether it’s going to work. Even though
you
think
you are fully committed to the therapy, somewhere in your
subconscious there is that little glowing ember of
doubt.”

“
So Colin’s reaction to my suggesting that nothing was real,
of asking if he was in therapy, his telling me to go away, his
refusal to discuss it, or go to the gate … that’s my Doubting
Thomas making himself known, and I was simply arguing with
myself?”

“
Yup.”

“
So what do I do? I don’t want to not go there any more. I
like it there. I like what it was doing to me, how it made me feel.
I like –”

“
You like Colin?”

She
squeezes the cushion so tightly the seam is in danger of giving
way. “Yes, I do, but when I told him I liked spending time with
him, it just made him angrier.” She curls her top lip. “Couldn’t
have helped that I accused him of acting like a spoiled baby,
though, could it?”

“
Probably not.”

Mal
strokes the finger steeple through his beard and down this throat.
“You can do one of two things,” he says. “A, you walk away from the
whole thing and write it off as an experiment gone sour and we try
something else. That’s the easy option, the coward’s way
out–”

“
Or?

“
Or, B, you give yourself a couple of days to think about
it, to let things settle, to get things straight in your mind, and
then go back, find Colin, tell him how you feel. It’s
your
place, he’s
your
creation, and you
are in control. If he doesn’t like it, that’s his
problem.”