Memory of Love (9781101603024) (16 page)

How would I make Ika understand when I myself didn't understand? How would I be able to comfort him when I had no comfort for myself?

Over the time we had known each other we seemed to have developed a kind of instinctive rapport. But it only worked when we were together – at home, or in the car. Just the two of us. We never talked much, but we still communicated. I rarely received more than a nod or a shake of the head from him. And even more seldom a smile. But this had come to make those words and gestures the more pregnant with meaning. There were moments, as we listened to music or worked on our project, when it seemed that there was a perfect flow of wordless communication between us.

To sit him down and try to explain what lay ahead would be difficult. If he were to be allowed to stay with George it might make things a little easier. But he would want to know how things were going to pan out long term. He deserved to know. So how was I to explain? All I had to communicate was my own anxiety. It felt as if we were equally exposed and vulnerable. Pawns in a game not of our making, and one that neither of us could influence.

Every now and then it had struck me that our relationship was at least as important to me as it was to Ika. Perhaps more so. Could it be my own situation that concerned me so, and not his?

‘All will be well.'

That's what you say when you're not sure how things will turn out. To assure yourself, as much as others. Or when you know that nothing will ever in fact be well again.

To comfort yourself, as much as others.

It's the sound that wakes her. Not because it is very loud, but because it is different. Without opening her eyes she lies still, listens. Her nose is buried in Daniel's hair and she can smell his baby sweat. At first she is not sure if the sound was real. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it will go away.

Then there is another heavy thud, like something hitting the wall hard. In the silence that follows she can hear some faint sounds of voices. She can't hear the words, but she can feel them. She can feel what they are saying even though she can't hear them. In a way it is worse like this. Because although she thinks she knows what they are saying, she could be wrong. It could be something even worse . . . the worst that she is able to imagine.

Then there is an even heavier thud, and the sound of something crashing to the floor. Something falling over. And then a voice. This time it is Mother's voice, but strangely altered. She can't hear what Mother is saying, it is just a sound. There are no words; it is like the sound of an animal. Just a sound. Loud at first, then slowly it fades. It doesn't sound like Mother at all now. It is a terrible sound and she doesn't want to hear it. But even when it stops, it is as if it still hangs in the air, very faint, but still there.

Daniel sleeps through it all, and she lies very still so as not to disturb him. His warm body lies pressed against hers, but she feels cold all the same. Her mouth is dry and she needs to go to the toilet. But she stays put, her eyes closed and her arms around her baby brother.

The sound doesn't go away. She can't hear it but it is still there, she knows it is. And she will have to follow it. She climbs out of the cot and puts her cold feet on the floor. Her nightgown is damp; she is even colder now that she is no longer in bed with Daniel close. She shivers and folds her arms across her chest. She stands still, her ears alert. Then she walks out into the hall. Every now and then she stops. Listens. But there is no sound.

The door to the bedroom is ajar. She doesn't touch it. She just leans forwards and looks inside. Her teeth are chattering now. She can see a corner of the bed, a small piece of the floor. The light is on but it looks strange. It seems to wash over the floor only. The carpet is a heap half pushed under the bed. And there is Mother's arm, outstretched on the floor with her hand open. She can't see Hans but she can hear him snoring. That's all she can hear over the sound inside her head. It sounds as if her heart is inside her head. It throbs and beats louder and louder, and it feels as if her whole head will crack open.

She walks down the hall and into the kitchen. There, she pulls a chair out from under the table and carries it to the kitchen bench. She climbs up onto the chair and from there onto the cold marble benchtop, where she kneels down and stretches out her hand for one of the knives from the stand on the wall. She holds it in a tight grip as she slowly climbs down. She puts the knife on the bench and adjusts her nightgown, which has become twisted. Then she returns the chair to the table. For a moment she stands looking at the knife. She can't think. Her head is throbbing and her fingers are so cold she can't understand how they will ever bend around the handle of the knife, but when eventually she picks it up, she squeezes it firmly in her hand and returns to the bedroom.

With a light push the door opens enough for her to step inside.

The strange light is coming from one of the bedside lamps, which has fallen to the floor. It shines straight at her, blinding her at first. She blinks and the room slowly comes into view. Mother is closest. Her open hand lies next to Marianne's foot. Mother is on her back with both her arms flung wide. Her dressing gown is open and she is naked underneath it. Her head is on the side, as if she is asleep.

Hans is lying on the bed. His shirt is on the floor by the bed but he is still wearing his black trousers. And his black shoes. He is lying on his stomach, but one hand is hanging over the side of the bed and his face is turned away from her. His back is very white in the strange light that shines from below.

She sinks down to the floor and kneels beside Mother, and as she bends over, she can hear Mother breathing. But it doesn't sound right. It sounds as if there is something inside her throat – it sort of gargles. With every breath red foam seeps through her lips. It looks like blood. There is a pool of darker blood on the floor underneath Mother's head, too.

Marianne puts the knife on the floor and tries to pull Mother's dressing gown closed, but her cold hands are stiff and clumsy. She is not weeping, but her throat aches as if the weeping is stuck there.

Then Hans moves on the bed. He groans and shifts a little, but that's all.

Marianne rises stiffly and turns towards the bed.

It is only the first stab that is slow.

The knife sinks into the side of Hans's neck and it seems to take a long time. There is so much blood. It is going everywhere. All over the bed. Hans flings out his arms, and again and again he tries to rise, but each time he slumps back down. She plunges the knife, again and again – anywhere. Finally Hans slides halfway down onto the floor. Quickly, she has to take a step backwards. Her foot slides on the floor and she slips and falls. She lands close to Mother; she can feel Mother's body beside her.

She can hear someone sob but she doesn't know who.

She lies beside Mother on the floor. Her chest hurts. It is as if something is stuck inside it too. It hurts to breathe, and she takes quick little gasps of air. All the while she keeps her eyes closed.

She feels Mother stir. She opens her eyes and looks at her, watches her slowly reach out for Marianne's hand, which rests on the floor between them. Mother gently prises the knife from Marianne. Then she drops her hand back down to the floor again. Now Mother is clasping the knife.

When she looks at Mother's face it is almost as if she is trying to nod. But then there is nothing, nothing at all. All is very still, and Marianne watches the red foam trickle through Mother's lips and down her cheek.

Marianne rises, first onto all fours, then she stands up. She walks slowly towards the door, and when she looks back she can see the red prints from her feet.

She is shaking, and there is nothing she can do to make it stop. She is wet and she knows she has peed herself. Still, she walks straight to the nursery and climbs into the cot. Daniel is asleep, but he whimpers a little as she adjusts herself behind him and puts her arms around him.

She slides her hand underneath his pyjama top and lets her fingers run over the scar under his arm, while at the same time burying her nose in his neck.

Eventually she falls asleep.

19.

Reluctantly, I got up and went back to the car. I drove slowly, even slower than usually. I rolled down the window and let the breeze in. The sea was a background to everything, a constant presence far below to my right.

I had driven to Hamilton filled with a complex mix of feelings. Returning, I felt different. The future was still unknown, but I realised I could finally see myself, and my actions, more clearly.

I had allowed Ika's life and his needs to become intrinsically interwoven with my own. In the end, perhaps I had become unable to distinguish between the two. I had seen him and, in a sense, seen myself. Taken for granted that I understood him and that I knew what was best for him. What was it George had said? Things often turn out badly if we allow ourselves to be guided by our feelings. Perhaps particularly so if they are our deepest subconscious feelings. I had found Ika, and in him I thought I had found myself. And despite wanting to care for him, perhaps I had ignored his real needs. Strong feelings often breed a kind of benign arrogance: my passionate heart must not be questioned. I feel, therefore I
know
. All my education, my entire adult life experience was just a thin scab over my bleeding child's heart.

I tried to argue with myself. Convince myself that the matter was now in good hands. Still, my resistance was formidable. It refused to withdraw completely.

‘Trust me, trust us, all will be well.'

A gnawing doubt still lingered.

As I drove up to my house I saw George's car parked at the back, and when I walked around the corner I found him on the deck. He was pacing back and forth. When he spotted me he came running down the steps.

‘He has disappeared!' he said. ‘He wanted to come here and wait for you, but when I came down to check on him he wasn't here. I thought I saw tyre tracks in the sand behind the house, and I thought Lola might have come after all.'

I stared at him. The slight sense of relief and hope that had filled me instantly dissolved.

‘We went fishing, but we didn't even get a nibble and we both got bored. On our way back he said he wanted to stay here and wait for you. I should have stayed too, but he didn't seem to want me around. I didn't think there was any harm in leaving him here.'

George was staring out over the sea. Then he looked down.

‘I rang CYF straight away but there's not much they can do right now. I rang you too, but I just got your voicemail.'

I pulled out my mobile from my pocket. It was turned off.

‘I've been running back and forth along the beach since then. Shouting his name and searching. But I can't find him. I haven't even seen any footprints anywhere.'

His voice broke and he seemed close to tears.

Had Ika really run down to the beach? The beach was endless. Prints could be erased in an instant. And the sea swallowed all in its way.

A little frightened child could disappear without a trace.

I opened the door and went inside. The place looked as I had left it. There were no signs of violence. I went into the lounge and I noticed the piano lid was open. I wasn't sure whether it had been when I left, but I didn't think so. The curtain to Ika's room was closed. I pushed it aside and looked. The bed looked untouched – no signs of him there.

I wasn't weeping, but I heard myself whimpering quietly under my breath as I tried to think. It was likely George was right. That Lola had indeed showed up at last, and had taken him. But part of me wouldn't believe it. Ika was very sensitive to sounds. He would have realised it was not my car. He would have run.

Or was I once again projecting myself onto Ika? Could I really be so sure I knew what he would have done? Perhaps he had just stayed here at the piano, paralysed with fear? On the other hand, we could be completely wrong, both George and I. Perhaps Ika had just set off on one of his little walkabouts.

George stood in the doorway.

‘I'm so sorry,' he said. ‘It's all my fault. I should have kept him with me all the time.'

‘That's just not possible,' I said. ‘You can't keep him when he is set on going. He demands space and freedom. He knew you were there, at home, waiting for him. That's all he needed. It's not your fault.'

‘I'll take another look along the beach,' he said and turned around.

‘I'll go the other way,' I said.

The sun was low and the landscape rested in a kind of stillness despite the constant crashing of the waves onto the empty beach. I jogged over the cool, wet sand. All the while I kept calling his name.

Eventually I had to slow down. The sun sank below the horizon in a blood-red crescendo that left a slowly fading aftermath of purple and grey. I suddenly realised where I was heading. I was walking up the beach, away from the sea. It was dusk now, but my eyes had adjusted and I had no problem finding my way.

I stood on the peak of a sand dune and looked down over our project. I was still struggling to get an idea of the totality of it, but from this perspective I thought I could discern something of what Ika had imagined. I walked down. When I reached the centre I lay down on the sand. Here, it was still warm from the sun. I stretched out my arms and looked up at the sky. Slowly, slowly I could detect stars in the darkening sky. Finally, I could see the entire Milky Way as a broad shimmering white ribbon across the sky. I had never seen it like this before.

I must have dozed off because his presence woke me. Ika was lying beside me on the sand. Not close, of course, but closer than I had come to expect. Without turning my head I stretched out my hand so that it rested open on the sand between us. To my utter surprise, I briefly felt his cold, scrawny hand touch mine. Then I turned to him and pulled him towards me, and held him. And he allowed it.

For a moment, I held him in my arms.

Then we lay there, side by side, and I told him where I had been. What I thought was going to happen.

I didn't say everything would be fine.

But I told him that I loved him. That I would never leave him. Whatever happened to us, he could know that I would be there. That I would never let anybody hurt him. I promised what I could promise, but no more.

Then we were silent and looked at the sky for quite a while.

‘I just wanted to be here,' he said. ‘I didn't think we would be able to finish it now.'

‘Of course we will,' I said.

We both sat up and I looked at him.

‘I think we should go back now and tell George, because he has been looking for you all afternoon.'

Ika made no reply of course.

‘Do you think we should ask George for dinner?'

No reply.

‘What shall we cook?'

‘Soup,' he said. And we both chuckled.

It was the first time I heard Ika laugh.