The Boy in the Smoke (4 page)

Stephen waited for the rest of the story, but it didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

“So you  … ”

“Drowned,” Peter said, matter-of-factly.

“But you got out  … ”

“They fished me out eventually, but I’d floated away a bit.”

“You
drowned
,” Stephen said. “And they had to revive you? How long were you in there?”

“Oh, they didn’t revive me. I was long gone, I’m afraid.”

Stephen shook his head in confusion.

“I’m dead,” Peter said. “Have been for quite some time. I’ve been in this blasted boathouse for far too many years now. It was a stupid, stupid, stupid thing to do. I hate this boathouse. I didn’t even row. And as it turns out, Simmons probably
did
feel the same way. I later saw him kissing Lockhart in this very room.”

Stephen turned and painfully craned his sore neck to make sure he could see the rope behind him. Rope still in place. Chair standing up. It made no sense at all. He had definitely kicked the chair away, and the chair was definitely upright now, and he was on the ground, alive.

He must have gone too long without oxygen.

He lowered himself back down into a flat position on the floor and took some deep breaths. But when he looked up again, Peter was still there.

“It’s so nice to have someone to talk to,” Peter said. “Is this the first time you’ve ever seen anyone like me?”

He took Stephen’s stunned silence as an answer.

“That’s odd. There are certainly more of us around. Ghosts, I suppose you’d say.”

“You’re a ghost,” Stephen repeated.

Stephen wasn’t sure if it was good to engage with your own hallucinations, but still—any port in a storm.

“I’m wondering if the damage is permanent,” Stephen said. “I think my brain has constructed you. I’m not quite sure why.”

“It must be confusing for you, but I assure you, I am real. I died right here, in the river, all because of Simmons. You know, he came here once and stood on the spot where we kissed—or where I kissed him—and he stayed for quite a long time.

“I think he came here because he was sorry, but he had nothing to be sorry for. My father never came. He’s in—he
was
in—the House of Lords. I presume he told everyone I died in a swimming accident. He would never admit his son threw himself in a river. That’s not the kind of thing our family do.”

This, Stephen understood completely. Had he actually managed to hang himself, his parents’ main priority would probably have been figuring out what to tell the neighbours and everyone at the club. Perhaps this very sad narrative was his brain trying to help him sort out what to do next.

“It would be wonderful to be alive now,” Peter said. “I’d have led such a different life. I see what happens now. The romances that go on here, even in the open! I could even marry now! To
think
of it. When I think of all I missed  …  I’m sorry. I don’t mean to turn the conversation to me. I’ve seen you. You’ve always seemed like a good sort to me. Quiet. Tall and stalwart and handsome, if you don’t mind my saying. But certainly one of the good ones. It always
seemed
like you might have a story to tell and somewhere else you would rather be. I understand that feeling. I was always thinking about what it would be like away from here. It’s all I want, really, to be away from here. If you could do anything right now, instead of being here, what would it be?”

Stephen hesitated.

“I’d like to go and be a policeman,” he finally said.

“Ah.” Peter waved his hand. “Go and be a policeman. I think you’d be a good one.”

“You don’t know me,” Stephen said.

“I do. I told you, I’ve been in this bloody boathouse for ages. You always seemed all right to me. There’s always a few who are all right, and you’re one of them.”

“Thanks,” Stephen said. “And  …  you too.”

“That’s dashed kind of you,” Peter said, looking away in what appeared to be embarrassment. “It’s been a long time since a handsome boy had anything nice to say to me.”

“You saved my life,” Stephen said. “I don’t know  …  you may be in my head, I don’t know  …  but you saved my life.”

“Oh, it was nothing, really. I just moved a chair.”

The silence between them became a bit awkward.

“It’s almost dawn,” Peter said. “Look, I’ll take this down. I’m not very strong, but I can handle a rope. All of this will be gone. You go and  …  you take care of yourself. Go on. I don’t want to see you go, but it’s for the best. Come on now.”

Peter stood and gestured for Stephen to do the same.

“You’re right,” Stephen said. He pushed himself up slowly and opened one of the doors and saw the first show of sunlight taking over the sky, turning the night into something soft and violet-coloured and fresh-smelling. It really was like everything was new, and the gentle sound of the flowing river, the paddling ducks getting started for the day, the birds starting to sing in the trees  … 

He turned to see Peter clambouring up the side of the boats. Down came the rope a moment later, and there was Peter, climbing down with a cheer.

His life was his, and Gina would have thrown him in the river herself if she’d heard his insane plan. He could hear her yelling at him in his mind and the sound was sweet and the words were cutting:
Stephen, you utter tit. How does killing yourself help me? I love you, you fool. How did they make you so stupid?

But Gina was not there. Only Peter, who was now folding the chair away.

“I’m going to go back now,” Stephen said.

“Right then,” Peter replied. “And I don’t want to tell you what to do, but you really shouldn’t do that again. Things change. Never act as if situations won’t change. You’ll end up in a bloody boathouse forever. And  … ”

Stephen had a foot out the door.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I know you think I’m not real,” Peter said. “But come back and see me, won’t you?”

“I will,” Stephen said. “I promise.”

It wouldn’t be long before Eton was awake, before someone saw the mark on his neck. As he walked back across one of the very spongy lawns, intentionally stepping off the path, Stephen both cursed and thanked the mark. Without it, he could have continued on and no one would have been any the wiser. But the mark was there to bring change. There was no outfit, no shirt, nothing that would cover it—nothing he could get away with wearing.

He didn’t even try to go back into his building. Instead, he walked the high street, taking in the quiet, looking up at Windsor Castle from the end of the road, then walking back again. The first runners came out to pound the streets. They were too involved in their own running to look at Stephen closely. But as he got closer to home, Elliot Mogs, from his house, came out for his five-thirty morning run.

“Morning, Dene  … ” He stopped at once. “Your
neck
. What were you up to last night?”

“You don’t want to know,” Stephen said with a laugh.

It was Fourth of June, after all. Things happened. He could perhaps pretend it was a prank gone wrong.

The look on Mogs’s face suggested not.

The san wouldn’t open for a bit, though there were people there all the time, monitoring the sick bay. Stephen peered into the windows and saw other boys sleeping in the unit. He passed along until he found a nurse awake, sitting at a desk with a cup of tea, reading something on the internet. He knocked lightly on the window. This surprised her, but she came around and opened it up.

“I did this,” he said, pointing at his neck.

The nurse looked, paused, inhaled softly through her nose.

“Is that a rope mark?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do that to yourself?”

“Yes. Can I come inside?”

“I’ll open the door,” she said.

And she did so, then ushered him directly to one of the small examining rooms, where she sat him down.

“Was your intention to kill yourself, or was there some other purpose?” she said.

“It was my intention to kill myself, but I changed my mind.”

The nurse nodded slowly.

“I see,” she said. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”

“Me too.”

She nodded again, and her face was pinched in kindness.

“Your voice is quite rough. You may have injured your larynx. Does your throat hurt?”

“A bit,” Stephen said.

“What’s your name?”

“Stephen Dene.”

“My name is Janet. Do you mind if I examine your neck, Stephen, if I do it very gently?”

Stephen lifted his chin to make his throat more accessible, and the effort pulled painfully at the ripped-up skin. Janet was as gentle as she promised, feeling the wound all the way around, having him swallow, asking him to speak again. His voice was all gravel.

“I don’t think this is too bad,” she said. “The doctor might do an x-ray to see if there’s any damage, but the bruising could be the worst of it. I think you changed your mind fairly quickly, didn’t you?”

She looked into Stephen’s face.

“Your eyes are a bit bloodshot,” she added. “That will go away as well. All in all, I am very happy to see you in such good condition. Do you think you’d like a cup of tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“Good. Come with me. We’ll get it together.”

Janet put her hand on his arm and guided him to the tiny kitchen used by the staff. Together, they went about the very ordinary process of putting bags into mugs and boiling the kettle. The tea felt a bit like acid going down his throat, but somehow, it was also good and reassuring.

“Stephen,” she said, “the physical damage is likely not too serious. Obviously, the main concern is how you are feeling.”

“I’m feeling much better, actually,” he said. “It was stupid.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You’ll still need to be seen by the doctor, and it’s very likely something will need to be done to help you. Do you agree that something needs to be done?”

“I agree.”

“That’s good. I’m going to call in Doctor Frankel, who is our resident psychiatrist. He’s quite nice and very good at what he does. Everything you say will be absolutely confidential.”

“But you need to put this in my record,” he said. “I know everything stops here. They’ll send me somewhere.”

“You’re not the first, Stephen. The pressures of this school  … ”

“I know I’m not the first.”

Maybe it was the exhaustion finally hitting him, or the shock. Or maybe it was the fact that with the morning and the sun and the landing on the floor of the boathouse and taking that deep breath—Stephen was starting over. And there would be no lies, no covering up. No trying to fit within the system no matter the cost.

“I met one who succeeded,” he said, setting down his tea. “In the boathouse. He helped me get down.”

The nurse paused on this.

“Who  …  succeeded?”

“I realize how that sounds,” he said. “And I don’t know how it happened. But I met someone there who helped me, and he claimed to be dead. And that’s why I’m alive. I imagine this will complicate things.”

“Well,” the nurse said, “the brain can do all sorts of things when deprived of oxygen. I’m going to phone Doctor Frankel at home. And I’ll get you a cervical collar—one of those foam neck braces. It will cover up your neck and give you a bit of support. Then I’ll have our assistant James walk back to your house with you, and you can get some things.”

“I’m not going to do it again,” Stephen said. “I stopped. I came here.”

“I know,” she said. “But it’s best to have some company. It’s all right, Stephen. You aren’t alone in this.”

“I know I’m not,” he said. And for once, the morning sunlight felt hopeful, like something in him was finally lifting, something was finally free.

III

The hospital was outside Brighton. It was a sprawling building in some vague Victorian style, all arches and big windows, painted stark white. It was a seaside kind of building, and it reminded him of a massive vanilla ice-cream—one that had sixty-nine private patient rooms and three acres of highly manicured ground, including a path to the sea and a private beach. After being assessed, he was shown to a comfortable room, one without too much character—heavy curtains at the windows, a desk, a television mounted on the wall, everything in calm, muted colours. Judged by the decor, this could have been a roadside inn. There was already a daily schedule in a small plastic frame by his door.

Stephen was used to schedules and found himself studying it and making plans on how to get to each thing most efficiently, before he checked himself and reminded himself that he was in a hospital, not running across a town to try to get to a Latin div on time. The day was leisurely, but there was no room to sit and wallow. Breakfast at nine. A choice after that of either painting or taking a group bike ride (he’d do the bike ride), then one-on-one therapy, then lunch, then a “seaside walk”, then group therapy, then a choice between yoga and tai chi (he’d do the tai chi), then time to write in his journal (which he now had to keep), and dinner. So this was what he would be doing for the rest of June, at least, while everyone else at school finished up. Provisions would be made, he was told, to help him secure his place at Cambridge and finish the Eton year somehow, but he didn’t, he was assured, have to worry about that now.

He found that he wasn’t worried about it at all. His room looked out at the sea, he didn’t really mind speaking to the doctor, and the dinner wasn’t that bad. He was here to get better, and the act of coming here was already a huge step.

His parents paid the bills but did not visit. This was absolutely expected and absolutely preferred.

The first few days passed in this way. Unsurprisingly, his doctor wanted to talk about Peter, but Stephen was hesitant. Regina—yes, he would finally discuss Regina. But something about Peter  …  it just wouldn’t settle. He would replay their conversation in his head as he tried to get to sleep. It wasn’t upsetting to think about Peter. On the contrary, it was reassuring. Hallucination or not, Peter was somehow—

His friend?

Fine. So he had an imaginary friend. But the doctor was more and more persistent each day, and each day, Stephen found himself becoming more and more reticent on the subject.

“This figure,” the doctor would ask. “Did it speak or was it silent?”

“I know it wasn’t there,” Stephen would answer.

“But it did speak to you. What did it talk about?”

“About how this was a mistake.”

“And what else?”

“Nothing else,” Stephen would say.

And that was all he would give about Peter—no name, no details of the story he told. Let him remain a shimmering, faint vision in the eyes of the doctors.

After a week of this routine, Stephen found himself sitting in the library one evening, happily reading away when an orderly came in.

“The doctor would like to see you,” he said. “Nothing’s wrong, he just asked if you could pop in for a moment.”

Stephen had just found himself in a comfortable place, reading in the summer evening sunlight. He wasn’t thrilled about getting up to talk again. But he was trained to obey commands, so he got up and followed the orderly, down the now-shaded hall with its soft blue carpeting. It was rare to see a carpeted hospital, and Stephen was reminded that he was basically supported by a cushion of money.

His doctor was not alone. Next to him was a woman, maybe forty or so, with very dark black hair and skin. She wore a jolt of rose-coloured lipstick, highlighting the professionally polite smile all doctors seemed to have to wear at all times—the smile that bordered on a grimace. She was introduced as Doctor Marigold, and Stephen was informed that she would be taking over his care. Then they were left alone.

“I don’t usually do sessions in the evening,” Stephen said.

“I know,” the woman said. “I’m sorry to disrupt your routine.”

“Is there a reason my doctor has been changed?”

“I’m a specialist,” she said. “And please, call me Felicia. I was hoping to speak to you a little bit more about what happened to you in the boathouse—specifically, with the boy you said you saw.”

Stephen shifted uncomfortably.

“I’m told you don’t like to talk about this,” Felicia said.

“Am I so ill they had to bring in someone new?”

“No. If anything, the reports I’m reading are excellent. You’re responding very well to treatment. You really just needed a chance to decompress. No—I’m here because, as you have probably realized by now, you experienced a neurological event. I am doing research on this very subject, and you’d be providing invaluable assistance to many other people if you would consent to participate in a test.”

“What sort of test?” Stephen asked.

“A simple and painless one. It only takes a few hours. No pills, nothing physical. It’s quick and simple. Not only would this test provide valuable data, I believe it would be of tremendous benefit to you.”

“How?”

“Hallucinations are extremely common,” she said. “Much more common than people realize. We’re looking into what triggers certain types of hallucinations. We’d just check your brain function—and again, it’s absolutely pain-free and simple. I think you’d like to know what happened, to know there’s no lasting damage.”

“Do you think there could be?” he asked.

“Based on what I’ve read of your case, I think your prognosis is excellent. And sometimes hallucinations are quite helpful. Quite pleasant. Which is why, sometimes, people don’t want to share them. They’re private.”

She gave him a long, understanding look.

“I won’t pry into what you saw,” she said. “I merely want to check to see how your brain is functioning now. Would you be agreeable to that? It really would be a tremendous help.”

Stephen didn’t really feel like having his brain tested, but if it was helpful—well, he really had no excuse to say no.

“I suppose,” he said.

“Very good. The facility is in London. We’d drive there and back this evening.”

“This evening?” Stephen said. “Now?”

“Right now. My car is outside. I’ll take you there, and you’ll be back here in a few hours. We might be a little late, until midnight or so. Would that be all right?”

She was already on her feet, ushering him up and towards the door.

The sky was still heavy with sunlight when Stephen and Felicia walked to the car. These early-summer days really did seem to go on forever. Felicia, he noted, drove the same car as his father—a green Jaguar. Even the interior was the same. She said very little on the ride, which was fine by Stephen. He’d been given the cervical collar to carry and wear as he liked, and he put it on and used it like a travel pillow to drift off into a nap.

When he opened his eyes, they were driving through Knightsbridge. The streets were clogged with tourists taking pictures of anything and everything. The sky was just starting to dim in a great late-night sunset.

“Where are we going, exactly?” Stephen asked.

“Berkeley Square. Not far now.”

“There’s a hospital at Berkeley Square?”

“No. There is a house there. That’s where we’re doing our test.”

They parked on the square, which was really a rectangle—a very tidy one, with a perfect green lawn. There were only a few people milling about there. The square itself was lined with flat-fronted Georgian houses, most of which looked to be occupied by businesses, and therefore, mostly unoccupied at this hour.

“This one,” Felicia said, pointing to a four-storey house with a slate-grey front. She unlocked the door and they stepped inside. Stephen was hit by a familiar and quite pleasant smell—books. Lots of them. Funny how books could end up giving off such a scent, however subtle.

The reception area was a long, narrow room halved by a staircase. The rest of the space was crowded by bookshelves precisely filled with what looked like old volumes, all in good condition, many behind glass. There were two rooms radiating off the reception area from either side and these, too, seemed to be full of books. By the staircase there was a very fine and elegant desk with a green-shaded lamp. Just behind this stood a grim-faced woman of about fifty, with a steely crew-cut. She wore a loose, square-collared blouse and a voluminous pair of trousers, both of which were in muted colours.

“Hello, Stephen,” she said. “Welcome.”

“Hello,” Stephen replied.

Felicia looked a little confused by this exchange, as if saying hello wasn’t quite something from her world.

“This is a bookshop,” Felicia said.

“I guessed that.”

“It’s a very good bookshop,” she clarified.

Stephen gave her a side glance.

“Why are we in a bookshop?” he asked.

“This is a technique called ‘flooding’,” she said. “It’s usually used in the treatment of phobias and compulsions. The idea is that we quickly and safely immerse you in a situation in order to free you of fears.”

“I’m not afraid of bookshops,” he said.

“This is not a case of phobia. I just want you to go upstairs and look in every room of this house. And take this. It’s dark.”

She removed a torch from her purse and handed it to him.

“You want me to just  …  go upstairs? And this is going to help me?”

“It is,” she said.

The woman with the steely hair folded her arms over her chest and looked on. When Stephen glanced her way again, she gave him a solemn nod, which he supposed was meant to encourage, or to tell him to get on with it.

“Right,” he said, sighing loudly and not caring that the doubt in his voice was audible. He flicked on the torch, and it spilled a very weak light. He looked to Felicia again, wondered what the hell kind of clinic he’d been sent to, then proceeded to climb the steps. The steps were carpeted with a roll of oriental red, with metal bars pinching the carpet back at the folds to keep it from coming loose. They had a mellow creak as befitted such a bookshop, which Stephen could now see specialized in antique and rare books. Prints of Georgian scenes and ducks and hunting dogs lined the steps to the second floor, which was still veiled in darkness.

“Wouldn’t it just be easier to turn on the lights?” Stephen called down.

“Try along the wall,” Felicia called up.

“Try along the wall,” he murmured under his breath. He did so, feeling along, reaching into the spaces between the bookcases. There was some light coming in, the remnants of the sunset, which was now nearly at ten. But there was only the one window at the far end of this floor, so it really was quite dark up there. When he did find the light switch, nothing happened.

“It’s not working,” he said.

“Just use the torch,” Felicia called.

Stephen switched on the torch and shone it around. Books, chairs, bookcases. He peered into the rooms and saw more of the same.

“Now what?” he called down.

“Up to the top, please.”

Stephen sighed and began to climb again. The third floor was much the same as the second. As he turned to climb the stairs to the fourth floor, he stopped involuntarily. There was a smell of  … 

Was it fire? Not fire in a fireplace, but fire as in things that should not be burning, acrid and sour. He turned around, then looked up. When he moved, the smell simply went away. It had gone from overwhelming to non-existent in seconds.

He climbed a few more steps and hit the smell again, and again, it went away. Up again. This floor, though not structurally different than the other three, was more shaded. There were heavy curtains on the window at the top of the stairwell and they were drawn. The walls were papered on this floor, a messy flocked pattern that seemed different from the tasteful schemes of the lower floors. It felt cold. It felt  … 

It felt wet, actually. Stephen drew his hand away and touched the tips of his fingers together, but there was no moisture there. He touched the wall again. Definitely wet. And yet again, his hand was dry.

He was being an idiot. There were many good reasons why dry walls might feel wet. Silk papering, for example, or a paper with a metallic sheen. They might both feel cool or wet to the touch. Maybe this entire exercise was to show him how suggestible he really was, and how you could reason your way out of a situation.

The top floor seemed to be almost entirely disused. There were crates of books around, mostly right at the top of the stairwell, as if someone had only been willing to climb so far, then simply threw them down. The doors to the rooms were closed. It was surprisingly cold given the fact that it was the top floor and a boiling hot day. If anything, this floor should have been unbearable and muggy. Something in him strongly suggested turning around and going back downstairs. This floor was creepy. Simple and plain. Creepy. Unpleasant.

He was not going to be creeped out by a dark hall with some boxes in it and some weird wallpaper that felt wet. He was still an Etonian—he was still
himself
—and Stephen was not the kind of person who simply gave up if something was a little weird or unpleasant. He walked to the first door and opened it. The room was small and cramped and looked to have been an old servant’s bedroom. It was filled with folded-up cardboard boxes and split books and a few chairs with shredded stuffing.

Second room—larger, with an adjoining door to the first. This appeared to be maybe an old bedroom, with a fireplace on the joining wall and a shared chimney. The room was papered in a delicate pink pattern which looked both old and fresh. There were scorch marks around the fireplace. And aside from more boxes and an old metal bedframe, this room contained nothing.

The third door faced the square. This one actually contained some light. The paper was yellow. The chairs were wooden and broken. No boxes. The entire floor was wasted space. He’d now gone everywhere there was to go and was embarrassed by his unease. If this was a test to make you feel like a knob, then he had exceeded expectations.