The Divided Child (31 page)

           
"No,
you're right.
 
It
was
rude
of me.
 
I'm sorry I didn't knock,
but it's so late I was afraid I might wake someone."

           
"I
don't mind your being here," he said.
 
"Though I don’t want you to think I usually do
this.
 
Cry, I mean."

           
"I
figured it was an aberration,” I assured him.
 
“Mind if I stay awhile?
 
Or are you anxious to get back to sleep?"

           
"
No!
 
I mean, no, I'm not really tired."

           
I
nodded.
 
"Probably this
weather.
 
It's hard to sleep when you
stick to everything."

           
Michael's
green eyes began to glisten.
 
"Actually, I did sleep a little, but I had a rather unpleasant
dream and woke up again."
 
He
ran his closed fist across his damp and tousled hair in a childish imitation of
his uncle's familiar gesture, and I felt a strange clamping pain in my
chest.
 
I wanted to put my arms
around him and comfort him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but
feared that if I did so, I’d injure his boyish pride.

           
A
large painful tear slid down his cheek.
 
He wiped it away with the inside of his wrist.

           
"Would
it make you feel better to talk about it?" I asked.

           
He
opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again as more tears came.
 
Then the tears turned to shaking
sobs.
 
Forgetting to worry whether
it was wise or not, I held out my arms.
 
He shot into them and I hugged him tight, stroking his hair and patting
his back until the sobs quieted into gentle snuffles.

           
"Better?"

           
He
nodded.

           
"Feel
like telling me about this dream?"

           
He
hesitated, then whispered into my shoulder, “It was late at night.
 
There was a man in a car, and he had my
new bicycle with him.
 
Only it
wasn't my bicycle, it was me, and he was driving toward a cliff so he could
throw me over."
 
He lifted his
head and looked up at me with frightened eyes.

           
"That
sounds pretty scary," I said, forcing my voice to be calm and steady,
"but it
was
only a dream, Michael.
 
It's not real, and never was.
 
You're here, safe, and I'm with you, and I'll stay with you
tonight as long as you want me to."

           
“I’m
not usually a coward, you know, and I seldom ever cry,” he assured me in a low,
stricken voice.

           
“Michael,
I know you’re not a coward, and as for crying, well, what you’ve gone through
these past few months would cause more than a few grown men to shed a tear or
two, so please don’t feel you have to apologize.”
 

           
He
gave a relieved sigh and nestled more tightly in my arms.
 
We sat like that in silence for so
long, I thought he'd fallen asleep, until a muffled voice said, "It was
partly
real, you know.
 
That's what made
it so terrible."

           
Startled,
I pushed him away from me a little so I could see his face.
 
"What was partly real?"

           
"My
dream.
 
The bicycle.
 
I saw him drive away with
it."
 
He swallowed hard and
went on.
 
"I think that's why
he went out that night.
 
Why he
drove on that road near the cliffs.
 
When the fog rolled in . . ."

           
I
felt the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
 
"Whoa!
 
Let's back up a little here.
 
First of all, who did you see?"

           
"My
. . . father.
 
I looked out the
window and saw him drive off.
 
Well, I mean, I didn't actually see
him
, but I saw the car, and
he never let anyone else drive the Rolls.
 
Anyway, the bicycle was sticking out the boot, and I knew he was taking
it somewhere to get rid of it."

           
"The
car?"

           
"The
bicycle."

           
"But
why should he do such a thing?" I asked.

           
Michael
colored.
 
"He was angry when
it arrived at Christmas.
 
He said
Uncle Geoffrey shouldn’t have given it to me, and he threatened to send it
back.
 
In the end, he let me keep
it, but I suppose after that terrible row he and Uncle Geoffrey had --"

           
I
said sharply, "Your father and your uncle had an argument?"

           
He
nodded, looking miserable.

           
"When?"

           
"That
day.
 
In the afternoon."
 
Dismay must have shown in my face for
he quickly added, "I didn't mean to listen, honestly I didn't, but I was
coming down the stairs and they were yelling at each other so loudly I couldn't
help but hear some of it."

           
"It's
all right, Michael," I said numbly.
 
"I'm just trying to understand.
 
I thought your father was alone in the house the day of his
accident; I didn't know you were there, too."

           
He
shook his head.
 
"Will
Guyshull's father arrived a day early to pick Will up for Easter hols and he
offered me a lift, so I came home early, too.
 
But when I got home no one was there, not even Bennings or
Sarah or any of the other servants.
 
I didn't have a key, so I climbed up the old chestnut tree and slipped
in through my bedroom window.
 
About
an hour later I heard the Rolls come up the drive and saw Father get out by
himself, but I thought it might be best to wait a bit before putting in an
appearance."

           
"Why?"

           
"The
old chestnut tree's a bit rotten, and one of the branches I was climbing
started to snap.
 
I jumped onto another
in time, but the rotten branch broke off and crashed into one of his favorite
rose bushes.
 
When he got out of
the car, he was already looking bloody -- I mean, awfully -- angry, so I wasn't
keen to test his temper any further."

           
"I
see.
 
So what made you finally
decide to venture downstairs?"

           
"I
saw Uncle Geoff's car turn up the drive, and I didn't want to miss him.
 
I hadn't seen him for a long time, you
see."
 
It was clear from
Michael's voice that visits from his uncle had been much-cherished events.

           
"So
you started down the stairs and you heard them arguing.
 
Did either of them see you?"

           
"No,"
he said tightly.

           
"Are
you sure?"

           
"Yes."

           
"What
were they arguing about?"

           
He
shook his head and stared down at his hands.
 
I gently tipped his chin up so I could see his face, and
found his eyes brimming with tears.
 

           
"Never
mind.
 
It doesn't matter," I
told him softly, brushing a recalcitrant elf-lock back off his brow.
 
"What happened next?
 
Did you slip back upstairs?"

           
He
nodded.
 
"I went back to my
room.
 
After a while, I must have
fallen asleep.
 
It was dark when I
woke.
 
I heard the Rolls starting
up.
 
I went to look out the window,
and I saw it disappear down the drive with my bicycle sticking out the
boot.
 
I slipped downstairs and
looked around.
 
The house was
empty, so I got something to eat, watched some telly, and went back up to my
room.
 
When I woke the next
morning, the servants were back, but there was no sign of the Rolls."

           
"Michael,"
I said gently, "we don't have to talk about this anymore if you don't want
to."

           
His
chin was quivering a bit, but he said bravely, "No, it's all right.
 
I'd like to tell you, if you don't
mind."

           
I
assured him I didn't, and he described how he'd crept back down the chestnut
tree and pretended to be arriving from the station.
 
His stepmother had arrived soon after, followed by the
police with news of the accident.
 
She had gone off to identify the body, Spiro had arrived later in the
day and had immediately rushed off to comfort his sister, and Michael had been
left alone with only the servants for company because the police hadn't been
able to reach Geoffrey until late into the night.

           
When
Michael finally felt talked-out, we adjourned to the kitchen and I made some
chamomile tea.
 
By the time we
returned to his room, he was already drooping, and not long after I tucked him
back into bed, he was asleep.

           
Feeling
more than a little worn myself, I dropped a light goodnight kiss on his
forehead and tiptoed quietly out of the room.
 
Climbing into my own bed, I sank against the mattress as if
I were made of stone.

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
By
morning, the humidity had dropped, the air was light and cool, and my mood was
. . . darker than the wine-dark sea.

           
It
didn't help having Demetra Redfield offer me eye cream to help cover the dark
circles she so kindly pointed out had developed under my eyes; or to find out
that Spiro had disappeared to the mainland on business and that no one, not
even his sister, knew when to expect him back; or to be told with obvious
relish by Helen that Michael was feeling under the weather and would be
spending the entire day in his room.

           
Which
is perhaps why, when I met Paul on my way down to the beach and he asked me if
I were going for a swim, I turned to him with perfect aplomb and snapped,
"No, actually, I thought I'd just go down and drown myself."
 
I was momentarily cheered out of my
black mood to see a look of startled incredulity flash across his normally
imperturbable countenance.

           
Later,
however, as I paddled listlessly about in the water, I began to wonder if Paul
had taken me seriously.
 
I caught
the glint of sunlight off a pair of binoculars, and, with that strange sixth
sense that comes into play when you know you're being observed, I knew for a
certainty that the binoculars were trained on me, watching my every move.
 
Feeling first uncomfortable, then
irritated, then downright angry after minutes of unceasing scrutiny, I
scrambled out of the water and started up the path towards the garden.

           
Paul,
no doubt seeing me come, was innocently picking tomatoes when I arrived,
dripping and furious.
 
"How
dare you do that to me!" I yelled at him in Greek.

           
He
straightened slowly.
 
"Do
what?"

           
"You
know very well what!
 
I'm warning
you.
 
I won't be stared at through
those damn binoculars like some bug under a microscope!
 
Do you understand?"

           
He
shook his head.
 
"No, I'm
afraid I don't.
 
Do you mean to say
someone's been spying on you with binoculars?"

           
"Yes!
 
Just now, while I was down
swimming.
 
Are you claiming it
wasn't you?"

           
"Of
course it wasn't me."
 
He set
the basket of tomatoes down on the ground.
 
"You'd better stay here."

           
"Stay
here?
 
Why?
 
Where are you going?"

           
He
was gazing off in the direction of the house.
 
"Why, to find your spy, of course."

           
He
was gone for what seemed an inordinately long time, and when he returned he
tossed a towel to me and said, "Nothing.
 
I searched everywhere.
 
I couldn't find a sign of anyone."