The Dumb House (12 page)

I stood up. The third man had noticed me now, and he looked at the girl, puzzled.

‘What is it?' he asked.

The girl resumed her former position immediately, with her head down, her hair hanging over her face. The third man looked at me suspiciously, then glanced towards the others at the bar. They had finished their order and Jimmy was standing, with a drink in one hand, watching him.

‘What's up with you?' he asked and, before the third man could answer, I stood up, finished my coffee and went outside. I waited several minutes, to see if the girl had followed, but she did not appear, so I walked slowly back to my car, and drove home.

For the next several days I had the same dream, with minor variations, once, sometimes twice a night. I was walking in the evening, on a path through a leafy wood. It was that time of day when the light has softened – evening-time in late June, say. I half-recognised the wood: it was spacious and open, with tall beech trees and field maples on either side. Cow parsley grew thick and white along the path; the grass was long and necked with cuckoo-spit; everything was still warm from the
day's heat. There were blue shadows under the trees, but the light was mostly green – green with a suggestion of water, and traces here and there of that smell you can find in old bottles and cans. It was that time of the evening when you sometimes feel you are being Watched, when something moves, a few feet away in the undergrowth, and you turn to almost see what must have been an animal, or a bird, vanishing amongst the leaves. I felt calm in the dream. I was walking slowly, enjoying the near-silence, the smell of the cow parsley, the cooling air. I felt calm and I had the sense of going to meet someone, keeping a long-planned appointment, somewhere further along the track. I think I had been walking for a long time when the dream began, content at first, then – quite suddenly – a little anxious, for no reason that I was aware of – anxious, or perhaps concerned, not unhappy, not afraid, nothing so extreme. After a time, I realised that what had disturbed me was the absence of birdsong, at that time of day when the birds should have been loudest, and I tried to remember whether I had heard them before, when I first set out. I thought I had, but I could not be sure; at the same time, the path widened and led me into a wide meadow. The grass had been cut here, it was dry and stubbled underfoot; at the far edge of the meadow I could see an old-fashioned wooden house, dark and vacant-looking, and in need of some repair, with a broken roof and a wide veranda at the front.

I began walking towards the house, convinced there was no one there, but curious to see inside. I was more aware of the quiet with each step I took till, as I stood at the foot of the veranda, the silence was total and oppressive. The windows at the front of the house were dusty and almost black, and a few were broken, giving on to a deeper blackness within. An old wheelbarrow stood in the yard. It had once been painted green, but now the paint was flaking
away and the wood that showed was black and streaked with mildew.

I had been so sure that no one was there, it was some time before I noticed the man, sitting on a rickety wooden chair on the veranda. Even when I did see him, I thought at first that he was a model of some kind, a sculpture perhaps, or a shopfront dummy. My next thought was that he was dead, that he had died long ago, when the house was still intact, and he had sat there for years, waiting for me to find him. I concluded that he must have died of old age, because his skin was wrinkled and dark, and his grey hair and beard were long and matted, yet his clothes were clean, as if they had been newly laundered and replaced, some time recently. I wasn't afraid. I climbed the steps and stood on the veranda, looking at what I thought was his lifeless body. I noticed there was something familiar about the face, but I couldn't have said what it was. The eyes were closed, thin-lidded and wrinkled, like a bird's eyes, and his mouth was thin too, thin and small, smiling a little, I thought, as if he had thought of something funny and probably a little bitter, or sad perhaps, during his last moments. I could see that the teeth were brown with decay.

I was trying to think who he was, when his eyes opened, suddenly large and blue as robin's eggs, bright, alive, a little dangerous, and I stepped back, half-expecting him to reach out and grasp me with a long bony hand, like one of those monsters in Mother's fairy tales. He remained perfectly still. I understood then that he could not move his body at all, only his eyes. He was quite powerless.

It was this knowledge that decided my next move. As if I had known they were there all along, I took two small, bright-blue pebbles from my pocket and held them up to his face, so he could see. He seemed to be straining to keep his eyes open,
as if even that small effort was too much for him, but he saw the stones, and he nodded, with what appeared to be a look of resignation. I reached out with my right hand, cradling the stones in my left, then plucked the right eye from his head and put it in my pocket. His body stiffened slightly; otherwise, he did not move. With the stones growing moist and warm in my left hand, I removed the other eye and placed it in my other pocket. The man's sockets were black now, and empty, like the old house behind him. There was no blood, and he remained still, as if he had felt no real pain. Then, slowly, and with great care, as if the whole world depended upon it, I took my pebbles, dropped them into his skull and watched as the eyelids closed and settled upon them. For a moment, I thought they were lost, that they were falling forever into that blackness; that the eyes would never be opened again, and I would have to stay there, with this blind old man forever – but, after a moment, the eyelids rose, slowly and with great difficulty. Now, the man did seem to be in pain; nevertheless, his eyes opened and now they were brighter and more blue than ever, joyful-seeming, empowered. There was no other change: his body remained in the rickety chair, his mouth was still thin and decayed, yet I could feel his happiness flooding me, just as I had felt his pain and dismay before. At the same time, I realised he was dismissing me, signalling with his new eyes that I was released from my obligation to him, that the spell that had held us both there was now broken. I took one last look at those brilliant eyes, then I turned, descended the steps of the veranda and began walking back across the meadow, the way I had come.

Each time I woke from this dream, I remembered the girl from the library, and I remembered how she looked at me that day, across the bar room of the King's Head. There was something about her that was important, I knew, but I couldn't
work out what. All I knew was that I would find her again some day, because that was what was intended.

Several weeks passed before I saw the vagrants again. As the days hinted at autumn, I still visited the library, driving in across the hills, watching the woods as they turned gold and crimson. Miss Patterson continued to take an interest in my work; occasionally, that interest became intrusive. As a matter of fact, I think she had begun to develop an unhealthy interest in me. She would put aside whatever she was doing whenever I arrived and ask if there was anything I needed, anything special. I remained polite, but I made it clear that I wanted to be alone to concentrate on my work. Not that it made any difference. If anything, my remoteness only attracted her more.

One evening, as I was walking back to my car through Trinity churchyard, I saw the man Jimmy and the younger of his two friends, sitting on a bench at the far end of the garden, by the gate that led out to Cuthbert Street, where I would have to pass them, to get to the car park. It had rained earlier, and the bench must have been wet, but they didn't seem to care. They were sharing a bottle of cider, and smoking cigarettes; when they saw me, the young man stood up and lurched forwards with one hand outstretched.

‘Spare us some change?' he asked, his voice a little slurred from the drink.

I shook my head and kept walking towards the gate. Jimmy was still seated, but he looked up at me as I approached and gave me a hard smile.

‘Spare us some change, mister,' he said, quietly, insinuatingly.

I shook my head again.

‘I know you, don't I?' he said more loudly, getting to his feet and peering into my face.

I stopped as he blocked my way.

‘I don't think so,' I answered. ‘Now, let me pass.'

It was a mistake, of course. He was looking for confrontation. Somewhere, at the deepest level of his being, there was an expectancy of contempt, a desire to be confirmed in the belief that the world was against him. He was looking for an opponent; he was looking for the first indication of repugnance or disgust, so he could strike back, and show his defiance. Not that I was concerned. I had carried small weapons and tools in my coat for years, for use in just such a situation. I had no intention of becoming a victim, especially the victim of vermin like these. That evening, I had a Stanley knife in my pocket, and I was ready to use it.

‘No need to be like that,' he said.

The other man had turned back and stood behind me, watching, waiting for his cue.

‘You could show people some respect,' Jimmy continued, and the other man echoed him, quietly, gloatingly. ‘That's all I ask. It's not too much to ask, is it?'

I waited. There was no point in further conversation; if they were going to attack, they would do it now. I slipped my hand into my pocket and gripped the Stanley knife. There were two of them, but they were drunk and stupid, and I was alert. The knife would take them by surprise – people like Jimmy always assume superior strength, not because they are stronger, but because they think they are prepared to go further. It's the first law of human conflict: whoever is prepared to do the most damage, no matter what damage he suffers in return, will be the eventual victor. It's one of the qualities that distinguishes us from the animals, this readiness to throw caution to the wind. Faced with a real fight, most animals will compromise. If the odds look bad, one or another will back off, or the fight will be
discontinued by mutual consent. Humans are the only animals prepared to fight for a Pyrrhic victory.

I had no reason to fight, of course. There was still a possibility of resolving the situation peacefully. Naturally, I had no desire to waste my energy brawling in a churchyard with two vagrants. If the men had attacked, I would have defended myself, and I have no doubt they would have come off worst. Had it not been for the girl, I would certainly have walked away from the situation – but as soon as I saw her, I realised that this was the moment I had been waiting for. Nothing happens by chance. Even if she didn't realise it, she arrived at that moment for a reason.

Now, all of a sudden she appeared. I hadn't seen her before, but she must have been there all the time, hidden amongst the bushes, watching. I didn't know if she was with them or if she had stumbled upon us by accident, as she emerged from her hiding-place. In spite of the weather, she was wearing her thin summer dress and plastic sandals. As if it had been scripted, her arrival diverted Jimmy's attention from me, and I used the moment's distraction to make my move. Before he could defend himself, I stepped forward and slashed the Stanley knife across his face, drawing blood.

Jimmy screamed out in pain and rage. I slashed at him again, making contact with his head, then I hit him hard, once, so he fell to his knees, clutching his face. I turned to face the other man, but he was backing away. As I had guessed from the first, he had no taste for a fight. He was only there because of Jimmy. I took two steps forward with the knife raised, and he turned and ran, leaving his friend at my mercy.

I looked at the girl. For the first time, I noticed that her face was badly bruised, and she had a bad cut above one eye, the kind of cut a boxer gets after a hard punch.

‘Are you all right?'

She did not answer.

I was keeping an eye on Jimmy. He wanted to get up, but he couldn't. He was afraid. There must have been blood in his eyes, and I think the sight and feel of it deprived him of any will to fight on. I turned back to the girl. She was staring at Jimmy in horror and I realised she knew she would be blamed for this: as soon as I was gone, Jimmy would take it out on her. I was in no doubt that the bruises and cuts on her face were his handiwork. This would work in my favour, of course; it would help me persuade her to get away from there, if persuasion were needed.

I reached out and tried to take her arm, but she drew away. She had the look, now, of a hurt, frightened animal. Everything was a threat to her. She was as much afraid of me as she was of Jimmy. I didn't understand. Surely she remembered me. Surely she knew who I was and why I had come.

‘Listen,' I said, ‘I want to help you.'

She looked up. Her face was grimy and wet. Her dress was torn at the shoulder. She seemed not to have understood what I had said, or perhaps she had not heard and it struck me that she might be deaf.

‘Can you hear what I'm saying?' I asked.

She did not answer, but after a moment she nodded.

‘Can you tell me where you live?'

She shook her head. For the first time, she relaxed a little. I realised the questions were helping, there was something in the fact of my talking to her that made her want to trust me.

‘Do you have anywhere to go?' I asked.

She shook her head again. Suddenly I realised, without knowing how I had reached the conclusion, but with utter certainty, that the girl was dumb, and my entire being was flooded with joy.

‘Then come with me,' I said. ‘I can help you.'

A flicker of hope crossed her face. I could see that she wanted to believe what I was saying, that she was desperate. Obviously, Jimmy had beaten her before. He probably did it on a regular basis, whenever he felt angry, or hurt, or bored. I imagine she knew as well as I did that, if she stayed there, he would give her the worst battering she had ever had, not because it was her fault, but because she had been present at his fall. There was every chance that he might kill her, for having witnessed his disgrace.