The Dumb House (24 page)

In my garden, the seasons don't just begin and end. Traces of winter remain, far into April and May, films and threads of moisture and blackness, small pockets of leaf mould and frost in the raked leaves behind the shed and in the shady corners of the north wall, where it never really gets warm. Autumn arrives a degree at a time: a flower head tilts and collapses into a mass of inky tissue, a few leaves drift from the pear trees on the wall, an apple ripens too soon, and falls unnoticed. Winter begins with the chrysanthemums. It had taken me years to notice these things. As a child, I had gone to bed in summer and wakened next morning to windows shot with frost and the smell of apples in the kitchen. Spring was one sudden narcissus. The only subtleties I had ever understood were those Mother had pointed out; even then, I made no connections, I took everything at face value.

Now, after my months with the twins, I felt different. Sometimes it was as if every detail was too exquisite to bear: a single petal drifting across the lawn, a single drop of rain suspended on a twig, the first flakes of snow that fell out of a blue-black sky – everything was present. At the same time, I felt completely attuned to my surroundings. Every change in the light, every new sound, every change registered with me at a purely physical level. One evening, only days after I had decided to kill the twins, I was standing at the side door, in a dark place I usually only passed through, where nothing grew but ivy and periwinkle. The side wall was about ten feet high and close to
the house; there was a door through to the garage that I always kept locked, and a narrow path that ran to the back wall, past the shed and the compost bins. I had always thought this was where my intruder had entered, clambering over the garage roof and tumbling in over this wall: it had never occurred to me that he might come across the fields, ford the little stream and slip in through the back gate, which I would normally have kept locked, but occasionally forgot. I suppose I was standing out there that night in the hope of catching him. I know I was listening, watching. Then, as I caught the first hint of autumn in the air, the merest hint of water and caramel, I realised someone else was there, just around the corner of the house, quite close, all tension, as aware, suddenly, of me, as I was of him. I don't know how I knew it, or how I knew it was a person, not an animal, but I was quite certain my visitor had returned. I ought to have been more careful. It might have been one of Jimmy's friends, or some common burglar – whoever it was, he might have been armed. Yet, before I had thought it through, I walked quickly to the back of the house and turned the corner. Perhaps I expected the prowler to hear me coming and make a run for it; instead, I found myself face to face with Karen Olerud.

She was standing by the honeysuckle Mother had trained along wires at the back of the house, as if she had stopped, casually, on her regular evening stroll around the garden, to inhale its deep, sweet fragrance. Her hair was dishevelled, and stuck here and there with dried leaves, and I noticed there were scratches and streaks of mud on her face and neck – it was as if she had come through a wilderness to find me. I suppose I should have been surprised to see her, but I wasn't. I was glad. I understood immediately that she had been my mysterious visitor all those months before. She was the one who had left that trail of soft, black footprints in the snow, the one who had become a
ghost in order to haunt me, appearing and melting away, staining everything she touched with shadows and dust. She had been a silent witness to my life with Lillian. She must have seen us at the window; she must have watched us, on those nights when I undressed the girl and led her away; she had stood in silence, perhaps for hours at a time, while Lillian moved from room to room, making breakfast, bringing me tea, fetching books from the library, watching television. Perhaps it disturbed her, to think I had chosen this child in her place. She would have thought of me as a lover, no matter what I had done. Suddenly, everything was clear: she had never meant to threaten or intimidate us. I had killed Jimmy for nothing. All she had done to call attention to her vigil had been nothing other than cries for attention, desperate attempts to let me know she still wanted me.

I felt elated. The story from the previous day's paper ran through my mind and I knew – I knew for certain – what it had deliberately left untold. Karen Olerud had killed her son. She had drowned him deliberately, and now she had come to me, because she was free, and she had nowhere else to go. I no longer had any need to acquire a homeless woman. I had the perfect subject, someone who needed me more than I needed her, someone I knew could be easily managed. All I had to do was take her in.

‘Hello, Karen,' I said.

She gazed at me as if she wasn't quite sure I was real.

‘You look tired,' I said, but that wasn't the whole truth. She looked beautiful, standing there, in the fading light, and I remembered her body with a sudden rush of desire – the smoothness of her skin, the warmth of her mouth, how wet she had been when I first touched her. I was also intrigued by the idea that, for the first time, her mask would have to be discarded; that, from now on, I would no longer be obliged to
play her game. If I took her in, I would have her on my terms and I think she knew that.

‘Do you want to come in?' I continued.

She didn't reply. For a moment I wondered if she had lost her mind: she seemed so dazed, so out of touch with reality. Yet I knew she had recognised me. It occurred to me that she had spent all her energy on getting as far as my house and, now that she had arrived, she could barely function. She was only waiting to see what I would do.

I took hold of her arm, gently.

‘Why don't you come in and rest for a while,' I said.

I led her inside and she followed me through the house in a daze of gratitude. I helped her out of her wet dress in the bathroom, then I ran a hot bath and told her to finish getting undressed. For a moment she seemed confused, as if she thought I wanted to have sex with her then and there, as the steam rose and clouded the windows, and, when I understood what she was thinking, I have to admit I was tempted. There was something about her, as she stood before me, streaked with mud, with the bruise on her mouth and the cuts and scratches on her arms and face, something that excited me, and I had to collect myself and tell her, gently, that she would feel better after a nice hot bath. The look of gratitude returned to her face and she lowered herself into the hot water and sat waiting, as if she expected me to bathe her. I told her to get cleaned up, then I picked up her dirty clothes and took them away. When I returned, with an old dressing gown of Mother's, she was still sitting there, helpless, stunned, lost in her own world. I began to wash her then, wiping away the mud, rinsing the blood and dirt from her hair, bathing her cuts and bruises with warm water. I felt an unexpected tenderness for her, all of a sudden. She had come to me just when I needed her, as if she had known all along what
was required. When she was clean, I helped her out of the bath and dried her gently, then I draped the dressing gown around her shoulders and led her across the landing to Mother's room. Nobody else had been allowed into that space since Mother had died; for the first time, I understood why I had kept it intact, just as she had left it, five years before. Karen was exactly Mother's size: the night-dress I chose for her was an exact fit. I gave her two of Mother's old pills, so she would sleep soundly through the coming hours, then I kissed her briefly on the mouth and, telling her to get some sleep, I lowered her into the bed and pulled the covers up around her shoulders. When I made as if to leave, she caught hold of me and clung to my arms like a frightened child, and I had to reassure her, stroking her hair, kissing her face, telling her everything was going to be all right. After a while, she let me slip free.

‘Go to sleep,' I said. ‘Everything's fine. I'll see you in the morning.'

I waited a few minutes, till I was sure she was asleep. Then I locked her into Mother's room and went downstairs to prepare the final meal for the twins. I had to work quickly – and I am aware that, in my haste, I took risks I ought not to have taken. I might have been seen; Karen might have wakened and panicked. Yet I didn't care about any of that. I didn't even think of it. I felt utterly confident. It was like the feeling gamblers have, when they know they cannot lose. I was elated, I suppose, that I was about to begin the experiment again. I served the meal, feeding the twins by hand, as they were unable to feed themselves, then I went upstairs to make coffee. Later, I went down to the basement and, in spite of my old fear that they were still alive somehow, still waiting to catch me out, I retrieved their cooling bodies and carried them out into the garden. Strange, how empty their faces looked out of doors. While Karen slept, I
did the children next to their mother, in the iris garden, turning the bodies so they lay face to face in the wet earth.

It is remarkable how little Karen has changed, how beautiful she still is, in spite of the scratches and bruises. It's over three years since I last slept with her, but I calculate that she must still be in her mid-thirties, still capable of having another child, perhaps more. I realise now that I have wanted her, while we have been apart; now that she is here, I feel certain that I can manage the situation. The essential thing will be to make sure she doesn't become independent enough to question what is happening when I take the children away, but I know, if she becomes difficult, it will be easy enough to dispose of her. Nobody knows where she is. If I had to kill her, I could bury her in the garden, next to Lillian and the twins, and return to the earlier plan of finding another homeless girl. Not that I even imagine it will come to that. I am quite sure I can keep her content; with simple displays of kindness and a regular supply of alcohol, she will accept everything I say and do. Besides, I am fond of her, in my way. It felt good, when I kissed her on the forehead and turned off the lights, knowing I would return later to the warmth of her bruised skin; it feels good, now, to have a woman in the house again. A few hours ago, when I left her in Mother's room, locking the door carefully behind me, I experienced a sudden thrill of joy, as if I were locking away some hidden treasure that I'd been waiting years to find, the one thing I had never expected: a necessary gift, an indisputable moment of divine grace.

 

I would like to gratefully acknowledge the assistance of the Authors' Foundation in the completion of work on this book.

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Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781446412237

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Published by Vintage 1998

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Copyright © John Burnside 1997

The right of John Burnside to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

First published in Great Britain by
Jonathan Cape 1997

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