Boneland

‘Tells me what?’

‘Holy macaroli. Spare me the smart-arses. We’re not talking the square root of minus one.’

‘That’s i,’ said Colin. ‘i’s imaginary.’

‘Is you indeed?’ said Meg. ‘Is that a fact? Oh, switch your sodding brains off. Don’t think. Feel.’

‘How?’

‘He says “How?” How? Ask it. It hurts, too. It wants to tell you.’

‘“It”,’ said Colin. ‘What’s “it”?’

‘Search me.’

Colin looked at the tumbler. The tumbler flashed. He looked around. The diamond glass. Light. Blue silver. He looked up. The chandeliers. Lightning.

‘Can’t. Can’t. Nothing. It’s—’

Her earrings. Blue, silver. Blue silvers. Lightnings.

‘—No!’

He stood, smashed the tumbler on the marble and fell back, curled, his arms covering his head. The blaze from the fragments lanced his mind. He roared. He screamed. The howl tore his chest, and ran to wordless snatches of sound. She leaned forward and passed him the box of tissues.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Colin. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I am so sorry.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry for, Sunny Jim. It’s those question-begging reductive pharmaceutical plonkers that should be sorry. They’ve put you through the wringer. They’ve even fried your head. Or tried to. Eric suggested ECT? I’m surprised. Good job you stopped. But that’s spilt milk. Someone should have read this file before it got to me.’

‘What happens next?’

‘You go home,’ she said.

‘Go home. Yes. Go. Home. But then. I’ve only just come.’

‘You’ve been on the road to here for a long time, Colin, and you’ve had a trashing now. You need to settle. Same time next week? Sooner, if you want. Or not at all?’

‘Next week. Home. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘I’m—’

‘Mm?’ She put her feet up on the chaise longue.

‘I’m not being—difficult—on purpose.’

‘Who’s saying you’re difficult?’

He left the room, to the corridor, out, and was sick into the rhododendrons.

Colin lifted his bicycle, but could not ride. He pushed it. The traffic, the black windows. Trucks to and from the M6, so high that they were not a part of the world, but blocks moving. He walked on the verge and turned to Seven Sisters Lane.

Here was quiet. Colin sat astride the saddle, and fell, retching. The spasm stopped. He tried again. He had balance. His legs moved. The need to pedal sucked air to his lungs and worked his heart, and by the time he came to Lindow he felt the chill off the Moss. The pull of Brook Lane parched his mouth, leaving the taste of bile on the skin. But he had to walk the Front Hill and rest at Castle Rock lay-by. His empty stomach spewed more bitterness. The road here was too loud for him. He walked, still quivering.

Colin reached the trees and the peace of the quarry, went to the hut and pumped water into a bowl. He rinsed his mouth and cleaned his teeth. Then he washed his hair, and the crusts of vomit from his beard, laid the fire and filled the lamp. He took a box from a shelf and opened it. Inside were layers of paper smelling of cedarwood mothballs.

Colin removed the layers, one by one. Between, there was folded clothing. He lifted each piece and placed it on the table, and when the box was empty he stood back and considered.

‘Full dress? Or habit? Convocation? Convocation habit. Con-voc-ation. I think so.’

He put on a white shirt and white bow tie, pulling the ends level. Next the white bands, to hang evenly. He changed his sandals and jeans for black shoes, socks and charcoal grey suit, adjusting the braces so that the trousers broke at the shoe. He fitted gold cufflinks and held the sleeves as he slid his arms into the black gown. Then he brushed the scarlet and blue silk chimere, fitted it over the gown, and fastened it with the two buttons. To finish, Colin slipped the green silk hood with the gold edge over his shoulders and set the bonnet on his head, and adjusted the tassel.

He checked in the mirror, arranged his hair and beard. He locked the hut and made his way from the quarry to the track, holding up the gown and chimere to avoid snagging. He turned left.

Away to the right were the hills: the flat top of the cone of Shuttlingslow stood clean and in the freshness he saw farms and fields on its lower slopes. To the south was Sutton with its tower. Colin went along the old broad way by Seven Firs and Goldenstone to the barren sand and rocks on Stormy Point and Saddlebole and looked out across the plain beneath. Kinder’s table was streaked with the last of late snow; Shining Tor was black.

Colin stood, pulled his hood about him, and breathed the wind. He saw the bright of spring. He smelt returning life. Then, in a moment that he knew, it was time to go. The Edge was waking to its other self. He turned from Stormy Point and strode back through the woods along the broad way.

He sat outside in the evening light with a bottle of wine.

‘I am. Must. Am.’

Colin sat, watching the shadows move over the herringbone pick marks on the wall of dimension stone. And when he could see the marks no more he went into the hut, and without lighting lamp or fire, undressed, folded the clothes into their box, got into the bunk and cried himself to sleep.

He lay for one day. He lay for two days. He lay for three days. He woke and blew a fire heap.

‘Afternoon.’

‘Hi, Trouble,’ said Owen. ‘You’re looking rough.’

‘Thanks. Can’t think why,’ said Colin.

‘Rough as old gorse. What’s up? Has your mother sold her mangle?’

‘This lot.’ He dumped a wedge of paper in the waste bin. ‘God, the kids are bad today.’

‘I’ve learnt to tune ’em out.’

‘We should get those dishes moved. Create an idiot zone.’

‘You’ve got a right cob on, haven’t you?’ said Owen.

‘Sorry. Could you run these data, to see if there’s anything fresh? No hurry. Tomorrow will do.’ Colin slid a notebook across the control desk.

‘And here’s the latest for you to look at while you’re badly,’ said Owen.

‘Thanks. I’ll take them to my pillow.’ Colin unfolded the first sheets and scanned them.