The Hunted, page 22
The photograph had been taken outside, in the open air, in the country, in early summer perhaps. In the background was a white-painted farmhouse, and behind and to the right of that a long avenue of trees. Beyond the trees were fields of maturing wheat and barley and also some fields of oilseed rape, a brilliant, shimmering yellow.
It seemed like a green land.
Far away.
Tarrin studied the photograph; it was creased and cracked and dirty, as though it had been taken out and looked at and put away and taken out to be seen again, many, many times.
Is this me? Really me?
The baby was just a baby. It could have been anyone. But when he studied the woman’s features, he saw traces of his own: his own bone structure, his own eyes and hair, the same small, white, regular teeth. She was looking at the baby and smiling, as if he were the most marvellous thing in the world.
He looked away from the photograph and saw the man watching him. He was standing tense and nervous, as if afraid of making any sudden noise or movement which could frighten Tarrin away. Like a predator which had stalked its prey for a long time, and now, having it cornered at last, was getting ready to pounce.
Tarrin moved backwards a few steps. The man watched, concerned.
‘Leave me the photograph,’ he said. ‘Leave me that . . . if it isn’t you . . . at least leave me that.’
Tarrin smiled at him. He held the photograph out over the parapet of the bridge, as if to drop it into the water. He saw the worry and the pain on the man’s face, the fear that he might lose the picture and this last trace of his precious son would be gone forever.
‘Come nearer, I’ll let it go.’
He felt powerful. Nobody telling him what to do now. He was the one in control of lives and destinies. No one could hurt him now.
He altered his grip on the photograph. He held it only between his index and his middle fingers. It quivered a little in the wind. He just needed to loosen his grip a fraction and it would fall to the water far beneath, fluttering like a leaf.
The man just watched. He said nothing, he made no attempt to run and grab it from his hand before it was too late. He just watched.
Then Tarrin climbed up on to the parapet, still holding the old photograph. The wind blew his hair, he could see down into the swirling river, with its dark brown water and clean white foam. He looked at the man – his hands were balled into fists, his nails digging into his palms.
‘Danny . . .’
‘I’m not Danny . . . I’m not anyone . . . I’m just . . . me . . . whoever that was . . .’
‘I came to take you home, Danny. They’re waiting for you, all waiting. Mum and Grandma and your sister and brother . . . they’re waiting . . . all waiting . . . I said I wouldn’t come back without you . . . I’ve been looking so many years now . . .’
‘You know something . . . it’s clever . . . it’s good . . . almost convincing . . . yes, it’s very clever, mister. I have to give you credit for that. But you’re all liars, mister, you know that? You’re all liars. Every one of you. You all want something and you’re all liars. You think we’re just things, to make money off, and you want to catch one. You’re all—’
Tarrin almost lost his footing. He swayed and saw the water beneath him swirl and spiral as a barge passing under the bridge emerged directly below. He could have dived, straight on to the deck. The water eddied between the barge and the pillars.
‘Danny . . . Danny . . .’
He’d go now. Count to five, then close his eyes and fall. And it would be done.
‘Danny, there’s a mark, on the baby’s leg, look at the photograph, on the baby’s leg, by his knee, on the inside, there’s a birthmark there. Look for yourself.’
He opened his eyes and looked. The baby was fat-faced, well fed and happy. It had chubby arms, so fat they dimpled at the elbows. The baby was wearing a nappy and a vest top but nothing on its legs. He looked at the mark. He’d missed it at first. That part of the photograph had almost been worn away. The mark was the same shape now as it had been then, just larger. It had grown with him, so it seemed.
Tarrin got down from the parapet, more falling than climbing. He squatted on the pavement with his back to the bridge, just staring at the photograph, as if there was nothing else in the world.
After a while the man walked towards him and squatted down beside him, not too near, a good few metres away, just in case he still didn’t believe him.
At length the boy looked up.
‘You’re my father?’
He nodded. ‘I believe so, Danny.’
‘And you always looked for me . . .?’
‘I always looked for you . . .’
‘All the years . . .?’
‘Down all the years, Danny . . . I looked for you down all the years . . . all the years and days . . . I never stopped looking . . . never . . . I never . . . I couldn’t . . . I just went on looking . . .’
Tarrin turned away. He stared down at the pavement beneath him, at the dirt upon it, the cracks in it.
The man stood and walked a little nearer; then he squatted down again, next to the boy. He slowly reached out and he touched him on the shoulder.
‘Let’s go home, eh, Danny,’ he said. ‘Let’s go home now . . .’
The boy nodded. And yet he didn’t make any move to stand up or to raise himself, he just went on staring down at the ground.
Eventually the man half lifted, half pulled him up to his feet. He went to take the photograph from him, but Tarrin wanted to hold on to it still, so he let him. He put his arm around his shoulders.
And, eventually, they walked on.
They drove and kept on driving, all that day and well into the night. They stopped to rest for a few hours in a Rapid Link Motel. Tarrin thought of Deet, and all the rooms they had stayed in. His own father felt like more of a stranger. Deet was predictable and familiar, but this man, who knew? What made him laugh, made him sad, made him angry? What made him the kind of man who would never give up? What made him the kind of man who would hunt you down through all the days and years, because you were his son and he loved you?
And Tarrin momentarily felt afraid of the very thing he had yearned for.
At daybreak they resumed the journey and after a few more hours the countryside began to change around them. The soil was rich and red; there were dairy cattle and sheep and verdant pasture, and then the land changed again and arable crops took over from the pasture. They passed through a small town, little more than a village. His father stopped the car and pointed to a shop across the road.
‘It was there,’ he said. ‘Outside that store.’
Tarrin looked to where he had been taken, as he had sat in his pushchair, all those years ago.
‘Who was it?’
‘Who knows? Stranger in a car. Someone passing through. Saw their chance and they took it, and the chance they saw was you.’
Tarrin looked from the place back to his father. The lines in his father’s face were deep, deeper than most people’s, deeper than they needed to be.
‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you take the Anti-Ageing?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why not, Danny?’
‘I’m used to Tarrin – Danny sounds like someone else.’
‘Aren’t you someone else now? You’ve come home.’
‘I’m used to Tarrin. That’s who I am.’
His father nodded. ‘OK.’
‘Your lines are deep,’ Tarrin said, ‘on your face.’
‘We don’t take any Anti-Ageing. None of us do.’
‘You grow old?’
‘Yes. And I’ve got to tell you, your mother’s not like in the photograph. She’s still your mother, and still a treat to look at . . . but she’s aged too. And your grandmother, well . . . she’s got more lines than a railway station. But you’ll like her.’
‘Why don’t you take it? Do you want to grow old? Do you want to die?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then why?’
‘We think it’s wrong . . . it’s why there are hardly any children . . . people hang on to life . . . and won’t let someone else take a turn.’
‘So will you die soon?’
He felt suddenly lonely, to think that he had only just found them and now he might lose them all again. His father smiled.
‘Not unless something falls on me,’ he said. ‘In fact, we Kinanes live a long time.’
‘How long?’
‘Eighty-five, ninety years.’
‘That’s not long.’
‘It is for unassisted.’
‘Dad . . .’
The man swallowed, he ran his hand around his neck, as though his collar were too tight for him.
‘Yes, son . . .’
‘How come there’s so many . . . me and a brother and a sister . . . when most people have no one?’
‘Maybe we were just lucky. Maybe it’s the way we live.’
‘Are there other children here?’
‘Some.’
‘Girls too?’
His father laughed.
‘Yes. Girls too. They’re around.’
‘I met a girl,’ Tarrin said.
‘You did?’
‘She was really pretty,’ Tarrin said.
Kinane didn’t say anything for a while. He didn’t want to say anything that might spoil the moment – a father with his son, just being there.
‘You like her?’ he finally asked.
Tarrin nodded. ‘Yes, only . . . she wasn’t really how she seemed. She was . . . older.’
‘Ah. She like you too?’
‘I think so. She wanted to look after me.’
‘Did you want her to?’
‘No. I wanted to go home. I’ve wanted to go home all my life. Only I never knew where it was . . . or if it even existed.’
Kinane tried to smile, but he didn’t really feel like smiling. ‘You ready to meet them now?’
Tarrin nodded. ‘I think so. Do they know I’m coming?’
‘Of course. I phoned ahead.’
‘Dad . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m frightened.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I know . . . but not half as frightened as they are of you.’
That made him laugh and, while he was distracted, Kinane slipped the car into drive and drove on out of the town.
The farm track led on down under a canopy of plane trees, their branches curling over. As the car passed, there was a strobe of light and shade, light and shade from between the branches and leaves.
‘I remember that . . .’
‘What do you remember?’
‘The sun and the trees shielding you from it . . . and the smell of things . . . animals . . . and you . . .’
‘Me?!’
‘And her . . .’
‘Well, here we are.’
The car bumped over some cobbles and drew up in the yard.
‘Are they older or younger?’
‘Older brother, younger sister. Just two years in it either way. That’s them all.’
Tarrin and Kinane didn’t get out of the car. Not for a while. The four people stood, waiting, watching, trying to seem welcoming, yet not really knowing how to act, wanting to be friendly, but afraid and apprehensive, fearful that he would be too much of a stranger, that it was all too late now, and that things could never be repaired.
‘Shall we . . . Tarrin?’
‘OK.’
His father got out, then walked around the car and opened his door. Tarrin got out and stood next to him.
‘This is Tarrin,’ his father said. ‘That’s how he likes to be called. Tarrin, this is your grandma, Nina . . .’
‘Hello, Tarrin . . .’
More lines than a railway station. She had those all right. But she was nice too. Brown as a walnut, and so sear and old, as beautiful as an autumn leaf. She watched him with her pale, grey eyes.
‘Your brother, Ed . . .’
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Your sister, Bella . . .’
‘Hi.’
‘Hello.’
‘And . . . and this is . . .’
There she was. Like in the photo, but, yes, older, just as his father had said.
‘How are you, Tarrin?’
‘Fine thank you, ma’am.’
‘It’s good to have you home . . .’
She put her hand out, as if in friendship, to shake his own hand, neither expecting nor feeling entitled to any greater intimacy. He reached out and touched it, his fingers brushing her own.
‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am . . .’
How many times had he said that, to how many customers, on the thresholds of how many doors? And then he had tried to be the boy they had wanted him to be, for an hour of the afternoon.
Will you love me, he wondered, watching her. Will you love me . . . for being myself? For who I am?
‘I’m sorry, Tarrin . . . I’m so sorry . . . it was only for a moment, that was all, only for a moment and I lost you . . . I’m sorry, oh so sorry, it was all my fault . . .’
Then to his anguish and for some reason – though he did not know why – to his shame – she began to cry. And as she did, she put her arms out, the way a parent would do to a child, a small child, running towards them, ready to scoop that child up and swing it in the air.
Only what if the child swerved away, didn’t run, didn’t come, turned and fled?
‘I’m so sorry, Tarrin, so sorry . . . I am, I am, I am . . .’
He stepped forwards and he put his arms around her, and he rested his head upon her as she stroked his hair.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ he said. ‘It’s all right. It wasn’t your fault.’
She didn’t say anything. She just went on holding him and stroking his hair. She smelt just as he remembered. Just the same. The very same. Just like all those years ago.
It was difficult. There were long silences at meal times when nobody really knew what to say, or quite how to say it. Nobody knew how he felt. He didn’t really know himself. Maybe he felt bereaved more than anything, that the years which should have been his, here in this place, with these people, had been taken from him, that his childhood had long ago died. In some ways, they all seemed innocent to him, even naive. What would they know about his life? How could they understand?
It took Tarrin a long time to settle. Sometimes he helped out around the farm, sometimes he just wandered off alone – though they were loath to let him be alone, but realized that sometimes you just have to be, whatever the risks and the chances.
One afternoon, as he was sitting in the yard, Ed appeared, kicking a football, tapping it from one foot to the other, then kicking it up, hitting it with a knee, passing it to the other knee, letting it fall to his feet again.
Tarrin watched him and his brother saw him watching.
‘You want to play?’ he said.
‘I don’t know how . . .’ he said. ‘I don’t know how.’
And that was it. He didn’t. He had no idea. He didn’t know how. Not really. Except for money, except as work, except to do what was expected. And maybe it was too late to learn.
Ed went on kicking the ball. He booted it against the wall of the barn and trapped it with his foot as it rebounded.
‘I’ll show you,’ he offered. ‘If you like. I’ll show you how to play.’
Tarrin remained where he was for a time, sitting on the base of an upturned feed-trough, shredding a blade of grass with his fingernails, then he stood and walked towards his brother.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘show me.’
‘Here.’ His brother tapped the ball over, it dribbled to his feet. ‘Kick it against the wall,’ he said.
Tarrin did as instructed. The ball rebounded. He missed it and had to run after it, then he carried it back.
‘What now?’ he asked.
‘Do it again,’ his brother said. ‘Only this time we both try to get it.’
‘And then what?’ Tarrin said.
‘Just do it,’ his brother said. ‘Just do it, and you’ll see.’
‘OK,’ he said.
He kicked the ball again. It once again rebounded from the barn wall and the two of them chased after it, trying to be the first one there. Their legs nearly entangled and they bumped against each other as they struggled for the ball. His brother got possession of it but Tarrin went after him and got it back, so his brother came after him now and Tarrin ran with the ball across the yard, kicking it in front of him as he ran and as his brother followed him in hot pursuit.
Then he realized.
He suddenly realized what he was doing.
He was laughing.
He was laughing out loud.
16
Miss Virginia
Tarrin lived another seventy years, and he too met a girl and they were lucky and able to have children.
He never forgot Deet though, much as he tried to. Memories kept returning to him, like recurring bad dreams: recollections of trains and motel rooms and flickering TV screens; they stayed with him like scars. Some nights too, Tarrin would wake in panic and rush to the bedside of his own sleeping children, to check that they were still there. He half expected to find Deet out on the landing, saying, ‘Listen, kid, I’ve got a proposition . . .’
Some decades down the line, he recollected the money he had taken from Mrs Weaver and his vow to repay it. He managed to track down her address, and he sent her a transfer for the 500 units he had stolen from her, along with his apologies. By the time she received it, she looked younger than he did.
On the day of his death, in the street of a distant city, a figure in a coat with a fake fur collar stepped from a taxi outside a small establishment and she headed for the door around the back, the one with the sign above it which read ‘Artistes Only’. She went inside, went to her dressing room and started to get ready.
At the front of the building, a matrix sign advertised the attraction of the day.
‘For a limited season only. Miss Virginia Two Shoes’, the light-board read. ‘125 years young and still dancing. Come see the daughter you never had. Everybody’s Favourite Girl. Performances Twice Daily.’
