Lights in a Western Sky Page 4

  ‘So what happened to Kessler?’ I asked.

  ‘I thought everyone knew that. He died in a plane crash. In fact… there’s a newspaper cutting here somewhere. Yes, here. There’s even a photograph of him. Look.’

  I tried hard not to believe that the eyes under the black mane were those I saw in my shaving mirror each morning. We went downstairs and I turned the painting around.

  ‘Not a bad looking man, was he, with his dark hair?’ Melanie was smiling now.

  ‘But why would she…?’

  ‘Out of sight, out of mind. Obviously she couldn’t bring herself to hide it completely.’

  ‘You think she did that… that cut?’

  ‘Let’s not go there, Eugene.’

  Upstairs again, Melanie was peering intently at the newspaper article.

  ‘It seems they never recovered the plane from the sea. It can’t have been long after that that Berenice married Richard Harrington… my father… and took his name. Probably she never told him you were not her natural son. I guess she just wanted to regularise the situation by having you formally adopted. She was not to know he’d up and leave her – and us.’

  ‘Then why didn’t she tell me?’

  ‘I suppose to block out the past. You can see why she hated men.’ Distant flames flickered in her beautiful eyes. ‘But it’s still our secret. Ours, Eugene. Ours to do with as we please. It’s… it comes down to… what you want me to be.’

  She was right. But this was a momentous issue. Thoughts I couldn’t make sense of were queuing for resolution. I needed time to think. We didn’t have time.

  ‘What will you say when Piers arrives and sees all this… waste paper… on the floor? You remember Eugene, my acquaintance of indeterminate genetic status?’

  ‘Piers has no interest in our family.’ Again I saw the teasing smile.

  ‘You’ve told me nothing about him – or yourself for that matter. There’s a whole decade missing.’

  The smile left her face. ‘You know all about me Eugene, all about me that is worth knowing. You want to know what happened after we parted? I’ll tell you. I got to drama school by embroidering my credentials. I made it in the theatre through my looks and by cosying up to the tabloids. I got financial security through people like Piers, who have fat wallets and fancy having what passes as a celebrity on their arm. And where has been the satisfaction in all that? You tell me. Okay, that’s me. Now you.’

  ‘Alright,’ I said, ‘let’s start at the beginning. That night you went to Aunt Isabel. Did Berenice tell you what happened when the police returned? The gardener’s allegations? But she’d been to see him, you see, and got him to change his story. And the deal for keeping my… our… slates clean? That I got myself out of her hair and kept away from you. That’s why I ended up at law school in the States, where I’ve managed to make living. And there was one more powerful reason for staying away.’

  ‘What?’

  I’d gone too far, but there had to be no secrets between us now. My head told me to say no more but her wide eyes prized it from me. ‘She threatened to write you out of her will.’

  ‘Me? But she loved me.’

  ‘But she hated me more. In that instance she was a profound judge of character, Melanie. Knowing what I’d decide.’

  It was dark outside and the snow was still falling. I went to the window to pull the curtains, but drew back, because the snow in the lamplight was beautiful.

  ‘Let’s make a fire,’ Melanie said.

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘I saw some chestnuts in the cupboard. She must have got them in for Christmas. Shall we?’

  ‘Aren’t you forgetting Piers?’

  ‘You think we should worry about Piers?’

  ‘Well… if he’s taking you for a meal…’

  ‘I don’t think that need bother us.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Piers was never coming, Eugene.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Piers was my security. In case you were not what I wanted you to be.’

  ‘A reason to get me to the station on the pretext of a dinner in Richmond.’

  ‘Something like that. Besides, Piers is not at the National. He’s in Paris, with someone else. And I haven’t set eyes on him for weeks.’

  With those words came an immediate and profound sense of release. I let my eyes roam unhindered about the room, for the first time seeing its treasures for what they were, not strange and hostile appendages of Berenice. And all suffused by an ethereal light from the window, where Melanie was now standing.

  ‘Have you looked outside?’ I said.

  ‘I know. My car’s half-buried.’

  ‘I could help you clear it.’

  ‘But then the trains wouldn’t be running, would they?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She began to stroke my hair, over the temples, as she’d done all those years ago to console me. She said, ‘I always knew there was something odd about your hair.’

  ‘I promise I won’t let it worry me anymore.’

  I switched off the light and stood beside her at the window. As we stared into the distance our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Slowly, like a photograph developing in a darkroom tray, the image of the pagoda with snow upon its countless tiers rose up, and we were transported back to where we had once been.

  Chemosit

  Dr Rupert Murchison’s dream was about to die. That much he knew and was prepared for. But of its manner of passing he was still ignorant.

  He paused at the top of the stairs overlooking the Natural History Museum’s great gallery. Behind him in the wall the bust of the hunter Selous, with rifle poised, presided over the stuff of trophies with an ambivalence more acute in this conserving age than at any time before. Below and before him stretched the skeleton of Diplodocus, the largest of the dinosaurs. He gazed along the line of its spine towards the entrance, the better to contemplate his departure.

  Part of him – the realist – wanted immediate severance from a world that suddenly, with his retirement, had turned sour. The other part – the dreamer – wished to linger and for the last time commune with the incumbents of the cases in the galleries below.

  He descended the stairs cautiously, into the conflicting flows of tourists and children’s groups. He became for the first time part of the masses, no longer the proud, if unrecognised, Curator of Mammals with his head held high. He saw himself mistily, as if from behind, a figure walking steadily down a beach towards the troubled surf, ill-informed of the dangers beneath its surface. It was an appropriate analogy. The sea was the life of idleness that now awaited him, and the predator within it a wife for whom affection had ebbed as the dementia had taken hold. It was a new profession that he would follow, whose motto was the single word ‘care.’

  By the time he reached the bottom the lesser man – the dreamer – had won the day. He turned into one of the bays off the main gallery. There, in their cases, the higher mammalian orders held their court. He passed that chosen spot amongst the primates which, twenty or so years before, he had vowed to fill with a specimen so unique that the world of scientific discovery must fall at his feet. He even recalled rehearsing the lines he intended to speak – first to his colleagues, then to the press, and last of all to those members of the public privileged enough to attend.

  But it hadn’t happened. And Bradley Tyler – his protégé, colleague and now, today, the usurper of his position – had seized upon this of all the subjects that Rupert’s productive life as a zoologist might have offered. The words had ricocheted around the bottled walls of the spirit room where they were gathered to wish him farewell. ‘Most scientists,’ Tyler had said, ‘are remembered for their discoveries and what emanates from them; but a few are famous for leaving behind seemingly insoluble
conundrums. Murchison’s fragment, as it has come to be known, will assuredly outlive him.’ He looked around with a thin triumphant smile, then added, ‘Unless, of course, someone with sufficient insight should come along and…’ He cupped his hand around his ear. ‘Did I by any chance hear someone mention Piltdown?’ He waited until the titters had died down. ‘But we mustn’t jest. Today we say farewell to a fine scientist, colleague and friend. So please raise your glasses…’

  Within the pocket of his trousers Rupert’s grip closed viciously upon the small glass tube, hardly larger than his thumb, containing the famous fragment of skin that, over the years, had resisted all attempts to establish the species of origin. The unrefined microscopic techniques of the time had given way to the sophisticated tools of modern technology. But they too, despite their power, had yielded nothing more.

  With Tyler’s challenging words the weight of failure bore more heavily upon him than at any time before, because the doors were about to close against any remaining possibility of resolution. Now, under the stares of this dumb audience of apes, he felt the cold blade of their disdain. He turned away, resolved to look no more and complete as rapidly as possible his passage to the end game.

  But such finality was denied him. Tyler had appeared at his elbow.

  ‘Sorry to pursue you, Rupert, but an elderly gentleman has just turned up. Said he knew you. Thought he could throw some light upon your little mystery, but just what I can’t imagine. Didn’t seem too nimble on his feet, though, so I said I’d follow you with his card.’ He handed the card to Rupert. ‘Ah, a man of the cloth I see.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rupert said, glancing at the card, then putting it into his pocket.

  ‘You won’t see him?’

  ‘I’ve had enough socialising for today, Bradley. His number’s here. I’ll give him a call.’

  ‘Right, I’ll tell him. Well, goodbye then, Rupert. Take care.’

  ‘You too, Bradley.’

  Angry with himself for his cowardice, Rupert made his way along the railings towards the subway to South Kensington station. Suddenly weary, he slumped onto the bench at the top of the steps, then closed his eyes. In moments he was on that train from Nairobi to Lake Victoria, all those years before.

  The train had climbed out of the Rift Valley and over the Mau Escarpment. The carriage swayed in a manner at odds with the more regular clatter of the wheels. As daylight waned the ochre hues at the window turned leaden-grey with the beginnings of a tropical rainstorm. Soon the fusillade against the glass began to dominate the train’s more drum-like beat. Under their influence Rupert could hardly tell whether he was dreaming or awake. He recognised only that his eyes were closed and his mind was numb, vaguely aware that the future – or what he could read of it – held nothing that warranted any adjustment of this state of melancholy.

  The uncomfortable truth was that he had stayed in Kenya too long. The magnet that had drawn him here had captured others in its field, and the fruits of their collective labours had to be shared. The time had come to return to the museum and his laboratory high above the Cromwell Road, and reconstruct his career around what his colleagues would see as rich pickings. He knew that he would be less easily satisfied.

  A sudden crash of the door to the forward carriage forced his eyes open. He shut them hastily, sensing involvement, but too late to avoid eye contact. The African poised to enter had been on the platform at Nakuru, the starched white collar identifying his trade, the proffered bible searching out those around him as if it were a device to find souls ripe for harvest. But the remarkable thing – that which Rupert remembered most vividly – was that the man’s hair was red. Or rather it was not so much the colour of the hair itself – which is not unknown amongst members of the Bantu race – but that it was matched by the colour of the book to a degree that could not have been coincidental.

  Whether through intent or because the carriage happened to lurch violently at that moment, the man fell heavily into the seat opposite. Rupert was immediately resentful. There were other seats he could have taken.

  ‘Please sit down,’ Rupert said facetiously.

  The priest smiled, without embarrassment, seeming not to notice the intended slight. ‘Thank you. I am grateful.’

  In spite of the polite and cultured response, Rupert was not reconciled. ‘Forgive me for asking, but is it accident or design that dictates your choice of seat?’

  The priest placed his bible squarely in front of him, as if deliberately lining it up with Rupert’s chest. ‘Choice is something that must always be qualified.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rupert replied. ‘A man of God must act in circumscribed ways.’

  ‘That is true. But occasionally we are allowed to act outside the definable boundaries.’

  Rupert’s eyes closed wearily, but then snapped open. An issue had been raised. Suddenly his companion was interesting.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked, in better humour. ‘And I am not accepting truth as a destination.’

  ‘I am going home.’

  Rupert scrutinised his companion’s features as if he were a zoological specimen. ‘You are…’

  ‘Nandi. Of the Nandi tribe. And my name is Jackson. As you will appreciate, my home – Muhoroni – is a long way from Peterhouse.’

  ‘Ah, Cambridge. I had wondered.’

  ‘Yes. After four years things have changed.’ He paused to spread his hands in mock resignation. ‘Or, taking the long-term view, nothing has changed.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My people are afflicted. Some say it is of the mind. Others try to explain it in… I was about to say human, but let us say… well… physical terms. It’s a phenomenon found in many cultures.’

  It was getting dark now. The rain continued to beat against the window. The feeble lights of the carriage seemed incapable of dispelling the gloom.

  ‘Does it have a name, this affliction?’ Rupert asked.

  ‘My people call it chemosit. A malignant spirit that can assume visible form, wreaking havoc. Men die of it.’

  ‘But here men die from many causes.’

  ‘Indeed. And for all those causes there are as many cures. I offer but one.’

  ‘You are an exorcist?’

  The priest smiled. ‘I choose to think that I am… something more than that.’

  Rupert felt he needed a cigarette. There was something about the man’s self-assurance – like the hands motionless on his bible and the stillness of his expression – that disturbed him. He rose to pull down his jacket from the rack above.

  ‘Please sit down, Dr Murchison.’

  The authority and urgency of the instruction were replaced by the thought that Rupert had not revealed his name. Against wilting indignation, he sat down. ‘So what else do you know about me?’

  ‘That you are ready to go home.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You are tired. Africa has not been what you hoped. The rewards not quite what you anticipated. I see it in your eyes. Am I right?’

  ‘I sail next week.’

  ‘Ah, so soon. That I did not know.’

  Suddenly the carriage jerked tentatively, once, twice, three times. Then the brakes shrieked and the train stopped. The bible on the table flew into Rupert’s chest, winding him. The lights went out.

  The rain was now clawing at the window. In the grey light the runnels might have been blood from torn fingernails. Perhaps, Rupert thought, it was Jackson’s chemosit trying desperately to engage him.

  Within seconds the corridor filled with agitated figures trying to flee the carriage, seemingly preferring the hostile conditions outside to the confinement and darkness within. There were shouts and the sound of feet running through puddles. Cries from the front of the train carried back the message of a tree across the line, a monster so large that it
would take a whole village to shift it, and then only in daylight.

  Jackson made no effort to retrieve his bible from Rupert’s lap. ‘We must go now, Dr Murchison. Come, bring your bag.’ Seeing Rupert’s reluctance, he said, ‘There are those still on the train who would take… well, let us say… advantage of the darkness. In any case,’ he added brightly, ‘we are almost at Muhoroni.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Oh, two, three miles only.’

  Rupert marvelled at Jackson’s assurance in a situation that seemed potentially dire – water everywhere, the light failing, the uncertain antics of an unbalanced crowd. He sensed in Jackson not just a player, but an agency. There was no other explanation for how he found the obscure gap in the forest edge that led to the path they took. Or how, in near darkness, he could pick his way through the detritus on the ground with such certainty. The residual grey oval of light closed behind them, like a snuffed candle. Then there was silence, total and oppressive. To Rupert the forest felt like a squeezed sponge refilled with still, dank air, as if all the processes of nature had been suspended.

  At first Rupert could only follow the purposeful sway of his companion’s shoulders, but gradually his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. It seemed that the rain was unable to penetrate the canopy above, but as his ears became more attuned he began to hear its passage. The blackness above slowly became speckled with points of light, until they were sufficient to reveal the silvery lattice that clothed the branches of the trees. Then came the tinkling and plopping of water against the leaves of the lower strata, the only sounds to break the absolute silence.

  For many minutes they walked without speaking. Then Jackson stopped and turned. ‘You see,’ he said, pointing upwards to the pale light of an emerging moon, ‘how prayers can be answered. Now, I think it is your turn to lead. And besides, I need to pray alone for a moment or so. Our predicaments are not the same, Dr Murchison. Be assured that mine is the more unenviable.’

  Rupert realised that he was still carrying Jackson’s bible, which he held out to his companion. ‘No, no,’ Jackson said, refusing it. ‘You must guard it for me. I have no immediate need.’