I Am Heathcliff - Группа авторов

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says nothing. She thinks about the sea. She thinks about the red flag that flew in the wind on the pebble beach, and the shush and crash of the waves, and how the sounds seemed to magnify on that first evening in the hotel, as darkness fell, as if they were all that there was, out there in the calm of night. She thinks of how the rise and fall of the waves felt like the rise and fall of her own heart, how she could see her body rising and falling in that water, arms splayed as she floated on her back, hair pooling around her head. She thinks about her reflection in the hotel-lobby door that morning, twinned with that of the young woman.

      The young woman is called Anya; her pale male colleague is Neill. When Anya returns to the reception desk, she says, ‘Have you done the printouts yet?’ and Neill replies, ‘No I was going to go on my break now, I can do them later if you want.’

      Anya shrugs, thinking that it’s so quiet, these winter mornings, they go by so slowly, she would rather be busy any day. ‘No it’s all right,’ she says, ‘go on your break, I’ll do them.’

      Neither Anya or Neill will think again about the sallow young woman with dark curly hair and the brother who came to pick her up, not even when they hear on the news the next day about the accident that afternoon, the two fatalities on the M23. The inquest into the deaths, some months later, will blame the driver of the car, Matthew Burton, for changing lanes too quickly, but it will get little publicity and there will be no reason for either Anya or Neill to make the connection.

      Neill’s wife will have given birth to their twins by then, a boy and a girl. Anya will never tell him that she has loved him since the first week they met on their training course two years ago, the same course where he met his wife, loved him distantly and without hope, as you might love a pair of shoes or a cashmere wrap you can’t afford to buy.

      February passes slowly in Brighton. On the pebbled beach, the waves continue to lift and crash, the red warning flag flies for the rest of the month, and to Anya it seems as though winter is never-ending, just keeps rolling around and around, and that summer and the busy season is both a far memory and will never come.

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       ANIMA

       GRACE MCCLEEN

      THE MEN ARRIVED IN the afternoon with horns and with dogs. Rain came in swathes; mist was cold on my skin. I slipped out after lunch. There was only packing to be done, and I didn’t want to stand and watch. ‘You’ll like it,’ they told me, ‘you’ll see. Just give it time. You’ll learn to be a lady,’ they said. ‘Oh miss, such airs and graces, you’ll have – you won’t know yourself!’

      It was this that concerned me. ‘But can I come back?’ I asked them.

      ‘Of course,’ they said. ‘But you won’t want to. You’ll be so busy with your new life there. It’s time you grew up, anyway. You’ve been left to your own ways too long. You can’t stay here for ever. It’s time you went into the real world.’

      I was sure I would be content to stay here, amongst these fields and woods, this hill, for the rest of my life; I did not care if I never discovered the ‘real’ world, but I said nothing. I could always run away, I thought; if the new place was as bad as I imagined, I could run away and come back here. But then I couldn’t stay; they would send me back. Could I live in the wild? I wondered, as I watched them label vests and socks; What would I need to survive there?

      It wasn’t sadness I felt that day, but disbelief that this could be happening. I had never lived anywhere but here. I didn’t know if I could. It seemed inconceivable. I wasn’t sure how my body would function. So there was no sadness, only shock, only amazement that such a thing was taking place. Stupor, I suppose.

      I couldn’t stand around and wait for the car to come any longer, so I crept away that afternoon, despite the weather, and, hidden by the bare blackberry canes, stole down to the fence at the bottom of the garden. Nothing seemed real, though I strove to experience each and every thing as I never had before. I passed the place where I fell and scarred both knees when I was four, the tree where John the gardener had built the lookout for my seventh birthday, the orchard where every September we harvested apples, the place where I laid out supper for the hedgehogs. I touched lichen, caught the sharp stink of badger, noticed the colour, even now, of the dead leaves on the ground, stepped on mushrooms and heard the curious slippery squeak their flesh made as it sundered – and I saw, smelt, heard, and felt nothing. I couldn’t yet feel the rain, which was heavier now. Each drop left only a numbness behind it that might be cold or might be hot, a small presence then absence, a coming and going too slight and too numerous to keep count.

      I reached the fence and looked over the land. There was not much to see, I realised; nothing remarkable to another; but each bush, each stream, each thicket, was essential to me. I wondered suddenly if it would remain when I had gone, and then wondered, because I could feel nothing, if I had already left it.

      I stood, thoroughly wet now, knowing I would be in for it when I got back. And that was when I saw you: a low brown shape slipping by the hedge, your gait dishevelled, paws black, your tail a little too long. A few minutes later I heard the hunt.

      I saw them in the distance, saw the horses, dogs in troops, tails a forest of spears, caught the whining and shouting, squelching and screams, shouts; ‘Get over!’ ‘Get up!’ Whipping and hupping: ‘Hup! Hep! Hup! Hep!’ You ran right by me, and my heart beat once, so hard that for a moment I couldn’t breathe. And there and then I came to life.

      Horns blared. You answered in sharp breaths and a patter of feet. You were still trotting – why didn’t you run? Perhaps you were already tired. I didn’t know how far you had come. But as I watched you disappear, it was my legs that turned to water, my skin that stung, my chest that was suddenly tight. I had forgotten I had to get back. In a second I had climbed the fence, snaring my skirt, and dropped down the other side. Then I was up and running after you, through the empty field, rain blinding me. I entered the wood after you. There was screaming in the air. I wasn’t sure if it came from within or without. And in the grey midst of winter the whole world caught light.

      I lost you, and when they came crashing behind me, I fell back and waited. I knew you would outwit them – you always outwitted them, dozens of times. You would double back and leave them panting, and then you would disappear, and later, when it was safe, I would find you. I ran through the thicket. I hacked brambles apart. I knew where your den was; I would meet you there and see that no harm came to you. I said the words in my head and I know you heard me. I would get there before them. But even the ground could not hold you. Even earth vomited you out. Like some prophet of old, there was no place for you, or for me that day; we were driven out, dispossessed, disinherited, and I knelt, or rather my knees did, when I saw they had found you before me; I watched as they hit the ground with pipes and with spades; as at one end of your home dogs began to bark. The dogs wagged their tails – they were such stupid creatures! They yapped and they whined; foolish noises for such large animals to make. If you made a noise it would mean something, I knew; it would make sense. I had heard you at night and you sounded like a demon. There was thunder now and rain like tarpaulin, banging in sheets, or maybe the banging was in my head, and I watched as they clamoured for you, unashamed in their lust. I should have shouted. I should have screamed and run at them. Could a child have done that? A girl of twelve? Perhaps. Why didn’t I, then? Why didn’t I stand up and save – I see now – both you and myself?

      The first time I saw you, you were trotting along the top of the cornfield. The sun was rising, and when it caught your fur you looked as though you were cloaked in blood. I had never seen anything so beautiful and at once so familiar; I had the strangest feeling that I had, for the first time, seen me. After that I always looked out for you. I knew there was only one. You were the one the grown-ups spoke of. And they too spoke as if you were one, not many; not really animal and not really human. Not spirit either. What, then? An exile, a devil, the whipping

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