God's Country E-Book

Kerry Hadley-Pryce

• Herausgeber: Salt
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Salt Modern Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 238

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

'Guy Flood, returns to the Black Country with his girlfriend, Alison, to attend his identical twin brother's funeral. The reasons he left, and the secrets he left behind, slowly become clear. A chilling dark fiction, dominated by unknown and all-seeing narrator.'

Leseprobe

KERRY HADLEY-PRYCE

GOD’S COUNTRY

To my family

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONGOD’S COUNTRYACKNOWLEDGEMENTSABOUT THIS BOOKABOUT THE AUTHORALSO BY KERRY HADLEY-PRYCECOPYRIGHT

GOD’S COUNTRY

She’ll say she wants to tell you this story, and in the act of telling it, she knows she’ll probably leave some gaps, but in the act of you reading it, you’ll give it shape. And maybe you might want to consider this: Can you imagine your whole life being about the worst thing you ever did?

Think about that now.

They travelled up here by car but an accident on the M5 had already added almost two hours to the journey. A car had burst into flames. Two people had died at the scene, apparently. Alison will say how she was uncomfortable, thirsty, needed the loo. She had a headache that was getting worse, and had forgotten to bring any pain killers. They seemed to have been at a standstill in the fast lane for ages. Guy turned the engine off.

‘Five hours it would have taken us if we’d come on the train,’ he said. He was jumpy, pink, blotchy – his face and neck. Alison will say it was always like he could read her mind. ‘So don’t say anything …’

‘Well it’s taken us more than that now.’ She would have been pointing at the clock on the dashboard, then pointing at the traffic motionless in front of them. ‘Got to be six, seven hours now, probably. And we’re not even … I mean, where are we exactly?’

‘Alison, I looked,’ he said. ‘I checked. There are no direct trains to the Black Country from our place, I told you.’

He’ll have been doing that thing with his mouth, letting his top teeth slide over the bottom lip repeatedly. Not quite biting. She’ll have been able to see it getting sore, his lip. And calling her ‘Alison,’ calling her by her full name, she’ll say now, was something he only ever did when he was annoyed, agitated.

She’ll say she remembers him switching the radio off. They must have heard the same news, how many times? And the weather forecast. Expect snow, they kept being told, ice on untreated roads, expect cold.

She’ll say she remembers Guy going on and on, saying, ‘We’d have had to catch buses, God knows how many trains. We’d have been walking and waiting, hanging about. I told you. It was four or five changes at least.’ He counted them off on his fingers, so she’ll say. ‘Six or seven different trains, probably. And it’s freezing out. It is, look at it.’

He was wound up, and he was exaggerating, of course. She’ll say, she’ll explain, this is what he does when he’s nervous, when he’s anxious. She’ll tell how he started the engine and the warmish air that blasted out from the vent onto her face smelled of petrol and smoke, how she looked out of the side window at a child urinating on the grassy bank just the other side of the hard shoulder, how a woman standing next to him smoked a cigarette and gazed now and then out at the line of traffic ahead.

‘Stressful enough as it is.’ Guy said this, she’ll say so.

‘Where are we, anyway?’ Alison said. She’ll tell how she opened her window, suddenly needing air.

‘I dunno,’ he said, and she’ll tell how flustered he was. ‘How should I know? Nobody knows. Tewkesbury? Evesham? The Seventh Circle of Hell? Christ knows.’

She’ll say she sighed, at him, wanted to say something. He had no particular right to snap at her, not after what she’d been through. But he didn’t know then, did he? And he never would, actually. She’ll say she thought then about telling him outright, there and then. But the woman and the child outside scampered back down the bank towards the car ahead of them. Before he got in, the child looked straight at her, Alison. She’ll say she noticed his trousers were damp around the crotch. She stuck her tongue out, wrinkled her nose at him, watched as a look of disgust crossed his face and the woman ushered him into the back seat of the car.

Guy said something like, ‘Horrible kid.’ And thumped the steering wheel. ‘Come. On!’ he yelled at the lines of traffic ahead of him.

Alison will say she remembers straining to see beyond the cars ahead. ‘What does that sign up there say?’ she said. She’ll have been squinting, perhaps she’ll have thought she had a migraine coming on, on top of everything. She’ll tell how she read the sign aloud: ‘Worcester? Thirty-five?’

She’ll say she remembers she said it for something to say, to break the possibility of an argument or a silence, or a truth emerging, but she said it like she’d never said the words before, like she’d never even seen the words before. Guy must have noticed how West Country she’d suddenly become, saying ‘Worcester’ like a right yokel.

‘Well, that’s where we are then, obviously, isn’t it?’ he said, and she’ll say she felt, rather than saw, him flash a glance at her. ‘Worcester, twenty-five, actually.’ And he tutted, shook his head, said, ‘You need new specs.’

‘Sorry.’ She’ll have said it under her breath, and she’ll say she remembers how she took off her glasses, started cleaning them with the corner of her cardigan.

Beside them, in the middle lane, she’ll tell how there was a young man wearing a baseball cap sitting, quite relaxed, in his Audi, engine off, smoking a cigarette, his elbow pointing out of his open window like a weapon, smoke wafting straight in through Alison’s open window.

‘Do you want to close your window?’ Guy said. He was talking to Alison, but the young man obviously heard, turned to look at them. She’ll say she wondered what he was thinking, where he was going, this Audi driver, whether he had a girlfriend, children, where he was from. She’ll tell how she watched him smoking that cigarette, inhaling the smoke like it was the way to ecstasy, and gently breathing it out in perfectly formed smoke rings. She’ll admit to looking at the way his mouth moved, at his perfectly sculpted beard. She most likely thought she saw a twinkle in his eyes, at her. It was a performance, she’ll say she thought, for her, and she wanted to applaud him. She will have been in another world, watching that young man when Guy touched her arm and she saw, when she looked, a bit of something, grit or some such, in the corner of his eye. She’ll say she thought about just flicking it out with her little finger, poking it out, but didn’t. She knew, of course, that he was tired, both of them were, but he looked it. She’ll describe the big dark hollows beneath his eyes, how they seemed to have been drawn there, how his lip was dark pink and sore from not-quite-biting, and how he’d nicked his chin shaving that morning because it was so early and dark when they got up. She’ll say, just then, she wondered what he’d look like with a beard, or breathing perfectly formed smoke rings. Perhaps that’s when she first had the idea. I don’t suppose we’ll know now. Anyway. In truth, they’d both been working too hard, the last thing they needed was this trip, really, especially in the circumstances. This was why – one of the reasons why – she hadn’t told him what she’d done. There’s only so much stress a person can take. Guy had already missed a deadline at work and she’d been through this – this situation – before, she hadn’t told him then, either, so really, she’ll say she knew she ought to be resting, feet up, or something. And she would have been, if they hadn’t had to come here.

‘Your window. Do you want to close it?’

She’ll say she remembers he said again, and he motioned towards the Audi driver.

‘It’s a bit stuffy in here with the heating on full blast,’ she said.

‘It’s cold,’ Guy said. ‘And a bit smoky.’ And he coughed, he forced a cough – she’ll remember that.

The Audi driver caught on to what was being said. He looked at her as if she was prey of some kind to him and she’ll say she quite liked that.

But she closed her window, and the sound of it, and the speed of it seemed somehow ridiculous, seemed to create a vacuum straight away. It wasn’t lost on the Audi driver, she’ll say she remembers that, and he narrowed his eyes and breathed out a cirrus of smoke in her direction. She was smiling, she knew she was, and she’ll admit he was good looking, but when she realised Guy was giving her one of his looks, she said, ‘God.’ She’ll say she said it quietly, aimed it at the Audi driver, and she waved her hands about in a kind of performance. ‘Give us all cancer, why don’t you?’

Guy looked at her, and she’ll say she knew that look well. She’ll tell how she rubbed her fingertips lightly and briefly on the outside of his thigh.

‘Oh, Christ, Guy …’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’

Guy sighed. He would have sighed instead of saying anything.

‘That was thoughtless, me saying something like that,’ she said. ‘I’m really sorry.’

Ahead of them, she’ll say the traffic had just begun to move. They would have been able to see it begin to shift, like the vertebrae of an enormous monster that they were part of, and up ahead, the blue lights of the fire engines, the police cars.

‘I really am,’ Alison said, and she would have been squeezing his thigh, and her breath would have been chemical with thirst. ‘I’m an idiot for saying that.’

She’ll say now, she just needed to keep him on-side.

Don’t feel sorry for her.

She’ll tell how she remembers Guy finding first gear, saying, ‘Thank Christ for that,’ and how he was concentrating on the horizon, leaning forward, seeming to want to push forward physically. She would have taken hold of his fingers if she could have, if she could have brought herself to, that is, but both his hands were on the wheel, and it was late, and nobody wants to be late for their own brother’s funeral, especially when it’s your twin brother.

They stopped at Strensham Services. She likes motorway service stations, Alison does. She likes the transience of it all, the brutalism of the look of them, the strange grace of that, the way lives collide in a way they wouldn’t, couldn’t, elsewhere, the possibility of chance, the movement. She likes the fairground quality of the layout, the way the food smells, the trancelike look on the faces of the staff, unlike staff anywhere else.

Guy was pulling up at the pump, she’ll say, when she asked him, ‘Do we have time for a coffee?’

She might say he hesitated, that she couldn’t tell if it was impatience. It probably was. ‘I thought you said you needed the loo,’ he said and he got out of the car and walked towards the kiosk, his legs clearly stiff from driving for so long, his shoulders already anyway made round by working at a computer all day, his back much more hunched, she noticed, and just for a moment, she’ll say she saw him as she thought he might become: jaded, a little haggard, like someone who does physical work of some kind – hard, physical work.

She’ll talk about how the sun suddenly glinted off something – something on the awning of the forecourt or a window – and it was like the flash of a camera, momentarily blinding, and she’ll say that when she looked at him, the way it coloured him, Guy, he seemed to be merging, even then, with the elements of this place, as if he’d been the missing component. She’ll say it made her want to close her eyes, at least.

There was a queue for the Ladies, there always is. And there were end-of-line Christmas decorations next to Valentine’s cards in the shop there and she’ll say she watched as a young couple considered buying a giant inflatable heart. Everything seemed so expensive to her. Garish posters behind scratched Perspex advertised cheap, fast food. Buy one, get one free. A woman wearing orange workwear strolled by, eyes down, pushing an oversized broom. Alison will say she noticed this woman was wearing three, no, four gold rings at least on the fingers of one hand.

She’ll say that the queue moved quickly, but the cubicle she chose had no lock and she had to sit with her foot against the door. She’d been desperate, and it seemed to take an age for her to finish. Someone tried to push the door, but she managed to hold it closed, just. Then she’ll say she stood up a bit too quickly and everything went flickery and she had to hold on to the toilet roll holder until the feeling passed, and then the sanitary bin was full and she had to prod hers down into it. She’d leaked a bit, and there was blood, dried, on the crotch of her jeans and then there was no soap in any of the dispensers, and the water was either very cold or very hot. She’ll say she swallowed a palm-full of water that tasted of metal, and when she came out, into the concourse, the inflatable heart had gone, and she recognised the young man she’d seen in the Audi earlier, paying for something at the till. He didn’t seem to see her. She bought the last two packs of pain-killers on the shelf. Overpriced, she’ll say she thought.

Outside, the forecourt was full of cars, despite the price of the petrol. Apparently, she noticed a people carrier at the opposite pump, full of children, most of them complaining in sing-song high-pitched voices she’d sometimes heard Guy use when he was tired or particularly pissed off. Trying to work out what they were saying was like trying, and failing, to tune into a radio station, so she’ll say. The youngest child, little more than a baby, even seemed to be crying with the same intonation. In another car, she’ll say how she could hear a couple talking. ‘We ought to just leave now,’ one of them said. And ‘Things Can Only Get Better’ faded out as they drove off onto the sliproad.

She’ll say she noticed the air here was different from their home. Gritty, she thought, dirty and dampish and heavy with something. She’d have wondered whether it was healthy or not, or whether she was just imagining it. She’ll say she felt it, tasted it, that sweetish bitterness of something prehistoric as if the place was shrouded in something, preserved by something. Maybe she thought it’s the air quality that carries sound differently, making this odd pitch in the voice, like helium might because she’ll say the sound from the children in the people carrier seemed relentless. She felt herself becoming agitated, she’ll say she actually felt herself frowning. Do something, she was thinking. Why doesn’t the parent do something? She’ll say she thought of the name: Black Country, and all the connotations, and everything she’d heard about it, everything Guy had told her. Grit and damp was what she’d expected, of course. She’d expected an area drizzled with grey or sepia, perhaps very little difference between day and night, she’d pictured people round-shouldered with manual labour and the odd sound of distant clanging metal or blasts from furnaces somewhere. She’d imagined calculated rows of Victorian terraced houses, non-stop. She’d thought there’d be ancient factories, quaint, if nothing else, now that there was not so much manufacturing. She’d packed thick jumpers because she’d imagined it to be especially cold here. Of course, it is. But she’d never been here before, and Guy had left, how many years ago? Fifteen? And he hadn’t been back. She’ll say she’d begun to think he might have been making it up, this Black Country of his, she’d never been able to find it on a map, and she hadn’t expected to feel anything like what she was feeling about being here.

And she’ll tell this: as she stood on the edge of the forecourt, an aeroplane flew overhead, low, from Birmingham airport, she guessed, and made the windows of the cars, and of the kiosk, seem to shiver, but it seemed to give her, she’ll say, a sense that if she wanted to, she could leave this place, that it would be possible to board a plane like that and go anywhere. If she wanted to, when she wanted to. Guy, when she looked, was standing in a queue inside the kiosk, watching her. It made her feel odd, unsettled, being looked at like that. She’ll tell how her headache was developing, she thought, a throb above her left eye, and there were floaters that were messing with her vision. To her, just then, Guy appeared to be swathed in smoke. There was a sense of hearing things in 3D, of actually apprehending this place here differently. She will have wished for water or coffee so she could take the pain-killers, she will have wished she could just have a lie down, she’d perhaps have felt better then. She’ll say this is what she’d thought, just then.

Inside the car, to her, she’ll say it smelt of heat and sweat, and of Guy, the smell of him, his aftershave or whatever, which clung to everything. She closed her eyes and saw patterns in red and black. She must have fallen asleep immediately because Guy opening the door was a shock. She felt herself rearing up, she’ll say, straightening up, pulling tight the muscles in her legs, her back.

‘I don’t know what this’ll be like,’ he said as he sat down, handing her a coffee cup. ‘I put a load of sugar in it to mask the taste, but I bet it still tastes like shit.’

When she took it from him, both of them noticed she was trembling, she’ll say she’s sure of that.

‘Lack of food,’ she said, because she just didn’t want him to ask any questions, not just then.

That little piece of grit was still there, in the corner of his eye, she noticed. If she could just hook it out with her fingernail.

‘Ali,’ Guy said, and he sighed. She’ll say she remembers feeling the blood rushing to her face, feeling herself stiffen, she’ll say now she felt like the whole of the Black Country was watching them, watching her. ‘You didn’t have to come here,’ he said. He whispered it.

‘I wanted to,’ she said.

‘No-one wants to come here,’ he said. ‘Especially … here.’

She’ll say she remembers how he sat, looking straight ahead. It was a migraine she was getting, likelihood was that this aura she could already see would become a thunderous pain. Already the kiosk had disappeared from her view, slurried by some false image, some false light or dark that was going on in her head. To her, just then, there was smoke everywhere.

‘No-one ever wants to come here,’ Guy said, again and he wasn’t smiling.

The people carrier pulled away from the pump opposite. She couldn’t see or hear any of the children. It was as if they’d vanished, or, she thought, had been left in lost property, or had been dumped in the motorway services, left playing on the fruit machines or the computer games, or given away, or sold, or left to run in a panic across the carriageway. It was as if they’d been surgically removed. To her that’s how it will have seemed, and she let her hand hover above her own belly for a second, like a magician performing a disappearing trick.

‘Look, I know,’ Guy said without looking at her. ‘It’s been hard.’

‘Hard for you,’ she said, quickly. ‘He was your brother.’

Outside, the wind like an off-chord being struck time and again made it feel like they might have been right about the snow.

She took two pain-killers with a mouthful of coffee. It was scalding hot, still, but it was the gathering pain in her head, behind her eye, that was all she could feel. She’ll say. Perhaps that’s all she wanted to feel.

‘You OK?’ Guy said.

‘Yeh, fine,’ she said.

She’ll say she imagined the migraine as a clump of something red, irregular or with branches or roots like tentacles. Some kind of toxic plant, say, like a triffid, that was capable of growing and creeping and burrowing into her brain. And she’d imagined the pain-killers as a bunch, no, an army, of soldiers, with flame-throwers, searing away the thickening stems with jets of fire – she could hear them doing it – of them scorching out roots until all that would be left was damage. Her poor damaged brain. This was on the journey from the motorway into the Black Country. Every now and then she closed her eyes and imagined her brain like the surface of wild earth, and all the little footprints melded into a mess of dryness, of ash. Whenever they stopped at junctions or traffic lights, she jolted herself awake, thinking they were there, that they’d arrived at the farm – because it was the farm they were heading for: Guy’s childhood home. Sometimes, there were live digital screens on bus stops, flickering pixelated images of far-off places, or commodities nobody really needs. Against the jaundiced light, it all looked degraded, out of place. Guy woke her once saying something about the Google Street View car, prowling down a street of terraced houses in front of them. Later, she heard him say, ‘We’re there.’ She heard him sigh it. She can’t have realised how very tired she was, how she must have fallen asleep again. She’ll say how she noticed the two dots of coffee she’d spilt on her jeans seemed to be blooming before her eyes, clumping into a philtrum as if about to form the shape of a human face. It made her shiver, and she put her hand over that. Guy noticed her doing it as he changed gear, he must have, because she’ll say she remembers him saying, ‘Don’t go worrying about that. Nobody at the farm’ll notice.’

He called it ‘The Farm’, Guy did, whenever he talked about his life before, whenever he mentioned where his family lived, which, anyway, wasn’t often. Alison will say now that, at first, she’d thought that was strange, that he never called it ‘home’, it was always either ‘The Farm’ or ‘there’. Of course, she knows why now.

The car was struggling, or so it seemed to her, or perhaps Guy was deliberately driving very, very slowly. It was a rough uphill lane, sand or clay, because that’s what this place is made of. There were potholes, deep ones, that made it feel dangerous and made the car move unpredictably, like everything was being knocked out of kilter. And when it came into view, the house, the farm, it looked like it was perched on the side of a volcano. That’s how Alison will describe it. She’ll say she was struck by the blocks of blackened stone it was made of, the layers, and how they looked. Not brick. Like a house made of coal. Nothing that she’d ever seen before, but strangely impressive. She’ll say now that a quote came to mind, something from Heaney: ‘The sump-life of the place like old chain oil.’ It was like the poetry came at her, just looking at this farm here, just looking at this place. And, she’ll say now, it seemed to her then, if anything, like a good place to die.

What she’ll say she remembers is that between the house and an old caravan, there was strung a longish washing line on which there were billowing sheets and towels, and on the most exposed side of the house there was scaffolding that looked, she’ll say, like a strange puzzle. As they approached, she’d have been able to see lines of footfall alongside the dry-stone wall. Later, she’d be told it was called a desire path. And the wall, ancient looking, broken and loose in places, looked experimental – it still does. And an old Land Rover was parked skewiff across the drive.

Guy stopped the car a little distance from the farm, still on the lane. Something rattled under the bonnet for a second.

‘Jesus. Looks like Greebo’s still here, probably living in that caravan,’ he said.

Alison will say she saw how watchful he’d become, and observed him as if from a distance, as if on a screen, because it was like she’d become invisible to him. It was, she’ll say now, as if he was willing something to happen, or not happen and it didn’t matter whether she was there or not. But she felt suddenly exhausted, a battery run out. She’ll say she remembers licking her fingertip and running it under her eye, thinking perhaps her mascara might have run. For something to say, she said, ‘Do I look okay to you?’ But Guy seemed entranced, watchfully alert, his gaze fixed on the farm, or that’s what she’ll say she remembers.

‘Guy,’ she said. ‘Am I okay?’

And he turned to look at her like he’d just come round from hypnosis, she’ll say, but he said, ‘Yeh. Yes. You look fine, yes.’

She remembers fetching her handbag out from the footwell, finding a lipstick, and putting some on. Not much, just a bit.

‘Yeh, you look all right,’ Guy said, but he was focusing on the farm again, not even looking at her.

She’ll say now, she’ll admit, that she wanted to take a photograph of it, this farm, this place, if that’s what it was, a place. In fact, she reached for her phone, and, as if he knew what she was thinking, Guy said, ‘Don’t.’ So she did not.

And it was as if she’d conjured up a situation. At least that’s what Alison will say. It was as if she’d dreamed it. They both saw it, they must have: the door of the farm opened, and a woman appeared. Impossible, as it was, from that distance to guess her age. She could have been fourteen or forty. According to Alison, she was wearing jeans, hung low on her hips as if it was a fashion, wellington boots, a donkey jacket, and she seemed to be carrying something – a bag, perhaps, a carrier bag – swinging it like it might be a bag, that is. Guy put the car into first gear as if he was a learner driver, seemed to murmur something, and drove slowly towards the farm, towards this woman. Her face came into focus, her expression, like a photograph developing. When she saw them, she slowed her movements, in fact, as the car stopped, she stopped. She suddenly didn’t seem to move an inch, suddenly exhausted, as if her legs were, as if she was emerging from a day’s work in a mine or a foundry, or on the land, perhaps. The jacket she was wearing had mud on the elbows, her hair was loose and very long, unbrushed, exactly the same rust-red as Guy’s. But Alison will say something must have registered with Guy first, before it registered with her, that is, because he said, ‘Don’t say anything,’ and he cut the engine.

It was just before she got out of the car, Alison will say, that she realised that what the woman was, in fact, holding, was not a carrier bag at all, it was a baby.

She probably hadn’t ever imagined a woman like that. At least, that’s the impression Alison will give.