Part 19 (1/2)

'We'll talk again, Justin.'

He had run out of comebacks.

'Say h.e.l.lo to Peter for me.'

He didn't reply and she put down the phone. That infuriating boy. How does he expect me to love him? He's impossible to love.

Each lay awake that night thinking miserably, bitterly of the other.

Justin fell asleep first.

47.

When a creature begins to emerge from its chrysalis there is a point at which it is neither one thing nor the other, not quite grown into a new ident.i.ty nor rid of the old. Its wings are folded and sticky, its colours hidden. Whether it will emerge in shades of emerald and lapis lazuli or the colour of mud is yet to be revealed.

It is that long, still moment of waiting that fascinates me utterly. The suspense of waiting for beauty to unfurl.

48.

Four shopping days till Christmas.

Six to his birthday.

Justin stopped off at home to deliver Charlie's Christmas present and pick up a bag of gifts from his mother: a fruitcake and iced biscuits packed in a tin for Peter's mother, and carefully wrapped presents for Peter, Anna, Dorothea, and of course himself.

His mother fussed with directions on who was to receive what, all of which she imparted without looking directly at him. Justin felt the unasked questions flapping desperately between them like a fish in a paper bag. The saddish smile on her face jolted his recollection of a time when he had loved her with a pa.s.sion that was all-consuming, a time he couldn't be left with a babysitter, wouldn't sleep in his own cot or take a bottle from his own father.

He watched her holding his brother close, watched the little boy's head droop on to her shoulder and his open hand laid gently on her upper arm, and for the briefest of instants he remembered himself small and trusting and helpless, remembered the bliss of perfect communion.

What he wouldn't give for it now, for a tenth, a hundredth of that feeling. He could see it in Charlie's face, could see how he became soft and calm in the certain knowledge that nothing bad could happen as long as he was safe in those arms.

What a lie, thought Justin sadly. Like the big Santa Claus lie, except it went on longer. 'We'll take care of you,' said the lie, 'keep you safe from the monsters that live under the bed, the dragons in the cupboard, the ghosts, the murderers and kidnappers. We'll teach you how the world works, reveal all the secrets of life.' All of them, that is, except how to know yourself, find your way, be alone, survive loss and rejection, disappointment, shame, and death.

His brother wanted to get down now. His face was aimed at the blinking lights on the tree, his arms waved. He toddled over and touched each tiny bulb delicately, far too young to understand about the birth of Christianity or even Santa Claus, but old enough to grasp blinking lights in his fat fist and wonder at the existence of so many pretty mysteries.

Justin had come to like being born at Christmas, for all the reasons other kids hated it. With a Christmas birthday, his transitions from child to youth, youth to adolescent had been m.u.f.fled, sucked into the hungry, garish black hole of The Holiday Season, leaving him free to ignore the landmarks. Just another Christmas, nothing more life-altering or life-threatening than that.

He wondered if sixteen would feel different, in the way not being a virgin felt different. He wondered if he'd feel jaded in the same way, lose the fear and the excitement all at once. Once upon a time he had looked on sixteen as the gateway to adulthood. At sixteen, everything would become clear.

How could he have been so mistaken? Sixteen would change nothing, unless he got run over by a train on the day.

He looked at his brother who was batting a pink star with one hand, the expression on his face joyous. If you were eighteen months old and lucky, the world was one big s.h.i.+ny gift of needs fulfilled and fears allayed. Charlie toddled over and put his arms out for a kiss, burbling with the pleasure of it all: the stars, the kiss, the ability to initiate action. These things were enough to inspire happiness.

Releasing the child, Justin fetched the large, slightly crumpled parcel he'd hidden under the stairs and stuffed it behind the tree, where it would go unnoticed until Christmas morning. Then he swept up the gifts from his mother and slipped silently out the back door.

49.

That night after everyone was in bed, Justin paced. Midnight. One. Two. The longest night of the year stretched ahead, dark and filled with ghosts.

He crept downstairs to find Alice. Boy padded silently after him. Opening the back door, Justin stepped outside and peered into the hutch. Alice was asleep in a mound of straw, but he s.h.i.+fted and raised his ears at Justin's approach.

The night was cold, the moon a few days short of full. Justin opened the little door, reached in and heaved the great pliant beast out, clutching him against his body for warmth. He could feel the animal's heartbeat against his own.

He stood waiting for a voice to creep out from behind a hedge, drift down a drainpipe, emerge from Alice's mouth. But there was nothing, only the outlines of the cats on the wall behind the house, silent tonight, on the prowl. For a moment at least, all was calm.

He stroked Alice, and the rabbit seemed content to slump quietly in his arms, offering the comforting heat of his great body. Boy leant on Justin's left leg, and with a gentle sigh, dropped to the ground chest first, then rolled over sleepily on to Justin's foot and lay there, eyes half-shut.

If I were a rabbit, Justin thought, I could stroll quietly through the world, minding my own business, eating bits of vegetation and snoozing. There would be no introspection, no mad flights of fancy. There would still be l.u.s.t, but I could f.u.c.k like a bunny. It would be expected of me.

He laughed.

Gazing mesmerized into Alice's glossy upturned eye, he thought of the butcher's rabbit, half skinned, naked, singing its gruesome song.

When he looked up again, the world seemed to have s.h.i.+fted. The semi-dark of the suburban back garden appeared grainy, almost monochrome. His vision felt odd huge and all-encompa.s.sing. The garden appeared brighter. He could see all around him without turning his head.

It felt exhilarating to experience the sky and the ground at once.

I'm a rabbit, he thought with amazement. Huge eyes, 360 degrees peripheral vision, low-resolution colour perception. I'm definitely a rabbit! I wonder how that happened?

Looking straight ahead, he scanned the ground and the sky at once. A bird of prey hovered far above next-door's garden. He felt frightened. What if it saw him? And those huge feral cats. He was bigger, but they would hurt him if they could. They made his skin crawl. He smelled dog. Where? Oh my G.o.d, Boy. Would Boy mistake him for a real rabbit and tear him to shreds? He looked for the dog lying at his feet, but there was no sign of him.

Wait, what was that, there, hardly moving, by the pond?

Oh G.o.d, he thought, it's a fox. A fox! His heart began to hammer. Dorothea's vixen! RUN. Oh G.o.d, Alice, run run as fast as you can!!

The vixen slid closer through the underbrush, tail twitching.

She smells me! She knows I'm here. Where's Boy? Boy? Here, boy! Oh G.o.d, RUN!

In his arms, the panicky rabbit began to kick and scrabble.