Stone Bruises

This is the furthest I’ve walked on the crutch, and my breathing is laboured as I go through the wood. I trudge with my head down, so focused on what I’m doing that I don’t notice the pale figure until it’s right in front of me.

‘Jesus!’

I stumble back. Now I see more of them, motionless shapes in the trees. My heart is thudding, but none of them move. As the shock of seeing them fades I realize why.

The wood is full of statues.

They crowd both sides of the track, stone men and women dappled by moonlight. I sag in relief, but still have to touch one to reassure myself that the lifelike limbs aren’t, after all, flesh and blood. My fingers encounter only the roughness of lichen and smooth, hard stone.

I smile, shame-faced, and as I do the wood’s quiet is shattered by a shriek. It’s high-pitched and inhuman, seeming to go on and on before it abruptly stops. I stare into the blackness, gripping the flimsy crutch. Just a fox or owl, I tell myself. But I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle upright. I turn and look at the statues. They haven’t moved, but now their blind scrutiny seems unnerving. Then the shriek comes again, and my nerve breaks.

All thoughts of the lake are forgotten as I lurch back up the shadowed track. My breath rasps in my ears, blood thumping as I struggle on the single crutch. Up ahead I can see the moonlit field through the trees, impossibly distant. Christ, have I really come so far? Then at last I’m out in the open, and orderly rows of vines replace the dark trees. I lumber on, panting for breath, until I reach the sanctuary of the barn once more. Gulping for air, I stop to retrieve the lamp and look back towards the wood. The track is empty, but I don’t relax until I’m in my loft again with the trapdoor shut behind me.

I collapse onto the mattress, chest heaving and legs like jelly. I’m drenched with sweat, as wet as if I’d actually been in the lake. The idea of going down there, as if I could swim with my foot bandaged up, seems ridiculous now. I don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t you? Really?

All I want to do is sleep. But before I do I go back over to the trapdoor and slide a chest of drawers on top.

Feeling safe at last, I go to bed and sleep like the dead.

London

CALLUM WAS STILL ranting when I came back from the bar.

‘Oh, come on! Did we see the same film? Tell me, did we? I was watching The Last Detail, what were you watching?’

‘All I’m saying is it’s still reinforcing character stereotypes. You’ve got the, uh, the hardened wiseguy, the rookie, the token—’

‘They’re archetypes, not stereotypes! I can’t believe you missed the entire fucking point of the—’

‘I didn’t miss anything, I just think it’s, uh, I don’t know—’

‘Exactly!’

‘Callum, why don’t you shut up and let Jez finish?’ Yasmin cuts in.

‘I would if he wasn’t talking shite!’

I put the drinks on the table. Beer for Callum, Yasmin and me, orange juice for Chloe, vodka for Jez. Chloe gives me a grin as I sit down.

Yasmin turns to me. ‘Sean, tell Callum it’s possible to object to aspects of a Jack Nicholson film without being burned at the stake for heresy.’

‘Sean agrees with me,’ Callum cuts in. Raw-boned and shaven-headed, his piercings add to the faintly pagan image he likes to cultivate. ‘Nicholson is the finest actor of his generation, bar none!’

‘He was a jobbing actor who got lucky,’ Chloe says. She darts a quick look at me to show she’s deliberately baiting Callum. As ever, he bites.

‘Bollocks! I’ve got one thing to say to you, Chloe. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. That’s it.’ He sits back, crossing his arms as if the argument’s won.

‘That was a dream role. Any halfway decent actor could have run away with it,’ Yasmin says, rolling her eyes. Her hair is tied back tonight, and she’s wearing the loose dark clothes that Chloe once confided show she’s feeling self-conscious about her weight.

‘Oh, come on! What about Chinatown? Or The Departed?’

‘What about them?’ Chloe begins ticking off on her fingers. ‘Witches of Eastwick. Mars Attacks. Batman. Best actor of his generation? Sure.’

Jez furrows his brow. ‘Batman was OK. Not as good as The Dark Knight, though.’

No one takes any notice of him. He’s been drinking all night and looks even more crumpled than usual, which is saying something. Like Callum, he’s a teacher at the language school in Fulham where I’ve been working for the past few months. Yasmin, his girlfriend and Chloe’s best friend from art college, used to work there as well before she got a better-paying job at the university.