“I’m not like you. I need love and affection; I need human warmth. I’m not dead inside like you. And the child—you let the child die. That was unforgivable. You killed my son—my own sister, a cold-blooded murderess. You were jealous, that was it—you didn’t want me to have anything. . . .” He trailed off as if the rope around his neck had gotten so tight, he could no longer speak.
No, Marion was about to say, that wasn’t my fault, the child was already dead. I would have done anything to save it. I would have given my own life. But then she realized she didn’t care anymore what he thought of her.
She carried on cooking his meals, making his toast in the morning, warming his tins of soup and macaroni and cheese, and he ate it all without saying a word or even looking at her.
“I could poison you if I wanted to; I am, after all, a cold-blooded killer,” she said to herself from time to time, thinking of the box of rat poison beneath the kitchen sink.
? ? ?
HE DID THE exercises prescribed by the physiotherapist each day lying on the living room sofa, kicking his legs in the air, lifting tins of soup, flexing his ankles. Eventually he was able to drive himself to the hospital for appointments. Every now and then, she would pass John in the hallway or they would meet in the kitchen and he would glare at her with a deathly look. He was getting stronger, and Marion knew he was thinking about revenge. The danger came from not knowing when or how he would attack, so she would have to be on her guard constantly.
John used a chain saw to cut up the sycamore tree. Its grating roar seemed to cut through her. Looking through her bedroom window late one night, she saw her brother pulling two black bin liners across the grass. He took them to the rear of the garden and threw them onto the heap of rubbish she had cleared from the house. Then he tossed on several logs cut from the sycamore tree. He must have soaked the wood in petrol, because when he lit a match and cast it onto the pile, great orange flames cut into the night.
A dark thrill went through Marion, and she remembered her father burning John’s magazines in the garden. But would they burn completely, she wondered, even the bones? Marion seemed to remember reading that when people were cremated, the bigger bones would not burn and had to be ground down like flour in a mill.
? ? ?
ONE AFTERNOON WHEN she was lying on her bed, the doorbell rang. She looked out the window and saw the dusty gray disk of Mr. Weinberg’s hat below.
If I don’t go down, she thought wearily, he’ll be out there all day.
As she went downstairs she saw the familiar shape behind the colored glass door panel. Briing-briing. Each ring made her heart beat a little faster. Then a blister of rage burst inside her. I’m not going to let some daft old bugger like him frighten me.
“What do you want?” she announced on opening the door.
Mr. Weinberg just stared at her with his ugly old tortoise mouth hanging open. Under his coat he was wearing pink and orange pajamas that must have been fifty years old.
“Well? I’m really very busy. What is it you want?”
“I know that smell,” he said.
“For goodness’ sake, what smell are you talking about?”
“The burning. That smell, the burning of bodies. I know from the war. You never forget. A smell stays with you always.”
He tapped his nose with a scaly finger.
“That’s none of your damn business!” she yelled at him. “Just go away. Don’t ever come back here again, you dirty stinking fool.” Then she slammed the door in the old man’s face and rushed back up to her room.
Immediately Marion felt a wave of self-disgust. She shouldn’t have called him those wicked names. But really, someone like that ought not to be allowed out alone; he was clearly suffering from dementia. His family, if he had any, should have him put away in a care home.
? ? ?
THE BONFIRE WENT on for days. On the fourth night she saw him throw a white shape into the fire. The teddy bear. Marion felt a stab of sorrow. That poor baby had dipped into the world for such a short time. Didn’t he at least deserve some fitting memorial, perhaps a stone angel or a dove of innocence to mark his brief life? When the last bonfire died down, John took a spade and began to turn the soil over until the far end of the garden was nothing but a patch of blackened earth.
“The smell was just awful, Marion. I couldn’t even leave my windows open at night,” Judith said as she placed a cup of tea on the table before Marion.
Even though there was no sugar to dissolve, Marion picked up a spoon and stirred out of habit. She was visiting Judith in order to pay her for the damage to the wall. Judith had been unable to hide the gleam in her eye when she opened the envelope of cash. Clearly Marion’s payment had been far too generous, yet it was a relief to bring the matter to a close.
“I had some people over the other evening,” Judith went on, after putting the envelope safely into a drawer, “a local artist who works with things that wash up on the beach, and his partner came for dinner, and you could taste it”—Judith screwed up her mouth and looked as though she was about to spit—“you could actually taste the smoke on your tongue, even with the windows closed.”
“I’m sorry, Judith, I really don’t know what to say—”
“But just what was he burning out there?”
“The sycamore tree, of course. I thought you’d be glad to see it gone.”
“Why not just pay someone to take it away? I mean, shouldn’t he be resting after his surgery?”
“The doctors said exercise is good for him, so long as he doesn’t overdo it.”
“But surely just burning wood wouldn’t make that awful stink? To be honest, you’re lucky no one has complained to the council about it.”
“I suppose it smelled like that because it was rotten.”
Only half convinced, Judith frowned and sipped her coffee.
At least Judith would be away in Greece in a few days, but what if someone had complained? Marion wondered. Then Judith’s phone rang. She answered it and began pacing around her kitchen while talking. “I intend to use my full baggage allowance—if you need to bring that much, then you’ll have to pay extra yourself,” she said sharply, followed by: “Greg, I honestly don’t know what you can and can’t flush down the toilets in the villa—can’t you email them about that?”
“How is Lydia getting along?” asked Marion after Judith hung up, eager to prevent the conversation from returning to the subject of John’s bonfires.
“Don’t ask,” said Judith, shaking her head. “She’s dropping out of her course.”
“Oh, Judith—what a shame.”
“She says it’s a waste of time and money—I just wish she’d decided that two years ago. Anyway, she wants to see the world instead, so she’s got a job nannying in Spain.”
“Who is she going to work for?”
“Some couple who live in Madrid. I think one of them works in the oil industry. She mentioned they have a dog.”
“Do you know anything about them? What kind of people are they?”