Читать книгу Shadow Casting - Paul Kane - Страница 13

YIN AND YANG

The end of the world, the end of the universe, began with a kiss.

Not a war, not a bomb exploded by people too blind to see the consequences of their actions, nor a deadly disease genetically engineered or originating from birds. Just a kiss: that most simple expression of emotion. But, as many have discovered in the past, it is often the simplest of things that can cause the most devastation.

And whole empires have been known to crumble because of a “simple” thing called love.

Stanley Bennett never listened.

He’d never listened as a kid, when his parents had told him not to hang around with Darren Walters and his crowd—who smoked like exhaust pipes, drank like long-distance swimmers, and eventually weaned him on to a hundred a day and multiple cans of lager a night. Never listened when his mates told him not to touch Rita Hepworth with a bargepole, and had regretted that night of fumbling around in the back of his dad’s Ford when Rita announced she was pregnant and they were bloody well getting married or she’d tell her brothers about it (who’d rearrange his limbs and break his face—or vice versa, whichever he preferred). Never listened to Rita when she told him to cut down on the fried foods, all those burgers and chips and kebabs that were bloating him up to almost twenty stone. “You work all day at a desk and don’t get any exercise,” she moaned at him, but he was usually too busy tucking into a curry and watching the match on TV—that was when he could hear a thing over the bawling of their three-year-old. He never listened when she told him they needed a smoke detector in the house, and then one weekend he dropped to sleep on the couch with a lit cigarette in his hand and set fire to the living room. Rita and little Michael barely escaped with their lives and left him not long afterwards, once her brothers had given Stanley a good kicking.

He took no notice, either, when he’d collapsed at work and the doctors had told him that if he didn’t stop drinking he’d almost certainly be looking at liver failure and then ... well, who knows? The sick leave just gave him more time to eat, drink and watch TV. Stanley never listened when his son, now eighteen, visited to announce that Rita had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was asking to see him. Never listened when Michael returned to let him know she had passed away and that he never wanted to see Stanley again as long as he lived.

Never listened ever in his entire life: except once.

Only once, in the urinals of the George and Dragon, did Stanley listen. He’d just finished his fourth pint of the evening and felt the sudden urge to empty his forty-five-year-old bladder. That urge turned into a desperate need, and as he was at the urinal pissing as many toxins out of his system as his body could eject in one go, the need became a sharp pain that spread throughout the whole of his body, sending him rigid.

It was at that point Stanley felt a hand on his shoulder. He was about to turn and say something like, “Can’t a fella get a bit of privacy around here?” when he realised the hand didn’t belong to anyone even remotely human. It wasn’t the hand of Death, of that he was certain: for one thing he wouldn’t listen to Death even if it walked up to him sharpening its scythe and beckoning a bony finger. Stanley Bennett would tell the Grim Reaper to just fuck off because he was going to live for a long, long while yet. For another, it wasn’t cold like Death’s hand should be—it was warm, and it squeezed tightly.

But Stanley Bennett did listen: he listened as the figure just behind him leaned in close to his ear and said these words in a deep, rich voice: “It is your time.”

And Stanley nodded his head sagely as if it made all the sense in the world to him.

It was dark in that place. Dark and wet and ... safe.

Though Jenny had seen nothing of the outside world yet, she knew much. Somehow she knew that her mother and father loved her and wanted her, more than anything in the entire world. They had been waiting so long, trying so hard. They had even been visiting the hospital so that the doctors could help them. Years and years, and then finally, at long last, the news they had been hoping for. Jenny knew how happy this made them: how proud her father Terry was, how complete her mother Helen now felt. She knew she would be cared for and given as much love and attention as anyone could ever want ... So why was she hesitating?

Why, after months of hearing them talk to her, play music to her, having the proper scans and tests, and Helen eating just the right foods that should make Jenny healthy and strong—apart from when her mum had gone through that early phase of scoffing Marmite and Salad Cream sandwiches—should she now want to remain exactly where she was? Perhaps it was because, along with the knowledge that these two people would give her the best home she could possibly wish for, came another awareness: that there were things out there beyond her parents’ control. In spite of the many times they would promise never to let anything bad happen to her, they wouldn’t be able to stop it. Because along with the good things she was about to experience would come so many bad things too. It was inevitable, and Jenny knew this also. That was the way things were, the way they always had been.

So she dug her heels in, steadfastly refused to come out—ignoring the struggle that was going on not far away, the clamour of voices, the quakes that shook the small space where she was curled up with her eyes closed tight. She was being evicted from her temporary home and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. But more than anything she was frightened, of what was out there awaiting her. Of the unknown.

Then the voice spoke to her, soft and low. It told her not to worry, that everything would be all right. “It is your time,” whispered the voice.

Jenny let go, allowed herself to be dragged unceremoniously out of Helen’s womb, accompanied by the amniotic fluid she’d been breathing for nine months. It was then Jenny realised that she would forget all of this, forget everything she knew, and start over from scratch. She would not simply know things anymore, she would have to learn them, as she grew, as she lived ... and wasn’t there something a bit exciting about that? More exciting than scary? For her the adventure was just beginning. It was her time, it—

Jenny was struck on the back; hard. It forced the last of the fluid out of her lungs and she took her first breath, screaming loudly. As she opened her eyes—her vision blurred, hardly able to see at all—she thought she caught a glimpse of the figure that had been in the room standing beside her mother, on the opposite side to her father (who was now crying tears of pure joy).

But then the figure was gone and Jenny had other things on her mind, like the sensory overload of being wrapped in a blanket and passed over to Helen.

“There we are,” she heard one of the nurses say, “a gorgeous baby girl. Any idea what you’re going to call her?”

“We were thinking of Jennifer,” said Helen.

“Why, that’s a lovely name,” replied the nurse.

She found him on the hillside, overlooking the graveyard.

He sat on the back of a peeling green bench, looking down on the small group gathered around one particular grave: a handful of figures dressed in mourning black. She knew all of them instantly. One in particular, a young man in his twenties, with his hands clasped in front of him, head bowed solemnly. His name was Michael.

Yang was staring at them intently, his single black eye set deep into his bleached face like a nugget of coal on a snowman. The light breeze was blowing his creamy fringe and the loose alabaster robes he wore, his silken belt flapping as he leaned forward, one hand rubbing his chin.

“Hello Yin,” he said on her approach, without ever taking his eye off the scene.

“I thought I would find you here,” she said, walking towards him and sitting down on the lower part of the bench. Yin straightened out her own dark robes, pushing a rogue strand of ebony hair back over one ear. “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.”

“Hardly,” replied Yang. “Just seeing the job through to its proper conclusion.”

A man walking a dog went past. The Labrador stopped and looked at them, barking playfully at Yang, then growling at Yin. The man looked right through them, frowned, then tugged on the lead. “Come on, Triton, stop playing silly beggars.”

Yang grinned and returned his gaze to the funeral.

“You still never think about it, then? Not even after all this time?” asked Yin, looking up at him with her one milky eye.

“About what?”

She nodded. “About them. About what we do.”

Yang shook his head. “Why should I? What purpose would it serve?”

“About what we do to them?”

“As I said, what purpose—”

“We interfere in their lives, every day. Don’t you think we should take more time to understand them?”

They locked eyes then. “We have a task to do; we do it. We serve a function.”

It was Yin who looked away first, though she could still feel his eye upon her. “You never question any of it?”

“Never. And we have had this discussion before.”

A tomcat appeared then and curled itself around Yin’s leg, brushing its head against the delicate pumps that she wore. When it looked up and saw Yang, though, it hissed at him. Yang flapped his arm and the cat ran off, terrified.

Yin’s eye narrowed.

“You know the rules just as well as I do, Yin,” her opposite said. “We’re here to ensure balance. Without us ...”

“Without us, what?” she demanded. “The truth is we don’t know, do we? Without us things might just go on the same as always.”

“Or not. Do you really want to take that risk?”

Yin didn’t answer.

“Did you not enjoy your last assignment?” he asked her.

“I feel,” she said, “that you may have enjoyed yours a little too much.”

He snorted. “Where one brings light, the other must bring darkness, where one brings summer, the other winter.”

“Where one brings death, the other brings life,” Yin said quietly.

“You should study I-Ching more often. It’s really quite fascinating.” There was a hint of sarcasm in Yang’s tone, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Just because they had chosen, long ago, to adopt the names given to the opposites of the Tai Chi simply because they were tired of not being able to address themselves, and they had chosen forms to more readily reflect their function, didn’t mean that all those ancient words of wisdom were correct. A perceptive few had definitely tapped into something, but they were off about a number of facts. For one thing Yin was far from the passive force she was meant to be; although Yang would probably have preferred it if she had been. It wasn’t, as the Emperor Fu Hsi proclaimed, necessary for Yang to be dominant over Yin for balance to be obtained. They were true equals, and always had been throughout time, since the first “adjustment” had been made: the creation of a universe where once there had been nothing. They had been busy ever since. Every day, billions of changes to be made, billions of tiny details attended to, from the smallest opening of a flower to the biggest natural disasters; from the delivery of a bill to the winning of a lottery.

“We maintain the equilibrium,” Yang informed her, repeating a speech he knew by heart. “We are not here to judge, to get involved, or to feel pity for them. They are a means by which we do this.”

“They are people,” said Yin.

He let out a breath. “It was all so much easier before they came along.”

As if on cue, a woman walked along their path pushing a pram. She paused on the brow of the hill, no doubt considering whether to rest on the bench. She too looked down at the funeral—the mourners dispersing, leaving only the young man behind. Yin got up and looked into the pram; the baby inside giggled.

The woman, wearing only a thin dress and cardigan, shivered. “Come on, Jenny, let’s get you home. There’s a bit of a chill in the air.” Deciding against sitting on the bench, she walked off down the path—never looking back once.

Yang smiled. “You see?”

Yin ignored him. “I have to go. There is work to be done.”

“Yes,” said Yang, climbing down. “As always.”

And with that they both winked out of the scene.

The atmosphere in the flat was so thick that anyone entering unannounced would have needed diving equipment to breathe properly.

Dave Parkinson had only really returned to get his stuff. Some of the clothes he’d forgotten, his CDs, books, his DVDs. He’d been hoping that Anna wouldn’t be there, that she’d be at work by now in the advertising agency, cooking up more ways to sell fridge freezers using cartoon characters and campaigns to turn the humble potato into the next cookery fashion item. But she wasn’t. Anna was on the couch, curled up under a blanket, wearing a vest and her tracksuit bottoms, an empty bottle of claret upended on the wooden floor; the drained glass not far away next to an empty box of tissues.

She’d stirred as soon as she heard the key in the lock, then sat up when Dave entered the living room. Her cheeks were puffy, eyes red and sore; and her long blonde hair was sticking out at odd angles. Anna looked at him hopefully, then her eyes travelled down to the suitcase he was carrying.

He didn’t know what to say, so he started with, “Hi.”

Pouting, Anna replied, “Not changed your mind then?”

Dave’s eyes dropped to the varnished floor. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not.” Anna swept the blanket aside, sitting up on the maroon cushions. “Just tell me one thing.”

“I’ll ... I’ll try,” said Dave. He really didn’t want to get into this again.

“Were you ever happy with me? Did you ever love me?”

Dave looked at her now, but it was like looking directly into the sun and his eyes soon found the floor again. “Of course I did. How can you say that? You know I did.”

“I don’t know anything any more,” said Anna, starting to cry once again. “I thought I did, but then ... but then everything ...”

“I did, Anna. But ... but people change.” Sounded like some shit line out of an afternoon drama on Channel Five: it’s not you, it’s me, and all that bollocks. But he didn’t know what else to say. Sometimes the clichés are right. Sometimes they’re clichés for a reason.

“I haven’t changed,” she blurted, sniffing.

“That’s just it; maybe I have.” He couldn’t help himself, he looked at Anna for the third time: and this time she wouldn’t let him go.

“So tell me—tell me what you want. Anything, I’ll do anything.”

Dave’s eyes were welling up. “It’s ... it’s too late for that now. I’m sorry, Anna. I never meant to hurt you.”

He watched as those soft, tearful eyes suddenly turned hard and cold. “Well you have. Look, just take what you want and get out.”

“Anna—”

“I said get out, and leave me alone!”

Dave hung his head and walked into the bedroom. He went through the wardrobe; finding everything just as he’d left it. Taking out clothes, he folded them and put them in his case. Then he went back to the living room and started to go through the CD and DVD racks, before turning his attention to the bookshelves. Anna now stood in the corner; she’d been to the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine.

His eyes caught a framed photo of them both on holiday, some foreign place he couldn’t for the life of him remember. Somewhere hot, somewhere they’d been happy—as the smiling faces on the picture testified. A long lost moment in time. Dave laid the picture down.