The Scratch (A Novella) by Andrew Taylor

Author:Andrew Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780008179779
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2017-05-31T00:00:00+00:00

7

Next morning, Gerald went into work early again. I had breakfast with him and made a start in the studio. In the light of day, the excitement I had felt the previous evening seemed unreal. There was no sign of Jack, which wasn’t unusual. He had a kettle, water and tea at the Hovel, as well as a variety of high-energy cereal bars. Perhaps he had gone out at the crack of dawn to stake out the quarry with the camera.

For the rest of the morning, I hardly thought of him. That might seem odd. But, being an artist had this in its favour: it had the power to push almost anything else to the margins of the mind.

Jack still hadn’t put in an appearance when I broke off for lunch. By this stage I had persuaded myself that I had put yesterday’s events behind me; they had been an emotional anomaly, best forgotten.

I made myself a sandwich and took it outside to the bench. It was one of those improbably warm and sunny days you sometimes get in March. In a sheltered spot, you can make yourself believe you are on the edge of summer. I ate slowly, my eyes half-closed against the glare. Part of me relished the solitude. Even Cannop could be an intruder sometimes. He always wanted something, if only for me to feed him or provide a lap for him to doze on or just to give something for him to watch through his heavy-lidded eyes.

I was almost asleep when I heard Jack scream. The sound sliced through me. The plate slid from my lap to the ground, where it shattered on the flagstone in front of the bench. I dropped the remains of my sandwich among the fragments and ran towards the Hovel.

He was standing just outside the door of the upper room of the Hovel, at the head of the flight of stone steps that lead down to the garden path. He was wearing muddy jeans and a torn T-shirt. The door was open. He was staring into the room beyond.

My camera was lying at the foot of the steps. It wasn’t in its case.

‘Jack,’ I called. ‘Jack – what is it?’

He gave no sign he had heard me. I ran up the steps. He wasn’t even aware of my presence until I laid my hand on his arm. It was the arm with the scratch on it.

He turned his head to me. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Look – it’s got inside and killed something.’

Still holding him, I looked through the doorway at his sleeping bag on the camping mattress. It was almost entirely obliterated by a sea of feathers. They were white, grey, black and even a sort of blue. There were spots of blood, too. The colours were beautiful.

‘Clare,’ Jack said. ‘I just can’t stand it.’

He turned towards me. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t know which of us made the first move. Not that it mattered any more.

The need for comfort, to give it and receive it, is the Trojan horse of the emotions.

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