– and met her when he’d come to fetch a body, of all things. Claire had been the nurse in charge: confident and friendly as she took things in her stride. Heartened, he had noticed she was rather pretty too, with her gilded, gamine haircut and clear blue eyes. He’d asked her out (not then, of course), already gearing up for a rebuttal. But she’d said yes. The universe continued to exist. And six months later, here he was: sharing her flat like a partner, not a boyfriend.
He stirred in the bed, still half-asleep. A shape of warmth was dwindling beside him – as if she’d left her shadow on the sheet. Claire was in the kitchen now; he could hear the kettle boiling in the background. He tried to gauge her mood by her movements. Sloppy and resigned – or brisk and angry? Sitting up, he listened like a guilty little boy.
She hadn’t dumped her sleepshirt, but her dressing gown was missing from its hook. Gone were the days when she’d bring him tea, wearing nothing but her briefs. He pictured her, still pasty and dishevelled – and felt a surge of longing. So maybe it was really love this time.
And he looked set to let it go to waste.
She’d seen behind his mask by now: she knew he’d been disturbed by things he wouldn’t talk about. When she’d failed to coax them out, she’d given him some room: putting up with his moods and his late-night walks. She knew he was in with the ghost-hunting group – though not that he would sometimes watch alone.
He’d moved on from the hospital: he found it too unsettling. It was the district’s psychiatric unit – a grim Victorian barracks on the outer edge of town. Moving through its garrison of patients, he kept on getting glimpses of himself. Hunted faces, haunted eyes. Perhaps he really was as mad as they were.
Claire would call them ill, of course, and talk with them for hours. Perhaps she saw him as a patient too. Perhaps she only kept him on to pity. Or observe.
Shaking off that paranoid thought, he got up, pulled his boxers on, and went into the kitchen. Claire was sitting at the table, glancing listlessly through the paper. Her legs were crossed, and naked to the thigh – but her glance was guaranteed to kill all passion.
‘So when did you get in last night?’
He winced. ‘About one-ish …’
Her baby blues were hard today. ‘Don’t take me for granted, Martin. I know you need your space – but I need to be treated like a girl you care about.’
‘I’m sorry, right?’ He turned away, towards the cafetiere.
‘I suppose something for the rent would be out of the question?’ she went on flatly.
‘Can it wait to the end of the week?’
He sensed her glower at his back, then look down at the paper. Here, in this cramped kitchen, he could feel the gulf between them. But how could he begin to build across it?
The cracks were showing up at last. The universe was crumbling. You couldn’t break a cosmic law and hope to walk away.
2
It was Lyn, in all her innocence, who’d told him of the star-chart.
They’d been wheeling their bikes along the lane: the end of a hot day’s cycling in the country. The sky was beaten gold behind the gables of the cottage, but the air still held a pleasant glow of warmth. Lyn looked sleek and trim in shorts and T-shirt. His mates all called her Martin’s snooty sister, but he knew how envious they were of him. Here she was, this gorgeous girl, and he was living under the same roof. And Martin would smile, content to let them stew. They never saw her loll around, or cut her nails, or sulk. Or come round very timidly to ask if he could help unblock the loo …
Tick-tick-tick said the turning wheels beside them.
‘Is that a star?’ she asked him, looking back towards the east.
He turned, and saw a point of light, pricked out through the deepening blue.
‘Not that bright, this early … It’s Jupiter, I think.’
She shook her head, still staring. ‘I think it’s great, that you can see the planets.’
‘You should look at it through the telescope. See the moons and everything.’
‘I’d like to,’ she said softly. ‘After supper. Give me a knock, I’ll just be reading.’
‘Bookworm!’ he teased delightedly; she giggled, made to swipe at him. But he was pleased beyond measure by her interest. She was going back to college next weekend. He missed her very much when she was gone.
They came up past the orchard. The countryside was quiet, bathed in amber; but some swallows were still spiralling around. The west face of the cottage would be glowing, but the walls this side were dark with dusk and ivy. The place had been a rectory once: a rambling old building which their parents had restored over the years. Cottage was hardly the word for such a warren of rooms. But for children growing up it was a fairytale house: a castle of their dreams.
‘Have you seen that map in Daddy’s book?’ Lyn asked him at the gate.
‘Which one?’
‘There’s a medieval star-map. I found it years ago …’ She let him wheel his bike into the shed.
‘What, a zodiac or something?’
She shrugged, and pushed her own bike in. ‘I don’t know. It’s got all the constellations on it. Used for magic spells, apparently.’
‘Yeah?’ He finished locking his bike, and straightened up. ‘Sounds interesting. Which book?’
‘Magic in the Middle Ages, or something like that. One of the ones we weren’t allowed to touch.’
He grinned. ‘But you did?’
‘Mm. I got a real telling-off, as well.’
‘Well, serves you right for being a naughty girl. But thanks,’ he added quickly, both hands raised to fend her off. ‘Seriously … I’d like to have a look.’
‘Come on, you,’ she grinned, and turned away. ‘We’re just in time. Let’s see what’s on the menu.’
He hadn’t given it much thought, until a few weeks later. Autumn was advancing, and the nights were drawing in. He’d failed his driving test again, so couldn’t use the car: it felt like being stranded in the sticks. The cottage was still home to him – still big enough to lose himself inside. But relations with his parents were beginning to grow strained.
Mum was patient, like she’d always been: soaking up his selfishness, his adolescent moods. She knew that he was raring for the off – to follow Lyn. Not long now, she’d told him once, it’s just around the corner. So long as he kept studying. He had to get his grades.
His father was more distanced, as if unsure what to say. He rarely ventured up to Martin’s room. And that was just as well, from Martin’s viewpoint. He’d probably feel bound to pass some comment on the pin-ups. At least Mum turned a blind eye to those.
Now and again, there’d be a spark
