Chapter 1(ish)

I am startled from sleep. My eyes open onto pitch black and my heart thuds furiously. A wild, piercing, high-pitched twittering rends the night. After a moment I turn over and, scraping the hair out of my eyes, raise my head to look at the clock by the bedside. The large white numerals glow faintly: 2.47. I stare at the clock. It flickers. 2.48. I am puzzled because the twittering is birdsong. I listen for a while as my thoughts sluggishly begin to coalesce into something I’d rather not think about. The noise is insanely loud. I wonder what kind of birds could be singing at this time of night but all I can picture are crows with black beaks. This is senseless, of course. Crows caw in the crop-filled fields surrounding the town but these birds are fervently chirping in great joyful swoops just outside the bedroom window. It’s irritating. After a moment I get up from the bed and pull the window to. It wouldn’t normally be open at this time of year but it’s been unseasonably warm.

Once under the covers again, I screw my eyes tight shut. Jittery thoughts swarm my mind and the tears come again, determinedly pressing out through clenched eyelids to wet my face and pillow. This is silent, stilted crying. I haven’t sobbed properly since the first night. Perhaps I drift back into sleep, but probably I don’t. I used to sleep soundly, but everything is different now. One evening, just seven days ago, a storm blew in that harshly swept the patterns of my life, once so deeply ingrained, into a featureless desert. At sunrise I am wired and breathless. Alert, but heavy with exhaustion.

I lie awake until the clock shows 6.30, then mechanically shift myself into a sitting position and look towards the bedroom door. The bathroom is over there, I think uselessly. I twist my legs out from under the duvet, place my feet on the floor and stand up. I look unrecognising at the reflection in the bathroom mirror. It moves its head when I do. It breathes in deeply, and sighs. As an experiment, it forces a smile: the lips widen but it’s empty, wasted. I run the tap, lift water to my face, brush my teeth, comb my hair: a series of disjointed, unconnected movements.

The kitchen cupboards are empty. The early morning sun slants in through the window and, as in every child’s drawing, the rays are separated out and actually appear yellow. I stand, watching bemused as motes of dust silently drift in and out of the shafts of light. I need to eat, but it’s some time until the shop will be open. I am suddenly overcome with weakness. Leaning on the counter I boil the kettle and make a cup of tea. There’s no milk so I take it, black, through to the front room and sit, waiting for something. Time doesn’t flow as it used to but each minute lingers, stops. Then the next minute starts.

With a shake of my head I force myself to stand up, pick up my keys and leave the house.

Outside the fresh heat is already building in strength and the sunlight glints off the wing mirrors and roofs of the cars which are parked up intermittently on the pavement. The long, wide street is empty apart from the figure of a man pushing a bicycle some distance away on the other side. It must be John. John is my godfather. Imagine, I was christened in a church: the first and last time I was ever in one in any meaningful kind of way and I was too young to know about it. I don’t think he knows yet what has happened.

“Morning, Pau,” he calls cheerfully, when we are still some distance apart.

I cross over to his side and he ambles towards me. We eventually come to meet outside the Turnpike. Cigarette ends litter the front steps and empty glasses stand abandoned on the window ledge.

“Aye, it was a good night last night,” says John, grinning at the debris-strewn pavement. “No wonder the landlord isn’t up yet to clear that mess up.”

If he knows, he’s not letting on.

“You know about birds, don’t you?” I ask.

“I know something about them, Pau,” he replies. He starts to dig among brown paper bags in the basket on the front of his bike.

“Why do they sing so loudly at night?” I ask. “I haven’t slept properly for days and last night they drove me mad.” I pull a face.

“Well this time of year they’re probably not singing, Pau. They’re calling to one another. It’s spring.” His voice lowers to a meaningful whisper. “It’s the mating season. They’ll do anything to attract a mate, even if it means calling all night.” He takes a blueberry from his basket, pops it into his mouth and winces. “They’re a bit barmy, the birds, at this time of year.”

“Oh,” I say. “I see.”

I look away. I can feel my lips trembling and the tears readying themselves to spring into my eyes.

“Are you alright, Pau?” John asks.

I blink hard. No. No I’m not.

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Here, take some of these,” and he puts a small brown paper bag of blueberries in my hand. “They’re from Mike’s farm. It’s still a bit early in the season, though.”

He starts to push his bike onwards.

“What a glorious day,” he says.

I stare down at the paper bag in my hand. Inside the tiny blueberries huddle together, still covered in dew. I pick one out and put it in my mouth. The flesh explodes, unexpectedly tart, on my tongue.