The Leaping Part 7

'I've been asleep,' I say.

'Yes,' Jack says.

'Are we on the motorway?'

'Yes.'

'That was quick.'

'It's not that far from where we live,' he says. 'Besides, you've been asleep. We might have been going for hours for all you know.'

'Have we?'

'No. Maybe an hour. Only another couple to go, if that.'

I look out of the window again. I see the orange lights of some distant town. But I don't know which.

'I appreciate this,' I say.

'Don't mention it. I might head off the motorway soon, though. Go through the Dales. It's nicer, less busy. Fewer cars. And doesn't really take much longer, either.' though. Go through the Dales. It's nicer, less busy. Fewer cars. And doesn't really take much longer, either.'

Dad tends to stick to the motorways this time of night. I listen to the faint music. The music makes me think of huge open s.p.a.ces under a big, empty sky. I find myself thinking about UFOs. When I was a child, some nights I would go and sit on our neighbour's garage roof, and look up at the sky for hours. I would look up at the stars and I would be convinced that somewhere up there was another, better planet that I could live on, that I would find, one day. When I grew up. I always wanted to be an astronaut, and when people asked me what I wanted to be, I would say so. 'You'll have to work hard at school,' they would always say.

'Yeah,' I would say, smiling, 'I will. I'll work really, really hard.'

Some idiot on Radio 4 burbles on about nothing. We are crawling through a black valley somewhere in Yorks.h.i.+re. I saw a sign saying something like Gardale or Garsdale or Graydale, but could not read it properly in the dark. The sky above us is thick with stars. Bare, crooked trees bend over the road from either side. Beyond them, hills rise up as solid silhouettes against the starscape. Every now and then we pa.s.s a farmhouse. The farmhouses have no lights on and have holes in their roofs. And sometimes the sooty signs of a fire around the windows. And sometimes a wall is missing.

'Why are we listening to Radio 4?' I say.

'I like Radio 4,' Jack says. 'I like the voices on it. I don't really know what they're talking about, though.'

'It's not even loud enough to hear. Can we put something good on?'

He looks like he's about to argue, but thinks better of it. 'OK then. There's some CDs in that wallet in the back.'

'It's OK. I've got some in my bag.'

'You carry CDs around in your bag?'

'Yeah. Why, don't you?'

'No.'

'What have you got, then?'

'Apart from my toothbrush and stuff, just a book. Have a look, if you like.'

I open up Jack's backpack. Looking into it, I can see the top side of a very big, thick, hardback book. I pull it out and see that the cover is a reproduction of part of an old map. It's heavy; it's huge. It's called The Lore of the Land The Lore of the Land.

'Looks big,' I say.

'It is. It's basically an encyclopaedia of folklore, myths and legends, from all around England.'

'Not the United Kingdom?'

'No,' Jack says. Trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. 'England. And it's very, very good. I started just dipping into it, but in the end decided to read it cover to cover. It's excellent.'

I put the book back. It looks like something my dad would like. He would read it. And believe half of it, if not more. Looking for signs of this other, better, more magical world. Well, there isn't one, Dad. Unfortunately. I shake my head. They take the p.i.s.s out of me for watching films about these things. But Jack seems to really believe. my head. They take the p.i.s.s out of me for watching films about these things. But Jack seems to really believe.

'I can't believe you carry CDs around with you,' Jack says.

'Well, I do. Here. Put Patti Smith on, please.'

'Good choice,' Jennifer murmurs.

'Thank you,' I say. 'Thought you were asleep?'

'I am asleep,' she says. 'Travelling makes me tired.'

'Here, Jack,' I say. 'Got a DVD or two in here as well. Look. Creature From the Haunted Sea Creature From the Haunted Sea. And The Crawling Eye The Crawling Eye. Oh, and Rockets.h.i.+p X-M Rockets.h.i.+p X-M.'

'I don't know how you sit through those films,' he says.

'The point is not how good something is,' I say. 'Or true, or honest, or believable. You know, like a lot of what's in the papers or on the Internet just isn't true, but it doesn't matter you can still read them as texts, as sources that tell you about a time, or place, or culture. You shouldn't just dismiss these things out of hand as b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. These films work in the same way. You have to read them on a different level. That's all.' I look out of the window. 'Besides, I don't know how you can read a whole encyclopaedia of c.r.a.p that's supposed to be real. Guess we're just different, hey?'

'I won't take offence,' he says, 'given everything.'

I don't say anything. The weird dark valley rolls by.

'Were we supposed to come this way?' I ask, eventually.

'Yes,' Jack says. 'I looked at a map before we set off. This is right.'

'Where are we?'

He doesn't reply. Just looks like he's concentrating. And then slightly panicked as the car seems to slide a little towards the other side of the narrow road.

'Black ice,' he says. After regaining control.

'Jack,' I say.

'Yeah?'

'I'm not going to talk any more if that's OK.'

'Of course it's OK. You don't have to ask.'

More bare trees. Empty farmhouses. Broken walls along the tops of the hills that rise up on either side. Shreds and smears of cloud starting to obscure the stars. Sheep in the road, with small electric eyes. Shadows between the trees. Cattle grids. Huge, silent barns. Road signs shot at, dented. No more cars. No more people. Black ice. A world that was all like this would have less cancer in it. But we would have less choice in who we are. Maybe that is the exchange we made.

I have to go to sleep.

JACK.

The spare room was decorated with lots of floral patterns that, although mismatched, made it feel warm and comfortable and homely. Francis' parents obviously knew exactly what they were doing. Joan seemed like that kind of person, although of course it was hard to really be sure what someone was like when they were having such a horrible time. I sat on the deep, soft bed, and sank into it.

We'd arrived at Joan and Eric's house after I had gotten us completely lost somewhere between Garsdale and Kendal, which made the journey about two hours longer than it should have been. Once we had finally arrived, Joan insisted that Jennifer and I stay the night, which I was very glad of because neither Jennifer nor I could be bothered to look for a b.&b. I looked over at Jennifer, and she was already flat out in bed.

At the same time, I really didn't want to be there.

I could hear Francis and Joan talking in the room next door to ours his old childhood room and I could hear her crying. I didn't want to just sit there and listen, so I got out my laptop. As I set it up, the sounds from the room next door continued m.u.f.fled weeping and low talk, sometimes a startled laugh, but uneasy, like a flock of birds rising up in shock at a sudden movement nearby. her crying. I didn't want to just sit there and listen, so I got out my laptop. As I set it up, the sounds from the room next door continued m.u.f.fled weeping and low talk, sometimes a startled laugh, but uneasy, like a flock of birds rising up in shock at a sudden movement nearby.

I stared at the blank screen. I wanted to plan out an article on the myths that gather around empty buildings, after seeing all those abandoned farms on the way up, but could not. All I could think about were my parents. I supposed that once they died, it would be as if there was one less thing standing between me and my own death, one generation removed, as if they were in front of me on the conveyor belt. As long as they were there I would know I had some time left before I reached the end myself, but once they'd dropped off, I would know it was my turn next. The screen remained blank.

Somebody knocked at the bedroom door.

'Come in,' I said.

'Hi,' Francis said, sticking his head round the corner. His eyes darted towards Jennifer. 'Can I just ask a quick question?'

'Go ahead.'

'Do you think I could talk to Jennifer? About, you know. About everything?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Of course. Because her mum was ill?'

'Yeah,' he said, looking down.

'Sorry. I didn't mean it to come out like that. So bluntly.'

'No, don't worry.' He paused. 'I'm going to go to bed now.'

'Yeah,' I said. 'Goodnight, Francis. Just give us a knock if you need anything.'

'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you.' He closed the door. He must have been thinking about it. The cancer and everything. There must have been a lot happening beneath the surface.

I couldn't be bothered trying to write anything after that, and even if I had been able to squeeze anything out, it wouldn't have been worthwhile. I was about to turn the laptop off when I saw that they had a wireless Internet connection, and so I went to the Manchester news-sites to see if there was any information about Kenny's whereabouts. There wasn't.

FRANCIS.

I close my old bedroom door. I lie down on the bed, fully clothed. The ceiling is covered in small glow-in-the-dark stars. They will spring out at me once I turn the light off. The room is full of my old stuff. Books and old console games and figurines of characters from films. Like the alien from Alien Alien and Han Solo from and Han Solo from Star Wars Star Wars and Leatherface from and Leatherface from The Texas Chainsaw Ma.s.sacre The Texas Chainsaw Ma.s.sacre. I turn on the TV. It's showing old footage from the train bombings in Madrid. I watch as a middle-aged man appears from the smoke and the rubble. He's covered in dust that looks like flour. Mouth wide open. Trickles of blood cutting through the floury dust. Eyes shut, screaming. I imagine hearing somebody walking up the stairs. I see more people. Injured and confused and bereaved. Stumbling around on the screen. They are all imploring me to help them find their lost loves and dead children. I grit my teeth and dig my fingernails into my palms. I imagine the bedroom door opening. Jennifer steps through into the room. Her skin is white and her clothes are black. She is like frost on a dead tree; like a chessboard.

'Have you seen this?' I point at the TV.

She slowly and deliberately sways over to the TV and turns it off. 'I don't care.'

'What are you doing?' I stand up. 'What the h.e.l.l are you doing?'

'Watch me instead,' she says. And she starts to take her clothes off. She strips. She sheds her clothes slowly and gracefully. And I let the l.u.s.t build within me. Until it hides the news-anger beneath it. I watch her unblinkingly. I have never seen anything like it. It is s.e.xual, but there is also this sense of wonder. Seeing what is covered up. Underneath. I am witnessing something mystical. Almost mythical. She accentuates one panel of flesh with her movements, and then another. Shoulder-blade. Navel. Thigh. Hip.

We make love. Here, in the bedroom of my childhood. We make love in black and white. I turn the light off and the fake stars s.h.i.+ne out. Better and brighter than the real ones out above. And then Jennifer is no longer with me. I mean that in my imagination, she has left the room. Smiling.

I wake up. I must have been sleeping. I am still fully dressed, and the light is off. But the TV is on. The room is filled by that ghostly TV blue, and it jumps around the edges of my film figurines. They cast strange shadows. They dance around and snap back and forth on the wall.

I stand up, agitated, open the curtains and look out of the window. The light from my TV spills into the outside world. It illuminates the road in front of the house. Jack's car looks so much like Dad's. They are both old Metros. Jack's is blue and Dad's is white, but apart from that the rust, the moss, the mud, the bird-s.h.i.+t. The cars sit on the road, nose to nose, like old friends having a catch-up. Talking about UFOs and ghosts and whatever other c.r.a.p it is that they believe in. I mean, there is so much here in this world to occupy your mind already. Too much to do as it is. They are similar in that way I guess. Delusional. Fantasists. world. It illuminates the road in front of the house. Jack's car looks so much like Dad's. They are both old Metros. Jack's is blue and Dad's is white, but apart from that the rust, the moss, the mud, the bird-s.h.i.+t. The cars sit on the road, nose to nose, like old friends having a catch-up. Talking about UFOs and ghosts and whatever other c.r.a.p it is that they believe in. I mean, there is so much here in this world to occupy your mind already. Too much to do as it is. They are similar in that way I guess. Delusional. Fantasists.

A music video starts up on the screen. It is made up of still images photographs, rapidly switching, replacing each other. The light jumps and jerks and the shadows on my wall start leaping up and down, higher and higher. The music increases tempo and the images on screen alternate more rapidly. The shadows start to jump faster and faster, all around me, until they seem too joyful, almost. Too happy. Gleeful. And I can't take it any more and have to turn the TV off.

I know that Jennifer and Jack are an item. I know know that. And he's a good friend and I want him to be with somebody. And I don't want to ruin that. I guess I just want that too. Somebody. Having somebody. And I want it to be her. Typically, I want it to be her. that. And he's a good friend and I want him to be with somebody. And I don't want to ruin that. I guess I just want that too. Somebody. Having somebody. And I want it to be her. Typically, I want it to be her.

She must get scared of it too. As regularly as looking at a photograph. As regularly as looking in the mirror. Every time you think about the future, it's there. Or every time I think about Dad, now. Every time I think about Dad.

In the morning, I'm sitting at the kitchen table when Jack and Jennifer come downstairs. Jack is talking excitedly about the old mines at Whitehaven.

'I read about it in The Unseen World The Unseen World,' he says. 'The manager of the mine was dismissed, and a new manager appointed, and the old manager took the new manager down the mine somewhere that he knew was unsafe, and they were both killed in an explosion. It was intentional, see. It was a drastic revenge. And it was said that you could hear their last angry conversation down there, long after they had died.'

The two of them sit down.

'It sounds interesting, Jack,' Jennifer says. 'But we're not going to have time. It would mean heading north-west, as opposed to south-east, which is the way home.'

'I know, I know,' he says. 'We can't go today. Maybe we could go up there one weekend though? It would give me some more time to read about it. There's another story, you know, recounted by Baring-Gould, about a miner who half-cut a rope that was lowering some colleagues whom he didn't like. The rope snapped, and they died, and forever after he was p.r.o.ne to shaking fits that would cause his eyes to wander around the room and see their ghosts.'

'Jack,' Jennifer says, firmly. 'I'm not sure this is appropriate breakfast-time conversation.'

'Oh,' Jack says, looking up at me. 'Oh right. Sorry.'

'Don't worry,' I say. 'Look. I'm going to stay up here for a few days. I know you need to get back though.'

'Yeah,' he says. 'We do, really. Might drive through the Lakes this time. Give Whitehaven a miss.'

'I'll worry about you getting lost again.'

'You don't need to worry about me,' he says.

I wouldn't if I could help it. Except it's nothing as little as getting lost that I worry about. I worry about all of you. Your flesh bubbling up into hard lumps. Meaty eruptions deep within your bodies. The programming of your cells being altered by some carcinogenic agent, or some other malevolent force. And getting carried away. Multiplying feverishly. Acc.u.mulating and becoming misshapen. I think about the shadows on my bedroom wall last night and shudder.

I do worry about you. I worry about all of you. All the time.

All the time.

'OK then,' I say. 'I won't worry.'

'Good,' he says.

'Where are your parents?' Jennifer says.