He swallows, drily, as the image on the bare brick comes into focus. He thinks of cave paintings: ancient finger-paintings of elongated figures; ridge-back game and huge deer with splayed-finger antlers. Some of them overlap one another, layer after layer of stick figure, running, kneeling, holding hands. Something that might be stars spin around the crown of one larger figure: bearded, pink-prick eyes; a suggestion of tangled crown and beard. Beside it are three smaller figures, holding hands, like paper dolls. Rowan changes his position, breathing hard. Shines his torch at the entirety of the wall and feels as though somebody has stepped upon his insides. He breath catches in his throat as he takes in a colossal swirl overlaid handprints, of scratches and scuffs scored so deeply into the neatly-painted wall that in places it seems as though the outline has been scratched into the brick by bleeding, frenzied hands. Rowan sees perfectly round eyes. A face made up from swatches of different skin. It’s a patchwork pig mask; crinkled leather and a snarl of yellowed teeth and tusk. Rowan hears his heart thumping hard; a drumbeat, soft but insistent. It grows, louder, deeper, as he stares again at the great face on the wall. For a moment, in the light of the torch, the shapes upon the wall seem to move. They flicker, like tongues of fire; stick-men and long-dead beasts strobing in an orgy of ecstatic worship around the leering central figure.
A curl of paper pinwheels across the darkness, fluttering up and down like a dying moth. It skitters up against the gap beneath the door and Rowan, struggling to pull his eyes away from the mural, reaches out for it, painfully, with aching forefinger and thumb. His fingers close around a scrap of flimsy paper, a smudge of neat black typeface on its singed surface. The words swim in his vision. “…grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” It’s a Bible passage. He recognizes the line. Recognizes the paper too. A Gideon; the paper almost see-through. The edge is tattered, as if it has been torn. Something is nagging at him, some unpleasant feeling; the memory burrowing deeper out of reach; a tick somewhere in his flesh. He suddenly needs to meet Violet Rayner. Needs to know she’s okay. For a moment, the story doesn’t matter. He forgets all thoughts of headlines and front covers and stops composing opening lines and polished lies in his head. Thinks of her. Of them. Three girls who went into the woods. The two who came back. The one who never did.
“Excuse me …hello, excuse me …,”
Startled, blinking dirty rain out of his eyes, Rowan jerks away from the door, dropping his phone onto the unforgiving stone. He has a sensation of slamming back into himself, as if he has been drifting slightly outside his own skin. He blinks rapidly, tears running onto his cheeks. What the fuck was that thing? On the wall? Glaring out at him like he was prey…
“Yes, hello? Are you with the gas board?”
Rowan squirms on the ground, reaching out for the handle of the door, trying to pull himself up as his boots squelch on the grimy surface. His feet go out from under him and he lays sprawled on the floor. There’s no time to get up before the woman who walks towards him across the grass is upon him. He can see her waving, swatting at the air, all the while pulling a ‘I-don’t-mean-to-be-a-nuisance’ expression. He loves that about the English. Hyper vigilant, buy hyper polite. Willing to do time before causing an offence.
He adjusts himself so it looks like he’s laying down for some good reason, resting his head on his palm like a gigolo on a water-bed.
“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?”
She’s mid-thirties and trim, with hair dyed a pleasing shade, tied up with a Frida Kahlo bow. She’s holding what is either a very large baby, or a small fat man, on her hip.
“I’m grand,” says Rowan, struggling to be nonchalant.
“What are you doing?” she asks, trying to make it sound funny but clearly keen for an answer. He takes her in. Pretty, heart-shaped face. Brown eyes. A nice smile. She’s wearing flip-flops and messy dungarees: paintbrushes sticking out of the pocket on her front. Her shoulders are bare, the raindrops adding a sheen to tattoos of Flamenco dangers and delicate arum lilies. The thing on her hip looks like a Galapagos tortoise without its shell. It’s floppy and damp and looking distinctly unimpressed. It grips the lady like a gargoyle clinging to a cathedral roof.
“I think she’s forgotten,” he says, rolling onto his knees then gingerly climbing to his feet. He notices her glance at his hands. He raises them, guilty. “When they say you shouldn’t play with fireworks, they really are onto something. But yeah, I’m guessing Vi has forgotten about today.”
“You know Violet?” asks the lady, putting a hand, palm down, over the baby’s head. “Violet’s away.”
“Still?” asks Rowan, looking shocked. “Oh for pity’s sake. Well, that’s my best laid plans gan aglee.”
She pulls a face. “Is that from Of Mice and Men? I did that at school. The book, not the poem. But I liked the poem. Sorry, I’m gabbling. I’m Rosie. I live next door.” Her expression softens as she sees how sodden his clothes are. “Look, we’re getting soaked. I’m just next door. Do you want to pop in and I can grab you a towel or something? Awful day, isn’t it? Of course, it’s never exactly Barbados, but I do wish this mizzle would lift.” She jerks her head. “Coming?”