Light

28 Sparks in Everything

After the argument with Anna, Michael Kearney dressed and took the rental car into Boston, where he drank beer and caught Burger King before it closed, after which he sped deliberately up and down the coast road, driving in and out of thick white pockets of fog while he ate a bacon double cheeseburger with fries. The ocean, when you could see it, was a silver strip far out, the dunes at the south end of the bay heaped up black against it. Seabirds cackled on the beach even in the dark. Kearney parked the car, cut the engine, listened to the wind in the grass. He made his way down through the dunes and stood on the damp sand, stirring with the toe of one shoe the bands of tide-sorted shingle. After a moment, he had the impression of something huge sweeping in across the bay towards him. The monster was returning to its beach. Or perhaps not the monster itself, but whatever lay behind it, some condition of the world, the universe, the state of things, which is black, revelatory and, in the end, a relief—something you don’t want to know but are perversely glad to have confirmed. It swept in directly from the east, directly from the horizon. It passed over him, or perhaps into him. He shivered and turned away from the beach, and trudged back up the dunes to the car, thinking about the woman he had killed in the English Midlands, where their idea of a dinner-table game was to ask:

“How do you see yourself spending the first minute of the new millennium?”

Even as he spoke he had wished he could answer differently. He had wished he could say the decent, optimistic kinds of things they were saying. Remembering this, he saw clearly how he had marginalised his own life. He had brought his life upon himself. Driving back to the cottage, he lowered the side window and threw the Burger King packaging out into the night.

When he got back, the cottage was silent.

“Anna?” he called.

He found her in the front room. The TV was on, with the sound turned down. Anna had dragged the quilt off the bed again and now sat cross-legged on it by the fire, her hands resting, palms upwards, on her knees. The pound or two she had put on over the last month made her thighs, belly and buttocks seem smooth and young; above, she was still as ribby as a horse. He had a feeling there was some insight in all this he wasn’t quite close enough to see. Her wrists were so white that the veins in them looked like bruises. Next to her she had placed the carbon-steel chef’s knife he had bought on their first visit to the beach. Its blade flickered in the TV light, uncertain and grey, which filled the room.

“I’m trying to scrape up all the courage I have, here,” she said, without looking away from the fire. Her voice was friendly. “I knew you wouldn’t want me if I got well.”

Kearney picked up the knife and put it out of her reach and his. He bent over her and kissed her spine where it snaked up between the thin scapulae.

“I do want you,” he said. He touched her wrists. They were hot but bloodless. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugged. She laughed a little fake laugh. “It’s a measure of last resort,” she said. “It’s a vote of no confidence.” Kearney’s laptop lay open on top of the TV set, also switched on, though it displayed only wallpaper. Into it, Anna had plugged the pocket drive they got from Tate. Of all these gestures, Kearney thought, this was probably the most dangerous. When he said so, she shrugged. “What I hate most of all is that you don’t even need to kill me anymore,” she said.

“Is that what you want? Me to kill you?”

“No!”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Just please fuck me properly.”

It was awkward for both of them. Anna, instantly wet, presented herself determinedly; Kearney was less certain how to proceed. When he finally managed to penetrate her, he couldn’t believe the heat of it. They began with what they knew, but she soon made him face her, urging him, “Like this. Like this. I want to see you, I want to see your face.” Then: “Is this better? Am I better than them?” For a second, he heard his cousins’ laughter; Gorselands opened itself to him, then tilted and flickered away forever. He laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes!” It didn’t last long, but she sighed and embraced him and gave further warm little sighs and smiles in a way she had never done before. They lay in front of the fire together for a while, then she encouraged him to try again.

“God,” he said experimentally. “You’re so wet.”

“I know. I know.”

The TV chirped almost silently to itself in the gloom above them. Ads passed across its screen, to be replaced by the logo of some science channel, and after that an image of great roseate streamers of gas and dust, studded with actinic stars, pocked and wrapped with velvety blackness, full of the beautiful false clarity of a Hubble telescope image. “The Kefahuchi Tract,” announced the voice-over, “named after its discoverer, may upset all our—” There was a sense of the screen filling suddenly, overflowing. Silent sparks of light began to pour out of it into the room, bouncing and foaming across the bare boards to the fireside, where they encountered Anna Kearney, biting her lower lip and moving her head back and forth in a dreamy, inturned manner. Into her hair they flowed, down her flushed cheeks, across her breastbone. Taking them to be a part of what she was feeling, she moaned a little, rubbing them in handfuls into her face and neck.

“Sparks,” she whispered. “Sparks in everything.”

Kearney, hearing this, opened his eyes and got off her in terror. He grabbed up the chef’s knife, then stood with it for a moment, naked and uncertain. “Anna!” he said. “Anna!” Fractal light poured from the TV screen like the fanned-out tail of a peacock. He ran aimlessly about the room for a moment until he found the Shrander’s dice in their soft leather scrotum. Then he looked at Anna, looked at the knife. He thought he heard her try to warn him, “It’s coming, it’s coming.” Then: “Yes, kill me. Quickly.” Disgusted with himself forever, he threw down the knife and sprinted out of the cottage. That was it: something huge roared down towards him in the night, like a shadow out of the sky. Behind him he heard Anna laughing, and then murmuring again:

“Sparks. Sparks in everything . . .”

When Anna Kearney woke up, at five-thirty the next morning, she found herself alone. The fire had gone out, the beach house was cold. The TV, still tuned to CNN, buzzed to itself and displayed images of current events: war in the Middle East, deprivation in the Far East, in Africa and Albania. War and deprivation everywhere. She rubbed her hands over her face, then, naked and shivering, stood up and collected her scattered underwear with amusement. I made him do it at last, she thought: but remembered the night only vaguely. “Michael?” she called. The beach house had one external door, and he had left that open, allowing a little bright white sand to blow in across the threshold. “Michael?” She pulled on her jeans and sweater.

Out on the beach the air was already bright, agitated. Kittiwakes swooped and fought over something in a clump of tidewrack. Up on the dunes Anna found flattened marram, the residue of some chemical smell, a long, shallow depression, as though something vast had settled there in the night. She looked down at Monster Beach: no marks.

“Michael!” she called.

Only the cries of the gulls.

She hugged herself against the cold breeze off the ocean, then walked back to the cottage, where she cooked eggs and sausages and ate them hungrily. “I haven’t felt so hungry,” she said to her own face in the bathroom mirror, “since . . .” But she couldn’t think what to add, it had been so long ago.

She waited for him for three days. She walked on the dunes, drove into Boston, cleaned the cottage from top to bottom. She ate. Much of the time she just sat in a chair with her legs curled up, listening to the afternoon rain on the window and remembering everything she could about him. Every so often she switched the TV on, but mostly she left it off and, staring at it thoughtfully, tried to picture the things they had done the night he went.

On the morning of the third day she stood at the door listening to the gulls fighting up and down above the beach. “You won’t come back now,” she said, and went inside to pack her things. “I’ll miss you,” she said. “I really will.” She disconnected the outboard drive from Kearney’s laptop and hid it under a layer of clothes. Then, unsure how it would be affected by the airport fluoroscope, slipped it in her purse instead. She would ask them at the desk. She had nothing to hide, and she was sure they would let it through. When she got back she would find Brian Tate, and hope—whatever had happened to him—he could carry on Michael’s work. If not, she would have to phone someone at Sony.

She locked the beach house door and put the bags in the BMW. One last look along the dunes. Up there, with the wind taking her breath away, she had a clear memory of him at Cambridge, twenty years old, telling her with a kind of urgent wonder, “Information might be a substance. Can you imagine that?”

She laughed out loud.

“Oh, Michael,” she said.