I sniggered at that. The F-word again. I’d never dared to use it. But Bren was so much older than I; so very much more daring. Those stories he told me about himself — stories of cunning and secret revenge — far from being horrified, I felt a sneaking admiration. My mother believed in humility, Bren in getting even. This was an entirely new concept to me — accustomed as I was to one kind of creed, I was secretly both thrilled and appalled to hear the Gospel of Brendan.
The Gospel of Brendan was simple. Hit back as hard and as low as you can. Forget about turning the other cheek; just get the first punch in and run away. If in doubt, blame someone else. And never confess to anything.
Of course I admired him. How could I not? His words made a great deal of sense to me. I was slightly anxious for his soul, but secretly it seemed to me that if Our Saviour had adopted some of Brendan’s attitude instead of being quite so meek, it might have been better for everyone. Brendan Winter kicked ass. Bren would never let himself be bullied or intimidated. Bren never lay awake in bed, paralysed by fear. Bren hit back at his enemies with the force of angels.
Well, none of that was strictly true. I realized that soon enough. Bren told me things as they ought to have been, and not precisely as they were. Still, I liked him better that way. It made him — if not quite innocent, then at least redeemable. And that’s what I wanted — or thought I did. To save him. To fix what was broken inside. To shape him like a piece of clay into the face of innocence.
And I liked to listen. I liked his voice. When he was reading his stories to me, he never used to stutter. Even his tone was different — quiet and cynically humorous, like a woody cor anglais. The violence never troubled me; besides, it was fiction. What harm could it do? The Brothers Grimm had written far worse: babies devoured by ogres, by wolves; mothers deserting their children; sons sent into exile or killed, or cursed by wicked witches.
The moment I first saw him I knew that Bren had a problem with his mother. I’d seen Gloria in the Village, though we didn’t have much to do with her. But I knew her through Bren, and hated her — not for my own sake, but for his.
Slowly, I came to know her more: the vitamin drink, and the china dogs, and the piece of electrical cord. Sometimes Bren showed me the marks she had left: the scratches, welts and bruises. He was so much older than I was, and yet on these occasions I felt as if I were the grown-up. I comforted him. I listened to him. I gave him unconditional love, sympathy and admiration. And it never once occurred to me that while I thought I was shaping him, he was really shaping me . . .
12
You are viewing the webjournal of Albertine.
Posted at: 13.57 on Thursday, February 21
Status: restricted
Mood: melancholy
Brendan Winter and I became friends five months after the concert. I was going through a difficult time; Mother was always busy at work, and at school I was bullied more than ever. I didn’t really understand why. There were other fatherless children in Malbry. Why was I so different? Perhaps it was my fault, I thought, that my Dad had gone away. Perhaps he’d never wanted me in the first place. Maybe neither of my parents had.
That was when Brendan turned up again. I recognized him immediately. Mother was busy, as always. I was alone in the garden. And Emily was in her house, playing the piano — something by Rachmaninov, something sweet and melancholy. I could hear her through the window, which was open, and around which a tangle of roses were in bloom. It looked like a fairy-tale window to me, in which a princess ought to appear: Sleeping Beauty, or Snow White, or maybe the Lady of Shalott.
Brendan was no Lancelot. He was wearing brown cords, and a beige canvas jacket that made him look like a padded envelope. He was carrying a satchel. His hair was longer than before, almost covering his face. He passed by the house, heard the music and stopped, not ten feet away from the garden gate. He hadn’t seen me; I was on my swing under the weeping willow tree. But I saw his face as he heard her play, the little smile that touched his mouth. He took out a camera from his satchel, a camera with a long lens; and with a deftness that looked out of place, he clicked off a dozen shots of the house — clickclickclick, like dominoes falling — before slipping the camera back into his satchel almost without breaking step.
I left my place on the swing. ‘Hey.’
He turned, looking hunted; then seemed to relax when he saw who I was.
‘Hey, I’m Bethan,’ I said.
‘B-Brendan.’
I leaned my elbows on the gate. ‘Brendan, why were you taking pictures of the Whites’ house?’
He looked alarmed at that. ‘Please. If you t-tell anyone, I’ll get into trouble. I — just like taking pictures, that’s all.’
‘Take a picture of me,’ I said, showing my teeth like the Cheshire Cat.
Bren looked round, then grinned. ‘OK. Just as long as you promise, B-Bethan. Not a word to anyone.’
‘Not even Mother?’
‘Especially not Mother.’
‘All right, I promise,’ I told him. ‘But why do you like taking pictures so much?’
He looked at me and smiled. Behind that graceless curtain of hair his eyes were really quite beautiful, with lashes as long and thick as a girl’s. ‘This isn’t an ordinary camera,’ he said, this time, I noticed, without stuttering. ‘Through this, I can see right into your heart. I can see what you’re hiding from me. I can tell if you’re good or bad, if you’ve said your prayers, if you love your mother—’
My own eyes opened wide at this.
‘You can see all that?’
‘Of course I can.’
And at that he gave an enormous grin.
And that’s how I was collected.
Of course, I didn’t see it that way. Not until much later. But that was when I decided that Brendan Winter would be my friend: Bren, whom nobody wanted; Bren, who had asked me to lie for him to keep him out of trouble.
It began like that; with a little white lie. Then, with my curiosity about someone so unlike myself. Then came the wary affection that a child may feel for a dangerous dog. Then, a sense of affinity, in spite of our many differences; and lastly a feeling that blossomed at length into something like infatuation.
I never believed he cared much for me. I knew from the start where his interest lay. But Mrs White was protective. Emily was never alone, never allowed to talk to strangers. A glimpse over the garden wall; a photograph; a vicarious touch was all that Bren could hope for. As far as he was concerned, Emily might as well have been on Mars.
The rest of the time, Brendan was mine; and that was quite enough for me. He didn’t even like her, I thought. In fact, I believed he hated her. I was naïve. I was very young. And I believed in him — in his gift. I’d failed to meet my mother’s standards; but maybe, with Bren, I could succeed. I was his guardian angel, he said. Watching him. Protecting him. And so, stepping through the looking glass, I entered the world of blueeyedboy, where everything exists in reverse and every sense is twisted and turned, and nothing ever really begins, and nothing ever comes to an end . . .
I was three months shy of twelve years old the summer Brendan’s brother died. No one told me what happened, although rumours of varying wildness had been circulating around Malbry for weeks. But the Village has always considered itself above events in White City. Brendan was ill, and at first I assumed that Ben had died of the same sickness. After that, the Emily affair swallowed up most of the details. The scandal, the public breakdown — all of that kept the Press in business for more than long enough to eclipse one dirty little domestic.