Chapter 11 Adam
Two walls of the dining room are sheer glass. It’s like eating in the sky, among the mountains, the treetops. Candles burn and flicker, reflected in the clear panes. In the distance, the Ferris wheel turns, lit by flashing red lights.
Leaf glances up only briefly as Adam sits. ‘Did you have a good trip?’ Adam asks.
Leaf smiles and returns his gaze to the paper. Adam feels like he did when Daddy got fired from the plant, all those years ago. He and Mommy sitting quiet, the room saturated with the scent of meat-loaf. They knew what would happen if there was noise when Daddy wanted no talk.
Leaf’s housekeeper brings in quails, roasted to the brown of parched grainfields. Leaf stands to kiss her on the cheek. ‘Thank you, Ada.’ She smiles and leaves in silence. Leaf goes back to the paper. Adam struggles with the tiny bones in silence.
‘It’s good to be back,’ Leaf says suddenly, and Adam jumps. ‘I hate leaving home.’
‘What were you promoting?’ Adam asks. He finds Leaf’s schedule dizzying.
‘I wasn’t. I went to see about some stuff with the Foundation.’ Leaf’s foundation helps young men get off the streets. And I had to see Rick again.’
‘Rick, who you’re in love with?’ Adam asks.
‘It’s over,’ Leaf says, gently. ‘Has been for months.’ He puts down the newspaper.
‘I can always feel it coming,’ he says. ‘The end. My fingers start itching.’ He rubs the tips of his fingers and thumb together.
‘It’s like being bitten by mosquitos.’ Leaf gestures towards his rejected plate.
‘What is this? Roasted mice? It’s like chewing on a pincushion. ’
‘It’s great,’ Adam says even though he hates it.
Leaf cracks a quail leg, sucking the marrow out.
‘That’s gross,’ Adam says mildly.
Leaf pushes his plate away and lights a cigarette.
Adam coughs.
Leaf shrugs. ‘I can’t stop.’
‘You stop by not doing it,’ Adam says. ‘It’s just action.’
Leaf narrows his eyes and clears his throat. ‘You stop by not doing it,’ he repeats. It’s eerie how accurate the impression is. It’s more than tone – Leaf has captured tiny hesitations and rhythms that Adam never knew he had.
‘It’s just action,’ Leaf says in Adam’s voice. ‘It’s just action.’
‘Stop it,’ Adam says.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t like it.’
‘You don’t like it,’ Leaf says in Adam’s voice, and now he smiles with Adam’s smile – shy, the tiniest bit lopsided, turning up at the right-hand corner. If you stayed around him long enough, Adam thinks, he might steal all of you. You’d look in the mirror one morning and there would be nothing.
‘Why are you doing this?’
‘It’s the itching in my fingers.’ Leaf releases a long stream of smoke through his nostrils. ‘You’ll leave soon too. Everyone does.’
‘Sure, if you make them.’ Adam pushes back his chair and leaves the room.
In the hall firelight flickers, throwing the shadows of antlers giant against the walls. Adam stares at the fire. He takes long, slow breaths, trying to calm his mind and body.
Someone comes down into the hall. Adam keeps his gaze on the fire and doesn’t look. It might be Leaf or it might not, and he can’t face it if it’s not.
A hand touches his shoulder, tentative.
‘The thing is,’ Leaf says, ‘I lash out at the people I like. I grew up poor and then I got rich and I grew up way too fast. I got lazy and spoiled and now I’ve forgotten almost everything that normal people know.’
‘Ok,’ Adam says. ‘Go on.’
‘I’m so afraid that I’m a monster, then I act just like one.’
‘That was almost an apology.’ Adam turns. ‘I can show you now.’
‘Show me what?’
‘It’s done,’ Adam says.
‘Really?’
‘Look,’ Adam says. ‘You didn’t notice when you came in that you had an entire new wall and a new bookcase?’
‘Sorry,’ says Leaf, meekly.
‘Come.’ Adam leads him to the new bookcase, reaches behind the books and touches the lever. ‘They’re all real books,’ he says, ‘except Pride and Prejudice. That’s fixed, to hide the switch.’
The bookcase slides neatly back to reveal the dark yawning mouth of the secret stair.
They go inside and Adam closes the door.
It’s not cramped, they’re not touching, but it’s not a large space and he’s aware of their two bodies, he can feel the warmth of Leaf’s skin.
Adam takes the flashlight from where it hangs from a hook on the wall and flicks it on.
The spiral stair leads on upwards, snaking through the space he’s made between the false panelled walls of rooms on either side.
He points to the places in the walls on either side, which are studded with light. ‘These are the peepholes. On this level they look into the hall on the right and into the den on the left.
‘Most are hidden by bookshelves. One or two holes are set into the friezes carved on the pillars in the wood panelling, or the eyes of daisies. I designed some to look like screws in the corner of the antler mounts.’ Adam swallows. He wants Leaf to like it – to love it.
Leaf puts his eye to a pinpoint of light facing the den.
Adam starts to talk again but Leaf grabs his wrist strongly and puts a finger to his lips.
Adam peers through an adjacent hole. Samuel Ross, Leaf’s head of security, is in the den.
He’s not doing much. He stands, staring, blank face handsome.
He has a pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. Both arms hang loose by his sides.
‘Looks like he’s powered down for the night,’ Adam whispers.
Ross’s head turns sharply towards them. He stares at the blank wall.
Eyes narrowed, he approaches. He peers; it feels like he’s looking directly at them.
His blue eyes are piercing but apparently Adam concealed the holes well.
Ross makes a sound that’s somewhere between a sigh and a cough.
He makes his way slowly out of the room. Adam and Leaf shake with laughter.
‘Are they on all the floors?’ Leaf asks. He’s trying to sound neutral but Adam hears that edge in his voice, the sharp excitement.
Adam leads, flashlight picking out the spiral staircase.
There are small landings on each floor. ‘Viewing platforms,’ Leaf says.
Together they peer through the peepholes at the quiet library, the screening room, the study.
Only the library is occupied. Leaf’s housekeeper, Ada, stands, dust cloth in hand, reading a leatherbound edition of The Man in the Iron Mask.
Her burnished curls shine in the low light from the sconces.
They’re designed to resemble Victorian gas lamps.
She looks up sharply. Like Ross, she seems to feel their eyes on her, though the staircase is soundproof.
She closes the book with a snap, replaces it carefully on the shelf and goes from the room.
‘She wanted to read more,’ Leaf says. ‘I’ll give the book to her tomorrow. I want her to have it.’
‘If you do that, she’ll know,’ Adam says. ‘That you were watching.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Ok. Last one.’
Three storeys up the staircase ends. There’s a short passage with another viewing platform at the end. Adam ushers Leaf ahead of him. He holds his breath and watches Leaf’s back as he leans down to peer through the peephole.
‘Oh,’ Leaf says. He covers his mouth with his hand. ‘What did you do?’
He knows what Leaf is seeing. Adam’s unmade bed, the door of the wardrobe containing the mirrormen clothes. The vast plate glass window, reflecting back lamplight and his clothes strewn across the floor. These holes give onto Adam’s bedroom, so Leaf can watch him any time he wants.
‘You should leave me,’ Leaf says.
‘I’m not afraid of being seen,’ Adam says. ‘Look anytime you want.’
‘But what if my fingers start to itch?’ Leaf’s voice is a child’s whisper.
Adam finds Leaf’s mouth with his. He strokes Leaf’s jaw. ‘Let me make you happy.’
Leaf is still. He neither returns Adam’s embrace, nor pushes him away. In the dim light Adam can’t see what he’s thinking. ‘Ok I give up,’ Leaf says. ‘You win.’
‘You go back and sleep in your own bed,’ Leaf says. So Adam gets dressed as Leaf watches. He fingers the collar of Adam’s button-down. ‘You’re pretty scruffy, aren’t you?’ His voice is fond.
Adam is stung. He loves this shirt, it’s Fred Perry.
‘You need new clothes, anyway,’ Leaf says.
‘We’ll get you everything you need.’ He gets out of bed and heads towards the shower.
After that first passionate scuffle in the staircase, the bedroom part wasn’t a success.
It was awkward, nothing fitting or flowing easily.
But it doesn’t matter, Adam thinks. We have the rest of time to get it right.
He realises that Leaf is looking at him with understanding. Adam is bad at hiding his thoughts.
‘That wasn’t great,’ Leaf says. ‘That’s my fault.’ Adam starts to protest but Leaf stills him. ‘No, it’s ok. I’ve got issues. From when I was a kid.’
‘Anyone would,’ Adam says. He touches Leaf’s cheekbone.
‘I want to change,’ Leaf whispers.
‘Don’t,’ Adam says. ‘You’re perfect.’ He winces inwardly. He understands all those songs on the radio now, all those movies he made fun of when Christie made him watch them. Love makes you say ridiculous things.
‘Lonely people get into bad habits,’ Leaf says. ‘But I want to break them.’
Adam’s feelings are so strong they resemble terror.
‘How long can you hold your breath?’ Leaf asks.
‘What?’ Adam laughs. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You could time it,’ Leaf says. ‘I want to know.’
‘I don’t understand.’ To Adam the conversation feels surreal, like joke or a story, not a real person talking to another.
‘It doesn’t matter. Time for you to go.’
Adam feels a cold wash of fear. ‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing.’ Leaf’s crooked smile makes Adam’s heart fit to break. ‘I get bad dreams.’
‘What dreams?’ Adam has a need in him, to drink Leaf in like water.
Leaf shakes his head.
‘Please,’ Adam says. ‘I want to know.’
Leaf breathes. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘In the worst one I’m a Russian doll. I’m inside myself. I’m trapped, screaming to get out. It’s dark inside all those layers, weird versions of me, keeping the real me inside.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Adam says.
‘I know you are,’ Leaf says gently and pushes Adam out of the bedroom. The door closes behind him with a click.
Back in his room Adam feels elated and lonely.
He sits on his bed and stares at the wardrobe.
Before he can change his mind he goes over and flings open the door.
Shuddering, he pushes the mirrormen’s clothes as far down the rail as he can.
Adam hangs his Fred Perry shirt carefully on the end of the rail.
Is he ready for this? But it’s done, now. The die is cast.
For a moment Adam could swear he hears someone crying. A child. But it’s gone; it was the wind, maybe, whistling its mournful way through the valley.
He looks at the centre of the rose where the spy hole is hidden. He smiles a little and waves, in case Leaf is watching.
The next couple of days are happy. Adam and Leaf take long runs together. Leaf is encouraging Adam to get fitter. They swim in the lake at the head of the valley. It is shockingly cold but they have to, Leaf says. Cold is good for you.
‘You have a heated pool,’ Adam complains, teeth clicking together.
‘Just because you can have something doesn’t mean you always need it,’ he says. ‘It’s good to deprive yourself occasionally.’
‘Only rich people say stuff like that.’ Adam tosses water at him.
They swim in icy water, shouting. They make out at the top of the Ferris wheel.
Ross operates it from the booth below. They pass him on each revolution – he stares at the controls, deliberately not looking up.
It’s strange at first, this intimacy before strangers.
But Adam gets used to it surprisingly quickly.
The people who work here are part of Nowhere – the land, the house.
There’s no need to feel anything about their opinions.
But the attitude of the staff towards Adam shifts subtly, too.
They are more attentive. He has stopped being one of them.
Leaf pulls Adam underwater and kisses him there.
The romantic parts go well. They are working on the rest. Adam wants to accept Leaf as he is, he really does.
He knows how hard it is to escape childhood.
But he feels so lonely sometimes when they’re together.
He feels furthest away from Leaf when their bodies are closest.
He puts his hand on the back of Leaf’s head, on the place where the seam of the scar rises from his skull. It’s an old scar, maybe very old. Adam has seen it through the shining golden hair. Leaf doesn’t talk about how he got that.
‘What can I do for you?’ Adam asks. ‘I want to make you happy. Tell me what I don’t know.’
Leaf’s face closes in thought. It’s unnerving, his ability to become blank, untenanted.
It’s an acting thing, Adam supposes. Leaf can show feeling so he knows how to hide it too.
Leaf strokes Adam’s shoulder, slick and cold.
This is something Adam has asked him to do, when he vanishes.
‘Let me know you’re still in there somewhere.
’ Now Adam wishes he hadn’t. It’s like being stroked by a machine.
‘Hey,’ Adam says. ‘Hey.’ He pokes Leaf gently in the ribs.
‘Darkness is like a disease,’ Leaf says, dreamy. ‘You can be inoculated. If you let in a little, Adam, you won’t get sick.’
Adam looks at him, measuring. ‘What does that mean?’
Leaf takes a deep breath and tells Adam what he wants with averted eyes. ‘Underwater is the way to practise. You work up to it.’
Later Adam will remember Leaf’s voice telling him his desires, mingling with the call of loons in the reeds, their long mourning notes.