Chapter Five #2
hand and tugged at the zip with the other. He wasn’t as
daisy-brained as all that. He’d notice if Merou’s smile of
amusement became lewd. He’d certainly pick up a twitch in the long
fine cock he’d had the chance to admire the night before. And what
then? This whole situation might become a lot less surreal. Priddy
had been hit on a lot before his accident, and even by a couple of
hardy souls since, not that those brave pioneers had got anywhere.
You’d think it would be different when faced with the cover-model
lovechild of Benedict Cumberbatch and David Gandy, but Priddy
wasn’t sure. Some things could be forever lost. “There. You just
need to be gentle. Those jeans have seen some action.”
“Have they?” Now the corner of Merou’s mouth did tuck and
quirk, one shapely eyebrow rising. “You can tell me all about it on
our picnic.”
“Are we going on a picnic?”
“Eventually.”
Priddy’s
mouth dried. “What do you want to do first?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I want to drive your car.”
***
“It is still accelerator, clutch, yes? Right, left?”
The
question was a hell of a belated one. They’d jounced the length of
the rutted track that led from Hagerawl Point into the tiny
village, sleet lashing the windshield. So far Merou had seemed to
know what he was doing. “That’s right,” Priddy said warily as they
approached the junction. “And brake. Brake sometimes. Fucking hell,
Merou—brake!”
They
ground to a hot-rubber halt five inches from the kneecap of Doryty
Sharp, affectionately known as the Hag of Hagerawl, who’d been
ancient when Priddy was born and showed no signs of giving up yet
on a world so richly deserving of her malice. She’d hated Priddy
with great persistence since his earliest childhood. She zeroed in
on him across the top of her horn-rims, raised one blue-veined fist
and began to shake it. “Oh dear,” Merou said, without signs of
obvious dismay. “That was very rude of me.”
Carefully he applied the handbrake, made sure the car was in
neutral and got out. Priddy remained where he was, frozen in
horror. This could only end in blood. But Merou sidestepped a swipe
from the tin-loaded shopping bag, and extricated it neatly from her
grasp. He held it out so she couldn’t grab it again, and in its
place offered his arm.
Priddy
couldn’t hear what he said to her, but something extraordinary had
happened. After eight straight-faced decades, the Hag was smiling.
She toddled tamely to the far kerb on Merou’s arm, and when he
handed her back her shopping bag, she reached up and patted his
cheek.
Merou
jogged back to the car. “She seems a bit of an old dear,” he said,
swinging behind the wheel. “Shame if I’d mowed her
down.”
“Fuck,” was all Priddy could manage. “Fuck.”
“You seem stressed.”
“I... No. I’m fine. Just be careful.”
“Naturally. A car’s a deadly weapon in the wrong hands. What’s
the speed limit in your weird little towns?”
“Thirty. In all of them, not just our—”
“And outside them?”
“National, technically. Sixty on single carriageways. But
nobody does that,
Merou—not in the lanes around here.”
“Got it. Hold on.”
He drove
with impeccable courtesy the straggling length of the main street,
giving way to oncoming traffic when faced with parked cars on his
side, waiting patiently at the zebra crossing for a harried-looking
mum to herd her brood across the road. Then, the moment they’d
passed the end-of-zone sign, he gently squeezed his foot
down.
“Merou, careful.”
“What’s up?”
“The sixty thing. It’s notional, I told you.”
“Thought you said national.”
“I did, but... For God’s sake. The speed limit’s notional. You
can’t...”
Merou
put out a hand. He laid it softly on Priddy’s knee. “Priddy, don’t
you trust me?”
Of
course not. Why should he? They’d only just met, and Merou was a
card-carrying nutcase. But the trouble was that Priddy did. He fell
back in the passenger seat, suddenly drained. A fragile peace
descended on him. “All right. Take the little track up towards
Madron. That goes out over Craddon moor, if you’re serious about
the picnic. But we’re gonna freeze.”
“No, we’re not. Look.”
Merou
pointed ahead. The granite brow of Carn Gulva was frowning through
the mist, but beyond it the skies over Craddon had cleared, a
purity of winter sunlight opening up the day. Priddy tipped his
head back, and the car seemed to swoop up into it, Merou taking
advantage of the brief straight stretch before the road narrowed.
And it looked as if the sixty limit wasn’t notional for him at all.
For a man who’d had to check five minutes ago that the gas was on
the right, he was a superb driver, opening the Vauxhall out to
devour the track wherever his view was clear, pulling her back
smoothly to make the curves, tucking tight enough over to the left
that the wing mirror brushed, but never quite tapped, the
gorse-clad walls. Priddy could’ve put out a hand to touch their
flowers.
So many
flowers, butter-gold streaking by in the sun! They bloomed all year
down here but by November were thinned out and sparse. This looked
like a summer’s worth, and when Priddy cracked down his window, the
coconut-honey tide of their scent rushed in. “You’re right. It’s a
beautiful day.”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“Did you take a turn somewhere? I’m not sure I know this track,
and I’ve lived here all my life?”
Merou
chuckled. “You say that as if you’d been around for
centuries.”
“Feels like it sometimes.”
“If you had been, you’d know a few side routes. Do you like
this one?”
Now it
was Priddy’s turn to laugh. He felt as if Merou had held out a
selection of routes and afternoons, like chocolates on a tray, for
him to choose. “Would you change it if I didn’t?”
“Certainly. Priddy hasn’t seen the sun in weeks, so let’s have
sunshine. Priddy’s depressed and lonely, so let’s get him out of
the lighthouse and onto the big high moors to breathe the air.” He
slapped the wheel, grabbed it once more to negotiate a tight bend.
“The air! God, I love lung stuff. Two-legged stuff, as well—left,
right, gas, clutch, sex. And dancing! We’ll have to do some of
that. Still, it’s a pity about the horse.”
Once
more, Priddy had no idea which tail of this madness to grab in
order to hang on. “The horse?” he echoed—and then, stung, mortified
to be so transparent, “I’m not depressed. Or lonely. Even if I was,
it’s my own problem—nothing to do with you.”
“I just mean it’s a shame you don’t have one. They’re
fun.”
“Merou, what?”
“A horse. Still, if you like this route, and the sunshine’s
bright enough for you, let’s stop here.”
He
pulled up neatly, right in the middle of the road. Priddy was about
to object, but realised it wasn’t a road anymore—barely even an
indentation on the springy turf. They emerged into the sudden
silence. Without the thrum and rattle of the car, there was only
the gorse, the boulder-scattered moor, and the shimmering light. To
the north lay the Atlantic, sparkling under a blanket of mist.
Priddy had never seen his native sea from this angle before. “Where
are we?”
“Don’t you know?”
“In theory. Lanyon Quoit has to be over there, and Penzance
that way to the south, but...”
“A long time ago, this place used to be called
Prés des Chevaux de Mer.”
Priddy smiled. Merou was looking at him sidelong, as if
measuring the length of his disbelief. “This is another
pomme-de-terre thing,
isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, I can get prés—fields, or meadows, more like
it. And horses. But then we’re back to the sea. Sea-horse meadows.
Is that it?”
“More than. An excellent rendition. I do like the economy of
English, and how it expands in translation, like a suitcase that’s
been sat on for too long. Your French is quite good.”
“It’s basic. They teach us just enough to get by when we can’t
get work here and have to go fruit-picking in Brittany.”
“Is that why you’re sitting all alone in a lighthouse in
November? Because you can’t get work?”
Priddy
sighed. It was lovely up here, but the breeze was chilly, and he
didn’t have the strength to bare his soul even if he’d been so
inclined. As far as picnics went, unless you counted the packet of
melted mini Crunchies in the glove box, that was a bust too. “Nope.
I’m just not very bright.”
“Jem Priddy, you’re bright as a star.”
He
twitched in fright, and fell back a step or two from Merou, who was
calmly watching the horizon. The words had seemed to come from
inside Priddy’s own head. Oh, just what he needed, to start hearing
voices and bloody freaking out today, the first time in five months
he’d cared even slightly to make a good impression. “Hush,” Merou
said, though Priddy hadn’t spoken, and fastened a warm hold on his
wrist. “Maybe it’s best if you’re not a great genius right
now.”
Priddy
swallowed dryly. “Why?”
“A clever man would never risk a ride on a beast from Sea Horse
Meadows.” Merou lifted two fingers to his lips and blew a long,
piercing whistle. “Come up, then,” he shouted. “Come up, my
darling.”
“Who are you calling to?”
“Any one of them that might be in reach, between earth and
sea—between mer and terre, if
you like, since you enjoy mixing them up.” He whistled again. “I
can hear hoofbeats. Come on up, my lovely, my white beauty, my
foam-maned maid of the sea!”
Priddy
could hear hoofbeats too. Gooseflesh rose on his spine. For a
moment he thought Merou had done it—demolished the wall between
daytime’s dull world and the mystery beyond it, the dancing
subatomic void Priddy had sensed at the peak of an outrageous high.
But the horse that emerged from the spangled mist hardly fit the
description. Only a chunky old girl from the moors, descended from
pit ponies, feathered at the fetlocks and left to roam wild. “Is
that her? The sea horse?”
“Well, what did you expect—a bloody unicorn?” Merou held out
his arms. “Handsome is as handsome does. Isn’t that right, my
darling?”
She came