Lewis slept in the woods by the tree near the water where his mother had drowned. He put the suitcase up in the tree so that foxes wouldn’t come.
He went to sleep with his thoughts very busy about his father and trying to think what to do about Kit, and his mind worked on it in the night so that when he woke up he was clear. He knew what he had to do.
When he went to watch over Kit he felt he’d been doing it for a long time, that it was his habit to guard her. In the afternoon she came out with her book again and he could look at her and dream about her, but it was worse this time, and sad, because he knew what he was going to do and he wanted to say sorry and to explain that there was nothing else to do. He didn’t think she would see that. He wished he could see another way out of it, but he couldn’t. It was a strange and beautiful thing to watch her like that, knowing he was giving up any hope of her, but being in the heat and the gentle moment of it anyway.
When he went back to his place by the river he didn’t sleep. He thought this would be his last night free. He didn’t know if he’d be locked up again, or if he’d make it to the army, or if there was a difference, and he valued the night and being alone and the feeling of freedom that was new to him still. He hadn’t felt it when he came out of prison. He hadn’t felt it until now.
On Sunday morning the sun rose slowly after a very black time, and the sky was pale for ages before there was any real light. He was warm enough, except just before dawn and at dawn, when there was a hard chill to the air and a mist. The sun burned off the mist very quickly, but even in the heat and the dryness you could tell September was coming and the light was thicker and not blazing like it had been.
He washed in the river and then waited for the water to be completely still, and when it was still he took his razor and the soap and shaved very carefully, not breathing onto the water, but holding his breath to shave and then breathing out away into the air so that he wouldn’t disturb the reflection.
He rinsed off the razor and dried it on his old shirt and closed it and put it back into the case. He wet his hair and didn’t have a comb, but smoothed it with his hands and then he got out the clean white shirt, which was folded and not creased, and his clean trousers and dressed. He packed everything away, and took his case with him, and walked slowly back through the woods.
The church bells started to ring as Lewis watched the family come in for breakfast. The sound of the layers of the ringing bells went out over the country and Lewis imagined all the people at their breakfasts, hearing them.
The church bells rang and Tamsin got up from the table and Lewis saw Preston bring the car round and thought for a moment that he wouldn’t have his chance, but then Kit and Claire got up too and Dicky was left on his own in the dining room and Lewis knew he didn’t have long.
He crossed the grass quickly, and was inside the room, through the open window right by the table, before Dicky started up to shout something – but Lewis took a step towards him and he stopped.
The still dining room and the breakfast things on the table, and Dicky standing there with his napkin tucked into his neck, were all frozen, waiting for something to happen. It was important not to be seen. Lewis went to the door, fast, and closed it, and his moving jolted Dicky into speech.
‘Get out of my house. Get out!’
He pulled the napkin from his neck, threw it down onto the table and drew himself up. Lewis thought he might call for somebody and he spoke to him quietly.
‘You’re a big man … Kit’s what, five-four? Five-five?’ Dicky was distracted, and Lewis went a little closer, keeping his voice low, ‘That’s quite a challenge, beating up a girl like that.’
‘How dare you—’
‘How’s Tamsin?’
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare mention my daughter’s name—’
‘Tamsin? Why not? I’m not the one who messed up her face. I never touched her.’
He waited. He saw Dicky, between fear and anger, trying to decide what to do. Lewis listened to the beat of his own heart and counted it out, and then he said, ‘She was all over me, though.’
This was easy. Dicky began to move, stopping himself from coming towards him; he had forgotten all about getting help, all about everything, except the picture of Tamsin in his head, and Lewis could see that he had him.
‘You—’
‘For a nice girl, she certainly does have a way about her … Sweet.’
Dicky raised a fist – stopped himself – took another step towards him. Now, thought Lewis, do it now.
‘Why don’t you?’ he said, ‘Go on, do it.’
Dicky considered his options. Lewis had that vacant look he’d always had, like somebody hypnotised, hidden away – but he was dangerous too, he’d been violent in the past and Dicky wasn’t sure.
‘Go on, do it,’ said Lewis, softly.
So Dicky hit him. His fist went into Lewis’s face, hard, and his knuckles cracked and he felt the jolt up his arm and into his shoulder, a flash of beauty as he hit him.
Lewis’s head snapped back and he went back a couple of paces, and Dicky recovered from punching him and stepped away, frightened and light on his feet, with his hands up to shield himself. Except that Lewis didn’t come for him – or do anything except stay where he was, and blink a little and look back at him with that same vague look.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ he said, ‘Is that it?’
He had blood in his mouth, Dicky saw his teeth were coloured with it, but he didn’t put his hand up to check, like a normal person would.
It was hard for Dicky to think straight. His hand was hot where he had punched Lewis, and it felt naughty to be standing in his dining room with everyone in the house and this boy they were all so scared of, ready to take a beating from him. He pretended to be thinking – but then went for Lewis quickly, to catch him off guard, left, then right, like a boxer, like he’d been taught at school, and Lewis went back again. There was no need to be quick about it; the boy didn’t even put his hands up. The punches landed just where he wanted them, in his mouth, where he’d said ‘Tamsin’; and on his eye, where he’d looked at her.
Dicky shook his hand out, getting his breath. It hurt him badly to hit the boy’s face so hard and Lewis was beginning to look damaged and confused, but then he opened his arms wide and came towards him.
‘Do it again,’ he said, ‘do it again.’
‘You are insane,’ Dicky said, because he’d often wondered – and it gave him a feeling of delight that Lewis was just crazy, and could be beaten like this and then taken away somewhere out of sight and forgotten about.
‘Come on,’ said Lewis, ‘is it good?’
So Dicky hit him again and had enough of the thrill of it not to feel the pain in his own hands at all, but he was getting tired now and not so coordinated, feeling himself coming to an end.
Lewis was getting closer to where he needed to be. The pain was blurring his sight and he went to his knees and couldn’t have stayed standing. Dicky stood over him, panting. His tongue felt thick and hot in his mouth. He saw Kit in his mind – on her knees the times he’d forced her down – and thought how he always had to be careful with her, not to let it show and not to break her body; but with this boy, who was big, there was no need to be careful, he could try to break him. He wiped the sweat off his face and looked down at Lewis.
Lewis hadn’t much idea where Dicky was and seemed to have trouble holding his head up.
‘What? Can’t you see me, boy? Over here.’
Then Lewis did hold his head up and he looked at Dicky, and even with the blood and the state of his face, Dicky could see him smiling.
‘Go to hell,’ he said, and that was an end to it: one kick to the stomach and one to the head, and Lewis went down and stopped moving. It was done.
Dicky waited. He wet his tongue to get rid of the hot feeling in it and swallowed. He straightened his jacket and smoothed his hair and went over to the door.
At the door he stopped, thinking suddenly of what he’d have to say to people. It would be all right, it was only the servants; and if the boy was still there after church, he’d call the police to take him away. They’d probably give him a medal.
Dicky went into the hall and closed the door behind him. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. He left the house and the car was waiting, with the girls and Claire in the back, and he got in beside Preston and shut the door. He glanced over at Preston.
‘All right then,’ he said and the car moved off.
Dicky hid his hands, which were throbbing and bruised, by his sides. Preston still had the strapping on his nose where Lewis had kicked his face, and Dicky wanted to show him his hands and say, ‘Got him!’ and laugh about it with him, but he kept quiet and gripped his handkerchief and looked out of the window and willed himself to think sensibly. He hadn’t been frightened for long; it was understandable that he’d been scared, it had been a shock to see Lewis standing there in the room with him, and he had looked dangerous to begin with.
Dicky watched the hedges go by, and let Tamsin and Claire go on with their silly conversations in the back. He could barely keep a straight face. His hands were hurting him more and more from where he had beaten Lewis, and everything looked bright and leaping and marvellous to him. He’d left Lewis lying there and he didn’t know if he was dead or alive or blinded or broken. He hoped it was very bad.
The church came into sight and Dicky took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands, hiding them down behind his thigh and checking the bruising.
Preston stopped the car by the gate to the churchyard and left the engine running while he got out and let the women out first, and then Dicky. Dicky put his hands in his pockets and went through the people and smiled and laughed as usual, but made sure he got into the church quickly so that he could sit and relish it better. He saw Gilbert and wanted to tell him what he’d done to Lewis, and laugh at him, but found he couldn’t meet his eye. He pitied him for his crazy son and his dead wife, and for being so weak and letting Alice drink publicly the way she did. How did the old joke go? One drunken wife might be looked upon as a misfortune, but two … He wanted to say what he’d done and slap him on the back and apologise, and tell him Lewis was there for Gilbert to collect, or for someone from an insane asylum to come and scrape him up from the floor.
Dicky got to his pew, at the front, and stood aside for the women to go in ahead of him, and said good morning to the vicar and sat down. Then he let himself think about it again, the way it had felt to beat Lewis, and he had less shame about his excitement than he did when he punished Kit because there was something pure about this violence, and more honourable, and getting excited at violence like that was normal, and part of being a man. He played it in his mind as people came in behind him: hitting Lewis – who was younger, and taller – hitting him in the face and the side of his head, and across his mouth with his fist that was bleeding, and getting him to his knees.
‘Darling—’ said Claire, and nudged him with her elbow.
The organ had started and he’d forgotten to stand up.