an elderly brain coming out of mild concussion? Either way, it seemed she wasn’t finished yet.
‘We rose higher and higher and when we reached the hole in the Tower of Babel where the boys were, there was only one boy there. The silent one. The whisperer had gone and we could see why the silent boy was silent. Underneath his nose, his mouth was sealed up with a single piece of skin that covered the whole of the lower half of his face.’ She reached out with both hands. ‘He touched both of us on the centre of our foreheads and, slowly, down we went. And when my feet touched the ground, it was no longer like being inside the Bruegel painting of the Tower of Babel. You had gone and I was alone in my father’s room, looking at the painting on the wall, the one that had been there for as long as I could remember. And I heard my father’s voice, behind me. Louise? I turned. He wasn’t there. Then I woke up. Here. With you. And you were looking out of the window.’
Morning had arrived and the blood-red sky unfolded into grey light.
‘Bump to the head,’ said Louise. She gave the slightest shrug of the shoulders. ‘Fantastic dreams...’
‘Did the boys have names?’ asked Riley.
Louise shook her head.
‘The boy with the skin covering his mouth – did you see any other features?’
‘I’ve told you everything there was in the dream.’
The wind roared against the hospital windows.
‘You told me your father refused to speak about why he loved that particular painting?’
Louise thought about the question and Riley knew she had an answer of sorts. But there was something in Louise’s face that she couldn’t read. In answering the question, would she somehow be betraying her father’s memory? A confidence, maybe?
‘Once. He had a fever once. I nursed him back to health. When his fever was high, he talked about the painting. He said, and I think he was quoting a writer, Every word is like a stain on silence and nothingness . That is the truth of the Tower of Babel. For a man who wrote so many words, in his day-to-day life my father was a man of very few words. He could sit in complete silence for hours on end, locked inside the ebb and flow of ideas inside his head. We had no music in the house. No record player. I was the only girl in my class who didn’t own a record by the Beatles. We didn’t get a television until 1980. And even then I could only watch it when Father had gone to bed.’
‘He sounds like a strict father.’
She considered the observation. ‘Times were different then.’
Riley looked at the curve of her forehead, wondered at the vivid image systems that existed inside her, born perhaps of the constant exposure to art in her childhood.
‘You know you won’t be able to go back to your house for a long time?’
‘I understand. I’ll go to the Travelodge on Aigburth Road.’
‘There’s no need for that. You’ve had an offer of a place to stay.’
Louise sat up. ‘With whom?’
‘The Millers. The Sanctuary. They seem very keen for you to stay. I would take up that offer if I was you. You’ll be able to see all your friends.’
Riley watched the information percolate in the passing of a brief smile.
‘I will. Yes, I will stay there. You’re right. All my friends are there.’
‘Who are your friends in The Sanctuary?’
Louise’s face visibly brightened. ‘Tom Thumb – that’s not his real name, it’s Tom Thomas, but he’s only five foot tall. Oh...’ Louise looked at Riley. ‘Abey. He’s a wonderful man. But don’t tell anyone I said that. I wouldn’t want to hurt the other men’s feelings, and they do have feelings; deep, deep feelings.’
‘Louise, how about DCI Clay and I take you there as soon as the doctor says you’re free to go?’
She nodded slowly and, looking directly at Riley, said, ‘People are so kind, aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ lied Riley. ‘People are kind.’
Part Two
Sunrise
The Last Judgment
by Hieronymus Bosch
‘We rose higher and higher and when we reached the hole in the Tower of Babel where the boys were, there was only one boy there. The silent one. The whisperer had gone and we could see why the silent boy was silent. Underneath his nose, his mouth was sealed up with a single piece of skin that covered the whole of the lower half of his face.’ She reached out with both hands. ‘He touched both of us on the centre of our foreheads and, slowly, down we went. And when my feet touched the ground, it was no longer like being inside the Bruegel painting of the Tower of Babel. You had gone and I was alone in my father’s room, looking at the painting on the wall, the one that had been there for as long as I could remember. And I heard my father’s voice, behind me. Louise? I turned. He wasn’t there. Then I woke up. Here. With you. And you were looking out of the window.’
Morning had arrived and the blood-red sky unfolded into grey light.
‘Bump to the head,’ said Louise. She gave the slightest shrug of the shoulders. ‘Fantastic dreams...’
‘Did the boys have names?’ asked Riley.
Louise shook her head.
‘The boy with the skin covering his mouth – did you see any other features?’
‘I’ve told you everything there was in the dream.’
The wind roared against the hospital windows.
‘You told me your father refused to speak about why he loved that particular painting?’
Louise thought about the question and Riley knew she had an answer of sorts. But there was something in Louise’s face that she couldn’t read. In answering the question, would she somehow be betraying her father’s memory? A confidence, maybe?
‘Once. He had a fever once. I nursed him back to health. When his fever was high, he talked about the painting. He said, and I think he was quoting a writer, Every word is like a stain on silence and nothingness . That is the truth of the Tower of Babel. For a man who wrote so many words, in his day-to-day life my father was a man of very few words. He could sit in complete silence for hours on end, locked inside the ebb and flow of ideas inside his head. We had no music in the house. No record player. I was the only girl in my class who didn’t own a record by the Beatles. We didn’t get a television until 1980. And even then I could only watch it when Father had gone to bed.’
‘He sounds like a strict father.’
She considered the observation. ‘Times were different then.’
Riley looked at the curve of her forehead, wondered at the vivid image systems that existed inside her, born perhaps of the constant exposure to art in her childhood.
‘You know you won’t be able to go back to your house for a long time?’
‘I understand. I’ll go to the Travelodge on Aigburth Road.’
‘There’s no need for that. You’ve had an offer of a place to stay.’
Louise sat up. ‘With whom?’
‘The Millers. The Sanctuary. They seem very keen for you to stay. I would take up that offer if I was you. You’ll be able to see all your friends.’
Riley watched the information percolate in the passing of a brief smile.
‘I will. Yes, I will stay there. You’re right. All my friends are there.’
‘Who are your friends in The Sanctuary?’
Louise’s face visibly brightened. ‘Tom Thumb – that’s not his real name, it’s Tom Thomas, but he’s only five foot tall. Oh...’ Louise looked at Riley. ‘Abey. He’s a wonderful man. But don’t tell anyone I said that. I wouldn’t want to hurt the other men’s feelings, and they do have feelings; deep, deep feelings.’
‘Louise, how about DCI Clay and I take you there as soon as the doctor says you’re free to go?’
She nodded slowly and, looking directly at Riley, said, ‘People are so kind, aren’t they?’
‘Yes,’ lied Riley. ‘People are kind.’
Part Two
Sunrise
The Last Judgment
by Hieronymus Bosch
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