The Possession of Mr Cave Read Online Free Page B

Pablo showed no sign of
pain or fear. In fact, he was overwhelmed with a kind of relief,
and thanked God he would never have to play the cello again.
    'A gift can also be a curse,' wrote the man who had felt
enslaved by his art since he was a child. The man who had
anxiety attacks before every single performance.
    This last fact that had always comforted you when playing
in public. And so it made no sense, with the annual York
Drama and Music Festival not too far away, that you would
want to take down his poster. A trivial issue, I suppose, but
one I viewed as symptomatic of a broader change.
    Maybe I should have been firmer with you then.
    Perhaps I shouldn't have let you shut yourself away. At the
time, though, I imagined this was your way of grieving. In
tribute to the life of your brother you were shrouding yourself
in the same mystery.
    What I didn't realise was that this retreat would continue,
that you would slip further and further away from me until
the point at which I couldn't call you back.
    As I flicked through the travel section of the newspaper I saw
it – a weak black-and-white photograph of the Colosseum.
'Price includes flights and six-night stay in the Hotel Raphael.'
    The city of faith and antiquity and perspective, the place
people go to mourn and accept the transient nature of human
life, where old temples and frescoes outlive us all. Such was
my thinking.
    Oh, pity the folly of a desperate mind!
    Do you remember that sunny evening we walked to Cynthia's
and I had to stop halfway down Winchelsea Avenue? You
asked me what the matter was and I told you I didn't know,
that I just felt a bit dizzy. It was the feeling I had experienced
at the church, and when selling Reuben's bicycle. A
darkening of vision accompanied by a kind of tingling towards
the rear of my skull. Similar, I suppose, to pins and needles,
only this felt warmer, as though tiny fires were raging through
the dark spaces of my mind, generating sparks that wriggled
and danced before losing their glow. And these fires were
burning those parts of me that knew when and where I was,
leaving me for a moment deprived of all identity.
    I turned to see the house I had passed, number 17, and it
looked as depressing as all the others on the street. I told
myself to keep my head. It was only a dose of the shudders,
I reasoned. A result of frayed nerves and poor sleep, nothing
more. Although if you ever wondered why we never walked
that way again, you have the reason.
    By the time we reached Cynthia's bungalow I was feeling much
better, and quite hungry. Although of course one can never
be quite hungry enough for one of Cynthia's curries.
    'It's an authentic Goan recipe,' she said, as it slopped onto
our plates. 'I printed it out from the computer. It was meant
to be mild but I'm worried I might have overdone it a little
with the chilli.'
    'Oh, I'm sure it's fine,' I told her, as I tried to avert my eyes
from the charcoal sketch of a nude on the table. We must
have arrived before she had time to frame it. A study of creased
female flesh from one of her life-drawing classes.
    'Mmm, it's lovely,' you said, enjoying your first mouthful.
You actually sounded like you meant it.
    Cynthia smiled at you, and seemed for a moment mildly
entranced. 'Oh good. Good. Not too hot?'
    'No,' you said, although within five minutes you were in
the kitchen topping up your glass of water.
    'I've thought about what you said,' I told Cynthia, in a
hushed tone, as you ran the tap. 'And I think you might be
right. I'm going to book a holiday.'
    'Good, Terence. Good. Have you told Bryony?'
    'No,' I said. 'I'm going to keep it a surprise.'
    'Well, maybe you should consult her first.'
    I shook my head. 'She's always loved surp—'
    You were back, drinking from your glass, feeling our admiring
eyes upon your neck. Two old ducks in awe of a swan.
    Somehow, we made it through the curry. A feat of endurance
on all our parts I imagine, and Cynthia tried to humour us
with some of her old