Thieving Fear

it worse. 'You do whatever makes you happy, Rory,' their mother would say, to which their father invariably responded 'Nobody can do more than they can.' There was no arguing with this, or rather if he tried to they would deny that they'd meant to criticise him and look unfairly criticised themselves. He'd suspected that they wished he had Hugh's discretion, which he would call timidity if not cowardice. The worst row had been over the house, when they'd implied he was being racist for suggesting that they wanted to move not just south but somewhere whiter than the district had become, though it hadn't been Rory or indeed his brother who'd kept acting pained by the sight of a sari outside their property or the least hint of spice in the air. 'You boys can have it all to yourselves,' their father had said as if, having forgiven Rory for disappointing his parents again, they had to treat him just like Hugh, while their mother declared 'They need their own space at their age.' They hadn't had much in their student accommodation, but once their parents moved to the Norfolk seaside, all the room in the house had begun to seem less than enough. Living with Hugh was the problem – with his oppressive eagerness to please, his insistence on putting his brother first whenever possible, his dogged willingness to help in any way he could and quite a few he couldn't, his mottled embarrassment at being proved inadequate. Rory had given none of those as reasons for moving out within a year, and he wouldn't have admitted leaving behind so many temptations to disparage his brother. Nevertheless he could hardly bear knowing that their parents saw his move as evidence that he felt like them.

At least he had the view from the twelfth floor of the tower block across the fields east of Leeds. The vast sky was an inexhaustible prospect all by itself – at least, it used to be. Just now it was emptily blue except for three clouds raising their curly white crowns above the horizon and a diagonal vapour trail as blurred as the muffled thunder of the aircraft. This ought to be more than enough to engage his imagination, but he felt as if that were falling short of the view.

He would like to blame the letters in the local newspaper. Certainly they made him feel resentfully defensive, shut inside himself. All the same, when he headed for the kitchen in case coffee was able to electrify his brain he sat at the table and read them once more, the entire black-bordered column of them that might have been announcing if not celebrating his death as an artist. In the first letter Name and Address Supplied had a joke that the writer must imagine nobody else had cracked: 'Can Do? Can't Do, more like.' Below this Name and Address Supplied wanted to know why the grant hadn't been spent on building a rubbish tip and added 'Hang on though, it was.' Their neighbour, Name and Address Supplied, complained that Can Do was a bad example to the young and an invitation to graffiti. Rory might have retorted that graffiti were a species of change and that without change there was no life and that life was the art of the universe, but how much of this was he sure he believed? The final letter, from Name and Address Supplied, maintained that public money should only support real art, which apparently was art that everyone could enjoy, and condemned Rory for robbing real artists. Perhaps his work was nothing more than an excuse for words.

Argument was life too, he tried to think as he filled a mug with muddy coffee, but he seemed to be causing his audience to retreat into their attitudes, which made him feel too close to the same state. Perhaps he should revert to exhibiting in galleries, where at least people came prepared to find art. That seemed like despairing of renewing anyone's view of the world. Not long ago he'd felt that anything at all, however banal and everyday – even the concrete kitchen full of metal surfaces – could set off his perceptions on a voyage of discovery that he would want to share with as many people as he could, and now he had fewer creative ideas than his drudge of a brother.

No, that wasn't quite the case. He'd had the same idea as Hugh for Ellen's next book. How much use was Hugh likely to be? She needed input from someone with imagination – someone besides Charlotte, given how she was confining hers to whatever she thought would sell. She ought to be helping Ellen's writing look professional, not telling her what to write.

Rory took a gulp of coffee as he passed the garden furniture that did duty as a dining suite in the main room. This felt like a joke that had died of old age, and so did the plastic chairs cushioned with toddlers' cartoonish quilts, not to mention the shelves composed of bits of a dismantled van and only just able to carry their load of art books. Even the taste of coffee seemed not just stale but shy of reaching him. Perhaps guilt was in the way. Hugh might at least deserve some credit for thinking how to help Ellen, but if Rory became involved, Hugh would have no chance.

That needn't happen. He could tell Hugh anything he found and let him pass on the information. The credit would mean more to Hugh than to him. Perhaps letting Hugh take it would free his own imagination from the dull dark mood that had settled over it – perhaps thinking of others would free him from the prison of himself.

As he sat at his desk in front of the window, a plane as silent as a snail drew its lingeringly disintegrating track across the sky. Rory was surprised not to hear it, since it was quite low. He switched on the computer and logged onto Frugonet and sent its engine in search of Thurstaston Cliffs. There were at least a dozen references, the first of which informed him that the area was composed of glacial drift, boulder clay up to one hundred feet thick on top of Triassic sandstone. He didn't see how that was of use to Ellen, but she might like the idea that the substance of the cliffs was full of erratic rocks. He was imagining a swarm of rocks crawling through the earth when the next sentence made clear that they had simply been transported by ice. They often contained crystals, and perhaps she could develop that. Erosion had scattered many of them on the beach.

Next came old news of a drowning at Thurstaston, of a teenager who had either fallen or thrown herself from the cliff. He remembered hearing of the incident, which had happened near the place where they'd all camped out and not long before they had. The girl – Mary Botton, a name that must have been a gift to any tormentors – had been plagued with nightmares for supposedly the first time in her life, after which she'd kept complaining that her schoolmates were watching her and wouldn't stop.

Rory found himself rereading this without understanding why and then gazing at it until his vision lost focus. He had to blink hard to rid his eyes of blankness, but this didn't enliven his brain. What was he expecting the report to convey to him? Perhaps if he didn't nag at it the point would become clear, though he felt oddly uneasy about leaving it uncomprehended. He seemed to sense it lurking among his thoughts as he clicked on a reference to Thurstaston Mound.

This showed him a site called Lost Landscapes of Britain and a nineteenth-century painting, which it would have taken him a while to recognise as depicting Thurstaston without the title: Twilight Vigil at Thurstaston Mound. What the silhouetted figure was engaged in besides pointing with his stick at an inflamed sunset above the Welsh mountains across the estuary, Rory couldn't guess. Was that a bird or some other night creature swooping over the still water? The painter had omitted to put its reflection in. Was the figure meant to be indicating it or somehow attracting it with the long gnarled stick? All that Rory could be sure of, given the view that included the mouth of the river, was that the dark mound, which must have stood at least fifty feet high, had once occupied the edge of the stretch of cliff top where he and Hugh and their cousins had camped.

Where had it gone? He didn't know if he was more troubled by the question or by the significance of the painting, nor why either should concern him. Perhaps the painter's other work might help him interpret this one. Rory searched for Allan Gemini and was rewarded with a handful of listings, the first of which led to a site of The Occult in Art. The page that opened was devoted to the artist, displaying the Thurstaston image and three others. Stargrave in Winter showed a village square illuminated only by the pallor of snow, in which a dozen or more dark figures stood ankle-deep, their postures so awkward they might be frozen or intended to be symbolic or both. Night over Moonwell depicted a distant village where no lights were visible in the left half, beneath a sky that was utterly black except for a massive moon and an oblique tendril of luminous white cloud that looked close to connecting the village with the satellite. Goodmanswood in November was a forest dimly glowing from within as though the fallen leaves had absorbed the last of the daylight, while the branches appeared to be straining to draw down the first stars or the dark gulf between them or something beyond. Rory didn't care for the paintings – they seemed sly, reluctant to own up to meanings that he suspected were aimed at an audience as secretive as they were – but he supposed he might mention them to Ellen, although they'd offered him no insight into the image of Thurstaston. He took another mouthful of coffee, only to feel he was searching for the taste. He swallowed to be done with it and went back to the listings for Thurstaston Mound.

The next one teased him with a sentence and the start of another.

Pendemon's house used to stand on the cliff below