Matt Haig - The Radleys: A Novel

Y our instincts are wrong. Animals rely on instincts for their daily survival, but we are not beasts. We are not lions or sharks or vultures. We are civilized, and civilization only works if instincts are suppressed. So do your bit for society and ignore those dark desires inside you.

The Abstainers Handbook (second edition), p. 54

It is a quiet place, especially at night.

Too quiet, youd be entitled to think, for any kind of monster to live among its pretty, tree-shaded lanes.

Indeed, at three oclock in the morning in the village of Bishopthorpe, it is easy to believe the lie indulged in by its residentsthat it is a place for good and quiet people to live good and quiet lives.

At this hour, the only sounds to be heard are those made by nature itself. The hoot of an owl, the faraway bark of a dog, or, on a breezy night like this one, the winds obscure whisper through the sycamore trees. Even if you stood on the main street, right outside the pub or the Hungry Gannet delicatessen, you wouldnt often hear any traffic or be able to see the abusive graffiti that decorates the former post office (though the word FREAK might just be legible if you strain your eyes).

Away from the main street, on somewhere like Orchard Lane, if you took a nocturnal strol past the detached period homes lived in by solicitors and doctors and project managers, you would find all their lights off and curtains drawn, secluding them from the night. Or you would until you reached number seventeen, where youd notice the glow from an upstairs window filtering through the curtains.

And if you stopped, sucked in that cool and consoling fresh night air, you would at first see that number seventeen is a house otherwise in tune with those around it. Maybe not quite as grand as its closest neighbor, number nineteen, with its wide driveway and elegant Regency features, but still one that holds its own.

It is a house that looks and feels precisely how a village family home should looknot too big, but big enough, with nothing out of place or jarring on the eye. A dream house in many ways, as estate agents would tell you, and certainly perfect to raise children.

But after a moment youd notice there is something not right about it. No, maybe notice is too strong. Perhaps you wouldnt actively realize that even nature seems to be quieter around this house, that you cant hear any birds or anything else at all . Yet there might be an instinctive sense that would make you wonder about that glowing light and feel a coldness that doesnt come from the night air.

If that feeling grew, it might become a fear that would make you want to leave the scene and run away, but you probably wouldnt. You would observe the nice house and the moderately expensive car parked outside and think that this is the property of perfectly normal human beings who pose no threat to the outside world.

If you let yourself think this, you would be wrong. For 17 Orchard Lane is the home of the Radleys, and despite their very best efforts, they are anything but normal.

You need sleep, he tells himself, but it is no good.

The light on at three oclock this Friday morning belongs to him, Rowan, the elder of the two Radley children. He is wide awake, despite having drunk six times the recommended dose of Night Nurse.

He is always awake at this time. If he is lucky, on a good night, he will drop off to sleep at around four to wake again at six or shortly after. Two hours of tormented, restless sleep, dreaming violent nightmares he cant understand and arranging and rearranging his lanky frame into increasingly less sleepworthy positions. But tonight its not a good night, with his rash acting up and that breeze blowing against the window, and he knows he will probably be going to school on no rest whatsoever.

He puts down his book: Byrons Collected Poems . He hears someone walking along the landing, not to the toilet but to the spare room.

There is a slight rummaging around, and a few moments of quiet before she can be heard leaving the room. Again, this isnt entirely unusual. Often he has heard his mother get up in the middle of the night to head to the spare bedroom with some secret purpose he hasnt ever asked her about.

Then he hears her go back to bed and the indistinct mumble of his parents voices through the wall.

Helen gets back into bed, her whole body tense with secrets. Her husband sighs a strange, yearning kind of sigh and nuzzles into her.

What on earth are you doing?

Im trying to kiss you, he says.

Please, Peter, she says, a headache pressing behind her eyes. Its the middle of the night.

As opposed to all those other times, when you would want to be kissed by your husband.

I thought you were asleep.

I was. I was dreaming. It was quite an exciting one. Nostalgic, really.

Peter, well wake the children, she says, although she knows Rowan still has his light on.

Come on, I just want to kiss you. It was such a good dream.

No. You dont. You want more. You want

So, what are you worried about? The sheets?

I just want to go to sleep.

What were you doing?

I needed the toilet. She is so used to this lie she doesnt think about it.

That bladder. Its getting weaker.

Good night.

Do you remember that librarian we took home?

She can hear the smile in his question. Jesus, Peter. That was London. We dont talk about London.

But when you think about nights like that, doesnt it make you

No. It was a lifetime ago. I dont think about it at all .

In the morning, shortly after waking, Helen sits up and sips her water. She unscrews the jar of ibuprofen tablets and places one on her tongue, as delicately as a communion wafer.

She swallows, and right at that moment as the pill washes down her throat, her husbandonly a few steps away in the bathroomfeels a sudden tweak of pain.

He has cut himself shaving.

He watches the blood glistening on his damp, oiled skin.

Beautiful. Deep red. He dabs it, studies the smear it has made on his finger and his heart quickens. The finger moves closer and closer to his mouth, but before it gets there he hears something. Rapid footsteps rushing toward the bathroom, then an attempt at opening the door.

Dad, please could you let me in... please, says his daughter, Clara, as she bangs hard against the thick wood.

He does as she asks, and Clara rushes in and leans over the toilet bowl.

Clara, he says, as she throws up. Clara, whats wrong?

She leans back. Her pale face looks up at him, from above her school uniform, her eyes desperate through her glasses.

Oh God, she says, and turns back toward the bowl. She is sick again. Peter smells it and catches sight of it too. He flinches, not from the vomit but from what he knows it means.

Within a few seconds, everyone is there. Helen is crouching down next to their daughter, stroking her back and telling her everything is all right. And their son Rowan is in the doorway, with his Factor 60 sunblock still needing to be rubbed in and causing his dark bangs to stick to his skin.

Whats happening to her? he asks.

Its fine, says Clara, not wanting an audience. Honestly, Im okay now. I feel fine.

And the word stays in the room, hovering around and changing the air with its own sick-scented falseness.

Clara does her best to keep up the routine all morning, getting herself prepared for school just like normal, despite the rotten feeling in her stomach.

You see, last Saturday Clara upped her game from vegetarian to full-time, committed vegan in an attempt to get animals to like her a bit more.