Summer Lies Bleeding (21 page)

A couple of months before Zoe left to go to London he met Lisa and by then his laddish days were well and truly over. They moved in together, got engaged and when she fell pregnant he took his pile of lads mags, dated all the way back to the late nineties, and burned them on a bonfire in the back garden. He was glad to put that part of his life behind him, he was going to be a father, he had met the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, everything was going to be perfect. And then they got the call.

He claps his hands together, dispelling the memory from his head. He is enjoying this moment, he wants it to go on for
ever, wants to touch the woman in front of him, feel something resembling warmth and intimacy for the first time in so many years.

‘Cute,' he says. ‘I suppose that's a compliment?'

She giggles and puts her head to one side. She's young, he thinks. Younger than him, but that's good, he wants to be young tonight, he wants to do stupid, mindless things and stop the incessant noise in his head, he wants to have one night where he can forget everything that has happened and just be in the moment, the moment that seems to be passing in front of his eyes in a blur.

‘Come on,' he says, pulling himself up of the floor. ‘Let's go out.'

‘Out where?' She looks rather confused as though she was expecting him to kiss her.

‘Out there,' he says, pointing out of the window. ‘What do they call it? Twenty-four-hour party land? And we're here in the middle of it. At the very least, we can nip out and have a beer can't we?'

‘Okay,' she says. ‘We can have a walk, it will be nice. But let's go to a pub, yeah? I hate clubs, I'm telling you this now, I am not going to any clubs.'

‘I never mentioned clubs,' he laughs as he reaches across to the bed and picks up his wallet. ‘And I don't think I'd be let in to any of the clubs round here, I'm too old.'

‘You're not old,' she says. ‘You're mature.'

‘Ha,' Mark snorts. ‘That, m'dear, is just a polite way of saying old.'

He ushers her towards the door with the crook of his arm and feels the warmth of her breath on his skin. He wants her, he wants her badly but he is going to savour the feeling, draw it out for as long as he can and then lose himself within her.

As they open the door, he remembers the bag. He is not sure if he zipped it up when he shoved it under the bed earlier.

‘I tell you what,' he says to Liv as she steps out into the corridor. ‘You go on ahead and I'll meet you in the corridor. I just want to charge my phone while we're out.'

She nods her head and smiles and as he watches her walk away down the corridor he thinks she could be a hologram, a vision that only he can see. The bright light makes his eyes sore and he blinks the harsh colour away as he steps back into the room and kneels down by the side of the bed. The sudden movement makes silver stars flicker in front of his eyes and the black bag looks like a cowering animal hunched up beneath the metal hinges of the bed. He reaches his arm towards it and, finding the zipper, seals it shut in one swift movement.

As he goes to stand up he stumbles slightly, the beer on an empty stomach has gone straight to his head. He sees himself in the small smudged mirror above the sink; his cheeks are flushed and the hood of his sweatshirt has got tangled up; he looks like a cartoon character. Then he does something he hasn't done for a long time; he starts to laugh. A grinning red-faced
fool looks back at him from the mirror but he doesn't care. Tonight he will let himself laugh, he will let himself drink and fuck and forget; forget about the ghosts that cry out in his head night after night – his dad, his granddad, Zoe – they can be all silent for one night, and then tomorrow he will let them in again.

Kerstin follows the stream of bodies as they file down the stairs, desperately trying to bat away the urge to run, to squeeze through their bulk and escape. But she knows that she can only move in a forward direction now; she must stay close to Cal.

She feels Cal's hand holding her arm, pulling her down. It is the heat that hits her first: thick stale air that sticks to her face, her arms, her legs as she pushes her way down the steps. After the heat come the smells: a thousand smells swirling under her nose, coagulating and merging into one another: BO; damp fibres; sickly-sweet perfume that lodges its odour deep in her throat and makes her want to gag; greasy fried chicken; soil; petrol fumes, the smells unfurl like noxious gases as the bodies carry her down, down into the depths of the earth.

At the bottom of the steps she feels the weight of the crowd dissipate and she is released into the artificial light of Green Park Station ticket hall.

‘Come on,' shouts Cal, as he runs towards the turn-styles. But Kerstin is unable to move; her brain has turned to mush and a familiar panic rises from her chest. She has no idea what she is supposed to do next, no idea how this all works.

‘What's the matter?' Cal is walking towards her. He looks irritated; tired.

She looks around and her eyes alight on the small ticket booth and the line of people snaking its way from it. She sees a fluorescent jacket and her heart leaps; she looks again but the station guard is busy helping someone retrieve a ticket that has got stuck in the machine. He is not on his way to arrest her. But the police will be on alert; they will have her description; will be looking for her right now. It feels like a thousand eyes are upon her as she stands in the middle of the hall like a drowning woman.

‘I … I don't have a ticket,' she says to Cal; his face looks hard. Exhaustion, maybe. Perhaps this is the last thing he wants; having to babysit his nutty colleague for the night.

But Cal puts his hand onto her arm gently. ‘Oh, shit I forgot … you lost your purse. Hang on a sec.' He leaves her and walks towards the ticket machines. Kerstin watches as he inserts his card then leans down to retrieve the ticket from the bottom of the machine. ‘Hurry up,' she whispers. ‘Please hurry up.' Any minute now she will get a tap on her shoulder, she just knows it.

‘Here.' Cal holds out the ticket. ‘Come on, let's go.'

Kerstin looks down at the ticket. She has no idea what to do with it. She feels like a child learning to walk and she winces as a sharp stiletto heel catches her foot. More people are coming from behind; she cannot turn and run, even if she wanted to; the crowd would crush her; and if she did escape, then what? She has closed every door now; Matthew, Cologne, Chelsea … All she can do is keep moving.

She grabs Cal's arm and grips onto it as they approach the turnstyles, then watches intently as he removes his arm from her grasp, flicks his wrist and walks through. Easy. But as she tries to replicate, something is wrong. She flicks the card against the panel, just like he did, but nothing happens; she feels the weight of people behind her, hears her blood thudding inside her head.

‘You got to insert it.' A voice from behind; a woman's voice, kind, without a hint of irritation. Kerstin inserts the card and the gates spring open.

Cal is waiting by the top of the escalator and as he sees her approach he steps onto it. She watches his dark head slowly descend as she waves her foot above the moving steps, like a child dipping its toe into a rushing stream.

Someone shoves her in the back and she grips the side of the escalator as the steps move beneath her feet. She is on and as she regains her balance she looks behind her and sees a young boy in a baseball cap grinning at her. ‘Don't look down,' he mouths and his face holds such menace in it, she turns round
and does precisely that. She looks down at the vertical drop; the demonic metal monster that, in moments, will deposit her at the gates of hell.

Images streak past her as she descends: a green-faced witch with bright red lips; a silver neck tie that looks like a noose. She tries to catch the words on the posters but just catches parts of them: Wick … Fifty sha … Shaftesb … bestsel … Then the witch's face again, and again and again and again, those red lips and the screams, incessant screams that are getting louder and louder as Kerstin reaches the final step and stumbles into Cal. .

‘Whoah there, steady,' he says, as though calming a nervy colt. ‘You almost knocked me flying. Come on, let's get the train.'

Kerstin holds out her hand and Cal takes it. She notices his look, the smile; he thinks she is flirting with him when actually she is holding onto him out of fear; holding onto him because he is the only tangible, solid thing left.

She holds his arm tightly as they reach the platform. It is packed and they have to squeeze their way through. Kerstin's mouth is dry; she tries to concentrate on her breathing but no air seems to be able to reach her lungs; her head feels light as though only connected to her body by the thinnest of threads. And then it comes:

Sssssssssssseeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkk …

A scream so loud, it cuts through the platform like a molatov
cocktail, turning the ground beneath Kerstin's feet to liquid. Her legs buckle, she can feel herself going. She hits the filthy ground with a thud, shielding her head with her hands, as though waiting for a blow; waiting for the bang.

‘Kerstin,' She hears Cal's voice, feels his hands around her back, pulling her but she mustn't look up, she daren't look up. She knows she has been caught; if she opens her eyes she will see the uniform; the hard face; the handcuffs. This is it.

As she gets to her feet, she covers her face with her hands which are shaking uncontrollably. She feels Cal's arms around her waist, hears him saying something but she cannot hear what; her ears feel like they are full of sand. She feels movement, feels the familiar weight of people pressing down on her back. She takes her hands from her face and sees the thick metal bulk of the Piccadilly Line train. It was just the train coming into the station. She had forgotten what it sounds like; the screech of brakes; the air rushing onto the platform; the bullet-like speed.

Cal guides her to the open doors and they stand wedged up against each other, so close she can feel his heart pumping against her cheek. His chest is warm and his heartbeat so steady she almost starts counting. If she stays like this she will be okay, she can close her eyes for the six minutes it will take to get to Leicester Square tube. Two minutes per stop; funny what facts the mind retains.

Inside her closed eyes, she sees speckles of white light, flashing on and off, on and off. Then the lights expand, and seem to dance round her consciousness to a strange melody that fills her head.

‘Oh, here we go,' says Cal, stepping back, and Kerstin opens her eyes to a brightly lit carriage. The music grows louder and louder until it feels like it is crawling up her spine.

‘Don't catch his eye,' says Cal, gesturing with his head.

‘What?'

Kerstin turns round and sees a young boy making his way up the quieter part of the carriage. He is playing an accordion, so big it almost obliterates his tiny frame. It is a slow, hypnotic gypsy melody, the kind used by snake charmers in old black and white films. The boy's face is half-hidden in the hood of his sweatshirt.

‘Don't look at him,' says Cal, but Kerstin cannot take her eyes off the boy. She watches as he walks towards them, his music momentarily drowned out by the announcement for the next station.

Cal gently guides her to the doors, but she wants to wait, she has to see the boy's face before they get off. She twists out of Cal's grip as the train pulls into Leicester Square station, and cranes her neck towards the boy, but he is staring down at the accordion. Look up, she wills him, as the train doors open. Why won't you look up?

And then, in the pause between the train stopping and the doors opening, he looks up and the blood in her body evaporates. Clarissa's face, dappled in liver spots and rouge, stares back at her from beneath the boy's hood. Kerstin pushes past Cal and out of the doors, she darts between the commuters, cutting through them like a blade. She leaps onto the escalator, taking two steps at a time, she runs and runs, up the steps, through the turnstiles, thrusting her ticket into the slot, one, two, three times, until the gates part and release her into the damp air of Charing Cross Road where she stumbles into a side street and vomits so violently she almost passes out. When she is done, she stands up and wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, then presses her body against the rough stone wall.

‘Kerstin.'

She looks up and sees Cal.

‘Listen, you're not well,' he says, gently. ‘Come on, let's get to the flat. It's just a couple of minutes away. We'll get you cleaned up and you can have a rest, yeah?' He holds out his hand to her.

‘I'm fine,' she says. ‘Honestly, I'll be fine'

‘Well, you don't look fine to me,' says Cal, as they start to walk up Charing Cross Road.

As she walks, she realises she hasn't asked Cal where he lives; she has no idea where he is taking her.

‘Where are we going? Where's your flat?'

‘Haven't I told you before,' says Cal, as they dip down a
narrow side street. ‘I live in Soho. Bit mad, eh? But it's well cool and saves me a fortune on cab fares.'

Kerstin nods her head as she follows Cal to the traffic lights on Shaftesbury Avenue. As they cross the road he squeezes her hand gently.

‘Nearly there,' he says. ‘Just a few more blocks and you'll be fine.'

*

Seb is just taking the food out of the oven when he hears a key in the lock. The noise makes him feel secure; his family is back together, all safe under one roof. He reaches up to the cabinet and takes out two glasses. He fills one with a glug of ginger cordial and a splash of sparkling water; the other with pomegranate juice – Yasmine's favourite. He takes one in each hand and walks out into the hallway.

Yasmine is sitting on the little wooden stool by the door fiddling with the laces of her shoes. She looks up at him as he approaches; her face looks drained and tired.

‘Everything okay?' His voice echoes against the narrow walls.

When she finally gets the laces undone, she pulls off the shoes and flings them onto the floor.

‘Why did I ever think this would be a good idea, Seb?' she says, taking the glass of juice and walking ahead of him towards the kitchen.

She gives a little shrug as she enters the room, then plonks herself down heavily onto the soft velvet sofa by the window and
looks up at him. It looks like the filling has been pulled out of her, leaving just an empty wisp of body.

‘You're exhausted,' says Seb, taking the glass from her hands and putting it onto the table. ‘Why don't you have a nice bath? I can keep the food warming in the oven until you're ready to eat.'

‘Eat,' she repeats, her voice a glum monotone. ‘I don't think I can face food tonight. I just want to curl up and sleep and wake up next week when all this is over.'

‘I'll go and run you a bath,' says Seb. ‘It'll do you good.'

He walks to the bathroom and turns on the taps, then opens the large wooden cabinet and rummages through Yasmine's various lotions and oils, looking for something suitable. He picks up a handful and scans the labels: Ylang Ylang body scrub, peppermint foot balm, lemon and ginger exfoliator. No good. He replaces them and pulls out a long glass bottle with a silver lid: Soothing Lavender Bath Essence. That should do, he thinks, as he unscrews the lid and pours a generous glug under the running water.

Leaving the bath to fill, he returns to the kitchen and sees Yasmine sitting where he left her. Her feet are spread out at a strange angle and her arms are folded across her chest. She is sound asleep. Sleep will be better than a bath, he thinks, as he takes the thick woollen eiderdown from the end of the sofa and spreads it across her body.

He walks back to the kitchen and looks at the mangle of chicken, tomatoes and herbs sitting impotently on the work
surface. He didn't have much of an appetite anyway, after munching half of Cosima's ham and pineapple pizza. The food was going to be a diversion, an aside to the conversation he and Yasmine were going to have. There were things he wanted to say to her over dinner. He wanted to tell her how proud he was, that he will be there with her tomorrow, he will be her eyes and ears, making sure everything runs smoothly. He wanted to tell her that all she has to do is focus on her work; he and Henry will sort out the rest. He wanted to commemorate the evening, raise a glass of ginger sparkle to this, the eve of her great venture; he wanted, more than anything, to tell her he loved her. To have an hour or so, just the two of them to take on board all that has happened these last few years. To talk.

He looks over at her sleeping form as he covers the food with foil. There will be plenty of time to talk, they have years of talk ahead of them, he thinks as he goes into the bathroom and turns off the taps. Then he steps quietly across the room and eases himself onto the sofa next to her. Taking her hand, he gently kisses it then holds it in his. Yes there were things he wanted to tell her tonight, things that would have made him feel better to have expressed and he feels the words pressing against his tongue as he sits looking at her, but something stronger than words exists between them, some unfathomable bond that has linked them from the start. She knows I love her, he thinks, as he strokes the rough skin on her fingertips, and watches her chest rise up against the thick green eiderdown,
she has always known. He cuddles up next to her and as he closes his eyes, he sees clusters of silver and blue lights dart across his consciousness like moonlight streaks the surface of a lake.