Summer Lies Bleeding (23 page)

Mark isn't really listening to her; he is staring at the back of the hooded woman, willing her to turn around. The red light blinks on and off, on and off, casting a sickly red halo about her head. Model; hooker; model; hooker, it seems to say.

‘We should go,' says Liv, taking his arm.

He nods but still he can't take his eyes off the shrouded figure and he continues to look as they cross the road. When they reach the other side he turns round and sees that the girl has gone, leaving in her wake a blurry flash of neon and a cloud of smoke.

‘Girls disappear all the time,' says Liv, as they quicken their pace up the street. ‘When I get back to Canada I'm going to train as a counsellor. It's something I've always wanted to do, but even more so after travelling, after hearing so many stories. Big cities swallow people up, vulnerable people, and unless you have family or money or support you're easy prey.'

Mark nods. He is thinking of the girl in the hood, a faceless girl, nameless, no past, no future. A few streets away from here is Sebastian Bailey's restaurant with its pretty lights, its
potted plants and candles. It's all bullshit, thinks Mark, as they reach the end of Brewer Street and cross the road towards Piccadilly. The Rose Garden – they should have called it The Sewer because that's what it is; a rancid, putrefying cesspit built on the bones and dreams of dead girls; dying girls; girls with death in their eyes and a pock-marked client between their legs. You can scatter rose petals over it; you can spray expensive perfume into the air; come up with swanky menus and poncey food and fragrant herbs and spices but nothing can mask the stench that permeates this place; nothing can stop the decay.

As they approach Piccadilly Circus, Mark's chest feels tight, he puts one foot in front of the other but some invisible hand seems to be pressing down on him, blocking his way. The garish advertising boards that make this place such a landmark shine their spotlight on him as he passes, illuminating his face, picking him out of the crowd like some contestant on a daytime quiz show. He feels conspicuous, as though his face is up there on the hoardings on some great big ‘wanted' poster, flashing on and off amid the Coca Cola signs.

‘Come on, let's get back,' he says to Liv, as they turn into the little side street and walk towards the hostel. He feels the beer rising through his bloodstream like a mist as he follows Liv up the steps, watching the curve of her behind press against the thin fabric of her shorts. He wants to get back to the quiet of the room and bury himself deep inside this girl, so deep that he can pretend, for one night, he does not exist.

Seb is dreaming of sunshine; thick, hazy sun, like honey dripping down from the skies, smothering his skin in its thick opacity. It is a sepia-tinted world; like the summers of the past, an endless road movie with cheap motels, palm trees and filmy pools, mirages, white skies, RayBans, polka-dot bikinis, tanned limbs, languid moves and a Neil Young soundtrack. He stands by the edge of the pool and its colour makes him shade his eyes, it is the brightest blue, cyan blue with ripples of silver and gold, like Hockney's ‘A Bigger Splash', and he holds his breath as he jumps into it, puncturing the milky surface, ripping the canvas, diving down, down to the bottom where the blue begins to fade and white light as dazzling as the moon on a clear night fills the empty space, illuminating the way to the deepest part. He feels leathery hands touch his feet, soft fingertips caress his arms as he floats down with the current. Then a voice, a familiar voice, calls his name:

‘Seb!'

He opens his eyes to a fractured world; the room dances in front of him as though split into atoms, like an abstract picture, its disjointed parts hang in the air, random and scattered like pieces of broken glass.

‘Seb!'

As he comes to he realises that it is Yasmine's voice calling him. He feels a dull ache rising up his spine and he sits up, trying to stretch the pain away. He must have fallen asleep on the sofa last night with Yasmine. Yasmine … The restaurant launch … His mind comes back into consciousness with a jolt and he pulls himself off the sofa and walks in the direction of his wife's voice.

She is in the hallway bent over her bag. As he approaches she straightens up and turns round. Her face is hard and serious.

‘Seb. Why the hell did you let me go to sleep on the sofa? My back is killing me … and I've overslept.'

Seb rubs his eyes and supresses a yawn. ‘I'm sorry, Yas. I fell asleep. If it's any consolation, my back's killing me too.'

She shakes her head. ‘Look, I've got to go, it's almost seven and the first of the deliveries will be arriving at eight.'

‘Are you okay?' Seb puts his hands onto her shoulders. It's supposed to be a reassuring gesture but his arms are heavy and it ends up feeling like an aggressive one.

‘I'm fine,' she says, brusquely. ‘I just didn't want to start today feeling like this. Honestly I …' She stops and shakes her head as though shaking away whatever she was about to say.

‘What?' Seb takes his hands from her shoulders. He isn't really awake yet and he desperately needs to use the bathroom.

‘It's nothing,' says Yasmine. ‘Nothing at all. I better go.'

‘What time should I get there?' asks Seb.

She looks at him blankly.

‘To put the painting up,' he says.

Yasmine sighs heavily. ‘Oh, I don't know, Seb, why don't you just text me when you're on your way.'

‘You said around ten when we talked about it yesterday,' he says. ‘After I've dropped Cosi off at your mother's?'

‘Okay, ten,' she snaps. ‘Look Seb, I've got so much going on in my head with the really important stuff, I haven't got the room or the time to think about your bloody drawings. I just haven't.' She picks up her bags and lifts the latch on the door. ‘I've got to go. I'll see you at ten.'

Seb stands in the hallway, shivering in his thin T-shirt and boxer shorts. He watches the door close, hears Yasmine's footsteps clicking down the corridor, getting fainter and fainter as she departs. Her voice hammers into his head, like a car alarm, shrill and unwanted.

Your bloody drawings
. The months he has put into The Lake, the surprise gift he thought would take her breath away, a commemoration not just of the restaurant but of their love, the place where they began. That's not like Yas, that sharpness. He knows this is a huge day for her, of course it is, but he feels himself stepping back into the shadows, taking his place in
the wings with his frivolous ‘drawings' while Yasmine steps out onto the stage.

He tries to shake off the feeling as he walks into the bathroom and takes a pee. He flushes the chain then turns on the tap and splashes cold water on his face. As he lifts his head from the sink he sees his reflection beam back at him from the mirrored cabinet on the wall. Droplets of water cling to his face. He looks at the man staring back at him.

His eyes look tired, with grey circles that have grown darker and deeper over the years, his stubble is flecked with white and his forehead is creased into a permanent frown. Thirty-seven. Not old, not by anyone's standards, but not young. He peels off his T-shirt and steps out of his boxer shorts, running his hands across the contours of his body, this body that has served him these thirty-seven years, and despite all the abuse he has thrown at it, it has never given up. All those years of binge drinking, he should have the liver of an old man, but his doctor says he is in the best of health with a long and hearty life ahead of him, all being well. This body created a new life, that wild and bright girl sleeping in her bed along the hallway came from his flesh and bones, his blood runs in her veins, the history of his family is embedded in her DNA.

Emotional pain, grief, is just like physical pain – while it is hurting there is no end to it, and when Sophie died, oh how he grieved, how he ranted and raved and drank and railed at the world, and while he was trapped inside that grief he couldn't
remember how it felt to not be in pain. But then one morning without noticing, it was gone, it had taken flight and he felt different, more alert, more alive. Yet the pain has left little reminders of its force, a scar upon the skin, a bruise upon the heart … His body has loved and hurt, mourned and celebrated, travelled through time zones, gone without sleep, starved and feasted, held and been held, and still here it is, here he is, standing on the threshold of another day of being him. The artist, the man who paints pictures, ‘bloody pictures' that fade into insignificance beside his wife's demanding world of staff rotas, time schedules, employee forms, pomegranate molasses and honey-roast almond pilaff.

She didn't mean it, he tells himself as he steps into the steaming fog of the shower, she was in a rush … big day ahead … big day for all of us. The hot water loosens his muscles and he slowly starts to wake up, his brain clicks back into life, reason and understanding return, bringing clarity to his muddled head. He will be there beside Yasmine today, as he always has been, as he always will be.

*

It is the heat that wakes her; claggy, dead heat that clings to her skin like a layer of film. Her head feels wet and as she opens her eyes and lifts her head the dampness spreads across the back of her neck, down her back, her legs, her feet.

‘Where am I?' she whispers through thick, jagged pain that slices through her temples. The pain is so intense it takes her
breath away and she lies back down onto the damp pillow and closes her eyes in an attempt to blink it away.

And in the darkness of her closed eyes an image forms, pearlised and wavering like a reflection on the water: a pale wooden box falling from the sky, upsetting its contents into a scattered mess on the floor. And in that moment, she remembers, though at first it is more of a sensation than a memory; a feeling of deep unease.

Slowly, she begins to piece together the events of the previous evening. She remembers drinking a glass of wine; she remembers Cal showing her to the room and she remembers standing in front of the cupboard and seeing a box and a cascade of items pouring from it onto her feet: her things. She remembers footsteps, then nothing.

Using every ounce of energy she can summon, she pulls herself from the bed, the pain in her head almost knocking her back. She looks around the room; at the crumpled bed, Cal's bed, the one she said she wouldn't sleep in. She had said she would sleep on the floor; use the blanket from the cupboard, she can remember that. She looks down; there is no blanket and the cupboard door is closed.

She steps towards it; holding out her hand towards the metal handle and as her skin brushes it, she tries to count but the pulverising pain will not let the numbers in. She closes her eyes as the cupboard door releases with a creak. Her belongings have to be there; otherwise she really is going mad, but as
she opens her eyes and looks inside the cupboard, she gasps. It is completely empty.

The pounding in her head intensifies and she feels like she is going to faint again. She needs air, but as she walks towards the window a shrill, piercing noise fills the room. It sounds like an alarm, but she can't get her bearings and has no idea where the noise is coming from; it seems to be emanating from every corner of the room. And then she recognises what the noise is and what its persistence means. It is a phone ringing and the fact that it hasn't been answered means that he is not here; she is alone.

She walks to the bedroom door and opens it carefully, listening for any movements. The hallway is dark and silent as she walks towards the living room and as she reaches it, the ringing stops and suddenly Cal's voice fills the empty room.

She jumps as she hears the crackly message. He has a landline phone. It seems archaic to her that anybody would want or need such a thing. Yet nothing about this man and his life makes sense to her.

‘Hey there. Cal and John ain't here right now but please leave a message and we'll get back to you ASAP, cheers.'

With a crackle, a different voice begins to speak; an agitated, breathless voice, speaking in bursts:

‘Kerst, it's me. Pick up.'

She shivers at the sound of Cal's voice; it feels so close, like he is standing right behind her.

‘Kerst, pick the phone up' … pause … ‘The police have been to the office, they're up there now talking to Stratton. Said something about a body, an old lady. Kerstin what have you done, darling? You gotta come and sort this out, yeah? If it was an accident – and it must have been – then you have got to come clean. They said they've got your passport and it's out of date. Come on Kerst, pick up. The police just want to talk to you, okay? They just want to ask some questions, it'll be fine I'm sure.'

Kerstin stands in the middle of the room listening to Cal's breathing. It feels like he can see her from wherever he is. As soon as he ends the call she will go, she will get out of here as fast as she can. Finally, after an endless pause he speaks.

‘Oh and Kerst, they called your mother in Germany and she told them about your dad … I'm so sorry, Kerstin … he passed away last night.'

She is vaguely aware of other words coming out of the machine; of her name being repeated like a mantra as she staggers out of the room. She manages to get to the bathroom in time and she flops over the toilet and vomits clear, acidic bile into the bowl. And as she throws up, the pain in her head seems to subside as though giving way to the other pain; the piercing grief that judders through her body like a bullet. When there is nothing more to come up, she slumps onto the floor and grips the base of the toilet with both arms, not even registering the germs that she is letting through. Nothing
matters any more, she thinks as she stands up and cleans her mouth with a piece of tissue. The bad thing has happened; the worst possible thing has happened.

She looks in the mirror and realises, for the first time, that she is fully dressed. Her white top is creased and her trousers feel damp and sticky. One glass of wine; how can she have been knocked out by one glass of wine, unless … She remembers his hand holding out the glass, his insistence she drink it. Had he drugged her? What had he done to her when she had collapsed? Is that what all this is about? Her head throbs with the weight of the unanswered questions as she walks out of the bathroom and goes back into the bedroom to find her shoes. She can't remember taking them off, but as she reaches the bedroom, she sees them by the side of the bed. Someone has placed them there; neatly. And then another memory comes back: the shirts and suits hanging in a neat row in the cupboard, now gone. She has to get out of here before the police arrive, and they will, she has no doubt of that. Cal has been her enemy all this time and she was so busy counting she couldn't see what was right there next to her.

She slips her shoes on and hurries along the hallway to the door. She has no idea where she will go but she needs air, she needs to get out of this oppressive, cloying flat. She turns the metal handle and waits for it to give, but if feels wrong and heavy in her hand. Panicking she tries it again and again, but it is no use. The door is locked.