Two Wrongs

by Mel McGrath

  Cullen looks him up and down slowly, carefully, hoping to lock eyes but Ratner continues to gaze doggedly at his keyboard. He’s lied so many times about this stuff before. He’s probably still lying. Damn him for being so good at it.

  ‘This is serious, Mark. Maddy is watching and she has a beady eye.’

  ‘You have my word,’ Ratner says.

  It’s as much as Cullen can do not to laugh. He’d quite like to punch him now, force him to admit that he’s lying, but that would give him the upper hand. Other than keep an eye on him there’s not much he can do.

  Cullen gets up and turns to leave and, as he does so, he spots a small, urgent figure making her way across the car park. From some obscure part of his memory the name Nevis Smith arises. The girl who was Satnam’s flatmate. He makes a mental note to call her, fix a meeting, see if she can cast light on the incident on the bridge. He’ll need to keep control of the situation, make sure to keep himself at the centre of the information flow, be watchful and take action if necessary. Satnam, Nevis, Maddy, Keane and Ratner, from now on they need to be on his radar at all times. He can’t afford to let anything slip.

  Returning to his office in the Deanery, Cullen finishes up some administrative work, emails Nevis Smith to request a meeting, then makes his way down to the car park. It has started raining now. Bristolian rain, which he thinks of as West Country Wet, not really rain at all, more like mist. He pops the lock on his blue Volvo, gets in, turns on Classic FM followed by the windscreen wipers. Putting the car into reverse he cranes round to reverse out of the space and, when he turns back, he sees in the periphery of his vision the right-hand wiper brushing something small and drenched off the windscreen and onto the tarmac.

  A leaf, he thinks, then realises it’s an insect drowned in the tiny tsunami created by the wiper. Alive one moment, dead the next.

  Chapter 11

  Honor

  From a cafe near the museum on Harbourside Honor calls Bill, her neighbour on the water in Hackney, explains the situation and asks him to look after Caterine the Great until she gets back. Right now, she doesn’t know when that will be. It depends on how the Satnam situation plays out; not that there’s much she can do, but her gut tells her that this isn’t the time to leave. The past is stirring, like a great bear waking from hibernation.

  Nevis has no idea how vulnerable she is.

  They say a baby can tell if she isn’t wanted, even in the womb. Honor has read that somewhere. And in spite of everything Nevis was wanted. So much. If Nevis knew how hard Zoe had to fight to bring her into the world. Zoe’s parents begged her to book a termination. When that didn’t work, they threatened to cut off contact if she went ahead with the pregnancy. They said the baby would be tainted and that, however hard Zoe tried to protect the child from discovering her origins, she would inevitably find out one day and, when she did, the knowledge would destroy her. Better that she never be born. Kinder. At first Zoe argued with her parents then she closed her mind to them. She never stopped wanting Nevis, even when Dan and Judy made good on their threat to walk away. Then, after Zoe died, they tried to get custody. Didn’t succeed, thank goodness. Zoe was quite specific in her will. Dan and Judy didn’t deserve Nevis. Sometimes, in her darkest moments, Honor wonders whether she deserves her either.

  As the waitress approaches to take her cup she remembers one more thing Bill can do. ‘I’m going to need to find a place to stay in Bristol. I don’t suppose you have any bargee friends down here who need their boat de-wintering or a bit of maintenance in exchange for a bed?’

  ‘I might actually. Leave it with me.’

  ‘Thank you, Bill. And don’t let Caterine wrap you around her little paw. Don’t be fooled by her good looks. She’s a monster.’

  She ends the call and checks the time. It seems like only minutes since she arrived at the hospital. She hopes Nevis is fast asleep in her flat. Back in the day, driving from rave to rave, Honor would often be up thirty-six hours straight and hardly feel it. Those days are long gone. If she can remember where she parked Gerry she’ll take a nap in the back later, but first it’s time to make a call. She taps in the number and a female voice answers: ‘University of Avon, how can I help you?’

  ‘Can you put me through to the head of student welfare?’ The call goes to tinny muzak. She wonders whether the whole truth, even the parts Nevis doesn’t know, is what is needed here. Or perhaps she should simply say that her daughter will need extra support and may not know how to ask for it? After a few minutes a velvety voice introduces herself as the departmental secretary but does not give her name.

  Honor explains who she is and asks to speak with the head.

  ‘What’s it regarding?’

  ‘I’m worried about my daughter, Nevis Smith.’

  ‘Worried how?’

  Honor explains.

  ‘One moment.’ The line returns to muzak then back to the departmental secretary.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Dr Keane isn’t available right now. I can leave a message for her.’

  ‘Then I’d like to make an appointment to come in.’

  ‘One moment,’ the voice says, ‘I’m looking at your daughter’s records but I don’t see any statement of special needs.’

  ‘Well no, but…’

  ‘Your daughter is legally an adult, Ms Smith, so Dr Keane would need Nevis’s authority to talk you. I’m not sure what else you’d like me to do.’

  There is whispering in the background.

  ‘I just want to know she’s being looked out for.’

  More muzak. A long pause this time before the voice comes back on.

  ‘Dr Keane says she won’t be able to discuss Ms Mann’s accident or your daughter specifically without her permission, but she’s happy to have a general chat.’ The secretary’s voice is strained as though she is delivering lines, pausing momentarily just before the word ‘accident’ as though having to remind herself exactly what to say. They agree on a time. After the call ends Honor decides it’s a good thing she didn’t get to speak to Dr Keane after all. This way she’ll be able to catch some shut-eye before going in and have time to prepare properly for the encounter.

  From Harbourside Honor wanders along the city’s watery arteries past the dark glamour of Narrow Quay to Pero’s Bridge and heads towards Broadmead. It is past the commuter hour now and the streets are relatively quiet, the shops shut or shutting, the office buildings empty and still lit, the pavements swept, rubbish collecting in the bins. But there is something feral about the city too, some dark and buried rot, as if beneath all the respectability, the grandeur even, lurks something sinister. In a narrow street just shy of Broadmead she spots a charity shop sign. A young man with a kind face appears at the door to signal they are about to close. Honor opens her coat and points to her pyjamas, mouthing, ‘I haven’t got a stitch to wear,’ and the young man, amused, lets her in.

  ‘Forget to get dressed this morning, did we?’

  ‘I’ll be quick, I promise.’

  From among the bric-a-brac and musty assortments she picks out a pair of harems, some jeans and a purple fleece, then, bearing in mind her scheduled meeting with Dr Lea Keane, scouts the racks for something more business-like. It has been years and years since she had any cause to wear anything smart or even look presentable. Nevis always says she looks like a New Age Traveller on her way to a rave in a field. The young man watches her struggling to choose and pulls out a trouser suit, saying, ‘Try that one on. About your size and no visible body fluids, which is always a plus.’

  In the privacy of the changing room she slides off her pyjamas, pulls on the suit and glances at herself briefly in the mirror with one eye. What happened to her youth? The years fill up your heart and break down your body. Nothing fits quite right but it’ll all do. She bundles up the pyjamas she was wearing when she left London, and hanging the jeans, tops and trouser suit over an arm, pulls open the curtains and heads across the stale-smelling shop to the till.

  ‘Pu
rple is so this season,’ the young man says, folding the fleece into a carrier bag and, pointing to the pyjamas hanging over Honor’s arm, ‘I could put those in the recycling bin? They can process the fabric and turn it into something new.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be great if that worked on people,’ she says.

  Back outside in a light ashy rain she texts Nevis and tries to recall where she left Gerry the van.

  Chapter 12

  Cullen

  The ‘Sono andati’ aria from La Bohème, Mimi’s death scene, accompanies Cullen as he drives through the darkening streets of Clifton. He hums tunelessly along, looking forward to his solo pint and his solo dinner. A car hoots behind him. It’s commuter hour, which here in Clifton means a flow of traffic out towards the bridge. He checks his speed and, realising he’s been doing twenty in a thirty mile an hour zone, opens the window on the driver’s side, slows down to a near stop, leans out and screams at the driver behind. ‘Fuck you too!’ When the driver attempts to overtake, he pulls the Volvo out into the middle of the road to block him. At the next junction the road widens into two lanes and the driver pulls alongside. He’s staring intently ahead, not wanting any trouble. Well, too late mate. Cullen keeps pace then all of a sudden accelerates, cuts him up and brakes hard at a red light. Fellow behind has to swerve to avoid hitting him.

  Haha, that feels better.

  He checks the light and accelerates away from the junction. The rain continues to blur his view. Shop window lights flash past him like a series of cheap fireworks, their colours fading into his peripheral vision. His route takes him past a group of young women heading out for a night on the town. How young they look and how full of hope and glossy optimism. Staring makes him feel old and worn out, like a vampire circling his next meal, but also rather wonderfully powerful. They are behind him now, but his gaze still flicks up to the rear-view mirror, a distant note of disgust sounding in the symphony of desire playing in his head.

  It is a relief when he can no longer see them. Up ahead the lights of the Clifton Suspension Bridge pinken the skyline. He imagines Satnam Mann poised at the barrier, pictures the bridge, with its suspension cables slung across the gorge like tightropes. There’s only one rule if you find yourself on a tightrope and that is to keep moving forward and don’t look down.

  Cullen parks at the rear of the Saracen’s Arms and orders a pint with a whisky chaser and a chicken pie and stares vacantly at the big screen showing a Premier League match, relishing the luxury of not having to think for a while. He’s just finishing the pie when his phone lights up. Amanda. If only he had the strength to ignore her.

  ‘Hello, mother,’ he says.

  ‘Christopher, they wouldn’t let me see the hairdresser today.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he says, closing his eyes and doing his best to take his mind back to the sublime moment in the car with Puccini playing and his evening ahead of him.

  ‘You’ll have to come.’

  ‘I will?’ His heart sinks into his shoes.

  ‘Yes. I’ve told them I won’t eat dinner until they bring the hairdresser back. I am not going into that dining room looking like something the cat dragged in.’

  Twenty minutes later he pulls into the driveway at Wychall’s Nursing Home, shuts off the engine and does his best to compose himself. On the short walk to the entrance the rain whips his face. He keys in the entrance code he’s not supposed to know and lets himself inside the home. A riot of strange smells and odd, echoing cries hits him. Floating above it all is the smell of kitchen grease. How much more of this? At the door to the meeting room he catches himself thinking how much his mother’s illness has drained the life out of him.

  Keep moving forward and don’t look down.

  He’s moving through the lounge when a hand lands on his forearm, one of the relatives, a middle-aged woman who was at the last relatives’ meeting and whose name he has already forgotten.

  ‘A quick word?’ the woman says.

  Cullen feels himself stiffen. Here we go again. He takes a step to one side to loosen the woman’s grip on his arm.

  ‘This is a bit delicate so I’ll just come out with it. Your mother has been threatening my father,’ the woman says. ‘I’ve told the staff but she’s still doing it. She goes into his room at night and says all kinds of wicked things. Can’t you have a word with her?’

  Cullen smiles, holding the woman’s eye, ‘I’ve never known my mother to say anything that wasn’t true.’

  He watches his antagonist redden before slinking away shaking her head.

  After some considerable effort, he’s able to persuade his mother to go into the dining room wearing a headscarf. They take up two seats recently vacated by other residents and the care staff bring Amanda a plate of dainty sandwiches and a large glass of sherry. He takes the opportunity to go to the nurse’s office to enquire about the hairdresser. It’s a payment issue apparently. He is astounded by the sum. Over the past month Amanda has spent more having her hair dressed than Cullen has spent on getting both cars serviced and paying for their MOTs.

  ‘Your mother does like her extras,’ Maura says, giving him a soft, sympathetic smile.

  ‘I’ll sort it,’ he says, wondering how and when it will end.

  He returns to the dining room to find Amanda’s meal untouched but Amanda herself demanding more sherry.

  ‘These dreadful people won’t help me out with another tiny drink,’ Amanda says then, lowering her voice to a whisper, ‘I’ve got a bottle of brandy in my room. Let’s go!’

  He wheels her back to her room, on the much-coveted corridor on the ground floor, where many rooms, Amanda’s included, have French windows out into the garden (for another £200 a week). He locates the Courvoisier she keeps in a cabinet on the wall, pours two snifters then comes to sit beside her. She taps her fingers on his hand in a musical rhythm and hums something tunelessly.

  The scene puts him in mind of long nights on his own in his room as a child scarcely daring to breathe lest the sound disturb Amanda during one of her migraines. On good days, when Amanda was cheerful, he remembers her arranging his food into pleasing shapes and patterns. One time, he must have been five or six, she made his pasta into a face and when he cried and protested that he didn’t want to eat a person, she tipped the meal over his head.

  He sits with his lips pressed together, waiting for the backhander that is surely about to come. As she downs the last of her brandy, he watches her mentally sharpening her knives.

  ‘I always think it’s such a shame…’ she says, at last, withdrawing her hand. Cullen knows what’s coming. It has been nearly twenty years but she never passes up an opportunity to bring up the scandal at St Olaf’s and her part in rescuing him. He braces himself. ‘…that you let yourself down so badly. If I hadn’t…’

  ‘I know mother, but I do wonder why you need to be such a broken record about it.’ The instant the words leave his mouth he regrets them. Why does he always take the bait? He watches as Amanda’s face stiffens into a gorgon mask and waits for the retaliation he knows is about to come.

  ‘Speak to me that way again, this “broken record” will break you. Don’t think I won’t.’ The words ‘broken record’ come out crackling with venom.

  One day mother, he thinks, I am going to kill you.

  Chapter 13

  Honor

  It is early evening as Honor pulls into the car park of the Bristol Royal Infirmary. She finds a space and sits quietly for a moment, gathering herself in the yellow light. Earlier, after the charity shop, she’d driven at random through the city and by some unconscious process had found herself at the Clifton bridge. She left Gerry parked along a slip road on the Clifton side and took herself off along the walkway, past the toll buildings and onto the bridge, feeling the wind bluster as it swept up from the river, bringing with it the smell of mud and more distantly the saline tang of the sea. She has no idea exactly where on the bridge or on which side Nevis came upon Satnam, but that
did not matter now. For a long time she stared across the wide chasm of the gorge to the craggy cliffs beyond, watching gulls rise up and bank through the blustery breeze. The other side seemed like another world and it almost was – only a few miles away lay Wales. How she missed the Welsh Marches – Y Mers as the Welsh called them – and the rolling hills around Llanerch, to where she and Zoe had retreated after they’d left Ludlow. All those places – Llanerch, Ludlow and a string of quaint towns and the soft hills of Y Mers – are ruined for her now.

  She stands by the suicide barrier and looks over into the wide brown ribbon of water, thinking of that other bridge, spanning the Teme at Llanerch, which, in the early days of her and Zoe’s life together, cast such a spell in her mind and now, for quite other reasons, would never leave it. The Llanerch bridge had none of the grandeur of Clifton but it was ancient and beautiful all the same, the stone blocks of its low-slung arches speckled with red and orange lichen. She’d been standing on that bridge when she spotted a lifeless hand caught in the water weeds and saw the silver ring that Zoe wore on her right thumb flashing in the water.

  With a shudder she pulls herself back from the barrier, thinking about what it must have taken for Satnam to have made her way here and what recklessness or courage or despair that had taken. It had been gone midnight, Nevis said, after the bridge lights switch off, when anyone climbing the barrier is less likely to be spotted and persuaded out of jumping. Did Satnam know that? What went through her mind? Had the drugs played havoc with her head? Was it a cry for help or a howl of despair, an act of defiance or punishment or a revenge move? Was it rash or rational, impulsive or meticulously planned?

  Satnam told Nevis she had had enough.

  And, for now at least, so had Honor. Fatigue threatened to overcome her. She walked back to the van and got into the back. Within minutes she was sound asleep. She woke to the sound of her phone and was relieved to see Bill’s name on the screen. No bad news from Nevis then.