by M. T Hill
‘I wanted to offer a drink,’ Alba says. ‘But…’ She glances at Oriol.
‘No worries at all,’ Freya says. ‘Maybe I can fetch you something?’
Alba shakes her head.
Freya’s smile tightens. Unsaid things starting to press on the seams.
‘Little man,’ Alba says to her son. ‘Can you say hi to Miss Freya? She wants to know about Papi.’
Alba turns Oriol so he’s facing Freya. Pudgy legs over her knees. His eyes wide and startling green. His smooth skin makes Alba’s face look drawn and haunted.
‘Hey,’ Freya says, leaning forward.
Oriol gurgles and squirms. He seems a happy baby, animated and excitable, and his motor control hints at a preternatural awareness. Having made himself comfortable, Oriol sits bolt upright, regarding Freya with keen focus. Again, Freya sees Stephen in him. That milky smear on Oriol’s chin could almost be climbing chalk.
‘He’s cute,’ Freya tells Alba, trying not to shiver. Trying not to hint by looking at the air-conditioner.
Oriol continues to gawp, head perfectly still, eyes locked to Freya’s own. She feels that stare right down inside her, and in there with it, in the tumult of her stomach, there’s a barb of Shep, Stephen, the man from last night. Would Freya’s son look like Oriol if she and Stephen had conceived him? In adolescence, would he develop those same long fingers?
Freya makes herself tiny in self-disgust. Shoulders rolling in. Then, as a way to appear normal: ‘How many weeks is he now?’
‘I don’t remember,’ Alba replies.
‘Tiny Oriol,’ Freya says, and her stomach gives.
Alba laughs coolly. ‘Stephen said it like you. Never right. His own child!’
Freya crosses her wrists over one knee. ‘Oriol,’ she repeats. ‘Oriol.’
Alba waves her spare hand. ‘Do you think we better go for a walk? You look cold.’
Freya nods, almost too forcefully. ‘But could I be really cheeky and use your bathroom first?’
‘Yes,’ Alba says.
Freya stands up, out of the air-conditioner’s draught.
‘It’s through there,’ Alba says. ‘Be careful on the tiles.’
* * *
Alba’s bathtub contains a smaller tub of still water, fitted with an infant support seat. An orange flannel has sunk to the bottom, and three plastic frogs float on the surface. When Freya’s done, stands up to flush, she realises what’s causing the peculiar shadows playing over the tub’s base, the support seat. The water is full of ice cubes.
* * *
The women descend in the lift in silence. Alba has dressed Oriol and strapped him to her in a carrier. He faces inwards but constantly looks around, seemingly interested in the lift-car’s corners, the high-contrast details.
On the street, on neutral territory, Alba says, ‘We can go to the family park. Oriol enjoys to watch other children. It’s not far.’
Freya nods, trying to appear calm. She rubs her hands as if she’d plunged them in the ice-water herself. She can’t shake the feeling that Alba might run away, even if the carrier appears to restrict her hips.
They walk past rows of Reykjavik’s gaudy buildings, down quieter streets, until fields and dense treeline disrupt the pattern. Small talk, minor diversions, as they go. If she were more detached from the situation, Freya would like how Alba speaks English: relaxed, not completely faultless, and with a slight adenoidal quality.
At last Alba points towards a park entrance. Freya looks at her mapper: Fjölskyldugarðurinn. They cross a small bridge, and the atmosphere immediately brightens. Children and parents running amok beneath the open sky. There are dozens of fist-sized drones in the air, flashing and whining while making cartoonish bombing sounds.
‘Lovely place,’ Freya says. And it is, despite the racket. Even under cloud, the park’s grass is unnaturally bright.
Alba’s disposition has also shifted. She’s… what, more involved now? Passing a small playground, Alba stops and leans sideways on the railing so Oriol can watch the children on the roundabout. He coos appreciatively, a spluttering laugh.
‘So, you are a private investigator? Is that how you call it? You never actually said.’
‘Sorry,’ Freya says. ‘I’m writing a story.’
‘Oh. Like a book?’
‘An article for a French magazine, about climbing. Their biggest one, I think – you’ve probably heard of it. Dalle.’
Alba thinks about that. She shakes her head. ‘And you really come here to see me?’
‘Yes,’ Freya says. ‘I did.’
‘All this way from London.’
‘Near Manchester.’
‘Manchester, right. The library address. You’re crazy, you know. You’re crazy people.’
In the carrier, Oriol pushes his head into Alba’s chest and starts to suck his fingers noisily. His face has turned red. It might be the shade, but there’s an unusually dark and prominent vein on his forehead.
‘Why did you?’ Alba asks.
‘Did I what?’ Freya replies, staring at the vein. It pulsates like a newborn’s fontanelle.
‘Come to here. To talk about Stephen.’
‘I…’ Freya hesitates. ‘He’s the focus, I suppose. I’m writing about climbers, and urbex.’
Alba blinks. Freya grips the playground railings.
‘You weren’t at his funeral, were you?’ Freya asks. ‘You weren’t mentioned, is all… and you’re out here with his son.’
Alba shrugs. ‘Is a free world.’
‘But—’
‘You knew my Stephen?’
Your Stephen. My Stephen. Our Stephen.
‘Not very well.’
‘Did you date him?’
Freya’s gums hurt. She’s caught, full glare, in Alba’s gaze. She gets by with, ‘No,’ and it’s hardly decisive. Like Alba can see inside her head.
‘And still you went to his funeral?’
Freya’s top lip quivers. ‘There’s… after he died, I did a piece on what happened. Then my editor wanted to know more. And through my investigation I found his profile on an urbex site.’
Alba smiles sadly. ‘Ah,’ she says. ‘So it’s the picture.’ She shakes her head. ‘I tried to delete it.’
And Freya tries to catch her breath.
‘What can I tell you, Freya?’
‘You had a bet with him.’
‘You saw that?’
Freya nods. ‘What was the bet?’
Alba laughs. ‘Really?’
‘I’m not—’
‘It was a bet on who will die first. Couples do these things, don’t they? And what else? We are okay here. We survive.’
‘I can tell.’
‘Then I am confused. His climbing? Or his exploring?’
A drone buzzes overhead. Freya lets go of the railings. The ground feels soft. ‘I thought… yes. It’s the picture. You could tell me more about his exploring. If it won’t upset you.’
Alba snorts. ‘You found his travelogues! You already know. I cannot speak for the dead. He always said his pictures helped him understand his life… Maybe that’s stupid.’
Freya still doesn’t believe Alba is annoyed, despite her growing bluntness. If anything, there’s a sense she wants the release. At the same time, Freya has imposed on their family space, and is being careful. It’s not like Alba is wrong to be suspicious.
‘I suppose I’m trying to understand his life as well,’ Freya says.
Alba shakes her head sadly.
‘We can talk off the record,’ Freya adds. ‘No quotes, nothing like that. It’s more like… colour. It helps me grasp stuff.’
‘Like what he did? Or why he did it?’
‘In a way.’
‘Tell me what you know,’ Alba says. Her face has set hard. She stands away from the fence, which makes Oriol’s finger-sucking more intense. He peers at Freya. ‘Because,’ Alba says, ‘you are not telling me everything yourself.’
Freya takes a breath. She
wills Oriol to blink. ‘There’s a place,’ she says. ‘An old bunker.’
Alba rears back, and Oriol protests at the sudden movement.
‘It’s okay,’ Freya says. ‘No one else knows.’
Alba sighs, and Freya suddenly sees how tired she is. How desolate it must be to lose a partner that way. How Freya might not even appear as real to Alba at all. If Alba wakes to a fresh wave of grief tomorrow, will she even believe Freya visited the day before? She wouldn’t blame Alba: Freya herself is beginning to see their meeting as another surreal event in this strangest of years. If her life was dredged when her ex finished with her, the silt is yet to settle.
She looks at Alba with her son: how can she not know his age?
‘I need a drink,’ Alba says.
* * *
They sit on a bench outside a cafe deep in the park, their feet on the border of a lawn, both toying with the cardboard sleeves of their coffees. Shared silence some concession to the situation.
Oriol is sleeping against Alba’s sternum, the vein on his forehead now settled.
‘I lost someone recently,’ Freya tells Alba. ‘Though not like you lost Stephen,’ she adds quickly, ‘and thank God, because I can’t… I can’t imagine. I mean I lost someone – through my own idiocy – so I get why you’d want to escape.’
‘So now you chase another man across the world?’
‘What? No, I—’
‘You have a word in England. Rebounding.’
‘Alba, no.’
‘Then what?’
‘I was unfaithful.’
Alba shrugs. ‘People are stupid. We do stupid things. I say it again: you are not here for your story only, are you?’
‘No,’ Freya says. ‘It’s the bunker. The picture I saw. It’s…’
‘Miss Freya, you are confused.’
‘I’ve been there.’ And there it is. The confession. An exposure of that mythical journalistic objectivity. Freya’s been part of this story all along, and there’s no getting away from it.
Alba’s eyes narrow. ‘When?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘Did you touch it?’
‘The nest?’
‘Ha. Call it as you want. Nest.’
Freya looks into her cup.
‘We were stupid, too,’ Alba says. She nods. ‘I pushed him to go. I heard of it through someone selling images on the message boards. A drone man. I wanted to keep my own body… my pregnancy was hard. Stephen agreed, for my sake. We found your nest there.’
Freya’s arm hairs stand up.
‘We were arrested,’ Alba says. ‘Security. Still, it was too late.’
‘Too late for what?’
‘Did you touch it, Freya?’
‘No.’
‘Someone else?’
‘I can’t be sure. I think so.’
‘Who?’
Freya closes her eyes. The memory has the force of an avalanche. Shep in that dour corridor, his hand reaching out. Things splitting and dividing.
‘Stephen touched,’ Alba goes on, ‘and he takes from it.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing. Nothing. And then… I don’t know. How to say… estado maníaco.’
‘Stephen’s dad told me his behaviour changed. His parents can’t accept how it happened.’
Alba nods. ‘We had more fun in those weeks after than we had ever had. He is so smiley. Excited for our baby. Excited for the family we are making. Happy.’
Freya grips the bench. ‘And – and he wasn’t like that usually?’
‘Not like this. He laughs all the time. He laughs all the day he goes to Leeds…’
‘And you? Afterwards?’
Alba smiles. ‘After he went? Or the bunker?’
‘Bunker,’ Freya says.
‘Me, I caught the dreams. You must have caught them too.’
The dreams. ‘No,’ Freya lies, and thinks of consumption, contagion. Her headaches. She’s shaking. ‘What are they?’ Freya asks. ‘The dreams?’
‘Tell me who touched it,’ Alba says.
‘You can’t ignore—’
‘Tell me.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
Alba’s face changes completely. ‘He’ll need you,’ she says. ‘I have my guardians. But he may not.’
‘What does that mean, guardians?’
Alba smiles as if to a passing stranger. It’s like Freya hadn’t said anything at all. ‘Do you want to know more about Stephen?’
‘Please don’t ignore me, Alba.’
‘Stephen was a good photographer,’ Alba says, ‘because I took most of them.’
‘Alba, what are your guardians?’
‘Stop it,’ Alba says, direct. ‘If you want to pretend to talk about your story again, why not ask how we meet? Ask me things that will honour him. Ask me what he told me in our bed in the middle of night when we are the only two people in the world. That is what you should want. But you came about your nest. Not about Stephen. You came here for you.’
‘That’s not true,’ Freya says. ‘I just want to know.’
Alba sighs. ‘What does it matter? We were not very careful. He didn’t want to go. But this is my body, you understand. I am pregnant. Not him. Not him.’
Freya is blindsided. Of course Alba went out there, climbed that wall, ventured deep while she carried Oriol in utero. Where some of her friends had used parenthood as a reason to seal themselves off, Alba kept – keeps – Oriol unshielded in the tangle of living, the mad stew of it.
‘Did you touch it?’ Freya asks. ‘The nest? Is that what you mean by guardians?’
‘No,’ Alba says, more abrupt, even hostile. ‘Now ask me a different question, or I’m leaving.’
‘Your dreams,’ Freya says quickly. ‘Stephen changed – you said you dreamed. Caught the dreams. What dreams?’
Alba inhales. ‘A glacier. Every night. We are there. Stephen, then me. I am always pregnant. We wear crampons and carry picks. The same every direction: only white. Very, very cold. We walk on it for hours, no talking because it hurts for us to say anything. No animal comes to us. He holds my hand, I hold his. We lay down on the ground together and wait. It does not scare me. It tells me things.’
Freya blinks. ‘Like what?’
‘That I should be cold to have our baby. That I would be happier with a baby in the cold. That my boy needs the cold.’
‘Happier.’
‘Yes. Cold. For Oriol.’
Freya looks at Oriol. His resting face.
‘And you still have this dream?’
Alba shakes her head. ‘Not every night. It changed when I came here. But it brought me through Stephen’s leaving. I was thirty-nine weeks pregnant when he went. I was sure I would lose my baby as well. And the dream soothed me. It’s how I could keep sleeping.’
Alba’s phrasing, as if Stephen had simply transitioned, makes Freya’s eyes hurt. His coffin in that dank church. His brother Toby’s voice catching in his throat. It dawns on her: Stephen never met his son.
‘Is this what you wanted to hear?’ Alba asks.
‘I don’t know,’ Freya says. Again to Oriol, who has dribbled a thick mucus down his chin. ‘I’m grateful you can open up.’
‘Did your friend take something from inside?’
And Freya shakes her head, because if she opens her mouth the tears will spill.
‘Because if he did, he will need help,’ Alba goes on. She puts down her cup and rolls up her sleeves. ‘See?’
Freya wishes she couldn’t. Dark veins run across Alba’s forearms, the skin barely containing them. The whole vessel network has risen up to sit just under the surface, like a tattoo. One thick section by Alba’s elbow writhes slowly. An odd, sweet scent rises. It reminds Freya of being in Shep’s van.
Alba turns her toned forearms. They’re completely hairless.
‘Their map,’ Alba says. ‘I think they are charting us.’
‘What is it?’ Freya manages.
&nbs
p; Alba gives a backhanded wave, casual if not outright dismissive. ‘We are happy here, remember,’ she says, gently pinching at her wristbone. The muscle beneath stays taut but the skin is too elastic. ‘And so is my son.’ She looks down at him. ‘This,’ she adds, meaning her arm, ‘is what I paid with. It is what Stephen left to me.’ She touches a line down Oriol’s forehead, where the vein had been. ‘What he left to us.’
Then what price had Stephen paid? If Shep really pulled something from that nest, what did it mean for him? Dream-visions? Manic states? The same impulse that made Stephen climb the scaffolding of a Leeds building site?
Yes, their bunker incursion has marked Freya. Unseen but inevitable. It follows that she’s already paying her own price. A fear of Shep, but an inextricable binding to him.
‘What was the writing?’ Freya asks. ‘Under the picture? The symbols on Stephen’s post?’
Alba smiles. ‘It was in the EXIF data,’ she says. ‘The picture was taken with a used camera. To begin with, we thought the last owner did changes to the firmware. It was Stephen’s job—’
‘There were two versions. Symbols and non-symbols.’
Alba stares at her. ‘Stephen translated it for us.’
‘Why did you post it?’
‘Because it was funny! Because I wanted to. Why do we share anything private? Where is your friend now?’
‘Away,’ Freya says. ‘He’s a steeplejack. He’s somewhere overseas.’
‘And he uses the message boards?’
‘Yes, I think so—’
The lights in the cafe behind them snap off, begin to flicker. Alba spins on the bench and pulls a face.
‘You don’t have long,’ Alba whispers.
‘What?’
Alba turns back to her. ‘They want you to go.’
‘What? Who does?’
‘Yes,’ Alba says, measured. ‘I think they want you to leave.’ She puts a hand on Oriol’s head. He’s woken up. A low whimpering. ‘You should find your friend,’ Alba says.
Oriol begins to wail, twisting wildly in the carrier.
‘I don’t…’ Freya starts. ‘Who’s here?’
‘Oriol wants to feed,’ Alba says flatly.
Freya stands up. The horizon tilts. The cafe lights are strobing. She thinks she might be sick. ‘I shouldn’t have come.’
Alba has already slipped Oriol out of his carrier, uncovering a black-veined breast for him.
