Come Again

by Robert Webb

  Kate didn’t speak for eight seconds, during which Toby lightly whistled ‘Ave Maria’. Finally, she managed, ‘What … the fuck … are you doing?’

  Toby pulled a glass tray from the soapy water and inspected it. ‘Erm, well specifically, a pleasingly retro smoked-glass roasting dish.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘You gave me a key, remember?’

  ‘No. I’ve never given you a key.’

  ‘No? Oh well, worth a try. I’ve never been much good at gaslighting.’ He nodded at the back door. ‘I picked the Yale. No damage, I promise. But it was worryingly easy and I’d suggest adding a bolt for the future.’

  Kate advanced a couple of steps into the room. She dropped her bag on the floor and plonked the litre of vodka on the kitchen island, the surface of which she suddenly noticed was clear of junk and recently scrubbed. From the little utility room in the corner she could hear the washing machine at work and there were four bin-liners of rubbish festooning the opposite wall.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Toby said. ‘You could do with a nice cup of tea. Me too.’ He dried his hands on a clean tea towel she hadn’t seen for months. He must have found it at the back of the airing cupboard upstairs. Where else had he been? He looked across at her and winked playfully as he filled the kettle. ‘Ah!’ he chirped as he located the switch and flicked it. Kate saw from the carefully stacked hillock of clean pans on the draining board that the first thing he had washed was a couple of mugs. He righted them and opened a cupboard in search of teabags.

  She didn’t have the energy for another emotional outburst today but he seemed to be doing his very best to provoke her. ‘It’s not nice to break into someone’s house, Toby,’ she said calmly.

  ‘What’s that?’ His head reappeared from behind the cupboard door and he cupped an ear. ‘Sorry – kettle.’

  She raised her voice over the kettle but was determined not to shout. ‘I don’t know how long you plan to keep this up, but for a start I haven’t got any milk so you might as well turn the kettle off and get out.’

  ‘Aha! Yorkshire Tea!’ he said, producing a box of teabags and refilling the jar. ‘Do you remember at York, Luke used to get these because he thought it would endear him to local newsagents? I’m sure Mr Patel was touched.’

  Kate was already sick of being on the back foot. ‘If you mean the house in our second year, then that particular Mr Patel – Sahir, if you’re interested – had lived in York since he moved there with his family from Karachi when he was four. He might well have been “touched”. You wouldn’t know because you never talked to him.’

  Toby finished pouring the boiling water and smiled in admiration. ‘Your memory, Kate,’ he said, replacing the kettle and locking his blue eyes into hers for the first time. ‘What are we going to do with it?’

  Kate checked her pocket for the memory stick before remembering she’d just posted it to Charles. She felt sure Toby caught the movement as he strolled to the fridge.

  Right. So he’s definitely a spy. He’s after the memory stick. He’s after Petrov. He’s come to recruit me or kill me. If it’s the first, he can fuck off. If it’s the second, then he can dream on. The only fucker round here killing me today is me.

  Toby spun round with a carton of semi-skimmed milk. ‘TA-DAH!’ he exclaimed and she started in surprise. ‘Ooh sorry! Didn’t mean to make you jump.’ He opened it on the way back to the brewing mugs. ‘I thought maybe you’d be running low so I bought a pint.’

  ‘Why did you break into my house?’

  Toby frowned at the mugs and flicked some soap off his watch. ‘I’d better give it a couple more minutes otherwise it’s not really tea, is it?’ He began looking for a teaspoon.

  ‘TOBY, YOU APPALLING SHIT!’

  Toby stopped.

  Dammit. He’s got what he came for.

  Toby leaned on the counter top in his white cotton shirt and his pale blue silk tie, loosened for housework duties.

  ‘Yes, Kate,’ he said in a tone that was open but watchful.

  He was backlit by the sun from the patio window. She felt like telling him that he’d just put his elbow in a patch of dried pesto. At York, he had seemed older than his peers, his skin showing war wounds from a childhood encounter with chickenpox or maybe some recently healed acne. Now, whatever imprints remained brought a character to his face that entirely suited him. He used to seem slightly short and stocky – now, he was still only a couple of inches taller than Kate but lean for a man of his years. Everybody has their time, Kate reflected. And Toby’s time was now. It was insufferable.

  She said, ‘I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to stop dicking about.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘To make sure that you were all right.’

  ‘But I wasn’t in.’

  ‘That became clear.’

  ‘Yes, once you’d broken in to my home.’

  ‘It certainly got even clearer after that.’

  ‘Most people just phone.’

  ‘You don’t answer calls.’

  ‘How do you know? I didn’t notice you trying.’

  Toby took a moment to look down at his brogues and then met her eye again. ‘Amy, Kes and others told me that you had cut yourself off. Madeleine said as much when I saw her yesterday. I didn’t imagine I would be treated differently.’

  Her mouth formed a loose oval and she heard the noise ‘Ah’ coming out of it.

  She wanted to kill him. Phone calls? Maybe she would have taken his calls and maybe not. But all she was hearing now was that he didn’t bother because his pride couldn’t take the rejection.

  She took a step closer. ‘Listen, laddie. I don’t care who you work for – MI5 or MI6 or any of those—’

  ‘Kate, let’s not do this again …’

  ‘No, actually, let’s really do this again. Since the guy who just broke into my house is standing there making tea and making me feel like a guest in my own motherfucking kitchen. Let’s do this once and for all. Out loud. Using words.’

  ‘Kate, even if you were right I’d hardly be in a position to confirm it, would I? There wouldn’t be anything to tell you.’

  She glanced at Toby’s dark blue suit jacket and waistcoat, hung neatly on the back of a chair. ‘No,’ she said, ‘all you’re telling me is that you know where to find a tea towel and you wear a three-piece suit for social calls. You’re not going to get out of this by pretending to be gay.’

  Toby gave her a toothy grin. ‘That’s what you said last time.’

  At that point, she grabbed the bottle of vodka and threw it at his head.

  ‘Jesus!’ He fumbled a painful catch – the bottle frolicking in his hands before he recovered it and set it down on the floor.

  Kate stood still and said, ‘You’ve had training.’

  Toby tucked some bruised fingers into his armpit. ‘What?’

  ‘Those weren’t the reflexes of a normal person.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud. I used to play a bit of rugby. Remember?’

  ‘Bullshit. Scots don’t play rugby.’

  ‘You’re thinking of cricket.’

  The name of every Scottish player who had beaten England in the first international rugby union match in 1871 flashed across Kate’s mind. She had memorised them to impress her dad when she was ten. But okay, yes, she had been thinking of cricket. That was annoying. She didn’t feel like giving an inch to the intruder. ‘Well, y’know – rugby, cricket. You can’t expect a girl to know the difference.’ It was a silly remark and they both knew it. But Toby didn’t mock her. If anything, that made Kate feel even worse – she was being handled.

  Instead, he nodded to the mugs. ‘That tea should be about brewed by now, d’you not think?’

  She gave up. ‘Sorry about your fingers,’ she said and mooched listlessly round the table and sat while he made the tea.

  ‘Still milk, no sugar?’

  She
nodded, surveying the unfamiliar calm of her kitchen. Toby had removed any matter which threatened to decay, grow or spawn. Everything else was organised into logical piles. At the top of a bunch of old photographs was a snap from the eighties: square with rounded corners – her dad in a short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses, leaning out of his taxi and giving a thumbs-up. Kate, aged about nine, leaning against the door and doing the same. It had the low-res, washed-out colours that modern phone filters try to recreate. She picked it up and rubbed a thumb tenderly along its edge.

  Toby joined her and quietly set down a mug of tea. ‘That’s lovely of you and Bill,’ he said.

  ‘Take it.’ She offered him the photo. She didn’t know where the impulse came from – part kindness, part masochism. Partly she was still fighting.

  Toby sat and settled his own tea. ‘No, I couldn’t possibly.’ His gaze lingered on it.

  ‘He really meant the world to you, didn’t he?’ Kate said with genuine interest. ‘You can’t have met him more than five times.’

  Toby cradled the mug with both hands in front of him. ‘He was just a very nice guy, as you know.’

  Kate flapped the photo at him. ‘Please,’ she said.

  Toby looked at her with a quizzical gratitude and took out his phone. He placed the photo on the table in front of him and took a careful picture. ‘Just as good, these days,’ he half-smiled as he replaced the original at the top of the pile.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ she asked again.

  ‘I thought you might be in trouble and I wanted to help.’

  ‘Why did you break in?’

  ‘I was worried you were dead.’

  Unbearable. This wasn’t the plan. Kate rose from the table. ‘Well, that reminds me. I’m on a busy schedule, Toby. You need to leave.’

  Toby stared at his tea, looking heartbroken. ‘I can’t do that, Kate.’

  She left the table and began to pace around the 10,000-day kitchen. ‘What, because you need me to “Choose Life”? You came to give me a pep talk?’

  Toby said, ‘Look, let’s not.’ He stood, raising his hands at her in a calming motion of placation.

  Kate stopped pacing. ‘No, no, no. You don’t get to calm me down. You haven’t earned it. You were nowhere when it mattered. Nowhere.’ She watched him absorb the punch. His eyes reddened and flicked to the open back door. She wavered for half a second but couldn’t help the follow-up: this time, really going for his nuts. ‘I’m a woman alone in a house and I’m asking you to leave. A gentleman would know what to do next.’

  She was partly consoled to see him mournfully gather up his waistcoat and jacket.

  ‘There were reasons why I had to stay away,’ he said.

  ‘No doubt. But of course you couldn’t possibly share them with me now, right?’

  He confirmed as much, putting his waistcoat back on and straightening his tie. ‘I brought you a present.’ He nodded at a perfectly wrapped gift in the shape of a book at the end of the table and started to head towards the patio door.

  ‘Through the front door, please,’ Kate said sharply. ‘Like a normal person.’

  Toby checked his direction with a sigh and turned around, heading towards the hallway. He paused. ‘I know you’re in trouble, Kate. I can help.’

  ‘I don’t need anybody’s help.’

  ‘I’m here. I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘Well, you’ve had plenty of practice.’

  By some distance, these were the unkindest words she’d ever said to him. Luke … Toby … twenty-eight years and nobody had said it out loud. Nobody talked about why Toby was still single. Nobody talked about what a close-run thing it had been back in 1992. It wasn’t as if Toby had competed for her. He’d taken one glance at Luke and thrown in the towel.

  He did the same now. She saw that his hand was trembling as he took his jacket and slung it over his shoulder. Those who knew him less well would have bought the performance of manly detachment. But what was left of Kate’s heart fell through the crust of the Earth. She mumbled, ‘Sorry. That was stupid and not fair and I—’

  He interrupted, ‘I’m not waiting for you to fall in love with me, Kate. If that’s what you meant. I didn’t come here to pounce.’

  She wanted to reassure him but didn’t have the words. She stared at the floor and the voice within took possession of her thoughts. This was exactly right. This was what she did. She took fine men and reduced them to nothing. She didn’t deserve love. She didn’t deserve the truth. She was a freak and a monster. Always had been. She needed to push them away for their own good. ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Please go and never come back.’ She didn’t have the courage to look at his face as he left the kitchen.

  The front door opened and closed.

  Enough, enough, enough.

  In a daze, she walked back to the table and picked up the gift – a slim paperback of some kind, wrapped in plain brown paper. She felt nothing but a numb incuriosity. Some witty message or maybe a self-help book. She tossed it back on the table and picked up the vodka. She casually took the box of drugs from the cupboard and headed upstairs.

  At least Toby hadn’t touched her bedroom. Bad enough that he’d been rootling around downstairs with the fag packets and takeaway trays. At least she didn’t have to imagine him organising her underwear drawer and frowning with concern as he noted Dirk the Dildo had run out of batteries. Caring bastard would have probably replaced them. She flopped onto her bed with her phone in hand. ‘Hey, Siri,’ she said flatly as the phone beeped to attention. ‘Wake me up around four so I can do myself in.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ replied the female voice, ‘I’ve set an alarm for four p.m.’

  Kate tapped the icon and the phone chimed again. ‘Just for the record, Siri, I’ve always thought you were a cold-hearted shit.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re—’

  ‘Whatever.’ Kate tossed the phone aside and then picked it up again. ‘Oh, and if you can arrange it so the last 10,000 days didn’t happen, I’d be very grateful.’ She stared at the pills and the vodka.

  Toby, Danielle, Petrov, Charles, the memory stick, her city, her country …

  Leave me alone leave me alone leave me alone.

  One more dream of Luke. One more. She didn’t deserve it. She’d been dreaming her whole life. She deserved nothing. And nothingness.

  Kate took his shirt from beneath the pillow, held it to her face and closed her eyes.

  Part Two

  COME DANCING

  Chapter 7

  She woke in darkness.

  No, that can’t be right. What time is it? She reached for her phone but her hand hit the cold wall. Hang on – wall? What wall? And it wasn’t even the right kind of darkness. Orange. And somehow blurred. A dawn light glowing through the orange curtains. Wait, curtains? Drawn? Drawn orange curtains at dawn? What? And why was the window next to her, not in front of her? And why was she under the duvet instead of lying on top of it? And the duvet was wrong too. Light and insubstantial. A single. She tentatively reached out again and pressed her fingers against the impossible wall, her other hand finding the edge of the mattress. This was a single bed. Her heart began to beat faster and she calmed her rising panic with ‘who breathing’.

  Who? the word throbbed in her mind. Who am I? More to the point – where am I?

  She was Kate Marsden. It’s okay, she thought, I haven’t got amnesia, I haven’t lost my mind. I’m Kate Marsden, a forty-five-year-old woman from south-east London. Katherine Jennifer Marsden, born in 1974, daughter of Bill Marsden and Madeleine Theroux; partner of Luke Fairbright for twenty-eight years, married for the last seventeen, widowed for nearly one. That much is clear. It’s pretty much the only thing that’s clear but it’s something.

  Had she been kidnapped?

  Seemed a bit unlikely. She wasn’t tied up, she didn’t feel like she had been drugged. In fact, apart from almost crapping herself with disorientation she felt physically great.

  She
couldn’t see much but she sensed the proximity of the other walls, the ceiling. Had she got so monumentally arseholed that she had rented a bedsit without remembering? Could even she get that wasted without noticing? It would explain the blurry vision. But where was the hangover?

  She sat up in bed.

  Jesus. That was easy.

  What the hell was she wearing? These weren’t the clothes she had gone to sleep in. This was … this was a long t-shirt. Worn like a nightie. The way she used to sleep when she …

  She swept her legs out of bed and stood. Bare feet, wrong floor, carpet not wood. Total and bewildering absence of even the first flicker of pain or effort as her feet took her weight. And what weight was this, anyway? Was she suddenly made of balsa wood? She might as well be floating.

  She took a step towards the curtains and felt the fabric – thin, rough, cheap, orange, orange, orange …

  She realised that in the ninety seconds since waking up she had been avoiding the certain knowledge of where she was. She could try to go back to sleep and maybe it would go away. But this was like no dream she had ever experienced. It was a thousand times more physical. If her body was sleeping, she couldn’t reach it – there was no remembering it and rising back into it. It wasn’t there. It was here.

  Her hand was still on the curtain and she boldly parted it aside. The familiar scrape of the metal runners rushed at her. What she saw now through the window was only the confirmation of the inevitable.

  This was Benedict College, York.

  And this was the view of it from her first-year room.

  Opposite was the concrete grey of the north wing of the college. Three storeys below her, the footpaths criss-crossing the scrubby lawn. And immediately outside her sliding-door window, the walkway that she had often resented – the one connecting all the other back doors of Level 3, South Block.

  As for her blurred vision – the explanation for that was even more disturbing. She held her breath: gazing ahead and trusting only to muscle memory, she leaned down to her left and extended a hand to the bedside table. There. Her glasses. She held them up close and inspected them. Her black-framed, faux Michael-Caine-in-The-Ipcress-File spectacles. She needed them because her laser eye treatment of 2005 had … stopped working?