by Gordon Kerr
Just on the edge of his vision he sensed something massive and silent. Painfully – the pain was in his neck and shoulders – he turned his head and discovered the oppressive bulk of an ancient armoire, the possessor, it seemed to him, of many dark secrets which lay like hidden bodies behind its massively mirrored doors.
The blue was draining out of the room now, seeping under the door and oozing through the slats of the shutters which lay fast against the light of the sun to his right.
The ceiling began to shimmer, as if light were being reflected onto it from the surface of a swimming pool. From outside came the sound of water lapping gently against stone.
He began to feel as though he was watching rain fall on a watercolour. His vision dripped in long, slow elongations down the page of the room, and just as he became aware that somewhere, in someone else’s dream, he knew this room, a car – a blue car – drove silently and, somehow, miraculously, without dislodging bricks or plaster, through the wall directly in front of him. Oddly, the sound he heard was not that of an engine revving but rather, wings flapping, the sound getting louder and louder.
Meanwhile, on the car’s bonnet, like an insane marionette, sprawled the body of a woman – his wife.
He woke sitting bolt upright, rivulets of sweat dripping down between his shoulder blades. And yet it was cold. It was November and, as Renzo had told him, the nights quickly became chilled. The stones no longer held the warmth of the day long after dark as they did in late autumn, and windows and shutters had to be closed tightly. He groaned and held his head in his hands. The clock on his bedside table showed that it was only twenty past two and he realised that the night stretched before him like a desert.
He lay back on his pillow, rubbing his tired eyes.
She was gone. Rosa was dead. They had buried her a few days ago. From now on, he thought, he would miss her hand on his as they landed at Milan’s airport. A descent that he had often likened to sliding down the spirals of a coiled spring. One minute you are tiptoeing across the Alps, the next, arcing round and round in sweeping curves down over the flickering metropolis. She always alleviated his fear of flying with this laying on of hands, somehow conveying a part of her calmness to him.
He remembered, too, how she had often observed that he attached himself to things, limpet-like, and crumpled like a paper bag at any sign of their departure. Parting always felt like a little death to him, and death, well, it felt as if a giant hand hovered over his small life, ready to crush it as if on a whim. Now this, the only person in the world who had seemed to be entirely one with him – she, too, had become part of his terror and it seemed as if a vastness stretched in front of him he could not possibly fill.
You get to know so much about a person, he thought. You invest your understanding, the very shell of your existence in them, sense things about them that they have yet to feel and then they are gone. A light goes out and never comes on again. A door closes on a darkened room in which no one will ever again set foot.
As his mind stumbled slowly towards sleep, his memory began to freewheel. Unrelated images flooded through it in a torrent. A slide show of their relationship flashed on his cerebral cortex; but it was an art-house version. Light seeped into and out of the edges of each frame – some moved slowly, some at speed. He saw them walking along the cliff edges of the Dorset coast, saw them entwined in their bed, laughing uproariously; saw them arguing across that same bedroom – about nothing, as is often the case – and finally, trying to push the images away, trying to replace the sequence of events, saw them walking down the track from Renzo’s house, talking about nothing, really; saw them cross the road; saw her stop at the side of the road, looking through the lens of her camera at the mountains, while he went into the shop – for some sweets for Renzo and Giovanna’s children, for God’s sake; and he heard the dull thud and then the racing engine that made him turn around, dropping his money to the floor. Seeing the blue car, he was unsure what make or model, a bird, he thought, depicted on its rear bumper, disappearing around the corner. It was colourful and not very big, painted or stuck onto the left-hand side of the vehicle’s boot as he remembered. Its wings seemed large, its head tiny. But he could not be sure. He caught sight of it – no more than a fleeting glimpse, really – but, just then, everything was moving so fast, and yet so slow at the same time. At that exact moment, his thoughts were only for Rosa whose broken body lay awkwardly at the side of the road.
Finally, he saw himself a few days later throwing a handful of dirt into her grave in the little Italian cemetery, heard it rattle on the coffin lid like shrapnel.
He woke while the house still slept, a dull ache throbbing in his head. He had a cold coming on, perhaps from standing too long out on the balcony the previous evening. In the kitchen he was searching for headache pills as Renzo walked in, yawning and running his hands through jet-black, poker-straight hair, his slippers dragging noisily across the floor tiles.
‘Good morning, Michael. You’re up early. Couldn’t sleep?’ He reached for the kettle.
‘Oh, I slept on and off through the night, Renzo, but it’s just, you know, difficult to really shut out the thoughts.’ He dropped two tablets into a glass of water. They began to fizz and he stirred and prodded at the mixture to break them down more quickly.
‘I understand, Michael. We all do. We miss her, too. I just can’t get used to the idea that I won’t see my big sister again. It’s almost more than I can bear.’ He put a sympathetic hand on Michael’s shoulder and then began to take plates for breakfast down from the cupboard above the sink.
‘But at least I’ve made a decision, Renzo. I’m going home today, if I can get a flight.’
Renzo stopped laying the table and looked up. ‘Really? You know you don’t have to, Michael,’ he said. ‘You know you’re free to stay as long as you like. Are you sure?’
‘I’m really grateful, Renzo. You’ve all been very kind to me, you’ve always been kind to me. But it’s time. I need to get back there to start dealing with it, get on with stuff. And there are people to see, things to take care of. Insurance, things like that, you know? And my job. They told me to take as long as I liked, but I’ve been gone more than a month. I should get back.’
‘You know what’s best for you, Michael, but remember you can come back here any time you want.’ He laid the plates on the table and Michael swallowed the diluted pills and retreated once again to his room.
He got on the phone and succeeded in booking a flight from Linate airport for the late afternoon. He started packing, moving like a ghost from wardrobe to bed, throwing his own things into his suitcase, but apart from the rolls of film she had shot in the days preceding her death, he left Rosa’s belongings behind – he was unable to face that yet.
Later, after a hurried lunch as dark clouds stalked the sun around one, Michael kissed Giovanna and the children farewell and could almost feel the relief descend on the house as Renzo drove him away down the long driveway, carefully taking a detour to avoid passing the spot, festooned with faded flowers, where Rosa had been killed. They travelled along the side of Lake Como, through long tunnels, water running down their insides, past hidden villas, then through Milan’s suburbs to Linate airport.
Before long he was being pushed back in his seat as the plane spiralled upwards in its long slow climb towards an altitude sufficient to take it over the Alps and then on across France, landing at Heathrow in the rainy gloom of early evening.
3
4 November 1999
London and Annan
Britain
The flat seemed to have taken a deep breath in his absence. The air hung heavily above the few bits of furniture that he and Rosa had spent long weekends choosing in markets and in huge furniture warehouses back when they had moved in together. Each piece was like a time capsule to him, speaking to this future self that he had suddenly and reluctantly become.
He placed his suitcase by the door and bent down to pick up the pile of pos
t that lay on the mat, a month’s worth of circulars, free papers and bills. He walked into the living room, switching on the light and putting the detritus from the mat on a table. He looked around, as if he had walked into a strange hotel room and was sizing up its possibilities.
For a moment it seemed no longer to belong to him. Its relevance to his life had been stripped away in his absence and he had the sudden desire to be rid of the whole place and everything in it, to start anew. But, he thought, it is, after all, only bricks and mortar and a few chairs and tables. What would he do but replace this collection of bricks and mortar with another one more or less the same, only in a different place? And, in any case, was he ready to become involved with estate agents and solicitors and the whole enervating rigmarole of moving house? He thought not.
The bedroom had always been dark, overlooked as it was by some very large trees whose branches sometimes came crashing down in winter storms. Indeed, a branch had once exploded through their window in the middle of the night, like a giant arm come to lift them out of bed. They had instinctively reached towards each other, even in their half-slumber.
He could not sleep in their bed tonight. Instead, he rolled the quilt up in his arms and carried it awkwardly into the living room, dropping it in a heap on the sofa.
He felt as if he had to shut down this world and its attack on his senses and his memory. Everywhere he looked, he felt as if a dart was being pushed into him. Vases, pictures, tables, chairs, carpets – each of them assumed a life of some sort as his eyes fell on them, each of them dredged some instance or other out of his memory and played it like an old family video in his head.
He went to sleep without even unpacking. After all, he had the rest of his life to unpack things.
Before very long, he woke once again, in that blue, rippling room and once more there was the sound of flapping wings before the wall was burst asunder by the bonnet of a blue car, Rosa’s body lying limp and broken across it.
‘Michael. I don’t know what to say.’
John Appledore had been Rosa’s closest professional, and probably also personal, friend during the last few years. They had shared the rent on a studio in a run-down part of East London and had fed off each other’s work. That their relationship was anything other than purely professional, Michael had no fears because John was gay and happily ensconced in a long-term relationship. A good-looking, funny man, he was also a brilliant photographer. While Rosa’s work had become increasingly commercial, appearing more and more regularly in newspapers and magazines in the last few years, John had been gaining a reputation for innovative and, frankly, startling photos. His work had begun to appear in upmarket magazines and next year an exhibition of his work was due to be held in New York, a city in which he was spending ever-increasing amounts of his time.
They embraced on the doorstep and Michael winced at the thought of how many times in the coming weeks he would have to endure the well-meaning words and sentiments that followed.
‘I was devastated … well you probably know from that awful phone call I made to you. I’m sorry, I should have thought of you and how you were feeling, but I couldn’t help it. It’s just … just so unbelievable that she’s gone.’ He broke down, putting his hand to his eyes, wiping away the beginnings of tears.
‘I know … Come on, John. Let me get you a drink.’ Michael put one arm around John’s shoulder, leading him into the kitchen and sitting him down while he poured two over-large whiskies.
John took a sip, shuddering as the spirit caught the back of his throat.
‘You know, I do wish you would have let us come to the funeral. It can’t have been easy for you to handle on your own.’
‘Actually, I think if you had come it might have been even more difficult for me to handle. Don’t ask me why … You just make these decisions … I thought that if you and Steven or any of our friends had been there, it would have made it all seem somehow even more final.’ He held his head in his hands. ‘Christ, at times like that you make the strangest decisions for the strangest reasons. None of it makes any sense. It probably never could.’
John lifted his glass to his lips once again, draining it and reaching for the bottle which stood between them.
‘God, I don’t know why I let you poison me with this stuff,’ he said, grimacing. ‘It makes me feel sick when I drink it and makes me feel sick after I stop drinking it.’
‘Yes, but you should really stop after the first bottle,’ Michael said and they both smiled. How many times had he, Rosa and John drunk themselves into helpless giggles in this room over the last few years? And how many times was he going to have to relive the events of his life with Rosa in the familiar places in which they occurred? Would it always be like this?
‘How are you feeling, anyway?’ John asked, as Michael filled his glass again. ‘I mean really.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, John. How am I supposed to feel? Exhausted, empty, sad, sorry for myself … all of that and a whole lot more.’
‘You do know that if there’s anything Steven and I can do …’
Once again, the feeling that these were words that he was going to hear a great deal during the next few weeks.
‘Thanks, John. I’ll be fine. But look, there is actually one thing you could do. I have the last few rolls of film that Rosa took.’ He stood up and picked up a plastic bag containing rolls of film that he’d placed on a table. I wonder if you could …?’
‘Of course, Michael. I’ll develop them for you.’ He beamed. At last there was something he could do to be helpful. ‘Were they taken in Italy?’
‘I think so, although I’m not really sure. She disappeared quite a lot during the six days before the accident.’ He swallowed hard as he said the words. ‘I’m afraid we argued about it. She took the car we’d hired and I was stuck in the house with nowhere to go until she got back. More stupid, bloody arguments. What a waste of precious time.’ He thought of them arguing quietly across their bedroom in Renzo and Giovanna’s house so that no one could hear them. Observing the niceties – a very English habit.
‘Had you been arguing a lot, then?’ There was reluctance in John’s voice as he asked this question. It felt like he was about to get in too deep and he did not want his view of this relationship between two of his best friends to be altered, especially as it was now gone forever. He would rather preserve it as he had known it. However, the question had to be plucked out of the air where it had been left hanging by Michael.
‘As you’ve seen often enough, Rosa and I were always at each other. It was just the way we were. I suppose, though …’ He hesitated, recalling the pain of their last few weeks together. ‘… we had been arguing a bit more than usual. That was one of the reasons we decided to go to Italy. We’d both been under quite a bit of work pressure – she was doing the book and trying to earn some money and I was up to my eyes in political shenanigans for the Post. To be honest, we’d hardly spent any time in each other’s company for weeks, maybe months. We thought that being with Renzo, Giovanna and the kids again would bring us back to ourselves, bring us back to where we had been. And a little taste of her Italian homeland might be relaxing for her.’
‘And it wasn’t working?’ John reached for the whisky bottle and helped himself to another drink, filling Michael’s glass at the same time.
‘No, I don’t think so. She had kind of climbed inside herself.’ Michael sipped at his drink. ‘I’m sure you’ve seen that in her, John. You know, all her life people took Rosa to be a calm person, unflustered by crisis, totally centred, when all around people were losing themselves in panic. I think it probably paid off for her in her work. Some of those pictures she took in Ireland – remember, the ones of the kids throwing stones at the army – they had something about them, something calm and focused in the eye of the beholder. It often worked like that. But she told me it wasn’t calm. It was what she called nothingness – she said, just nothingness. Those words stuck in my mind, John. She was irritated
by the lack of it in others and when she encountered that she would simply throw the ‘off’ switch. Frankly, she could become strangely emotionless for one who was normally so sensitive.’ He felt a sharp pang of guilt as he said it, but continued: ‘She once told me how when her father died and her mother’s life was in tatters, she felt as if she was watching it all take place on a roll of film. Naturally, I expect she evolved, as ever, into the steady fulcrum at the centre of the drama, the organiser, the maker of tea, the acceptor of wreaths, the recipient of doorstep whispers from caring friends and relatives.’
Michael explained how she would afterwards have to face her own coldness, how she would burn herself on the icy edge of her emotionless being and, as she had confessed to him with tears boiling up at the corners of her dark eyes, could not even find the words to ease her mother’s pain of loss.
John leaned forward.
‘Look, Michael, we can’t help what we are. We’re the sum of our lives and no more. Of course, I’ve seen this in Rosa, but remember, she was also an immensely talented human being who used that distance to create terrific work. The obituaries in the papers – you may not have seen them; remind me to send them to you – spoke of her as a lost opportunity for photography, a great loss. She was a fabulous artist. Her work is a testament to that and, believe me, it’ll be remembered.’ He looked down, momentarily saddened. ‘But all that aside, Michael, I’ll just miss having her around, her sense of humour … and the invaluable advice she used to give me back in the day about my mad love life!’ They both laughed. ‘But she hadn’t been herself in recent months. She told me it was the pressure of putting together the book, but I began to wonder if maybe there was something else going on that she wasn’t telling me.’
Michael shook his head and said, ‘Nothing that I’m aware of, John.’
