The Half-Life Of Hannah (Hannah series Book 1)

by Nick Alexander

  So it was raining. Hard. Cliff was upstairs painting a bedroom in neutral green (we didn’t know what sex the baby was yet) and I was watching the TV and listening out for James’ arrival. He had just finished a degree course in Edinburgh and was driving down with a carload of stuff. I had spent half the week clearing enough storage space in our shed so that James could stack his things there whilst he went travelling. I had fixed up the spare room for him as well. As I say, we were both good organisers.

  I had met James only once before, in a London pub. He had been drunk and loud, and I had been bored – it was my turn to drive. We said hello, gave him his birthday gift – a camera, I think – and James vanished to the bar for a round of drinks. He took so long that by the time he came back I had convinced Cliff to leave. It didn’t take much – they had never been close.

  So I had met James already and I had found him unremarkable; there was no sense of expectation that Saturday in June. I was more concerned about what was on the television. A bomb had gone off in the centre of Manchester. A big one.

  Cliff appeared in the doorway.

  “You’ve got paint on your nose,” I told him.

  He dabbed at it with a finger. “Oh yeah,” he said, then, “Still no sign of Wonder Boy then?”

  I shook my head, then nodded at the images of carnage on the television screen. “They say hundreds of people have been injured. And at least two deaths.”

  “The IRA?”

  “They don’t know yet.”

  “But it probably is.”

  “Yes, that’s what they think. There’s no reason James would stop off in Manchester is there?”

  Cliff shook his head. “No. His car’s full of stuff. He’ll drive straight down. I suppose I might as well go start the skirting boards then.”

  “OK,” I said, waving at him mockingly and turning back to the television. I didn’t feel guilty. I had spent three days sanding the buggers down, and had been officially exempted from painting because the fumes made me retch.

  A car pulled up outside, and I tore my eyes away from the screen to check that it wasn’t James. It was one of those big four-by-fours – everyone seemed to be getting them back then. A woman and kids got out – they all had matching umbrellas. Funny the things you remember. I wondered if they would move on before James arrived. It would make it easier to carry his stuff in if he could park outside, I reckoned. But that’s as much thought as I gave it. He was just Cliff’s younger brother, after all.

  John Major came on the television talking about terrorism and I think I turned the sound off. I had never liked John Major. There was always something about his sweaty top lip that made me feel a bit queasy.

  By two o’clock there were four people dead in Manchester and James still hadn’t arrived. We needed bread for lunch, so I shouted up to Cliff that I was nipping out.

  “Get white spirit if they have any,” he said.

  I opened my own umbrella and headed up to the Spar where I bought bread and some extra cheddar (they didn’t have any DIY materials) before heading home. ‘The day before you came’ was playing in the shop, and I had it stuck in my head as I walked home. A premonition almost.

  When I got to our house a faded orange Volvo estate had replaced the four-by-four. The windows were all steamed up.

  As I reached the car, the passenger window opened and James’ face appeared, peering up at me. “Can you tell me which house number twenty-two is?” he asked.

  “James!” I said.

  “Hannah! God, sorry!” James laughed. “Get in!”

  “Get in?”

  “Yes.” He leaned across and part-opened the door.

  “Don’t be silly,” I said, opening it just wide enough to look inside. “Come indoors.”

  “I will,” James said. “But get in first. I want to ask you something.”

  I folded the umbrella and climbed into the car. The rain was drumming so hard on the roof you had to talk loudly just to make yourself heard. “Why are you sitting out here?” I asked, turning myself as far in the seat as I could.

  “I only just parked,” he told me. His eyes were the most astounding blue, the exact same blue as his T-shirt. In the dark interior of the pub where I had met him previously, I hadn’t noticed. Cliff’s are green.

  “I just wanted to check with you,” he said, “you know, honestly.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you OK about all of this? About me staying? About me leaving all this shit at your place?” He gestured over his shoulder, and I glanced behind at the mixture of boxes and bin-bags and tatty furnishings.

  “Of course,” I said. “You must have spoken to Cliff about it.”

  James smiled at me, and as he did so, he reached across and touched, ever so lightly, my shoulder. I was fully clothed; I was wearing a mac – there was nothing intimate about the gesture. “Oh, you know what Cliff’s like,” he said. “He always says the right thing, always does the right thing. But you never know what he’s really thinking, do you?”

  “No,” I said. It was so true. And it was something I had realised subconsciously but had never really thought about until now.

  Because it seemed disingenuous somehow to gang up on him I simply said, “Yes, anyway, as far as I know he’s absolutely fine about it. We’ve been looking forward to you coming all week.”

  “Have you?” James asked. He was peering into my eyes, a strange air of concern upon his brow, as if it were suddenly terribly important that this were true.

  “Yes,” I said, unexpectedly flustered. “Now let’s get inside. It’s crazy sitting out here.”

  “Sure,” James said. “You go in. I’ll be there in a second.”

  When I got indoors, I hung up my mac. I stared at the wall for a second, then snapped myself out of it and shouted up to Cliff, “James is here, he’s just parking.”

  “I’ll be down in a minute,” Cliff called back. “I just have to finish this stretch.”

  I went into the lounge and crossed my arms and watched the Volvo and waited for James to reappear. And I wondered why my heart was pounding so.

  SIXTEEN

  London – 19th June 1996

  Dear H.

  Just a note to wish you the best on your wedding day.

  As you know (!) I’m unable to be there, but I hope it is wonderful and that everything turns out just the way you want and all your wishes come true.

  I’m so sorry about the precipitous departure, but, needs must...

  For my part, I have postponed my departure for Thailand. I have been feeling pretty shaken up since I left last Tuesday, and there would simply be no point traveling when I feel this miserable.

  Plus, I keep hoping you’ll appear outside my door (my address is above) though of course, I know that you won’t (will you?).

  I can’t seem to get you out of my mind, but I expect that’s because I don’t yet want to.

  Anyway, I hope you are happy, and that Cliff is well. I hope above all that he realises just what a lucky bloke he is. Forgive me for everything.

  J.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Are you OK?”

  Hannah rolls her head to see Jill crouching at her side. She barely remembers moving from the hammock to the sofa.

  She stares at her sister, only now realising that she has been asleep, that she had finally fallen asleep.

  “I’ve been worried about you,” Jill says. “Are you OK?”

  ‘OK.’ The two letters sound alien and strange the way any word can if you think about it long enough. OK. Is she OK?

  She doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s barely light, and she has barely slept. She has lain awake half the night thinking about the same things over and over and over again. That James isn’t dead. That her husband has been lying to her for fifteen years. That she perhaps didn’t have to choose the life she chose at all. That she didn’t actually choose this life either, that it just happened, because it seemed, because of the lie, that there was no choice. B
ut James isn’t dead. James is alive. James is on his way here.

  “Hannah,” Jill says. “How are you feeling?”

  She feels excited. Which is absurd, ridiculous even. Would it be shameful to admit that? “I’m fine,” she says. “I’m just tired. And shocked.”

  “I’ve hardly slept,” Jill says. “I’ve been so worried I did the wrong thing.”

  Hannah frowns as she tries to drag herself from her own thoughts enough to be able to converse with her sister. “Why, what did you do?” she asks.

  Jill looks confused. “Well, I was the one who gave him the address,” she says. “I told him to come.”

  “You told him to come?”

  “No... No, I didn’t tell him to come. But I didn’t tell him he couldn’t come either, did I?” Jill says.

  Hannah nods. Given the scope of the drama in which they are all embroiled, giving James the address is pretty insignificant in the scheme of things.

  “He just seemed so nice,” Jill says, taking Hannah’s silence as reproach and trying to justify herself. “He sounded really rounded and friendly. He has a really lovely voice. But then I always think Aussie accents sound lovely.”

  Hannah moves to a sitting position and runs a hand across her face. “God. You’re an outrage Jill,” she says.

  Jill stands and then moves to sit next to her sister. “Oh, that came out wrong,” she says as she slides one arm around Hannah’s shoulders. “I thought you’d want to see him, too.”

  “Too?” Hannah repeats.

  “I thought you’d want to see him,” Jill says. “That’s why I gave him the address. I mean, he asked for it. So I had to choose. And he sounded nice.”

  “Yes,” Hannah says. “You said.”

  “But imagine if I hadn’t. Imagine if I hadn’t and he never phoned again,” Jill says. “I didn’t think about the effect it would have on Cliff, I admit. But I knew you’d want to see him again. You do, don’t you?”

  Hannah flops her head onto her sister’s shoulder. She knows the way Jill’s mind works, and she is almost certain that Jill didn’t think about her at all. A nice sounding guy phoned and offered to add extra spice to Jill’s holiday. That’s the only thought that Jill will have had. But there’s enough drama in this situation without falling out with her sister on top of everything else.

  “So did Cliff think he was dead?” Jill asks. “That’s what I can’t work out. Or was that a –”

  “A lie,” Hannah says. “Yes, it was a big bold, fifteen-year lie.”

  “God,” Jill says. “But why would he do that?”

  “Jealousy, I think,” Hannah says. “I guess he thought I hadn’t forgotten James.”

  “But you hadn’t, had you?”

  “No,” Hannah admits. “No, I never forgot James. When is he coming? When’s he arriving?”

  Hannah feels Jill shrug beside her. “He didn’t say,” she says. “In a couple of days, I think. That’s what it sounded like. He said he was going to look at flights and cars and things.”

  “So it’s not definite?”

  “I think it was. He sounded pretty sure.”

  Hannah nods, sits up straight again and tries to force one complete breath of air into her lungs. They feel as if they are compressed, as if she has a weight compressing her chest that won’t let her breathe. “Don’t tell Tristan or Aïsha, will you?” she asks.

  Jill doesn’t answer, so Hannah turns to look at her.

  “Tris’ already knows,” Jill says. “He was here when James called, so...”

  “I know,” Hannah says, blinking slowly. “That’s fine. I mean just don’t tell him the backstory. That stuff is private.”

  Jill licks her lips.

  “Oh Jill!” Hannah says.

  “I’m sorry,” Jill says. Her sister suddenly reminds her of their mother. When disappointed she had exactly the same expression. “I was stoned, Han’,” she says. “You know what I’m like when I’m stoned. I can’t keep anything secret.”

  Hannah shrugs Jill’s arm from her shoulder. “You’re... Honestly... You’re impossible.”

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Jill says.

  “Sure,” Hannah says. “Anyway, just, you know... don’t tell Aïsha. I don’t want her filling Luke with a load of confused ideas, OK?”

  “OK,” Jill says.

  Hannah dozes on until the rest of the house starts to awaken, then folds and stores the blanket. She doesn’t want Luke to realise that she has slept here.

  Breakfast is negotiated through forced smiles – a sterling rendition of normality. But once everyone has eaten, Cliff says, “Can you kids clear the breakfast stuff away? Hannah and I want to go for a stroll together.”

  “Do we?” Hannah asks.

  “Yes,” Cliff says flatly. “Yes, we do.”

  Jill nods encouragingly at her, and reckoning that she is too tired to judge what is best, Hannah capitulates.

  Once she has showered and changed her clothes, she goes in search of Cliff, finally finding him sitting in the car listening to classical music. “You can play that in the house you know,” she says, as she opens the door.

  “I know,” Cliff replies. “I just needed the space.”

  Once they have closed the gate behind them Cliff reaches for Hannah’s hand.

  She snatches it away, unable to believe that he is able to misread her mood so severely. “I don’t think so, Cliff,” is all she says.

  They walk for a few minutes in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

  “It’s a lot less scary by day,” Cliff eventually comments.

  “Yes. Look. Why are we out here?” Hannah asks, her tone terse. The last thing she feels like is a summer stroll. “If you have something to say to me, please just get on and say it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cliff says.

  “It’s fine, but just, you know, whatever you want to say...”

  “No. I meant, that’s what I wanted to say,” Cliff says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, right.”

  They walk on for another minute before Cliff says, “So are we OK then?”

  Hannah exhales sharply, a barely contained snort of derision. “You’re joking, right?” she says.

  “I... I don’t really know what else to say.”

  “You lied to me for fifteen years,” Hannah spits. “Or have I got that wrong?”

  “Well, yes. I mean no. No, you haven’t.”

  “So, sorry doesn’t really cover it, does it?”

  “No,” Cliff says. “No, I suppose not.”

  Hannah stops walking and turns to face her husband. “How could you Cliff?” she says. “How could you? He’s your brother. Can’t you see how... disturbed... that is?” Disturbed isn’t really the right word, but she can’t think of a better one.

  Cliff shrugs. “I thought it was better,” he says.

  “Better? To pretend that your brother is dead?”

  “I thought it was better for us,” Cliff says. He drops his regard to the ground and kicks at a stone. “I thought it was better for you, for me, for Luke.”

  Hannah gasps. “Don’t you dare try to make this about Luke,” she says. “Luke wasn’t even born when this started. This is me you’re talking to. I remember. I remember everything. It was years before Luke was born.”

  “I’m not... I wasn’t... I just get confused with the dates,” Cliff stammers. “Really I do.”

  “The letter arrived the summer we got back from Scotland,” Hannah says. “Which was... God!” A wave of shock washes over her. Because beyond the lie itself are the constituent acts of deceit. Layer upon layer of lies required to maintain that first fictional creation. “That letter...” she says. “The letter about James’ accident. You wrote it yourself. It was a fake.”

  Cliff chews at the inside of his mouth, then swallows and nods dolefully. “I’m sorry Hannah,” he says. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  A car, one of those new Beetles, rounds the corner heading towards them, and they a
re forced to separate momentarily to let it pass. At the last minute, Hannah glances in to see who the driver is. Her heart flutters strangely when she sees that it is not James (would she even recognise him now?) but a woman.

  The car past, they begin to walk again.

  “I know you’re angry,” Cliff says, “but...”

  “Angry?” Hannah laughs derisively.

  “But I’m not the only one who... I mean, it’s not all...” Cliff coughs. “Look, what I’m saying, is that this isn’t only about me,” he finally manages.

  “But to say he was dead,” Hannah says.

  “I didn’t think we’d ever get over it. That was the thing. I didn’t think we would ever be able to forget what had happened. Not unless you could forget about James.”

  “So you killed him,” Hannah says.

  “I didn’t actually...”

  “Well, clearly not! On paper, I mean. You killed him on paper.”

  “I knew he wasn’t coming back anyway. So...”

  “How?” Hannah asks. “How could you possibly know that?”

  Cliff licks his lips, opens his mouth to speak, but then closes it again and turns away.

  “Oh Jesus,” Hannah says, pulling a pained expression. “He’s been in contact then? Of course he has.”

  “Yes, he wrote,” Cliff admits. “Just a postcard. To say that he was taking Australian nationality.”

  “Australian?” Hannah says, her mind’s eye attempting to fill in all the missing years with the collage of random images she has seen of Australia. “Of course, Jill said that, yes.”

  “Jill said what?”

  “That he has an accent, an Australian accent.”

  They reach the bend in the road which was so terrifying in the dark last night. “There is a street-lamp,” Cliff says pointing. “It must just not work.”

  “Yes,” Hannah says. “Yes, there is. They need to fix it.”

  When they reach the apex of the bend, it seems obvious to both of them that this is the right point to turn back, so without having to discuss it, they do so.