by Lia Louis
I stare at him. My cheeks are wet, and stinging. Roman looks at me, and I see his eyes flash as he registers my tears. He puts his hand on mine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘Leaving you was—’
‘No more sorrys,’ I say, squeezing his hand. It feels the same. Strong. Warm. Safe. ‘No more.’
After a while, a woman comes to collect our cups. Roman goes to the counter to pay, queuing behind the mother with the teenagers. I wait for him outside, filling my lungs with damp, salty air, cleaning and cleansing my insides. When Roman comes out he stands beside me. I reach down and hold his hand. He looks quickly at me, surprised almost, but tightens his hand around mine. Birds swoop above us, and the sun breaks free from the clouds. Roman and I squint up at the sky, as he points out the different birds.
‘I’m waiting,’ I say from beside him, ‘for a fact about bird balls or penises.’
Roman bursts out laughing. ‘That sounds like a challenge.’
We take a slow walk back to the lodge, holding hands all the way, towards the end of the world.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Hubble used to say the answer to everything is obvious. We just make it complicated or impossible because sometimes the answer isn’t what we want to hear or see. We detour, purposely going around in circles, dragging our feet, or even standing still, because we don’t want to get to the end of the road, to the answer, to the truth, to closure. We’re too afraid. We aren’t ready.
Tonight, I lay in Roman’s bed, and he, on the sofa. It’s gone two o’clock. I fell asleep quickly at eleven; the way you do after a day of being by the sea, drunk and drowsy on sea air, and exhausted from walking uphill. But I woke, wide awake, ‘bolt upright’ as my mum would say, at half-past one. And now I can’t sleep. My brain is spinning in my head, my ears, noisy, with my pulse, and the wind we left outside.
I thought I would feel free; I thought the puzzle would slot together, and a weight would lift. The fog would clear. But it hasn’t.
Because something isn’t adding up.
Something won’t leave me alone, tugging at my sleeve.
He knew.
Roman knew about Hubble. How did he know he’d died in the park? It took me two years to learn that’s where it really happened. Did I mention it, that sleepy, dizzying night I got here?
My mouth is dry and I feel nauseous. I need water.
I slide quietly out of Roman’s bed, and pad down the hallway, my footsteps nigh on silent on the carpet. The lodge smells of wood and rosemary. Roman has a plant of it in his kitchen. I remember Hubble and Roman together, looking at the plants in the garden, and Hubble telling him about the meaning of the name, or what was best to plant in certain weathers. I remember being embarrassed, worrying Roman was bored, but he never was. Instead, he’d ask questions, and tell me things later on, proudly, as if they were his own learned facts.
The lodge is in darkness. If I’m quiet enough, I can get a glass of water without waking him. He always slept like a corpse and fell asleep as if knocked out – no gradual fading.
I get to the sink and pick up a mug from the draining board. I cringe, looking over my shoulder to the sofa, still and shrouded in darkness, hoping not to wake him, I turn on the tap and fill it with water. I turn, full mug in hand, and that’s when I catch sight of the light through the blinds; just a glimpse of orange light. It’s the porch light. Not the blinding, white automatic one – the soft, orange light we put on yesterday evening, as we ate soup, and watched the sun go down from the wooden deck. I rush over to the sofa. Roman isn’t there – no blankets. No sign of Barney either. I walk to the window, pulling up the blind a crack. He’s right there, his back to me, a huge, heavy blanket over his shoulders. Barney is a few feet away, curled up by the tall, robot-like outdoor heater. His sandy fur sways like wheat in a field but he doesn’t move. It must be freezing out there. I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. It’s half-past two now.
I grab my coat from the kitchen table and put it over the T-shirt and pyjama bottoms I’m wearing. I leave the mug on the table, and push down the cold handle of the door. At the sound, Barney looks up, and his tail wags, smacking against the decking. Roman swoops round. My heart sinks. The look on his face is the one he’d wear on days when we were at The Grove. Days he would barely speak, or spend most of his time with Ramesh, one on one. The face he had on in that hospital bed – pale, his cheeks red blotches, his eyes watery and glassy and wide, as if he’s sitting trying to work out an impossible conundrum and won’t allow himself to sleep until he knows.
‘I-it’s freezing out here J,’ he says, stumbling over the words. ‘Go. Go back in.’
I don’t. I lower myself next to him on the step. ‘What’re you talking about?’ I say, voice trembling as the cold stings my legs. ‘It’s lovely. I might sunbathe.’
I laugh, nerves rising in my chest, and pull my hood up over my head. Roman says nothing, and goes back to looking ahead into the blackness. It must be minus five, at least. The heater behind us takes away the sting in the air.
We sit in silence. His breathing is fast and noisy.
‘Bad dream?’ I ask.
‘Seriously, J, it’s freezing out here, go inside.’
‘And leave you out—’
‘Lizzie, please.’ His words are harsh and urgent. But I don’t move. He moves his hands to his face so they’re covering it.
‘Roman?’
He brings his long, strong legs up and bows his head. He brings the blanket higher over his shoulders and hides his face away.
‘Roman, what is going on?’
‘I can’t do this.’
I stare at him. ‘What?’ My heart starts to hammer. The waves crash and thunder below us.
‘I can’t. I just can’t.’
‘You can’t do what?’ It’s barely a whisper. I knew it. I knew there was something else. I knew this was too good be true. I felt it, like you do in the air before a storm.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his voice squeaking at the end. ‘Jesus fucking Christ, I am so sorry.’
Bile rises in my throat. What is it? What’s he going to say? I want to grab him and shake him – I want to grab his face and pull it out from hiding and make him look at me. I want to scream at him to just say the words.
‘Roman, what is all this about?’
Silence.
‘Roman ?’
Silence again. He brings his arms further above his head as if he is trying to disappear into himself beside me. Roman inhales deeply, sniffing, breath trembling. Blood rushes to my legs and I can’t help it. It explodes from my chest, firing out of my mouth. ‘Fucking hell, Roman, please answer me!’
Barney, I see, in the corner of my eye, tilts his head, inches off the decking floor, as Roman lifts his head, quickly. His cheeks are wet. His eyes are wild, as if fire roars behind them. ‘I thought I would be able to,’ he says, his voice wobbling, his teeth gritted. ‘When the moment came and I actually saw you, in front of me, years later, that I would have the words. That I would know what to say, how to explain …’
I say nothing. I look at him, trying to remain calm, trying to remain open. An ear. I don’t want him to close off. Because Roman does that. He closes off like he falls asleep – sudden; a shutter slamming.
‘And it’s killed me. It’s eaten me alive and …’ He stops and drags his hands through his dark hair and lets out an exasperated sigh. ‘And I am still lying. I lied. Because I don’t fucking have the words. There is no way of making this better. And I can’t do it. I can’t.’
‘Roman, what are you talking about?’
Roman stares at me. His mouth is such a tight line, the colour has drained. He closes his eyes. He looks childlike – like he’s still seventeen. Frightened of the world. Despairing of who he is. He turns to me and puts a hand to my face. ‘I lied to you.’
The words are barely there – trapped in his throat. They come out in croaks and sharp breaths.
And now I feel sick. My stomach swi
rls and churns with what feels like lava.
‘I lied to you yesterday, in the café,’ he says. His hand has moved from me now. They’re holding his bent head. He stares at the ground. ‘I lied about why I left.’
‘About what? What do you mean?’ My voice is cold now. Urgent.
‘I left because I ruined your life,’ he says, breaking into sobs. My face is contorted. I have no words. I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what to say. Then he says the words, and everything – like a gentle, flawless unravelling – slots into place.
‘I am why Hubble died,’ he says, shoulders shuddering. ‘I was why he was in the park. Me. Hubble is dead because of me.’
I stand, as if an electric shock just shot through my body. ‘What?’ I’m shouting. My voice cuts through the wind, and the black, lifeless night. ‘What ?’
Roman shoots to his feet. He lunges for my hands. I fly down the steps onto the grass. I can’t see anything beyond my nose. My socks fill with icy water.
‘Lizzie, please listen to—’
‘What do you mean?’ My voice is loud, but breaks. My chest is caving in. My world is imploding.
Roman grimaces, as if in pain. ‘When I left yours, after the vow ceremony, I— I met Ethan,’ Roman says, lips, trembling. ‘He was selling. A-and I said he should stop, that I didn’t wanna help anymore; that we’d piss someone off, that the money wasn’t worth it—’
My heart plummets to my stomach. Selling. The money he’d appear with, tens, twenties, for our plant pot. From dog walking. Dog walking. ‘I wanted to leave, Lizzie. I wanted to leave but these blokes turned up. In the park. And … he must’ve seen. From the bathroom window, when he got home.’
I can’t listen to any more. I can’t. I fly towards the door.
‘Lizzie, please.’
‘Get out of my way,’ I growl. My hands tingle with heat at my sides.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I would have never … if I’d known Hubble was gonna get involved I wouldn’t have— but he did.’ Roman’s voice cracks and breaks. ‘Please, Lizzie.’
‘Roman, get out of my way.’ Tears come then as he holds my shoulders. The way he used to. The way he did when he calmed me, counted my breaths with me, brought me back to earth. I want to hit him. I want to scream at him, for bringing my poor, poor grandad – the kindest heart, the most gentle, gentle heart – out into the cold, at night, to that park.
‘I was with him,’ Roman speaks desperately, rushing his words out. ‘I didn’t leave him. I stayed with him, in the ambulance, and … they said he was going to be OK. It was just … he got involved, Lizzie, but he was just trying to help me. They all legged it. The blokes. Ethan. We … Hubble and I … we walked together but he kept stopping, kept holding his chest— Lizzie, please, listen to me.’
‘Get out of my way!’ I scream. Barney jumps to his feet and lets out the beginning of a bark. He watches Roman, paws still on the ground.
The waves roar beneath us.
Fine drizzle soaks our faces.
I storm inside, pack my bag, and within minutes, I’m standing, shivering in the car park, sobbing on the phone to Priscilla. Roman tells me to wait inside, where it’s warm and safe, but I ignore him. He looks as though he’s deflating, bent with pain. But I don’t care. The anger, the betrayal is drowning out the part of me that cares. Hubble. My poor, poor Hubble.
Priscilla arrives in minutes, still in her pyjamas, her eyes ringed with sleep.
I get into the car, and pretend to not see Roman, standing, watching me from the path, Barney, staring sadly into the darkness, at his side.
We drive away, and I leave him. I disappear into the night, and destroyed, heartbroken, when he needs me to stay the most, I leave him.
I leave him just like he did me.
Chapter Thirty-Four
28th November 2005
I run. I run and run, the hood of my coat up, hiding my tears. I run the whole way. My lungs are collapsing. My heart is giving out. It hurts for it to beat. I’m going to be sick. This is not real. This isn’t my life.
Roman doesn’t answer the front door straight away. Neither does Lindsey. I bang and bang. I shout through the letterbox. Nothing. I dash back down the path. The park. He might be at the park.
‘Lizzie?’ Spinning around, I see Roman, standing in the doorway of his house, his eyes swollen, his hair a mess and on end, a blanket over his shoulders. I fly up the path to him. I hold onto the wall to steady myself.
‘T-they wouldn’t let me come.’ My lungs are giving out. I can’t speak. The world is lurching. It’s breaking in two, right down the middle. ‘I ran. I … Hubble … h-he died.’ Roman’s face falls. The colour drains from his skin and I see it – the moment he breaks. And I fall to my knees and sob. He holds me up. He tells me everything’s OK, but for the first time, I don’t believe him. Pain sears and slices through my heart. The noises I make sound nothing like me. They’re screams and roars and come from my stomach. I sound like someone whose world has ended; like someone in agony.
Roman shushes me. He holds the back of my head to his chest and sways. ‘Shhhhhh. It’s OK. It’s OK,’ he says, but I can hear in his wobbling voice, he is crumbling too. He carries me as he steps backwards. I have no strength to hold myself up anymore. I hear the rattle of the latch as the door closes. The house falls silent, and in the hallway, after barely a step across the threshold, I crumple, sagging against him, the noises howling from me are so alien, I am sure they are coming from someone else’s body. Someone else’s heartache.
Roman tells me over and over that he’s there, that he’s got me, swaying me, shushing me, between his own tears, and somehow, we are on the floor. A crumpled heap, Roman’s back against the foot of the stairs, my arms around his neck, tangled up in each other, wrapped in a blanket that smells of him. I cry until I am depleted, until there is nothing left in me; no life. After for ever, I look up at Roman, his cheeks, pink and shining with wet. He says nothing, but kisses my head, and leaves his lips there, against my hair. I close my eyes, blanket tight around me, cocooning me in his lap, and hope that when I open them, I’m not here. I’m not anywhere. This has all gone away.
We listen to nothing but one another’s heartbeats, laughing children, passing cars.
I keep my eyes closed, and so does Roman, and for a moment, it’s so silent, so still, I think he’s asleep. But then he says, ‘I’m sorry,’ against my head. ‘I am so sorry, Lizzie.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
‘Lizzie?’
I say nothing.
‘Babe?’
I hear the rustling of a plastic bag. I pull the duvet further and tighter over my head and shuffle further downwards. My eyes are swollen, and I feel empty, as if my heart is shrinking. I am despairing – of everything, and everyone, and every memory I have ever had. I feel lost. I feel betrayed by the world.
‘OK, so that weird little corner shop doesn’t have much,’ says Priscilla, energetically, ‘but I’ve got Kettle Chips, sausage rolls, two pasties – one chicken, one veggie – a Yorkie bar. Erm, what else have I got here?’
I listen, staring beneath the thick hotel duvet. If I was feeling happier, if I wanted to talk, I would’ve asked why? Why on earth have you bought me a lunch fit for an ogling scaffolder on a frosty rooftop? But I don’t. I make a ‘hmm’ sound instead and stay where I am.
‘I’ve also got a scotch egg, French Fancies, and two Dr Peppers.’
‘Hmm,’ I say again.
‘Fancy anything?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘How about a cuppa? I got some more teabags from reception.’
‘No, I’m OK.’ My voice is muffled from beneath the duvet.
More rustling. ‘Ah!’ says Priscilla. ‘Crunchie?’
I say nothing.
‘Crunchie ?’
I pause. ‘Yes.’
‘OK,’ says Priscilla, amused. ‘Open up. I’m coming in.’
Light floods in as Priscilla yanks back
the heavy duvet and stands for a second, looking at me, curled in a foetal position, like a shrimp, my knees as close to my tucked under my chin as I can get them. I haven’t showered. I haven’t brushed my teeth. I haven’t eaten anything or slept for a single moment. I’m still in my pyjamas from Roman’s, yet it must be at least midday. I look up, slowly. Priscilla looks flawless in a pair of skinny jeans and a thick cream roll neck jumper. She smiles at me, and hops into the bed, pulling the duvet back over our heads.
‘Hello,’ she says, holding the Crunchie between our faces.
I take it. ‘Hello.’
Then she puts her arms around me and pulls me to her chest. She rests her chin on top of my head and pulls me close. She smells fresh, like perfume and cocoa butter.
‘You smell nice,’ I sniff, my voice thick and raspy.
‘Miss Dior.’
‘Misty what?’
Priscilla laughs. ‘Miss Deee-orrr. As in Christian Dior. Idiot.’
We lay under the duvet, in silence for a while. Priscilla watches as I unwrap the Crunchie. She seems happy when I start eating it, as if she’s pleased I’m doing something normal, instead of crying and talking and swearing at the air.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Awful, Priscilla,’ I croak. ‘Sad. Gutted. Lost. Angry.’
Priscilla nods then holds my elbow of the arm holding the Crunchie bar. She bends and bites off a lump. ‘I think you need to go back and see him. Talk,’ she chomps.
‘No, Priscilla.’
‘I know this is shit, babe, and I know it’s a lot to take in—’
‘P, he lied. He lied to me. Hubble was …’ I can’t speak. I shake my head. ‘He might never have died if it wasn’t for Roman.’
Priscilla looks at me sadly, her huge brown eyes wide, her mouth, slowly chewing. ‘I know it’s awful, but Roman wasn’t the reason we lost Hubble, Liz, you know that.’
