Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  ‘Thank you. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologize.’

  ‘I feel so silly. Here you are, exhausted after your flights, having to witness my sudden outpouring of confused emotions. This is not how it was supposed to happen.’

  ‘Sometimes we just can’t help it. When your cup becomes too full, you have to empty it . . .’

  We drink our hot chocolates in silence.

  ‘I was in love with Bell. I still am. It all seemed crazy at the beginning, the whole Internet dating thing. I’m really not into it, don’t even know why I joined the site in the first place. And then suddenly there was Bell, filling my life with hours of Skype conversations, just being together, in this weird long-distance way. I didn’t know what to expect when she came over, wasn’t sure I’d like her in real life. The Internet is such a deceptive tool of communication. I remember waiting for her at the airport and thinking to myself, what if she turns out to be a complete psycho? What if she isn’t who she says she is? But when she appeared at the top of the escalator in the arrivals hall, all my doubts melted away in an instant. My stomach did a little flip and I was filled with this inexplicable joy. She felt so . . . familiar and exotic at the same time.’

  Candice falls silent, stirring her chocolate absentmindedly.

  ‘You know, I really thought we’d spend the rest of our lives together.’

  Her eyes glaze over with tears, she shakes her head and takes a sip of her chocolate. I reach out and touch her hand. I know there’s nothing I can say that would make her feel better. There is nothing I can think of that would make me feel better.

  Thirteen Days Later

  We meet just inside the main gate of the New Southgate Cemetery. The morning sun is already quite hot and I decide against leaving Wispa in the car. I’m sure it’s OK to take her with me, as long as she stays outside the chapel. There’s just a handful of us, no more than twenty people, most of whom I know. Marianne, Bell’s old friend from uni, a smattering of friends from her teaching days, a few of her Stokey cronies and a couple of her exes, with Helen hovering on the edge of the gathering, muttering to herself. This does not bode well for the confrontation with Candice. My phone starts ringing and I rummage through my bag to find it. I recognize the work reception number, which always comes up instead of any particular extension, and I switch it off. Michael, who’s taken upon himself the role of host, invites everyone to proceed to the chapel, which houses the crematorium. To my relief I see that Helen hasn’t been talking to herself. She removes a phone earpiece and puts it in her pocket. As we walk along the main alley I’m overwhelmed by the stark beauty of the Victorian gravestones, the peaceful and contemplative nature of the place. It carries the wisdom of inevitability, forcing one to realize that no matter how hard we fight death, it still defeats us at the end. We move slowly forward, a motley crew of mourners, united in grief. Old oak and chestnut trees scattered along the alley begin to shed their leaves, which rustle under our feet. I tie Wispa to a stone bench outside and we enter the chapel through heavy wooden doors. The chapel’s Gothic exterior contrasts with the straight and unadorned lines of the interior, which feels quiet and peaceful.

  As we settle in the pews it becomes clear that Michael is continuing his role of host and he’s going to make a speech. I feel a pang of guilt. This is yet another thing I haven’t thought of doing, being much too self-absorbed lately. Again I feel I’m letting Bell down. Michael’s eulogy is simple, warm and beautiful. He speaks of Bell as a great friend, a good and generous human being. It’s all true, I think, welling up at the sound of Michael’s soothing voice.

  ‘As some of you know,’ he continues, ‘something truly wonderful happened in Bell’s life not long ago. After years of searching and heartache, she’d met someone who transformed her life. Candice.’ Michael pauses and smiles warmly at Candice, who smiles back at him through tears. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Helen shifting uncomfortably.

  ‘Candice brought love and hope into her life. Hope for the future, a new life in a new place. I know it’ll come as a surprise to most of you, even to her closest friends, but Bell was actually planning to move to the States to join Candice.’

  A flutter of astonishment goes through the gathering. I’m surprised and taken aback. Why didn’t she tell me?

  ‘Being an overcautious old bore, I questioned the rashness of her decision and she simply said she had no time to waste. She wanted to grab happiness while it was there. I must say, I envied her such certainty of feeling. She talked of throwing a huge party for all her friends here, not a farewell, but a celebration of the past, the present and the future. While going through her papers, a sad obligation I was bound to fulfil by her will, I came across a notebook. And I discovered that Bell, who favoured pen and paper over the erasable nature of computers, had started jotting down short messages for her friends, clearly with the idea of reading them out at her party. They are fragments of poems, snippets of dialogues or lyrics of songs, dedicated individually to the people who were close to her heart. I’m sure Bell would agree with me that this is a very opportune moment to read them out.’

  Michael pauses to take his reading glasses out of his breast pocket, then opens a blue Moleskine notebook.

  ‘To Anna, my best friend.’ He looks at me over the top of his glasses. ‘Remember the Madonna song, the one that was practically on a loop in the cassette deck of your old banger as we drove around the Lake District one rainy summer? The one about pushing someone to see the other point of view, pushing them so they are not complacent, making them get up and keep going even when they’ve had enough? Thank you for pushing me, Anna, when I felt like giving up. This song will always make me think of you.’

  Suddenly I’m blinded by the tears, my chest constricts in acute pain and I’m unable to breathe. I jump up from the pew and dash towards the exit, barely seeing where I’m going. As I push the heavy doors I’m no longer able to contain my sobbing. The brightness of the daylight hits me and I see a man in a dark hoodie crouching next to Wispa. When he sees me he gets up abruptly and walks away. Blindly, I stumble towards the bench and put my arms round Wispa’s neck. The memories of that Lake District holiday with Bell flood in and I’m consumed with grief. My obsession with the song made Bell tease me endlessly until it became the leitmotif of the whole trip. But hearing the lyrics read out in the chapel makes me understand the true nature of our friendship, a unique bond I will never be able to recreate with anyone else. More acutely than before, I feel I’d let Bell down badly, let our friendship slip away while I took it for granted. She died walking my dog, wearing my coat, helping me out, as always, while I was away thinking only of myself. I will never be able to forgive myself for my own utter selfishness. Would trying to make up for it change anything? It won’t bring back Bell and I won’t be able to earn her forgiveness. But would an attempt to become a better human being bring any consolation? I should do everything I can to help the police find her killer. I have to tell DCI Jones about the Dior Man, I decide, overwhelmed by the feeling of guilt. There is music coming from the chapel now and I drag myself from the bench and walk in, wiping my tears. Annie Lennox’s velvet voice flows from the chapel’s discreet sound system. I recognize it instantly, it’s ‘Lifted’ by Eurythmics, Bell’s favourite song. I feel it’s a message from Bell and when I look at the faces of her friends gathered in the chapel I know everyone is going through the same emotion. As the music fades, we all get up, hug each other and reluctantly leave the chapel, leaving our friend behind.

  Fourteen Days Later

  Saturday morning disappears in a flurry of rushing around. I leave Candice at home and drive to New Southgate to pick up Bell’s ashes. By the time I get back, Michael and Helen are already at my house, ready to set off on our trip to Beachy Head. I decide to go through town and take the A23 and M23 towards Brighton. This proves a bit of a mistake as we get stuck in traffic as soon as we hit Brixton. The atmosphere in the car is tense, Helen’
s hostile silence clearly directed at Candice. I’m glad I have driving as an excuse for being quiet and I’m grateful to Michael for trying to keep a friendly conversation going. He chooses the safe subject of work and it turns out that Candice is an expert on funeral traditions around the world. She tells us about Tana Toraja, a region in eastern Indonesia, where funerals are lavish and loud occasions lasting sometimes for weeks.

  ‘As the family save up for the occasion, the deceased continues to “live” with them and is referred to as the one who is asleep or ill.’

  ‘We have the same tradition here when the family don’t want their dole to be cut off.’

  I’m not sure if Candice gets Helen’s sarcasm, but she doesn’t seem to be offended.

  ‘I remember when my gran died,’ Michael fills in a lull in the conversation. ‘I must’ve been six or seven at the time and just about coming to grips with the idea of death and close people passing away. She was a fierce lady, inspiring terror and awe in all the wee bairns in the family.’ Michael comes from a large Scottish family, with five sisters and one older brother. ‘She was laid out in the lounge for a whole day and night, which I found incredibly exciting. I somehow figured out that I no longer had to be scared of her and this was a true revelation. I waited until everyone was asleep, then crept downstairs in my pyjamas, snuck into the room she was in, put a little stool beside her so I could reach her, grabbed her nose and shook it vigorously. You have no idea how totally liberating it was! Till this day I can feel the elation of the experience, and no guilt at all . . .’

  We all chuckle at Michael’s story, then fall silent as our thoughts go back to Bell.

  As we approach Brighton I turn left onto the A27 to avoid traffic jams and head towards Lewes, then take the picturesque route down to the coast through Alfriston. It’s a crisp and sunny day and the Cuckmere Valley looks stunning. We reach East Dean in surprisingly good time, then turn onto Birling Gap Road. As I park in the National Trust car park I’m glad the tourist season is over and the usual summer crowds are gone. My passengers pile out of the car, stretching their legs, and I let Wispa out of the boot. She does loops around us, barking madly, excited by the proximity of the sea. Although the day is clear, the wind is sharp and the bite of the cold sea air makes us head unanimously for the cafe before we face the climb up Beachy Head. We emerge fortified by mugs of strong tea and gather by the gate to the path. I go back to the car to collect Bell’s ashes. When I rejoin our group, Helen looks at the tube in my hand incredulously.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘It’s a scattering tube. The guy at the crematorium recommended it when I told him we were going to scatter her ashes.’

  ‘You mean you put Bell’s ashes in a fucking cardboard tube? I can’t believe it!’ Helen’s bad temper I’ve been so wary of is back in full swing. ‘Why spend money at all? You could’ve put her in a recycled toilet-paper tube, it wouldn’t cost you a penny! This is a fucking farce!’

  ‘It’s not disrespectful at all,’ Candice pipes up before I can stop her. ‘It’s very common in the States. It’s biodegradable and—’

  ‘And you,’ Helen sticks her finger in Candice’s face, ‘you better shut up. You have no fucking right to be here. You think you can waltz into Bell’s life, eat her pussy a couple of times and, what, it gives you some special right to her? So you can swoon around like some entitled widow? You can take your fucking biodegradable grief and fuck off back to the States!’

  The commotion has attracted the attention of a group of Japanese tourists who have just arrived in a luxury coach. A mother with a small daughter is pulling the child away from us.

  ‘Helen!’ Michael grabs her by the arm and she pushes him off.

  ‘You never really knew her. I spent YEARS with her! I was ready to give her my WHOLE LIFE!’

  One of the Japanese tourists comes a bit closer and snaps a picture of our group with his compact camera. Before any of us can react, Helen throws herself at him with a roar, yanks the camera out of his hand, throws it on the ground and stomps on it with her hiking boot. A few ladies in the Japanese group start screaming as Michael grabs Helen and pulls her away from the stunned tourist. I rush forward and pick up the camera. It’s covered in mud, but looks intact. I wipe it with the sleeve of my jacket and give it back to the guy. Helen turns round and storms off towards the public toilets outbuilding. Michael raises his hands in a pacifying gesture.

  ‘It’s all right, ladies and gentlemen! Apologies for the little disturbance. It’s over now and we can all go about our own business. As for the damage to the camera . . .’ Michael turns to the Japanese tourist, puts his arm round the man’s shoulders and leads him away from the group.

  I look at Candice, who’s been watching the scene in shocked silence, her face the whitest shade of pale, her eyes black with enlarged pupils.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I think so . . .’ She takes a deep breath.

  ‘So sorry, Candice. Helen is . . . volatile. She’s been through some shit in her life and has a funny way of dealing with it. She’s very upset about Bell’s death. Her anger wasn’t directed at you, but at the situation.’ I know my attempt at justifying her behaviour must sound lame.

  ‘It’s OK, Anna. I’ll be all right.’ Candice gives me a weak smile. The crowd around us disperses slowly.

  ‘Let me get you another cup of tea . . .’

  ‘No, thank you, I’m fine, really.’

  Michael’s finished his little chat with the Japanese tourist and comes back to us, putting his wallet in the breast pocket of his jacket.

  ‘All sorted.’ He sounds almost cheerful.

  ‘Did you have to give him some money?’

  He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Forget about it.’ He looks around. ‘Where is Hell?’

  Michael uses Helen’s old nickname, which reminds me of what she used to be called behind her back when she was Bell’s girlfriend: ‘Hell-on-Legs’. Indeed.

  ‘I think she’s gone to the loo. Shall I go and get her?’

  ‘No, let her be. She’ll come around. Let’s start walking up.’ Michael leads the way. I whistle at Wispa, who’s been rummaging about near the cafe’s rubbish bins, and we follow Michael through the stiles.

  As we climb up the path I can feel the stress ebbing away. It’s a glorious autumn day, unusually clear for this time of the year. The view of the white cliffs is spectacular and the sea shimmers in the sunshine.

  ‘Look!’ Michael points at a couple of yellow butterflies chasing each other above the meadow of small lilac flowers. ‘It’s Clouded Yellows! Believe it or not, they come here all the way from North Africa.’

  ‘The butterflies?’ asks Candice incredulously.

  ‘Yes, they set off from Tunisia in early spring, go to Italy, then east around the Alps, through France and arrive here in Kent, Essex, Suffolk and Dorset.’

  ‘It takes them all summer to get here?’

  ‘Oh no, they start arriving in May. These two are the second-generation immigrants, born here.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ I’m always amazed by the amount of knowledge Michael retains on all conceivable subjects.

  Michael laughs at my awe.

  ‘I did the graphic design for a short documentary on butterfly migration a few years ago. You know, title sequence, all the charts and maps. It was quite interesting.’

  I catch a glimpse of Helen following us at a distance. In front of us looms the circular tower of the Belle Tout lighthouse. As we near the top of the headland, we slow down and gingerly approach the edge of the cliff.

  ‘The trick now is to try not to slip,’ Michael warns us as we shuffle forward. ‘It’s over five hundred feet down in a straight line.’

  ‘Be careful, folks! Hope you’re not planning to jump!’ We all turn towards the voice behind us. It belongs to an older man, dressed head to toe in the most stereotypical hiking gear, including the obligatory green fleece, Berghaus Gore-Tex jacket, zip-on trousers and thick
woollen socks sticking out of his heavy Merrell boots. ‘It’s quite a drop down there.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, we have no intention of jumping.’ I turn away from him, hoping he gets the message and keeps walking.

  ‘Good. Do you know it’s been the most popular suicide spot on the coast since the 1600s?’

  We don’t reply, but the man carries on, undeterred.

  ‘Around twenty people each year try to jump off here. Twenty people! In the seventies they even installed a telephone box near the clifftop with a number for the local Samaritans. I’ve been coming here for years—’

  ‘’Scuse me, mate,’ Helen joins us suddenly, ‘it’s a private party. We’d like to have some peace here.’

  ‘Oh, right, dear.’ The man looks at her, taken aback. ‘I’ll leave you alone then.’ He marches off in a huff.

  Instinctively we form a little circle at the edge of the cliff. Everyone’s looking at me and it reminds me I’m the one carrying the scattering tube. I hold it out, unsure what to do. Michael gently takes it out of my hand and opens it.

  ‘I think we should all do it individually . . . Let’s give each other some privacy.’

  Everyone agrees with relief. Michael hesitates, then passes the tube back to me.

  ‘Anna, you go first.’

  Smart move, avoiding escalating the conflict between Helen and Candice, I think, moving away from the group towards the edge. I tip the tube slightly and a handful of ash comes out, surprisingly heavy, like sand, not floating in the air as I’ve expected. It is picked up by the wind, nevertheless, and carried over the cliff towards the sea.

  ‘Forgive me, Bell, please forgive me,’ is the only thought relentlessly echoing in my head. And then another one: ‘I miss you.’

  I stand facing the sea for a while, taking in the view, intense sadness and loss in my heart. The gesture hasn’t given me the relief I’ve been hoping for. There is no answer to my silent plea and the void I feel remains achingly real and inconsolable.