Rebound

by Aga Lesiewicz

  Eventually I turn away from the sea, give the tube back to Michael and walk down the slope. A flock of swallows takes off from the bushes, their white bellies shining against the glossy blue wings. They circle gracefully, then swoop low over the greenery, as if practising air acrobatics before their long flight back to Africa. I watch them flutter and disappear behind the horizon as quickly as they appeared and I know that from this moment on the sight of a swallow will make me think of Bell.

  Here today, gone tomorrow.

  Fifteen Days Later

  It’s an early start on Sunday. Candice is catching the 11.05 United flight to Chicago and I’m taking her to the airport. The alarm clock on my iPhone wakes me up at 6.45 a.m. and I stagger to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and exhausted, still reeling from the emotional roller coaster of yesterday. Candice is sitting at the kitchen table in her pyjamas, warming her hands against a mug of steaming coffee. She points to the other mug on the table.

  ‘Freshly brewed. I love your Nespresso machine.’

  I pick up the coffee gratefully and take a sip. I slide into a chair next to her and we both sit in silence, holding on to our mugs as if they carried answers to all the problems in the world.

  Yesterday was traumatic. After the ash-scattering ceremony we went for a late lunch at the Golden Galleon near Seaford, which was a bad idea. It turned out it used to be Bell’s hang-out when she was a student at Sussex and Helen was her girlfriend. Just as our food arrived Helen threw another fit, accusing us of being emotional imposters desecrating Bell’s memory, and stormed out of the pub. Three hours later, tired of waiting for her and aware that Candice had to catch an early flight the next morning, we decided to go back to London without Helen. Then, feeling responsible for her in her distressed state, I drove up and down the A259 and Beachy Head Road, eventually finding her wandering aimlessly along the village green in East Dean. It took some persuading to get her into the car, but finally she relented and sat in stony silence throughout the whole trip back to London. I was relieved when I dropped her off by her flat in Walthamstow, wondering what made Bell put up with her for so many years.

  ‘Thank you for taking such good care of me while I’ve been here.’ Candice breaks our pensive silence.

  ‘Don’t mention it. I’m sorry if things didn’t go exactly as planned . . .’

  ‘No, it was good. I’m glad I came.’

  ‘I’m glad, too. And I’m glad I’ve met you.’

  We leave the house at quarter to eight and get to the airport well before 9 a.m. Surprisingly, there is just a short queue at the check-in that moves forward smoothly. Then I walk Candice to the entrance to the departure gates and we hug goodbye.

  ‘Do you think we’ll stay in touch?’ she asks.

  ‘I’d like to. It’s up to us, isn’t it?’ I say, aware that often even the best intentions of keeping in touch fail to keep the acquaintance going.

  ‘Yes,’ she says and I know she’s thinking the same. ‘Let’s try.’

  She turns once before disappearing behind the sliding door and waves at me. I wave back and wonder whether I’ll ever see her again.

  I’m back home at ten and decide it’s still early enough to go for a run. I feel I’ve neglected my body long enough and it’s screaming for its fix of adrenaline and endorphins. It’s not a great day for running, it’s damp and overcast, but as long as it isn’t pouring down I should be fine. Saying goodbye to Bell has marked a shift in my perception of the Heath. I think I’m ready to go back there. Wispa drops her rawhide bone when she sees me putting my running gear on. She positions herself by the front door, wagging her tail excitedly. You and me, girl; the prospect of a proper run in a beautiful open space makes my heart sing.

  My legs seem to know the way when we jog down Fitzroy Park. Despite the autumnal hue, the Heath looks strangely monochromatic, seen through the colour filter of the moisture hanging in the air. Even the diehard Heath lovers are few and far between today. I can feel I’m out of shape, but I press on up the hill, Wispa’s effortless trot putting me to shame. Halfway up the hill I’m beginning to feel the rhythm and my breathing stabilizes, the first rush of endorphins making me high. I turn right towards Kenwood, instinctively following my favourite route. It feels great to be back here. I follow the path through the woods, lined with a soft layer of wet leaves, then go through the gate to the estate. I slow down to negotiate a muddy stretch, then reach the open space of the West Meadow. The expanse of many shades of green, yellow and red takes my breath away. It’s one of the most beautiful views on the Heath. I turn off the path onto the meadow and run across it, careful to avoid rabbit holes. Wispa overtakes me, galloping through the wet grass.

  A sudden feeling of dread catches me out when I hear footsteps behind me. No, this can’t be happening again, I think as my pace falters and my breathing becomes strained. I keep on running, scared to look back.

  ‘Anna!’ I hear an urgent voice.

  Without slowing down, I half turn and see the Dior Man. He’s about fifty paces behind me, his face intense.

  ‘No,’ I gesture and keep running. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to go back to the madness of it all.

  ‘Anna, wait!’

  Fear mixed with anger is propelling me forward, my feet barely touching the ground as I thunder across the meadow. Fear that he’ll catch up with me and I won’t be able to resist him, anger because in my head he’s suddenly become the reason for all the disasters in my life. There is a gate ahead of me – if only I can reach it, there will be people on the other side. Through the pounding of blood in my ears I can hear his voice again.

  ‘Anna, we need to talk!’

  I slip in mud, recover, reach the gate, open it long enough for Wispa to get through, then follow her towards Kenwood House. My silent prayer has been answered: there are some people in the distance, they’ll probably hear me if I scream. And if he comes near me I will scream. There is a mechanical screech behind me, I see a large green shape out of the corner of my eye and nearly collide with a park ranger’s electric buggy.

  ‘Whoa, lady, got a death wish!’

  The ranger, an older guy in a green uniform, is clearly furious. I bend over, desperately trying to catch my breath.

  ‘You have to be more careful, madam! You can’t just run willy-nilly like this! You could hurt yourself or other people.’

  ‘I’m so sorry . . . I think I saw a flasher back there . . .’ I improvise, waving vaguely in the direction the Dior Man might come from.

  ‘A flasher?’ He looks at me, instantly alert.

  ‘I think he was chasing me.’ I keep going with the lie. For a split second I debate giving him a description of the Dior Man, but change my mind. I think the presence of a ranger looking for a flasher is enough to put him off approaching me.

  ‘This sounds serious, madam.’ The ranger looks around, clearly unsure what to do. ‘I’ll . . . er . . . better go and investigate.’ He jumps off the buggy and whips a walkie-talkie out of his pocket. ‘And I’ll need to report it . . .’

  He starts for the gate to the meadow, then turns back to me.

  ‘Please can you stay by my vehicle, madam. I’ll need a description of the perpetrator.’

  I nod at him eagerly. As soon as he disappears into the bushes, his walkie-talkie squeaking, I turn round, whistle to Wispa and run towards Kenwood House. It looks different from usual, intricate scaffolding surrounding the facade of the main building. As I trot up the hill I can feel the adrenaline of the chase slowly ebbing away. My legs suddenly feel like jelly. I reach the main path. It looks like the long-overdue refurbishment of Kenwood House has just begun in earnest. I head towards the Brew House Cafe, which I find, to my relief, still open. I desperately need an injection of sugar. Thankfully, there is a ten-pound emergency note folded neatly in a small pocket of Wispa’s poo-bags pouch. No dogs are allowed inside the cafe, so I leave Wispa by the entrance and go in. I pick a lemon drizzle cake from the impressive display of sweets and savou
ries, accompanied by a cup of English Breakfast tea. I park my tray at a secluded table in the corner of the cafe and sit down heavily on the wooden chair.

  He called me Anna. He knows my name. He probably knows who I am and where I live. I notice my hand is shaking when I raise the cup. As the sweetness of the cake dulls my nerves, I begin to think more rationally. Where did he get my name from? An obvious answer would be the police station. I definitely saw him there, accompanied by the policemen who are probably working on the Heath attacks. Was he a witness or a suspect, I ask myself again? If he was a suspect, he wouldn’t be roaming the Heath freely now. Unless he’s been released due to the lack of evidence . . . The CSI expert in me takes over. A more likely explanation is that he is a witness, just like me. He came to the station voluntarily and overheard my name being mentioned by someone connected to the case. No, it doesn’t make sense. Which leaves the other option, much more sinister. He is a stalker. I put my teacup down with a loud clunk. An elderly lady at the table next to mine looks at me reproachfully. Her make-up is impeccable; so is her hearing, it seems. If he’s a stalker, he knows everything about me. Why would he wait till I go to the Heath to confront me then? He’s probably had many opportunities to accost me, hurt me, even kill me . . . He could’ve killed me. Why am I still alive then? This scenario doesn’t add up either, I decide. He said we needed to talk. Talk? What about? To compare notes about our encounters in the bushes? This is the first time in days I allow myself to go back to them in my thoughts. I feel nothing but embarrassment and shame. The sense of edgy eroticism I found so irresistible has evaporated completely. I don’t want to have anything to do with this man ever again. What we did feels sordid and tarnished by all the violence that has happened on the Heath. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? Oh God, have I inadvertently started some insane chain of fatal attraction? I push away my half-eaten cake and the old lady looks at me again.

  ‘Enjoy the rest of my cake,’ I say to her and leave her sitting at her table, rigid and judgemental.

  Wispa greets me outside as if I’ve been gone for days. Her joy reassures me, and for a moment I think everything is fine, as it’s always been. Then I remember the ranger and my lie. Shit, he’s probably looking for me. And, God forbid, he may have called the police. I have to disappear from the scene as quickly as possible. As I bend over to untie Wispa’s leash I see something white attached to her collar. I throw myself at her and she yelps in surprise. It’s a small piece of paper. A note.

  ‘Please call me,’ it says, followed by a mobile number.

  In a flash of anger I crumple it and throw it in the nearest bin. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? He must’ve followed me all the way here. I’m not surprised Wispa let him attach the note to her collar. She’s such a slut when it comes to cuddles that sometimes I think she’d walk away with a stranger as long as she got plenty of tickles behind the ears. But the thought of him touching my dog makes me feel violated. I’m amazed at my double standards. I let this guy fuck me in the bushes, but when it comes to petting my dog it’s a different story. The moment of flippancy is over and I feel dread creeping in. What does he want from me? Pretending I’m calling Wispa, I take a discreet look around. Of course I can’t see him, but I know he’s watching me. What kind of a nightmare have I unleashed? My heart is pounding and I’m shaking again. I can’t face going back through the Heath, so I whistle to Wispa and we trot towards the gate leading onto Hampstead Lane. It’s going to be a longer walk home, but I hope the steady flow of traffic will make me feel safer. Just when we reach Hampstead Lane I see a 210 bus coming in the direction of Highgate and make a dash for it. The driver takes pity on me as I make a show of fumbling around for my Oyster card, and lets us on for free.

  We get home in record time. I slam the front door shut behind me and sigh with relief. The world outside seems like an alien and menacing place yet again. But as I stand in the hallway watching Wispa trotting off to the kitchen I realize that even my own house doesn’t feel safe any more.

  Sixteen Days Later

  The morning drive to work seems like a welcome relief from the claustrophobic inertia of yesterday. I spent most of the day curled up on the sofa with a bottle of Malbec, trying to understand what was going on. The wine eased the tension and produced some surprising interpretations of the morning’s events. After one glass I was debating calling DCI Jones and telling her everything about my encounters with the Dior Man. After two I was ready to go back to the Heath to retrieve the note with his number and confront him. Three glasses in I felt sorry for myself and sobbed inconsolably until the fourth glass started to kick in. By then I was staggering around the house, checking all the windows and barricading the front door, determined never to set foot outside again. The memories of the fifth and the sixth glass are blurry, but the empty bottle of wine I found by the sofa this morning seems to suggest that I’d managed to complete the full circle of drunken paranoia.

  I don’t recall going to bed, but remember waking up in the middle of the night covered in sweat, my heart pounding from too much alcohol and a nightmare. In my dream I am jogging along the cliff path at Seven Sisters. Someone is chasing me and, as I try to run, the path turns into a swamp, the mud sucking my feet deeper and deeper. I can feel my pursuer’s breath on my neck and suddenly I am on the edge of the cliff, wrestling with the Dior Man, who is trying to push me off into the sea. I scratch his face and his skin sticks to my fingers. I pull my hand away and with it comes his face, revealing someone else’s features underneath. I’m suddenly winning the struggle, he doesn’t fight when I push him off the cliff and when he starts falling I realize it’s not the Dior Man any more, it’s Bell. She looks at me as she’s falling, calm and resigned, and she says something, but I can’t hear her, the roar of the waves below drowning her words. It was the roar that woke me up, not of the waves, but of blood pulsating in my head.

  It took me ages to calm down and get back to sleep and when I woke up at 6 a.m. my head felt as if it was about to explode and splash my brains all over the Farrow & Ball Lulworth Blue walls of my bedroom. A hot shower, two Paracodol tablets and three Arpeggio coffees from the Nespresso machine brought some comfort to my sore body and soul and by 8 a.m. I was brave enough to sit behind the wheel of my BMW without the fear of ruining the upholstery.

  It’s 8.37 a.m. and I’m driving into the work car park, buzzing with the mixture of caffeine and codeine. The office greets me with a strange sight. A handful of men in suits are walking about, looking at walls and desks, and marking things on sheets attached to their clipboards. Claire is on hand to provide an explanation. They are assessors from Utispatial, a company hired by Cadenca Global to introduce a new, highly organized workspace run by space-management software. In other words, hot-desking. I hide my extreme annoyance and ask Claire to call whoever is in charge from Utispatial to my office. After some delay, one of the clipboard minions knocks on my door. From his demeanour I can tell he’s quite low rank, but dying to impress and get promoted. I know talking to him is going to be a waste of time, but I indulge my curiosity. I ask him to explain the logistics of the workspace transformation and for the next twenty minutes he draws a vision of the brave new world of space allocation and management. He goes on about the simplification of the work flow, swift management of employee moves, reduction of costs and a new level of efficiency. When he tries to dazzle me with the idea of a centralized repository of office-space information, I interrupt his monologue.

  ‘So, how many desks are there on this floor at present?’

  ‘One hundred and seventy,’ he replies without hesitation.

  ‘And how many are you going to cut it down to?’

  ‘A hundred.’

  ‘That leaves seventy people without workspace, right?’

  ‘Yes, but they are mostly non-desk-owners.’

  ‘Non-desk-owners?’

  ‘They are either home-workers or mobile-workers.’

  ‘Do you actually know what we do here in this
office?’

  He twitches nervously, shuffling papers on his clipboard. ‘You make television programmes?’ Without his specialized workspace-related vocabulary he seems rather lost.

  ‘Do you know what it actually entails?’ I don’t feel like explaining it to him.

  ‘Erm, filming, editing . . .’ He clearly has no idea.

  ‘Do you see that empty desk there?’ I point through the glass wall of my office and he follows my finger like a puppy waiting for a ball. ‘It belongs to Gary, who, I believe, is on a shoot today. Shoots don’t happen very often and Gary spends a lot of time at his desk.’ Too much time in fact, I think, and continue. ‘Next to him sits Caroline. As you can see, she’s not at her desk because she’s in edit, two floors below. But she will be back later, to prepare scripts for an audio session tomorrow. And look who’s there!’ I go on in the most patronizing tone I can muster. ‘It’s Linda! She will stay at her desk for a while, filling in music details and finishing paperwork that accompanies every promo, but she may be gone this afternoon, to a meeting with a graphics company. We don’t know when she’ll be back . . .’ I look at the guy. ‘Can you see where I’m going with this? This office is not a call centre in Staines. It is not an accountancy firm. It’s an evolving, creative environment. It’s difficult to predict “employee moves” as you put it. It’s impossible to implement any computerized space-management system. So why don’t you kindly gather all your colleagues, tell them to pack their clipboards and leave this office right now. And when you get back to your own no doubt highly organized workspace, you can tell whoever is in charge to put their centralized repository where a suppository normally goes. Have I made myself clear?’

  The guy nods and backs out of my office. I can see him talking to the other suits, then they all pack their clipboards and leave. A result. I sigh with relief, pick up my phone and ask Claire to bring me a double skinny latte from the canteen downstairs. My head is pounding and my bladder is bursting from all the coffee I drank at home. I dash to the toilet, where I catch sight of myself in the merciless bathroom-light-special mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my face puffed up, and my hands are shaking. The blouse I put on this morning is the wrong shade of hangover green. It’s going to be a tough day.