by Camilla Way
‘Oh my goodness, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?’ she asks.
‘What’s that?’ asks Steven kindly, holding the door open for them both.
‘Oh, my mum’s always telling me,’ she wails. ‘I’m always doing it: going on and on and on. What must you think of me? Going on and on like that all through lunch.’
‘Not at all,’ Kate and Steven assure her at the same time, and continue to do so all the way back to the library, where, once safely ensconced in the depths of the archive room again, Daisy finally stops apologising, closes her mouth and, her face abject, doesn’t open it again for the rest of the afternoon.
That evening as she walks amongst the hurrying crowds towards Charing Cross, Kate’s thoughts return to Steven. Unbidden, memories of her old London life flood into her mind, images of the many different strangers in her bed, the transient comfort of their bodies, the brief reassurances they offered. And it occurs to her that sometimes when Frank holds her and tells her that he loves her she will find herself wondering, with a shock of fear, who it is he means. A cold sadness threatens her, and as if to escape it she quickens her pace, gripped by an overwhelming need to see Frank’s face.
As suddenly as they began, the phone calls stop. A week passes, and then another, and still the strange new silence persists. Gradually, hope begins to build within her. Could it possibly have been, as Frank said, down to a crossed line? A fault with the phone, and nothing more? Yes, she tells herself: yes – it must have been. A mistake, that was all, her imagination getting the better of her. The calls, the car, a horrible coincidence: her mind playing tricks, that was all.
Since that first lunchtime together Kate is careful to avoid Steven’s gaze. And when the following week Daisy suggests another trip to the café she deliberately keeps her eyes firmly on her food while she eats, refusing to look up when she feels his eyes upon her again. After a while, she notices that he does the same.
One lunchtime, sitting at their usual table in the corner of the café, Daisy asks Steven about his childhood. He stirs his coffee intently for a moment or two, without answering. He looks up with a smile. ‘Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid,’ he tells them mildly. ‘Only child – mum and dad both teachers. I grew up in Hove, near Brighton. Fairly ordinary upbringing – all a bit middle class and boring, to be honest.’ He shrugs and takes a bite from his sandwich.
Kate opens a packet of crisps, and tries in vain to imagine Steven as a small child. When she looks up it is to find the other two gazing at her expectantly. ‘What?’ she asks, although she knows what’s coming.
‘Well, what about you?’ asks Steven. The intense, piercing stare has returned, and to her surprise she thinks that she can detect a sliver of dislike behind it.
‘I, well,’ she flounders for a second, momentarily forgetting her stock answer. She looks away and at last recovers, saying with a light smile, ‘I grew up in New York. My parents died in a car accident when I was a teenager, so I came over here to live with my aunt in Kenton.’ She gives her usual end-of-conversation smile, and pretends to study the dessert blackboard over Steven’s shoulder.
‘Wow,’ says Daisy, impressed. ‘How romantic! I always thought you had a slight accent.’ She stops, a hand flying nervously to her mouth, ‘I mean, oh my gosh, I’m really sorry, Kate. That must have been terrible. I’m so sorry.’ Miserably, Daisy picks up the sugar bowl and immediately drops it, causing its entire contents of cubes to cascade across their table.
Kate checks her watch, smiles brightly, and says, ‘Well, maybe we should be getting back.’ She doesn’t look at Steven as she helps Daisy find her bag, which has somehow managed to wind up under a chair two tables away. But as she puts her jacket on her eyes flicker across to Steven, who is still looking at her with his cool, assessing gaze. She ducks her head and not waiting for the others, makes for the door.
May drifts towards its final days. June and July come and go. London sulks beneath vague skies, a grey, flat summer after the first bright promise of spring. In the basement of the Soho Picture Library the mountain of boxes has dwindled to a small pile. A holiday atmosphere has begun to creep into the archive room as the weeks of filing and data-basing finally crawl to an end. Across their workstations people chat loudly to one another about the trips they plan to take, the universities they will be returning to, the next tedious job their agencies have lined up.
One Friday, a few weeks before they’re due to finish at the library, Steven does not arrive as usual. As she chats to Daisy, turns on her computer and picks up one of the final boxes of prints, Kate’s eyes dart frequently towards the door. Finally she hears it open and turns to it expectantly, but it’s only Clive, late as usual. She turns back to her work, and when Daisy asks innocently, ‘I wonder where Steve is?’ she hears herself snap irritably, ‘How on earth would I know?’
More minutes pass and when he has still not arrived at ten, Kate, remembering that the following Monday is a bank holiday, is disturbed by the disappointment she feels at the thought of not seeing him for three whole days. At that moment, however, the door swings open again, and she sees his familiar form making its way towards her. She turns back to the computer screen, hiding her face, and says to him causally, ‘There you are. Daisy was beginning to worry.’
‘Fell off my bike,’ he explains as he takes his seat. ‘Fucking bus pulled out right in front of me.’ She keeps her eyes on the list of numbers on the screen as he rolls up one of his sleeves to display his wounds. When she hears Daisy gasp appreciatively, she cannot resist letting her eyes drop to the bloody mess of cuts and grazes that almost covers his left forearm.
‘Ooh,’ says Daisy. ‘You should put something on that. Might get an infection.’
‘Yeah, suppose I should,’ he says, disinterestedly. ‘What do you think, Kate?’
She doesn’t know what it is about his ruined arm that touches her so, only that the sight of it makes her catch her breath, and it’s all she can do not to reach over and trace its bloody terrain with her finger tip.
‘Kate?’ The sound of her name snaps her out of her reverie, and she stares into his questioning eyes. ‘Well? Do you think I’ll live?’
She smiles, at last, says, ‘Probably,’ and turns away. ‘Maybe you should stick some Savlon on it though.’ She knows that he is still watching her, as she opens the nearest box and pulls out a handful of prints to work on.
She hears Daisy say helpfully, ‘There’s a first-aid kit in the kitchen.’
Then: ‘You go with him, Kate, you know how clumsy I am.’
Her eyes meet his for a fraction of a second. ‘Great,’ Steven says, jumping to his feet. ‘Come on then, Nurse Kate. Heal me.’
She follows him slowly to the tiny kitchen at the end of the archive room, and finds him with his arm under the cold tap. She hesitates by the door, until he looks up and says, ‘Think the stuff is in one of the cupboards.’ He holds his arm out to her in a gesture that’s half childlike, half mocking. There is something in the tone of his voice, and in the odd way in which he’s looking at her that makes her turn quickly away to search for the first-aid box.
Gently she takes his arm and with a paper towel dabs the water from the wound. Her fingers circle his wrist and keeping it steady she rubs some antiseptic cream onto the graze with her finger. She doesn’t look at him, but her bowed head is inches from his, and she can feel his breath on her cheek. The room is entirely silent as she fumbles for a plaster, and places it gently on his arm. Slowly she smoothes the pink fabric over his wound, the tip of her finger touching, then, the fine skin of his wrist. She can feel his eyes on her, and at the moment her eyes meet his, a noise behind them breaks the silence, and Marcella breezes into the kitchen, murmurs hello, and begins to make some tea.
At home that night she takes a bath while Frank cooks dinner. She can hear him singing along to the radio as he bangs pots and pans around in the kitchen. She relaxes in the warm soapy water, her toes on the prongs of the taps, her hand massagi
ng soap into her skin. Suddenly, unbidden, the scene with Steven earlier returns and she shakes her head as if to dislodge his image from her mind, firmly ignoring the dark warmth that spreads over her naked skin as she recalls his breath on her cheek. Just at that moment the telephone rings. Instinctively she sits bolt upright, sending water cascading over the edge of the bath. It has been some time since the last silent call, but nevertheless the sound of its ring continues to make her jump.
She waits, motionless, until at last on the seventh ring she hears Frank finally make it to the hall and pick up the phone. She waits for his exasperated fire of ‘hello-hello-hello?’ For him to shout, ‘Look, who is this? What do you want?’ then bang the receiver down in annoyance. But none of this happens. Instead, she hears him murmur calmly into the phone, and then replace the handset, already humming to himself again as he returns to the kitchen. She lets out a long breath, and relaxes back into the water.
Later, wrapped in Frank’s dressing gown, a towel around her head, she finds him putting the finishing touches to the meal. She watches him for a few moments as he stirs a pot on the stove. On impulse she goes to him and hugs him tightly, feeling along his back with her hands, burying her nose into his chest, smelling his familiar scent. He hugs her back, kisses the top of her head then turns back to the stove.
‘Who was that?’ she asks after a moment or two, when she’s seated at the table.
‘Huh?’ he asks vaguely as he turns the heat down on the oven.
‘On the phone,’ she says, rubbing her hair with the towel. ‘Earlier,’ she adds.
‘Oh,’ says Frank. ‘No one. Wrong number. Can you pass me that spoon, please?’
She stops, her towel poised in mid rub. ‘Wrong number?’ she repeats, her voice suddenly sharp.
‘What? Oh yeah, don’t worry. Not our mystery caller this time. Just some old duck. Some lady asking for, uh, Emily, Elodie or something. Elodie Brown, I think she said.’ He turns to the sink to drain some pasta, and doesn’t see Kate’s face empty of colour, doesn’t hear her as she whispers, her voice faint, ‘Elodie. Elodie Brun.’ She puts her head in her hands, and feels the blood rush to her ears, the vomit rising in her throat.
That night she lies awake, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling while Frank sleeps peacefully by her side. In the moonlight she watches his body fall and rise, slow and calm with untroubled sleep. He had asked her again and again what the matter was, until finally she’d said she wasn’t feeling well and had gone to bed early, pretending to be asleep when he’d come in. Who had tracked her down? Who had found her? As she watches Frank sleep, panic rises in her chest. Tenderly, carefully she reaches over and strokes a strand of hair from his face.
At last, just before dawn, she falls into an uneasy slumber heavy with dreams. She’s on a crowded bus, hemmed in by strangers, their coats sodden with rain, the air hot and damp. Just as she is about to push her way through the bodies they press against her and she can’t move. She tries to shout but no sound comes, she tries to move but her legs won’t work. And then, finally, the driver turns to face her. But it is not the face of a stranger. It is Ingrid.
She screams, then, and tries to get up, to run, to pull the emergency lever – anything to get out. And then she realises that the faceless person by her side is Frank. ‘Don’t try to run, my darling,’ he soothes, his fingers tightening on her arm. ‘We love you, Ingrid and I. We all love you so much. Stay here with us, stay: there’s nowhere left to go now.’
Repelled, she writhes away from him and turning to the window sees Steven standing on the pavement below, looking up at her with calm, steady eyes. Then, suddenly, he turns and hurries away, disappearing through the crowded street, until soon it is as if he was never there at all. She tries to call after him, desperate for him to stop, but she can’t remember how, her mind is empty of words and when she opens her mouth no sound will come. And then she wakes, her body drenched in sweat, her heart ricocheting off her ribs, and she lies curled on one side, staring blindly at the radiator until at last the shriek of the alarm clock slices through the silence.
Later she pretends to sleep while Frank gets up and leaves for work. When she hears the door close behind him she dresses and frantic with sleeplessness and anxiety tries to decide what she should do. As she moves around the house there begins to creep over her the sensation that she’s being watched. She sits at the kitchen table and tries to calm down. But still the queasy sense of hidden, spying eyes persists.
From the other side of the thin wall that divides Frank’s terraced home from the one next door, she hears the neighbour’s child begin to play the piano. With one finger the unseen little girl plays the same nursery song over and over, finally adding her voice to the tune. It’s very soft, but she can just make out the words.
Run rabbit run rabbit run, run, run
Run rabbit run rabbit run, run, run.
Bang, bang, bang, bang goes the farmer’s gun
So run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.
Over and over the child sings the same simple verse, until it seems to fill Kate’s head like a persistent, nagging ache. She sits with clenched fists, willing it to stop until she thinks she might go mad with it. And then, suddenly, it ends as abruptly as it begun, and Kate exhales with relief.
The doorbell breaks the silence and she jumps. Staring down the hall she’s aware that she can be seen through the frosted glass of the front door and instinctively she shrinks out of sight of the dark form silhouetted there. After a moment whoever it is begins to bang the knocker insistently: a noisy barrage of brass on wood. Craning her neck she peers nervously again at the door, and it’s with a flood of relief that she recognises the blue uniformed outline of the postman. Dully, she gets up and white-faced, takes the package he hands to her, barely responding to his cheerful greeting as she closes the door in his face.
It’s not until she’s seated once more that she turns without interest to the small, square package in front of her and her eyes fall upon the address label. A swift, dark terror grips her when she reads the precise, black print there. Miss Elodie Brun, it says, and unconsciously she raises her arm and swipes at it, knocking it flying across the floor. In horror she gazes over at the small package sitting so innocently on its side in the corner of the room but she can no more bring herself to approach it than she could a ticking bomb.
And then, in a sudden desperate fury she rushes over to it and tears apart the packaging. Inside, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, is a small, wooden carving. Her legs grow numb beneath her, her hand flies to her mouth and slowly she sinks to the floor. It is the bird, her little wooden bird, carved for her so lovingly all those years ago by Mathias.
Lifting it from its nest of tissue she slowly caresses the fine, smooth curves, her fingers instinctively finding again the familiar grooves of its wings, the dips and hollows of its eyes and beak, its small body fitting as naturally as it always did into the palm of her hand. The seconds, the minutes pass unnoticed as she crouches there, on the kitchen floor with the bird. Gradually the room melts away, and bit by bit her senses become flooded with memories of smells, tastes and sounds: the low gurgle of the river, the wind lifting the branches, the smell of burning wood in the hearth, the profound peace at the heart of the forest the like of which she has not known since. She doesn’t even notice her tears.
The telephone’s ring wrenches her back to the present and she leaps to her feet, backing away from the noise into the furthest corner of the room. It continues to ring and ring, filling her ears until she can bear it no longer. ‘Who are you?’ she screams back at it. ‘Leave me alone!’ But still it rings, goading her, louder and louder until at last, dropping the bird and pausing only to snatch her bag from the hall, she runs from the house, slamming the door behind her, while the phone shrieks on.
She isn’t thinking clearly, knows only that she has to get as far away as possible. Blindly she heads for the station and jumps on a waiting train just before it pulls away. The jou
rney passes in a blur as she perches tensely on the edge of her seat, oblivious to the other passengers. At last the train pulls into Charing Cross.
In the library’s basement Steven and Daisy watch curiously as she takes her seat and turns on her computer.
‘There you are,’ says Daisy, after a pause. ‘We were starting to worry.’
Kate stares dumbly back into Daisy’s smiling face, and watches as her expression turns to one of concern, and it dawns on her how awful she must look with her swollen face and red-rimmed eyes.
‘Are you OK, Kate?’ asks Steven.
‘I’m fine. Just … a bad night’s sleep, that’s all.’
The day passes. The conversation between Daisy and Steven grows gradually more subdued until finally they lapse into a troubled, watchful silence. She barely registers them. Numbly she goes through the motions of her work as she tries to get her frantic thoughts into some kind of order, but always they return to the unknown menace that has crept into Frank’s home, infecting her hard-won happiness like a lethal gas.
When six o’clock arrives, one by one people start to leave the library. The lights are movement activated and as each workstation empties, the bulb above it eventually flickers out until at last all that is left is the one shining above their desk. ‘Well,’ says Daisy reluctantly, like a child who’s been sent to bed early, ‘I suppose I’ll be off.’ She hesitates and says, ‘Mum will be wondering …’
It isn’t until she hears Steven say goodbye that Kate looks up and understands she’s leaving. To Daisy’s surprise she finds herself suddenly clasped in her arms.
‘Bye Daisy,’ she says. ‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’
‘Sure. Of course. I’ll see you on Monday.’ Daisy stares with puzzled eyes at Kate for a moment, shoots a perplexed glance at Steven, then not knowing what else to do picks up her bag and leaves them alone.
When Kate turns to Steven his eyes seem to gleam at her in the gloom. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Kate?’ he asks, quietly.
