Thorn in the Flesh

by Anne Brooke

  What if that were true? Kate wondered. What if the man she was searching for was no longer alive? Did it actually matter? She was no longer sure. After all, she felt no emotional ties to him. Not in the way a mother should do, and certainly not in the way society expected. Especially in this child-obsessed age. Still, she’d started on this journey with the expectation that it would finish. One day. Somewhere. Why had she begun it at all? No. She shouldn’t be asking. That at least was obvious.

  The attack. And her survival. That was what had begun her private quest. It had made her think again about her life and, perhaps, why she was still alive after all. What had been unimportant and barely considered before was now of primary interest. Why had she chosen the life path she’d been on? She’d taken her degree, then followed it with postgraduate study, this in turn leading as if there were no other choices into the life of a lecturer at a good university. She enjoyed it, yes, the stimulation, the students, her colleagues, but if she were honest there had always been something lacking, something more she should have been doing. Now she was no longer there, she found she didn’t miss it. There had been a few phone calls and emails from the university, but in her replies she’d made no promises. Professor Dickinson had called every couple of weeks or so and left messages of support. Her job would be open in September if she wished to return. But did she?

  She rubbed suncream over her face and arms, poured a glass of lemonade, added ice, and took her chair into the garden. It was nearly lunchtime, a hot July day. She should eat something, but she wasn’t hungry. Opening her book – a novel by Margaret Atwood – she pretended to read, more for herself than to appease any neighbour who might look. Her thoughts would be clearer if she could focus, even half-heartedly, on something else.

  If she hadn’t become a lecturer, what else could she have done? Thinking back, she could remember no childish urges for any one profession over another. She’d never felt passionately about what her career should be. It had simply happened. There had been other things she’d felt passionately about. Her friends, the house she lived in, her environment. Even love, for a while. But that hadn’t lasted, had it? Her college affair and its aftermath had killed any thoughts of love. Instead she’d put her energies into her job and the responsibilities that came with it. All those years, she’d thought that had been enough. All those years, she’d heard her colleagues whisper about her intellect, her logic, her capacity for rational thought and decision-making, but never once had they talked of, or asked her, what her feelings might have been. No, that wasn’t fair. It was the impression of herself she’d fostered for so long. The choice she’d made. And how could they have asked about the other Kate, when she didn’t even know who that was? The professor might have guessed at it; he’d always been the closest she’d come to a work friend, rather than a colleague.

  She smiled as a female blackbird hopped in front of her, grown bold by Kate’s stillness. From somewhere further down the road, a dog barked. She took a sip of her lemonade.

  Had she been living a half-life somehow? Because of Peter? And Stephen? But no, even that was too simple an explanation. Her life was no-one’s responsibility but her own. And it wasn’t true that she had repressed her emotions and become an automaton. What about Nicky? The two of them had always been friends. Smiling, she hoped they would be so for ever.

  She blinked and the colours around her seemed brighter. The grass glowed a deep and shadowy green as the wind moved across it, the trees quivered with light, and the sound of the birds was melodic, rhythmic in a way she couldn’t remember noticing before. The sky also was a clear, piercing blue.

  Since the night when Kate had told Nicky about the rape, they’d only seen each other twice, once when her friend accompanied her to visit the private investigator, although they had spoken often on the phone. Kate felt glad of her support. And she knew she should return it. A couple of times she’d been on the point of asking about David, but something had stopped her.

  Shivering, she noticed the sun was now hidden behind a passing cloud and reached for her cardigan at the back of her chair. She finished the remainder of her lemonade and rested the glass on top of her book beside her.

  Nicky. Until recently, Kate had thought she had everything: a happy marriage, two wonderful daughters, a burgeoning career locally and, now, further beyond, stretching into more of the southern counties as her reputation grew. She was a good artist, more often lately an inspired one. Even Kate, who didn’t have an artist’s eye, could see that. And she’d always known she wanted to paint, even from a young age. That certainty of purpose was what she envied more than anything. Kate could remember Nicky in art lessons – if they could be called lessons – at school, her face a mirror of concentration, stroking her paintbrush across the bare sheet of paper and, unlike all the others in the class, producing recognisable shapes and colours and forms with ease. Her path had been mapped out for her even then, its journey simply a matter of time. How she envied that.

  But what would happen with Nicky and David now? She’d imagined they’d always be together. They were her family base. Her only close friends. Had she expected too much from them? But lately everything around her seemed out of place, as if the way the universe was built had shifted slightly and left her stranded. She had nothing familiar to rely on. Not any more.

  Collecting her book and glass, she left the chair where it was in case she came back later, and walked inside the house. As if it had been waiting for the signal of her return, the doorbell rang. When she saw who it was, she opened the door at once.

  ‘Professor Dickinson. Andrew,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  Five minutes later, Kate had installed her one-time manager on the sofa in the living room and was pouring him a cup of weak tea with lemon. They’d exchanged a few pleasantries, but so far he’d given her no clue as to the purpose behind his visit, though she thought she might be able to guess.

  When she sat down opposite him, he took an appreciative sniff of his tea and smiled.

  ‘Do you know,’ he said. ‘I think it’s the lemon that makes it special.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Kate smiled and sipped at her refreshed lemonade.

  They sat in easy silence for a minute or two, then Andrew coughed. ‘I imagine you must be wondering why I’m here.’

  ‘It’s not simply a social visit to see a friend and former colleague then?’

  Although she’d made the comment light-heartedly, the professor frowned. ‘Yes, of course. It will always be so, Kate. You know that. I wanted to see how you were getting on for myself. It’s not always easy to express the right things over the telephone, or even by letter. Sometimes – always – it’s important to see people too. No matter what this modern day and age would have us believe. I didn’t want to lose touch with you by default.’

  Despite herself, Kate was moved. She couldn’t think of anything to say in reply, but Andrew didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘More than that,’ he said, ‘I feel I’ve let you down.’

  ‘No, that’s not true. You’ve been very good indeed.’

  He shook his head, ‘No, I don’t think so. I should have called round like this before, but, to be truthful with you, I’ve been afraid. Perhaps I should also have rung you to let you know what I was planning but, again, I feared it would be too easy simply to telephone and not to call round. So, as you can see, I’m here.’

  ‘And I’m grateful. It’s lovely to see someone familiar.’

  ‘Good,’ he smiled. ‘I’m glad you see it that way. I was afraid that … that …’

  ‘… that it wouldn’t be right because you’re a man and, under these difficult circumstances, don’t know what to say to me because I’m a woman?’

  Kate never knew where she found the courage to make such a statement but she knew that simply because of the way the world was, it would always be true. Her companion put down the cup he’d been clutching and folded his hands into his lap. She saw him swallow.


  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, but yes, it is something like that. With all my heart, Kate, I don’t want to make things worse for you than they are. Please, believe me.’

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘And no, Andrew, you don’t make things worse. Whatever happens, and whatever gender someone is, a friend is always a friend.’

  Andrew nodded. After a few seconds, Kate put her half-finished glass on the table.

  ‘Would you like anything to eat with your tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said and the atmosphere lightened a shade or two.

  Kate waited.

  ‘What I’d really like to do, if I may,’ he continued, ‘is to have a chat with you about your resignation. A proper chat. Would that be all right?’

  Kate couldn’t help herself; she took a sharp intake of breath and stood up. She moved to the window. Andrew didn’t follow her so she allowed herself the luxury of a few moments’ grace. Outside, the sun was still shining and the wind had dropped. A small bird hopped silently across the lawn, but this time she couldn’t tell what it was.

  She returned to her seat. In front of her, the cup that she’d brought in for herself earlier on but hadn’t poured out was now full.

  ‘I thought you’d appreciate the tea,’ Andrew said, his eyes when he glanced at her shrewd but warm. ‘I’m happy with just one. But I’m afraid I don’t know if you take lemon.’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s all right as it is.’

  The hot liquid scalded her tongue, but made her feel more able to deal with whatever conversation might follow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘You’re not. I simply didn’t introduce the subject well. But as it’s now hovering between us like the great and proverbial sword of Damocles, may I continue?’

  After a second or two, she nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and paused before speaking again. ‘It strikes me, Kate, that when you handed in your resignation, I might have accepted it for the wrong reasons. I believed then that you needed to give yourself time to recover from the attack and I thought you would be happier with – what shall we say? – a change of scenery? While those things are undoubtedly true, and perhaps valid in your case, I’m not convinced that they are any reasons at all for leaving a job you enjoy and are extremely good at. Do you understand what I mean?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘But I don’t know whether what you say about my role as lecturer is true.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Kate placed her cup on the saucer in the middle of the table and sat back in her chair.

  ‘What has happened to me has made me think about things differently,’ she said. ‘It’s as if other events, further back in my past, have meant I went along the educational route and began lecturing, pursuing an academic career without my ever having considered if it was the right path, or even if it was what I wanted to do. It was something that simply happened, almost of its own volition. Can you understand? Yes, it’s what I was good at, I know that. I’m not a fool. But sometimes you can be good at things without ever wondering why you do them. Isn’t there more to it than that? To me, it feels as if I’ve been living a half-life, somewhere in the wings waiting for reality to start and I’ve been doing this job until that happens. I don’t mean I don’t enjoy it. I do. I love teaching, and being involved in the department’s research programme, and I’m glad when the students do well. But I don’t know … I don’t know … I wonder if there should be something more.’

  When she finished speaking, she knew it sounded so little, perhaps even petty. There was much in life that could not properly be expressed. She hoped her sudden wave of words had been filtered by her companion for what they were: a small symbol trying for the truth, rather than a damning of the role he’d nurtured her in. But when she dared to look again at him, he was nodding.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we’re all searching for something more, though I’m not a professor of philosophy. I think it’s part of the human condition, no matter where we are or what has happened to us, and is something we should be happy to embrace. It may not be to do with work, Kate. Though, if it is, I would of course fully support you, as far as I’m able, in whatever field you chose to enter. I would also want you to know however that if you decide you would like to take up your academic career again, either with us or with anyone else for that matter, I will of course be prepared to back any application you might make.’

  She stared at him.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

  And then there didn’t seem anything else she could think of to say. They chatted for a while about more mundane matters: the department and how the year had gone; the new Vice-Chancellor’s appointment; Andrew’s latest grandchild; her own recent holiday.

  After twenty minutes or so, he sighed, stretched himself and smiled at her. ‘I’d better go. I get into trouble if I’m late for tea. My son and his family are coming. Patricia will find some use for me in the kitchen, I’m sure.’

  She walked with him to the door, his frame obscuring her view.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘You have a letter. I didn’t hear it arrive, did you?’

  She shook her head and looked down. On her doormat was a plain white envelope with her name scrawled across it. It had no stamp. For a moment time seemed to stop and the air grew heavy. When she didn’t move, her companion, bending with a little awkwardness, picked it up and handed it to her.

  Still she said nothing and he gave her a puzzled look. ‘Kate? Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Really, I’m fine.’

  She met his frown with as open a smile as she could muster and, after a few moments, he spoke again.

  ‘I’ll say goodbye for now then. But I hope you’ll think about what we’ve spoken about,’ he said. ‘And I hope I may call on you again, whatever you decide.’

  ‘Of course,’ she murmured.

  Just before he left, Andrew patted her gently on the arm, although she could barely feel it.

  ‘You have to remember, you see,’ he said, ‘that sometimes we fall into what turns out to be right for us, simply by means of being best suited for it. It doesn’t mean that path will be easy, but it does mean it shouldn’t be abandoned without thought and time. Sometimes we find we’re already in the thick of the play without ever realising the curtain has been raised.’

  Then he was gone, and she was left watching his tall, slightly stooped figure lolloping along the path, the letter in her hands burning into her skin.

  Fingers trembling, she tore open the envelope and tugged the contents free. The message didn’t surprise her.

  I know what you’ve done, you bitch, it said. And this time I’ll make you suffer. For real.

  What did surprise her was her own reaction. And, with it, an underlying, unthinkable truth.

  She leant against the door, closed her eyes, which felt hot and dry, and whispered, ‘So. You’re still alive then. Aren’t you?’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The first thing Kate saw when she walked out of Charing Cross tube station was the flux of people milling across the forecourt and street in front of her. She hesitated for a moment at the entrance, orientating herself and taking in the shouts, the laughter, the smell of stale bodies and drink. As she stood, she was pushed from behind and a further stream of flesh flowed past her and melted into the crowds.

  Wednesday evening. Perhaps she shouldn’t have come, but it was her best chance of making contact.

  For a few seconds, her feet might have turned round and moved against the tide, taken her back to where she came from. But, after what she’d admitted to herself, even that was no longer home.

  So she drew her coat closer around her although it wasn’t cold. The rustle of the letters in the inner pocket made her shake her head and begin to walk forward again. Stepping onto the Strand was like stepping onto some vast and dangerous stage, filled with the dark shapes of bit-players
whose lines she didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Tonight she would have to make up her own lines.

  She crossed the road and turned left, making her way towards the church at the corner of Trafalgar Square. Groups of people strolled past her, laughing, talking, on their way out to a good time, or perhaps on their way home. It was nearly 7pm. As she neared the Square, she could see the statue of Nelson towering over the noise and traffic, the space and squalor. Scattering of people in ones or twos – not the social groups of a minute or so before – clung to the sides of the pavement and the shadows on the walls. As she passed, one or two of them fell silent and she thought they might have been watching her progress, though none made a move to follow.

  At the gap in the steps she slipped through and down into the darkness of St Martin’s crypt. She spoke to the first young woman she saw and, after the conversation, stumbled out into the evening again, this time heading left to Adelaide Street. A few minutes later, she found herself in the centre for homeless young people, squeezed into an office so small it might have been created from a cupboard and sitting opposite a thin middle-aged man with tired brown eyes and a cautious smile, who introduced himself only as Les.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he said. ‘As you can see, we’re very busy.’

  Kate nodded. She could hear shouts in the corridor outside, a series of curses, some muttered and some less restrained, and heavy footsteps passing, followed by the low tones of someone speaking calmly. From further away, she heard the sound of someone else – a woman – laughing. The man smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Even though it’s a weekday night, this is how it is. Now, how can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking for my son,’ she said.

  She told him the story. Simply the bare outlines, nothing of the hum of emotion beneath. It didn’t seem right to fill out the bones of her history here, both because he was a stranger and because the other stories this man must hear, day after day, would be far more horrifying.