by Mark Burnell
Iain Boyd said, ‘I don’t get visitors out here in the middle of the night.’ Petra saw him squint at her through the rain. ‘What are you doing here?’
* * *
Warm and dry, she was still shivering. The physical numbness had gone but, mentally, Petra remained frozen. An hour had passed. They were sitting in Boyd’s kitchen. He was preparing another cup of sweet milky tea for her. Swathed in blankets, she stared vacantly at the temperature gauge on the front of the Rayburn.
Boyd set the mug on the table and sat down beside her. Steam rose into her face and she welcomed the wet heat.
‘What happened?’
Petra met his gaze but was mute, a condition that endured for the rest of the night. He stopped questioning her but continued to talk, telling her how the summer season had been, how he continued to climb the rock faces on which she had excelled, how the recent weather had been colder and wetter than usual. She heard him but wasn’t listening.
* * *
It was dark and cold when she awoke. She felt sick, the leaden cramps forcing her to stay in her foetal curl. She stared into the gloom, seeing nothing, feeling nothing.
The realization that she was the architect of her plight was what numbed her most. Alexander had been true to his word. He’d tried to dissuade her from following this path. He’d warned of the horrors ahead and of there being no escape. He’d actually pleaded with her to choose a real life over this. But, of course, she had known better. She was prepared for anything. How arrogant that now seemed. The bleakness that cloaked her was as inevitable and inescapable as the fate that awaited her. She was tied to Alexander until Khalil was dead and there was no way out.
For two days, she was adrift. Sometimes, she felt the crushing weight of depression in a quite physical way; it was hard to stand, hard to breathe, impossible to resist. She withdrew into herself, shutting out the world. The retreat to the comfort of the womb was a sensation she knew well. It was an act of desperation.
* * *
Daylight on the third morning brought more rain. Ferocious and icy, driven by wind, it was typical of the season and region. Petra dressed in the spare clothes that Boyd had left in her room on the first morning; old jeans that were slightly large for her—but that were definitely too small to be his—a T-shirt, a thick wool shirt and a bulky roll-neck jersey. Petra assumed the garments had belonged to Boyd’s wife.
When she’d opened her eyes on the first morning, she’d been surprised by her surroundings. It took time for the details of the previous day to filter through the memory’s sieve; the panic, the urge to run, the choice she’d made. Boyd. An odd choice, perhaps, since Boyd was one of them. And yet, at the same time, she’d felt she could trust him. She’d flown to Inverness and taken a train to Lairg, from where she’d caught a bus bound for Durness. The driver had been concerned when she insisted on being dropped at the roadside. He’d fretted about the weather and the darkness but she’d been adamant. She’d waited until the red tail lights had vanished into the night, before setting off down the rough track towards Boyd’s loch. In her mind, these details, though fresh, were blurred.
Emotionally, she had been too scattered for reason or clarity. For the first two days that she spent in Boyd’s care, this confusion persisted. Her ability to concentrate was non-existent. She found herself swinging between states of extreme agitation and complete lethargy. Boyd appeared to recognize the signs; he never pushed her with questions or instructions. Instead, he seemed content to be patient.
Now, on the third morning, they were in the kitchen again. Boyd was preparing the porridge that she had once found so repellent but for which she now had a nostalgic craving. His back was turned to her. She said, ‘I thought I could live this way but I was wrong.’
He didn’t turn around. ‘What happened?’
‘Do you know about New York?’
‘No.’
‘Have you contacted Alexander?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘I don’t know.’
She saw that her hands were trembling. ‘I don’t have the nerve for it. Not when it matters.’
Boyd turned around and set a bowl in front of her. ‘Here. Eat this.’
She looked up at him. ‘I’ve got to disappear.’
‘Eat.’
As she always had, she obeyed Boyd, who watched her. He made tea for both of them and when she had finished her porridge, he said, ‘Now tell me about New York.’
She described the operation in detail, starting with Serra, ending with Alexander. Boyd was silent throughout and, by the time Petra had finished, half an hour had elapsed.
‘You can’t just disappear, Stephanie.’
‘Why not? The world’s big enough.’
‘You know why not. Your brother, his family.’
‘But would Alexander really go that far?’
‘It’s not beyond him.’
Petra buried her face in her hands and muttered, ‘Christ, what a mess.’
‘You’re not the first person to be in this position.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘It’s not supposed to. I’m just saying that you’re not alone. Losing your nerve was natural. Under those circumstances, it was the right thing to do. It shows you’re human.’
‘I didn’t think I was supposed to be human.’
‘You’re not. But if I were you, I wouldn’t regard that as a failure.’ Petra frowned. ‘Whose side are you on?’
* * *
They were in Boyd’s Land-Rover on the road between Durness and the Laxford Bridge. It was early afternoon, not long before dusk. Petra gazed out of the window at the rust and lead of the surrounding peaks and passes.
‘My parents would have loved it up here.’
Boyd made a sound beside her that suggested doubt.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.
‘That they might’ve liked it here, but only for a week or two a year. That’s what people really mean when they say that.’
Petra was irritated. ‘How would you know?’
‘Because living here fifty-two weeks a year is not the same thing.’
‘You worked that out all by yourself, did you?’
‘I’ve heard it a thousand times–’
‘But you never met my parents. I’m telling you, they could have lived up here all year, no problem. Just them, the land and the weather, perfect.’
A pause followed and then Boyd smiled, which didn’t suit him. ‘That’s what we felt.’
‘We?’
‘Rachel and me.’
‘Your wife?’
He nodded. ‘We were selfish in that way. We couldn’t have cared less about the rest of the world. We never wanted to be a part of it. We were perfectly matched.’
‘What about now?’
‘What about it?’
‘Now that she’s gone.’
He thought about it for a minute and then shrugged. ‘Now it doesn’t matter. Nothing does.’ He suddenly appeared oblivious to her presence in the vehicle. ‘When Rachel died, the best part of me died too. I’ll never get that back. I don’t even want to. So I’ll just stay here—the place where we were happy—and it’ll be enough.’
Petra felt his hurt in her chest. Watching Boyd bare his soul was distressing. Confession seemed to compound his pain and loss, not ease it. Then, as suddenly as this inner glimpse of him had occurred, it was gone.
‘You’re going to have to go back,’ he told her.
‘I know,’ she whispered.
* * *
The following afternoon, Petra opened the door to her flat. Among the envelopes on the floor, there was a piece of folded paper with Marina written on it. She opened it up. Marina, I don’t know what happened last night. If it was something I did that upset you, then I apologize. If you feel you can, call me. Frank. She screwed the paper into her fist and kicked the front door shut with her heel.
Befo
re taking a bath, she left a message for Marc Serra on the Heavens Above website, signing off, as usual, as V. Libensky. Serra replied three hours later, providing a Parisian phone number for her to call at midday. She left her flat at eleven, keen for a walk to clear her head.
She bought a BT Phonecard and called Paris from a phone-box.
‘My client is very pleased at the way things have worked out. It sends out the right message.’
Petra closed her eyes. ‘I’m glad he’s happy.’
‘The rest of your money will be transferred to the same account by the end of the week.’
‘Fine.’
‘He asked me to tell you that he is extremely anxious to work with you again. I was wondering whether we could meet to discuss it.’
‘I don’t form relationships. If we’re going to do more business, I’m going to need to know more about him.’
‘I think that could be possible now. I can’t guarantee total disclosure but I feel he may be more responsive than before.’
‘In that case, we can talk. Where and when?’
‘I’ll be in Amsterdam next week.’
* * *
‘I wanted to say sorry. And I wanted to get you something as a token of that. But I couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Then I saw these. I don’t know how appropriate they are, but they were so beautiful, I thought they’d do.’
Frank looked down at the lilies Petra was holding in her arms and said, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been bunched before.’
‘Then at least it’s original. That’s good.’
She offered him the flowers and he accepted them. ‘You’re right, they are beautiful. Thank you. Do you want to come in?’
‘No.’
Frank looked slightly taken aback. ‘Okay.’
Petra managed a smile for him. ‘Soon, but not now. I haven’t forgiven myself yet.’
* * *
Cyril Bradfield was wearing fingerless gloves. He saw Petra staring at them and said, ‘The central heating is broken. It’s freezing in the attic.’
She handed him an envelope and followed him up the stairs. It grew colder as they rose. On a work-bench, there were three groups of documents, one for each identity. As Bradfield opened the envelope and began to count the cash, Petra picked up a Canadian passport belonging to Jennifer Sommers, a native of Toronto. She saw herself in the sealed photo and then flicked through the pages. There were stamps for Malaysia, Thailand, Australia, New Zealand and several European countries.
‘I thought she might be a travel journalist,’ Bradfield explained, answering Petra’s question before she had asked it.
‘Actually, she won’t be. But thanks for the thought.’
Petra looked at the other two; Martha Connor, an Irish woman from Dublin and Claudia Neumann, a German. She sifted through identity cards, passports, driving licences, even a Dublin-registered library card.
‘When will they be complete?’
‘They are all at different stages.’
‘Can you have one ready by next week?’
‘Claudia Neumann, I think. Would she be all right?’
‘She’ll be fine. I’ll call to arrange a time to pick her up.’
‘By the way, you’ve paid me five hundred too much.’
‘No I haven’t.’
Bradfield smiled sincerely. ‘My discretion comes with the work. You don’t have to pay extra for it.’
‘Then think of it as a gift. It’s the season for it.’
* * *
On Christmas Eve, Petra found herself crossing Oxford Street at four in the afternoon. She marvelled at the crassness of the decorations and the sheer insanity of the congestion. There were roast chestnut vendors on the street corners. Department store doors were flung wide open like vast jaws, ready to feed on the shopping plankton that drifted through them. Slowly, Petra made her way through the mass of motion. Christmas. Since the crash, it had always been the worst time of the year. In the past, her regular clients had occasionally brought her a gift, usually one of the cheap perfumes that clogged TV commercial breaks in the run-up to Christmas. This year, though, there would be nothing, for which she was grateful because there was no mawkish sentimentality left in her.
Christmas Day was fine. She awoke early and followed her stretching routine before going out for a walk. London was empty. It was quite surreal; the only times she had seen the city so deserted was in films. She ate pasta for lunch and drank green tea. In the afternoon, she walked through Hyde Park, only returning to her flat as dusk descended.
Frank White was getting out of his car, as she turned into Clarges Street. She stopped and considered retreating before he saw her. But it was too late.
‘Marina. How are you? Happy Christmas.’
She returned the greeting. ‘So, where have you been?’
‘I was with my parents, the same as every year.’
‘Where?’
‘Near Marlow. My sister and her family are staying there so I just went down for lunch.’
‘That must’ve been nice.’
‘It was. What about you? I thought maybe you’d gone back to Belgium, or wherever…’
Where indeed. ‘Switzerland,’ she corrected him. ‘No. Not this year.’
‘How come?’
Her reactions were a little rusty. ‘Er, because … because I had meetings yesterday. And tomorrow.’
Frank raised an eyebrow. ‘Tomorrow? On Boxing Day?’
‘With some Japanese. It’s very important. It can’t wait.’
He slammed his car door shut and locked it. ‘So what’ve you done today?’
‘Oh, nothing much. A little work…’
‘Working on Christmas Day?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
They moved off the street and into the entrance hall.
He said, ‘Have you forgiven yourself yet?’
‘What?’
‘What you said the other day when you brought me those flowers.’
She was embarrassed. ‘Oh, that.’
‘Yes, that. Have you?’
‘Well…’
‘How about a drink? I haven’t had one yet and I could use one.’
‘You don’t have to…’
‘I’d like to.’
‘In that case, yes.’
It felt strange to be in his flat again. She saw the samples of beryl and apatite that she had held. She ran her hand over the oak table at which they had sat. The lilies were in a green glass jug, their heavy heads drooping sadly. Frank peered into the fridge, its light bleaching his face in the kitchen’s gloom.
‘We’re in luck,’ he said, producing a chilled bottle of champagne. ‘I got given two of these at work last week. I meant to take them to my parents today but forgot.’
Petra watched him peel the foil from the bottle. ‘I haven’t had champagne for ages. Not since my niece’s christening, I don’t think. That was when I was at university.’
‘Have you got lots of nephews and nieces?’
‘No. Only two. I mean, three. Actually…’
Petra’s heart stuttered. Wrong life. Stephanie was the one with a niece, a nephew and an unknown. The blunder was a shock. When she looked at Frank, she saw that he was waiting for her to finish speaking.
Nieces. Nephews. She selected mental files and got Petra. But she was Marina, not Petra. She searched again, found Marina, and opened the file. It was blank. Like an actress forgetting her lines, Petra found she had nothing to say as Marina, her character for this play. So she improvised.
She waved it aside. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘No, I’m interested.’
‘It’s really very boring. I don’t keep in touch much. You know how it is.’
Frank appeared to recognize that he was straying into sensitive territory and changed tack. ‘So, you were at university?’
She nodded and tried to remember whether that was the right thing to do.
‘Which one?’ he asked.
&nbs
p; Durham. That was the Stephanie answer. But what was the Marina answer? It was getting worse. Everything was fading. Alberto and Francine were her parents but where did they live? How old were they? Had they provided brothers and sisters for her?
Petra knew the answers but couldn’t retrieve them. She felt the panic in her stomach clawing its way up her throat.
‘Rome,’ she said, it being the first word that came to mind when the silence had become too awkward to endure. There had to be a university in Rome.
‘That can’t have been too bad.’
She would have sighed with relief but the next awkward question was already on its way. What course did she study there?
‘How come you’re so interested to know?’
‘How come you’re so reluctant to talk about yourself?’
‘I’m not,’ she protested.
‘The other night, I didn’t get anything out of you.’
‘And I didn’t get much out of you. As I remember it, we didn’t talk about a lot of personal stuff.’
‘True. But every time you asked me a question, I gave you an answer. Whereas every time I asked you a question, you skilfully avoided an answer.’
Petra looked hurt. ‘You’re exaggerating.’
Frank shook his head. ‘You’d make a great politician. But look, if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay–’
‘No,’ Petra insisted. ‘I do. Honestly, I really do. It’s just…’ A pause grew. ‘I don’t always find it easy, that’s all. But you can ask me anything.’
So Frank put the questions to her and she invented the answers on the spur of the moment, not caring that she might forget them when questioned again. She found the dishonesty depressing, which in itself was something new for her. Lying had become so deeply ingrained that she never normally gave it a second thought and the lies themselves never troubled her conscience. Or what was left of it.
To compensate for this unhappiness she drank her champagne quickly. And when the conversation steered towards safer, neutral territory she drank more champagne out of relief. Between them, they emptied both bottles. By the time she left Frank’s flat, Petra felt a little drunk. She awoke the next morning with a hangover and remembered something that had occurred to her the morning after her niece’s christening: she’d never liked champagne.
