by Patrick Gale
‘Quite. There might be a queue of the newly-bereaved waiting to use the place.’
They paused at the door to Marcus’s room.
‘Hang on,’ said Faber.
‘Of course,’ Peter agreed. ‘I’ll wait for you by the lift.’
He walked on down the corridor, which was busy now with the arrival of the evening meal-trolley.
Faber opened the door. The bed was empty. Stripped. The chain of Get Well cards had been removed too.
There’s tact, he mused.
The room was hot and airless. He tugged back the sliding panels of the window to let anything left of Marcus out into the night. This would be one of the rare nights when he dreamt of Africa. He stared briefly at the orange-lit view then went to join Peter at the lift.
‘I think these are yours, now,’ Peter said, holding out an overnight bag gaudy with international flight labels.
‘I don’t want them, whatever they are.’
‘Take them,’ Peter told him, pressing the handle into Faber’s hand. ‘They’re Marcus’s.’
Offered a lift back to Clapham, Faber refused. On Battersea Bridge he stopped to open the bag and found, amongst carefully folded clothes, a portable compact disc player, headphones and numerous discs. He moved on into the light from an off-licence window in Battersea then stopped again to read the titles. It took him a few moments to see how the machine worked, then he walked the few miles home listening to his father’s favourite music.
Twenty-Nine
Andrea was pacing her study with a dog-eared paperback swinging in her hand.
‘Why swell’st thou then?’ she asked in rhythm with her pacing. ‘One short sleep past we … We …’ She paused to cheat then thrust the book back at her side. ‘One short sleep past we wake eternally, And death shall go … Death shall …’ She stopped, glanced at the page a second then tossed the book aside and left the room.
When she came home, hot and frightened from her disastrous call on Candida, she had found that Peter was still not back from visiting Marcus. She had made a hasty, pulse-heavy supper, which was drying out now on top of the oven. She had helped herself to a couple of drinks, which she quite often did when he was not there, since it seemed unfair to drink much in his presence. She had rung Faber to tell him what she had done but there was no reply. She had tried ringing one of her older friends, a woman with whom she used to be close, but had lost courage and hung up when her husband answered. Driven by nerves, she had washed an indignant Brevity with insecticidal shampoo and conditioner. Newly bathed, Brevity was always wildly excited. While she danced from room to room, yapping and shaking dry her now absurdly fluffy pelt, her mistress went on to attack the master bedroom with hoover, dusters and lavendered beeswax. Her dressing table glowed and their shoes lay in rows of tidy pairs under either side of the cleanly sheeted bed. She wanted to change Robin’s sheets too, which surely needed it by now, but his door was still firmly locked. He always locked it and rarely answered her knocking so she could never be sure if he was in or out. She left his room in peace, then came across her copy of Donne’s poems and was sidetracked into carrying out Peter’s rather beautiful request that she learn one. Brevity had calmed down and was now trying to make a nest in the bundle of dirty sheets Andrea had dropped on the landing.
‘Shoo!’ Andrea shouted. ‘Shoo, you silly thing!’
She picked up the bundle and carried it down to the kitchen, hugging it close.
Supper had not been thrilling to start with, and now it was ruined. She shoved the saucepan under a running tap. The brownish stew mixture sizzled a second then was swamped. She dug around in the freezer, burning her fingers on the ice as she looked for something else. Peter came in at the back door.
‘Hi, darling,’ she began, ‘Where have you ..?’ then stopped, seeing that something was wrong. ‘What is it?’
‘Marcus,’ he said.
She hurried to meet him and held him close, his face against her neck.
‘Strange,’ she murmured, rocking him slightly. ‘I was just learning it.’
Peter pulled away from her and walked upstairs. She followed him to their room where they lay fully clothed in a smell of soap and clean sheets. He held her closely from behind. When she woke, cold in darkness, hours later, she found that their sleep had been like death and neither had moved.
Thirty
Candida was lying in wait. She had fed Perdita then taken her car and driven it fast to the South side of Clapham Common. Still with no particular plan in mind, she had walked to Faber’s front door and peered in through the window. There was music playing and she slid out of sight when she saw Robin crouching on the floor in a corner. She edged around the window and peered in again. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. Perhaps Faber had given him dope; most artists were hopelessly outdated and still smoked things. There was no sign of Faber. She watched until the music stopped and Robin suddenly stood up and began turning off lights. She hurried back to her car and waited, breathless, for what seemed like ten minutes.
At last he was leaving the studio. Through a gap in the threadbare hedge she saw him shut and lock the door. He came out onto the pavement and began to walk away from her. She started the engine and cruised forward until she was just behind him then she pressed a button that caused the kerbside window to wind down.
‘Psst!’
He walked on. Those long, long hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets.
‘Psst!’
Now he turned. He frowned then saw who it was.
‘Candy!’
‘Dobbin! You want a ride?’ She had drawn alongside and he was already opening the door. Fool.
‘I wasn’t really going anywhere,’ he said, ‘But sitting inside was driving me mad so I thought I’d kill time by walking. Let’s just drive. Where were you off to?’
‘I came to look for you,’ she said, glancing in the mirror then pulling out into the evening traffic. On hurrying back to the car she had dabbed on some scent but her hand had shaken with excitement and the car’s interior reeked richly of the stuff.
‘What a bit of luck,’ he said. ‘Nice car.’
‘Do you like it?’ she smiled, pleased.
‘Very. Where did you get it?’
‘Hamburg. Our fifth anniversary.’
‘Sexy. Can I have a go?’
‘What? Drive it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why ever not? Hang on.’
She pulled over, opened her door and walked round to his side while he climbed carefully over the gearstick. Without thinking, she had taken out the ignition keys. ‘Here,’ she said, handing them over before fastening her seat-belt. ‘Are you insured or anything?’
He started the engine and pulled them gently out from the kerb.
‘Not really,’ he said ‘But it’s all right. If a policeman stops us, you’re a star. Let’s just drive round and round the common.’
‘If you like.’
She let him drive her three times around the common then she made him stop and change places once more.
‘Oh. Do I have to?’
‘Yes.’
He relinquished the driving seat, walked round to the other side and, before long, she was kidnapping him.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ she answered. ‘South and fast.’
He didn’t seem to mind at first, lying back on the soft leather and playing with the radio, then some way beyond Blackheath he grew restless.
‘Faber’ll be back soon,’ he said.
‘I thought you said he was out for the evening,’ she replied, pressing her accelerator foot gently towards the horizontal.
‘I did. He was. But he should be back by now.’
She pulled off into a sort of lay-by picnic area with some trees. They were alone there. The only light came from a distant street lamp and the headlamps of rapidly passing cars. She flicked off the radio and drew a breath.
‘Dob.’
/> ‘Robin.’
‘Robin, listen. I made a mistake.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Kiss me?’
‘What?’
‘Kiss me.’
‘All right.’ He kissed her, softly but on the cheek, then sat back. ‘Can we go home now?’
‘Properly,’ she said, ‘Damn you.’
‘No.’
‘Please.’
‘No!’
She hated him for his chuckle. She turned aside and pretended to cry a little.
‘Robin, this is so degrading but I want you so much,’ she muttered.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Please don’t cry,’ he patted her shoulder and she found she wasn’t pretending anymore. ‘You know I like you very much. We’re childhood friends, remember? Oldest friends.’
She spun round and slapped him savagely on the cheek. A car flew by just at that moment so she saw the surprise in his eyes.
‘Don’t,’ he said.
‘Which?’ she asked slapping him again, ‘Cry or hit you?’ She slapped him a third time, much harder. He raised his hands to push her away but she grabbed his wrists and found herself the stronger. He was fresh out of hospital after all. ‘Kiss me,’ she said, ‘Hold me.’
‘Candida.’ His voice was maddeningly calm. ‘I really don’t want to.’
Again there was that mockery in his voice. With a snort of pure frustration she let go of his wrists, put the palm of her hand in his face and shoved his head hard against the window. He cried out, so, clutching his hair to pull him forward, she did it again. He said nothing this time. She had knocked him out.
‘Hell,’ she said, bluntly and lowered his head onto her lap. His eyes were shut. She had drawn blood. She felt its wetness on her hand then realised that it was her own where he had bitten her. With her other hand she reached to the back of his head and found only a swelling bruise. Quickly she undid some buttons on his shirt and slipped her hand inside to find his heart. Only when she felt it pump beneath her touch did she see the appalling pleasure of her action and pulled her hand away, almost ripping the shirt in her haste. She heaved him back onto his seat then pulled a lever to make it recline like a dentist’s chair. She saw he had not fastened his seat-belt and did it for him. Then she started the engine again, waited for a gap in the traffic and executed a swift U-turn towards London.
Just over eight years ago he had broken into her bathroom while she was taking a bath. Summer term or no, it was bitterly cold and wet. She had been revising solidly for six hours and was trying to soak away the stiffness in her neck and spine and to deaden the painful chill the library draughts had brought to her feet. The electric fire was plugged in and waiting on an old bentwood chair. When she got out she would crouch before it to dry her hair. The two other girls who rented the canal cottage with her were away for the weekend. She had locked the bathroom door nonetheless; a compulsive action, making the relaxation more complete. When she heard him shouting her name downstairs she realised he must have climbed in through the garden window with a broken catch.
‘Up here,’ she shouted.
‘Where?’
‘Bathroom.’
She heard him thump up the tiny stairs and along the corridor.
‘I’ve got to see you.’
‘I’ll be out in a second.’
‘I’ve got to see you now. Let me in.’
‘I can’t. I’m in the bath.’
At the first terrible thud as he ran against the door she had heard herself give a pathetically inadequate shriek of ‘Don’t!’ but the wood was old and damp, like most of the house, and he had burst in on the second.
Nakedness was common between them – they often shared a bed for companionship – but she still clutched up a towel, frightened at his uncharacteristic violence.
‘You’ve stolen him,’ he shouted. ‘Bitch!’
‘What? No! I didn’t. Look. Don’t be silly,’ she stood, wrapping the towel about her, cross because she hadn’t washed her hair yet. ‘What’s he been telling you?’
‘You’ve stolen him. He was mine. You knew it. I loved him, Candida. I still do.’
The most frightening thing had been his tears. They had known each other for over a decade and she had never seen him cry. His weeping was womanly, wild, without shame. It was with a lung-defying moan, like a child in a tantrum, that he seized the electric fire and threw it at the bathwater. Then everything happened at farcical speed. She screamed and jumped. Her leg struck the airborne fire and knocked it back onto the floor, out of danger’s way. Then, still shuddering with grief, he ran forward, snatched the fire up and jumped into the bathwater with it.
There was a thick cloud of steam and a smell like burning dust. Robin had fallen silent in an instant. She had darted on the flex and, with no thought to her own safety, tugged the plug from the wall. Furling her towel about her hands, she pulled him from the bath, letting him flop on the bathroom floor. Only then, seeing him lie there, soaked and white as death, had she panicked and run in a dressing-gown to the cottage next door where there was a telephone. An ambulance was called, with the police who seemed to feel they should come too. Dressed by the time they arrived, Candida was forced to greet them in deepest embarrassment. After making the emergency call she had sprinted back to the bathroom to find a small flood, a bad smell and no Robin. A search was put out, without success, and rather than leave it to the police, she had elected to call the Maitlands with the strange bad news.
She had half hoped, on calling them, that it would turn out that he had run away home to Clapham. He might, she dared hope, even answer the phone and laugh at her. It was only when he hadn’t and when, weeks later, a postcard from his parents let her know that Robin was safe and well and living in an island monastery, that she had accepted Jake’s persistent requests that she take him to bed and accept his hand in marriage. When Robin had burst into her bathroom she had been innocent of his charges except, perhaps, in her failure to inform him of Jake’s recent, embarrassing overtures. In marrying their mutual friend, however, she knew she was assuming a share of blame.
By the time she pulled up outside Faber’s studio, Robin was snoring heavily.
‘Robin?’ She said, trying to wake him. ‘Dob? We’re there. We’re home.’ He mumbled, and stirred slightly. She left him to wake up and went to find Faber. There were lights on but the artist took a long time to come to the door. He was obviously surprised to see her.
‘Candida!’
‘Faber, hello. It’s Robin.’
‘What’s happened?’ He was galvanised by concern. It made her sick.
‘Nothing. He’s all right. I’ve got him in the car. I picked him up to give him a lift and, well, we had to stop suddenly and he hadn’t done up his seat-belt properly and he hit his head.’
‘Jesus!’
‘No, honestly …’ she touched his arm and they hurried out to the car. ‘He was knocked out for a bit and …’ she tugged on his sleeve to slow him for a moment, ‘and I’m afraid it may have brought on a sort of funny turn. He went very strange and panicky, as though I was attacking him.’ He looked at her questioningly. ‘Andrea’s told me all about Whelm,’ she explained. ‘Poor Dob.’
‘I’ll put him to bed,’ Faber said. They stood by the car a moment, watching Robin who had fallen fast asleep again. ‘You’re not meant to let concussion patients sleep at first,’ Faber went on, ‘but if he’s snoring I don’t think he can be sleeping heavily. Do you mind giving me a hand?’
‘Of course not.’
Between them they walked Robin into the house and laid him on a sofa. Candida suspected he was wide awake and enjoying himself immensely. Faber covered him with a sky-blue blanket up to his chin, then the two of them stood and watched him a moment.
‘Where’s Iras?’ she asked.
‘At a friend’s. I should be going round to fetch her.’
‘Shall I stay with him while you go?’ she offered.
‘Oh. Could you?�
�
‘Of course.’ She touched his arm.
‘That would be sweet.’ He stopped and rubbed his forehead. ‘What am I saying?’
‘Faber? Are you OK?’
‘Yes. Not really. I’m just a bit tired. I’m talking nonsense. I’ve already rung Dodie’s and they’re hanging onto Iras for the night. Sorry, Candida.’
‘Don’t worry.’ She pecked his cheek. ‘I must go,’ she said.
He barely registered her touch. Infected with the same, oddly suspended state, she found herself sitting down instead of leaving. Just as she had re-run through her mind the images of Robin’s terrifying disappearance, so she now saw herself kicking Jake again and again. He was staring up at her. ‘Cunt!’
‘Faber, there wasn’t a crash,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have to stop suddenly. I hit him and somehow I knocked him out. I lost control. I’m awfully sorry. I’m a stupid coward and I’m sorry. It’s these pills you see.’
‘What?’ He had looked up suddenly.
‘Er … My doctor gives me pills for a sort of, well, for a hormone problem and they make my temper short if I take too many.’ He said nothing. He had already turned back to Robin. ‘Faber, are you all right?’
Robin snored softly.
‘Mmm?’ asked Faber. ‘Oh. Not really.’
‘Well …’
He came to himself with a jerk.
‘No. I’m fine. I’m just tired.’ Again he rubbed his head. ‘Of course you hit him. I knew that.’ He looked back at Robin briefly and chuckled.
‘How?’
‘Bump’s on the back of his head, not the front.’
‘Oh.’
‘He must have pushed you pretty far. I know how maddening he can be. He doesn’t know his own strength. He can be very cruel.’
‘Faber? I love him so much!’
‘I know. We all do.’
‘I don’t want him to hate me.’
‘Don’t be a fool.’ He smiled kindly. ‘You’re his oldest friend, his childhood friend.’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘You must go.’
‘Yes,’ she said, staring at the floor. ‘Yes,’ she said again more briskly, and hurried away to what might be left of her family.
