Summer Lies Bleeding

by Nuala Casey

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd.

  55 Baker Street

  7th Floor, South Block

  London

  W1U 8EW

  Copyright © 2014 Nuala Casey

  The moral right of Nuala Casey to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  PB ISBN 978 1 78206 350 6

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78206 351 3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  You can find this and many other great books at:

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  MONDAY, 27 AUGUST 2012

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  TUESDAY, 28 AUGUST

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  WEDNESDAY, 29 AUGUST

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  MORE ABOUT NUALA CASEY

  ALSO AVAILABLE

  Nuala Casey graduated from Durham University in 2001 and moved to London to pursue a career as a singer-songwriter. However, her experiences living in Soho, where she chronicled the comings and goings of the people around her, took her life in a different direction. She went on to work as a copywriter and was awarded an MA in Creative Writing. London and the voices of the city continue to provide inspiration for her writing.

  Web: www.nualacasey.com

  Twitter: @NualaMaeveCasey

  Facebook: Nuala Casey Writer

  For my son, Luke

  ‘We shall find peace.

  We shall see the sky

  sparkling with diamonds’

  Anton Chekhov

  PROLOGUE

  March, 2013

  It feels good to be back by the water, despite the solemnity of the day. She has seen plenty of lakes in her time, but there is something about this one that makes her want to stay, linger for a few moments while the rest of the guests scatter across the deep expanse of parkland, like tiny specks of light bouncing off the spindly branches of the horse chestnut trees.

  As she sits she thinks of the lakes of her childhood, the clear, crisp waters of past summers; those fertile depths brimming with salmon and wild trout that had cleansed more than just her body. John the Baptist had cleansed the faithful in one, and those stories of baptism and rebirth that she had loved so much as a child are particularly appropriate today. As she closes her eyes and feels the cool water slip through her fingers it seems there is still a chance, despite her past, that she can be reborn; can start again.

  Beyond the lake, across the dense blanket of trees flows the mighty Thames, the river of dreams and heartbreak; reflecting the city’s image like a distorted mirror. Who knows what violence it has witnessed over the ages, what secrets it carries in the depths of its black waters?

  She watches as a familiar figure makes its way across the grass. Rising to her feet, she waves her hand and feels a surge of energy go through her – like an electrical current flowing from the lake into her veins. She has been released; she is free from the pain of her past and the tyranny of memory. In Celtic mythology a lake had saved the legendary Fiann MacCumhaill from the jaws of a wild boar by appearing out of nowhere and swallowing up the savage beast. And now, released from her own demon, she can breathe. Seb was right; the lake was a saviour, guarding against evil and despair; a place where lost souls could come and find their way. As the first drops of rain start to fall, bouncing off the glassy surface and sending little spurts of diamond light spluttering into the air, she knows that, this time, she will not have to run for cover. She is safe.

  MONDAY, 27 AUGUST 2012

  1

  Paula said she would take the train to London. Stella would go in the car. It would do them good to travel down separately, she said; give them space to think.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ says Paula, as she hurriedly kisses Stella’s cheek and throws her pale blue travel bags into the boot of the taxi. ‘But enjoy the drive, and don’t spend the whole journey worrying. I know what you’re like. Oh, and I’ve put the plants in the boot. I’ve padded out the crates but they’re delicate little creatures, so no sharp turns okay?’

  Her eyes twinkle in the pale afternoon sun as she climbs into the passenger seat. ‘Don’t look so serious, Stella,’ she says, as she clicks the seatbelt into place. ‘It’s all going to be fine. It’s just a few questions this time, and I’m the one who will have to do the icky bit, but then … then this could be it. This could be the start of our family.’

  Those eyes again. So bright with hope Stella can barely look at them. It feels like they are boring into her, like a searchlight, exposing her, making her vulnerable and naked, standing there on the street.

  ‘I’d better get back inside,’ says Stella, the words coming out rather more brusquely than she intended. ‘I’ve got a long drive ahead …’

  Paula looks up at her with an expression Stella recognises immediately. It is a look she has become accustomed to over the years, though it is so subtle that an outsider would never even notice. It is uncertainty mixed with fear; fear of Stella’s unpredictability, of the part of her that will always be an enigma, a strange, exotic creature who will never be tamed no matter how many retreats she is sent on, or cups of camomile tea she is forced to drink. Paula’s eyes, just moments ago so full of hope and longing, stare unblinkingly out of the open window, silently pleading with Stella, willing her not to back out of this.

  ‘Come on, angel,’ says Stella, gently stroking Paula’s arm. ‘You’re right. It’s all going to be fine.’

  She can tell Paula is not convinced by this show of chirpiness; her face looks small and creased as she winds up the window and mouths her goodbye.

  As the taxi begins to pull away, Stella turns to go back inside, angry with herself for leaving it like that, for making Paula feel bad, but as she walks up the path, an excited voice, almost childlike, small and distant as though carried on the breeze, calls out thinly above the noise of the street.

  ‘I love you, Stella,’ it cries. ‘I love you.’

  And Stella feels it. She feels it so deeply, she can barely breathe.

  *

  The solitary man making his way down the aisle draws little attention from the smattering of passengers on the 13:30 to King’s Cross.

  Short brown hair, average height, a chunky body in loose-fitting black jeans and a baggy, hooded sweatshirt, his expression is tense, but his red
eyes could be those of any man in his late-thirties. He could be a sleep-deprived new father or be battling the after-effects of a heavy night’s drinking with the boys. He is as ordinary as the blank, beige interior of the train as he shuffles through the carriage, his eyes darting from left to right, looking for his seat.

  Early afternoon had seemed a good time to travel; empty carriages, silence, space to think. This one, Coach D, the ‘quiet coach’, looks like a good place to spend the next three hours. He will need the silence to order his thoughts, to plan his itinerary, to make sure everything is followed through to the letter.

  ‘Yes,’ thinks Mark Davis, as he slides into 54A – a forward-facing, window seat – placing his light-coloured rucksack next to him and a long, black canvas bag carefully onto the luggage rack above his head, ‘This will be the perfect place.’

  His phone rings in his pocket. He takes it out and sees ‘Mam’ flashing on the screen. He switches it off and puts it back into his pocket. There is nothing more to say now. The talking is over.

  He reaches across to his rucksack and pulls out a slim, silver iPod. Placing the headphones in his ears, he scrolls through the playlist, looking for the right piece of music to carry him along; to keep him motivated. He pauses at Track 10 on his list of favourites: the song his father used to play over and over when he was a kid.

  ‘Look after your Mam and Zoe,’ his dad had said, as he lay hooked up to tubes, dying of cancer at just thirty-eight. ‘You’ll have to be the man of the house now. You’ll have to be my eyes and ears. You won’t let me down, will you son?’ He was only nine when his dad died, but he had taken his responsibility seriously. ‘Don’t trust anyone,’ his dad had always said, so he didn’t.

  His father had been a soldier but in the end it was cancer that claimed him – the unseen enemy. His had not been a glorious death on the front line, or the battle field. It had been slow and painful and drawn out, and Mark had sat by his bed and watched as the big strong man faded into nothing.

  He leans back into his seat as the slow, haunting opening bars of Lorraine Ellison’s ‘Stay With Me Baby’ seep into his ears like a lullaby.

  He closes his eyes as the train pulls out of Darlington Station and heads south. His sister’s face is there. It is as clear and vivid as one of the last times he’d seen her, standing in their mother’s tiny white living room with a fake Burberry suitcase in her hands. Off to London with nothing but her dreams and a few flimsy dresses, what sort of protection was that? She mouths the words of the song to him then throws back her head and laughs; her big, wide smile as warm and dazzling as the sun.

  She had died alone, he tells himself. She had died all alone, with no one to help her; no one to hold her hand. He had let her down; let his dad down.

  He opens his eyes and clenches his fists, the deep red ink of the George Cross tattoo turning pink as the skin stretches across his knuckles.

  He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a newspaper cutting. A handsome blond man smiles out of the page. He sits in an art gallery surrounded by his collection of work: large oil paintings of women; of roses and sunsets; athletes and newspaper sellers; paintings that, according to the article, sell for thousands of pounds. In the interview, he gushes about his expensive flat overlooking Battersea Park, his cute six-year-old daughter and his beautiful wife.

  It is a gift, the interview, and when Mark saw it as he sat in a barber’s in Middlesbrough he couldn’t believe his luck. The bastard had handed it to him on a plate. Names, locations, times and dates – it was all there. The man’s wife was launching a restaurant in Soho and there was going to be a grand press night on 29 August; every detail of it was there in the newspaper article. After all this time, Mark had found his war and it would be fought on the streets of Soho. Cheers, he mutters, staring at the face in the picture.

  He switches the iPod to its highest volume and sits up straight. The song rises to its crescendo like a serrated knife cutting into his consciousness. If he is to carry out this plan, he will have to be focused, he will have to be cold. He will have to become a warrior.

  *

  Stella closes the door behind her and breathes in the tranquility of the empty house. Walking through the dark panelled hallway towards the kitchen, she luxuriates in the silence; the only noise, her shoes clicking on the stone floor and the whispery echo of her breath.

  It doesn’t seem right, this silence. For the five years they have lived here, from the moment they hauled their belongings through the door and said ‘this is where we are going to be,’ this tiny, honey-coloured cottage has been filled with noise.

  The crackle of Radio 4 as it pours out of Paula’s ground floor workroom; the yapping of Pip, their Jack Russell, and the pitter-patter of his feet on the floor; the whistle of the kettle and the ping of the oven as it finishes cooking another of Paula’s delicious lunchtime concoctions. Gentle noises, reassuring noises, the kind that couples and families the world over take for granted: the noises of home.

  Stella stands in the kitchen, illuminated in an egg-yolk glow as the afternoon sun begins to wane. She looks out of the window and sees Paula’s pride and joy: a meticulous recreation of an Andalucian herb garden. It feels odd looking at it now, knowing that Paula is not here, that she is hurtling back to a place Stella has only ever returned to in her dreams. She looks impotently at the rows of herbs and notes how strange they look, like a group of orphaned children lost without their mother.

  To Stella, the herbs are just a tangled mass, wild and out of control. She has little affinity with gardening and would be at a loss to identify more than a handful of the myriad plants that occupy every last square inch of the small walled garden, let alone point out their healing properties as Paula can.

  Nonetheless, herbs, once so alien to Stella, have now become an integral part of her daily life. If she has a headache, Paula will place sprigs of lavender under her pillow; if she is restless there will be a cup of camomile tea waiting for her in the kitchen. In the sticky heat of summer, there are sticks of cinammon hanging from the beams in the kitchen to ward off wasps and flies; in the dark, damp days of January and February there are tinctures of echinacea to soothe their coughs and colds. For every ailment, every problem, there is a plant to soothe it.

  The only herb-free area is her study, high up in the eaves of the house, away from all distractions. Just her books and notes, her soft, high-backed reading chair and the spiders webs that cluster outside her window; all the things that bring her peace and calm. The webs have become a kind of talisman for her since she was told by an old lady high in the mountains of Andalucia that the spider helps tejedores de palabras – weavers of words. On misty November days, when the dew and moisture cling to the webs like tiny diamonds, she remembers the lady, the mountains and those words and she thinks about southern Spain with its blistering heat, its hardy people, its white towns and villages spread out like the icing on a wedding cake; the place that gave her nourishment, that brought her back to life.

  And now she is to return to the place that almost destroyed her.

  She walks up the stairs to the bedroom and sees her packed suitcase sitting on the bed. As she zips it shut, she runs over in her mind all the reasons why she should not go, all the fears and tensions that bubble to the surface whenever the prospect of returning is raised. But did she ever really leave? The monstrous tentacles of London have kept her in their grasp these past few years, tantalising her in dreams and teasing her with strange memories in her waking hours. She can be standing waiting for the kettle to boil or folding towels when, whoosh, she is back at another point in time. It is always Soho and it is always some insignificant moment. Sitting on the Number 19 bus as it crawls up Piccadilly; waiting to cross the road outside the Trocadero; paying for a coffee in Bar Italia. It is as though her brain wants to sort and compute her time in London for a particular purpose; to make sense of it in the light of what happened; what is about to happen.

  She lifts her suitcase off th
e bed and takes one last look out of the window. The pretty street lined with pastel-coloured houses, the great weeping willows and beyond that the grand Regency crescents with their creamy rose façades and elegant occupants; all so civilised and easy on the eye. It will still be the same when she gets back, she tells herself. Everything will be the same.

  As she walks down the stairs, she feels an ache in the pit of her stomach, a sudden sense of loss. She is about to drive away from this secure fortress and set about creating a whole new future and all on the hope of a one-paragraph email. If only she could be sure that all will be fine; if only she could reassure herself like she had reassured Paula.

  She picks up her keys from the table in the hall and opens the front door. It is mid-afternoon. The sun is dipping in the sky and she can smell the sherbet-sweet scent of honeysuckle as she walks down the path.

  Opening the boot of her car, she sees the terracotta pots of Moroccan jasmine plants that Paula has placed there like babies swaddled against a pillow of soft blankets. There is a note on top of the first pot with the words HANDLE WITH CARE in large red letters. She can hear Paula’s voice rise and fall beside her as she wedges her case cautiously by the side of the crates: ‘Drive carefully, Stella, no sharp bends, no sudden brakes. These are precious cargo, you know.’

  Taking a deep breath, she closes the boot and tells herself to stay focused on what lies ahead, what she has to do. Any doubt, any stumble, and she will walk back into the house and close the door. Then she will never find out how the story ends.

  So she climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. Back to London, a place so foreign to her now, she will need to learn its language all over again.

  2

  ‘Can we go the park first, Daddy?’

  Seb Bailey looks down into his daughter’s huge brown eyes and for a moment time pauses. The madness of the restaurant launch, the enormous pile of work still to get through at the gallery, the press releases, the VIP invitations, they all fall away. There is just this moment, this magic time as summer takes its last gasp and all that is demanded of him is to hold his daughter’s hand and be Daddy.