by Nuala Casey
Stella once again searches for the right response, then something within her disconnects. It feels like the power has been switched off. Can she ever make this right? She looks at the garden and realises she has been seeing it through Paula’s eyes; the trees and flowers, the herbs and hanging baskets, that’s not what had drawn her to this place all those years ago. She had sat in this garden with her ex-boyfriend Ade and the band while they smoked cigarettes and dissected their performance. She had looked up into the sky, looked above the white-washed wall and the tables and candles and flowers up into the London night and felt that somewhere out there, out in that great, monstrous city, her life lay waiting for her. Men and women, books and songs, experiences, words and laughter and music – they were all out there hanging in the air like apples waiting to be picked from the tree.
‘… tapas dishes and fresh fish … the most incredible spices … sumac and a gorgeous grain called freekeh …’ Paula is talking about the restaurant again now. Her face is back to normal, she is animated and alive, the edge has gone from her voice. It is like the whole exchange never happened, as though Stella imagined it all.
The waiter comes to take their dishes away and asks if they want dessert.
‘No, thank you,’ says Stella. She needs to get out of here; to be among crowds. It feels like sitting here in this too-perfect garden is almost tempting an argument. As the waiter leaves she leans over to Paula and smiles.
‘What do you say we go into town?’ she says, squeezing Paula’s arm lightly.
Paula looks shocked then a smile creeps across her face. ‘No, we can’t,’ she says, unconvincingly. ‘I mean it’s almost …’
‘Eight-thirty,’ says Stella and they both burst into giggles. ‘Christ. We’re like a pair of exhausted parents already.’
Paula leans across the table and kisses her; it’s a warm lingering kiss of a kind they haven’t shared for a long time. Stella feels a tingle of excitement trickle through her body; a mixture of the kiss and the promise of a London evening spread out in front of them.
‘Come on then,’ she says, standing up. ‘Let’s go. And we’ll get a cab, might as well travel in style.’
Paula giggles and they link arms as they weave their way through the glinting tangle of tables.
*
Mark feels lighter than he has in years as he stretches across the floor and drains the last can of beer. He looks at the woman who has kept him company for the past hour or so. It might be tiredness or the blur of the beer but she seems to have grown more and more radiant as the minutes have gone by. He is noticing things that had escaped him this morning. The piercing blue of her eyes, the contours of her cheekbones, the long, toned legs encased in cotton and denim, the hair, wild and messy like she has just woken up, the smooth pale chest peeking through the sheer cotton of her shirt. He can feel the blood building up in his groin and he shifts position, hoping she can’t see the lump in his jeans.
‘Think that’s the last of them,’ she says, holding up an empty can, and giving it a little shake for good measure.
‘It’s given me a thirst,’ he says, squelching his can into a compact square.
‘And an appetite,’ she says. She looks at him for a moment; it’s a quizzical look, as though she is weighing up whether or not to ask him a question.
He notices her looking and puts his hand to his hair. ‘What? Have I got something on me head?’
She starts to giggle, light at first then great snorts of laughter.
‘What?’ He is laughing too now. ‘You’re making me paranoid.’
‘It’s nothing,’ she says, regaining her composure. ‘It’s just you looked so funny just then, so … cute.’
The word hangs in the space between them like a diver perched on the edge of the board, wondering whether to walk back down the steps or throw himself into the depths of the water.
Mark smiles. The beer has taken the edge from him. When he thinks of why he is here, of Zoe and Seb and that filthy street, it seems like they are outside of him, outside of his head, connected to him by the thinnest of strings. He feels like the man he once was; confident and relaxed, working out his next move on this sexy young woman sitting opposite him. He had been a good-looking lad back in the day, he had worn his dark hair longer than it is now and girls would comment on his big blue eyes and long eyelashes: ‘Our Mark’s got eyelashes like spiders webs,’ his mam would say.
Sex was fun back then, it was a laugh, a distraction from work and real life. He thought about it a lot, it was what got him through most of his days, and he had amassed quite a collection of lads mags in his room, though he lost interest once Zoe got it into her head that she wanted to be a glamour model. He couldn’t open up one of those magazines without picturing her face in place of the model’s face. It made him feel sick; his kid sister spreading her body out for all to see. He was a lad, and he knew how other lad’s minds worked, he knew what they talked about when girls weren’t around. It appalled him to think that he might overhear the men at the factory talking about Zoe that way, poring over her photographs in a magazine.
A couple of months before Zoe left to go to London he met Lisa and by then his laddish days were well and truly over. They moved in together, got engaged and when she fell pregnant he took his pile of lads mags, dated all the way back to the late nineties, and burned them on a bonfire in the back garden. He was glad to put that part of his life behind him, he was going to be a father, he had met the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, everything was going to be perfect. And then they got the call.
He claps his hands together, dispelling the memory from his head. He is enjoying this moment, he wants it to go on for ever, wants to touch the woman in front of him, feel something resembling warmth and intimacy for the first time in so many years.
‘Cute,’ he says. ‘I suppose that’s a compliment?’
She giggles and puts her head to one side. She’s young, he thinks. Younger than him, but that’s good, he wants to be young tonight, he wants to do stupid, mindless things and stop the incessant noise in his head, he wants to have one night where he can forget everything that has happened and just be in the moment, the moment that seems to be passing in front of his eyes in a blur.
‘Come on,’ he says, pulling himself up of the floor. ‘Let’s go out.’
‘Out where?’ She looks rather confused as though she was expecting him to kiss her.
‘Out there,’ he says, pointing out of the window. ‘What do they call it? Twenty-four-hour party land? And we’re here in the middle of it. At the very least, we can nip out and have a beer can’t we?’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘We can have a walk, it will be nice. But let’s go to a pub, yeah? I hate clubs, I’m telling you this now, I am not going to any clubs.’
‘I never mentioned clubs,’ he laughs as he reaches across to the bed and picks up his wallet. ‘And I don’t think I’d be let in to any of the clubs round here, I’m too old.’
‘You’re not old,’ she says. ‘You’re mature.’
‘Ha,’ Mark snorts. ‘That, m’dear, is just a polite way of saying old.’
He ushers her towards the door with the crook of his arm and feels the warmth of her breath on his skin. He wants her, he wants her badly but he is going to savour the feeling, draw it out for as long as he can and then lose himself within her.
As they open the door, he remembers the bag. He is not sure if he zipped it up when he shoved it under the bed earlier.
‘I tell you what,’ he says to Liv as she steps out into the corridor. ‘You go on ahead and I’ll meet you in the corridor. I just want to charge my phone while we’re out.’
She nods her head and smiles and as he watches her walk away down the corridor he thinks she could be a hologram, a vision that only he can see. The bright light makes his eyes sore and he blinks the harsh colour away as he steps back into the room and kneels down by the side of the bed. The sudden movement makes silver stars flicker in
front of his eyes and the black bag looks like a cowering animal hunched up beneath the metal hinges of the bed. He reaches his arm towards it and, finding the zipper, seals it shut in one swift movement.
As he goes to stand up he stumbles slightly, the beer on an empty stomach has gone straight to his head. He sees himself in the small smudged mirror above the sink; his cheeks are flushed and the hood of his sweatshirt has got tangled up; he looks like a cartoon character. Then he does something he hasn’t done for a long time; he starts to laugh. A grinning red-faced fool looks back at him from the mirror but he doesn’t care. Tonight he will let himself laugh, he will let himself drink and fuck and forget; forget about the ghosts that cry out in his head night after night – his dad, his granddad, Zoe – they can be all silent for one night, and then tomorrow he will let them in again.
18
Kerstin follows the stream of bodies as they file down the stairs, desperately trying to bat away the urge to run, to squeeze through their bulk and escape. But she knows that she can only move in a forward direction now; she must stay close to Cal.
She feels Cal’s hand holding her arm, pulling her down. It is the heat that hits her first: thick stale air that sticks to her face, her arms, her legs as she pushes her way down the steps. After the heat come the smells: a thousand smells swirling under her nose, coagulating and merging into one another: BO; damp fibres; sickly-sweet perfume that lodges its odour deep in her throat and makes her want to gag; greasy fried chicken; soil; petrol fumes, the smells unfurl like noxious gases as the bodies carry her down, down into the depths of the earth.
At the bottom of the steps she feels the weight of the crowd dissipate and she is released into the artificial light of Green Park Station ticket hall.
‘Come on,’ shouts Cal, as he runs towards the turn-styles. But Kerstin is unable to move; her brain has turned to mush and a familiar panic rises from her chest. She has no idea what she is supposed to do next, no idea how this all works.
‘What’s the matter?’ Cal is walking towards her. He looks irritated; tired.
She looks around and her eyes alight on the small ticket booth and the line of people snaking its way from it. She sees a fluorescent jacket and her heart leaps; she looks again but the station guard is busy helping someone retrieve a ticket that has got stuck in the machine. He is not on his way to arrest her. But the police will be on alert; they will have her description; will be looking for her right now. It feels like a thousand eyes are upon her as she stands in the middle of the hall like a drowning woman.
‘I … I don’t have a ticket,’ she says to Cal; his face looks hard. Exhaustion, maybe. Perhaps this is the last thing he wants; having to babysit his nutty colleague for the night.
But Cal puts his hand onto her arm gently. ‘Oh, shit I forgot … you lost your purse. Hang on a sec.’ He leaves her and walks towards the ticket machines. Kerstin watches as he inserts his card then leans down to retrieve the ticket from the bottom of the machine. ‘Hurry up,’ she whispers. ‘Please hurry up.’ Any minute now she will get a tap on her shoulder, she just knows it.
‘Here.’ Cal holds out the ticket. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Kerstin looks down at the ticket. She has no idea what to do with it. She feels like a child learning to walk and she winces as a sharp stiletto heel catches her foot. More people are coming from behind; she cannot turn and run, even if she wanted to; the crowd would crush her; and if she did escape, then what? She has closed every door now; Matthew, Cologne, Chelsea … All she can do is keep moving.
She grabs Cal’s arm and grips onto it as they approach the turnstyles, then watches intently as he removes his arm from her grasp, flicks his wrist and walks through. Easy. But as she tries to replicate, something is wrong. She flicks the card against the panel, just like he did, but nothing happens; she feels the weight of people behind her, hears her blood thudding inside her head.
‘You got to insert it.’ A voice from behind; a woman’s voice, kind, without a hint of irritation. Kerstin inserts the card and the gates spring open.
Cal is waiting by the top of the escalator and as he sees her approach he steps onto it. She watches his dark head slowly descend as she waves her foot above the moving steps, like a child dipping its toe into a rushing stream.
Someone shoves her in the back and she grips the side of the escalator as the steps move beneath her feet. She is on and as she regains her balance she looks behind her and sees a young boy in a baseball cap grinning at her. ‘Don’t look down,’ he mouths and his face holds such menace in it, she turns round and does precisely that. She looks down at the vertical drop; the demonic metal monster that, in moments, will deposit her at the gates of hell.
Images streak past her as she descends: a green-faced witch with bright red lips; a silver neck tie that looks like a noose. She tries to catch the words on the posters but just catches parts of them: Wick … Fifty sha … Shaftesb … bestsel … Then the witch’s face again, and again and again and again, those red lips and the screams, incessant screams that are getting louder and louder as Kerstin reaches the final step and stumbles into Cal. .
‘Whoah there, steady,’ he says, as though calming a nervy colt. ‘You almost knocked me flying. Come on, let’s get the train.’
Kerstin holds out her hand and Cal takes it. She notices his look, the smile; he thinks she is flirting with him when actually she is holding onto him out of fear; holding onto him because he is the only tangible, solid thing left.
She holds his arm tightly as they reach the platform. It is packed and they have to squeeze their way through. Kerstin’s mouth is dry; she tries to concentrate on her breathing but no air seems to be able to reach her lungs; her head feels light as though only connected to her body by the thinnest of threads. And then it comes:
Sssssssssssseeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkkk …
A scream so loud, it cuts through the platform like a molatov cocktail, turning the ground beneath Kerstin’s feet to liquid. Her legs buckle, she can feel herself going. She hits the filthy ground with a thud, shielding her head with her hands, as though waiting for a blow; waiting for the bang.
‘Kerstin,’ She hears Cal’s voice, feels his hands around her back, pulling her but she mustn’t look up, she daren’t look up. She knows she has been caught; if she opens her eyes she will see the uniform; the hard face; the handcuffs. This is it.
As she gets to her feet, she covers her face with her hands which are shaking uncontrollably. She feels Cal’s arms around her waist, hears him saying something but she cannot hear what; her ears feel like they are full of sand. She feels movement, feels the familiar weight of people pressing down on her back. She takes her hands from her face and sees the thick metal bulk of the Piccadilly Line train. It was just the train coming into the station. She had forgotten what it sounds like; the screech of brakes; the air rushing onto the platform; the bullet-like speed.
Cal guides her to the open doors and they stand wedged up against each other, so close she can feel his heart pumping against her cheek. His chest is warm and his heartbeat so steady she almost starts counting. If she stays like this she will be okay, she can close her eyes for the six minutes it will take to get to Leicester Square tube. Two minutes per stop; funny what facts the mind retains.
Inside her closed eyes, she sees speckles of white light, flashing on and off, on and off. Then the lights expand, and seem to dance round her consciousness to a strange melody that fills her head.
‘Oh, here we go,’ says Cal, stepping back, and Kerstin opens her eyes to a brightly lit carriage. The music grows louder and louder until it feels like it is crawling up her spine.
‘Don’t catch his eye,’ says Cal, gesturing with his head.
‘What?’
Kerstin turns round and sees a young boy making his way up the quieter part of the carriage. He is playing an accordion, so big it almost obliterates his tiny frame. It is a slow, hypnotic gypsy melody, the kind used by snake charmers in old black and whit
e films. The boy’s face is half-hidden in the hood of his sweatshirt.
‘Don’t look at him,’ says Cal, but Kerstin cannot take her eyes off the boy. She watches as he walks towards them, his music momentarily drowned out by the announcement for the next station.
Cal gently guides her to the doors, but she wants to wait, she has to see the boy’s face before they get off. She twists out of Cal’s grip as the train pulls into Leicester Square station, and cranes her neck towards the boy, but he is staring down at the accordion. Look up, she wills him, as the train doors open. Why won’t you look up?
And then, in the pause between the train stopping and the doors opening, he looks up and the blood in her body evaporates. Clarissa’s face, dappled in liver spots and rouge, stares back at her from beneath the boy’s hood. Kerstin pushes past Cal and out of the doors, she darts between the commuters, cutting through them like a blade. She leaps onto the escalator, taking two steps at a time, she runs and runs, up the steps, through the turnstiles, thrusting her ticket into the slot, one, two, three times, until the gates part and release her into the damp air of Charing Cross Road where she stumbles into a side street and vomits so violently she almost passes out. When she is done, she stands up and wipes her mouth with the back of her sleeve, then presses her body against the rough stone wall.
‘Kerstin.’
She looks up and sees Cal.
‘Listen, you’re not well,’ he says, gently. ‘Come on, let’s get to the flat. It’s just a couple of minutes away. We’ll get you cleaned up and you can have a rest, yeah?’ He holds out his hand to her.
‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Honestly, I’ll be fine’
‘Well, you don’t look fine to me,’ says Cal, as they start to walk up Charing Cross Road.
As she walks, she realises she hasn’t asked Cal where he lives; she has no idea where he is taking her.
