Summer Lies Bleeding

by Nuala Casey

  ‘What?’ Seb takes his hands from her shoulders. He isn’t really awake yet and he desperately needs to use the bathroom.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ says Yasmine. ‘Nothing at all. I better go.’

  ‘What time should I get there?’ asks Seb.

  She looks at him blankly.

  ‘To put the painting up,’ he says.

  Yasmine sighs heavily. ‘Oh, I don’t know, Seb, why don’t you just text me when you’re on your way.’

  ‘You said around ten when we talked about it yesterday,’ he says. ‘After I’ve dropped Cosi off at your mother’s?’

  ‘Okay, ten,’ she snaps. ‘Look Seb, I’ve got so much going on in my head with the really important stuff, I haven’t got the room or the time to think about your bloody drawings. I just haven’t.’ She picks up her bags and lifts the latch on the door. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ll see you at ten.’

  Seb stands in the hallway, shivering in his thin T-shirt and boxer shorts. He watches the door close, hears Yasmine’s footsteps clicking down the corridor, getting fainter and fainter as she departs. Her voice hammers into his head, like a car alarm, shrill and unwanted.

  Your bloody drawings. The months he has put into The Lake, the surprise gift he thought would take her breath away, a commemoration not just of the restaurant but of their love, the place where they began. That’s not like Yas, that sharpness. He knows this is a huge day for her, of course it is, but he feels himself stepping back into the shadows, taking his place in the wings with his frivolous ‘drawings’ while Yasmine steps out onto the stage.

  He tries to shake off the feeling as he walks into the bathroom and takes a pee. He flushes the chain then turns on the tap and splashes cold water on his face. As he lifts his head from the sink he sees his reflection beam back at him from the mirrored cabinet on the wall. Droplets of water cling to his face. He looks at the man staring back at him.

  His eyes look tired, with grey circles that have grown darker and deeper over the years, his stubble is flecked with white and his forehead is creased into a permanent frown. Thirty-seven. Not old, not by anyone’s standards, but not young. He peels off his T-shirt and steps out of his boxer shorts, running his hands across the contours of his body, this body that has served him these thirty-seven years, and despite all the abuse he has thrown at it, it has never given up. All those years of binge drinking, he should have the liver of an old man, but his doctor says he is in the best of health with a long and hearty life ahead of him, all being well. This body created a new life, that wild and bright girl sleeping in her bed along the hallway came from his flesh and bones, his blood runs in her veins, the history of his family is embedded in her DNA.

  Emotional pain, grief, is just like physical pain – while it is hurting there is no end to it, and when Sophie died, oh how he grieved, how he ranted and raved and drank and railed at the world, and while he was trapped inside that grief he couldn’t remember how it felt to not be in pain. But then one morning without noticing, it was gone, it had taken flight and he felt different, more alert, more alive. Yet the pain has left little reminders of its force, a scar upon the skin, a bruise upon the heart … His body has loved and hurt, mourned and celebrated, travelled through time zones, gone without sleep, starved and feasted, held and been held, and still here it is, here he is, standing on the threshold of another day of being him. The artist, the man who paints pictures, ‘bloody pictures’ that fade into insignificance beside his wife’s demanding world of staff rotas, time schedules, employee forms, pomegranate molasses and honey-roast almond pilaff.

  She didn’t mean it, he tells himself as he steps into the steaming fog of the shower, she was in a rush … big day ahead … big day for all of us. The hot water loosens his muscles and he slowly starts to wake up, his brain clicks back into life, reason and understanding return, bringing clarity to his muddled head. He will be there beside Yasmine today, as he always has been, as he always will be.

  *

  It is the heat that wakes her; claggy, dead heat that clings to her skin like a layer of film. Her head feels wet and as she opens her eyes and lifts her head the dampness spreads across the back of her neck, down her back, her legs, her feet.

  ‘Where am I?’ she whispers through thick, jagged pain that slices through her temples. The pain is so intense it takes her breath away and she lies back down onto the damp pillow and closes her eyes in an attempt to blink it away.

  And in the darkness of her closed eyes an image forms, pearlised and wavering like a reflection on the water: a pale wooden box falling from the sky, upsetting its contents into a scattered mess on the floor. And in that moment, she remembers, though at first it is more of a sensation than a memory; a feeling of deep unease.

  Slowly, she begins to piece together the events of the previous evening. She remembers drinking a glass of wine; she remembers Cal showing her to the room and she remembers standing in front of the cupboard and seeing a box and a cascade of items pouring from it onto her feet: her things. She remembers footsteps, then nothing.

  Using every ounce of energy she can summon, she pulls herself from the bed, the pain in her head almost knocking her back. She looks around the room; at the crumpled bed, Cal’s bed, the one she said she wouldn’t sleep in. She had said she would sleep on the floor; use the blanket from the cupboard, she can remember that. She looks down; there is no blanket and the cupboard door is closed.

  She steps towards it; holding out her hand towards the metal handle and as her skin brushes it, she tries to count but the pulverising pain will not let the numbers in. She closes her eyes as the cupboard door releases with a creak. Her belongings have to be there; otherwise she really is going mad, but as she opens her eyes and looks inside the cupboard, she gasps. It is completely empty.

  The pounding in her head intensifies and she feels like she is going to faint again. She needs air, but as she walks towards the window a shrill, piercing noise fills the room. It sounds like an alarm, but she can’t get her bearings and has no idea where the noise is coming from; it seems to be emanating from every corner of the room. And then she recognises what the noise is and what its persistence means. It is a phone ringing and the fact that it hasn’t been answered means that he is not here; she is alone.

  She walks to the bedroom door and opens it carefully, listening for any movements. The hallway is dark and silent as she walks towards the living room and as she reaches it, the ringing stops and suddenly Cal’s voice fills the empty room.

  She jumps as she hears the crackly message. He has a landline phone. It seems archaic to her that anybody would want or need such a thing. Yet nothing about this man and his life makes sense to her.

  ‘Hey there. Cal and John ain’t here right now but please leave a message and we’ll get back to you ASAP, cheers.’

  With a crackle, a different voice begins to speak; an agitated, breathless voice, speaking in bursts:

  ‘Kerst, it’s me. Pick up.’

  She shivers at the sound of Cal’s voice; it feels so close, like he is standing right behind her.

  ‘Kerst, pick the phone up’ … pause … ‘The police have been to the office, they’re up there now talking to Stratton. Said something about a body, an old lady. Kerstin what have you done, darling? You gotta come and sort this out, yeah? If it was an accident – and it must have been – then you have got to come clean. They said they’ve got your passport and it’s out of date. Come on Kerst, pick up. The police just want to talk to you, okay? They just want to ask some questions, it’ll be fine I’m sure.’

  Kerstin stands in the middle of the room listening to Cal’s breathing. It feels like he can see her from wherever he is. As soon as he ends the call she will go, she will get out of here as fast as she can. Finally, after an endless pause he speaks.

  ‘Oh and Kerst, they called your mother in Germany and she told them about your dad … I’m so sorry, Kerstin … he passed away last night.’

  She is vaguely aware of other word
s coming out of the machine; of her name being repeated like a mantra as she staggers out of the room. She manages to get to the bathroom in time and she flops over the toilet and vomits clear, acidic bile into the bowl. And as she throws up, the pain in her head seems to subside as though giving way to the other pain; the piercing grief that judders through her body like a bullet. When there is nothing more to come up, she slumps onto the floor and grips the base of the toilet with both arms, not even registering the germs that she is letting through. Nothing matters any more, she thinks as she stands up and cleans her mouth with a piece of tissue. The bad thing has happened; the worst possible thing has happened.

  She looks in the mirror and realises, for the first time, that she is fully dressed. Her white top is creased and her trousers feel damp and sticky. One glass of wine; how can she have been knocked out by one glass of wine, unless … She remembers his hand holding out the glass, his insistence she drink it. Had he drugged her? What had he done to her when she had collapsed? Is that what all this is about? Her head throbs with the weight of the unanswered questions as she walks out of the bathroom and goes back into the bedroom to find her shoes. She can’t remember taking them off, but as she reaches the bedroom, she sees them by the side of the bed. Someone has placed them there; neatly. And then another memory comes back: the shirts and suits hanging in a neat row in the cupboard, now gone. She has to get out of here before the police arrive, and they will, she has no doubt of that. Cal has been her enemy all this time and she was so busy counting she couldn’t see what was right there next to her.

  She slips her shoes on and hurries along the hallway to the door. She has no idea where she will go but she needs air, she needs to get out of this oppressive, cloying flat. She turns the metal handle and waits for it to give, but if feels wrong and heavy in her hand. Panicking she tries it again and again, but it is no use. The door is locked.

  22

  Mark wakes up to a weight pressing down on his ribs. His mouth feels dry and he has a raging thirst. He stretches his arms out and hears a faint moan. He looks down and sees Liv’s naked form spread across his lower body.

  Fuck, he thinks, as he slowly comes to. He lifts her arm from his hip and climbs out of the bed, but as his feet hit the floor the dull thudding in his head becomes a sharp stabbing pain. The room fills with floating silver dots as he sits down on the side of the bed putting his head in his hands as he tries to piece together the last few hours.

  He remembers getting back to the room; Liv put some music on – Paul Weller – and they sat listening to it and drinking beer. He vaguely remembers taking his clothes off, he sees them scattered across the floor: his black boxer shorts, Liv’s white lace underwear, her denim shorts and vest, dotted around the room like bits of rag.

  He rubs his neck. It is aching and stiff. He must have slept in one position all night. His skin feels sticky and hot; he puts his hand between his legs, his penis is damp and flaccid. Did they use protection? He can’t remember. He scans the floor for traces of a condom wrapper but there is nothing, just a pile of scrunched up beer cans and an empty packet of crisps. He remembers Liv’s mouth; she was kissing him down there. Had he fallen asleep – is that why he can’t remember finishing? Had he fallen asleep with his cock inside her mouth? Jesus. His brain feels soggy and lumpen as he tries to make sense of it all.

  He pulls himself up from the side of the bed and walks towards the sink. Turning on the cold tap, he cups his hands and scoops the water into his mouth. It tastes revolting – lukewarm and mossy – but it is liquid and his dry mouth greedily soaks up every drop. He swills it around his tongue, gurgles it in the back of his throat, feels it trickle down his grainy, sore gullet.

  He switches off the taps and sees that Liv has shifted position. She is lying on her front now with one arm dangling down the side of the bed. Mark follows the direction of her arm and sees that it is almost touching the top of the black bag. Why the fuck did he leave the bag poking out like that, she could have seen it, could have woken in the night and gone looking about, opened it up and found him out. He berates himself as he stumbles over the detritus of clothes and rubbish and pushes the bag further under the bed.

  This is madness, he tells himself. This was not meant to have happened. He has to get her out of here right now, this minute. Seb will be at The Rose Garden at 10 a.m. and he has to be there to greet him.

  He picks up his phone from the floor and looks at the time: nine-thirty. Shit. He pulls on his jeans and sweater and goes over to the bed. Kneeling by her face, he gently shakes Liv by the arm.

  ‘Liv,’ he whispers. She stirs and holds his hand up to her face.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, slipping his hand away, his voice firmer this time. ‘You gotta wake up. I’ve got to go.’

  She groans and pulls the duvet up to her face.

  ‘Please, Liv,’ he shouts. ‘You’ve got to go.’

  She opens her eyes and smiles.

  ‘Hello you,’ she says. Her voice is sleepy but dripping with languid sensuality.

  Mark nods his head sharply then starts picking up her clothes, one by one, from the floor.

  ‘Listen, I don’t mean to be a bastard,’ he says. ‘But you have to go … now.’

  She sits up in the bed, her face creased with the imprint of the pillow. She looks confused and young. Very young. He thinks of Zoe and shudders. He is no better than those men at the party, lusting after some young girl, getting her drunk, leading her on …What the fuck had he done it for? Why had he lost control like that? All he had to do yesterday was lie low, get an early night and be clear-headed for today, for the incredibly important fucking day that he has spent the last seven years planning.

  ‘Please,’ he says, holding the clothes out in front of him.

  ‘Don’t I even get a kiss goodbye,’ she says, pulling the duvet around her chest.

  ‘Look, I think we both know what last night was all about,’ says Mark, impatience rising in his voice. ‘It was just a shag, love. A bit of a laugh. Now please could you just … leave?’

  He throws the clothes down onto the bed then walks to the window and opens the thin curtain. The noise of the traffic vibrates under his feet, people in gym-wear speed-walk along the pavement clutching bottles of water; he hears the screeching of brakes, the whine of a siren and a robotic voice warning of a vehicle about to reverse. Soho is open for business and he is stuck in this clammy room, a whole twelve hours behind. He needs to have a wash, get his brain in order, plan every sentence of what he wants to say to Bailey. He needs to be out of here.

  He hears a shuffling noise behind him and he turns to see Liv pulling on her shoes. She has thrown her clothes on quickly – her vest is inside out, her shorts unbuttoned and her face is matted with spots of black mascara while her top lip looks pink and sore. She bends down to pick up her bag and iPod, then she turns and looks at him. He has no idea what state he must be in; if his appearance is anything like the inside of his mouth feels then he can’t be looking good.

  She stands like that for a minute, not moving just staring until Mark walks towards her and puts his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, opening the door and gently guiding her out. ‘You’re a lovely lass,’ he says, the words rushing out so fast they are barely discernible. ‘Take care, yeah?’

  She stops in the doorway and looks up at him. ‘You were lovely last night,’ she says, her voice shaking. ‘Now it’s morning and you’re like a different person. I do understand you know … about Zoe.’

  Mark freezes. What is she talking about? What had he told her when he was drunk?

  ‘Your sister,’ she continues. ‘I understand how you’re feeling. I lost my Mum to cancer last year … that’s why I’m travelling, I’m running away from all the well-wishers, the anniversaries, the empty chairs.’

  Mark taps his fingers along the door frame. He cannot be having this conversation. He has no idea how much she knows and he has to get away from her. Jesus, how c
ould he have been so stupid?

  ‘Look, love,’ he says. ‘As I said, I’m fine, but I’ve got to get on.’

  She opens her mouth to speak but before she can he presses his finger to her mouth and shakes his head.

  ‘Bye, Liv.’

  He closes the door and stands with his back pressed against it. His neck feels like it is snapping in two and his head is jumbled and throbbing but he is alone and he can turn this around. He puts his hand into his pocket and feels the now familiar velvety paper. Pulling the invitation out, he presses it to his face and takes a deep breath. He is almost there.

  *

  Stella rubs her head as Paula directs the cab driver along Royal Hospital Road.

  ‘I feel like death,’ she mutters. ‘Honestly Paula, you must never ever let me get that drunk again.’

  Paula laughs as the cab pulls up outside the Physic Garden. ‘Just here would be great, thanks,’ she says, breezily. ‘And may I have a receipt?’

  As Paula pays the driver, Stella eases herself out of the cab, her head throbbing as it hits the warm air. Looking up at the high entrance gates of the garden she feels something akin to vertigo. She was supposed to be spending the morning preparing for her meeting. She had wanted to start the day with a clear head not this groggy fug that envelopes her now as she waits by the gate. She winces as Paula comes bounding towards her; eyes bright, face beaming. Stella frowns as she approaches.

  ‘How come you look so sprightly? I swear you drank just as much as me.’

  Paula shakes her head playfully as she guides Stella gently towards the entrance of the garden.

  ‘You definitely had the lion’s share of the champagne, Stel,’ she laughs. ‘But strangely enough, I do feel better today. I think the night out did me good. I really do appreciate you coming here first though, before you go off to the library. Carole will be thrilled to see you.’

  Stella goes to speak but is overcome by a wave of nausea. If she can get through the morning without throwing up it will be a miracle, she thinks, as a large blonde woman, dressed in a green padded gilet and navy trousers, runs towards them, her arms outstretched.