Summer Lies Bleeding

by Nuala Casey

  ‘Darlings, you made it. It’s marvellous to see you. And you’ve brought the sunshine with you too.’

  Stella watches as Paula embraces Carole, expert herbalist and Chelsea stalwart.

  ‘Come on,’ says Carole, leading them up a broad narrow path that is dotted with blue wildflowers. ‘I bet you’re both gasping for a cup of tea. If we’re lucky there might still be some breakfast buns left at the café.’

  Stella’s heart sinks. A cup of tea. Paula said it would be a quick hello. Yet the guilt of what she is about to do makes her follow Paula along the path, her head thudding with each step.

  ‘Oh, goodness Carole, look at the rosemary,’ gasps Paula, as they walk through a knotted herb garden. ‘I’ve never seen rosemary that colour before. It’s almost blue.’

  ‘Amazing isn’t it,’ says Carole, as the two women stop to admire the plant. ‘It’s a Spanish variety, very rare. Our curator brought a cutting back with him from Grenada.’

  ‘Oh you must tell me the name, Carole,’ says Paula as she bends her head to smell the prickly stem. ‘You know all the time I worked in the herb gardens in Andalucia, I never saw rosemary this colour. And the smell is sharper than ordinary rosemary.’

  ‘Saltier, isn’t it,’ says Carole, joining Paula in sniffing the plant.

  Stella stands behind them, swaying slightly in the heat of the morning sun, willing them to carry on to the café. If she can just sit down, she will feel better. She coughs, but Paula and Carole carry on oblivious. She looks around and sees a wooden bench by the side of the gravel path.

  ‘I’m just going to sit down,’ she calls to Paula.

  Paula looks up and smiles. ‘We won’t be long, Stel. Just going to have a closer look at this rosemary.’

  Stella walks to the bench and sits down. It is shaded by a mulberry tree and the cool is a welcome respite for her burning head. She stretches her legs out in front of her and watches the two women disappear into the tangle of plants.

  As she sits she tries to trace her restlessness, the uneasiness that has sprung up between her and Paula, when had it started? When they returned to England? When they moved to Exeter? No, in fact Stella had loved the city when they first arrived. She loved the people, the warm West Country accents, loved the Regency houses that seemed to curve around her, holding her in an invisible embrace as she walked by; the elegant expanse of Rougemont Gardens. She and Paula had spent their first summer there lying in the park on thick woollen rugs; eating in restaurants with pretty walled gardens; strolling hand in hand through the deserted early evening streets, luxuriating in their new-found home, and each other. Stella had enrolled on an MA course at the university, found a part-time job in a bookshop and immersed herself in both. The house was paid for outright from the sale of Paula’s London home, the herb business was thriving …

  Still, though she cannot pinpoint when this feeling began, she knows that it has probably always been there, lying dormant, waiting to spring forth, Was it last Christmas, that disastrous dinner with Paula’s family, her brother telling lame jokes, the children fighting, everyone bickering, Paula snapping at her about a dish of overcooked Brussels sprouts or had it started earlier? Were the seeds sown the previous October when Paula had insisted they attend the wedding of her school friend, Tina, at Babington House in Somerset and Paula had told everyone who would listen that Stella was a recovering bulimic and Stella had had to endure the glare of a dozen pairs of eyes following her every time she got up to go to the loo.

  Or was the turning point far more recent? Was it last Sunday when she had taken her work out into the garden to make the most of the glorious late August sun? She had sat at the table, her books spread out before her but had found herself unable to concentrate through the fug of hedge strimmers whirring, ice cream vans blasting out tinny fairground tunes, dogs barking, children screaming. Paula had come out and asked her what she fancied for dinner at the exact moment that the man next door decided to charge up his lawn mower. Stella had slammed her books shut and tramped back upstairs to her overheated attic room, leaving Paula alone with the sounds of the suburbs ringing in her ears.

  She looks across at Paula, lost among the herbs, revelling in row upon row of rosemary and dill; borage and pennyroyal. Carole is snipping cuttings for her and Stella can see Paula’s dark head bent over the proffered hand, taking in the woody scent of the herbs, making notes in her ancient green book. She can see Paula holding a sprig of rosemary in between her finger and thumb, rubbing it gently to release its sweet fragrance.

  Rosemary for remembrance. Paula had told her once that the Elizabethans used to place the herb into the coffins of the dead and Stella had shivered, for even as a child she had a strong aversion to that spiky herb and when her mother had asked why, she had told her it was because it tasted of sorrow.

  She sees Paula’s lean body weaving in and out of the herb beds, lifting her head to the sun every now and then, pausing to take in its warmth like she had that day in Andalucia when she had invited Stella to come and see the amazing herbs that grew in the scorched earth behind the farmhouse.

  ‘Borage, basil, chervil, coriander and dill,’ she had pointed out as they stepped carefully between the rows of green spikes. ‘These are annual herbs; they flower, set seed and die all in one growing year. They’re the flighty ones, the one night stands of the herb world if you will.’ And as she spoke, Stella thought of a poem that had always scared her as a child: ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may; Old time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today; Tomorrow will be dying.’ While Stella blinked away the doom-laden words, Paula had stopped at a patch that was set back away from the others. ‘I would say we’re more like these ones,’ she said, pointing to the herbs that poked out like thin, wizened fingers.

  ‘Rosemary for remembrance,’ whispers Stella as she looks up into the sun. And in the piercing white light she sees an image of Paula lying on the grass, her hands shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, her feet scattered with sprigs of rosemary, sharp and spiky and digging into her skin like so many thorns.

  It’s a horrifying image and she blinks it away as she stands up and walks towards the exit. At the gate she looks back to see if Paula has noticed her departure but all she can see is a mass of tangled herbs.

  23

  Kerstin stands on Cal’s bed frantically trying to prise the window open, but it is no use, it is double-glazed and double-locked. Like the door; like the windows in the living room; like every other possible exit in this flat. She is trapped and all she can do is wait here until the police arrive.

  She climbs down from the bed and slumps onto the floor by the cupboard, the empty cupboard that just a few hours ago was filled with Cal’s suits and her belongings. She is going mad, she knows it. She can feel her brain slowly disintegrating.

  ‘You have a fine brain, Kerstin. Make sure you use it well.’

  Her father’s voice trickles through her harried mind, like water dousing dry land; her brilliant father who only wanted her to be happy.

  She thinks about praying. She could pray and ask God to get her out of here. Ask for a miracle. Her mother will be praying, she knows she will. She may even be at the Cathedral, offering up her grief to God, reciting her lines to the stones Kerstin’s grandfather laid, those familiar prayers Kerstin grew up repeating like an automaton though she had no idea what they meant. If only she could summon them now, but her mind is empty.

  She once knew every prayer by heart though they troubled and confused her in equal measure. At school, she would ask the priest ‘why’ but he just gave bluffs, half- answers, all delivered with a knowing nod and a pat on the head and Kerstin would try to grab hold of the answers, feel solidity in her hands but they would just fall through her fingers like water.

  Now it is the only thing she has left; the only possible hope.

  ‘Our Father,’ she sobs into the folds of her creased top, twisting the material into soggy damp snakes. ‘Who art in Heaven. Hall
owed be thy name …’

  *

  Seb holds his breath as he hammers in the final nail, hoping against all hope that he has aligned them right, that he will not have to start again and leave a trail of nasty nail-sized gashes on the perfectly painted blood-red wall. He is glad, at least, to be out of sight, hidden in this alcove, resting his knees on the deep-cushioned banquette that surrounds this, the most exclusive part of the restaurant, the most private corner, home to the lover’s table, a mistily romantic cavern surrounded by velvet cushions lined with golden thread, honeycomb lanterns and candles scented with jasmine and rose petal.

  Seb stands back and looks at the painting; it looks fine to him, but he is not going to take a chance. He reaches down to the large metal toolbox that is resting against the table leg and takes out his spirit level. His mouth feels dry as he holds it up against the wall, watching the fluid tilt back and forth like an unsteady sea until, at last, it aligns itself between the black bars and hangs weightlessly there.

  ‘Good,’ mutters Seb. He couldn’t bear to let anything upset Yasmine who, thankfully, is in a much brighter mood than when he said goodbye to her at the flat.

  He was surprised when she bounded over to him, when he arrived at ten on the dot, all smiles and hugs and bright eyes. The angry, waspishness of the morning had slipped from her and she looked like Yasmine again, fresh and happy in her gleaming chef’s whites. As the morning progressed potential sources of worry were ticked off the list: deliveries arrived without incident; the staff were prompt and well-prepared; Henry called in with the RSVPs for his newly adapted guestlist and, though still dotted with Honey Vision contacts, it was looking far more Yasmine-friendly. Henry had also brought in a copy of last night’s Evening Standard featuring an interview with Yasmine, conducted last week. Seb, Yasmine and the staff had gathered round Henry who held the newspaper open. The photograph was beautiful, from what Seb could see as he craned his neck to read the interview. She was wearing a deep scarlet dress, sitting at the lover’s table with a rose in her hair. ‘Christ, Yas,’ exclaimed Henry, as he closed the magazine and the staff returned to the kitchen. ‘You scrub up well, my darling. Will we see rose petals in your hair tonight, I wonder?’ Henry had left soon after, his phone beeping in his wake.

  From his hiding place, Seb can hear the soft sound of the radio trickling out of the kitchen, providing a staccato, dance-beat to the clinking of glasses, the slamming of fridges and sharpening of knives. It is very warm and Seb removes his sweatshirt and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt. The music stops and a slow, sticky summer beat strikes up, then a husky female voice begins to sing.

  ‘I know this song,’ says Albert, the bear-like commis. ‘My mum used to play this song over and over when I was a kid. It was a geezer sang it, big fella with dreads, oh what was his name again?’

  ‘Eddie Grant,’ says Kia, the tall, boyish maître d’, her voice deadpan and toneless.

  ‘Eddie bloody Grant,’ shrieks Albert. ‘That was him. He was cool, he was.’ He starts to sing along. ‘Good version this one, she’s got a well sexy voice.’

  ‘Al, how are we getting on with the harissa?’ Yasmine’s voice cuts through the music like a teacher gathering up a group of rowdy students. ‘Not too much mint remember, it needs to be a suggestion, a smattering, like I showed you.’

  ‘It’s going good, Chef,’ says Albert. ‘Here, have a try …’

  The voices and music disappear as an electric whisk screeches into life and Seb stands back to take a last look at the picture. The spotlights above it pick out the blue and white and silver of the lake. It looks like a hologram floating over the burnished table and warm golden cushions. She will like it, he tells himself as he steps closer and squints, trying to imagine he is seeing the painting for the first time. In the darkness of his semi-closed eyes, the room seems to shrink, letting in only pinpricks of light, the silvery sheen of the lake bleeds into the russet, the wine and gold of the restaurant like an opalescent globe warding off a ball of fire.

  It is only when he opens his eyes that he becomes aware of the presence; the laboured breathing, the sharp citrus deodorant scent mixed with the earthy smell of sweat. Seb pauses for a second before turning. In the kitchen, a multitude of voices shout instructions and demands, the extractor fan whooshes, fat spits, someone drops a knife onto the floor, water gushes out from the taps and a male voice hisses an expletive. But there in the hidden corner, there is unbroken silence and in the seconds it takes Seb to turn around, there is peace, and he will remember those seconds because they will be the last moments of calm, the last moments of clarity he will ever have.

  ‘Sebastian Bailey.’

  The voice is raw, familiar somehow, a particular strain of Northern-ness, a cold male voice, deep and resonating with a malice that seems so out of place in this romantic corner.

  Seb turns and his stomach flips. He knows this man. He has put on weight since the trial, he looks unkempt, out of condition. His thin navy T-shirt sticks to his body, emphasising a rounded belly and his skin has an unhealthy greenish tinge. But there is a striking resemblance all the same, the slightly bulbous blue eyes, the thin sliver of a mouth, the straight nose; she is everywhere about him. The girl, the poor lost girl he had befriended on a bench. He gathers himself, drawing his arms across his chest, trying to regain some sense of composure. He can deal with this, as long as he keeps the man contained here in this corner, away from Yasmine, he can deal with it and send him on his way.

  ‘Can I help you?’ It sounds ridiculous and he knows it, but the words pour out of his mouth seemingly of their own will.

  The man stands motionless, his fingers looping around a black bag that he holds in his left hand. He stares at Seb, but his expression is one of curiosity, wonder even. His eyes widen and he opens his mouth. Seb has no idea what he is going to do next. He sees that the man’s hands are shaking and suddenly he starts to cough, a hacking violent cough that causes him to pound his chest with his free hand.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’ Seb tries to direct the man towards the banquette but he shakes his head and starts to rummage in his coat pocket. For a moment Seb is unsure of the man’s intention and he takes a step back; then he sees the inhaler. He watches as the man brings the tiny plastic tube to his mouth and takes three sharp sucks. The coughing subsides and the man’s breathing slows down as he shoves the inhaler back into his pocket and stares at Seb.

  ‘I’m Mark Davis,’ he says, spittle falling in droplets from his mouth.

  Seb nods. There is a lull in the kitchen noises and he prays that it will resume. He has told Kia what he is doing and asked her to keep Yasmine out of the alcove until he has covered the painting with a blanket, but if Yas hears raised voices, she will come to investigate, he knows her.

  Mark puts the bag down by his feet and walks towards Seb.

  ‘How’s your little girl?’

  Seb’s brain freezes and for a moment he can’t think properly. Where is Cosima? Has this man been near her?

  ‘What do you want?’ he whispers.

  ‘What do I want?’ Mark shakes his head and as he does so his gaze is averted to the painting. He walks towards it, Seb watching every move he makes. He stands in front of it and grimaces.

  ‘I want you to pay,’ he says, his voice so calm, he could be a supplier asking for a cheque. ‘I want you to pay for my sister’s life. Simple really.’ He turns and looks at Seb as though waiting for an answer. Seb goes to speak but no words will come. He feels breathless himself, it is clammy and hot in the alcove but though he would love to sit down he knows he has to remain standing, remain at eye level with this man.

  ‘Mark,’ he begins tentatively. ‘What happened to Zoe was horrific, it was appalling, beyond words … but the man who did that to her was caught, he was tried and he is in prison …’

  ’No, he isn’t,’ yells Mark, slamming his fist down onto the table. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? Hanged himself in his cell.’

  S
eb tries to take this in, tries to imagine that evil, dead-eyed creature hanging on the end of a makeshift rope. He shudders.

  ‘But he was just the endgame,’ says Mark, rubbing the edge of the table with his fingers. ‘There is a long line of people who contributed to Zoe’s death and you’re at the front of it. Look at you, with your fancy restaurant and your flash clothes, your perfect family. It knocks me sick, all of it.’ He looks up at Seb, his face is contorted and ugly, his top lip sticks to his teeth as he spits out the words. ‘What happened in Soho Square, eh? What did you do to her? Why was she running away?’

  Albert’s voice cuts across the silence like some sort of demonic troubadour. He has switched the radio channels and is hollering a dance tune. Seb tries to think amid the noise, tries to remember something that happened seven years ago, to reason it, explain its nuances to a man who looks like he might explode at any moment.

  ‘She wasn’t running away, Mark,’ he says, firmly. ‘She was going to King’s Cross. She was going home. She told me all about your mother and your granddad, she was excited about going home and having Sunday lunch, seeing you all again. And that pub, she told me about the pub where your father used to go, and how everyone knew her as Charlie Davis’s daughter.’

  ‘Shut up,’ says Mark, his eyes bulging, fighting against the tears that are clouding his eyes. ‘Just shut up. Don’t you dare say my father’s name, you arrogant prick. My father is dead, my sister is dead, we don’t eat Sunday lunches anymore, we are not a family anymore. My wife was beautiful, just like yours, and my daughter too, but they have fucked off, haven’t they, fucked off and left me. I don’t have a family – it’s been ripped apart.’

  Seb hears something rustle; he looks up and sees Kia standing in the entrance of the alcove. She is holding a piece of paper in her hand.