Summer Lies Bleeding

by Nuala Casey

  But six months ago, Lisa had left him, taken Rachel with her and moved to Gran Canaria, where her mother lived. She told him he had become an obsessive, told him she couldn’t put up with his mood swings, with his lack of conversation and his hours sitting on the computer. She had found the press cuttings, said he was in danger of becoming a stalker; of getting himself locked up. It was the week they found out that the man who murdered Zoe had killed himself in his cell. Mark was working nights in a meat-packing warehouse in Redcar. He had just come home after a nine-hour shift; his hair and body stinking of dried blood and cow shit when Lisa told him. She said that was the end of it all; he was dead, now they could truly get on with their lives. But it was just the beginning for Mark; the catalyst for a burning rage that will not cease. It cannot end like this, he had told himself, it’s too simple – the bastard hangs himself and we all go on as normal.

  And so Mark had taken his anger and poured it into Bailey, he had held onto it, obsessed over it until it was all he had left, he clung onto it as his wife and child packed their suitcases and left him; as he was handed his redundancy cheque and sold his car, it was all he had left, all that connected him to Zoe. Even as he found himself back at his mother’s house, he still knew that this plan he had put in place was right, that it was what his father would want, that, despite all that had gone terribly wrong, he could make it all better if he just did something.

  He takes his T-shirt, and jeans and stuffs them into his rucksack, then picking up his black bag, he walks out of the changing room still wearing the suit and goes across to the counter where he asks the baffled young assistant if he wouldn’t mind scanning the price label of the suit with him in it. Then he hands over his card, types in his pin, grabs the receipt which he crumples up in the palm of his hand and makes his way out of the shop.

  25

  Kerstin holds her breath as she walks up the narrow staircase, praying that she hasn’t been followed. She steps into a wide, wood-panelled room and looks around for somewhere to hide, but the room is full of wooden dining tables. She can’t stay here without being seen. There is another set of stairs in front of her and she tiptoes towards them.

  She walks up the steps in the darkness, like a hypnotised person following instructions. When she reaches the top she sees a curved bar with bottles and glasses lined up behind it. She walks on and the room opens out into a vast, warehouse-style space filled with leather bean bags and round tables. Then she sees it, a narrow door on the far side of the room. An exit.

  She pushes the door open and steps into a small room. There are a set of lockers, metal ones like she used to have at school, running along the length of one wall. On the other side of the room, there is another door, a wider door than before, with wooden slats on it. She walks over to the door and opens it. It looks like some kind of pantry, though there are no packets and tins here, just rubbish by the look of it. Old paint pots; a plastic bucket; assorted brushes and mops with rigid bristles and a pile of papers. This is a forgotten place, she thinks as she steps inside and closes the door behind her, a place she can hide.

  When she fled the flat she had run like a flailing child in no particular direction; pushing through the bustle of Dean Street at midday. Then she had seen them; police officers, a man and a woman, coming towards her, so close she could hear the crackle of their radios. So she had darted down a side street, a half street really, and as she ran she saw a little wooden gate leading to a yard. She didn’t have time to think about what she was running into, she just had to get away from the police.

  Once in the yard, she realised what it was; the back of a restaurant. She could hear someone singing in the kitchen and the smell of garlic mixed with discarded vegetables wafted out of the open door. She could see the chefs inside the kitchen, the backs of their heads moving in time to the music. Any second one could turn around and see her. Then she saw the door; a fire exit by the look of it, to the side of the kitchen window and she had darted into it just as a woman’s voice called out into the yard.

  She squeezes herself into the cupboard, moving the pots of paint and the brushes to the far end then sits on the floor to catch her breath.

  This can’t go on much longer, she thinks, as she stretches her legs out in front of her. She can’t keep on running. She has no money, no phone, no passport and the pain in her head feels like it could kill her any minute. But she cannot give herself up and spend the rest of her life in prison.

  Just then she hears something. Someone is out there. She hears breathing; and a voice, a male voice speaking.

  ‘This effing suit.’

  The voice is agitated and Kerstin holds her breath as she peeks through the wooden slats of the door.

  She sees a man. Tall with longish curly hair. He is standing by the lockers, taking off his clothes. She watches as he throws his jeans and T-shirt onto the floor, then takes a heavy-looking suit from a hanger and slowly puts it on.

  Then he stands motionless for a few moments before stepping across to the other side of the room. Kerstin cannot see that part of the room but she knows he is still there; she can hear him sighing and muttering.

  After a few minutes she sees his shadow flash across the room, then hears his footsteps depart down the stairs.

  Kerstin exhales and she feels her heart pounding. All her life she has been scared of enclosed spaces, of germs and dirt and here she is cowering in a cupboard on the top floor of God knows where. She thinks of Clarissa but the image is blunted now; the thought of the incident no longer makes her wince. She thinks of Clarissa’s words ‘You’re nothing but a Hun’, and they merge with her father’s voice:

  ‘Civilians will always be caught in the crossfire, Kirsten.’

  Did he know? Did her father have some second sense of what was to come? She imagines the rueful look on his scientist’s face – second sense, pah! But maybe he had known, maybe her mother too, and Matthew – is that why they had all kept away, because they knew that she was dangerous, that bad things happened when she was around, that she was an unlucky soul, born under a dark star. Her mother had told her that as a baby she had never smiled, never laughed. Life was too much, even then, even as a small child she knew that there was too much darkness in the world to allow herself to live.

  *

  Seb sits in lover’s corner, hunched rigidly amid the cushions like a statue frozen in time. Above his head a sheet hangs over the painting and without the silvery sheen of the oil paint, the wall suddenly seems dark and insipid.

  As he sits, he plays over Mark’s fragmented words in his head. Had it been a threat? He is not sure though it had certainly seemed as much. Mark’s eyes were the coldest he had ever seen, devoid of any feeling, any compassion. When he had coughed Seb had expected some kind of vulnerability to emerge, a sense of hopelessness but there was nothing; just hatred and malice. He had stood there inches from Seb’s face and warned him. He had referred to Cosima, he had specifically asked if she was going to be at the launch. And how did he know about the launch?

  Seb’s heart sinks as he thinks of the mountain of publicity that has been generated around the restaurant and his arts projects, the interviews with Yasmine, the ‘Life in a Day’ piece he did for the Sunday Times last month, the Vogue interview; the grand unveiling of the Olympic portraits at Leicester Square Tube and his accompanying commentary on ITV news. When he was doing all this, he didn’t realise just how many people it would reach, well he did, but he just thought of those people as abstract, sales figures, potential clients, invisible, a line on a chart; then there are the Twitter and Facebook pages for both Asphodel and The Rose Garden, his Wikipedia page, all with references to his life, his time schedule … his daughter. He is a prime candidate for being stalked – his whole life is out there for all to see. Mark could track him minute by minute if he wanted to, he might be tracking him right now, watching, waiting for his next move.

  When Mark had left him he had stumbled to the kitchen in a daze wanting desperately
to see Yasmine, to talk to her but he knew that would be impossible. He had stood at the pass like a rookie waiter looking for the next dish to be delivered while Yasmine flitted across the floor, shouting instructions to the team, stirring sauces, tasting morsels of food and shaking her head, gesturing the sous-chef to add more salt, her face growing redder and sweatier as steam rose in a thick haze around her, almost obliterating her. At one point, she looked up and saw him standing there.

  ‘Seb, what is it? Why are you standing there like that? I thought you were helping Kia with the list.’

  He had opened his mouth to speak but no words would come. What would he say? How could he begin to describe what had happened, what could happen?

  There was an almighty bang and Yasmine turned from him to berate the young kitchen porter who had dropped the large, copper pan, the contents of which were now seeping across the floor in a thick, red sludge.

  Seb had left the pass then and gone upstairs to the tiny area off the bar on the second floor that Henry had converted into a sleek changing room for the staff. Its tiny window looked out onto the street and he had stood there for a few moments, watching tiny ant-like creatures as they scurried below. It felt like he was waiting for someone, something, though he wasn’t quite sure what: a face? a mob? A gang of masked men armed with baseball bats? But there was nothing, just the familiar movement of post-lunch Frith Street on a late summer day, with the same figures taking the same routes they always did: Syed from the doctor’s surgery across the road walking up to Bar Italia for his afternoon take-out cappuccino and sticky bun; Anya, the Polish waitress from the deli opposite sitting on the step having a cigarette; a group of tourists in big hats and backpacks huddled round a tour guide, following the trail of his pointed finger as it picked out the rickety, Georgian façade of Hazlitt’s Hotel, ‘dating back to 1718 …’ Just a normal afternoon in Frith Street, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to be concerned about.

  Still, Seb had felt uneasy as he slipped out of his T-shirt and jeans and took his tweed Vivienne Westwood suit from its hanger. Yasmine had chosen it specifically for tonight, said it made him look like a Soho dandy and though he wasn’t sure that it was quite his style, he had laughed and said ‘whatever makes you happy’. And she is happy, he had thought, as he buttoned up the cream shirt and felt the cold, ripple of cotton next to his skin. She is happy and excited and about to launch the biggest project of her career. The air up there felt heavy then and, with only half of the trousers on, he had to sit down and catch his breath.

  And now he sits hidden in lover’s corner, like an overdressed mannequin, willing his hands to stop shaking. He has to stay calm, for Yasmine’s sake. He can watch her all night if need be; he can stand by the pass, make sure no one but the waiters and the kitchen staff gets near to her. He can do that, he can watch his wife but there is someone else he can’t watch, his slippery, boisterous, curious daughter, who will certainly not stay still, not for one minute. How can he do it? How can he watch them both in a darkened restaurant packed with people?

  ‘Oh there you are, I’ve been looking for you.’

  He lifts his head and sees Yasmine standing under the arch. Her hair has flattened to her head, her face is moist with sweat and her white chef’s jacket is splattered with faint red stains. She looks like she has just come out of an operating theatre, thinks Seb, as he rises to his feet and goes towards her.

  ‘Two hours. Can you believe it?’ She raises her eyebrows inquisitively at the white sheet above Seb’s head. ‘I must say, darling husband, that suit looks veery sexy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ says Seb, leaning over to kiss her cheek. She tastes of fried onions and salt water. ‘It’s a bit hot though; definitely more of a winter suit.’ He loosens the top button and wriggles his neck. It feels like a strait jacket but he tries not to show Yasmine his pained expression.

  ‘Well, the kitchen’s good to go … just,’ she says, tapping a dishcloth against her leg. ‘Mum’s just texted and she’s going to aim to get here for six-thirty. Cosima’s got her gladrags on already, Mum said she’s really excited. Little angel, I’ve missed her so much this last week. I can’t wait to see her.’

  Seb closes his eyes, the suit’s fibres digging into every pore. He feels like he is about to pass out and he puts his hand to his forehead which is damp and clammy. He can see Cosima in her green silk dress, the eye-wateringly expensive treat they bought her in Paris last Christmas. ‘She’s a pretty girl, your little ’un’. He tries to shake the words and their loaded connotations out of his head but they remain as he opens his eyes, they are all around him as he slips out of the alcove and into the twinkly lights of the fully made up restaurant.

  He turns to Yasmine and smiles. ‘Wow,’ he mouths. ‘It looks amazing, truly amazing.’

  This should be one of the greatest moments of his life; standing here with the woman he adores, about to launch a restaurant in the middle of Soho, about to watch her life’s dream be realised. Instead, it feels like he is suffocating with fear and panic, made all the worse by his desperate attempts to hide his concern from Yasmine.

  ‘You think it looks okay?’

  ‘I do,’ he says, putting his arm around her waist and pulling her towards him, feeling her heat burning through the itchy fabric of his suit. He has to say it, he cannot risk anything happening to their child, he can’t.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, gently releasing himself from the embrace. ‘I’ve been thinking … about Cosima, and, er, maybe it’s not such a good idea that she comes tonight.’ He can see Yasmine’s mouth drop open in an expression of shock but he continues; he has to say it. ‘I mean, there’s going to be all sorts of people here tonight, some drunk, some leery, she might be a bit daunted by it all.’ Even he doesn’t believe this, both he and Yasmine know that Cosima will talk to anyone, and the odder the better, so he changes tack. ‘Also, you’ll be run off your feet in the kitchen, I’ll be needed front of house, we won’t get a chance to see her, and she’ll be wanting to talk to us, it’ll be awkward … So I thought, maybe it might be for the best if she and Maggie stay in Battersea, have a little “at home” celebration. What do you think?’

  Yasmine’s eyes have grown so wide they are in danger of bursting forth from their sockets. She holds the dishcloth in the air and for a moment he thinks she might hit him.

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about, Seb? You want me to tell our beautiful, excited little girl, who is all dressed up and ready to come and celebrate, that she can’t come to Mummy’s launch after all? Have you completely lost your mind? Cosi comes everywhere with us, always has and always will. I’m not leaving her out of one of the biggest nights of my life … and Mum as well, you want my poor Mum to stay at home after everything she has done for us? What do you think she is, some sort of hired help?’

  ‘It was just an idea …’ He wants to rip this bastard suit off; the heat is creeping up his neck like burning lava.

  ‘Well, it was a crap idea, a preposterous idea,’ she yells, still glaring at him with bulging eyes. ‘All of this is for her,’ she says, waving the cloth at the room. ‘The eighteen hour days, the sweat and turmoil, the sleeplessness … Christ Seb, Cosima named this restaurant, she planned the colour scheme, the flowers, the pictures, everything. She would be devastated if we said she couldn’t come, and so would I.’

  ‘I just don’t want her to get lost in the crowd,’ Seb replies, his voice sharp with panic and irritation. ‘You know how she likes to wander off … and I won’t be able to watch her all night, there’s the front of house and the VIPs to talk to and then I’ll have to sort out the p—’

  ‘Your painting.’ Yasmine spits the words out. ‘The bloody painting. You always have to be centre of attention. God forbid we can have one day, just one day, that’s not about you and your sodding paintings.’

  He shakes his head, feels a rage stirring inside his gut but he has to contain it, if he retaliates then the whole night will be shot to pieces.

  ‘
You’re just like your bloody mother,’ Yasmine snaps as he walks back to the kitchen where the team are standing by the pass watching the show. ‘Next thing you’ll be packing Cosi off to boarding school. Well that’s not my world, Seb. You don’t mess with my child, nobody does.’

  Seb is so angry, he almost rips the suit from his body. He could throw it at her right now, smack her on the back of her sweaty head. How fucking dare she say that about boarding school, after he had told her what happened to him as a child, after he had opened his heart to her, sobbed in her arms. He needs to get out, have a walk, get some air.

  ‘Fuck you,’ he shouts as he storms out, pulling the door so hard it almost comes off its hinges. ‘Fuck it all.’

  26

  Mark follows the dark-suited man up the narrow staircase, crouching to avoid banging his head on the low wooden beams. Unlike the hostel, the check-in procedure here had been seamless; a quick glance at the reservation book, a swift handover of a wedge of twenty pound notes, and an offer to be shown to the room; painless, but at two hundred pounds a night, it had almost cleaned him out. Still, thinks Mark as they reach the first floor, he doesn’t need money anymore.

  The building is old and rickety with uneven floorboards and Mark trips over twice as he follows the concierge along the corridor. It is shabby opulence, the kind that some people would savour, but not Mark. For him it is simply a watchtower, a base to conduct his covert observation. It could be a Travelodge, it could be the Ritz, it makes no difference, it is the position of the hotel that matters. A month ago, when he started to formulate his plan, with the name, address and launch date of the restaurant firmly imprinted in his mind, he had typed the postcode into Google Maps to see what was near, whether there was a hiding place he could occupy, one where he could make himself invisible and watch the comings and goings of the occupants of The Rose Garden. When he saw there was a hotel directly opposite he could not believe his luck, but then he saw the prices and his heart sank. There was no way he could conduct a three-day reconnaissance at that cost. But one night could be possible; one night was all he needed, to watch and wait for the right moment to strike.