by Nuala Casey
‘Oh, he’ll be about,’ says Stella. ‘He’ll have a lot to do tonight I expect.’
‘They’re always busy,’ says Cosima. Her smile has faded and Stella recognises something in her; a faint memory from childhood of sitting all dressed up at her parent’s annual New Year’s Eve party, watching as the adults danced and laughed and drank champagne while she sat there like a spare part.
‘I hear you like animals,’ says Stella. ‘Your Daddy told me you’re something of an expert.’
Cosima nods her head. ‘How do you know Daddy?’
Stella pauses. How do you tell a child that you met her father while he was drinking himself into a stupor.
‘Well I used to know him a long time ago, when I lived just across the street from here. Your Daddy used to work nearby and I used to see him … around.’
‘Did you know that in South America, crocodiles are called caimans,’ says Cosima, utterly unimpressed by the half-hearted account of Stella and Seb’s meeting.
‘Wow, no I didn’t know that,’ says Stella. ‘Have you ever been to South America?’
‘No,’ says Cosima. ‘But I’m going to go there when I’m older. I’m going to be a zoologist you know?’
‘Really? That would be a fun job.’
‘Yes,’ says Cosima. ‘But I would have to pass lots of exams first and that would be a bit boring so I might actually become a vet instead.’
‘But wouldn’t you have to pass lots of exams to be a vet too?’
Cosima shrugs. ‘I suppose so. But did I tell you that my friend Gracie Marshall has not one but five guinea pigs. I’d really like a pet but we’re not allowed to have any in our flat and Mummy says it’s okay because we’ve got the zoo at Battersea Park to go to, but it’s not the same.’
‘Well, maybe one day,’ says Stella. ‘When I was a little girl I had a pink horse, can you imagine that?’
Cosima’s eyes widen. ‘A pink horse,’ she gasps. ‘Was it a unicorn?’
Stella giggles, remembering how as a child she had always wanted a pet unicorn. ‘No, it was just a horse, a strawberry roan. She had a blonde mane as well. Still, it would have been very cool to have a unicorn.’
Cosima nods. ‘I have a toy unicorn,’ she says. ‘She’s called Ursula and she comes from the land of spells. You know the only people who can see unicorns are the fairies. Granny Maggie told me that.’
‘Yes, that’s probably right,’ says Stella. ‘My granddad came from Ireland and he used to tell me stories about the fairies; about the forts where they would hide their gold. And they play tricks on people too. Grandad once had his bicycle stolen by the fairies when he was on his way to a dance; he had to walk two miles to the next town and when he got to the place where the dance was being held, there was his bicycle parked up outside the door. He always insisted it was the work of the fairies.’
‘But not all fairies are naughty like that,’ says Cosima. ‘My mummy told me that when she and Daddy got married, the fairies sent me down to them. That was a very kind thing to do wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was,’ says Stella, smiling. Talk of fairies is taking her mind off Mark. Just then her phone beeps in her pocket. She takes it out and reads the message:
Still at Carole’s – she’s in a really bad way so am staying a little longer. Will get there as soon as I can x
Stella closes the message and sighs. Paula to the rescue again.
‘I know a poem about the fairies,’ she says, turning to Cosima as she puts the phone back into her pocket.
‘Do you? Is it the one about the fairy and the porridge pot? Daddy tells me that before I go to sleep.’
‘No, it’s not that one – though that does sound like a good one,’ says Stella. ‘I didn’t know fairies ate porridge. Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘No,’ says Cosima, matter-of-factly. ‘I’d rather hear yours first.’
‘Okay,’ says Stella, pushing her seat back to let a group of people get by. ‘Gosh, I hope I can remember it. My daddy used to tell this to me before I went to bed.’
‘Like mine,’ says Cosima, and she looks up at Stella with such an innocent look of expectation, Stella’s heart hurts.
‘Here goes,’ says Stella, and as she starts to recite, she hopes that by concentrating on the poem she can block out thoughts of Mark:
Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries …
Mark takes one last look in the wardrobe mirror before he leaves the room. He sees a man in a suit: Denny Lowe off to seal a deal.
‘Win big, Denny, eh.’
His father’s voice fills the room and he smiles as he steps out into the silent, wood-panelled corridor. He looks back at the jiffy bag lying on the bed; waiting for some nameless chambermaid to come and find it. As he closes the door he takes a deep breath and for once there is no crackle, no wheezing, no blockage at the base of his lungs. He feels more alive than he has ever felt before; his mind is clear, his body feels light and weightless; it’s like he’s on some wonderful drug, one that he will never come down from. As he walks down the stairs and into the grand entrance hall, he wonders if this is how his father felt the moment he went into battle; this surge of energy, this feeling of invincibility. He opens the door and steps out into the crisp evening air for what will be the last time. The hour has arrived; not a moment too soon.
30
Seb smiles half-heartedly at the woman standing next to him. He can hear snippets of what she is saying but nothing that could constitute a sentence. Henry is with them, regaling the woman who, Seb has gathered, is a journalist from the Evening Standard.
‘Yeah, it’s been about three years in the planning, if truth be told. I’ve always wanted to open a restaurant in Soho, and had come very close over the years, but for one reason or another it had never come to anything. But when I met Yasmine, and heard her plans, I knew that this was going to be pretty special …’
Seb nods in agreement as the woman listens intently to Henry. He hears someone call his name and looks up to see Liam Kerr and his wife waving at him from the door.
‘Will you excuse me,’ says Seb to the journalist.
‘The kids had a better offer, I’m afraid,’ says Liam, as Seb approaches. ‘It was a toss-up between this and a Disney DVD marathon with their Aunt Bella. This is my wife Kate, by the way, I don’t think you two have been properly introduced.’
He holds out his hand to the tall, attractive blonde woman but as he does so he feels a shiver course through his spine. He looks around the room but he can’t see her; he can’t see Cosima or Stella. It’s useless, he can’t do this, he can’t stand and talk while this threat hangs over his family and now he has lost sight of Cosima.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says to the woman whose hand is still outstretched. ‘You must excuse me.’
‘Seb, what is it?’ Liam’s voice disappears behind Seb as he runs through the crowd like a drowning man.
‘Cosima,’ he shouts as he pushes people aside. ‘Cosima, where are you?’
But his voice is lost inside the music that seems to be growing louder and louder as he frantically calls out for his child.
*
Where the wandering water gushes,
In the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star …
Stella pauses as a familiar face appears in the alcove.
‘Don’t stop, it’s lovely.’
She continues reciting as Maggie squeezes into the space between her and Cosima.
*
Kerstin stands looking out onto the streets of Soho. Down below everything is alive and thriving. She sees the lights of the BT tower twinkling on and off like a space ship w
aiting to take off into the starless night sky; she sees a million lives beginning and ending; souls rising and falling; happiness and sorrow being cast out into the night from a thousand different directions.
Amid the lights and neon she can make out a church steeple, pointing up into the grey sky like a witch’s hat. But it offers no comfort. The time for praying is over, for what does it achieve? All those incantations, meaningless mantras, empty recitations that keep the world turning, keep secrets buried, the economy on its feet and people in their place. She remembers the statue of the Madonna in her room, maybe it was best that Cal had turned it to face the wall; at least that way it would be spared the sight of all those penitents on their knees and the noise of prayer; prayers in every language from the mouths of children and world leaders, beggars and nuns, murderers and priests, the voices rising in a great cacophony of sound; like birds twittering in the dawn their interchangeable anthems to faceless deities and invisible currencies.
She hears something move behind her and for a moment she thinks she is at home, back in Cologne, where she was happy and safe, and her mother is calling her to come and have dinner.
‘Mama?’ she whispers but her mother’s voice has fallen silent and another takes its place.
‘Hello, Kerstin.’
She turns and sees him, his face glowing in the light of a hundred candles.
Cal.
She turns her back on him; willing him to leave but he comes up behind her, so close she can feel his breath on her neck.
‘Nice view,’ he whispers. His breath smells of wine and cigarettes and as he speaks drops of spittle land on Kerstin’s face.
‘Get away from me,’ she says, gripping hold of the wooden frame that stands between her and the street below. ‘I know it was you who took my things; all this time it was you trying to drive me mad.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Kerstin,’ he says, his voice measured and calm. ‘All I know is that you are in serious trouble. An old lady has been murdered and you are the main suspect.’
Kerstin’s head feels heavy like all the oxygen is being sucked out of it. He is lying. She saw her things in his wardrobe; a whole box of them.
‘Why are you lying?’ she yells. ‘Why are you trying to make out I’m mad? I saw my things in your wardrobe; I wrote everything down; all the times you’d been in my flat; the things you’d taken, the things you’d moved about …’
The roof terrace is filling up and a band is setting up in the far corner. Kerstin feels her chest contract. She has to get out of here but the entrance is blocked by people; hundreds of people so it seems to her.
‘I tried to help you,’ says Cal, standing aside to let a group of women past. ‘I told you about my cousin suffering from OCD, advised you to get help. Jesus Christ, I offered you my bed for the night. If I’d known you had just murdered someone I wouldn’t have come near.’
‘You are evil,’ shouts Kerstin, her voice almost drowned out by the opening bars of Van Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ that the band have just struck up. ‘You drugged me then you locked me up.’
‘Kerstin,’ says Cal, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘You need help, serious help. Maybe you will get it in prison.’
‘Get your hands off me and let me get out,’ she yells, grabbing at Cal’s hands but he pulls her tighter, squeezing her towards him until she can’t breathe.
‘You’re sick, Kerstin,’ says Cal, his grip tightening. ‘You’re not safe to be left alone.’
Kerstin grapples to disentangle herself from his arms but he is too strong. The music is growing louder and louder until it feels as though it is cutting into her skin. She has to get away from here and if she can’t use her arms there is only one weapon left. With the last ounce of strength she sinks her teeth into Cal’s arm.
He shrieks and jumps back.
‘You fucking psycho,’ he screams. ‘I’m bleeding.’
There is only one way out now and Kerstin sees it.
‘What are you doing?’ shouts Cal, as Kerstin climbs onto the railings.
‘Get away from me now or I’ll jump,’ she shouts as a hush descends across the terrace. ‘I swear I will jump.’
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out.
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams …
*
Seb clambers up two flights of stairs, taking them three at a time. He tries to hear her voice; he knows that if she is there he will be able to hear, despite the noise of the crowd. He has always been able to hear her voice. When he goes to collect her from school, the shouts and screams of the children playing in the yard ring out in a cacophonous wall of sound; but he can always hear Cosima’s voice in the midst of the din, as clear as day; he can pick out her voice because she is his child; his blood. He cranes his ears to listen but there is nothing.
‘Cosima,’ he yells. He feels someone touch his arm.
‘Seb, mate, what is it?’ says Liam. But he shakes his friend off and pushes his way through the tables and chairs that seem to be deliberately blocking his way.
‘Cosima!’
He calls out her name, her blessed name, as he makes his way out of the open doors and into the intoxicating air of the terrace. A crowd of people are standing huddled at the far side; he tries to see what is going on but his vision is obscured by two giant pots of herbs. Then he hears something; a gasp, a scrape of metal against stone. He runs towards the noise, calling out into the cool air but no sound will come.
31
‘That was lovely,’ says Cosima, as Stella finishes the poem. ‘I’d like to go and live with the fairies. They eat blueberry stew you know?’
‘That sounds delicious,’ says Stella.
‘Oh, I hear Mummy,’ says Cosima, leaping off the stool.
‘She’s making her speech,’ says Maggie. ‘Come on, Cossy, let’s go and hear.’ The older woman hauls herself from the cushion and takes her granddaughter’s hand.
Stella goes to follow but she feels awkward as though she is intruding on a special family moment. Still, she promised Seb she would look after Cosima so she walks at a distance behind Maggie and the girl.
After the dimness of the alcove the restaurant seems bright even though it is bathed in soft candlelight. Yasmine stands on a chair, her face beaming as she welcomes the guests to the restaurant. Stella notices Henry standing at the front of the crowd, clapping his hands and nodding to his celebrity guests.
‘Hi everyone and welcome to … The Rose Garden.’
A cheer rings out across the room led by Henry who whistles with two fingers. Cosima and Maggie stand by a pillar; Stella stands on the oppsosite side, not too close but near enough to keep an eye on Cosima.
‘This restaurant has been years in the making,’ continues Yasmine. ‘And it would never have got off the ground if it hadn’t been for the love and support of my lovely husband.’
She stops and scans the room, her eyes expectant.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s camera shy,’ laughs Henry, looking around at the sea of smartphones recording and photographing the moment.
‘Seb,’ shouts Yasmine, playfully. ‘Darling husband, where are you? Honestly, men,’ she says, shrugging her shoulders. ‘You can never rely on them.’
The crowd laughs but Stella feels uneasy. She thinks about going to look for Seb but she can’t leave Cosima. She feels her phone vibrate in her hand and she grabs it, hoping that Paula has arrived.
‘Hi Paula, where are you?’ she shouts to make herself heard over the crowd.
‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry but I’m still at Carole’s. She’s in such a bad way I feel bad leaving her. Are you having fun?’
‘No, I’m not having fun, Paula. I’m tired and I’m only here because you wanted to come and now … now I’ve got myself into something that I can’t get out of and I really could do with you
being here.’
‘Stella, I can’t hear you, it’s so loud in there. I’ll call you back in ten minutes and give you an update. Sorry darling. Love you.’
The line goes dead but Stella holds it to her ear for a moment as though Paula is still there; as though somehow beneath all the noise and shouts and music she might still be able to hear her voice.
*
Seb strides across the terrace, his heart pounding as he pushes his way past the crowd of people. He hears someone call his name but he can’t stop, he has to get to her; he has to find his daughter.
‘Seb, quick I think she’s going to jump.’ It is Kia running towards him; her face ghostly white.
‘Cosima,’ screams Seb as he elbows his way through and then he sees it; not his daughter but a young woman standing with her back to him; standing with arms outstretched on the edge of the railings.
‘Jesus Christ,’ whispers Seb. ‘Is she drunk? How the hell did she get up there?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Kia. ‘I came up a couple of minutes ago with the champagne and she was already on the ledge.’
‘Kia, go and call the police,’ says Seb as he inches towards the woman; holding his breath lest the slightest noise sends her falling.
‘No need,’ says a voice and Seb turns to see a young man. ‘I’ve already called them. They’re on their way. I’m Cal Simpson. I work with Kerstin. She’s not well … she’s seriously not well.’
‘Get him away from me or I will jump, I tell you I will jump,’ shouts Kerstin.
‘What does she mean?’ asks Seb, keeping his voice low.
‘I told you,’ says Cal. ‘She’s sick; she needs help.’
‘I said get him away from me,’ screams Kerstin, her body leaning forwards.
There are gasps and screams from the crowd and a flash from someone’s smartphone.
‘I’m going to go and see if the police are here,’ whispers Cal. ‘Stay with her; make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid.’
‘No,’ says Seb. ‘I need to find my daughter; she’s … she’s in trouble.’
