Summer Lies Bleeding

by Nuala Casey

‘What?’ says Cal, pointing to the shadowy figure standing on the railings. ‘More trouble than that?’

  Seb goes to speak but Cal has gone.

  Taking a deep breath he walks slowly towards the girl; telling himself with every step that Cosima is fine, she is with Stella and no harm will come to her.

  ‘Come down, you silly cow,’ shouts a drunken woman in a pink dress.

  ‘Ssh,’ says her friend. ‘You’ll scare her.’

  Seb tries to clear his head; tries to channel his father the army officer. If he were here he would know what to do. He used to tell Seb about the terrified soldiers; the ones who would rather put a gun to their heads than face another moment of war. ‘Keep them talking,’ his father would say. ‘No shouts, no sudden movements, just keep talking.’

  ‘Could I ask you all to move aside, please,’ he says to the baffled onlookers. ‘Just go and stand over there, please, and let me deal with this.’

  Kia shepherds them towards the doors of the terrace where they stand open-mouthed, watching as Seb starts to talk to the woman.

  *

  Mark hears her voice as he enters the restaurant; the low, sensuous voice he last heard as he stood on the street and enquired after her husband.

  Straightening his suit he walks slowly towards the voice; past dull men holding champagne glasses and overly made-up women adjusting their hair; all standing around like lemmings; waiting on the words of the small dark woman who stands perched on her chair talking enthusiastically about a restaurant as though it is something important, as though these people really care; as though they don’t spend their futile lives going from one opening night to another; chitchatting with strangers with rictus grins on their faces as they approach the host and tell him or her that their restaurant/painting/album/book is the best thing they have ever encountered.

  It’s all bollocks, thinks Mark as he elbows a skinny blonde in the ribs and walks towards the curtained booth where he had spoken to Bailey yesterday.

  ‘… sure he’s here somewhere,’ continues Yasmine, as Mark pulls back the curtain and enters the deserted lover’s corner. ‘But I know that he would join me in saying how delighted we both are to declare The Rose Garden well and truly open.’

  A cheer rings out across the room and Mark flinches as he stands looking at a white mound on the wall. The painting Bailey was hanging yesterday is now covered in a sheet, waiting for the grand unveiling, no doubt.

  Arrogant bastard, thinks Mark. He can’t be left out can he? Even at his wife’s opening night he has to be the centre of attention. Wanker.

  He leans across the table and tugs at the sheet. It billows slightly like a feather caught in the breeze before dropping to the floor.

  And there it is: an oil painting depicting a vast lake at twilight with shafts of light rippling across the surface.

  Mark stands staring at the painting; he looks at the moon glowing in the right hand corner; the dark trees dipping their heads into the water; the sparks of light bouncing off the surface like bullets and an old rage stirs up inside him.

  This man has it all; a beautiful family, talent, love. Everything Mark has lost flashes in front of him as he stands looking at the painting. He sees his dad lying in a bed with manky hospital sheets clinging to his emaciated frame; he sees his mother sobbing in her tiny kitchen with its cheap ornaments and own-brand tinned goods; he sees Ernie’s face on the top of the moor, happy to be away from Middlesbrough, happy to be play-acting at being a toff. He sees a lifetime of making do and wrecked dreams and shattered lives. No wonder Zoe wanted to get away, wanted to create something better for herself and she almost got there didn’t she, he thinks, as tears well up in his eyes, she almost made it. But he got in the way, Bailey and his sob story; he got in her way that night and he sent her to her death.

  ‘All this is bullshit,’ he yells as he pulls a shard of glass out of his pocket and lunges at the painting.

  As the shard strikes the canvas, tears blur the image and as one strike becomes another and another; as each shaft of light is extinguished Mark feels the room slip away; voices merge into one loud voice, telling him to carry on, not to stop until he has done his father proud.

  As he slumps on the velvet banquette, his energy spent, his lungs dry and tight he looks up and sees her, standing by the curtain like a gift from God.

  *

  ‘Has he gone?’ asks Kerstin, looking down at the man who has appeared next to her. He has a kind face, she thinks.

  ‘Yes, he’s gone,’ replies Seb, remembering, as his father once told him, to keep his voice bright.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asks, trying not to think about the fifty foot drop below.

  ‘Kerstin,’ she whimpers.

  She is young, thinks Seb, too young to feel that this is her only option.

  ‘I’m in big trouble,’ says Kerstin. ‘There’s nowhere left to go.’

  ‘There is always somewhere,’ says Seb. ‘I’ve often felt like it was all too much; years ago I even tried to…’ He stops, reminding himself to keep it light. ‘But it got better and it will for you.’

  ‘It won’t,’ says Kerstin. ‘It can only get worse.’

  ‘Where are you from, Kerstin?’ asks Seb, trying to reel her back word by word. ‘Which part of Germany?’

  ‘Cologne,’ she replies, though her voice is barely audible above the roar of traffic below and Seb has to lean in to hear.

  ‘Cologne,’ he repeats, again trying to keep his voice bright. ‘A beautiful city, famous for its cathedral I understand.’

  Kerstin nods her head but the movement seems to unbalance her and she sways slightly. Seb instinctively goes to steady her; his heart in his mouth.

  ‘You don’t have to do this, Kerstin,’ he says, his diplomacy skills deserting him with the shock of her near-miss. ‘There is always a way out; always. No matter what happens we can all start again.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she screams, this time her voice wins the battle against the noises of Soho. ‘I can’t start again; I am over, finished. You don’t understand, I’m not a good person. I killed someone.’

  *

  Stella slips her phone into her bag and watches as Yasmine climbs down from the stool.

  ‘Your mum did really well,’ she says turning to Cosima but she is not there.

  ‘Cosima,’ she shouts.

  She sees Maggie hugging Yasmine and she goes towards them, praying that the child is with them but there is no sign.

  ‘Maggie, have you seen Cosima?’ she asks as the older woman disentangles herself from her daughter’s arms.

  ‘No, I thought she was with you.’

  The smile fades from Yasmine’s face as she weighs up Stella.

  ‘Sorry, who are you and why would my daughter be with you?’

  Stella goes to speak but before she can someone screams. She turns and sees him; the man from last night.

  He is holding Cosima to his chest. It’s a pose that could almost be protective though Stella can see that it is not, she can see what he is holding in his hand; broken glass. A flash of silver glints in the candlelight as he presses it to the back of Cosima’s head.

  Mark’s face is red and twisted but Stella carries on walking towards him, her arms outstretched.

  ‘Don’t come near or I’ll cut her,’ he shouts. ‘I swear I will.’

  The music stops and two security guards rush towards him.

  ‘I’m warning you, you bastards,’ he yells to the guards. ‘I’ll slit her fucking throat.’

  There is a piercing scream and Stella turns to see Yasmine running towards them.

  ‘My baby! Get your hands off my baby. Somebody do something.’

  Henry grabs her arm to hold her back.

  ‘Where is he?’ yells Mark and he directs the question to Stella rather than Yasmine.

  ‘Where’s Bailey?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Stella’s voice, so calm in the midst of this terror, sounds wrong.

 
; ‘Ah, we meet again,’ says Mark, waving his free arm at Stella. ‘Thanks for the invite.’

  ‘What?’ shrieks Yasmine as she lurches forwards but Henry stops her.

  ‘Yasmine, no,’ he whispers. ‘The police are on their way. Don’t do anything.’

  ‘Seb’s not here,’ says Stella. ‘Let her go. Whatever grudge you hold against her father, you can sort out between the two of you, as men. She’s a child. Now let her go.’

  *

  She looks so vulnerable standing there; so delicate and slight; how could someone so refined, so unassuming, be a killer?

  Seb tries not to dwell on this; it could be part of what her colleague had referred to as her ‘sickness’; it might all be in her mind.

  ‘We all make mistakes, Kerstin,’ he says gently, and as he speaks he sees her face twitch slightly; she is listening.

  ‘None of us are perfect,’ he continues. ‘And sometimes we do things that don’t make sense; or we think we have done things that have caused others pain and hurt when really we have only hurt ourselves.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I need to be punished; I will be punished for what I did,’ she says, her voice riven with fear.

  Seb wonders how old she is; she can’t be more than thirty. He thinks of her parents; all the expectations you have for your children; the daily fight for their happiness; their safety, and he knows he has to keep trying to get her down.

  ‘You have people who love you, Kerstin,’ he says. ‘People who want you to get better.’

  She lets out a sob and he feels he is getting somewhere.

  ‘You are not going to die here, Kerstin,’ he says. ‘Your life is not going to end like this. You are going to have a long, wonderful life with people who love you. Whatever you have done; there is always a way out; a way to happiness.’

  She turns to look at him and in that moment he sees she is ready to come down. Her eyes are full of trust; like Cosima’s when he taught her how to ride a bike and she kept looking up at him, to see if he was still holding on to her; to see if he was still there.

  She is shivering badly now and Seb is concerned that any sudden movement could send her falling. He extends his arms out to her; locks his eyes onto hers and smiles.

  ‘Come on Kerstin, take my hand,’ he says.

  He feels her hand brush his and he grasps it tightly.

  ‘Good girl,’ he whispers. ‘Now the other hand. I’m here, I won’t let go. It’s going to be all right.’

  But as she turns and holds out her hand a voice cuts through the silence.

  ‘The police are here, Kerstin.’

  She shakes her head as Cal approaches and she looks at Seb pleadingly.

  ‘Kerstin, the police are here,’ repeats Cal, lunging forward to grab her shoulder.

  ‘No,’ yells Seb.

  And with that word Kerstin closes her eyes, tightens her grip on Seb’s hand, and begins to count.

  *

  ‘Do you know what? You’re starting to annoy me, love.’

  Mark glares at Stella as they stand in the middle of the room, face to face.

  ‘Do you know he’s been fucking her,’ he yells to Yasmine, whose face is smeared with tears. She shakes her head at him. ‘Oh yeah, big time. I saw them with my own eyes; all over each other in the street. The man can’t help himself; he fucked her like he fucked over my sister; my sister Zoe Davis, who he threw out on the street to be butchered, like a piece of meat. Here have your kid.’

  He throws Cosima across the room; and she screams hysterically as she falls into Yasmine’s arms.

  ‘The police are here,’ whispers Henry but Yasmine doesn’t hear; she is enveloped in her daughter, holding her face to her chest.

  But Mark hears him and looks up to see two police officers heading towards him. He has to end this properly; he has to go down fighting and as the first of the officers approaches he grabs Stella and plunges the shard of glass into her stomach.

  ‘That’s for Zoe. See how it feels, you snooty bitch,’ he yells as he pulls out the glass and watches as Stella falls in a heap by his feet.

  ‘No!’ shouts Stella, her cry drowned out by the police radios and the mass of uniformed bodies bearing down on Mark.

  She lies on the floor and looks down at the red patch of blood that is seeping through her white dress, her head feels woozy, but she knows she has to cling onto consciousness; she must not close her eyes. She feels someone hold her arms; hears people scream but she is above it all; she feels herself slip away; the room begins to fragment and she knows that she has to keep her eyes open if she is to stay alive. She stares at the faces bearing down on her; willing one of them to be Paula but as a dark screen comes down over her eyes she knows that this time she is on her own.

  *

  In the seconds it takes to fall through the air, hand in hand with a stranger, Seb sees it, as clear and bright as the red lights glistening on the BT Tower. He sees a beach covered in driftwood; an empty bed in a cold dorm in a wretched boarding school; he sees fireflies dancing on the surface of a lake and a little girl sobbing in a beautiful green dress. He sees his life; all thirty-seven years of his time on this earth, spread out before him as he tumbles down into the darkness.

  EPILOGUE

  March, 2013

  ‘I should go,’ says Stella. ‘I have a lecture to give this afternoon.’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Henry. ‘Even in death life must go on.’

  Stella smiles at him as they make their way across Battersea Park.

  ‘It was a beautiful memorial service,’ says Stella, tucking her freezing hands into the warm folds of her coat. ‘Spine tingling to see all his paintings up there, what a collection; it’s so sad.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Henry. ‘What a legacy he left to us all. And the Sebastian Bailey Arts Scholarship will launch this month in a blaze of publicity. He would have liked that.’

  Stella flinches; though she only knew Seb through fleeting encounters she knows that parties and publicity and launches were not what he was about. His legacy was greater than that; it was flesh and blood.

  They reach the deserted North Carriageway and as Stella bids Henry goodbye and watches as he disappears through the park gates she hears a shout; a child’s voice floating across the parkland like a wind chime.

  ‘Stella,’

  She turns and watches as Cosima comes towards her, flanked by her mother and grandmother. She is holding something in her hand; a thin parcel wrapped in gold tissue.

  ‘I want you to have this,’ she says, her childish voice, lowered with pain. ‘It’s a present for you.’

  Stella takes the parcel and gently unwraps it and as the gift falls out into her hands, her eyes fill with tears. It’s a tiny fairy, dressed in a green silk dress; the blonde curls of its hair cascading in loose coils down its back.

  ‘Oh, Cosima,’ says Stella, taking the doll and holding it to her cheek. ‘It’s beautiful, thank you. I love it.’

  She tries to hold back her tears for the sake of Yasmine who had stayed so composed for the duration of Seb’s memorial service, but it’s no use and as she crouches down to hug Cosima, she starts to sob.

  ‘Thank you, Cosima,’ she says, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her winter coat.

  ‘This is the fairy that helped you,’ says the little girl, returning to the arms of her mother and grandmother. ‘The one who made you better.’

  *

  The crypt inside Cologne Cathedral is cool and dark and Eva Engel pulls her shawl tightly round her shoulders as she shakily lights the white candle and places it onto the metal shelf.

  She closes her eyes and begins to recite the Lord’s Prayer but the words will not come; instead she stares at the candle, watches as the pale yellow flame grows stronger and stronger until it is a vibrant orange glow.

  She hopes her daughter is at peace now; hopes that whatever demons disturbed her in life have fallen silent in death. And she wasn’t alone; thank God she wasn’t alone. In
the months following her daughter’s death she was comforted by several letters from that nice young man who was with her in her final hours. She has a lot to be thankful to Cal Simpson for; if it wasn’t for him she would have never been able to piece together the last few moments of Kerstin’s life. She would have been happy, Eva thinks, that he was given her role at Sircher Capital. As he said in his letter, it was a beautiful legacy.

  She turns and walks away, leaving the candle to burn itself out, until all that is left is a thin, black wisp of smoke.

  *

  Stella stands watching the three figures depart; their shoulders hunched; their bodies riven with grief. Mother, daughter and granddaughter; a family, joined forever by their DNA; by their memories. Could there have been a happy ending for her and Paula? Could they have created a family together; been happy? Stella had asked herself this question a hundred times in the months following the break-up but she knew that it could never be. Paula had come running into the hospital talking about rehabilitation and getting home and making healing herbal tea but Stella knew; she knew as she lay in the bed listening to Paula’s chatter; she knew it as she had lain on the floor of the restaurant covered in blood and clinging onto life, that the only person who could save her was herself.

  She shivers as she thinks how the sharp glass penetrated her skin. And Mark’s eyes as he pushed the shard further into her stomach, holding the small of her back with his hand like an embrace. She will never forget the look he gave her as he pulled the glass out: it was almost like he was saying sorry. Despite everything she cannot hate him. It was grief that had made him do it. All the details came out in court: Zoe’s death; the breakdown of his marriage; the loss of his grandfather. After all that, his obsession with Seb was the only thing he had to hold onto. She hopes he gets better; hopes he can get the help he needs to build his life again.

  She looks at her watch; it’s time to go. In just over an hour, twenty-five eager undergraduates will be waiting for her to deliver a lecture on Virginia Woolf’s The Years; and she will stand at the front of the lecture theatre and tell them about the transcience of life; of five stories interwoven; five destinies playing themselves out against the tumult and precariousness of time.