The Feast of All Souls

by Simon Bestwick

  He was quite the charmer, doubtless with a string of girlfriends or at least conquests to his name: after all, that smile of his was sufficiently bewitching that once or twice Alice had actually caught herself smiling back, which was something she never did. Villiers was far from the first man to flirt with her by a long chalk, and not even the first at Amberson’s – single or otherwise – to do so, but he was the first to get a response.

  Alice had kept to her self-imposed vows since coming to Hastings, but even if she had been looking, her work colleagues would be off-limits. Her fling with David, who’d only been friends with a work colleague, had caused enough embarrassment, and before that there’d been John – although admittedly that had worked out okay while they’d still been at college. So she kept the boundaries clearly marked and firmly policed. Even if doing so had won her the nickname of ‘the Ice Maiden’ at Amberson’s. That Andrew Villiers had made her thaw, even slightly, said something about him. Even if Alice wasn’t sure if what it said was actually flattering.

  Andrew arrived about half an hour later, and Alice was tempted to get up and have it out with him then and there. But then she hesitated, wondering if that wasn’t what he wanted; within a minute of that Teddy had arrived, and the opportunity was gone.

  The next couple of hours went by in silence; they each had a near Bible’s worth of data to enter onto Dick and Sally, so the only sound in the lab for a time was the clicking of computer keys and the faint strains of the Verdi opera Teddy was listening to on his Discman as he scribbled preliminary notes at his end of the office. Alice tried not to look at Andrew, but whenever she did he always managed to be looking her way. In the end, she coughed and called him over.

  “Andrew?”

  “Mm?”

  “Do you want to come and have a look at this?”

  “At what?” he was grinning, eyes wide and innocent. Alice ground her teeth, then forced a smile in return – the Ice Maiden, thawing again. “If you just come over here, I’ll show you.”

  The smile stayed for a few seconds, the glint of pure mischief glimmered in his eyes, and it looked at first as though he was going to keep playing dumb. But Andrew wasn’t the cruel sort, despite the heavy metal bad-boy looks. One reason why Alice found it hard not to return his smiles – under other circumstances, she might even consider him boyfriend material. He nodded and strolled over.

  Doc Marten boots, ripped jeans, a studded belt, a Manowar T-shirt and a hint of deodorant. Muscled arms and long brown hair. Not entirely unpleasant, she had to admit. She picked up the card and whispered “I think this belongs to you.”

  “Me?” Andrew blinked. “I don’t know why you’d think that. Maybe you were just hoping –”

  “In your dreams, Mr Villiers.” Alice found she was having to make a real effort to keep her face straight; he had that mischievous schoolboy’s trick of being as funny as he was annoying. Made it hell to scold him. “I’m not interested, okay?”

  That came out sounding blunter than she’d meant it. Andrew’s smile vanished. “Shit – look, Alice – Miss Collier – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

  “You haven’t offended me, Andrew. It’s – well, it would be flattering. Nothing personal, I’m just not looking for a relationship right now.”

  “Whew.” Andrew laughed. “Well, that’s taken the wind out of my sails.”

  “Sorry.” Though she shouldn’t be apologising, really. Embarrassment comes with the territory if you’re trying to chat up girls, Mr Villiers.

  “No, it’s okay. You don’t try, you never know, do you?”

  “If you try often enough, you’ll succeed eventually.” She grinned. “Law of averages.”

  “Yeah, but you know all that classical stuff goes out of the window when you get into quantum physics.”

  “True.”

  “And anyway – just so you know, I’m not in the habit of flirting with every girl I meet.” He winked. “Just the ones I think are worth it.”

  A pick-up artist’s line, or a truth hidden by a joke? It could be either. “Thanks,” she said, in what she hoped was a tone that would suit both. “Anyway, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Okay.” She bent back over her work; Andrew turned, but didn’t walk away. She could feel him hovering there, hesitating. Finally she looked up. He turned back to her. “Look...”

  “I’m looking.”

  “You don’t want a relationship, that’s cool. But – look, I think you’re a nice lady. I like you. I like talking to you. I’ve... I haven’t long moved down here, and I don’t really know anyone in Hastings. So if you don’t want to go out, that is fine. I will respect that, I won’t flirt or anything like that. But – if we could be friends, maybe, that would be – I mean, go out some time for dinner or a film or – or whatever – I mean just as friends, nothing else, just that...”

  She had to smile. He was the one blushing now. And there was something rather sweet about him. But did he mean it, or was it just another line? It might actually have been the first, given how his habitual cool had deserted him. She let him stew for a few seconds – at first she’d meant to turn him down, but then she found herself nodding, to her own surprise even more than his. “Okay,” she said. “Tell you what. Dinner and a pub. Or a pub, then dinner. And we’ll see how that goes. But –” she pointed. “Just as friends.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. Course. That’s what I said.”

  “Just making sure you don’t forget. You try anything and that’s it. Home James and don’t spare the horses.”

  “Promise,” he said.

  “Okay then.”

  “When do you want to...”

  “We’ll give it a try tomorrow night,” she said. “You won’t get a table anywhere this evening.” And besides, she certainly wasn’t going out with him on Valentine’s Day. Even if it didn’t give Andrew the wrong idea, it would give it to others.

  “Okay.”

  “Back to work, children,” Teddy called. “I appreciate today is one for romance, young Andrew, but you may wish to seek it in a more likely place than our Alice. Mother Teresa springs to mind, if you don’t mind digging her up.”

  Now blushing a livid red, Andrew stumbled back to his desk in what looked like something of a daze. Alice bit her lips to avoid laughing and looked back down at her work.

  It would be nice to have a friend, she thought. It was the one thing missing; someone to share the day’s little triumphs and disasters with – best of all, someone who’d understand them too. She really hoped Andrew Villiers didn’t try anything silly tonight; as long as he could accept that friendship was all there was, another aspect of her life in Hastings would click neatly into place.

  Chapter Twelve

  Memory Lane

  29th October 2016

  IT WAS FOUR o’clock; that gave Alice two or three hours to prepare. After some hesitation she went to a hotel just off Deansgate and booked a room for the night.

  No, she had no intention of rekindling any romance with John Revell (Single); not ever, but certainly not now. She could only deal with one person at the moment, and that was herself. And, if she was honest, she wasn’t always certain about that. But she wasn’t going back to Collarmill Road, not tonight. She couldn’t bear the idea of going back home – home! – not with what might be waiting for her there.

  But hadn’t she vowed to herself not to run away? Yes – but this wasn’t running, or even a retreat; it was a tactical withdrawal. Falling back and regrouping in order to counterattack – and this time, with help.

  She let herself into her room, looked out of the window. The hotel stood on the Manchester bank of the Irwell, so she could see up the river, which glinted dully in the autumn sunlight. Stone and metal bridges crossed it here and there. It was a different angle, another point of view, almost another city, and she gazed at it a while, entranced, for some minutes, before tearing herself away.

  Alice studied herself in the mirror. She didn’t look too bad; still the girl n
ext door, although if she looked more closely she could see the shadows round her eyes. Speaking of her eyes, they were bloodshot. And she looked a little pale. A slightly more detailed make-up job would take care of that; for her eyes, maybe a wet flannel or some cucumber slices...

  That pulled her up short. Was she planning a makeover? Well, perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm. She checked her watch. Quarter to five. There was time, if she moved quickly. Kendal’s department store was just up the road.

  It was a short walk, but she had a taxi waiting – she needed every minute she could. She browsed in Kendal’s long enough to settle on a plain, simple-looking black dress that ended just above the knee. It hid any bumps she wouldn’t want to call attention to, and accentuated any she did. Add to that an ounce or two of very expensive perfume, a brighter-red lipstick than she normally carried, a pair of diamante silver stud earrings, a silver crystal pendant and a pair of black pumps, and her bank account was wondering what had hit it.

  She rang a taxi to pick her up again and was back at the hotel at – she checked her watch – ten to six. She laid her new clothes out on the bed, and looked again at the bill. “Jesus,” she muttered. She wasn’t normally one for excessive spending on clothes; her idea of retail therapy normally involved the DVD and Blu-Ray departments on Amazon.

  But – she may as well be honest – she wanted to look good for John Revell. No, that wasn’t right: she didn’t want to please him. She wanted him to see her after all this time and have his breath taken away. She didn’t want pity from him: she wanted awe. If he still carried a torch for her, let it burn.

  Apart from anything else, she had a favour to ask him, and after all that had happened between them it was a large one.

  Alice ran the shower and stepped into it. Steam filled the narrow glass cubicle, turned the bathroom outside into a blur. Once, she thought she saw someone standing outside – a small, dark, figure – and she started, but when she rubbed the condensation away, nothing was there.

  SHE WAS TEN minutes late, mostly because she’d forgotten how long it took her to properly get ready. The taxi dropped her on King Street West, outside the restaurant. She paid the driver and went inside.

  The Koreana was in a basement; a flight of steps led down from the street entrance. The décor was simple enough, plain light colours, with traditional Korean costumes, musical instruments and the like on the walls. There was a huge plasma screen on the back wall, playing what appeared to be a cookery programme. And at one small table for two, she could see John Revell. As she came down the stairs, he saw her too, and stood.

  A waiter met her. “Can I help you?”

  She pointed in John’s direction. “I’m with him.”

  She could tell as she approached that her ‘makeover’ had had the desired effect. Berry-red lipstick and nail polish; light pink blusher to put colour in her face and bring out her cheekbones; turquoise eye-shadow to bring out the blue of her eyes. Then there was silver jewellery sparkling in her ears and in the black dress’ décolletage – and, of course, the black dress itself. For a moment, he looked lost for words. “Alice,” he said at last.

  “Hi, John.” Thinking, once again, I’ve still got it. Whatever comfort that was supposed to be.

  He hesitated in front of her; she hesitated, too. How did you greet an ex-lover after twenty years? In the end she stepped forward, kissed his cheek and hugged him briefly. It felt strange to do so; they’d gone from total intimacy to a complete withdrawal from it all those years before, and hadn’t seen each other since.

  “Shall we?” She motioned to the table.

  “Good idea,” he smiled. They sat. “You look great,” he said. “You haven’t changed at all.”

  “Neither have you.”

  “Black –”

  “– don’t crack,” she laughed. “I remember.”

  It was true, as well. There were some crow’s feet around his eyes and if she looked closely there were tiny flecks of grey in the close-cropped hair and goatee beard, but that was it. The biggest difference was how he dressed now: a red shirt under a wool sweater, tan corduroy slacks that matched the colour of the suede jacket hanging on the back of his chair. Back in the ’nineties, he’d been strictly a jeans and T-shirts man.

  A waitress appeared. “You want to order drinks now?”

  “Wine?” John suggested.

  “I don’t drink at the moment,” Alice said. She hoped he couldn’t guess the reason; alcohol didn’t react well with antidepressants. “Just a Diet Coke, please.”

  “Bottle of Hite for me, then.”

  “Very good,” said the waitress, and went away.

  “So,” John said, “look at you.”

  “I know. Back here again.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “Higher Crawbeck, near the Fall. Remember that place?”

  “Remember it?” He laughed. “I remember going off the path and clambering up some slope with you because you wanted to check something out, slipping and going feet-first down it into the Irwell.”

  “You didn’t end up in the river, John.”

  “Too bad. That slope was pure mud. I looked like I’d been dipped in cowsh –”

  “I did my best to make it up to you.”

  He smiled. “I remember that too.”

  The waitress came back with drinks on a tray. “Diet Coke,” she said, putting a glass in front of Alice, “and a bottle of Hite.” She poured the pale beer into John’s glass until it was two-thirds full, then stood the bottle beside it before taking a long-barrelled stove lighter from the tray. On each table, along with the cutlery and condiments, was a glass bowl containing a single tea-light. The waitress lit it. “Are you ready to order?”

  “You?” Alice asked John.

  “I know what I’m having.”

  She glanced through it. “I’ll have the braised mussels for starters, please, and the dak gang jung for the main.”

  “Boiled rice or fried?”

  “Boiled, please.”

  “Very good.”

  “I’ll have the ribs,” said John, “and the ojingo bokum.”

  “Very good.”

  The waitress left. Alice grimaced. “Squid?” she said. “Don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”

  “Don’t knock it –”

  “– until I’ve tried it. Yeah, yeah – change the record, Revell.”

  She grinned at him and he grinned back; then both of them looked away. They slipped back into the old banter so easily, as if the last twenty years hadn’t happened. But they had.

  John studied her. Candlelight glimmered in his eyes. He wasn’t smiling now. “So how are you?”

  She shrugged. “I’m okay.”

  “I mean, I heard about what happened.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry – ah, shit. Alice, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

  “John, it’s okay. I live with it every day, and it’s like the bloody elephant in the room, you know? For me as well. Anything I talk about, whatever plans I make, it’s all – touched by this. Shaped by it.”

  “I was sorry to hear, anyway. Sorry’s not much of a word for it, I know.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Her eyes prickled.

  “Hey.” He touched her hand – light, hesitant – then withdrew. “You want to talk about what happened, I’m here and I’ll listen. You don’t? Fine, we’ll talk about something else. Whatever you like.”

  “Thanks, John. What about you, anyway? How’s your family? Is your dad –?” She stopped there, afraid she’d put her foot in it.

  “Oh, he’s fine. Church every Sunday, dressed to kill. I think there’ve been a few women.”

  “You think? You’ve not fallen out, have you?”

  “Hell, no. But he’s my dad. There are some things I really don’t want to know about.”

  Alice laughed.

  “No, he’s still his old self,” said John. “You should hear him. You know I went to Africa, a few years back?”
/>   “No.”

  “Yeah. The Gambia. The whole ‘Roots’ thing. You know what dad said?” John slipped into his father’s Jamaican accent. “He said, ‘What you want to go over there for? Them still eating people over there!’ You know what the old school are like.”

  “The old school.” Alice smiled at him. “I’d forgotten, you always call them that.”

  “Yeah.” The smile dimmed a little. “I do envy him, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s still got his faith. No doubts, no ifs, buts or maybes. Mum’s in Heaven and when he dies he’ll be with her again. That’s how he copes. Everything else is just killing time.”

  Maybe now was the time to bring it up? It was an opportunity – but no, it was too early. Later, she’d ask him. And besides, the starters had arrived.

  THE REST OF the meal passed in small talk. The old days at university, the mad things they and their friends had got up to, the old ‘where are they now?’ routine.

  As they pored over the dessert menu, the topic shifted back to their families. Alice talked about Mum and Dad – still together, still maddening, still loved – and John about his sister, Carol, who’d just had her fourth child.

  “Four now? Jesus. And hang on, I thought she was your big sister.”

  “Yup. Forty-four and a mother again. Back at work already.”

  “What about you?”

  “Nah.” He shrugged. “Never found the right woman, did I?” He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it. “Few girlfriends, over the years.”

  “But no kids?”

  “Nah.” He studied the dessert menu with an air of deep concentration. “Think I’ll have the rice cake. You?”

  “Oh... chocolate ice cream, I think.”

  John beckoned, and the waitress came over. He’d always had that knack, she recalled. Alice had to practically stand on chairs waving semaphore flags in order to attract attention, and not always successfully then.