Follow You Home

by Mark Edwards

  When I got home, Laura was standing beside a black cab, the driver heaving her suitcase off the pavement.

  ‘What . . . what are you doing?’ I asked.

  Laura blinked at me and got into the cab.

  ‘You all right, love?’ the cabbie asked. She nodded and he climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I said, leaning through the window, fingers gripping the frame.

  She took a long, deep breath. ‘I’m going to stay with Erin and Rob.’

  They were friends of ours who lived in Camden.

  I could barely speak. ‘Why?’

  She shook her head sadly. ‘You know why, Daniel.’

  And then she had gone, the taxi accelerating through puddles, soaking an old woman on the other side of the road and vanishing around the corner.

  I stood in the street for a long time, not aware of the rain until it dripped into my eyes and all I could see was a watery veil that at least, though it didn’t really matter, hid my tears.

  I hauled myself off the chair and drifted into the living room, almost tripping over the recycling box that I’d left by the door, all the empty wine bottles inside it rattling and clinking together. This reminded me that I needed to do an online grocery shop. I only had two bottles of alcohol left in the flat, one of which was a litre bottle of Ouzo that Jake had brought back from a holiday in Greece a year ago. Poor Jake had been forced to endure several nights sitting with me while I got drunk and openly mourned my relationship. It was particularly frustrating for him because I wouldn’t tell him what had created the fracture that tore Laura and me apart.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he kept saying. ‘You guys were so good together.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Is she seeing someone else? Want me to kill the bastard for you? Or put him in a song?’

  ‘There’s no one else.’

  ‘Then there’s only one explanation. The two of you have gone stark raving mad.’ He waited for me to respond. When I didn’t, he said, ‘Come on, you can tell me. I can keep a secret.’

  ‘Hah. Come off it, Jake. You’re the biggest gossip I’ve ever met. You can’t resist sharing a good story.’

  ‘I’m offended, Dan. If you tell me it’s a secret, I’ll keep it right here.’ He laid a hand across his heart. ‘I can keep secrets, you know.’

  It had rained so much in the past few weeks that I had taken to glancing out the window expecting to see bodies floating past. While I’m not so egotistical as to think the weather is connected to my own life, it certainly felt appropriate. I had spent many days sitting in my flat watching the rain pummel the windows, people dashing from their cars in the street below, kids splashing in puddles while their soaked parents tried to drag them home. I wanted the rain to wash away the memory of what we’d seen and done. But all it did was cause the damp patch beneath the front window to bloom and spread, and give me a good excuse to stay indoors.

  I entered the galley kitchen. One of the three light bulbs was dead but I hadn’t got round to changing it. I had a feeling that when the last bulb finally died I would come to rely on the light from the fridge.

  I looked at my phone to check the time. Quarter to twelve. Too early to open the remaining Merlot. But I could have a glass with lunch. One o’clock was a more civilised time to have lunch, but noon was acceptable. I occupied myself for fifteen minutes watching a daytime TV item about a woman who believed she’d had a sexual encounter with a ghost, then returned to the kitchen. I wasn’t hungry and there was green fur on the bread. Could I have a glass of wine without food? I knew I shouldn’t but I could taste it, anticipating its bloody thickness on my tongue.

  I poured half a glass, hesitated, then topped it up. Took it over to the sofa and slumped in front of the TV. An item came on about Center Parcs: a family walking through a forest. I snatched up the remote control and changed the channel.

  If I could sleep, could get just one decent night’s rest, I was certain I would feel better, that I would be able to function again. This was one of the excuses I made for drinking, because after two bottles I would pass out. But an hour or two later, I would jerk awake, feeling like a nuclear bomb had detonated in my skull. The rest of the night would pass in a series of shifting hallucinations, some invented, some remembered, and I would try desperately to hold the door shut on my memories.

  Sometimes they snuck through, as if revealed by a camera flashing in the dark.

  Flash. My hand on the warped wooden door.

  Flash. A face as white as bone, twisted in torment.

  Flash. Laura, stumbling on the crooked staircase.

  I swallowed a mouthful of red wine. As it slipped down my throat I could see an image of my mum, shaking her head and saying, ‘This won’t do, will it, Daniel? This can’t go on.’

  I yelled and threw the glass across the room. It shattered against the fireplace, dark wine splattering the walls like blood-spray at a crime scene, glass splinters settling on the carpet.

  This can’t go on.

  As I got to my feet, knowing that I needed to clean up the wine and the glass, a terrible weariness seizing my limbs as I contemplated it, my mobile rang.

  The display read LAURA.

  Eagerly, I pressed ‘answer’ and said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Daniel? Are you OK? You sound . . . weird.’

  ‘Yes. I just . . .’ I laughed. ‘I dropped a glass. Of orange juice.’

  ‘Oh. Do you want me to call back later?’

  ‘No! I mean, no, now’s fine. Now’s great. What’s up?’ It took all my acting skills to sound normal.

  Why was she hesitating? Was she about to tell me that she wanted to come home? Hope flared in my chest.

  ‘I’ve got something I need to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  Her voice wobbled. ‘I need to tell you in person.’

  Chapter Ten

  Erin and Rob Tranham lived in a house in a leafy back street of Camden, one of the most expensive parts of North London, an area where Laura and I had spent many weekends at the start of our relationship. We used to stay out drinking and dancing half the night before crashing at our friends’ place, then wander, hungover and dazed, through the crowds around the market before going home. Erin’s gran had bought the house for the price of a Starbucks venti latte in the sixties, signing it over to her granddaughter when she retired and moved to France.

  I rang the doorbell and wondered if I looked as horrible as I felt. I was on my third piece of chewing gum, trying to mask the smell of the Merlot I’d drunk at lunchtime.

  Rob opened the door and gestured for me to come in. He would deny it, but he did a double-take when he saw me, giving me time to note how fit and healthy he was, triceps pumped like he’d just been to the gym, and then Erin appeared. Chopsticks held her hair in place and she stood in that pose heavily pregnant women often adopt: one hand on her back. I stared at her enormous bump as Rob put a proud and protective arm around her.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘It must be due soon.’

  ‘Yeah, Erin’s eight months gone. And it is a he,’ she said. ‘We’re having a boy.’

  ‘A mini Rob. Congrats, mate.’ I shook Rob’s hand. He let go quickly, backing away.

  Erin was looking at me with either sympathy or pity. ‘Laura’s in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘Come through.’

  I knew where the kitchen was, had cooked dinner there, mixed cocktails and cracked open beers before nights out as a foursome. But Erin was acting like I was, if not a stranger, then merely an acquaintance. Someone she used to know.

  Maybe, I thought, that was true. Because she only knew the old me. Not this new version. I was the living embodiment of that expression: a shadow of his former self.

  ‘Hi, Daniel.’

  Laura sat at the solid oak table, clinging to a
cup of tea like it was a lifebuoy. Seeing her sent a jolt through me. She was wearing a black jumper and her hair was tied back to expose her face. She was still Laura, still lovely. But these many weeks apart allowed me to see the changes in her. Like me, she was thinner, her face paler; there was a new translucent quality to her skin. Her cheekbones were visible, her jawline sharper. Her fingernails were bitten like mine, something she never did before, berating me for the bad habit that left my cuticles in a permanent state of ruin.

  She had also developed a new habit in the days following our return, a habit of swiping and rubbing at her eyes, like there was something in them that bothered her. There was, she explained to me, a shape that lurked in the periphery of her vision. Like when you stare at a light and see its imprint on your retina after you look away. But this imprint wouldn’t fade.

  I sat down opposite her and she asked me if I wanted a tea or coffee. I shook my head and looked over my shoulder. Erin and Rob had gone into the living room, giving us privacy. I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad one.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Laura asked. Without waiting for me to reply, she said, ‘You look ill.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She shrugged with one shoulder. ‘Sorry, but it’s true. I look ill too.’

  ‘No, you look . . . nice.’

  Once upon a time, she would have laughed at that. ‘I don’t,’ she said in a flat tone. She stared into her tea, groped for more words. I hated this awkwardness between us. It wasn’t fair, wasn’t right. I wanted to grab her and stare into her eyes, say, ‘Laura, it’s me, Daniel. I’m still me. And you’re still you.’

  But I didn’t do that. I didn’t say anything.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What’s happening with you? Are you working much?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ I said.

  She nodded, understanding. She had been struggling with work too.

  ‘So what did you want to tell me?’ I said.

  She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m moving,’ she said.

  ‘Moving? Where?’

  She couldn’t meet my eye. ‘Perth.’

  For a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d heard correctly. ‘You’re moving to Scotland?’

  She laughed, a flash of the old Laura appearing then vanishing again. ‘No. Perth in Australia.’

  I floundered, mouth opening, closing then opening again. ‘Australia?’

  ‘You know my aunt lives out there?’

  I had a vague memory of her mentioning this once. ‘So you’re going travelling?’

  ‘No. Emigrating.’

  I opened my mouth but she cut me off. ‘I’ve already been to see an independent consultant who’s helping me with the application, and she thinks I’ll get enough points to be able to go, especially with my aunt sponsoring me.’

  It was like being punched in the head. ‘But . . . why?’

  She looked at me. ‘Do you really need me to explain?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’

  She hunched over the table, pushing her tea away. ‘I need a completely fresh start, far away.’

  ‘Well, you couldn’t get much further away.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You can’t go,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘Daniel, I’m only telling you out of . . .’

  ‘What? Politeness?’

  The temperature in the kitchen had dropped several degrees. Laura frowned, her gaze fixed on the tabletop. ‘I just thought you should know.’

  I took several deep breaths, counted to ten. ‘How long does it take? The application?’

  ‘A few months.’

  ‘Months?’ I had been hoping she’d say a year.

  ‘Please be understanding,’ she said. ‘You know how unhappy I am. I need to do something to change things, and this is the best idea I’ve got. A completely new start. For the first time since . . .’ She trailed off. ‘For the first time in ages, I feel excited about something. I actually feel something—something that isn’t dread, or regret, or fear.’

  ‘But it’s running away, Laura.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘It is. Just like you ran away from me.’

  ‘Daniel, I’m not a child.’

  An idea grabbed me and I scooted back into the chair opposite her, tried to grab her hand. ‘Let me come with you. I could emigrate too. I’ve always wanted to go to Australia.’

  She looked like I’d just suggested we have sex on Erin and Rob’s kitchen table. ‘No. I need to do this alone.’

  ‘There’s nothing to keep me here.’

  ‘Yes there is. Your work—’

  ‘Which I can do anywhere.’

  ‘And your family. Your mum. And, Daniel, the whole point is that I need a break. A complete break.’

  My hand, which had been drumming the tabletop, fell still. ‘So it isn’t the UK that you want to be thousands of miles from. It’s me.’

  She stood up. ‘If I’d known you were going to get aggressive . . .’

  ‘I’m not being aggressive!’

  ‘I thought you’d be understanding. You’re the only other person who knows what I went through.’

  ‘What we went through.’

  She got up and crossed the kitchen to the sink, filled a glass of water and took a big gulp. ‘Please, I really don’t want to argue about it, Daniel.’

  It was my turn to stand up. ‘Instead of running off to Australia, maybe you should do what I’m doing. Go to see a therapist.’

  She almost dropped the glass. ‘You’re seeing a therapist?’

  ‘Yes. A woman called Dr Sauvage.’

  ‘And is it helping?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet.’

  ‘Have you . . . Have you told this woman exactly what happened?’

  ‘Not all of it. No. She wants to hear about how I’m feeling now.’

  She looked relieved. ‘I don’t want to see a therapist. I don’t want to talk about any of what happened. I want to forget it, if it’s at all possible for me to do so. That’s why I’m moving to a new country, starting a new life.’

  At that moment, Erin came into the kitchen, pausing awkwardly in the doorway. Had she been listening to us? Had we raised our voices? Erin had both hands on her ripe belly, as if she were trying to protect her unborn son from listening to these arguing adults. I had an urge to tell the baby to stay in the womb, where he was safe, sheltered. It’s fucked up out here, I wanted to say. It’s fucked up and there are monsters. Don’t believe people when they tell you there’s no such thing.

  ‘Sorry, guys,’ Erin said. ‘I’m having a bit of a blood sugar crash and just need to get something to eat.’

  Laura moved across the kitchen, pulled out a chair and ushered her friend into it. Seamlessly, she opened the fridge door and started pulling out fruit and cheese and meat wrapped in silver foil. ‘What are you craving?’

  Erin sat down and grinned at me. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not about to eat a pineapple and mayonnaise jelly. Just a ham sandwich would be lovely, Laura. Thanks, sweetie.’

  I watched as Laura made the sandwich, passing it to Erin. Even in the midst of her blood sugar crash, Erin radiated good health and vitality. Eight months pregnant. That could have been Laura now. But instead of being closer to me than ever, she was moving to the other side of the fucking world.

  ‘What do you think of Laura moving to Australia?’ I asked.

  Erin took a bite of her sandwich and chewed before answering. ‘Of course I don’t want her to go.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand any of this. What happened to you two? You seemed so happy. What did you do, Daniel? Laura won’t tell me.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything!’

  ‘But neither of you will tell me what blew you apart. Come on, Dan. You can tell me, can’t you? Did you sleep with s
omeone else?’

  Laura shot me a beseeching look. We will never speak about it, she had said on the way back from Romania. Promise me.

  I promise.

  I didn’t need to promise. I didn’t want to talk about it either. All I wanted was to forget. If I didn’t talk about it, I could pretend it had never happened. Any of it. That was the only way to cope.

  ‘He didn’t sleep with someone else,’ Laura said.

  Erin sighed heavily. ‘All right. But I think the two of you need your heads knocking together.’ She waved her sandwich in Laura’s direction. ‘Have you told him what happened to you yesterday?’

  ‘No,’ Laura said quickly, eyes darting nervously.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  Erin’s eyes were big and round. Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Tell him, Laura.’

  She stared at the kitchen table, chewing a thumbnail, unable to meet my eye. ‘I think . . . I thought someone tried to kill me.’

  ‘Oh my God. Where? How?’

  ‘At Charing Cross Tube station. I was heading home from Australia House, you know, where you go to apply to emigrate, and . . .’ She broke off, still staring at the table surface, then told me what had happened at the station the day before.

  Chapter Eleven

  Laura walked down the steps of Australia House, the paperwork neatly folded in her shoulder bag, feeling curiously light. She pictured herself as a helium-filled balloon, set free by a careless child’s hand, alighting from the frosty city streets, up past the windows of the imposing buildings here on the Strand, floating towards the clouds. Set free. How wonderful that would feel.

  As she walked towards Charing Cross she kept as close to the buildings as possible, feeling reassured by the solid concrete, as if it offered protection. A man emerged from one of the tiny snickets between the buildings and Laura jumped, slapping her hand to her breastbone. She put her head down and scurried on.

  The last week or so she’d felt like she was being watched. She kept seeing a figure flickering in her peripheral vision, but every time she looked the figure was gone. She knew she was imagining it, and as if to prove this she saw the figure again, on the other side of the road, a glimpse of black clothes and white skin that vanished in the crowd. She forced herself to keep walking, eyes straight ahead. She wanted to be home.