The Girlfriend

by Sarah Naughton

  Are there wolves in this forest? The thought does not scare her. An animal has simple desires: to eat and sleep and protect its territory. It mates only to produce children. It loves its children with such fierce passion, it would tear your throat out if you harmed one.

  A wolf would eat her, perhaps, despite her boniness. It would be a quick death. She can imagine her corpse being squabbled over by tumbling cubs, play-snarling at one another, little claws tangling in her hair, needle teeth chewing her finger bones.

  She slides her eyes across to the child beside her. Like her, he stares blankly from the window, the trees throwing moving bars across his face. The air in the car is thick with cigarette smoke, and the woman in front of her winds down the window to toss out a butt. A chill wind lifts the hem of her dress and creeps up her thighs. She shivers. She needs to pee but knows better than to ask to stop.

  In the front, they are discussing who will be there tonight. She hears a name she knows, and a little bit of pee comes out and wets her underwear. She glances at the boy again. His hands sit limply in his lap, fingers upward, like dead crabs.

  Now there is a red light up ahead, a vertical sliver of sunset. The trees are coming to an end. They are nearly there.

  She wishes she could have a drink. The children at her last school said it’s illegal to drink wine when you’re only seven. They told the teacher, and she had to pretend she was joking. A few sips of cider now would smooth the jagged edge of panic that makes sweat prickle her armpits despite the cold.

  The clear patch of sky widens as they reach the edge of the forest. The man in front exclaims. There is a branch in the road. He slows down.

  She unclicks her belt and opens the door.

  The tarmac slams into her, making her bones crunch as she rolls over and over, coming to rest on the edge of the shoulder, before the road falls away to forest. The car screeches to a halt, then starts reversing. On hands and knees, she scrambles down the incline, cutting her shins on needles and pinecones. Then she is up and running.

  The wolves watch her from the shadows as she flies through the darkness, her hair streaming behind her.

  She is a good runner. Thin and long-legged, like the antelopes on the nature programs at school. There is just enough light to see her path ahead. She ducks left and right, following the natural instinct of prey animals. The light dims as the trees grow denser, enfolding her. Her footfalls are muffled by the spongy forest floor. She will find a bush to creep into, or else she will shimmy up a tree and conceal herself among its leaves.

  A huge white shape makes her steps falter. At first, she thinks it might be an angel, its wings spread to enfold her, but it is only an owl. A magnificent barn owl, its black eyes glinting. As it sweeps by, she feels a whoosh of cold air on her cheek. She keeps running. The darkness deepens, and there is a pain in her side. Her shoelace has come undone. She should retie it, but she cannot risk the hesitation. She keeps running.

  There’s rustling all around her, like the trees whispering to one another. She is not afraid. The stitch subsides, and the air is cold and clean, scouring her out from the inside, taking away all the filth. A snatch of sky. The blood red has been replaced by velvet blue. She can see a star. Moonlight silvers the uppermost leaves.

  Then her foot comes down on the loose lace, and she is thrown forward, her breath escaping in a grunt as she lands heavily on her stomach.

  She lies there, catching her breath, the pine needles tickling her thighs. If she lies there long enough, a blanket of leaves will cover her. Her fingers will become roots, delving into the dark soil. Insects will make nests in her hair. No one will ever find her.

  A crack.

  Her consciousness sharpens, her hearing becoming hypersensitive.

  There is no more rustling in the undergrowth, no whisper of wings. The creatures of the forest are afraid. Clouds scud across the moon, and the silver light winks out.

  Another crack. Louder.

  She would pray, but her lips won’t move.

  The wolf lands on her back.

  She is wrenched up and spun around. His body is silhouetted against the glare of the car headlights behind him. She had come such a short distance. How foolish to think she had a chance.

  He hauls her onto his shoulder like a dead stag.

  “Please,” she whimpers, but her voice is drowned by the crash and crack of the undergrowth as he plunges through the trees back to the road.

  5.

  Jody

  My family would have loved you. My dad may have been a military man, but he was never a bully. He respected gentleness; he knew that strength isn’t about muscles and fists, that it comes from inside. He would have seen the strength inside you.

  Mum loved him so much, she couldn’t go on without him. I’m not angry with her for that. I can understand. I feel that way about you—if you die, I won’t want to go on.

  Your sister is so hard. The way she talked about…well, about what the doctor said. It was horrible to listen to. Like she doesn’t care about you at all and just wants to get it all over and done with. I won’t let her, though. I won’t let them hurt you, Abe. They’d have to get a special court order before they can do anything like that anyway. I read about it once, a case in America where a woman had a stroke and was in a coma. The husband wanted to turn her machines off, but her family didn’t want to. They went with the husband in the end, which makes me scared because we’re not married yet, but also hopeful that they take into account the wishes of the people closest to you. Your sister hasn’t seen you in years, but she barely looks at you. She doesn’t love you. I can’t imagine her loving anyone. I’m not surprised she’s on her own, even though she’s really attractive.

  She looks so much like you. The same slim face and wide, dark eyes. The same straight dark hair. You could be twins. How did your hearts turn out so different?

  I came straight back to your flat after the doctor went away, and just being near the things you’ve touched is making me feel better.

  I’ve lain on your bed for hours, gazing at the photograph of the two of us in that bar in the West End, but now I get up and open the wardrobe. As I run my fingers through your clothes, the scent of you drifts out, and I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I take out one of your cardigans to put on after my shower, a cashmere one, soft as rabbit fur.

  I use your shampoo, to keep my hair smelling like yours, and then I clean my teeth with your toothbrush and dry myself with the towel from the heated rail. A single black pubic hair curls from the weave. Yours. Mine are fair.

  I put on your T-shirt and cardigan, and when I close my eyes, it’s almost like the ghost of you is all around me, embracing me. I wonder if your spirit can move from your body because of the state you’re in, or whether someone has to be dead for that to happen. Even if you die, Abe, it won’t be the end—I promise. When two spirits like ours meet and forge such a strong and powerful love, it can’t just blink out like a light. Something has to remain.

  Your flat is so much nicer than mine, and not just because it’s filled with you. It’s so bright and modern, all grays and whites and the type of wood they call “blond.” Your window looks down on the grass at the front and the bright colors of the children’s playground. Even the kitchen, which is the same in all the flats, looks nicer somehow. I think it’s because of how you’ve “accessorized” it. The glass jars of pasta, the silver coffeemaker, and the corkscrew that looks like a lady in a dress. It’s Alessi, which I know is expensive, because in the thrift shop, they keep that sort of stuff in a locked cabinet.

  It’s silly, but at dinnertime, I lay two places and dish out two bowlfuls of pasta, and then I talk to you as if you’re still there.

  “How was work?”

  Oh, you know. Tiring.

  “You work too hard.”

  They need me. Mrs. Evans was so relieved to see me. I don’t th
ink she’d spoken to anyone since my last visit. How was your day?

  “Better now.” I close my eyes and reach across the table and imagine your hand in mine. I can almost feel it, the light touch of your warm fingers against my palm, and then the table starts to vibrate. I jump so hard, my fork clatters off my plate, and a blob of tomato sauce spatters the sleeve of your cardigan.

  It’s only my phone vibrating before the ringtone kicks in.

  For a moment, I think it’s going to be you on the other end. But it’s not. It’s your sister.

  “Hello?” I say warily, wondering if she’s going to be nasty.

  “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I just hate the way these people patronize you.”

  “Yes,” I murmur, but I don’t really agree. Doctors have always made me feel safe.

  “I’ve been thinking. It looks like I might be hanging around for a bit longer, and it’s silly to live out of a hotel room, especially when I’m so far from the hospital. I’d much rather have a bit of space and be able to cook for myself, so I’m going to move into Abe’s flat. The police haven’t returned his belongings yet, so I wondered if you had a key I could have.”

  My breath catches. She wants to come here?

  “I’m not stepping on your toes, am I? I mean, feel free to come around and collect any stuff you’ve left there.”

  “It’s…not that,” I stammer. “It’s just that…” My mind goes blank, but eventually, I come up with something. “I’m not sure the housing association would allow it.”

  “Oh, right. Well, can you give me the number and I’ll talk to them?”

  “Umm…wait a minute.”

  I put the phone down on the table and stare at it for a moment, my skin creeping. I could say I’ve lost the number, but she’d be able to find it easily enough. I could give her the wrong one and stop answering my phone, but she would just come and look for me at the hospital.

  In the end, I get up and head back to my flat, running in my socks so she can’t hear my footsteps. As I run past flat 11, I can feel the spyhole watching me, black as a shark’s eye. Sometimes, I think I can sense someone hiding behind the door. Pushing the thought from my mind, I go into my flat, find the number on an old letter, and run back.

  But the spyhole has given me an idea, and after I read it out to her, I say, “I don’t know if you know, Mags, but this place is run by a charity. So as well as foster home kids like me, there are other people, with worse conditions. You know, mental issues. I’m used to it, so I know to be careful, but you…” I trail off meaningfully.

  She hesitates a moment, and I think that she might change her mind.

  But then she says she’ll call the association, and if they say it’s OK, she’ll come by sometime tomorrow morning to pick up the keys. She adds conversationally that the police will be popping around to return Abe’s stuff sometime over the next few days, so if I remember anything I haven’t mentioned to them already, that would be my chance to tell them.

  I put the phone down and stare at your untouched plate of food, my heart thudding.

  What does she mean?

  Thursday, November 10

  6.

  Mags

  I dial the number Jody gave me, and a young man with a heavy Arabic accent answers. After I’ve explained the situation, he says he’ll put me through to the charity’s director, Peter Selby. It rings for a long time before it’s finally picked up by what sounds like a very old man, very posh and slightly camp.

  When I explain what’s happened, he gasps and his voice trembles when he says how sorry he is. For the first time, the clichéd words sound genuine.

  “Did you know Abe?”

  “Of course,” he says. “We interview all our prospective tenants, to make sure they’re eligible for our help.”

  My interest pricks. “And Abe was? Eligible?”

  He hesitates. “Well, clearly.” I can hear the surprise in his tone. I’m Abe’s sister. How can I not know this about him?

  “Abe and I haven’t spoken for many years. We had a difficult upbringing. It created a…distance.” I hate talking about my family.

  There’s a pause, and then the old man says, “The St. Jerome’s Foundation offers assistance in the form of subsidized accommodation for minority or vulnerable groups. People who have been let down by society and need a helping hand to raise themselves up again.” I get the feeling he has parroted this line many times before. If they have charitable status, he must have to reapply each year.

  I assume by “vulnerable groups,” he’s talking about people with mental health issues.

  For the first time, it occurs to me that perhaps Abe had some kind of a breakdown when he left home. I managed to avoid one by self-medication with alcohol and narcotics, but only just. Perhaps that’s when his depression began.

  “In that case, you must have seen his medical notes in order to assess his eligibility, right? Was he clinically depressed back then?”

  There’s a long pause, during which I hear a creak, as if he’s sitting in a leather armchair. Unless it’s his bones. Finally, he speaks. “Abe moved into St. Jerome’s ten years ago, when he was very young. We put him in touch with a support group and organized vocational training that enabled him to embark on his career—a career that he seems to have been eminently suited for. A charming young man. He will be much missed.”

  That’s not an answer, but it’s clear it’s all I’m going to get.

  With Jody’s words in mind, I ask, “Are they dangerous?”

  “To whom are you referring?”

  “The people in St. Jerome’s. What sort of mental health problems are we talking about?”

  He hesitates again before replying, and I hear the wheeze of his breath through ancient lungs. “Miss Mackenzie, as I’m sure you can understand, I am unable to share confidential information about our residents. Suffice it to say that in the twenty-seven years this foundation has been in operation, no resident has ever attacked or otherwise harmed another.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  He sighs in irritation. “Whatever you may have read in the tabloid press, those suffering with mental health difficulties are far more likely to be a danger to themselves than others. Now, the foundation would be perfectly amenable to your staying at St. Jerome’s while your brother recuperates, but it is of course your choice.”

  Ignoring his implication that I’m a gullible idiot who believes the mentally ill are all knife-wielding maniacs, I tell him I’d like to move in straightaway. He says the building manager will call to let me know all the various rules and regulations, but as I put down the phone, I wonder what I’m letting myself in for.

  An hour later, I check out of the hotel, bumping my wheelie case down the steps, and the doorman hails me a cab. I’ve dressed down—jeans and sneakers and a black rain jacket that looks pretty uninspiring but cost six hundred dollars—but as we travel north, moving closer and closer to the little blue pin on my phone map, I’m glad I did. Edgware Road and Regent’s Park are bright and bustling, but as we pass through Camden and Chalk Farm, the buildings and people become shabbier. Kentish Town is about the last bastion of civilization before we enter a no-man’s-land of boarded-up shops and run-down public housing.

  Even the sky seems dirtier out here. The high-rises stretch away into brown clouds, their walls leprous with rot, plastic bags whirling around their bases.

  My phone rings, giving me the chance to excuse myself from the cabbie’s monologue about his daughter who has just moved to New Zealand.

  It’s the building manager, José Ribeira. He offers to get a spare set of keys cut for me, but I tell him I can use Abe’s, so he moves on to the building regulations. The first lot are simple enough: no pets, no smoking, no subletting the flat, but what with the traffic noise and his heavy South American accent, it takes several painful minut
es for me to understand when the garbage should be taken out, how to program the hot water, and the account to pay the rent into. He’s about to say more, but I’ve had enough. I tell him I’m losing the signal and drop the call.

  We’re close now. According to my blue pin, this street we’re crawling down is just around the corner from St. Jerome’s. There are a few independent shops and cafés, the obligatory thrift shop, an internet café, and a place that promises to unlock any phone. Handwritten signs in grubby windows announce Best Kebab in London! or No Groups of Children. The fruit and vegetables in crates outside are dirtied by traffic, but a Greek bakery looks promising, and there’s a Food and Wine for basics.

  We’re stuck behind a bus emblazoned with an ad for the local Baptist church. Shiny faces beam out of the grime, their glow of health and happiness out of place here.

  All the passersby seem bent with age or sickness; they shuffle along, dragging wheelie shopping carts overflowing with the blue plastic bags favored by all down-at-heel shops. There are fewer white faces and more full-face veils than I have seen outside news footage.

  The cabbie has stopped talking about his daughter, and as we wait for an elderly woman to shuffle across a crosswalk, he taps the wheel impatiently. He seems as tense as I am. Perhaps I should have stayed at the hotel. I will stand out here like a sore thumb. Or perhaps there’s a trendy part where media types have started to move in and gentrify the place.

  We turn into Gordon Terrace, a street of low-rise concrete bunkers with weed-choked front gardens. A teenager lumbers by with a dog so muscular, it looks like a screwed fist.

  At the end of the terrace is a patch of bumpy waste ground, and then I see it. St. Jerome’s church, its spire silhouetted against the darkening sky.

  Goose bumps trickle down my arms. This will be the first time I’ve been in a church for almost twenty years, and though the original wooden doors have been replaced by a faceless security door, an irrational panic rises in my throat at the thought of passing through it.