She was holding a syringe.
Even then I couldn’t react. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked stupidly.
She inserted the needle into my flesh with expert precision. Misty was a nurse, I gathered in wonder. The needle exited my flesh. My eyes traveled up to her.
‘I love him,’ I whispered to her. ‘Please… Misty, don’t let him send me away… Please don’t… Help me…’ And then a jarring thought. I looked at her without real comprehension. ‘You had the needle ready.’
‘I always knew you would end up here,’ she said very softly, and her eyes were glittering with hate.
Shocked, I hung onto her, but the ability to grasp had left me; my fingers were becoming like butter, soft and melting. She gently rubbed my back, the action totally at odds with the hatred shining in her eyes. My last thought was silly—but we were supposed to exchange presents on Christmas day.
Then blackness came. But the blackness was soft and deep.
And you let her go…
You see her when you fall asleep,
But never to touch and never to keep,
’Cause you loved her too much
And you dived too deep.
—Passenger, ‘Let Her Go’
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Chapter 24
The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was a woman’s face. She was staring at me curiously, but as soon as our eyes met she shifted hers away. I was slumped against a glass window. I realized immediately that I was in a moving train. In a panic I looked out of the window and saw rolling countryside. My mouth felt cottony.
I looked at myself. I was dressed in the same clothes as last night, but I was also wearing my blue coat. Feeling dazed I glanced around me. There was no bag or suitcase. I did not even have a change of clothing. I patted my jeans pockets on the coat and my jeans. I pulled it out. It was a British passport. I opened it. The passport was mine: it bore my picture and my name and showed my nationality as British. I held it tightly in my hand. I had been cast away with no money at all. Not even my lace. And yet he had left me with a passport. Why the passport?
I looked again at the woman opposite me. She was now pretending to look out of the window. She had curly ginger hair and a thin, long nose.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, my voice sounding thick and frightened. ‘Can you tell me where this train is going to?’
She gave me a funny look. ‘Last stop is London.’
‘London,’ I repeated softly. I bit my lip. ‘Do you know what station I got on at?’
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘No, you were already here when I got on.’
I covered my face with my hands. What on earth was I going to do now? How was I going to manage? I had no money. I knew nothing about London. I’d end up on the street in the middle of winter. I had seen on TV how dangerous the streets were. The train was stopping. The woman opposite me stood up. I felt like clutching her hand. She seemed like my only hope. But I remained sitting and she left the carriage. How could he? How could he do something so heartless to me? I began to cry. A middle-aged woman from the seat across the aisle got up from her seat and came and took the seat the ginger-haired woman had vacated.
‘What’s wrong, my dear?’ she asked softly. She had kind blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and short brown hair. There was an old-fashioned brooch with dull stones pinned on the lapel of her collar.
Somehow I trusted her. ‘I seem to be homeless and penniless,’ I admitted.
‘Oh dear,’ she said.
‘Did you see what stop I got on at?’
‘I’m afraid not, dear. You were already on and fast asleep when I got on.’
‘Would you know where I could find shelter and work? I’d be willing to work very hard just for food and shelter.’
‘Well, there are shelters for homeless people dotted about London, but you don’t want to go there, my dear. You seem to be such a gentle little thing. They are a rough, tough crowd. You wouldn’t fare too well; they’d steal your shoes from under your feet.’ She looked at me as if considering something in her mind. Eventually she smiled and said, ‘Well, I shouldn’t really. My daughter is always telling me off for picking up strays and waifs from the streets, but, I suppose, you could come and stay at my place for a few days. My daughter is away at university and you can stay in her room for a bit.’
I stared at her, not daring to believe my ears or my luck.
‘Do you mean live in your house?’
She nodded with an encouraging smile. ‘Yes, come and stay with me until you sort yourself out.’
I wanted to fling my hands around her neck and kiss her. And I did. She went pink with embarrassment. ‘It’s not a big flat, but it’s clean and safe.’
‘How kind of you. Thank you. Thank you.’
She waved my effusive thanks away. ‘It’s nothing, my dear.’
‘How can I ever thank you?’ I choked.
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Tonight I will call my son and ask him about helping you to find a job. Waiting jobs are plentiful in London.’ She winked. ‘And with you being such a pretty thing I’m sure you will make a fortune in tips.’
‘Oh… I don’t even know your name,’ I said.
She laughed. ‘I’m Margaret Mann, but just call me Margaret.’
‘And I’m Lena.’
‘What a lovely name,’ she said and opening her handbag took out a bar of chocolate. ‘Are you hungry?’
I realized I was starving. ‘Yes, please.’
She brought out a sandwich, too, from her voluminous handbag. ‘Here, you might as well have this as well. I thought I might get a little peckish, but I’m not.’
The trip into London was uneventful. I ate the sandwich in a daze. It was the most incredible luck. And Margaret deliberately did not pry into my affairs but talked pleasantly about the friend up north that she had stayed the weekend with and about her daughter who was reading law at university. She pointed out the towns we passed and told me a little about them too. I had no time to think of Guy. He lay at the back of my mind the way a throbbing pain does.
Finally, the train came to a stop at Paddington. A ticket inspector was waiting at the end of the platform. Margaret tried to explain to him that I had lost my ticket, but he shook his head firmly. Margaret would have to pay at the counter. So poor Margaret had to pay the full fare for me. We put our tickets through a machine and the machine opened its flaps and let us through. I stood in that vast station in awe, my mouth open.
It was so busy. So alive.
I had never seen anything like it before. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t talk. It was such a shock to my system. It was sensory overload. The smells, the sounds, the sights. There were people of all races and they milled around me like busy ants. And I loved it. Here, no one knew me. I was invisible—another body in the crush of bodies. Right then and there I knew. I was never going to live in Russia again.
‘Follow me,’ Margaret said confidently, and took me down the Underground system where there were even more swarms of people. I fingered the passport in my jacket pocket and told myself again and again that everything would be all right.
Margaret lived in Bayswater. As she had warned me it was a tiny two bedroom flat. She put her key in the door, pushed it open, and said, ‘We’re home.’
And I knew then that it would be all right. I would survive.
The flat was scrupulously clean. She showed me to a room with a single bed. ‘This is where you will sleep.’ She went to the cupboard and, opening it, said, ‘These are all the clothes that my daughter didn’t deem good enough to take with her, so I don’t think she would mind if you wore them. She is shorter than you but about the same size. Why don’t you take a shower while I make some tea for us?’
While I was in the shower I cried. I cried because I had frozen and I had not told him I loved him, I cried because of the pain I had seen in his eyes, I cried because Misty had betrayed me, and most of all I cried because I was frightened that I wo
uld never see Guy again.
*****
Margaret’s son, Brian, came around that evening. He was only a few years older than me. He had a friend who owned an Italian restaurant. He grinned at me.
‘You’re one lucky girl, Lena. A waitress walked out yesterday and he’s desperate to replace her since Christmas is a busy time.’
‘I don’t have any experience,’ I said worriedly.
‘These things are easy. You can learn on the job. Anyway you have to start somewhere.’
‘All right.’
‘He’ll be there now. Come with me, I’ll introduce you.’
He took me to a small Italian restaurant in a cobbled side street. It had red and white checked curtains and tablecloths. Inside, it was warm and friendly. I could hear voices speaking in a foreign language coming from the back.
The owner was a round, bespectacled man called Roberto. His hands were very fat and white. He took a sip of espresso and then had to tug out that finger that had become stuck in the circle of the handle.
‘Gout,’ he told me mournfully. ‘Very painful. I used to be able to run faster than a gazelle, but no more. Can you run?’
‘Yes, I can run. Very fast.’
He smiled. ‘Have you got a white blouse and a black skirt?’
‘I will have them by tomorrow.’
‘Good, then you can start tomorrow. Come in at ten a.m.’
‘That’s it?’
‘I’m not one for talking. Tomorrow we will try you out. Rosella will show you what to do and we’ll see how it goes.’
I grinned. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Brian tells me you are from Russia.’
‘I am.’ At that reminder I immediately thought of my brother. I had to start saving money. I would write to him tonight and tell him of my change of circumstances. Soon I would be able to go to Russia and fetch him. Now that I knew I could definitely survive on my own.
‘Part of the Russian mafia?’ he asked jokingly.
I didn’t get the joke. I just shook my head.
‘Good. We have enough mafia in Italy.’ He moved his legs and winced with pain. ‘Gout,’ he explained again. ‘Very painful.’
A man dressed in a chef’s uniform came out of the swing door of the kitchen and put a large plate of what looked to be lamb shank, potatoes and vegetables in front of Roberto.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, picking up his knife and fork.
After Brian took me back to Margaret’s flat, she and I searched through Carrie’s cupboard. As it turned out she did own a simple white blouse and a black skirt. It did not reach my knees, but Margaret winked and assured me the shorter the skirt, the higher the tips.
Margaret and I had an early dinner. It was overcooked and pretty tasteless compared to Mrs. Littlebell’s cuisine, but I was very grateful and cleaned the plate. Afterwards Margaret invited me to sit and watch TV with her, but I said I was tired and asked if she had writing paper and an envelope. She rummaged about in a drawer and gave me a pad and an envelope. I thanked her and went back to my new room.
I sat on the bed and wrote to Nikolai. I told him I was free. I was now living in London and in a few months’ time I was coming for him. We would live together in London. I folded my letter and put it into the envelope. After that I crawled into bed.
I closed my eyes and all I could see was Guy—the expression on his face. He had thought he repulsed me. I had not been repulsed. Not in the slightest. In fact, I had expected far worse after seeing his wife and child, and I was actually stunned by the stern beauty of one side of his face. I wondered what he might be doing and suddenly, I felt so lost and I missed him so much that I stuck my head under the pillow and sobbed myself to sleep.
Chapter 25
Hawke
The night was fading. Another empty soul-destroying day was waiting in the wings. I remembered how she used to make the night last forever. I opened the door and entered her room. The windows were shut, the curtains drawn. It was as quiet as a graveyard. A wave of such sadness swept over me that I leaned against a wall and breathed slowly. In my hand I held a bottle of brandy and a glass. It always helped to anesthetize my mind. With it I no longer smelt them burning, or heard their screams, or saw the flames licking at their skin, their flesh. Burning. Burning. Burning. While I tore my hands on mangled steel.
I gripped the bottle and glass tightly.
My eyes roamed the space. So much of her was still locked in this room. She had found an old music system from somewhere and had brought it here. She had picked some flowers from the gardens and stuck them in a blue vase. She had put out a dress to wear that evening for dinner. It lay on the bed. I walked over to it. It was a pretty thing. Some shiny yellow material with black netting on top. There were little green flowers made of green material scattered on the skirt of the dress and becoming more and more dense as it got closer to the hemline.
I reached out and touched it. The twist of pain was sudden, unexpected, and violent. It felt as if I was being ripped apart. The feeling was beyond animalistic.
If only she had not found the secret passageway. I had wanted to keep her a little longer. I had promised to let her go in a year. Fuck it. Who was I kidding? I had wanted to keep her forever. But I was only fooling myself. Sooner or later she would have seen me without my mask. Of course, she could never have loved me. Not the monster that I am.
I breathed out slowly and walked away from the dress and went toward the cassette player. On the way I saw my reflection in the mirror. I stopped and looked at myself. Surprised. Not by my scars. Not by the hideousness of my reflection, but by my eyes. At how sunken and haunted they looked. I looked away and continued toward the player.
I looked at the music she had collected. Old songs from the sixties and seventies. There was already a tape in the machine. I clicked play.
‘Love Hurts’ by the Everly Brothers.
The sound was bad, tinny, and scratchy. This was not music. It hurt my ear. I wanted to switch it off and yet she had found pleasure even in this scratchy music. This was the last thing she had listened to.
I felt sorry for her then. Poor thing. She was just a child. So innocent and yet so brave. I had learned from her. How much I had learned from her. She had asked only one thing of me. How badly I had treated her. I was a fucking selfish bastard. I should have taken her out. I should have got her a good music system. I could have made her life so much better. It would have cost me nothing. Instead I condemned her to wander around this dark and depressing castle. Not that she complained. She was always so ready to laugh. Ready to find joy in the smallest thing. I was too harsh and too cold with her. I never showed her love. I was afraid to show her love.
The music changed. Dolly Parton crooned, ‘I will always love you. I hope life treats you kind and I hope you have all you ever dreamed of.’
I hated country singers, but that night her voice tore at my insides. I went and sat on the bed and I poured myself a glass and threw it down my throat. Then I poured another glass, and another, and another. I looked at the bottle. Half gone. I lay down on the bed and stared at the canopy and knew a great emptiness inside me. Outside, it began to rain.
‘Oh, Lena, Lena, Lena,’ I whispered, and thought of her tender body reaching for me. The memory rolled like thunder across my mind. I had let a precious thing slip between my fingers. I thought I was holding on tight, but she had slipped out like sand.
I remembered her again, telling me about the ghost she had befriended. A smile came to my lips at the memory. What a child she was. She must have been really lonely to have created a ghost. Suddenly the door opened and Misty walked in. She stopped when she saw me.
I jack-knifed upwards, my stomach in knots. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing is wrong. They are both fine.’
I rubbed the side of my head. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I saw the light…’ She let her voice trail away.
; ‘Yeah, it’s just me.’
‘Guy?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I miss her too.’
I closed my eyes. When I opened them she had come closer. She was wearing a green dress with round metal cut-outs at the waist and around the hemline. It was too tight around her breasts. Her nipples showed through. I averted my eyes quickly. She sat on the bed beside me and looked into my eyes. She was wearing make-up. I had never noticed what pretty eyes she had. Her hand reached out and covered mine. I looked down at it. How small it was compared to mine.
‘She was my best friend.’
I looked up and met her eyes. What was in her eyes was different from what her words were telling me. My alcohol-addled brain caught her perfume.
‘You are wearing Lena’s perfume,’ I whispered. My voice was shocked and raw. It felt wrong. The idea made my flesh creep. I had specially commissioned that perfume for my Lena.
‘Yes, it reminds me of her.’
She put her hand on my upper arm. I felt my muscles contract with revulsion. She mistook the response and turning her head suddenly let her mouth fall on mine. The glass in my hand crashed to the floor. My hands were suddenly curled around her upper arms and she was moving very fast away from me. She fell back onto the bed and stared up at me, breathing hard. Her hands touched her mouth.
‘Fuck me. Use me like you did her,’ she said.
I stood and looked at her, her hair spread on the bed, her short dress ridden high up her thighs, her top button unbuttoned, her hand stroking the one exposed naked breast. I watched her pinch her own nipple and gasp. I watched her part her thighs and show me her freshly shaven pussy. It was a good offer, but she was not my Lena.
I reached down and closed her legs. ‘I can’t, Misty. I’m sorry,’ I said, and began to walk away.
From the tape recorder Eric Carmen’s rich voice sang ‘All By Myself’. ‘Don’t wanna be all by myself. Anymore.’
Disfigured Love Page 13
