‘Don’t you dare bloody cry!’ George shouted. ‘Act like a man, for God’s sake. I’m sick of being the only one with a pair of balls in this relationship. Okay?’
Now, she was torn. The burden of guilt weighed heavily on her, though she felt certain that he was in the wrong. Four years in a long distance relationship didn’t give him the right to own her and have her qualify how she spent every waking moment, did it? Or was she just being a selfish cow; sabotaging her relationship with this caring, loving man? She hardly knew any more.
Ad sat down heavily on one of his kitchen chairs. Tear-splattered glasses on the table. Hands obscuring his face. ‘Why has it ended up like this, George?’ he asked. His voice was tremulous and small. ‘Don’t you love me? I love you.’ He laid his hands flat on the peeling placemat, now, revealing the sadness in his eyes and a red nose. ‘You’re the love of my life.’
George had taken a seat opposite and faced him. Put her hands on top of his. His skin was warm. She wanted to say something soothing to him but couldn’t find the words. Listened instead to the bubbling, boiling water on the stove top. Watched the steam from the pan rise to the ceiling, sometimes finding its way to the window, where it turned the reflective glass opaque. It was dark outside. It was dark inside. How could she bring the light back in?
‘Love you too.’ She said the words quickly. Begrudgingly. No longer certain if she meant them. Sure enough, they elicited the beginnings of a smile from her lovelorn boyfriend.
‘Good,’ Ad said, kissing her fingers. ‘There’s nothing we can’t sort out, as long as we talk. You know that, don’t you?’
He stretched out to stroke her chin. Leaned in for a kiss across the small table. But inside, George felt compelled to shrink away from this inoffensive man she had loved so entirely at the start. She offered him her cheek instead.
Subtle movements in Ad’s facial muscles; a certain dull quality to his eyes and the downward droop of his mouth. Here was an expression of abject disappointment on her lover’s face. Crestfallen at being relegated to a humble kiss on the cheek. Intimacy between them all but gone, perhaps because he demanded it constantly.
George groaned.
‘What?’ Ad asked.
‘Nothing.’
Was she just being difficult, she wondered? Her overdeveloped conscience whispered to her that she was at fault. She was a heartless bitch. Poor Ad. Poor boring Ad. Trying so hard and getting nothing but a cold shoulder and mouthful of abuse in return. And yet…and yet. Her instincts told her he was in the wrong; the root cause of this irritation. She tried to articulate the elements of his unacceptable behaviour – emotional blackmail? control? possessiveness? – but the nature of it eluded her like a wriggling vein that refused to be pinned and punctured.
Fatigue enshrouded her anger; an acid-resistant membrane, tamping it down temporarily, though neither neutralising nor snuffing it out entirely. Too tired. Now was not the time to have A Conversation about how their relationship had slid from the passionate flush of first love to this suffocating torpor. That could wait. Pour oil on troubled water. Take the water off the boil. George resolved to find soothing words.
‘Look,’ she said, releasing him gladly so he could drain the noodles and heat the wok. ‘You know what I’m like, Ad. I’m impulsive and I need my space and…’
‘Do you want it spicy?’ Ad asked, less interested in the sticking plaster of her words than she had hoped. ‘Or not spicy?’
‘Spicy.’ She tugged at her hair. Wanting to reach him but feeling she was failing. ‘And honestly, van den Bergen’s just a friend. You know that by now, for Christ’s sake! I just got so wrapped up in the fact there were girls from the sex industry getting killed. Someone Silas knew, in fact! So, I—’
Ad banged the spoon on the side of the wok. Heat on full. Sizzling, prematurely drowning out her repentant monologue. Bastard was closing her down. It felt like punishment.
‘Are you listening to me?’ She stood. Touched his shoulder. ‘You asked and now you’re just frying fucking noodles like I’m not in the room.’
His back remained steadfastly turned to her. Jabbing at the frying chicken with his spoon. ‘Tell me about your unsavoury friend, Silas Holm, George,’ he said. ‘Can I expect a visit from some axe-wielding psycho?’ Glanced at her over his shoulder and held his right hand aloft, so that she could see the stump that was all that remained of his index finger. ‘The Firestarter already took my bloody index finger to add to his crazy little collection, and now I have to do everything left-handed. What’s it to be, George? Another finger? Or maybe a leg, this time.’
But now it was George’s turn to close Ad down. The light on her phone was flashing. An email. From Sally Wright, whom she had finally made contact with, although it had not been to excuse her abrupt and unsanctioned departure but to warn Sally that her serial-killing study subject might have had a minion pay an unscheduled visit to her Cambridge house.
‘Shush a minute, yeah?’ She scanned the text.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Silas Holm.
Dear Georgina,
Thank you for alerting me to the problem of Silas Holm writing to you at your boyfriend’s home address. This shocking breach of security is being looked into, although I have recommended that you no longer be granted clearance to interview Dr Holm or any other inpatients at Broadmoor, since there has obviously been some kind of failure to follow protocol on your part. I am also writing to your funding body to ask that approval of your Overseas Institutional Visit be rescinded.
I really preferred not to resort to aggressive tactics to bring you into line, George, but you give me no option.
As for your housemate, Lucy, one of our porters kindly dropped by and reported that she is safe and sound. The locks have been changed in light of the letter, and Lucy is temporarily staying up at Girton, so your conscience is clear on that front, at least.
I will keep you posted on the funding body’s response.
Sally
Dr Sally Wright, Senior Tutor
St John’s College, Cambridge Tel…01223 775 6574
Dept. of Criminology Tel…01223 773 8023
‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Bitch! Total shit-stirring bitch!’ George shouted. ‘Making my life a fucking nightmare for no bloody reason.’ She slammed the phone onto her placemat, unconcerned as to whether Ad was paying attention to her or not. White hot anger back, now, its flames licking unfettered up her throat. ‘Bring me into line, will you? You crabby old bag! Oh, my days, what a frigging cheek. Who the fuck does Sally Wright think she is?’
The screensaver had kicked in, rendering the message just a black, shining reflection of George’s own face. Angry, twitching nostrils and a grimace that could melt magnesium. There was something of her mother, Letitia the Dragon, in her, all right. She prodded the screen to bring the message back up. Scrolled down to discover a PS: which she hadn’t hitherto noticed.
PS: Here is a link to a report in The Times. I thought it might have some bearing on your ‘case’.
Only dimly aware that Ad was offering her a pile of steaming noodles on a plate, she followed the link to an article – only hours old – where the headline announced:
MAN BRUTALLY SLAIN: NO WITNESS. NO MOTIVE. NO CLUES.
HAS THE PORT-SIDE POLTERGEIST CLAIMED A THIRD?
Unable to smell the tamarind and garlic aroma of Ad’s cooking, George was utterly absorbed in the four paragraphs of writing that reported that an African man, as yet unidentified, had been found in Ramsgate harbour, in a mysteriously bloodless but gruesome scene. He was described as having been ‘eviscerated’.
Eviscerated.
‘Where have I heard that?’ she muttered. It was not a word used in everyday parlance, and yet she felt certain it had been spoken by someone in the course of her day to day dealings only very recently. She rifled through the flotsam and jetsam of her short term memory. Nothing.
‘George! I’ve been standing here for a good minute, holding your plate like an idiot,’ Ad said.
Finally, she looked up to find him glowering over her. Still wearing his apron. Her old, grubby Margate tea towel over his shoulder. The lenses of his glasses tear-streaked. Brandishing two full plates. Steam rising in fragrant coils from the heaps of food.
Her senses started to return incrementally. Ad was annoyed at her. She could hear Jasper singing in the living room to a pop song on the television. Her stomach was growling loudly.
With the pursed-lipped expression of an underappreciated cook, Ad set his own dinner down and lowered her plate towards her – encroaching on her personal space with this culinary threat. ‘Will you move your phone off the placemat so I can put this down?’ He spoke between gritted teeth. ‘It might be quite nice to eat before it goes stone cold.’
Eviscerated. The Port-side Poltergeist claiming a third. All at once, George realised. Their killer had crossed the North Sea.
‘Eat without me!’ she said, leaping up from the table. Bundling her phone and the spare keys to van den Bergen’s place into her bag. ‘I’ve got to ring van den Bergen. I’ve got to go.’
CHAPTER 54
Berlin, Germany, 1989
‘How do you think I feel, you inane fucking lump? I feel like shit,’ Mama said.
She pulled the covers over her shoulders, shivering. All that was visible above the satin throw was Mama’s head. It was a small head. Like a child’s, without the outlandish hairstyle or makeup. Bald, but for wisps of remaining hair that needed to be clippered off. Her skin, the colour of strong urine. Mama was a canary down the mineshaft of her own health.
Veronica jerked the gold brocade curtains open with a degree of optimism.
‘Come on, Mama,’ she said. ‘You’ve been in the dark too long. It’s not good for you.’ She approached the bed and sat on the edge. Took her mother’s thin hand into hers, knowing she was too weak to eschew the physical contact; knowing it would undoubtedly make Mama almost as uncomfortable as the side effects of the chemotherapy. ‘They say fresh air and sunlight are powerful medicines.’
‘I’ve got fucking leukaemia, not a cold, silly bitch.’
Veronica stared into her mother’s eyes. The clarity had gone. Her irises seemed smudged and muddy. The yellow tinge to the corners spelled liver failure, as did this turmeric hue to her skin – a strange litmus test, demonstrating the extent to which the disease had got a hold of her.
‘I’ll help you get dressed. You’re seeing the oncologist today,’ she said, tugging the covers from her quaking charge.
Even in her loose red satin pyjamas, she could see there was little left to her mother. Always petite, the illness had carved away her meagre flesh to reveal the bony nubs and hollows of a small, near-skeleton. Trying on death for size. Whereas Veronica, who took after her father physically, had grown in inverse proportion like a robust sapling. When she started university in September, she dreaded the prospect of having to stoop in the company of the boys. Still, despite what Mama said about her being a big lump, boys liked long limbs, didn’t they?
‘I don’t want to go to see that know-all prick,’ Mama said, clutching her lower legs. ‘The morphine doesn’t help. I’m in agony. What’s the point? I’m dying, aren’t I?’
Lifting her mother carefully, Veronica plumped the cushions and made her sit. Proffered her a cup of mint tea. ‘Drink, Mama.’
No surprise when her mother batted the china cup out of her hand. A spray of hot liquid scalding Veronica’s hand, as she tried to grab the cup before it fell to the ground.
The wry smile on her mother’s lips told her that Mama was pleased she still had a little control, even if it were only over how much food and drink she put into her failing body.
‘Who’s been in touch?’ she asked, clutching her knees.
‘Nobody,’ Veronica lied. ‘Sorry.’
When they had first received the news that Mama had leukaemia, the incredible floral displays, cards and gifts had started to arrive immediately. Naturally, Mama had made sure everybody knew. The PR company was engaged immediately before treatment had even started. Papa had colluded, too, feeling that if Mama were to stage a production within the theatre of the unwell, it had better be lavish. The gossip columns gorged on the news. Heidi Schwartz hadn’t just been diagnosed with the disease, she had been struck down by it. She was not merely receiving treatment. She was waging her own personal war on cancer. Fundraisers and awareness campaigns and tribute exhibitions in galleries of world cities had ensued. Darling Heidi will not fight alone. There was Heidi in the pages of fashion magazines after her first bout of chemo, looking frail but fabulous, head to toe in Hermès silk. There was Heidi in the celebrity pages of Europe’s newspapers, on the arm of the supermodels of the day, bravely getting out of bed for charity functions, even when there were no five-figure sums of money on offer.
But now? Now that Mama was too sick to make it downstairs, and since Papa had been away again, nipping and tucking Hollywood royalty until their faces had been entirely expunged of any character whatsoever, Veronica was in charge.
‘But Frau Schwartz wants the flowers brought to her room,’ the Turkish housekeeper had said, starting to ascend the grand staircase in their Charlottenburg villa. The arrangement of yellow roses she carried was so large, it almost dwarfed the diminutive, matronly woman.
Veronica had snatched the roses away. ‘No, Hilal,’ she had said. ‘No more flowers. Mama has developed allergies because of the chemotherapy. She’s vulnerable to infection. You are not to take anything up to her, do you understand? I’ll look after her now. Only me. Understand? If you contaminate her room, she could catch something and die and it will be all your fault. Do you want that to happen?’
The housekeeper’s expression, sceptical and almost mocking at first, soon transformed to one of dismay. ‘Oh, no, Fräulein Schwartz. What would you like me to do with the gifts?’
‘Send them to an old people’s home. Anywhere. I don’t care. The cards can go in the bin. Really, even the slightest germ could kill Mama and you’ll be one more Gastarbeiter out of a job. You don’t want to go back to Turkey, do you?’
Hilal had shaken her head vociferously.
‘Well, then.’
Over the weeks, she had watched her mama become more and more disillusioned at having been dropped by her illustrious friends. Disillusionment turned to despondency, turned to despair. Nobody could contradict the view of the world that Veronica presented to her mother. Papa was absent, as usual – busy with his various mistresses and business. Now, in the claustrophobic Renaissance glitz of the bedroom, her once vivacious, social butterfly of a mother was solely dependent on her daughter for company and care. It felt like a triumph, of sorts. Particularly since Veronica would travel to London in September to begin her degree. Mama would have nobody at all.
‘Wear the comfortable tracksuit,’ Veronica said, laying a cheap, synthetic outfit on the bed that looked like it had been made for a child.
‘I’m not wearing that,’ Mama said. ‘It’s hideous.’
‘It’s comfortable. You’ll wear it.’
‘You’re punishing me. You’re a big, spotty bitch. If I had the energy—’
‘You’d what?’ Veronica treated her mother to a look of bemusement and pity. ‘You’d hit me? Really? When I’m taking such good care of you?!’
All Mama had left in her arsenal was disgruntled silence. She maintained that silence during the drive through town. Stuck in traffic several lanes deep for a while because of some demonstration or other – the way ahead up towards the Brandenburg Gate blocked almost entirely. The silence was soon broken, then.
‘Gustav, what’s going on here?’ she asked the driver. ‘Why aren’t we moving?’
Gustav did not even turn around. All that was visible of him was his chauffeur’s hat and that horrible, creased, red neck of his. Dandruff on his shoulders. Hard, narrowed eyes observing her through the
rear view mirror said driving for Mama was not the best job he had ever had. ‘Seems there are people on The Wall itself, Frau Schwartz. Some kind of a to-do. I know a good cut-through. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried. That’s what I fucking pay you for.’ Her voice was shaky. She lolled against Veronica for support.
Veronica, meanwhile, wondered what it was people were protesting about. To the left of the Brandenburg Gate, in the distance, the shining, winking silver orb of the TV tower in East Berlin had a view of everyone and everything, she always imagined. The world at its base. Wisdom in that all-seeing orb. It would know the truth of what was going on way up ahead; why there were police everywhere and people apparently allowed to clamber onto The Wall without being gunned down.
On either side of the car, banners – fashioned from bedsheets and sticks, by the looks, carried up the Strasse des 17 Juni by young people in amongst those droves of ordinary Berliners – talked of togetherness. Reunification. Freedom. The very things Veronica dreamed of for herself, though she was concerned with a reunification of sorts with her parents. The same people from whom she longed for freedom. Equally bound to and repelled by Mama and Papa, whose genes she carried within her and would gladly have stripped from the very fabric of her being had scientists invented such a novel and thorough cleansing technique.
September. She would be free in September. For now, she anticipated that they would arrive at the oncologist’s private practice and be told that Mama only had weeks to live. She and Mama would spend those weeks alone at home, being reunited. Discovering a mother/daughter bond that may never have been there from the start, but which would blossom now, for a gloriously short time.
They arrived at the oncologist’s private practice, whereupon the oncologist reported with some enthusiasm that Veronica was a perfect match as a bone marrow donor for her mother.
The Girl Who Broke the Rules Page 22
