Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  Tap. Tap.

  She started nervously, but at that moment the train rushed into the station with a whoosh of dirty air and clamouring noise. She stepped into the shadowless carriage, drawing comfort from the glaring, unflattering light. The train started moving forward and the Russian saints with their enervated eyes slid slowly past the window and disappeared.

  • • •

  MICHAEL WAS RIGHT. The gym was not swish. Actually, it was dank and more than a little smelly. Arranged over four floors in a dark, red-brick building, it was very different from the gyms she was used to at home: large, airy places with enormous plate-glass windows and aerobics instructors with glo-bright smiles. Here you had to negotiate your way from one level to the next by narrow stairwells painted an institutional green. It was quiet: no urgent rock music or even the sound of voices. As she passed by the swimming pool on the ground floor, she heard the soft splash of water. Three swimmers, wrapped in a cocoon of quiet concentration, were swimming in a pool sparkling with a lunar light.

  There were very few people around, but this was probably because she had arrived a mere half-hour before closing time, as the cashier at the till had told her, annoyed. But at least she had experienced no problem gaining access.

  The dressing room was a large, cavernous space with concrete floors and row upon row of empty stalls. As she stripped, she shivered slightly: the building was insufficiently heated. She placed her gym bag in one of the lockers, but took out the envelope and looked at it irresolutely. It was probably safe to leave it in the locker, but she was still hesitant to do so. She looked around her. Against the wall was a wooden bench. She knelt down and slid the envelope underneath the seat. It fitted snugly and was invisible.

  In the aerobics room, an elderly man with soft underarms was pedalling on one of the bikes. He hardly acknowledged her presence. She mounted one of the treadmills and started running.

  The swoosh of the treadmill and the rhythmic slap of her feet were soothing. She was starting to space out a little, her mind filling with a jumble of unformed, unsorted images and sensations. The book smell in the panelled library. Michael’s powerful wrists and the hair on them gold. Dark cobbled streets. A piece of tarpaulin flapping like the broken wing of a giant bat. The scent of roses everywhere and a saint bleeding. Justin’s lips twisting into a smile: ‘The only certainty is death.’ Michael frowning, ‘Why is she calling you, Isa? Why is she calling you, Isa?’

  The gym assistant’s voice jerked her back to the present. ‘Ten minutes,’ he shouted. As if to emphasize his point, he leaned from behind the door and flicked off one of the wall switches, plunging one half of the room into darkness.

  She stepped reluctantly off the treadmill.

  The running had unknotted the tension in her back. As she walked down the stairs and then into the dressing room, she was tired in mind and body. But there was no feeling of apprehension as she stood inside the open shower; the warm, soapy water sliding down her body. There was no sense of unease as she walked naked towards the other end of the room, unlocked her locker, and took out her gym bag. There was no invisible hand to nudge her into awareness. Only a sudden, inexplicable pain behind her ear; a feeling as though her eyes were breaking into pieces inside her head; and the ground coming up gently to meet her.

  • • •

  HER FIRST SENSATION was that she was cold. The cement floor was ice on her exposed skin. Her face was pressed up against her bare arm. The skin was puckered with gooseflesh and a few stray drops of water glistened where she hadn’t dried herself.

  Slowly she pushed herself upright: her elbows wobbly. The side of her face hurt. She started walking towards the swing doors when she realized she had no clothes on.

  She felt like an old woman. She pulled on her trousers, her sweater. It all seemed to take a long time. Her locker stood wide open. Her gym bag was turned over, the contents spilling out.

  She sorted through the items. Her scarf. A lipstick and a pen. Socks. She picked up her shoes. In the toes of her one shoe were the three twenties and a ten she had stuffed in there before she had left for the aerobics room. Her watch was pushed inside the other shoe and had also not been removed.

  Nothing was missing. Nothing was missing?

  Alette’s letter.

  She pulled the wooden bench violently towards her, her fingers scrabbling hastily underneath the seat. The side of the envelope cut into her palm as she withdrew it and turned it upside down. The two envelopes addressed to the newspapers fell out. So did Alette’s letter. Everything was as it should be. The relief was overwhelming.

  She brought her hand to her head and when she removed it there was a tiny smudge of blood on her thumb. Whoever had coshed her had hit her hard enough to break the skin.

  What should she do about this? Nothing had been stolen. When her opportunistic attacker couldn’t find a wallet, he had obviously not thought to search her shoes. She was okay, if you discounted the pain inside her head. If she told the person at the desk, there would be questions. Then the police. Forms to fill in, more questions to answer. Hours at the police station.

  She walked into the lobby. ‘You’re the last one out,’ the gym assistant said, and held the door open for her. He sounded almost accusing. Isa looked at him and then past his shoulder at the girl behind the till who was staring at her. ‘Are you, okay, Miss?’

  Isa hesitated.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said the girl.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ said Isa and pulled her coat tightly around her.

  • • •

  Dear Isabelle,

  If you’re reading this letter, you have decided to help me.

  Thank you. Thank you so much. I am so grateful, Isabelle. You are the one person I can count on. The only person. You, I know, will never betray me.

  Here’s what we’ll do next.

  Once again the brokers will receive a call from Sophia. Once again there will be letters to send to the papers.

  You never really got to know Justin well, but even so I’m sure you remember that single-minded energy of his. It was one of the things that attracted me most when we first met. Once he sets his mind to something, the idea of failure is not an option. What Justin wants, Justin gets. He wanted me: he got me. He wanted to achieve great success in his professional life and he did: first as a researcher and then as a businessman.

  Most biotech companies are run by visionary but quite fanatical biochemists who believe absolutely in their product. Justin is no exception. He had been interested in the medicinal qualities of plants for a long, long time: convinced they hold the key to a cure for Alzheimer’s. But research requires money. Lots of it.

  Companies finance their activities from two sources: shareholder money and bank money. A tiny, one-product pharmaceutical company with no proven track record is not likely to get much assistance from the banks unless there is someone in the company with whom they can do business who has a reputation for safe hands. And this is where Justin made his winning move.

  Justin knew it would be imperative to gather around him the best managers he could possibly find. A team that would impress the banks and soothe the nerves of investors during the bad times; and in the pharmaceutical industry there are always bad times during the development process.

  Gabriel Perette is Temple Sullivan’s finance director. He commands enormous respect in the City. For many years he managed the financial affairs of Sidicis—a very successful technology group—and in the process, he also made a pile of money for himself. At the age of fifty, he decided to call it a day. Two years later Justin managed to talk Perette out of his early retirement into joining Temple Sullivan. This was a coup: the smartest move Justin ever made. For the past ten years Gabriel Perette has been steering Temple Sullivan with great skill through some very choppy financial waters.

  Louise Perette, Gabriel’s wife, is a close friend of mine. Even after my divorce from Justin, we kept in touch. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about: matiné
e movies, lunches for the girls, visits to the hairdresser’s. A few months ago she moved to France after telling me that she and Gabriel were having marital problems. She also told me that she had presented him with an ultimatum: resign from Temple Sullivan or lose his wife. Gabriel is a sweetheart. He made the right choice.

  Louise is no friend of Justin’s. She has never forgiven him for persuading Gabriel to get back into the rat race and she blames him for the tensions in her marriage. And so, when Gabriel finally made his decision, she sent me a bottle of champagne accompanied by a copy of his letter of resignation. She knows I own a large number of Temple Sullivan shares and wanted to prepare me for the possible impact the news of her husband’s resignation might have on the market. She was taking a risk, of course. If caught, she could have been accused of assisting in insider trading. But she is a loyal friend.

  I have made two more copies of this letter and they are included in the envelopes you will be sending to the Financial Times and the London Post. Gabriel’s letter is signed but undated; he has agreed to let Justin decide when the right time would be to go public with the news of his resignation.

  Louise says Justin had indicated he would like to release a statement soon after the next annual report. This is a smart decision. The annual report this year promises to be a poem: the balance sheet will be exceptional and the reports on the company’s operations will reveal that the market’s expectations for the product are well justified. No doubt Justin’s letter to the shareholders will make the most of the highlights of the past year and his predictions of even better things to come will leave investors with a warm glow. It will be the perfect time to announce the bad news that Perette will be leaving the company.

  But we won’t allow Justin the luxury of waiting that long.

  Timing is everything in life, don’t you agree, Isabelle? If news of Perette’s resignation follows hard on the heels of news that the company is experiencing sourcing problems with regard to Taumex, the effect is likely to be quite dramatic. There could even be speculation that the reason given for Perette’s resignation—his wanting to spend more time with his family—is a smoke screen, and that he is leaving because of the problem in Madagascar. Furthermore, in his resignation letter he stipulates that he may wish to sell his share options soon after his resignation takes effect. This could easily be perceived as lack of faith: as though he wants to dump his shares because he is nervous about the company’s prospects. Investor confidence will take a knock, believe me. And Justin will have a nasty little problem on his hands.

  Isa folded the letter carefully. She was curled up in the armchair in Alette’s bedroom, and had wrapped herself in one of Alette’s cashmere throws. Maybe it was delayed shock after what happened in the gym, but she couldn’t seem to get warm. Next to her on the table stood a glass of whisky and a bottle of painkilling tablets. It was probably not at all the wise thing to do, but the pills and the alcohol had taken care of her headache very nicely.

  But she was still feeling shivery and it was difficult to focus on the contents of the letter in her lap. And she couldn’t shake this nagging feeling at the back of her mind. She remembered the sense of unease that had dogged her as she had left Lionel Darling’s office; the feeling of being observed. Maybe it hadn’t been a random mugging. Maybe her attacker hadn’t been searching for loose cash. Maybe he had a very specific goal in mind: the envelope.

  And maybe she was letting her imagination run riot. The only person who could possibly be interested in the contents of the envelope was Justin. But he knew nothing about her arrangement with Alette. Or had she inadvertently let something slip that aroused his suspicions? She had had quite a lot of wine to drink during their dinner together. Perhaps he had decided to keep an eye on her and had been following her.

  This was getting more far-fetched by the minute. And whatever else Justin may be, she had no reason to believe he was a violent man. Obsessive, yes. Controlling, yes. But violent? The idea of him prowling around the ladies’ room with a cudgel in his hand was absurd.

  For a moment she wondered if she should have the locks on the front door changed. Isn’t that what one was supposed to do after a mugging? Except in this case her keys had not been stolen. It would be overkill.

  She shoved the letter back into its envelope and got out of the chair. Carefully she removed a few books from the top shelf of the bookcase. The first envelope Alette had sent her already peeked out from behind the row of hardback volumes. She placed the second envelope with its twin and slid the books back into place. There was now no sign that something was hidden behind them.

  For a moment she stared at the row of books. She owed Alette so much, but was revenge the answer? Destroying the most important thing in someone’s life was an unforgivable, maybe even an evil, thing to do. Justin deserved to be punished but could anything he had done deserve retribution this severe?

  She returned to the chair but as she reached for the glass of whisky, her elbow knocked over one of the many photographs propped up on the table.

  It was a picture of herself in a glamorous dress with an eye-catching shawl wrapped casually around her waist. Prom night. The shawl had not originally been part of the ensemble. But that night she had had an accident: clumsily spilling nail polish onto the ivory-coloured skirt. She had been devastated until Alette took this beautiful antique shawl from her closet and draped it skilfully around her waist to hide the stain. She remembered the shawl well: Alette had saved up for months to put together enough money to buy it.

  Throughout her life she had depended on Alette. And now Alette was depending on her. Despite her misgivings, she must do what Alette asked of her.

  And it may all yet be for nothing. The first set of instructions seemed to have had no effect whatsoever on the company’s health. As a matter of fact, only yesterday the Sunday supplement in one of the papers had showcased a glowing article on Justin and Taumex. It featured a full-page, posed photograph of Justin appearing sternly competent—eyes looking straight into the camera. Nothing could shake the composure of a man with eyes that cool.

  So maybe Gabriel Perette was an ace financial director. But the resignation of one man couldn’t do that much harm, surely. The news of his resignation wouldn’t be enough to dent Temple Sullivan’s armour: ‘the tiny titan of pharmaceutical companies,’ as the article had stated with fine alliterative flourish. What’s more, Alette had bargained on rumours about potential supply problems to prepare the ground, but no one had paid any attention to the rumour. So really, there would be little harm done if she agreed to Alette’s demands once more. And if the company did suffer slightly as a result, which seemed unlikely, well—Justin had it coming. Any possible anxiety her actions might bring him wouldn’t even begin to compare with the trauma he had inflicted on Alette. If she sent out those letters, made those calls, she would be able to face the day with the knowledge that she had not betrayed her cousin.

  Isa looked at the telephone. It was still unplugged: the cord sprawling across the carpet like a sleepy snake.

  And maybe, after this, sleep would come to her deep and dreamless.

  TEN

  The beating of thy pulse …

  Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell.

  My Midnight Meditation

  Henry King (1592–1669)

  THE ROOM WAS DARK, but the darkness was not impenetrable. Even though the light in the room was turned off, the curtain in the front window was open and the room was bathed in the faint light of the lamp posts outside. He was able to see without any trouble.

  She was wearing Alette’s nightdress. He recognized the delicate embroidery around the collar, the lilac ribbons and ruffled sleeves. He was standing so close to the bed, he could hear her breathing.

  He placed his hand against his forehead. He could feel the onset of a migraine: throbbing pain spreading through his skull, the beginning of an aura painting the objects in his vision with a sickly hue. This always happened to him when he became up
set.

  Anger. Such anger. It was choking him, leaving him light-headed.

  How dare she? The dress was not hers: was not hers to wear. That nightdress belonged to Alette. No one else had the right. He felt like smashing his fist into her face. Feeling her cheekbone shatter against his knuckles, her face caving in underneath the weight of his hand. The scream of pain. Her lips sagging with shock.

  He took a deep breath. Calm. The thing here was to stay calm. He looked down at his hands and willed his fingers to unclench themselves.

  She was breathing so very softly: the rise and fall of her chest almost unnoticeable. Her arms were flung to the side in a curious gesture of yearning. One slim leg was uncovered, the other twisted tight in the bedclothes. For such a tall woman she was surprisingly fragile-looking.

  He had noticed this about her earlier tonight as well, in the locker room of the gym as he had stood over her, rummaging through her bag while she lay motionless on the cold cement floor. She had reminded him of that bird—the dead bird—gripped in the frozen embrace of the pond. He had been walking in the park last week when he had spotted it, its head completely submerged by opalescent ice but one wing sticking up crazily. Isa seemed like that bird. The same thin, delicate bone structure. The same defencelessness.

  On the bedside table stood a vial of tablets and next to it an empty glass. He picked it up and brought it to his nose. Scotch. So that explained this deep, deep sleep.

  Cautiously he moved through the room. There was no sign of the envelope. He had already looked in the kitchen and in the living room. It bothered him that he wasn’t able to find it. Earlier tonight, in the gym, he had thought it would be easy to lay his hands on it. He knew she had it on her. And he knew the letter troubled her. That much was clear from her reaction as she had sneaked a peek at its contents shortly after collecting it. Careful not to be spotted, he had watched her as she stood outside the building, the wind almost whipping the page from her hand. After reading for only a few seconds she had shoved the letter into her bag with a kind of hopeless vehemence. Maybe he was wrong: maybe there was an entirely innocent reason for all of this. Maybe. But something was off-kilter. He sensed it.