The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  ‘I want to know, and you need to talk about it.’ He shuffled forward as he said it, went to take her hand. ‘Just tell me something, anything.’

  She could hear the faint panic in his voice, knew that perhaps he had been wondering for months. This wasn’t the first time he’d tried to talk about it. Her mind shut down and she pulled her hand away from him. ‘There’s nothing to say, it’s in the past.’

  Was it really, she wondered, as she said the words. Did she not drag her story around with her through every waking day? For a fraction of a second she thought she could share it. It would help her, surely, to talk about it, let it out. This was what she had wanted with her mother, the great topic they manoeuvred around, ever present yet never discussed.

  He had seen the photo in her flat, but she had diverted the questions away that first time, and since then, whenever he’d asked her, she’d changed the subject or left the room or simply asked him not to discuss it. She could feel him now braced for her rejection. Biting on his lower lip, eyes not wavering from hers. Perhaps he thought the week had softened her and she would give in, perhaps he thought it was too fine a day to ruin, that she would still be lingering over the memory of their kisses, his body next to hers in a tangle of bed sheets and wine, that she would ease up and let him in.

  She looked at him, his tan that ended abruptly below his waist – she’d laughed about it as he’d showered the day before – his eyes still searching her face. He did have an open face, Patricia was right; he had a face that encouraged you to share things. She went to open her mouth. The boy’s laugh caused her head to snap around, so alike. He’d run off, his mother chasing him, holding her hat with one hand as she raced after him along the shoreline, both throwing up seawater as they ran. Irina blinked back the tears that were threatening, forced herself to look elsewhere, to think of something else. She couldn’t do it, this wasn’t fair, why was he ruining this holiday with his questions? How dare he do this to her, she hadn’t asked for it.

  When she turned back to him her face was closed and he shrank back, perhaps recognizing the expression. ‘I really don’t want to talk about it.’

  He nodded once, his lips in a thin line, his eyes off in the direction of the kayakers, and then, after a beat, he quietly rose to his feet, looking down at her as she sat in the shadow his body made. ‘I can’t do this then,’ he said simply. There was no threat, no raised voice, no ultimatum, no drama. His voice was tinged with sadness as he cocked his head to one side. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t keep ignoring it and I won’t let you do this to yourself.’

  She looked up at him, shielding her eyes with one hand as if she were about to ask him if he wanted a sandwich. The sun was behind him, creating a halo of light and throwing his face into shadow. She licked her lips to say something and knew that it was pointless. What could she say? She didn’t want to tell him. She felt a sharp flicker of annoyance that he had forced them into this corner.

  She looked away. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘I’m not doing anything,’ he said with an exasperated gesture, both palms facing up. ‘It’s ridiculous to keep me out like this. You are clearly hurting and you need to tell me, shout it at me if you like.’ His voice got louder as he talked so that by the end of the sentence she could feel the attention of nearby families flickering towards them.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said, teeth grinding, feeling her face flush with more than sunburn. ‘People are looking.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn,’ he said, really shouting now, half-turning to face the others on the beach. ‘Let them. It’s you I’m interested in.’

  She sat there, still, silent, avoiding his gaze until, with a huff, he reached down and collected up his things.

  ‘I can’t,’ she said with finality.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Fine.’

  His voice broke on the last word and she glanced towards him, but his back was already to her. He was walking away, as quickly as he could, stumbling over the loose, hot sand, throwing a shirt over his shoulders, pushing his arm into the sleeve. He didn’t look back towards her, took the steps two at a time up to the hotel. She could see the balcony where they had sat that morning, the picnic table empty.

  She hugged her knees and looked in the other direction, down the sand. The boy had gone, lost along the shore and blended into the crowds of other beach-goers by now. She was left there on the rug looking out at the surf as it swept in relentlessly, rolling in to a rhythm, already blanking Andrew out of her mind, as if he’d never been there, as if they were strangers. When Patricia asked her about the holiday, remarked on her scattering of freckles, her tanned skin, she had accepted the compliments, melting into her workshop to work on the pieces in silence, and when Andrew didn’t appear for a day, a week, a month, Patricia stopped asking her questions and stopped bringing her antique rings.

  She imagined herself on the spot a year or so ago. They had come here, gone out for a meal in Kemp Town, to a place with low lighting, the steady throb of chatter, cutlery tinging in the silence, muffled noises from the busy kitchen beyond. She’d worn a dress, low cut and deep green with a pleated skirt. He’d worn a suit, a crisp white shirt and brown leather brogues. They had looked the part. He had held her hand between a tea light that had long gone out and a solitary flower in a narrow vase. She blinked the memory away, her eyes refocused on the hotel front. Her body ached for him, she wondered why she had ever let him go, why she hadn’t done more to stop him walking away. Staring up at the windows one last time, she turned for her car, got in and left the town behind her.

  RICHARD

  They were sitting on a bench that looked out over the sea. They’d met there occasionally, since the day down at the river with both of them screaming at the water. He walked along there more often than usual, hoping for a glimpse of her on the shoreline, hair whipped to the side, picking her way over the stones in heeled shoes, peach cheeks, her arms out to the sides balancing herself. She’d been there today and he joined her wordlessly on the same bench, feeling his insides glow as she turned, unsurprised, a smile suggesting she’d expected him.

  She was reading a book, although she now seemed to be stuck on the same page, as he stretched out his legs in front of him. The beach curved around the bay, the rocky outcrop jutting steeply, casting a thick shadow over one end. Every now and again a car would appear on the coastal road above before disappearing down behind the line of trees on Countisbury Hill. Richard couldn’t drive but was fascinated by the automobiles parked up in the village, the shine of metal, the leather seats, the headlamps sticking out like toads’ eyes on the front. He was lost in a daydream, Abigail sitting alongside him in the passenger seat, a scarf holding back her hair, her skin flushed as they swept along the sea road, over Exmoor.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  It was a moment before he realized she had put her book down, spine facing up, a smile playing on her lips as she raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, I…’

  ‘You seemed to be on the verge of a great joke. Do tell.’

  ‘I was thinking about… Well…’ He was floundering. ‘An automobile…’

  She rolled her eyes at him. ‘Oh dear. I thought it would be a state secret at the very least.’

  He wanted then to share the image, to turn and describe their journey through Exmoor, past red deer, a hamper in the back bursting with a picnic, the automobile bouncing on tarmac as the wind rushed in through the windows and the landscape sped past. Devon seemed to have become a wilder, more romantic place these last few weeks.

  On the promenade that ran along the beach he could make out a woman standing next to an enormous perambulator, the navy hood up as she stood looking out at the sea. The man she was with had stopped and was leaning over to look inside the pram; he gave a smile as he straightened and Richard lifted a hand in acknowledgement.

  The toddle
r who had been circling the pram and his parents followed his father’s gaze, face melting into a huge grin as he started a bow-legged run along the promenade, looking as if he might fall to the ground at any time.

  ‘Bichard, Bichard.’

  Abigail turned to him, an inquisitive look on her face. ‘A friend?’ She laughed as the plump toddler waddled up to the bench.

  ‘Definitely a friend.’ Richard grinned and bent down to scoop the young boy into his arms, making him shriek with delight as he lifted him right over his head and down again.

  ‘A’gen, ’gen.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He repeated the move.

  ‘Abigail, this is George. George, this is Abigail.’

  ‘Hello,’ Abigail said, standing up from the bench, a sweet smile splitting her face.

  The small boy scrunched himself tightly against Richard’s chest, slowly peeking at her with one eye.

  ‘Don’t pretend to be all shy now,’ Richard teased as the boy wriggled to get down, ready to run off for the next activity.

  Abigail laughed as he whistled past them both, back behind the legs of the woman next to the pram.

  ‘Hi, Tom,’ Richard said, putting out a hand to shake the man’s hand. ‘How’s the new little man?’

  The baby, eyes scrunched up, both arms flung above his head, a knitted blanket tucked tightly around him, looked utterly content.

  ‘Oh, he’s adorable,’ Abigail said, leaning in. ‘And so snug.’

  The woman looked over at her, her cheeks pale and with bags under her eyes; she smiled at the compliment.

  ‘Abigail, these are our neighbours, Tom and Beth.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you. How old is he?’ Abigail asked. Richard was always thrown by her easy confidence.

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘He’s divine.’

  ‘Are you headed back?’ Richard asked, a thought springing into his head, keen for Abigail to come home with him, to meet his dad.

  ‘We were. George wanted us to make the world’s biggest sandcastle.’

  ‘Did you manage it?’

  ‘We got close.’ Tom laughed, two dimples appearing on either side of his mouth. ‘George wanted to make a moat, but it will be time for the little one’s feed and all hell breaks loose if we miss that.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had experience of that.’

  ‘I thought he’d shatter the windows. I’m amazed you haven’t looked at moving.’

  They turned to head back into the village.

  ‘We’ll walk with you.’

  Abigail had fallen into step with Beth. There were hushed giggles as they moved along the promenade together, Abigail placing one hand on the handlebar of the pram. Richard watched the curve of her waist, the loose strand of hair that she was tucking behind her ear.

  Tom lifted his eyes at him, a small smile threatening to spill out.

  ‘Alright,’ Richard said, feeling his cheeks warm as he readjusted his flat cap.

  ‘Bichard, lift,’ piped up George, a welcome interruption.

  He scooped up George and trotted with him along the promenade, the toddler gurgling with laughter, his feet encased in tiny leather shoes, his body bundled into a pea coat. Abigail looked back at them, her cheeks flushed from the walk, her eyes sparkling.

  Richard put George down, caught her up. ‘Do you want to meet my father?’ He could see Beth behind her glance at him and then her husband, knowing what they were both thinking but not caring.

  Abigail nodded once. ‘Absolutely, of course.’

  He thought he’d never been this excited.

  IRINA

  It had started raining again, solidly so that the windows were permanently smeared with lines running down the surface, distorting the outside into a wash of blacks and greys. Irina spent the evening in the living room, crowded into her chair as Pepper lay curled up on a cushion in front of the radiator. Her eyes had fluttered closed, an abandoned glass of wine on the table beside her, the dishwasher going next door, a steady gurgle of noise. She blearily dragged herself to bed.

  Her dreams were jumbled and full of foreign places. Faces she didn’t recognize, a cottage by a river, a sweep of beach, a man in a window, a woman holding a baby in the room behind him, whispering into his hair. A shout; watching a wave head up the beach towards a chubby toddler playing in the sand. She woke, sitting up quickly, her eyes trained on the foot of her bed. The cat had joined her on the covers and seemed alert now too, focused on the same spot. Its head raised in a question. They both seemed to hold their breath, staring at the same space.

  Looking around at the other shapes in the dark – her dressing gown hanging from the door, the outline of her side table, a pile of books forgotten, the lampshade – she felt her hair sticking to her forehead. There was nothing there and Irina wondered why her heart was hammering loudly, why her hands felt clammy. Lying back down, she plumped the pillow beneath her, feeling the soothing presence of Pepper, and fell asleep again.

  The next day was Sunday and she found herself back in the workshop, staring determinedly at the bureau. She had an empty day stretching ahead and she knew she needed to make progress. She had sanded down the surface; now she was working her way slowly through all the drawers, pulling them out, laying them on newspaper, working on them so that the bureau was left with gaping holes as if it were missing its vital organs.

  There was one drawer still closed, stubbornly refusing to move, on the left-hand side of the bureau; a long thin drawer with a small brass handle. There was no keyhole and yet it remained jammed shut. Irina searched around for a way in, something niggling at her as she worked. She’d seen a piece like this before, when she was working as an apprentice in a bigger workshop just outside Chichester.

  She moved systematically over it, inching across the top and down the sides, realizing as she did so that the bureau had a false bottom, the wood higher inside than it appeared from the outside. She felt her pulse quicken and she licked her lips. She wondered if there was a way to access the space. She felt along the edges of the bottom panel. She could sense something there, smaller than her fingertip but solid beneath her touch. She sucked in her breath, leaning deeper into the desk to try and look at what she’d found.

  The ringing of her phone made her jump and she narrowly avoided hitting her head on the frame. Sitting on the floor next to the bureau, she fumbled to bring the phone out of her pocket, the screen announcing ‘ANDREW’. She accepted the call before stopping to think about it. She curled her body over the phone as she answered.

  ‘Irina,’ Andrew said, sounding surprised. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to answer.

  ‘Hi, Andrew,’ she said, her breathing still fast from her find. She stood up, moving across the room to sit on a stool by the workbench, remembering yesterday, standing outside the hotel.

  ‘I passed through Petworth yesterday…’ He spoke quickly. ‘Thought of you and… What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing much. Well, I’m working on something.’ As she said it she looked back at the bureau, wondered whether she had discovered something, or whether it was just a nail or an old metal bracket.

  ‘New piece?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Irina said, not wanting to mention things in detail.

  ‘Do you still have that stuffed ferret?’ he asked, injecting a laugh into the sentence.

  ‘It was a stoat!’ She giggled without really meaning to, a hand raised over her lips. The bedraggled stoat had sold a month before. She couldn’t understand how people loved taxidermy so much. ‘Sold, I’m afraid,’ she said, trying to match his jocular tone. What did Andrew want? They had broken up over a year ago, but she received these calls every month or so.

  ‘Right.’ He sounded distant, as if he were holding the phone away from his face.

  Time passed in a mi
x of coughs and unfinished sentences and then Andrew seemed to rally. ‘I’m free next weekend, I was wondering if you were about? We could have a drink? A meal?’

  ‘Well, I…’ Irina felt the loneliness of the workshop around her, pictured his face, expectant and boyish. He hadn’t asked to meet for months, he had stopped asking, just rung and talked a while. She wondered if she had been waiting for him to call and ask again. She thought again of yesterday. Them on the beach all those months ago. ‘That would be good,’ she said as warmly as she could. ‘Thank you,’ she added.

  ‘Great.’ The tone was different now, upbeat, energetic; confidence had been restored. ‘I’ll let you know a time and place. Great.’

  ‘Great,’ she echoed.

  ‘Have a good week then, Irina,’ he said.

  She could picture him smiling into the phone and smiled herself, feeling her face lift. ‘You too.’

  He hung up and she stared briefly at the phone before setting it down carefully in front of her. They’d been together a little over two years. His voice was familiar now but also changed somehow, or was that her memory distorting things?

  There was a faint whistle, like air through a narrow space and she turned to look behind her. The kettle was off, the room empty. Then a cold gust swept around her, as if someone had just opened a door suddenly, and the smell of pipe smoke struck her and then another sound, slow at first, something sliding on wood, followed by a loud empty clatter that made her spin back.

  Her ancient mobile phone was lying on the floor next to the workbench, in two parts. She stared at it for a second and then bent to pick it up, pressed it back into place with a click. She must have left it closer to the edge than she thought. She must have been careless. Her arms prickled and she rolled the sleeves of her jumper down. There was that whistle again, like air trapped in something, coming from nowhere, the cold again.