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The Last Night

Page 22

by Cesca Major


  He waited for her on a tree stump, producing a pasty from a brown paper bag, still warm, the meat a gorgeous, spicy explosion in her mouth, the pastry crumbling to perfection.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked after the last gulp.

  He rolled his eyes, screwing up the paper bag. She licked the smallest flake from her lips and as he looked at her he felt excitement bubbling in his stomach. He couldn’t wait to show her. He couldn’t wait for her reaction. He hadn’t shown anyone, no one knew, not even his father. She seemed different though, her movements jumpy, lines of worry crossing her face when she was lost in her thoughts. He worried about the serious look she took on, as if she were steeling herself for something terrible.

  He guided her over to the tree stump, settling her there. Her eyes were darker, her face jade green from the shadows of the trees around them. He stood before her, eyebrows knitted together, one hand on her arm. ‘Abigail, what is it? Sit. I was teasing, we shouldn’t go so quickly, there’s no hurry.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted.

  He stayed crouched down beside her, his hand still on her arm. ‘It’s not far now.’

  She returned then, her face tipped to the side, eyes flashing in shades of green. ‘I’ll stop lounging about on tree stumps then,’ she said, going to stand and letting him help her. ‘Right, where are we going?’ she asked yet again, the question and his bark of laughter driving out the sombre mood.

  He stayed by her side the rest of the way up, skirting round puddles filled with stagnant liquid, holding out a steadying arm at points where it got steeper.

  They reached the top, where the trees thinned out and the moors stretched in front of them. Away from the cover of the trees the wind was colder, surrounding them, and Abigail hugged her woollen coat to herself.

  ‘We’re almost there.’

  Ahead of him the land seemed to spread for miles: russets, reds, clumps of gorse, bracken slanted by the force of the wind, mud and green blending together, thin lines of fences beyond where the road ran. On their right, horses chewed at the ground; one, a chestnut, munched slowly, one yellow eye on them, tail flicking in the air sporadically, then it turned towards the rest of the group, its plump hindquarters keeping them away. He loved being up there with that view, the sky seeming to stretch for miles, the fields and grass an uninterrupted blanket beneath.

  ‘This way,’ he called over the wind, holding his hat down as he turned to her.

  She was standing in her own patch, arms now out by her sides, her eyes closed. Her cheeks were pink, her eyelashes clumped together from the wetness of the air, not quite rain but able to soak you right through if you let it. He found himself staring; she looked like a sprite, soon to spring off into the heather, lost in the deep green of the trees like a wild thing. She nodded at him, strands of hair loose from her chignon snatched this way and that by the wind, and he felt his stomach turn again. What would she think?

  He panicked then, wondering whether she would sneer at what he was about to show her, whether he wanted to risk it.

  He knew the route well, made his way down one side of a hill, the ground spongy, the air smelling of rotting leaves and damp. He felt clumsy, aware of her following him, her footsteps in the same spaces that his had occupied moments before. He slipped at one point, almost losing his balance as he tried to avoid the thorny tendrils that would snap back into her path, tear at her stockings, scratch her legs.

  He could make out the roof up ahead, practically obscured by an oak tree that now towered above it; the gate was missing, the posts standing blankly with empty hinges, the pathway covered in moss and thistles, the grey paving stones long covered. He turned to see her standing under the tree, one hand on the bark, looking up at the house. Something in her face, a weariness, and he wondered again whether this had been a good idea. He drew back, towards her, holding out a hand.

  ‘I want to tell you about this place,’ he said and then, as if the expression had never crossed her face, she looked at him with wide, clear eyes and smiled slowly, taking his hand. He wanted to hold onto it long after they stopped at the peeling front door, already ajar.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked and she nodded once, quickly.

  He let go of her hand to push open the door, the memory of her skin still on his as he stepped inside.

  It was almost completely dark, weak light coming from boarded-up windows, thin lines highlighting a dusty stone floor, abandoned benches, a rusty bucket, roof tiles shattered in a pile. Fumbling with a match, swearing under his breath as it was blown out and then trying again, he watched her take in the room, running a finger over the back of a chair, the woven seat punched out as if someone had fallen through it, noting the low thick beams above them, the stained corners, the damp rising up the walls.

  He stood in silence, hands in his pockets, as if waiting for a schoolmaster to pass judgement on his work.

  She turned, her expression quizzical, one eyebrow raised. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s nothing yet, but it could be,’ he said slowly, wondering if she knew where he might be headed. ‘Look!’ He drew her across the room, a stone step walking them down a level.

  Inside, the butler’s sink stood abandoned under large, flaking windows; it was the view that made her suck in her breath. Even with the cloud, and the raindrops sticking to the glass, she would be able to see how far it extended, to the sea and the land beyond, south Wales a hazy strip, fields directly to their right, a line of trees to the left, and a secluded garden grown wild with weeds and long grass.

  ‘It could be so much more, with some work.’ He paused momentarily, waiting for her to remark or snort or something, but she simply looked at him with those calm eyes, listening, drinking it in. ‘I want to buy it. There’s a workshop too, well, a shack with holes in the roof. Here, let me show you.’

  She followed him wordlessly as he pushed open the back door, dried-out leaves and mud making it stick. They stepped across an old terrace: a wooden bench, the slats long gone, a skeletal frame remaining; plant pots, empty and chipped. He wanted to show her it all, wanted her to feel the same excitement he did at the chance to make this house beautiful again. He wanted her to be swept up in his vision, to see things as he did, the house repainted, patches fixed, the bench lovingly restored and polished, the plant pots bursting with greenery.

  The workshop was in truth a decaying outhouse, its thatched roof almost entirely caved in, the door propped up, unattached. He pulled it to one side to show her the empty damp space, the stench of compost and rotting wood filling their nostrils.

  ‘I know it doesn’t seem like it…’ he said, noticing her face shift as she took in the dirty floor, suspicious-looking droppings in the corner. She pulled her arms around herself then, perhaps imagining rats in the corners, their yellow eyes trained on her. She stepped back and he felt his own face fall a fraction, his mouth turn down.

  ‘I know it looks bad…’ he started again.

  She stepped forward, her whole body silhouetted in the doorway. ‘I trust you,’ she said simply. ‘I can see it.’

  And then she turned and looked back across the garden and up to the house and it seemed to him as if she really could see it, could picture him sitting on the roof, hammering nails into tiles, crawling over its surface to assess the damage, repairing and reworking things, bringing them back to life, could see herself in the bedroom looking out over Exmoor as she idly rearranged flowers in a vase.

  He didn’t know how it happened, but he moved towards her, his vision entirely made up of her face, his heart hammering as he bent down, slowly at first and then, a hand on each side of her face, smelling misty rain and the garden, he kissed her gently, brushing her lower lip. As she responded, he kissed her more urgently, pressing his body against her, pulling her into him. Then, just as suddenly, he pulled away, one hand still on her cheek. ‘I’m so
rry,’ he breathed.

  He waited for her to slap his hand away, but they seemed to stand like that for the longest time, their bodies pulsing with the moment they had just shared. And then she reached up to place her hand on top of his, drew him back to her with the other, pressed her lips against his again. They stayed like that for a minute until, laughing, they broke apart.

  Something had changed on the way back down from the moor; he felt like a different man from the one who had led her up there. Older somehow, his body feeling more solid, his own. He could see his future taking shape, images flooding into his mind, a sense that they could be together. She glanced over at him, and he wondered if she too had felt things shift, wanted to know if the moment in the garden had had any effect on her. He scanned her face, relieved to see it open and bright, a different smile, a new smile for that day, this time her eyes creasing with it, and he knew something had changed for her too.

  IRINA

  She had woken tired, her neck cricked from lying on the sofa, bunched up and uncomfortable. She left for the hospital immediately, not staying in the flat a second longer than she had to, whisking through her workshop and out via the beaded curtain and the shop before she could explain much more to Patricia, who hadn’t expected to see her at all, full of sympathy for her mother, promises to look after the shop, for her not to worry.

  She walked quickly to the car, shivering in the dress she’d been wearing the day before. Her jumpers were all in her bedroom and she hadn’t wanted to go back in there. Lynton seemed like a lifetime ago, had they really been walking along the seafront less than twenty-four hours earlier? Being back in the apartment seemed to have returned her to the mood she’d been in when she’d left. She had to know what had happened. She knew that now. She hated feeling like this, as if she were being followed, watched. If she could find out more, it might stop.

  She sent another email to her client, a snippier message than before, bashed out on her mobile as she squinted at the screen. She knew he was probably out of the country on business, but she insisted he get in touch. It was urgent and she never used that word. The same out-of-office response was sent back and she puffed in frustration, her teeth gritting together to stop herself from crying out. She drove, with questions flying around the car, unthinking, into the hospital car park.

  She was there when her mother stirred. It was mid-morning and Irina had been about to get coffee, her eyes red-rimmed from the lack of sleep. Seeing her mother again had made Irina feel guilty for worrying over absurd sounds and things that weren’t there when her own mother was lying ill in bed. She felt more objective away from the apartment.

  The machines were still there, blinking and bleeping, lines moving, numbers changing, up and down. Her mother was propped up on another pillow and the blanket had come loose along one edge, so Irina reached out to tuck it in. She was stretching across, her hair falling over her face, when she heard her mother say his name. She started, shocked.

  ‘Joshua.’

  Irina bent over the bed again, eyes darting from her mother’s closed eyes to her mouth. Her lips were cracked. Had she heard her correctly?

  ‘Joshua.’

  Irina sucked in her breath, frozen over her mother’s face as she watched her lips form the letters.

  ‘I’m sorry, Joshua. I’m…’

  Irina leant in closer, her hair tickling her mum’s face, knowing what she had heard and desperate to hear the name spoken again. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard her mother say it, it was a forbidden topic.

  Her mother was shaking her head a fraction and Irina rested her hand on her forehead. ‘It’s OK, Mum. It’s OK.’

  Her head moved more violently, her eyes screwed up tight as if she were in pain. ‘No, I need… I’m sorry, I can’t…’

  Irina looked on in horror as a small tear sloped down her mother’s cheek and around her ear, hanging there like the saddest earring. Her eyelids fluttered and another tear fell, dripping onto the pillow.

  ‘Mum,’ Irina said in a low voice, circling her mother’s hand with a thumb, ‘I’m here. It’s OK, you’re OK.’

  Her mother seemed to settle down at that, exhaling in one long breath as if she were at a yoga class and they were doing relaxation exercises. Her head stopped, her eyes remained still and then, in the tiniest voice, she whispered Irina’s name.

  Irina leant over again. ‘Yes, Mum?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Irina didn’t want to leave her, but an hour passed and her mother was sleeping and Irina had to resist the urge to shake her shoulders, to wake her up, to force her to say his name again. She wanted something, needed to feel that her mother would talk about it. Was this the moment? She had to confess, to hold her mother’s hand as she told her the truth that had festered inside her all these years.

  She needed to get out. Looking back at the bed, she shrugged her handbag up on one shoulder. She bought a coffee from the café inside the hospital, moved down peppermint corridors hung with jaunty pictures, past signs heading every which way, to the double doors and the outside world beyond, surprised to see cars driving by, people going about their day. She finished her coffee, lingering as she stood by the entrance, making the automatic doors open and close, a nurse looking up at her from the reception desk inside.

  She pulled her mobile out of her pocket before she could change her mind, wanting to hear his voice. ‘Hi, it’s me,’ she said, knowing her name would have flashed up on his mobile.

  ‘Hey.’ He sounded weary. Those three letters dragged out of his mouth.

  She cupped one hand over the mobile as the wind whistled round her. She swallowed, knowing he wouldn’t make this easy for her. She didn’t blame him. ‘I’m sorry. I was rude.’

  ‘Your mum was ill, you were worried.’ He sounded robotic. It wasn’t in his nature to be cruel, but she could hear that he was reciting something, as if he knew she would ring and had his script prepared.

  She closed her eyes. ‘Yes, but I didn’t need to be such a bitch.’ She hoped that last sentence might make him laugh; he was always the first to break into a low chuckle, a grin spreading across his face when he was amused.

  ‘You weren’t. Look…’

  He sighed and the sound made her stomach plunge. She had lost him again, he wasn’t going to play her game, back and forwards, lend her a hand. She was desperate to break this tense exchange, to bring him back. ‘Something happened in the flat last night. It was bizarre, a huge crash…’

  ‘Are you OK?’ he said.

  She felt a sudden flare of hope. He cared. ‘I’m fine, there was nothing there, but the sound was… enormous. Like the house was being torn apart.’

  He had wanted to find things out, believed her when she’d told him things before. Would this pique his interest? She tucked her hair behind her ear and waited for him to reply. Perhaps he would agree to come over there? Perhaps he would invite her to stay with him again? ‘It was scary,’ she said, ‘hearing it.’ She knew she’d put on a too-high voice, a little girl needing to be cared for; his frosty silence was prompting her.

  ‘Look, Irina—’ he said. That sigh again.

  She didn’t let him finish. ‘Will you come back with me? To Devon? I know Bill was going to tell us about the postcard and, well, I hoped—’

  ‘There’s no point,’ he said quietly, cutting off whatever she was about to say next. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can!’ She laughed, it sounded forced. ‘Please, I—’

  ‘Will you talk to me about your past, what happened?’ He asked the question in a firm voice. She’d heard him use that tone once before, on that beach in Brighton.

  She thought of her mother in the bed upstairs, the name on her tongue. For years they had danced around each other, Irina not able to say the things she should have said all those years ago, not wanting to cause her m
other more hurt. ‘I… It’s not as simple as… I can’t…’

  ‘I thought so,’ he said in that low, steady voice.

  She didn’t continue; they had been there before, the same circular conversation. She knew she wouldn’t tell him anything and he would get frustrated and keep probing. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to, a large part of her did want to, craved having someone to listen, but the moment she thought about it, actually thought about telling him, she knew she couldn’t. She would have to tell him the whole truth and she couldn’t let anyone know that. He would never think of her the same way again, he would hate her and she couldn’t face him hating her.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel like that,’ she said, aware she was sounding sniffy, as if he’d rejected her choice of wallpaper. She sounded absurd and stiff. ‘Take care,’ she said, wanting now to end the phone call on her terms, lick her wounds.

  He sighed slowly. ‘You too, Reena.’

  She felt tears thicken her throat and she swallowed, hanging up so she didn’t have to reply. She blinked at the phone. Familiar feelings threatened to choke her; they had been here before.

  Staring out at the car park of the hospital, cars reversing slowly, people moving between vehicles, a man at the pay station, she felt hopelessness wash over her. Exhausted from carrying around all these memories, the guilt. She thought of her mother lying a few floors above her muttering the name they never said out loud. She thought of the times Andrew had asked her, pleaded with her to talk to him. She thought of the number of times she’d lain in bed running through the events of that day. She reached up automatically, putting a hand to her cheek, the skin rigid beneath her fingertips. Would she ever be free of it?

  ABIGAIL

  He was waiting for her when she got back. Standing next to the hat stand, his expression lost to the shadows. She started, her body jerking involuntarily, then half-turned as if she could escape him. He had stepped forward, one flat palm closing the door, trapping her there. Her eyes rolled backwards as she took in his scent, mingled now with beery fumes, the first few words slurred before he righted himself.

 

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