The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  IRINA

  She didn’t want to stay in the apartment and she didn’t want to visit her mother again in the hospital. She prickled with the feeling that she might explode; the atmosphere between them had shifted back to exchanging shallow comments in light voices, pretending they were normal. They had years of experience. Nothing more had been said about the past and everything seemed to have fallen back into the same pattern.

  Her mother would be allowed home soon with a supply of needles, insulin and a strict list of instructions on how to handle diabetes. She was shown what to do in the hospital, Irina looking away as the needle went in, squeamish at the thought. She promised herself she wouldn’t let things drop this time, she would tackle her mum when she was at home, not in the hospital. She wondered who she was fooling. How many more years would go by in this strange silence, their faces growing more shadowy?

  The apartment made her restless too, and the workshop was filled with questions; she knew that the feeling wouldn’t disappear until she got some answers. She traced a line over the postcard, the face in the brooch, placed the feather in the palm of her hand, closing it in her fist. She needed to go back and, after writing a rushed note to Patricia, she found herself in the car again, the empty seat next to her a reminder that she was alone once more.

  The hill down into Lynmouth seemed even steeper, the escape tracks making her grip the steering wheel even tighter; she edged her body forward as she inched down, imagining winter months when ice would make it even more precarious. She was relieved to reach the bottom and cross the low stone bridge, the river flowing underneath. She looked across the road, out along the harbour wall and to the sea beyond, the still water, the outline of Wales in the distance. One of the postcards lying on the passenger seat beside her showed the same view. She felt her hand hovering over the objects she’d brought along to show Bill. She’d phoned him the night before. She felt certain that he could help her, that the sightings and sounds would end once she’d found out more, that everything was connected to the bureau.

  Turning into a side road, she wound her way round houses, shops and a hotel, wrought-iron balconies lining its first floor, large floor-to-ceiling windows on the ground floor opening onto a terrace. On the outside wall she could make out a small circular plaque but was too far away to see what it said.

  The car dipped down, following a slope in the road, the sun obscured by a row of cottages on her right. She went to press the brake. Something was wrong. She cried out at the shock of it. Her foot felt wet, drenched suddenly, her other foot submerged too, dragging through icy water in the footwell. She lost sight of her surroundings, her speed, didn’t have time to think before the water seemed to be up to her knees, making her gasp with the cold as she felt her jeans sticking to her, the water reaching over her thighs, pooling in her lap, her left hand snatched from the gear stick, her hand dripping. She glanced down, not understanding: everything looked dry. She was pressing the brake now, pumping it hopelessly, feeling her bottom lift from the seat as the water rose over her stomach, over the steering wheel, her hands, over her breasts, up to her shoulders.

  She was taking great gulps of air as it inched over her shoulders; she cried out as the freezing cold hit her bare neck, ran down the collar of her jumper, watery fingers of ice. She knew she had to get out, she was going to sink beneath the water, was moving her face up towards the roof of the car, felt the water creep over her chin, as she scrabbled for the door; needing the release, she took a breath and the water leaked into her mouth and over her nostrils. Her hand gripped something, she pulled on it, her brain a fog of panic; the door released, the water receding as she toppled sideways, choking on it, pressing with her left hand for her seatbelt, needing to get out. She found the catch, dragged her body through the door, felt the rough pavement underneath her rising up, her hands on grit, the shock of the ground. She was gasping for air, blinking, aware of the water still clinging to her, her clothes sticking and heavy.

  Somewhere nearby someone was speaking to her, the voice distant, incoherent, her ears still full of the water, the cold. She was shivering.

  ‘Are you alright? Miss? Are you alright?’

  She looked down at her hands; they seemed pale against the tarmac of the road, blurred. Gradually she focused: the knuckles, the small scar on her right index finger, her fingernails, bitten. She could hear the voice, louder now, closer.

  ‘Can I get someone? Do you need me to call for help?’

  She looked up in the direction of the voice, saw the hem of a skirt, pleated in the middle, a long brown coat, mohair, buttoned, a woman, grey curls, a worried look on her lined face. Her mouth opening and closing as the words tumbled from her, leaning on her stick.

  ‘I could call someone.’

  Irina found her voice, the ground hard beneath her, aware then of the cool of the day, looked about her at her car, the door open, a car edging past, the driver peering round at her. She wasn’t wet. There was no water. She looked at her hands again, her breathing coming a little more easily now. There wasn’t a puddle.

  ‘I…’

  She couldn’t explain it, her chest tight, rising and falling quickly.

  ‘I… It was…’

  ‘There, there…’ the woman said, a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ve obviously had a shock. Come on now, you catch your breath.’

  The feeling was returning to her body, her knees were hurting, scraped on the rough surface of the road, the pain sudden and acute, making her wince. She shifted on the ground, placing a hand out in front of her to push herself up.

  ‘Take it easy now,’ the woman said, stepping back.

  ‘Thank you. I… I’m not sure…’

  She felt light-headed as she stood, swaying slightly, one hand on her car door to steady herself. The day came into focus, clouds scudding above her, someone emerging from one of the cottages, nodding at them both as he passed. Her car was sitting in the road, the handbrake on, though she didn’t remember applying it, the upholstery dry as a bone, the items from the bureau lying on the passenger seat. She wavered, gripped by a sudden fear. She couldn’t get back in the car. The older woman was hovering near her now, clearly not wanting to leave her there.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Irina said, sluggish, the words slow, deliberate. ‘I don’t know what happened, but I’m fine now.’

  The woman pursed her lips, lifted a gloved hand as if she were about to say something, then dropped it back to her side. She adjusted her collar. ‘Well, if you’re sure…’ The woman’s eyes lingered on her face, an almost imperceptible flick to the scar, questions swallowed.

  ‘Thank you, you are kind,’ Irina said, feeling a blush building, realizing traffic had slowed behind her, a car tooting as it passed. The woman shook her bag at it, muttering something.

  ‘Well then…’ the woman said and turned to leave. ‘You take care now.’

  Irina took a breath, stared at the open door to her car, saw that it looked the same as it always did, the same faded patch on the driver’s seat, the same map thrown carelessly in the passenger footwell. Everything as expected, and yet she imagined herself back in there, her body suspended in the cold water, her hands finding glass, feeling their way along, her vision blurring as the water seeped over her face, the fear that she’d be trapped.

  She shook her head, determined not to return there. It had been a strange daydream, that was all. She glanced at the brooch, feather and postcards on the passenger seat. A daydream, that was all. Ducking down, she started the car quickly, fumbling with the seatbelt, releasing the handbrake, a glance in her mirror, a moment where she thought she saw something else, an enormous mound of debris, then a blink and it was simply the street, the row of houses winding away from her into the hills behind. She reached the bottom of the slope and turned left up the hill and away to Lynton, her body seeming to let out a sigh as she emerged back into the sunshine.


  ABIGAIL

  She hadn’t wanted to go back, descending from the hill, her head pounding with a dull headache but calmer than when she’d left. The rivers were higher with the recent rain, the water flowing effortlessly around stones, carrying loose leaves and branches, sweeping things up and moving them on and out to sea. The three cottages stood between them both, a haven away from the water. She found herself hammering on the door, the windows looking blank, the curtains pulled across, hanging still. A seagull perched on the gatepost eyed her like a watchman. She turned her back on it and knocked another time, wanting to see Richard, needing to see him. As the silence continued, she felt foolish for having come, standing there miserably, goosebumps on her skin as the wind washed round her, through her coat, played with her hair. There was no other door for her to hammer on, no one else she could turn to. Even if there had been, she would still have chosen this door.

  As if someone had heard this last thought, a voice called out, ‘It’s on the latch,’ and she realized with a quick lurch of guilt that Martin would be struggling to get to the door. ‘It’s open,’ the voice persisted and with that last sentence she felt courageous enough to nudge at the door, pushing it open to reveal the clutter of the hallway, Richard’s cap tossed on a side table, muddied trousers hanging up to dry, salt marked in streaks up the legs, still wet around the hem. The place smelt of dirty ocean and men, seaweed and mothballs.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said, relieved to be inside.

  Martin’s expression when she turned into the room was a complex mixture of annoyance and surprise. It was replaced almost instantly by the warm smile he then conjured, but for a moment she panicked. Of course he didn’t want her descending on him in this way, disrupting his peace and quiet, forcing her company onto him.

  ‘These damn legs,’ he said, smacking the flat of his palm onto a thin thigh. ‘I forget sometimes, go to get up and then realize they’re bloody useless to me. I’m sorry for the language, but…’ His words petered out, the palm going down again, fingers plucking uselessly at the fabric of his trousers as if he might coax his leg back to life. He brooded for a few more moments as Abigail lingered in the doorway, one hand up on the doorframe, not sure whether she should make her excuses, not wanting to, wavering.

  ‘Well, now you’re here, let’s have a glass of something,’ he said, reaching round to pull on the handle of a narrow oak drinks cabinet and drawing out two crystal tumblers and a bottle of reddish liquid with something bobbing around inside it.

  ‘Sloe gin,’ he explained, chuckling at her expression. ‘Stop standing over me as if you’re about to check my spelling.’ He indicated the armchair opposite, the worn headrest.

  When she sat, she breathed in deeply, imagining herself inhaling Richard’s scent, his curious mixture of the outside, the salt water, and his skin, warm and deep, like oak. She reddened as she realized she’d closed her eyes and Martin grinned at her, one front tooth overlapping another as he handed her a glass.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, worrying about the berries floating on the surface. She peered at the glass with narrowed eyes and a low chuckle came from opposite her.

  ‘Richard gives me the same look, but you’ll see,’ Martin said, toasting her before raising the glass to his lips.

  She sipped at it, warmed instantly by the liquid that soothed her throat and left a fruity residue coating her tongue. She sipped again, sinking back into the armchair, feeling her muscles loosen, from her throat down, so that she was soon wiggling her toes in appreciation. She had tried two different drinks in one day, but here the alcohol made her feel relaxed, slipping into her stomach effortlessly, leaving sweetness on her lips. The whisky had felt like it was burning her insides, tearing through her body.

  ‘A convert,’ he said, a satisfied expression on his face.

  They sat for a while in perfect silence. She could have been back in Bristol before the war, with her own mum. Both bundled up in the sitting room on the velvet sofa, the odd cough or comment bringing them back to each other but mostly her mum silently sewing, Abigail curled up reading. Just the gentle rhythm of the grandfather clock in the hall, the odd sound from someone calling outside, and their steady breathing.

  ‘So, you going to tell me why you tried to batter my door down then?’

  ‘I didn’t…. Well, I…’ She flushed as she spoke, hiding behind the rim of her glass, not sure what she could share. ‘I’m sorry. I was passing and I wanted to see Richard.’

  ‘I sensed that from the knocking, thought your fist would break through the wood.’ He chuckled as he continued. ‘He left an hour or so ago and he won’t be back till later, they’re checking the salmon traps.’

  She nodded, wanting to hide there forever. She took another sip, half-finished sentences clogging the back of her throat.

  He let her drink, one hand absent-mindedly rubbing at his knee. ‘All alright up there on that hill then?’ he asked, turning to look at her.

  She wondered if he could see inside her head; for a moment she was sure he understood. ‘All alright,’ she repeated in a quiet voice.

  ‘Your sister looking out for you?’

  She took a gulp of her drink, one hand pleating her skirt. The answer emerged in a whisper. ‘Yes.’

  She felt a dull ache in her stomach for her sister, alone in the cottage hospital in Lynton. She knew she had to get back, needed to see her, to be there for her. She wondered if it had happened before, and how many times. She thought of the longing hand placed on a stomach, the lingering look at a baby in a pram and felt her own insides wrench.

  Martin tapped a fingernail on the glass, his mouth opening, a brief pause, before lifting the drink to his mouth. ‘You know you always have a place to stop by if you need it,’ he said, his face kind, his words wrapping round her like a scarf.

  She swallowed. ‘Thank you, and for the drink,’ she added as he waved her words away with one hand.

  ‘Pah, think nothing of it.’

  She walked over to him then, bending to kiss him on the cheek. He had missed a bit shaving, had a patch of bristles on his neck and chin, which was now quickly reddening.

  ‘You get along,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell Richard you stopped by. And Abigail…’

  She paused in the doorway, one hand up on the frame, her back to him.

  ‘If you need us, you know where we are.’

  She nodded, feeling hot tears at the back of her eyes as she headed out of the front door. All around her the two rivers wound round the village, Richard out there somewhere checking salmon traps. She imagined him then, standing knee deep in the water as the river rushed past him, the wind whisking his hair into spikes. She breathed in slowly, taking in the whole village, houses rising up around her, the trees cocooning the place, keeping it safe. This felt more like home. She started down the path, the rain gone for now, the sky streaked with of lilac and pink. It was going to be a beautiful evening.

  IRINA

  She shouldn’t have booked the same B & B. It felt all wrong. She couldn’t help but compare her mood now with her mood then, with Andrew, fresh-faced with a hint of possibility. Had he forgiven her? Would he want to see her again? She was still shaky after the episode in the car. If he’d been there, it would have been so much better. She remembered the receptionist, bored and unwilling, being brought round by Andrew talking about the match he’d been streaming on the internet; it was a Manchester derby and the receptionist had money on City to win. Andrew had the ability to do that with people, to put them at ease, whereas she had the opposite effect – they would look anywhere but at her face, eyes darting across the floor because they didn’t want to be seen staring, then a last peek before they left, as if they wanted to remember how awful it really was, and the eyes flicking away again, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Or pity, she was never sure.

  She threw her bag on the bed, not carin
g if she unpacked or not, keen to get down to Lynmouth and meet Bill. She walked down the cliff path this time, wanting to avoid the jaunty railway, the tourists gabbling about its unique status, how much water was used, how it was the only one of its kind. The path was steep, some parts had steps carved into it, iron railings to help the descent. A stone wall blocked her view of gardens beyond, the backs of houses tantalizing: dormer windows, slate roofs, chimneys hinted at as she passed.

  She looped around and down, winding her way gradually, her legs wanting to run, the weight pushing her forward, propelling her down the path. She paused at a lookout point, the sea framed by a canopy of trees, a ledge just beneath the path, the trunk of a tree creating a perfect resting place for admiring the view. Today she could see the outline of south Wales ahead, the land enticingly close, almost near enough to touch. She stopped there, convinced for a second that she heard the voice of a woman, just once, a sentence and then a giggle, infused with warmth. She looked down at the ledge, nothing there, then behind her, wondering if it was someone further up the path. Only the birds chirruped back. Speeding up, she told herself she was being hyper-sensitive to the sounds. A gull swooped across her field of vision, its wings straight out, buffeted by the breeze.

  She arrived outside The Rising Sun and looked at the cottage next door, sensing movement behind the thin lace curtains on the ground floor. The flaking cottage door opened and Bill, putting on a flat cap, moved onto the stone step outside.

  ‘Let’s get a pasty,’ he said, as if he’d known her for years.

  She looked up at him and smiled. ‘Good idea.’

  They walked together down Mars Hill and onto the high street again, Bill shaking his head as she made for a nearby shop that sold pasties.