by Gayle Curtis
While the flight was mercifully short, the anticipation of leaving the airport had been quite a trauma, as the plane had been delayed, prolonging his agony further. He didn’t know why he reflected on this now. Probably euphoria. There was a slight elation that he’d managed to board the plane and endure the journey without too much stress – a small achievement to most, but a triumph for him nonetheless.
When the exit door opened, he felt like a peanut being released from a can; the freezing cold air, not unpleasant, smothered his face and hands, penetrating his clothes.
It took him a little while to descend the steps; he had been cooped up in a self-induced ball of stress for almost two hours and, being of an age, he didn’t so easily straighten out like he used to. Reaching the tarmac, Ray stood for a few moments absorbing the winter sun, relishing his freedom, the ground beneath his feet, as passengers trundled past. Right now, they were dishevelled, pale, and crumpled from their travels; some of them exhausted, they looked worn and very much second-hand. In a week’s time, most of these people would look quite astonishingly different. Regardless of the Norwegian temperatures, it was still a holiday. He had always wondered why no one could maintain this persona throughout life. His mantra to clients had always been to treat life like a holiday. Now he wondered if he’d ever followed that theory himself.
Swapping his bag to the opposite hand, he made his way into the airport. The large throng of people he spied through the glass doors worried him slightly, and he could feel his pulse begin to race as he wondered how he would spot Ingrid through the crowds – if she was even there. He had written and told her he was coming, and emailed his flight details. But Ray had followed this ritual many times before, contacting her in some way to let her know when he’d be there, and then he would fail to arrive. He had never asked if she had waited for him each time, so he was guessing it was too much to ask that she should be there now.
Two hours later, the clinically clean airport was practically empty, apart from a few people reading or sleeping on the many seats scattered around. Ingrid hadn’t arrived to collect him, so he decided it was time to search for a taxi. The wait had enabled him to settle into his surroundings. Ray didn’t usually thrive in unfamiliar territory; his claustrophobia would never allow it.
He was sitting outside in the frosty night air, a quiet, low hum of noise surrounding him as he waited for the train he had been told stopped in a small town outside Oslo, where he could get a taxi to his destination.
Ray felt a calm relief at being in different surroundings, an unfamiliar terrain, that he hadn’t been expecting; the unusual buildings, white snow and frost rested his eyes and calmed his nerves. But for the first time since he had parted from his wife all those many years ago, he felt isolated, lonely and quite insignificant, realising they’d had more years apart than they had spent together, though not many days had passed on which they hadn’t had some sort of contact. He had loved her unconditionally from afar – that’s just the way it was, the way it had to be.
Ray had simply lied to all their family and friends, told them Ingrid had committed suicide and her body was being sent to Norway for the funeral. He organised a memorial in England, to make it look real, and then the story had expanded as if it were a snowball Ray and Ingrid had rolled down a hill. Ingrid had tried to take her own life before, so those who knew her had thought it was inevitable. No one asked any questions, just took the good word of a doctor. As time went on, a few people had mentioned the Suicide Watcher and Ray had just let them believe what they wanted to.
Ray had never asked Ingrid what had happened that day – she had insisted they not talk about it. She couldn’t talk about it.
There were times over the years when she had come to England and they would spend a few days together. The fact that people thought she was deceased seemed, in a very warped way, to work for Ray and Ingrid. There was nothing in her grasp she could hurt.
After Ingrid left, Ray had sent Elise to live with his brother Mac and sister-in-law Estelle. When he finally returned from Norway, he continued with his life for a few months alone, and then he insisted Elise came to live with him. His brother had been devastated, and had accused him of stealing their daughter, of using them for another one of his social experiments, and they hadn’t spoken since.
The irony was, Ray could see the Ingrid in Elise. His daughter should never have had children – she lacked the genetic maternal instinct to care, and her children had become her competition. That she had gone on to work in midwifery had been quite disturbing to say the least, but apart from her dependency on drugs, she was good at her job.
After the short train journey, Ray managed to get a cab from the station. When the taxi stopped at the bottom of a track on a very precarious corner, Ray presumed the driver was taking a breath, ready to turn up the steep, narrow ascent. It wasn’t until he stared at him through the mirror that Ray realised he wanted him to get out. So he paid the fare and staggered up the hill with his bag, wishing he had worn a thicker coat.
Halfway up, Ray paused for a rest, and turned to look at the spectacular view. He noticed the taxi was still at the bottom of the track, and the driver, phone clamped to his ear, was staring up at him. Then he pulled away, narrowly missing another driver who angrily beeped his horn; muffled shouting ensued.
Ingrid was sitting in the glass extension to the side of the property. Ray saw her feet and legs before anything else – still slender, just as he remembered them. They were resting on the chair opposite, next to the wood burner, where he was soon seated.
It was as though all the years apart had never happened. They didn’t even talk about his journey; there was no need for either of them to fill the silence. Just comfortable, as it always had been, always was between them. They picked up where they had left their last conversation on the phone; there was never any need to explain themselves to one another, they had always connected wherever they were in the world.
After Ray unpacked his case, showered and changed into some clothes Ingrid had warmed on the radiators, he joined her for some food. She had been expecting him after all; the table was laid out with cheese, fruit, fresh bread and wine and a pot full of stew – simple foods. Ingrid handed him a plate, which he took and placed back on the table. Ray couldn’t eat, he just wanted to sit and absorb his surroundings, relax in his temporary home, observe the face he’d missed but never forgotten for so many years. Ingrid was still beautiful, even more so now she’d aged; her hair was shoulder-length, lighter in colour – silver, almost – making her eyes shine a deeper blue. Everything about her was softer, a shade lighter; she’d always worn hard colours, deep shades that made her look pale, but now she could be mistaken for a different person. A surge of energy poured into Ray’s chest as he reached across to touch her cheek. Ingrid would always be his quixotic paramour; they had always belonged to each other. Ray had lived, fulfilled, his whole life just to share these small pockets of time with her, a collection of moments in comparison to the life he’d lived alone, but that made it even more worth it. Desiring this time, anticipating it, had kept him alive; without it, Ray believed he’d have died many years before.
‘How is Elise?’ Ingrid said, placing the wine glass firmly on the tablecloth, pressing her fingertips on the stem.
It was a few moments before Ray spoke, linking the words in his head, assessing the best way to say them, and Ingrid spoke first.
‘You don’t have to pain yourself. I know what’s happened to Ida. I’m just disappointed you didn’t tell me.’
‘I couldn’t find any point in telling you until now. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, I suppose. How did you know?’
‘I read it in the papers, it’s all over the news. My granddaughter.’
Ray poured them both some more wine.
‘Did you tell Elise you were coming here?’
‘I told her I was coming to Norway but I don’t know if she was listening. She didn’t say much about it.’
&n
bsp; ‘I’m not surprised. If you’ve told her about all the other times you’ve been planning to visit and never made it, I shouldn’t think she took much notice.’ Ingrid smiled, a look he’d not seen for so many years. ‘She doesn’t know about me, does she? You haven’t told her?’
‘No. I’ve tried so many times, but we always end up talking about something else.’ Ray tore off some bread but took little interest in it, recalling all the lies he’d told Elise over the years; wondering how many things she knew weren’t true.
‘I suppose all this time has passed. A few more months isn’t going to make much difference.’
‘You could come back with me. Give her time to get used to the idea and then you could meet her?’
‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘Ingrid, Elise needs you. I think having you in her life could be the answer to a lot of her problems. I’m no help to her.’
‘She has lived without me all these years and she will continue to do so. What makes you so sure she would want to see me again anyway?’
‘I think you could have a good relationship now.’
‘Let me sleep on it. I have commitments here . . . things I need to sort out. I can’t just leave,’ Ingrid snapped. She was getting tetchy; she had never liked being advised what to do. ‘You know how difficult it is for me to leave, my reasons for coming here in the first place. That hasn’t changed.’
‘It won’t be long before the press discover you’re still alive, if they haven’t already – that there is no record of your death. Don’t let Elise face that alone.’
‘I said I’d think about it and I will. There is little point getting involved in her life if we have to part again.’
‘Fine.’
Ingrid’s face softened. ‘No regrets.’ She reached across the table and touched Ray’s hand, and he was surprised at the sudden show of affection.
‘No regrets, my darling.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THEN
Having seen Steven at the group, Nathaniel had arranged to meet him the following day but had decided not to tell anyone. He wanted to work some things out for himself first – he felt so ostracised from the investigation, so cut off from knowing the facts of what had happened to Ida that he needed some space to think. He couldn’t help feeling like the obvious answers were right in front of him, loosely laid out within his day-to-day life, but he couldn’t see them.
Sitting opposite Steven in a café, Nathaniel realised why he hadn’t recognised him immediately – his left eye was completely blacked out, no white left, as if his pupil had burst and leaked. He’d also grown a beard, which was auburn against his darker hair. Nathaniel could see he was nervous; his forehead glistened, and he continually raked his fingers through his hair. The movement began to irritate him. Someone else he knew did that, but he couldn’t recall who.
‘So, why were you at the support group?’
‘I told you, I’m just doing a bit of research, for a book I’m writing. I’ve been discharged from the army.’ Steven pointed to his injured eye. ‘And I’m looking for material.’
Nodding, Nathaniel observed him again as Steven told him what he was writing about. He was trying to be casual, leaning back in his chair then pushing himself forward, linking his fingers together and resting them on the table – a sign, Nathaniel thought, that he was desperate for Nathaniel to be okay with him.
‘Why didn’t you answer my message?’ Nathaniel had tried to contact him, and many others, when Ida was attacked – just a long shot that someone might know something. He hadn’t realised until he recognised him that he had been one of the few who hadn’t answered.
‘I’ve been off the radar for a bit, to be honest . . . I quite literally came back the day before I bumped into you.’
‘Oh?’
‘I went away for a few months; a digital detox, shall we say.’ Steven laughed but Nathaniel didn’t laugh with him; none of this was funny.
‘You know Ida has been attacked . . . you know what happened?’
‘Yeah, sure, of course I do. I’m really sorry . . . it’s awful, I don’t really know what to say, to be honest . . . To be honest, mate, I was worried about getting in touch after what happened the last time I saw you . . . we didn’t exactly part on good terms.’
To be honest, to be honest, to be honest, Steven tagged these words on to every sentence and Nathaniel began to analyse what they meant. When was he not being honest? He thought about asking him but decided against it. He could see Steven was uncomfortable, which was nothing new; he was used to people not knowing what to say, cutting themselves off. What few friends they did have had drifted away gradually over the last few years, unable to cope with the perpetual trauma of their lives, the complex layering of sad events, wanting it to end, not knowing how to help. It had started when Elise had suffered a miscarriage quite late on in her pregnancy, and she had stopped being popular when she developed her addiction. She pretty much became incapable of maintaining relationships. Nathaniel’s friends became hers too; it was the only way she could make friends, as long as he tagged along.
Nathaniel seemed to attract loners, and one of them was sitting in front of him now, trying to justify why he hadn’t been in contact with them, but Nathaniel wasn’t buying it. As far as Steven was concerned, he hadn’t done anything wrong that night. So if that was true, why was he making excuses now?
The whole meeting was awkward, stilted, none of the easy chat they’d once shared when Steven used to come over. Maybe it was because it was always at their apartment and large amounts of alcohol would be consumed in a short space of time; a flurry of excitement that they had a guest to stay, a new face, someone who wanted to share their company.
‘That night . . . in Ida’s bedroom . . . you know it didn’t mean anything. I would never have hurt her.’
‘What were you doing in there?’
‘I was watching her sleep, that’s all.’
‘Bit weird, isn’t it?’ Nathaniel remembered grabbing Steven by the back of his T-shirt and dragging him from the apartment. They’d wrestled one another at the bottom of the stairs until Nathaniel had managed to throw him out of the front door. His rucksack and phone had followed from the top-floor window.
‘Look, I don’t want to argue. I was pissed and stumbled into her room by accident.’ Steven raked his hand through his hair again.
‘War wound?’ Nathaniel said, looking directly at Steven’s damaged eye. ‘Can you see out of it?’
‘Yes. And no, I can’t see out of it.’ Steven looked down, not wanting to talk about his eye. ‘That’s why I was discharged from the army.’
Nathaniel tightened his fingers around his cup of coffee. He wanted to ask Steven about Ida – if he knew anything. Was he in the country when she’d been attacked? How much did he know about it? Did he have anything to do with it? But he knew accusatory questions would make Steven walk out, and he needed to think carefully about what he was going to say next. The thought of accusing him of anything landed with a heavy thud in his mind as he realised how ridiculous it all was. The man had been in the army, always being posted all over the place. Nathaniel knew Steven hadn’t meant any harm that night; it was a ridiculous idea. He’d seen enough paedophiles in his job to know when he was talking to one.
Nathaniel opted for telling the truth. ‘Do you know, I had this crazy notion . . . Well, after what happened that night – I thought you had . . .’
‘Something to do with the attack on Ida?’ Steven finished Nathaniel’s sentence and it sounded like Steven was asking a question he wanted him to answer.
‘We hadn’t seen you, hadn’t heard from you, for ages . . . and then you appear at the support group.’
‘I was in the army, mate. You know I was posted away a lot.’
‘I know, but when something happens to your child, you look at everyone differently, even the people closest to you. Especially if there’s history.’
‘That’s understandable.
I bet you’ve looked at every single person who has ever said hello to you, right?’
They ordered more coffee, the atmosphere easier now they’d addressed Nathaniel’s worries, and Steven explained that he was just back in town, and talked about where he’d been, the countries he’d travelled to, what led to him accepting a long-term posting abroad, changing his direction in life. But there was still something peculiar about Steven’s whole demeanour. Nathaniel nodded at everything he said and agreed to catch up with him again soon, but just as Nathaniel stood up to leave, Steven grabbed his arm, forcing him back.
‘I see your father-in-law has a new lodger?’ Steven’s question felt like a threat, a spontaneous punch in the face after their previously amiable conversation.
Nathaniel sat back down in his chair, slightly alarmed. ‘I didn’t know you knew Ray.’
‘Come on, everyone knows Ray.’
The two men stared at one another for a few seconds, the air having become quite contentious once more.
‘How did you know he has a lodger?’ Nathaniel said, but then quickly realised who he was talking about. ‘Oh, you mean Sonny. He’s lived there for years.’
‘Yeah, I know Sonny John Travers. He was my barrister. Went out of his way to lose my case.’ Without any warning, Steven stood up, banging his chair against the wall behind. ‘Perhaps you should look a little closer to home, you fucking wanker, instead of accusing innocent people. The coffee’s on me.’ Then he slammed a note on to the table and walked out.
