'There is no singing in the ward,' she tried to shout over our voices. We completely ignored her. If anything, we sang louder.
'And what was life before you?
And do you know how I adore you?
And it scares me how I feel,
All my past scars fade and heal
When I hold my rainbow child.'
'THERE'S NO SINGING IN THIS WARD.' Nurse Solomon was more screaming than shouting now.
It was just a lark, a bit of fun. But Nurse Solomon was getting really wound up. And then she grabbed for Jaxon's guitar. Big mistake. The sudden change in his demeanour was like a switch being flicked on.
'Listen, you dagger bitch – don't you ever, as long as you live, touch my guitar again,' Jaxon said with quiet menace.
Nurse Solomon certainly got the message. She drew back her hand as if scalded, then turned to look meaningfully at me. Apart from the odd baby's cry, the ward was silent. Nurse Solomon walked back to the nurses' station. Jaxon's words had been like a slap round my face. And then I remembered something – something unbidden and unwelcome. Callum's first day at Heathcroft, my old school. There'd been a mob outside the school entrance protesting against Noughts being allowed into the same schools as us Crosses. And I remembered what I'd shouted out to stop the Noughts trying to get into school from being abused, how I'd accused my friends of behaving like animals. Worse than animals, like blankets. And the look of Callum's face when I said that was something I'd never, ever forget. I'd come so close to losing him that day. Callum made me promise to never say that word again. Callum was right, words did hurt. Like now. I was just as wounded as Nurse Solomon and, worse still, I felt like I was the one who'd caused the verbal attack in the first place. I glanced at Jaxon before moving down the bed to check on my daughter.
'Sephy, I'm sorry about that,' said Jaxon with an easy smile. 'But she shouldn't've touched my guitar. I didn't mean you.'
'Yes, you did mean me. I'm a Cross too,' I pointed out.
'The words were for that nurse,' said Jaxon.
'Yeah, but they apply to me too,' I told him.
'No, they—'
I raised a hand as if to deflect his words.
'Jaxon, they apply to me too. Now if you don't mind. . .' I picked you up, Callie, and stood in front of him, waiting for him to move so that I could get back into bed to feed you. You didn't really need feeding as you were more than half asleep but I had to do something to mask my humiliation.
Jaxon walked back to his sister's bed. I completely ignored him and settled down with you, Callie. But I couldn't ignore his words.
One of us. . .
One of them . . .
One of us . . .
One of them . . .
A rhythm playing like train wheels on a circular track – never ending but going absolutely nowhere.
nineteen. Jude
I stood outside the darkened shop and checked my watch. Five minutes past nine. I peered through the glass window of the shop but there was no one there. The place was empty. The bitch had stood me up. She probably had no intention of ever going out with me in the first place. No doubt she'd had a good giggle with all her friends when I'd gone, chuckling at the way I'd be left outside the shop like a lemon whilst she was out with her mates enjoying a drink and a good laugh at my expense. My hands slowly curled at my side.
'Steve? STEVE!'
I turned to see Cara running up the road towards me.
'Thank goodness. I thought I was going to miss you,' Cara gasped as she got closer to me.
Forcing a smile on my face, I said, 'I thought you'd still be working.'
'The last customer left about twenty minutes ago, so I popped to the night bank to deposit the day's takings. I don't like leaving all that money in the shop,' Cara explained.
'We could've done it on our way to your house,' I said easily.
'Yes, but I live in the opposite direction to the bank,' said Cara. 'I didn't want to put you out.'
I shrugged. There was no point in arguing about it, no matter how disappointed I was. So much for my idea of picking up some easy money without too much work. I'd just have to be patient a while longer.
'So what am I cooking for us?' I asked.
'If you still want to do the cooking, I've got some pasta in the house. And some mince, I think. And fish.'
'What kind of fish?'
Cara frowned as she tried to remember. 'Haddock, and I think I've got some sea bass that has to be used by tomorrow.'
'Sea bass it is then,' I smiled. 'Let's go.'
I let her do most of the talking as I walked her home. I asked her about her day in the salon and then let her blather on about her clients and her colleagues. Apparently Delany's was one of the few hairdressing salons which catered for both noughts and Crosses. Apparently seeing nought women and Cross women in the same hairdresser's was as rare as rocking-horse droppings. Cara had a vision . . . blah blah blah. I tuned out after about the first forty-odd seconds, only dropping in the occasional 'Is that right?' and 'Really?' and 'I didn't know that!' as and when her monologue seemed to require it.
'God! I've been going on and on and probably boring you rigid,' Cara exclaimed as we reached her house.
Yes, you have actually.
'Of course not,' I replied. 'You love your work and it shows. There's nothing wrong with that.'
'You're really nice, Steve.' Cara smiled at me gratefully. 'Most men's eyes would've glazed over long before now.'
And the warmth of the smile she gave me made me feel . . . uncomfortable. Which I didn't expect. "Which made me feel worse. Cara let us into her house. What was I going to do now? Of course, I could get rid of her, but what was the point? I didn't have her money. I wouldn't be able to stay in her house as her friends would soon come knocking on the door asking questions. So why bother? I'd cook and put up with this dagger's company until I had what I wanted – and then what would be, would be. I just had to bide my time.
'D'you know, I don't even know your name,' Cara told me.
'Steve,' I frowned.
'No. I mean your last name.'
'Winner. Steven Winner,' I told her.
'Shall I take your jacket, Steven Winner?' Cara asked once the front door had closed behind us.
I took it off and gave it to her without arguing. We stood for a moment in awkward silence. We were in her house and alone. As the silence stretched on, I wondered if she was beginning to think better of inviting me in. I looked around the hall. Sunshine yellow with poster prints on the wall. And a maple wood floor. A small telephone table to my right held a telephone and a small bowl of lavender pot pourri which made the whole hall reek. What was it about Crosses and their potpourris?
'Very nice,' I said inanely.
And then a thought occurred to me. This was the first time I'd been invited into a dagger's house since I was a kid. It was strange. I couldn't get over the feeling that I really shouldn't be here. It didn't feel right. It didn't feel completely safe.
'The kitchen's just through here,' said Cara, leading the way.
I followed her into a small but functional kitchen, with cream walls and oak cupboards. The floor was of light-coloured stone.
'You have a lovely house,' I told her. 'Delany's must be doing very well.'
'We do OK,' Cara shrugged. 'Although I have to admit, I bought this house with some money that was left to me.'
'A rich relative?' I smiled to take the sting out of my words.
'No. My dad died of a heart attack four years ago. I bought this place with the money I received from his life insurance policy.'
'Oh, I see. I'm sorry.'
Cara faked a nonchalant shrug. 'He'd been ill for some time.'
'Must've been hard though,' I said, remembering my own dad. I didn't think of him every day, but when I did, it still hurt. A lot.
Cara opened the fridge door and took out a bottle of wine. 'Help yourself,' she said, leaving the fridge door open for me.
I l
ooked into one of the best-stocked fridges I'd ever seen in my life and I said as much.
'I must admit, I rushed round the supermarket at lunch-time so you'd have a choice of things to cook,' Cara admitted.
I turned to look at her, wondering why on earth she'd bother. She looked so embarrassed when she smiled at me that I couldn't help smiling back. And then I remembered why I was there – and who she was. And even though my smile continued on the outside, I stopped smiling on the inside.
I hacked off the heads and washed and seasoned two sea bass, then stuck them in the oven.
'Why did you cut off the heads?' asked Cara.
'I can't eat fish if the head is on it,' I told her truthfully. 'The eyes look up at me like they're saying, "How could you?"!'
Cara smiled as she shook her head. 'Strange man!'
And we exchanged a genuine smile of amusement. I turned away first. I bunged some new potatoes into some boiling water whilst Cara made a salad. We both sipped at our glasses of Pinot Grigio as we cooked. Cara put on some rock music from one of my favourite singers. Was the nought music for my benefit or did she really like it?
'Do you really like Wasp Sting then?' I couldn't help asking.
'Yes, I do. I love rock and white metal.'
'I'd've thought you'd be into Jam and Sync and classical and music like that,' I said.
Cara tilted her head as she regarded me. 'You mean, Cross music as opposed to Nought music?'
'I suppose I do.'
'You're not one of those who thinks that only Crosses can appreciate Cross music and only Noughts should listen to Nought music, are you?'
'No, I'm not,' I said. 'But I think it's unfair that a nought can bring out a single and a Cross can cover the same single and yet the one that makes the charts and the one that gets played on the radio is the Cross version.'
'I agree,' said Cara instantly. 'The best version should be the one that gets played, regardless of who's singing it.'
'That's not the way it works though, is it?' I said, warming to my theme. 'Look at white metal. That's a music form created and sung by noughts. Yet who's the best-known – and richest – white metal singer? DeCosta Bafenweh – a Cross.'
Cara nodded. 'You're right. And I do have a DeCosta Bafenweh CD. But I have three Wasp Sting CDs.'
'That's all right then.' I forced a smile. I took a few sips of my white wine, swirling each small mouthful across my tongue before swallowing.
'How's the wine?' Cara asked.
'Fine,' I told her.
Taking a small but very sharp vegetable knife out of the cutlery drawer, I checked on the new potatoes. Halfway through prodding the second or third spud, some sixth sense told me that I was being watched. I swung round to see Cara studying me. But this time she didn't look away when I caught her scrutinizing me.
'Is something wrong?' I asked.
'I'm just wondering about you,' Cara admitted.
'Wondering what?'
'If I was right about you,' said Cara.
'Right about what?'
'That you're as lonely as I am,' Cara said at last.
My whole body froze. My grip on the knife in my hand tightened so much that my knuckles were beginning to ache. And still I didn't reply. Cara looked straight at me.
'That's why I thought we'd get on,' she carried on. 'Lonely birds of a feather and all that.'
Lonely birds of a feather . . .
I may be lonely but I'm not desperate enough to go out with a Cross, I thought bitterly. And yet here I "was in a dagger's house, listening to her try to psychoanalyse me. I needed to put down the knife before I did something stupid. I slowly placed the knife on the work surface. And still I didn't answer.
'Is this where you tell me you've got a wife and two kids?' Cara smiled uncertainly.
I shook my head.
'Am I right about you?' Cara asked. 'I mean, if I'm not, I'm sorry.'
Silence.
'Yes, you're right about me,' I said at last. 'I've got no one.'
Which was the first time I'd ever had to say that out loud. And who was the first person to hear it? A dagger. I hated it. I hated myself. Some things shouldn't be said. Saying them out loud made them all the more real, even more true. I closed my eyes and looked away from her. I didn't want her to see at that moment just how much I despised her for making me articulate my loneliness.
When the time was right, she'd pay for that as well.
But then she did something that took me completely by surprise. She came over to me and kissed me on the cheek. Startled, I turned to her, staring at her. She smiled at me and then went back to making her salad. I stood there, a strange longing eating away at me. I stood there, drowning in self-pity and misery.
But drowning just the same.
We both continued doing what we were doing in silence for a while. I think we were both embarrassed. I know I was.
'Fruit salad and vanilla ice-cream OK for our pudding?' asked Cara.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
'OK. You can help me prepare it,' said Cara.
We worked in a companionable silence, washing and slicing strawberries, grapes, a couple of mangoes, peaches, lychees and every other soft fruit she had in the house. The music on the CD finally faded as the last track came to an end.
'I'll go and put some more music on,' said Cara, and she headed off towards the living room.
I frowned as I watched her retreating back. Where was she going? We wouldn't hear music played from the living room in the kitchen unless she really cranked up the volume. And Cara didn't strike me as the kind of girl who played her music loud. Unexpectedly, soft, soulful music gently filled the room, originating from somewhere above me. I looked up at the two ceiling speakers I hadn't noticed before. I should've guessed.
As Cara came back into the room, I asked, 'How many rooms does the music get piped into then?'
'In here, the living room, the dining room, the bathroom and my bedroom.'
'That's . . . nice,' I said inanely. 'So what's this you've put on then?'
The intro of the music was still playing so I didn't immediately recognize the artist. Cara opened her mouth to tell me, but before she could say a word, the lead singer of Jet Stone started up. I'd've known his falsetto voice anywhere.
'Ah,' I said. 'Mystery solved.'
'D'you like Jet Stone?' Cara asked.
'They're all right,' I said, trying to tune out the lead singer's sickly sweet voice which filled every corner of the room.
'You don't like them, do you?' said Cara. 'I can take them off if you'd rather listen to something else.'
Oh, for heaven's sake! I walked over to Cara and held out my hand. Even though there was a questioning look on her face, she still put her hand in mine without hesitation. I moved closer to her and slipped my arm around her waist. Cara smiled up at me as we started dancing. I only did it because girls like that sort of thing. Cara wrapped her arms around my waist, resting her head on my shoulder. I glanced down at her and could see that she'd closed her eyes. We swayed in time to the love song, whilst I stared off into the middle distance.
She has money. You need money, I told myself.
Jet Stone didn't even play my kind of music. But how easy it'd be to forget everything I held true. How easy it'd be to just close my eyes.
'Come on, Steve. Be honest. You hate Jet Stone!'
I didn't realize Cara was looking up at me until she said that.
'Well, I must admit,' I said, 'the lead singer always sounds to me like a crab has got hold of his gonads!'
Cara burst out laughing. After moment's surprise that she found that funny, I started to grin too.
'You just don't know great music when you hear it,' said Cara.
'Must be my upbringing!'
'You do make me laugh, Steve,' said Cara. 'I guess that's why I like you so much.'
And she really meant it. And for that at least, I was unexpectedly grateful.
twenty. Sephy
This is definitely my week for visitors. Guess who turned up this morning? Mother. I watched her glide up the ward looking neither right nor left like some kind of imperious empress. And shall I tell you the strangest thing. I was so glad to see her. She approached my bed without a smile, her eyes clear, her expression alert. I realized with a start that she wasn't drunk or in any of her usually drunken stages – no hangover, no hunted, haunted, anticipatory gleam in her eyes as she contemplated her next drink – nothing. She was clean. I'd seen her once at the hospital when Minerva was shot. She'd said hello to me. I walked past her without saying a word. I didn't want to speak to her then. I wasn't sure what I wanted now.
'Hello, Persephone.'
'Hello . . . Mother.'
Mother headed straight for the cot. The moment she saw you, Callie, she stopped still. A slow smile curved her lips and lit her face from within. I've never seen an expression on her face like it – before or since. It was a look of complete, unconditional love. As she bent to pick you up, my hand went out to stop her, only to fall back to my side. Mother held you up high, never taking her eyes off you before she cradled you in her arms.
'Hello, Callie Rose – and welcome,' Mother whispered.
A single tear escaped down my cheek at that. I turned my head so that Mother wouldn't see and surreptitiously wiped my cheek. Not that I needed to hide my face. Mother only had eyes for her grandchild.
'Sephy, she's so beautiful,' Mother said, almost awestruck.
'Yeah. She looks just like her dad,' I said quietly.
Mother looked from me to you, Callie. I found myself holding my breath, waiting to hear what she'd say to that. I thought she'd put you down and change the subject at the very least.
But she didn't.
'Yes, she does,' Mother agreed at last. 'I assume you called her Callie after Callum.'
'It was the closest girl's name to his that I could think of.'
'Callie Rose . . . It's a beautiful name,' said Mother. 'It suits her.'
I wanted to scream at her to stop. Her condemnation and contempt I could handle. But this being kind to me, the approval and the love in her voice as she looked at you slipped under my guard and was hurting. Very much. Her indifference was much easier to fight against than her understanding.
Knife Edge Page 7
