by Nikki Smith
‘Heavy night?’ Harry raises his eyebrows.
I avoid his gaze. ‘Not particularly.’
He tilts his head a fraction, as if disagreeing with me without wanting to say so. I remember that look. He stares as my hand trembles when I lift up the bottle but doesn’t comment and looks away as I finish the last few drops. I concentrate as I put it down on the table, gripping it more tightly than necessary. I know what he’s thinking, I used to think the same thing when I’d watched one of our old clients as he’d offered us a glass of whisky from the almost empty bottle in the bottom drawer in his office. It’s impossible to stop your body betraying itself with tiny tell-tale movements.
‘I’ve got to leave a bit earlier tonight,’ I say as he bites into his sandwich. ‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment.’
He looks at me. ‘Everything OK?’
I nod. ‘Yes, just some routine tests.’ I don’t elaborate.
I glance at the clock on the wall of my office throughout the afternoon, willing the hands to move round more quickly. I break the earlier promise I made to myself and read the letter again, my jaw clenched. Nearest Relative. I’m her nearest relative. How is she allowed to disregard that on a whim? I comfort myself with the knowledge that it’s impossible for our relationship to be defined in two words. We were so much more than that. I remember her meeting my mother for the first time and how she was able to think of all the right things to say to cover the awkward silences, leaving the conversation to flow, seemingly with no effort. I’d envied the way she’d been able to get my mum to open up and talk about my childhood – snippets of forgotten memories that had lit up like tiny stars amongst the expanse of darkness I remembered. I had felt tearful with gratitude.
When Mum had nipped to the ladies, I’d leaned across the table and taken one of Ali’s hands, squeezing it wordlessly between my own, unable to vocalise how much the evening had meant to me. She’d smiled as I’d told her she was mine, repeating the words in my head after I’d said them out loud to make myself believe them. I’d signalled for the bill, wondering whether there was a way I could somehow preserve forever how I felt about her at that moment.
I stuff the letter back into my bag as soon as the alarm I’ve set on my phone as a reminder goes off. Logging off my laptop, I walk out of the office. I don’t tell Harry I’m leaving as I know how much work there is still do on the Marley Brown’s account, but if I don’t go now, I might miss her.
According to Google Maps, it’s ten miles away and should take twenty-three minutes. I’ll easily make it by five. I’ve planned to stop at the Royal Oak, which doesn’t take me far off my route and is the kind of pub where it’s unlikely I’ll bump into anyone I know. Parking isn’t a problem as there are plenty of spaces fifty yards away down the road next to an area of grass which has a playground in its centre. Ignoring the squeals of delight coming from small children being pushed on the swings, I open the boot and take out my holdall.
Three stone flowerbeds have been built next to the patch of grass, I presume in an effort to brighten the place up. Two contain nothing but soil and the flowers in the other are dead, their wispy brown stalks hanging stiffly over the
edge. I walk towards the pub past a warehouse, its dark metal shutters are pulled down over the windows, all sprayed with the same white graffiti tag. A couple of empty cigarette
packets litter the gutter.
Edging past the group of teenagers with their bikes who are leaning against the fence that runs alongside the warehouse, I glance back across the road at the families in the playground. A father grips the roundabout and spins his daughter round, her small hands clinging on for dear life. Another childhood experience that I missed out on to add to my collection. My father never came near a playground. The little girl twists, faster and faster until the rail is just a blur of colour. Her father steps back, laughing, as a woman comes up behind him and circles her hands round his waist. I try unsuccessfully to swallow a pang of envy and push open the heavy door, deliberately letting it swing back and catch my shoulder. The physical pain makes me wince but I embrace it as it helps distract me from thinking about what might have been.
Walking straight through the bar to the Gents, I lock myself in one of the cubicles and take out my jeans, trainers and a hooded sweatshirt. I strip off my work clothes, shoving them into the bag. It’s freezing. Pub toilets are like that. No matter how warm it is outside, they always seem to be ten degrees lower. I change as fast as I can and shiver as I pull the hoodie over my head.
Once dressed, I undo the lock and stand in front of one of the chipped mirrors fixed to the wall above the urinals. Dark, puffy circles hang in bags under each eye from a lack of
sleep.
I push the nozzle down on the tap and splash some water on my face, pulling a couple of green paper hand towels out of the metal holder on the wall to dry myself. It’s like rubbing my skin with sandpaper. I scrunch the paper round my finger to get underneath the gold band that I still haven’t taken off and then glance in the mirror again. Not much of an improvement. I still look exhausted. I stare at my reflection, asking myself the same questions I’ve asked myself all weekend. What do I need to do, Ali? What do I have to say to get through to you?
I look away hurriedly, not wanting to see the guilt in the eyes of the person who gazes back. I throw the damp paper towel into the overflowing pedal bin near the door and head into the pub.
The barman watches me as I walk out, probably trying to decide if I’m the same person who walked in wearing different clothes a few minutes earlier. If I had more time, I’d stop for a drink. I really need one but don’t want to ruin my earlier good intentions. Harry’s comment at work makes me suspect Em has said something to him. She’d asked about the bottles in my recycling last month.
I follow the satnav as it takes me away from the centre of town, from busy roads which narrow from four lanes to two as the blur outside the windows turns from grey to green. A black and white chequered flag appears on the screen and a voice informs me I’ve reached my destination as I turn into a large car park and pull into a space that’s far enough away from the modern building in front of me to be unobtrusive, but from where I have a clear view of the glass doors at the entrance.
I take out my phone and google her name again. Her photo flashes up on the screen. I had assumed she wouldn’t finish work before five, but now I’m worried this could be a wasted journey if it transpires she’s already left. I pull the letter she sent me out of my bag, together with the envelope I’ve brought with me to give her, checking its contents before peeling the thin strip of paper off the flap to seal it, putting them both on the seat beside me.
Half an hour goes by and she still doesn’t appear. I can be patient for a bit longer, having waited almost a year. The glass doors open and shut intermittently and several people dressed in office attire come out, but none of the women look like her.
I decide I’ve had enough of waiting and get out of the car, pulling my hoodie up over my head as I walk towards the entrance. I’m not going inside but sneak round the edge of the building, following the path. Large rectangular windows are set at regular intervals along the brick wall of the ground floor, but they’re all heavily tinted, and it’s difficult to see anything when I stop and peer inside. I go around the back, but they’re identical. I spot the occasional security camera and make a mental note of its position, keeping my head down as I walk.
Back at the car, I sit in the driver’s seat whilst staring at her picture on my phone, stretching the image of her face on the screen with my fingers to make it as big as possible. Her green eyes appear serious, focused on the camera. She looks like she’s used to getting what she wants, but she’s underestimated us. She doesn’t realise the bond we have can’t be broken by a few words on a page.
‘Come on,’ I mutter. ‘Where are you?’
My knee twitches and I take a deep breath to calm myself. Don’t blow it now. I’ve practised what I’m going to
say. I just need a chance to talk to her. To explain. The letter I’ve been sent must be a misunderstanding. There’s no way Ali would refuse to meet me. I know I’ve made mistakes, but she doesn’t understand how much I love her.
I’d known how special she was when we’d first met at university. Our graduation ball. A dance floor that had been sticky with spilt drinks as The Killers’ ‘Mr Brightside’ had thumped out through the speakers. The tap on my shoulder as she’d discovered me minesweeping, her half-finished bottle of Smirnoff Ice in my hand. I’d apologised – and had ended up sharing a cab home with her through the deserted streets of Birmingham, watching her face highlighted momentarily in the darkness whenever we’d passed under a street light. I’d moved towards her as the taxi had pulled up next to the kerb, but she’d opened the door to get out and cold air had rushed in, sobering me up as she’d walked away.
She hadn’t turned around as I’d called after her then, either.
I spot her as the glass doors slide open. She’s alone, walking purposefully across the tarmac, wearing the same red jacket as she’d had on in the photo. I check my phone again. It’s definitely her. I pick up her letter and my envelope and slide down in my seat until she passes me, before getting out of my car and following a few feet behind her, my trainers almost silent on the tarmac surface.
She points at a black vehicle nearby that flashes its lights as she presses her keys to unlock it. I begin to run, making up the short distance between us, and overtake her just as she reaches the car, blocking her from getting inside.
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling.
She steps backwards and stares at me, clutching her car keys defensively. For a split second I’m aware of what my father must have felt when he looked at my mother. The power you can exert over someone physically smaller and weaker than yourself.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks.
‘Yes, I think you can,’ I reply. ‘I’d like to speak to my wife. I’ve got something for her.’
NOW
Alison
Sarah’s sitting in my seat. She catches me staring at her, wondering why she’s deliberately chosen to sit where I normally do, whilst I hold my tray, looking for an empty space amongst the tables of diners. She waves at me. I can’t simply turn in the opposite direction, so walk over to her on the far side of the canteen.
‘Hi, Alison.’ She smiles. ‘I thought it was you. We sat here yesterday.’
I frown. ‘I know. At lunch.’
There’s a scraping noise as I pull out my chair and several people on the table nearest to us turn around.
Sarah leans forward. ‘Ignore them,’ she mutters as I squirm awkwardly on my seat and struggle to open the plastic wrapper on my sandwich. ‘Here, let me have a go.’ She holds out her hand. ‘It’s really tricky unless you’ve got nails.’
‘No, it’s fine. I can manage.’ My face burns as I fight with the pack, which finally gives way, spilling half its contents onto the table. I pick up the pieces of bread that are still inside the wrapping. I’m not touching the rest of it. There could be any number of germs all over their surface. I read somewhere in the library, there are more germs on a table than a toilet seat.
Sarah continues to munch on some lettuce as she looks at my discarded lunch. ‘Those bits are still edible,’ she says. I don’t like the way she eats and talks at the same time. She puts so much salad on her fork, I’m not sure how she fits it all into her mouth. ‘You shouldn’t waste them. They won’t give you food poisoning. I’ve only ever had it once after I ate a dodgy curry from a street market in Bangkok. Never had it here – they clean pretty thoroughly.’
‘Bangkok?’ Something slithers inside my head.
‘Yes. Have you been?’ Sarah’s fork pauses on the way to her mouth.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about him.
‘No,’ I reply as a memory wriggles its way out from beneath my lie.
He’d laughed as he’d pulled me under the shelter of a plastic awning at the side of the pavement, the black sky lit up by a string of coloured paper lanterns that had swung wildly as the downpour started. The back of my sundress had been soaked and I’d shivered; partly from the cold but more from his touch as his tanned arms had reached around my waist. He’d leaned his face towards mine to kiss me, and I could taste flavours of lemongrass and chilli on his tongue as he’d grazed me with the layer of stubble on his chin. I’d pressed my skin harder against his, wanting him to mark me, evidence to show he was mine.
The aroma of street food had filled the air, of rain evaporating off hot tarmac, of bodies huddling together from the deluge of the monsoon, but all I’d been able to smell was him. His very essence. I’d buried my head in his T-hirt and breathed him in, forgetting where I was. Who I was.
He’d held onto me as I’d stepped backwards, narrowly missing a passing tuk tuk. I hadn’t cared. I’d been as high as a kite, unable to get enough of him.
I swallow.
Sarah stares at me. ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘It’s such an amazing place. Well worth a trip. What about holidays in this country then? Did you grow up round here?’ I nod slowly. She smiles. ‘Same as me. Bet you used to go to the west coast beaches then. Portishead, Brean, Weston-super-Mare. We visited all of those.’ She watches me closely as I shake my head. ‘They were great as long as it wasn’t raining,’ she continues, ‘and you didn’t have to share the back seat of the car with your brother who was being sick.’ She laughs, but I don’t find it funny. She’s making my head hurt with all her questions. It feels like she’s interrogating me.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I need to go. I have to get back.’ I pick up the remains of my lunch, lining the items up in a neat square in the middle of the tray.
‘But you haven’t finished.’ She looks concerned.
‘I’m not really hungry.’ I wince, my hip grazing against the chair as I rush to get away.
I take deep breaths as I walk back up the stairs to the library. I have an urge to run, but I don’t, telling myself he’s not behind me, his hands aren’t reaching out to grab my shoulder so he can look at me with those pleading brown eyes. Even now part of me would find him hard to resist. Until I remember his hands round my wrists. How much he’d hurt me. I’d learnt how to breathe after it happened; slow, smooth breaths. Longer on the outward breath than the inward one to stop me hyperventilating.
I concentrate on doing what I’ve been told, pausing on each step to focus solely on the movements of my body. That way I can block out everything else. How my hamstrings flex so I can bend my knees and straighten my legs. How my quadriceps ache with the effort of repetition. You spend a lot of time getting to know your body when you have to put it back together.
When I reach the first floor, I stop and allow myself to look behind me. The stairs are empty, but I sense the memories I’ve tried my hardest to bury are gathering at the outer edges of my consciousness.
‘Alison!’ Mrs Painter’s familiar voice greets me as I walk into the library. ‘Can you stack these returns please? I think most people have gone for lunch, so we’re not busy. Make sure the autobiographies aren’t put back into the fiction section. I discovered a whole load of them in there this morning.’ She tuts as though it’s my fault and looks at me, adding, ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to have you photocopying after what happened yesterday.’
I gather up an armful of books, not bothering to tell her I’m not the one who dealt with the returns earlier. It’s easier to absorb her disapproval and take it somewhere it can dissipate. I let some of it float away whilst I file Long Walk to Freedom and tuck some of it neatly behind Make the Rules Work for You. I like to think I’m redistributing negative emotion.
As I reach the end of one of the bookshelves, I glance up to see him sitting at one of the tables. The jolt of recognition is so physical, I let go of the books I’m holding and they slide off my pile one by one, falling like bricks around my feet. He’s
facing away from me, but I’d recognise him anywhere. The way his dark hair is cut into a V-shape on the back of his neck. His faded blue T-shirt, still covered in paint splashes on one shoulder from where he decorated the hall. He’s in one of the library chairs, his right ankle pulled up over his left knee like he used to do in our flat when he was concentrating on something.
For a moment, I can’t move. My heart races.
‘Jack?’ It comes out as little more than a whisper. Half strangled. There’s no movement from the figure sitting at the table. ‘Jack?’
Nothing. The library is silent. I glance down the bookshelves and can see Mrs Painter bustling around her desk. She isn’t looking in my direction, but she shows me normality is less than a hundred feet away.
He sits there. Motionless.
I hold the side of the bookshelf for support and then step forward, avoiding treading on the books round my feet.
‘Jack?’ I hiss his name, trying to make it louder than the noise of the blood thumping in my ears.
I edge forward towards his chair until I’m close enough to touch him. There’s a tear in one knee of his jeans where he caught it on the car door in his haste to get out after we’d argued.
‘Jack?’ My voice echoes in my head. I can’t believe he’s here, they told me he wouldn’t be able to find me. He doesn’t answer. Something tells me to run whilst I have the chance, but my legs don’t move.
I stretch out to touch him, to see if I can recognise skin that was once as familiar as my own, and as I do, he reaches over his shoulder and grabs me around the wrist. Hard. My stomach turns to ice as he holds on. I let out a cry and recoil, knocking into the bookshelves behind me, no longer concerned who might hear.
‘Alison?’ Mrs Painter is at my side. ‘Are you OK? I heard you scream. Did you fall? Are you hurt?’
I’m sitting amongst a pile of scattered books. My wrist burns. I remember how that felt. I look for him at the table but he’s not there.
