by Ros Carne
The fog was thickening. People rushed past her in the other direction trying to get to their train. By now sweat was streaming from every pore. She needed to sit down but there was nowhere. Just as she thought she would collapse onto the concourse a young man stopped and asked, ‘Are you all right?’
Natasha tried to speak but nothing came out. Everything inside her crumpled and she fell against him.
Chapter Thirty
Mel
It was Sunday, a week after her dinner with Georgie and Farouk. Jacob was still with Claude and Jo, though he’d texted he’d be back tonight. Mel had spent the week blotting out her loneliness by returning to chambers after court every afternoon, visiting the pub with colleagues in the evening. Was she a coward to keep avoiding Natasha? A couple of times she’d seen her disappearing down the corridor ahead of her. But Jacob’s pleading echoed in her mind. He didn’t want Mel mentioning the connection. He was a child in some ways but not in others. Was it her duty to warn people about Natasha? Or was it just a bit of silly mischief-making? Worst of all, she had no idea what Jacob had done.
No one seemed concerned that the pupil–supervisor relationship had broken down. Natasha had her own work. What if she had missed out on a tenancy this time around? She was competent, building connections. Everyone assumed she would find something somewhere else.
By midday, tired of the weekend silence, Mel bundled some papers and her laptop into a bag, threw the bag into her car and set off for Dulwich. Isabel had explained she was going out to the V&A with her new friend. They were having lunch at the museum and would be back around teatime. That suited Mel. She would work on tomorrow’s case in the quiet of her mother’s sitting room. She would put out the tea things and be nice and daughterly when Isabel arrived home. And she would be intrigued to meet the new friend.
Isabel had mentioned a cleaner, but Mel was unprepared for the transformation. The smell had gone; papers were in neat piles; there was no trace of a dirty glass or cup. There was even a bunch of huge pink lilies in a glass vase, filling the room with that sickening scent that always reminded her of funerals. The house was hushed, only the sound of the occasional car entering or leaving the crescent, the buzz of muffled talk from a radio on the other side of the adjoining wall. A lawnmower broke the stillness and she was transported back more than thirty years to summer afternoons, lying on the landing, waiting for her mother’s return.
It had been more than twenty years since she had waited for her mother. After they had killed her off in Canada Row, Isabel had always been the one to wait for Mel, irritable, demanding, her affection tinged with a hint of resentment. The resentment might be aimed at the world at large, but Mel was often the recipient of her not-so-subtle barbs.
‘Maybe you should visit her less often,’ Claude had suggested. But visiting her mother had been more than just a duty. Her mother’s life was meshed with her own; you could no more pull them apart than you could pull stitches from a garment. And when Isabel’s face lit up on seeing Jacob, her daughter could forgive her anything.
Not long after she had settled on the sofa with her laptop and papers, she heard the crunch of a key and the swing and clunk of an opening and closing door. Then her mother’s voice, calm and solicitous. The muffled reply was monosyllabic, subdued. But Mel knew that voice. Her skin felt suddenly tight on her body. She jumped out of her chair. It could not be true.
But it was. Standing behind her mother, wearing an old-fashioned green suit and looking more dishevelled and confused than Mel had ever seen her, was Natasha. Without acknowledging Mel, she moved unsteadily across the room to an empty armchair and flopped down.
‘She’s had an accident. A hyper,’ said her mother, who appeared younger and more confident than she had for years. She might have been off to an elegant drinks party. She wore a sleek black dress, a diamond brooch and an oversized hair ornament perched on the top of her head like a turkey’s crest.
‘Hypo,’ murmured Natasha, looking up briefly, though still not acknowledging Mel. ‘But I’m OK. It was stupid. I was stupid.’
‘No, you’re not, darling.’ And then, looking at Mel, she added, ‘She fainted in Victoria Station. Just imagine. The place was packed. No one gave a damn.’
‘The young man was nice,’ said Natasha.
‘At last. When you were nearly dead,’ said Isabel.
‘I’m fine now, Isabel. You saved me. And like I said, it was my own silly fault.’
‘Stop blaming yourself, sweetheart.’
Mel still could not speak.
‘Well, aren’t you going to say anything?’ said her mother. ‘Natasha dear, this is my daughter Melanie.’
‘Hi, Melanie.’ Natasha’s lip curled halfway between smile and smirk. Mel’s body felt very cold. Her head was bursting. Knowing she needed to stay calm, she tried slow breathing, avoiding Natasha’s narrowed eyes. But she couldn’t avoid Natasha herself, sitting in front of her with her Cheshire cat grin. She turned and walked into the kitchen.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Isabel, following her in.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ asked Mel.
‘Tell you what?’
‘About Natasha.’
‘I’m telling you now. The poor girl collapsed. We got a taxi back and picked up a sandwich en route. She looks better now. I certainly hope so.’
‘She’s my pupil. The one I told you about. The one that’s been so difficult. Didn’t you recognise the name?’
‘Oh, I never remember names these days. But what a coincidence.’ Isabel looked troubled. ‘She told me she was training to be a lawyer. I don’t think she said barrister. I don’t recall.’
‘She knew you were my mother.’
‘Why would she know that? Oh, the photograph.’ There was a graduation photograph of Mel on one of the bookcases. ‘She must have missed it. You’ve changed a bit. Most of the family pictures are Jacob.’
‘She knows Jacob too. And she knows you’re my mother, because I told her.’
‘Goodness, I wonder why she didn’t say.’
Because she’s a scheming bitch, thought Mel. Though what she said was, ‘We’ll find out.’
She took a deep breath, gathered her thoughts and went back into the sitting room. Natasha was still in the armchair, though she seemed to have recovered and was leafing through a copy of Vogue from the coffee table.
‘So?’ Mel’s question sounded accusing. It was meant to.
‘Yes?’
‘What’s going on?’
Natasha put down the magazine. Her smile was gentler now. ‘Silly isn’t it? I had intended to tell your mother, but it just didn’t come up. We got on so well. To tell the truth I knew you’d taken against me and I was worried you might try to put her off me.’
‘How did you get in here?’
‘Get in?’
‘Yes, get in this house, inveigle yourself inside, invade my mother’s life? More importantly why did you do it? But I guess I don’t need to ask that. It’s what you do isn’t it. Some people would call it stirring. Personally, I think it’s more serious than that.’
Before Natasha could reply her mother intervened.
‘Mel, that’s ridiculous. I invited her. Natasha and her nice young man came to my show. I asked her to call and she called. Simple as that.’
This was worse. Mel’s blood was rising, dark and furious. Not only a cheat and a liar, but a manipulator, deliberately fooling Isabel into inviting her in. And all the time Natasha was sitting in the chair as if she owned the place. Mel had intended to give her a chance, to wait to hear what she had to say. But now all she could think was that Natasha needed to go and the sooner she left the better.
‘Get out,’ she said.
Natasha stood up. As she stood Mel noticed for the first time that she was wearing her mother’s ring. ‘And before you do that, you better give my mother back her ring. And anything else you’ve tried to filch.’
‘I’ll go and change, Isabel,’ s
aid Natasha, ignoring the accusation about the ring. And she left the room, walking too close to Mel who pulled back swiftly, unwilling to breathe the same perfume filled air.
‘Poor girl. She’s not at all well,’ murmured Isabel.
Mel wondered about the diabetes. Was that too a lie, fabricated to provoke attention and sympathy? How could you be sure? She remembered the calloused fingertips. But she hadn’t noticed them since that first occasion.
‘Why is she wearing your ring?’
‘I gave it to her. It matches the outfit.’
‘You gave it to her?’ Mel was incredulous.
‘Just for today.’
‘Mum, I’ll tell you everything later. Natasha is not what she seems. I need to go upstairs and make sure she isn’t taking anything else.’
There was more she needed to say to Natasha and she didn’t want her mother to hear. Whatever Natasha did now, Mel wouldn’t let her get away without knowing the damage she had caused.
Mel ran upstairs and into the spare bedroom.
‘Don’t worry, Mel, I’m going.’ said Natasha. She was standing in her stockinged feet and her own clothes. The green suit was on the bed. The platform shoes were lined up on the carpet with the rest of Darcy Black’s footwear. She looked tired, but her expression was calm, and she gazed at Mel as if she were a mild irritant, a traffic warden or an over-zealous ticket inspector. She was still wearing the ring.
‘Take off the ring,’ ordered Mel.
Slowly Natasha pulled off the ring, laying it on the dressing table next to a leopard brooch and the earrings she’d been wearing. Mel had been so appalled to see her that she had not even noticed till now that every piece of jewellery she had on belonged to her mother.
Natasha spoke. ‘Mel, please don’t concern yourself. I’ll go.’
It was important to stay calm. Professionalism was kicking in. So far there had been nothing criminal. But she needed to know. Jacob was sixteen. It was the age of consent. But he was still a child. ‘There’s one more thing,’ said Mel. And try as she might to remain controlled, she could not stem the anger. ‘What the fuck were you doing messing with Jacob?’ Natasha didn’t reply. The smile which looked like a smirk returned. Mel continued. ‘Oh I know you’re a crazy bitch. I know you’re a thief and a liar. I know you like to meddle in other people’s lives. I could forgive all that. I could even forgive you telling the world about my private life. What I can never do is forgive you interfering with my son.’
‘Interfering’s a loaded word,’ said Natasha. The smile had disappeared and now she was looking hard at Mel as she took a step towards her and whispered, ‘You want to keep an eye on that kid.’
‘What are you implying?’
‘Though there’s not much you can do to stop him. The internet’s a freeway to the world. You won’t be able to hold him back if he wants to put himself about. The pictures are out now. Nothing anyone can do. I could show you if you like.’
Mel stood transfixed. So, there were pictures. She had feared as much. And though she didn’t want to see, she needed to know what Jacob had done. Her insides were churning as Natasha reached in her bag for her phone.
‘You might as well learn what your boy’s up to.’ Natasha held up the screen. Unable to prevent herself, Mel took a step forward for a better view. Jacob was lounging on the old coffee stained sofa in his room. He wore no clothes, but one of their family bath towels was draped around his narrow hips. He must have been holding the phone with his other arm on that selfie stick his dad had given him. Part of her wanted to laugh. It was so absurd. Her child pretending to be an adult. But it was also horrifying. He was so vulnerable. She looked quickly away.
‘Course there’s plenty more. I’m sure Jacob wouldn’t want you to see those, but since you seem so interested I’ll dig them out for you. I’ve tucked them away. Didn’t want my boyfriend finding them. Like I explained to Jacob, I’ve saved them on a cloud too.’ Natasha was still holding up the phone, still smiling. Behind the smile was something frightening, an inhuman light in those brilliant green eyes.
And now she was swiping through the pictures as casually as if she were about to show a holiday snap to a friend. Then she stopped and turned to face Mel.
‘Nice body’, she murmured, as she held up the phone for a second time.
The pose was the same, languid, provocative, though the facial expression was different. The innocence had vanished. The eyelids were lowered, the mouth was slightly open. But that was not the only change. The small towel, that modest covering, had been removed.
Mel squeezed her eyes shut, unable to believe what she was seeing. She took a deep breath before opening them again, forcing herself to look at what she had already seen but had been powerless to absorb. It was true. The smile was one she had never seen in him. Her son had done what she had most feared and she could no longer protect him. She quickly averted her eyes again.
At that moment her mother’s voice rang through the air, echoing round Mel’s head, ‘No, no, she’s not well.’
But there was only one way Mel could respond to what she had seen.
She hurled herself at Natasha, pushing her backwards, causing her to lose her footing and trip across the rows of shoes which had been left on the floor. Natasha’s body, which had been falling back, twisted sideways. And in that moment Mel thought she heard her mother’s voice, but the words were inaudible and interrupted by a terrible smashing sound as Natasha’s head struck the glass edge of the kidney-shaped dressing table.
Mel’s pupil lay on her side on the floor. Her hair had fallen over her face. Mel stared. Anger was churning inside her, urging her to lash out again, hurt her properly, silence her forever. Part of her had expected Natasha to fight back. Then she heard her mother’s voice again. ‘No, Mel.’
She turned towards the sound. Isabel was standing in the doorway, supporting herself on the door jamb, eyes wide in her wrinkled handsome face. What had she seen? And what was she asking Mel to do? Not to hurt Natasha or not to help her? Whatever it was, Mel was frozen into obedience as she looked away from her mother to Natasha’s body lying motionless on the floor.
Isabel let go of the door jamb and moved slowly to where Natasha lay. Out of the corner of her eye Mel saw her lower herself with difficulty to her knees and lift several strands of blonde hair from the pale, expressionless face. Natasha’s eyes were closed, one side of her face was perfect and unharmed, but blood was pooling on her crown, dripping onto her forehead, meandering in slow rivulets down her left cheek.
Chapter Thirty-one
Mel
The Uber driver, told this was an emergency, raced down Half Moon Lane and across the Herne Hill roundabout, narrowly missing law-abiding drivers who were keeping to the appropriate lane. Mel would have driven but Isabel had insisted.
‘You’re too shaken up, darling…’
Natasha was strapped into the back seat, leaning against the door. She was conscious, though her face was ashen, and she made no sound other than the occasional low moan. Isabel, sitting next to her, was holding what had been a clean tea towel against the wound. The driver took a rat run, mounting the kerb at one point to avoid an approaching lorry, descending with a crash, making the car rock on its springs.
‘Watch out,’ squealed Isabel. ‘How are you, darling?’ she asked Natasha, replacing the bloody tea towel against her face.
‘Bit sick,’ whispered Natasha, her head lolling from side to side. Mel was aware that mild concussion would work in her favour: Natasha sounded confused.
‘Sorry, love. Didn’t see that, I’ll get you there nice and quick. Two minutes now.’
Mel turned back to Natasha. ‘How’s your head?’
‘Hurts.’
‘You’ll need stitches,’ she replied as if in sympathy, hearing the tension in her own voice.
‘You don’t want a scar,’ said Isabel. ‘Still, I expect your hair will cover it.’
‘What happened?’ Natasha muttered drowsily. Ha
d she really forgotten?
‘You fell over,’ said Mel quickly. And as she spoke a memory surfaced: grey walls, a metal table, a foxy-faced young man wheedling his way around a charge of assault. Conrad Stevens had lied to her, changed his story, lied to the court. And she had got him off.
‘Dreadful bang. Right on the dressing table,’ Isabel added, speaking straight ahead as if addressing an audience.
The minicab dropped them off by the automatic doors leading into the reception area and triage station of King’s College Hospital’s A&E. Mel helped Natasha onto the pavement and held her pupil’s arm as they shuffled together through the automatic doors. Natasha was wearing a pair of Isabel’s slippers. Her mother, behind them, walked unaided on low heeled pumps. The hospital was warm, but Mel felt cold inside. She must focus on the present. The important thing was to get help for Natasha. She felt herself wobbling, heard her mother call out, ‘Do be careful, Melanie, you’ll pull her over.’
Minutes later all three of them were leaning on the counter that separated the triage desk from the waiting area. Natasha was still holding the tea towel to her head.
‘Can she speak?’ asked the receptionist.
‘I can speak,’ murmured Natasha, through half-closed lips. She sounded drunk.
‘Good. In that case, I’ll just take a few details. Don’t worry, love, we’ll sort you out.’
‘I’ll find my mother somewhere to sit,’ said Mel. And she left Natasha leaning on the counter.
Isabel allowed herself to be guided away. She was uncharacteristically silent. They walked through a maze of corridors until they reached Costa. Mel settled her mother at a corner table with a magazine and a latte.
‘I’ll come and check on you in half an hour.’
Isabel looked exhausted. Make-up was smudged around her eyes; her hair had unravelled. Mel picked up a few strands and tucked them into the clips.