by Paul Burston
He tries to shake the feeling off, but it stays with him as he heads back towards the main road, breath catching in his throat at the slightest movement. The mist is so thick he can barely see more than a few metres in front of him. Familiar landmarks are reduced to vague shapes – a towering cliff face here, a squat building there. The famous fishermen’s huts loom around him like giant tombstones, the air thick with the smell of fish guts and the cries of seagulls. For a moment, Tom loses all sense of direction and looks around helplessly, before his eyes are drawn to the glow of a street lamp.
Cars crawl by so slowly, it’s as if he’s in a dream – one of those nightmares where everything goes into slow motion and you try to run from the horror but your feet refuse to move, paralysed with fear or gripped by some invisible force. A Nightmare on East Beach Street: ‘One, two, Evie’s coming for you!’
He pushes the thought away and hurries along the seafront, struggling to contain the panic rising inside him. Sounds carry on the wind – a car horn, a woman’s laughter, a police siren. Blinded by the fog, it’s hard to tell which direction they’re coming from or how close they are. Gulls squall overhead, as if he’s wandered into a scene from Hitchcock. A dog barks and Tom flinches, half expecting some snarling hound from hell to leap out in front of him, jaws dripping with drool. Clouds of mist shift and part, shadowy figures appearing as if from nowhere.
A man suddenly materialises inches from Tom’s face – eyes glazed, breath thick with alcohol. ‘Awright, mate?’ he slurs. ‘Got a spare fag?’
‘Sorry,’ Tom says and pushes quickly past, ignoring the man’s protests and stumbling as his right foot comes into contact with something unexpected and skims along the pavement. He looks down and sees the remains of someone’s lunch – a mess of greasy paper, chips and ketchup. Gritting his teeth, he scrapes the mess from his shoe and glances back over his shoulder. The man has gone, enveloped by the mist like some ghostly apparition.
It’s then that Tom sees her for the second time. There’s a flutter of recognition in his chest and then his whole body jolts, heart pounding. She’s no more than six metres behind him, shrouded in fog, but unmistakably the woman who has plagued him for so long he can barely remember a time when she wasn’t there. She’s wearing the same coat she wore at court – pale blue, double-breasted with military buttons. He’d know that coat anywhere. As she narrows the gap between them, he wonders what she has hidden in those inside pockets, concealed under those folds of fabric. He pictures her pulling out a knife and his mouth goes dry, pulse racing.
He walks faster, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Footsteps echo behind him. She’s picking up speed, the heels of her shoes tapping out a staccato rhythm on the pavement. He looks back over his shoulder, sees that she’s gaining on him. She’s barely a few metres away. He freezes, feet rooted to the spot.
Then the mist parts, and he sees that it’s not her. Of course it’s not her. This woman is older and has darker hair. She catches Tom staring at her and gives a quizzical look as she passes by. He smiles and nods, wishing the ground would swallow him up. He’s being ridiculous. Seeing her at every turn. Frightened of his own shadow. He needs to pull himself together. He can’t go on like this, living on his nerves, seeing threats where none exist. He’s an idiot. He’s a mess. He’s a man in need of a stiff drink and a cigarette. Sod his good intentions.
Hurrying on, he hasn’t gone far when he senses a sudden movement in his peripheral vision. He flinches, bracing himself for an attack. But it’s just his mind playing tricks on him again. Why can’t he get her out of his head? God knows, he tries, but each time he does she worms her way back in. Taunting him. Haunting him. Turning a trip to the aquarium into a psychological assault course. He really needs to get a grip on himself. Failing that, a large vodka and tonic will do nicely.
He crosses the road at the America Ground, dodging the slow crawl of traffic near the pedestrian crossing. There’s a shop close to the True Crime Museum with its door firmly closed against the swirling sea mist but a sign saying open for business. He goes in and exits the shop a few minutes later with a bottle of vodka, two bottles of tonic, some Diet Coke, a packet of Marlboro and a disposable lighter. The bag is heavy, the cheap blue plastic stretched thinly and digging into his fingers. He stares down at it, half expecting it to snap at any moment and the bottle of vodka to fall and smash on the pavement. But the bag holds. Not far now.
He’s still tense when he arrives back at the flat. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he feels a sudden rush of air behind him and they slip through his fingers, hitting the ground with a sharp crack. Tom curses under his breath and kneels to retrieve them as a mountain bike speeds by, its rider already lost to vision in the mist, no lights to warn pedestrians of their approach.
Angrily, Tom slides the key into the lock and slips through the door, his heart pounding.
A shadowy figure looms at the foot of the stairs and he practically jumps out his skin.
‘Are you alright, lad?’
‘Colin! You startled me.’
‘So I see. I was just looking to see if there’d been any post. Didn’t think much of the aquarium, then? You’ve hardly been gone five minutes.’
Embarrassed, Tom forces a smile and searches for an excuse. ‘I remembered there’s something I need to do.’
The old man glances at the blue carrier bag. ‘Are you sure you’re alright?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Only you look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
If you only knew, Tom thinks but says nothing and hurries upstairs.
28
DAY 26 (704 DAYS REMAINING)
I’m at the hospital. There’s a fly buzzing. I don’t know where it is but I can hear its wings vibrate. It sounds angry, or desperate. Maybe it’s looking for somewhere to lay its eggs. Maybe it knows something I don’t.
The only other sound comes from the clock on the waiting-room wall. It’s working but appears to have slowed to such a pace it bears no resemblance to real time at all. I wonder if hospital minutes are like minutes on the underground – not fixed periods of time but elastic, so they stretch on for longer than the usual sixty seconds. It’s so warm in here that as I stare at the clock I picture that painting by Salvador Dali, the one with the melting pocket watches. I think of the ants crawling over the face of one of his famous timepieces. I remember my art teacher at school telling us the ants were a symbol of decay.
Outside, the long day is dying. It’s been one of those hot summer-in-the-city days when people flock to the nearest park or lido, or dine al fresco by the river, grateful for the breeze coming off the water. London in summer is another country, and you rarely hear anyone complain. I can picture them now in their short sleeves and summer dresses, sipping Pimm’s or G&T, or returning from the bar with tall glasses of lager, the chilled amber liquid foaming down the side of the glass. What I’d give for a drink right now.
In here, the only drinks available come from the water fountain or the vending machine. The air is thick with worry and smells of death and disease and disinfectant. The floral tang catches in the back of my throat and burns my sinuses, making me think of things I’d rather not – lilies, wet earth, endings. There’s another smell, too – the sharp stench of stale sweat. I wonder if it’s coming from me, but it’s too strong for that. It’s the smell of someone who has night terrors, who sweats alone in a narrow bed in a roomful of strangers and hasn’t bathed properly in weeks. It’s the smell of someone who’s been institutionalised.
I shouldn’t be here. It must be past dinnertime by now. I should be at home with Dad, finishing our dinner. I’d be clearing the plates away and then I’d fix him a drink and we’d sit together, my dad and me, watching an old film or just talking about things.
But we’re not. Instead I’m sitting here on this plastic chair in this awful place that smells of death – and as for my dad, well, I don’t know where he is. They won’t let me see him. Each time I ask
, I’m told to wait and someone will be with me soon. But I wait and nobody ever comes. I’m beginning to think there’s something they’re not telling me. We all have secrets, don’t we? Even people who work in hospitals. We’re supposed to be able to trust them with our lives, but how far can you trust anyone, really? We’ve all heard tales of medical negligence, how overstretched doctors are, how they cover up for each other.
If I’m to believe the clock on the wall, it’s almost 9.00 p.m., which means I’ve been here for the best part of five hours. Nobody will tell me anything – or if they do, it’s to reassure me that they’re doing everything they can. But I know when people are trying to pull the wool over my eyes. I ought to by now.
‘Can I see him?’ I ask the stern-faced nurse when I finally manage to grab her attention.
‘Not just yet,’ she replies, all brisk voice and tight smile. ‘Maybe you should go home and get some rest.’
Home and rest are the last things I need now. I’m too tired to sleep, and to go home without my dad would feel like giving up hope. Without him, I can’t rest. Without him, I have no home. So I’ll sit and wait, and hope that my gut instinct is wrong and he isn’t going to die.
Tonight was supposed to have been a celebration. I came home this morning with a plan to surprise Dad and make up for my brief period of absence with a special dinner. He’d already gone to work when I let myself in, so I had a good soak in the bath and sat down to write. By lunchtime I had another chapter complete; the inspiration I’d felt all those months ago had finally returned. I printed off the pages to proofread later and poured myself a celebratory gin and tonic. Had my dad been at home, he’d have disapproved of me drinking so early in the day, which is one reason I keep a bottle of gin hidden in the filing cabinet in my bedroom. All the best writers appreciate the benefits of alcohol, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him.
By the time I’d finished my gin, washed and dried the glass, and placed it back in the kitchen cupboard, where it belongs, it was so warm my face was damp with sweat and I knew I had to get out of the house. I walked to the Portuguese fishmonger and stood admiring the variety of fish on their bed of ice before selecting two large sea bream, so fresh their eyes were as clear as if they were still alive. People go on about sea bass, but for my money sea bream is the far finer fish. There are fewer fiddly bones, and the cooked flesh isn’t flaky but comes away in thick white chunks. It’s a fish you can really sink your teeth into.
I watched as the fishmonger dropped them onto the scales and scribbled the price on a piece of paper, all without saying a word. I asked him to gut and scale them for me and continued watching as he slid his knife expertly through their bellies and removed their innards with a flick of his finger. I wondered how long it took him to develop skills like that, whether gutting fish is as easy as he made it look. He wore latex gloves, which lent him an air of surgical authority and were in stark contrast to the grubbiness of his apron, which put me in mind of Sweeney Todd.
When the fish were ready, he rinsed them thoroughly under the tap and wrapped them in a plastic bag and newspaper before tying the bundle inside a carrier bag and placing it next to the till, where his unsmiling wife completed the transaction without even making eye contact. She simply pointed at the piece of paper with the price written on it and held out her hand. I know she’s capable of speech. More than once, I’ve heard her talking to her husband in a mixture of Portuguese and English. I also know that her rudeness isn’t directed at me personally. She’s like this with everyone. Still I couldn’t resist the urge to unnerve her by thanking her profusely and grinning like a maniac, much to the amusement of her husband, who stood wiping his knife with a knowing smile playing on his lips.
Next I went to the greengrocer, where I bought some fresh thyme and lemon for the fish, along with some baby new potatoes and a bundle of asparagus. I’m not a big fan of asparagus but I wasn’t thinking of myself. I was thinking of my dad and how much I owed him.
The greengrocer is called Kay. She’s one of those salt-of-the-earth Londoners loved by the makers and viewers of soap operas – big, blonde, brassy, knows everyone’s business. I assume she knows about my recent run-in with the law, but if she does she didn’t let it show.
‘Cooking something nice?’ she asked, nodding at my shopping bag as she totted up my bill on her old-fashioned cash register.
‘Sea bream,’ I replied.
‘Very nice. Who’s the lucky fella?’
I don’t know why people automatically assume that if a woman is preparing a fancy meal it must be for her latest love interest. As Madonna would say, it’s so reductive. Suddenly I had a vision of myself dressed in an apron in your shiny new kitchen, cooking up a storm while you sweated over your latest opus.
‘My dad,’ I said.
Kay didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘You’re a good daughter,’ she smiled. ‘I hope your dad appreciates just how lucky he is.’
Her words were still echoing in my ears when I arrived home. I wished Dad had been there to hear them. Because no sooner had I opened the door than my whole world came crashing down.
I knew Dad was home early because the front door was no longer double-locked. I removed my mortice key and slid the Yale into place.
‘Dad?’ I called out as I closed the door behind me. He didn’t reply. I pictured him collapsed on the bathroom floor and fear gripped my chest.
‘Dad?’ Again, there was no response. Panicked, I dropped my shopping in the hall and ran to the foot of the stairs. I grabbed the bannister and was about to haul myself up when something caught my eye. The kitchen door was wide open and there he was, bathed in sunlight, dust motes circling in the air around his head.
My first thought was that he looked lifeless, like a waxwork. He was seated at the kitchen table, completely motionless, staring into space. In front of him on the table was a laptop. My laptop. What was he doing with my laptop? I walked towards him and it was as if he woke from a trance.
‘Evie,’ he said. ‘It’s time we had a talk.’
Suddenly it was if all the air was sucked out of the room. I noticed that the kitchen window was closed and wondered why he hadn’t opened it, given the temperature in the room.
‘It’s like a furnace in here,’ I said, walking over to the window.
‘Sit down, Evie!’ he snapped. ‘Leave the window. I don’t want the neighbours hearing what I have to say.’ Still he refused to look at me.
I pulled out a chair and did as I was told. ‘What are you doing with my laptop?’ I asked.
He didn’t respond. Then, after a long silence, he started talking. ‘I’ve tried my best with you, Evie. I know it hasn’t always been easy for you, but I’ve done my best.’
‘I know you have—’ I began, but he cut me off.
‘You lied to me,’ he said. ‘When I asked you about your mother, you lied.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The day she died. You were there.’ Finally his eyes met mine. ‘You killed her.’
My mind raced. The laptop. My journal. He’d worked out the password and he’d read it. What else had he seen? I forced a smile. ‘Of course I didn’t. Where on earth did you get a silly idea like that from?’
He didn’t reply.
I gestured towards the laptop and rolled my eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been reading my novel.’
I saw a shadow of doubt flicker across his face. A shadow was all I needed. A shadow can conceal almost anything.
‘You shouldn’t go around reading people’s work in progress,’ I said. ‘You’re liable to jump to the wrong conclusions.’
‘But why would you write that?’ he asked, aghast.
‘There are no limits to the imagination, Dad,’ I said. ‘A writer has to give herself absolute freedom.’
‘So is that all this is? The product of your imagination?’
‘Of course.’
I don’t know if I convinced him that what he’d read was a
work of fiction, but after a few minutes of intense cross-examination he seemed to falter.
‘There’s some other stuff on here, too,’ he said, patting the laptop. ‘Files on people. That Tom Hunter, for one. You promised me that was all behind you.’
‘It is,’ I lied. ‘Those are just notes I kept from the court case.’
He looked doubtful. ‘Why would you keep notes from the court case?’
‘I’m a writer. Keeping notes is part of the job. Maybe they’ll come in handy for something one day. A character in a novel.’
‘Another novel.’
‘I think I have a few good novels in me.’
‘I don’t think it’s good for you to be dwelling on these things so much,’ he said. ‘What does your therapist think?’
‘She encourages me to write about it. She says it will help me gain perspective.’
Still he looked sceptical. ‘There’s something else,’ he said. ‘The search history on your laptop.’
My pulse quickened. ‘You looked at my search history?’ Usually I’m so careful. I make a point of clearing it before logging off. But I’d been so absorbed in my book I’d forgotten. ‘But you can’t do that,’ I said, meeting my father’s gaze. ‘It’s an invasion of privacy!’