‘Anyway, dear. So I took the bus. I had a few errands to run. Nothing very important. I wanted to buy some soft wool to knit a pullover for Alma, my other grandchild. Her second birthday was coming up. I also needed a new blouse. I’d been invited to a student’s concert, a premiere, you see. I really rather dislike shopping. But I didn’t want to end up being a terrible embarrassment to my poor student on her big evening, in my weird old gowns. So I thought I’d better plan something to look forward to at the end of the trip. And I hadn’t seen Sam for a while in any case. She studies on the Strand, you see. Architecture. She wants to be an architect. Isn’t that wonderful? I hope I’ll live to see her first building. Or to feel it, rather. Sometimes I forget. So I proposed we meet in that area to catch up over a cuppa in the afternoon. It was Sam who suggested that particular café. I’d never been to any of the Café Olé branches before. You see, they’re not really my cup of tea, chains like that. They’re so… I don’t know. Generic. Sterile. I like old broken things, with character. Like myself.’ Again Grace chuckled.
‘Of course the poor girl has never forgiven herself for suggesting it. You can imagine, dear. She still feels so guilty. After all these weeks. It breaks my heart. Not a day goes by when she doesn’t bring it up. And I know she thinks of it all the time. I can tell what’s happening behind that furrowed brow of hers. Sam thinks it’s her fault, you see. She’s hardly left my side since the bombing. She visits every day. She does the shopping and the cleaning and what have you. She even wants to move in with me. But I said no to that. Much as I love Sam’s company, I won’t exploit the situation. No. She needs to live her own life. Finish her studies, go to parties, have fun, fall in love, and what have you. Caring for a boring old woman like me won’t do her any good. Once I’ve managed to convince her it wasn’t her fault, I’ll tell her to stop hovering over me like a worried nurse. I’ll send her home. Back to her old life. I’ll tell her she can visit every two weeks. But no more than that. With a heavy heart, but I’ll do it. This isn’t good for either of us.
‘I’m learning just fine to live without eyesight. One of the advantages of being a musician, you see. I always did pay a lot of attention to sounds. They can guide you if you let them. And I’ve many friends. I’ll be fine. You know, dear, actually I am fine. It’s Sam who isn’t. I still have quite some work cut out before I can let her go. It’s not easy, banishing someone’s bad thoughts from their minds. Once they’re there, it’s hard to expel them again. They’re strong and stubborn. They suck you dry in no time if you’re not careful.’
Here Grace paused. I filled up our teacups again. I tried one of the shortbread fingers. It was the first morsel of decent food I’d eaten for days, and it tasted like paradise.
‘Where were we?’ Grace continued. ‘Ah yes, the day. Well, I found the wool I was looking for in one of the bigger department stores. That was the easy part. Then I tried on various blouses, but they all looked wrong on me. You see, clothes just don’t hang right on my body. I’m not lucky that way. John always used to tease me about that. My clothes crinkle and pucker in the most curious places. So I very quickly grew frustrated. Eventually, I found something cream-coloured and silken, tent-shaped and what have you. I didn’t like it much. But I bought it anyway just to end my plight.
‘Then I found myself with plenty of time on my hands. I had two whole hours to fill before my meeting with Sam. I wandered around a little. I went to the lovely little street with only music shops on it. Do you know it, dear? I browsed in various shops. In one of them I played a few chords on their display pianos. But they all sounded soulless. A lot of the modern pianos do. Have you noticed? Especially the Japanese ones. Perfect from a technical point of view, but something is lacking. Something important. I can never quite put my finger on it. Then I leafed through the piles of sheet music. I bought a few pieces I thought my students would enjoy. It was still early when I went to Paternoster Square to find the Café Olé branch.
‘I didn’t like it much. Bad music was playing. It was very loud and distracting. But it was almost completely full. There was only one free table, right at the back. Next to the loos. I sat down. I started leafing through one of the free newspapers that was on the table. It contained nothing but gossip: a starlet whose name I didn’t know had fallen over drunk on a night out and flashed her knickers. Another had gained weight. A third had been deserted by her fourth boyfriend in only one year, and so on. I wondered, who reads this stuff? Then I went through the music I’d bought. I thought about how to teach it. I added a few pointers in pencil for my students. Most make very similar mistakes – it’s interesting. You can almost predict it, where they will stumble or play too fast or too slow. Then I started to study the other people in the café. Discreetly, of course. People don’t like feeling watched, you see. It makes them nervous.
‘I’ve thought about them quite a lot since. You can imagine. They’re almost all dead now. There was the girl behind the counter. Quick as a weasel. She had fire-engine-red hair. She was always moving and doing things. Her colleague was at the till. She had pencil-thin eyebrows and was languid, like a sleepy cat. There were three young Spanish tourists who were all talking at once. And very loudly. There was a couple in their thirties. They didn’t say much and seemed sad. There was a student with a beard typing into his laptop. A woman with curly hair studying a book on Hieronymus Bosch. A young mother with a baby. She was breastfeeding it under a very colourful African shawl. There were many others. Twenty-nine in total, including myself.
‘And then she entered. Julia. You see, I was watching the door by then. It was now well past the time Sam and I had agreed to meet. Julia came in at seventeen minutes past three. The first thing I noticed was how upright she walked. She held her head high. She carried a dark-blue plastic sports bag. Somehow it jarred with the rest of her look. I remember thinking how pale and pretty she was. Pure, somehow. No make-up, no frills. Just classically beautiful features. High cheekbones, a fine proud nose and snow-white skin. She scanned the room. Her eyes met mine. She ordered something. Peppermint tea, I think. She seemed calm. She took her drink to one of the places at the window. A seat had just become vacant. The student with the laptop got out just in time, bless him. Julia sat down and looked out onto the square for a few minutes. She never touched her tea.
‘Then she went to the loo. With her big sports bag. When she walked past me, our eyes met again. Hers were green, quite a striking colour. I remember thinking, what an interesting face. Quite unusual. Cold, perhaps? But no, that wasn’t really it. Hindsight always twists things, don’t you think? It’s a temptation one must resist. When she came out of the loos again she walked straight towards the exit. Neither fast nor slow. Smooth and graceful, like a panther. Very upright. I watched her. Only when her hand had pushed open the exit did I notice that she wasn’t carrying her bag.
‘“Your bag!” I called out. I had stood up to attract her attention. “You were carrying a bag. You must have forgotten it.”
‘She turned round and then she looked at me for a third and final time. She opened the door and was about to step outside. The rain had stopped. Rather unexpectedly, the sun had come out. Suddenly, she was bathed in rays of light. She looked like an angel, with her white skin sparkling. Then she blew me a kiss. It was the strangest gesture. I didn’t know what to make of it. She didn’t smile. Her face remained completely blank. Deadly serious. And then she disappeared from sight. And my own sight disappeared for ever shortly afterwards. How weird, I remember thinking, how weird. And then I stopped thinking.
‘I woke up in hospital three days later. They’d put me into an artificial coma. They had tried to save my eyesight but failed. Apart from my eyes, though, all other injuries were minor. Bruises, cuts, contusions, damaged ribs, that sort of thing. It was a miracle of sorts. But a sad one. Sight, of all the senses... Although I really mustn’t complain. Had I lost my hearing I’d be unemployed now, wouldn’t I? At least I can still teach. And listen to others
play. And I’m still alive. Most of the others aren’t.’
We sat in silence for a while.
‘Do you hate her? Julia, I mean?’ I finally asked.
‘Oh, of course not, dear. What would be the point of that? I don’t hate anybody. Hating gets you nowhere. We should forgive others for their weaknesses. That, Clare, is really all we can do. Our only challenge in this world.’
‘Why do you think she did it?’
‘I’ve no idea. Sam read the manifesto to me. I didn’t understand it. I really couldn’t begin to speculate about her motives.’
‘Don’t you think about her, at night, and about what she took away from you and all the others? Don’t you wish her dead, or blind, too, or imprisoned for life? Don’t you want to know why she committed her atrocious act?’
Grace thought about this for a moment. Then she said: ‘No. No, honestly, dear, I don’t. I’m not interested. I’m interested in Sam right now. In how to get her back on track. I’m interested in tomorrow and the day after. I’m interested in the future, you see? In how to keep on living as well as we can, considering the circumstances.’
A little later, Grace showed me out. But before she closed the door, she put her warm, firm hand on my arm, leaned forward and whispered in my ear, ‘Good luck, Clare. Have faith.’
Despite having found some temporary relief in Grace’s calming presence, I felt even worse when I returned to my apartment. Grace’s humility and generosity were humbling. I was deeply impressed by her poise and charity. I wondered whether she was religious. However, she didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know. She didn’t help answer any of the questions that I was burning to resolve. She told me that Julia’s face was impenetrable, and her strange final gesture before blowing up the coffee shop unreadable. I was beginning to think I was doomed. Unless I could speak to Julia, unless Julia could tell me the truth about Julia, my peace of mind, I feared, would be destroyed for ever.
Talking of peace of mind, George: I, in turn, seem to have destroyed Amanda’s. At least that’s what she told me yesterday. During her one-hour visit (for the first time, Laura couldn’t be there – she was expecting an important food critic at the Blue Nile), she broke down and let it all out. I have to confess I was waiting for something like this to happen. She has been too calm, too controlled – there was no way she could keep that up, not even her. It was the wretched defence strategy topic that triggered it – it’s all my three visitors want to talk about right now.
As always, we met in the visitors’ room for low-risk inmates, an inhospitable space reminiscent of an airport lounge, with bad acoustics and a row of twenty square plastic tables in it, each of which was occupied by another woman and her guests. There were five guards in the room watching us, too.
‘Have you thought a bit more about it?’ Amanda asked straight after we’d sat down.
‘Yes. But I haven’t changed my mind. I’m not going to pretend I was temporarily insane. I wasn’t, and it would be unethical to claim that I was.’
My choice of words made Amanda flare up. ‘Unethical? Let me tell you what’s unethical: your utter selfishness – that’s what’s unethical. Your getting on your moral high horse for the sake of some idiotic principle that’ll allow you to feel self-righteous – that’s unethical. Your complete disregard for Laura’s and my feelings – that’s what I’d call unethical. Have you any idea how bloody worried we are about you? And how much all of this has shaken Laura – and me, for that matter? Laura’s so confused right now – her cherished aunt, the person she admired most in the world… Moira called yesterday. She’s concerned about Laura. She’s not on form, not her usual self. Apparently, she keeps dropping things in the kitchen, expensive things. Equipment, ingredients, glasses. Every day it’s something. And she threw out some customers the other day who she thought were paparazzi, but actually they were just tourists… It’s so unlike her. We want you out of here; we want the old Clare back.’
‘Listen…’ I began, but Amanda interrupted me.
‘For fuck’s sake, Clare, we’re talking about a simple legal strategy, not about moral principles. Fuck the means. It’s the result that matters. Everyone has to have a strategy – whatever works best, that’s just how the system functions. You know that. You’re self-sabotaging. There are other ways to deal with your guilt, healthier ways. Do you hear me? I’ll help you with that, if you let me. It’s not the right moment to play the bloody martyr. Do you even realize how much is at stake here? You could be locked up for years, even for the rest of your life. Hasn’t your lawyer made that clear to you? I want you back. Outside. I need you. You and Laura are all I’ve got left.’ Then Amanda began to sob. I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away. The people on the neighbouring tables had stopped talking and were looking at us, and one of the guards signalled for us to keep our voices down.
‘I’m aware of that,’ I said as gently as possible. ‘I am. I want out, too. I miss you, both of you. But I wasn’t temporarily insane. I’m just not prepared to lie about it.’
Then Amanda started to shout at me. ‘But of course you bloody were! How can you even think you weren’t! That’s just ridiculous. The Clare I know would never kill anyone. Never! You were completely out of your bloody mind! You’d been drinking, you had a breakdown, you were undernourished, dehydrated, hypothermic, your brain wasn’t working right. You’d been under so much stress that it simply broke something in you. That happens – it’s called a nervous bloody breakdown. You didn’t know what you were doing – of course you didn’t. That’s what the lawyer says. And the psychiatrists. Everyone! And they’re right. It’s not even just a strategy. That’s how it was. It’s the bloody truth.’
‘But I did, Amanda. I did,’ I whispered. ‘I did know what I was doing.’
‘No, you didn’t! You think you did, but you didn’t. My sister’s not a murderer! I refuse to believe it. And you better get a grip on this – I’m not going to watch you self-destruct in court, I can tell you that. I’m going to have you sectioned if you don’t change your story. Do you hear me? Do you understand what I’m saying?’
And then Amanda stormed out, although our time wasn’t yet up. But the word she’d used stayed behind. Murderer.
Murderer. Am I a murderer?
XVIII
Since Amanda uttered that dreaded word during her outburst in the visitors’ room, I haven’t been able to sleep. At all. The pills have stopped working. So I may as well use my nights to finish this job now.
After my meeting with Grace, my despair grew worse. I just about managed to transcribe our interview, but not much else besides. For days, I sat in my armchair with my blinds drawn. I forced myself to answer Amanda’s calls every day, because I knew that otherwise she would have turned up at my doorstep – and she had keys to my flat. Since the announcement of the award, she had become very anxious that I might do something stupid. On 28 October, however, Amanda didn’t call. And the next day, around noon, someone pounded on my door.
‘Open up! I know you’re in there, Clare,’ a bright voice called. ‘I’m not leaving until you let me in.’ It was Laura.
Very slowly and reluctantly, I opened the door. I absolutely couldn’t face speaking to anyone – not even Laura. But she burst in, hugged me and then took a step back to look at me.
‘Jesus, what’s wrong with you? You look terrible. Are you sick or something? And what’s with the drinking at this time of day? It’s not even twelve yet.’
She must have smelled the whisky on my breath. I mumbled something about a toothache.
‘Well, then go to the dentist, and pronto,’ Laura said. ‘The days of self-medicating dental pain with spirits are long gone. This is the twenty-first century, remember?’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Whatever. You’re right. I’ll go.’
Laura looked at me again. ‘It’s not even true, is it? You look really shit, you know that? Have you lost weight?’
‘Look, I’m a bit stressed about my b
ook project – important deadline coming up, and I’m behind. I just really need to work, OK?’
‘Since when can you work when you’re drunk? I should think that working and drinking, and drinking and thinking, are kind of mutually exclusive.’ Laura wouldn’t let go. She’d folded her arms and was studying me.
‘I’m not drunk, Laura, I just had a drink. Small but significant difference, all right? I was just about to take a shower and make some coffee and get started when you interrupted me.’
‘Well, I’m sorry I got between you and your shower. You certainly need one, I can tell you that.’
‘Thanks. That’s really charming. Did Amanda send you?’
‘No, she didn’t. In fact, she’d kill me if she knew I was here. Do you want to know why?’
I sighed. ‘Why?’
‘Because you forgot her birthday! It was Mum’s birthday yesterday. She was completely distraught that you didn’t call her. It really, really upset her, actually. I mean, your own sister. Come on. You only have one. How difficult can it be to remember that one family birthday?’
‘Shit,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry. I completely forgot what day of the week it was…’
‘Yes, I can see that. And what time of day it is, and so on. You definitely do seem a little disorientated.’ After a pause, Laura said, more gently: ‘Hey, do you want to tell me what’s wrong? Is it that Temple business? You know, Mum is really worried about it.’
The Truth About Julia: A Chillingly Timely Psychological Novel Page 20