Little Bird

by Camilla Way

  Clouds like yellow dogs chased each other across a sallow sky. Kate’s hand slipped from his as the first clods of earth hit wood, and he watched her walk over to a figure standing some distance away beneath a tree. He was stunned to see his mother standing there. She looked up and saw Kate approach her across the clumpy grass. They had met, once, some months ago, when he had taken Kate round to her flat. It had been an awkward couple of hours in which Kate had floundered under his mum’s stubborn silence. Today, however, as Kate approached, he saw his mother smile hesitantly, and make a few tentative steps towards her. They each raised a hand in shy greeting, two castaways waving from their separate islands.

  He took in his mother’s outfit. She was dressed in her smartest clothes, her hands nervously clutching her best handbag. As he peered closer he was amazed to see that she was wearing make-up. It had to be the first time in over a decade she had left her flat. People began to drift away from the grave, and while he and Jimmy thanked the vicar he continued to eye his mother with disbelief. She looked very small, here, in the outside world.

  ‘Mum,’ he said, when he finally joined them. A very fine spray of rain had begun to fall, and he watched it mingle with the patches of rouge on her cheeks.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said at last.

  She pursed her lips and looked self-consciously away to the stream of traffic in the distance. ‘Well,’ she said, stiffly, ‘he was your best friend, wasn’t he? Him and that Jimmy.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Frank quietly. ‘He was.’

  ‘Thick as thieves they was,’ she said, turning abruptly to Kate. ‘When they were kids.’

  Kate smiled tenderly at Frank, and nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry, son,’ said his mother, unexpectedly. She turned to him sharply and fixed her eyes on his, but she spoke very softly as she added, ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  Frank nodded, unable to speak. Suddenly he went to his mother and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her small, stiff body. He realised then that it was the first time they had touched since he was a child. ‘Thank you,’ he said. When he let her go, he noticed that the patches of rouge on her cheeks had been completely washed away.

  The wake was held at the Hope and Anchor and by his second pint Frank was desperate to leave. He stood by the bar with Kate, watching a fight break out between two of Eugene’s exes. ‘I’ve got to get out of here,’ he whispered to Kate. He looked across at Jimmy, who had been backed into a corner by Jackie, the barmaid from the Feathers, her face a mess of tears and mascara as she wailed on and on incoherently into her third double Bacardi and coke. Jimmy looked over and caught Frank’s eye, and within minutes the two of them, Kate and Mel in tow, were edging towards the door.

  ‘You still got the key?’ Frank asked when they were safely outside.

  By way of answer, Jimmy pulled his key ring from his pocket and waggled it in front of Frank’s face.

  ‘OK, let’s go,’ said Frank, and the four of them set off in the direction of Eugene’s flat.

  ‘I didn’t want to remember this place the way I saw it last,’ said Jimmy, when they were all sitting in Eugene’s front room.

  Frank stared around at the familiar dark blue carpet, the ugly brown sofa and chairs, the Taxi Driver poster on the wall, the broken coffee table with its overflowing ashtray still full of roaches and bits of Rizla.

  Eugene had been assigned this flat when he’d turned eighteen and was kicked out of the children’s home, and from that moment on it had been the focus of their social life. It was an ugly, cramped little place but he and Jimmy had loved it. He wondered vaguely how many nights exactly he had spent round here, getting stoned, watching videos, passing out? He wondered how many girls he’d got off with on this very sofa.

  He felt very cold suddenly and shivered; all at once he was feeling unbearably claustrophobic, the walls of the room felt oppressive and cell-like, the smell from the ashtray made him feel queasy. He realised with a heart-stopping flash of shock that it must have been here, on this sofa, that Jimmy had found Eugene’s body that night, and he jumped to his feet with a start. Shaking his head at Kate’s look of concern he hurried across the room to the bedroom, and closed the door.

  Sitting on Eugene’s untidy bed he put his head in his hands. He let out a long, painful rush of air from his lungs and looked around at the untidy mess of clothes, empty beer bottles and toiletries. Next to the bed, open face down at page six, where it had been for the past five years or so, was a battered copy of The Celestine Prophecy, and despite himself Frank smiled. The room still smelt as it always had, ever since Eugene had moved in there – unwashed clothes, stale spliff smoke, a faint whiff of sex.

  A photograph propped up on the cluttered mantelpiece caught his eye, and he went over and picked it up. It was a photo he’d never seen before, did not remember ever having been taken, and he wondered how long Eugene had had it. It was of the three of them, aged about thirteen or so. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. Eugene was in the middle, wearing a yellow vest with ‘33’ written on it in big black letters. His hair was in a wild afro like a bubble around his face and he was looking directly at the camera while Frank and Jimmy were turned towards him. The three were laughing about something but it was Eugene’s expression that made him feel as though, just for a moment, the world had split in two: his head was thrown back in mid-laugh, his eyes were wide. It was a moment of total, unselfconscious joy captured forever in the photo.

  The tears came without warning and still clutching the photograph the grief that had so far refused to show itself escaped finally in a long, wrenching sob. He dropped the photo to the floor and sat, doubled over on the bed.

  He barely registered the sound of the door opening, nor the weight of somebody sitting down next to him on the bed. And then he felt Jimmy’s arm around his shoulder and he sunk against his friend, sobbing, while Jimmy silently patted his back.

  twenty-eight

  Deptford, south-east London, 12 May 2004

  Black, wretched days follow Eugene’s funeral. Kate can only watch as grief grabs Frank by the throat and pulls him under. For a week now there has been nothing – no surprises in the post, no silent phone calls, no speeding cars. But it’s coming, of that she’s certain. And there, slithering beneath it all, is the memory of Steven’s touch; of her betrayal. Now the memories of Ingrid’s death return with horrifying clarity. There’s no respite from them: asleep or awake they come, at first in the form of brief, static images, but then sewage-like they seep into her consciousness, creeping across her dreams like ghosts.

  At first she calls in sick at the library, fending off Stuart’s polite concern with stories of viruses and stomach bugs. Every morning she kisses Frank goodbye and leaves for work as usual, but instead of heading towards Soho she prowls the streets of London, riding busses and the Underground to random destinations: Highgate, Camden, Kensington, Whitechapel, anywhere she can walk unseen amongst the crowds. She roams the streets of Islington, Archway, Fulham, always hurrying, hurrying amongst the bodies. And still the memories pursue her, tapping on her shoulder, treading on her heels. She thinks of Steven, of the strange, dreamlike unreality of that evening, the sense of relief that had come from the telling of her story, the intense desire that had gripped her, the sensation of reaching for him, but finding nothing there, of ultimately waking from her trance and seeing only Frank’s face, the one concrete truth of him, and then the awful realisation of what she’d done.

  Finally, in the middle of Kings Cross, she comes to a halt. The time has come. She can feel danger, poised and waiting, ready to pounce. It is time to leave. She will return to the library to collect her final cheque, and then she’ll tell Frank everything.

  Descending the stairs to the basement Kate feels at last some relief from her lonely wanderings. The comforting yellow gloom of the Archive Room envelops her and she realises that she’s missed this peaceful, underground refuge from the world. She passes the row of wo
rkstations, returning her colleagues’ greetings until, finally, Daisy looks up and notices her with a smile of delighted surprise. Her eyes meet Steven’s for the briefest of moments, but she quickly looks away.

  While Daisy rambles excitedly on, Kate smiles and nods, her heart twisting uncomfortably to be so close to him again. Guilt wraps itself around her, tightening its grip. She tries to quash a sudden desire to run. She can barely stand to look at him, and when her eyes do flicker over to him she winces, seeing something quite repellent now in the brute force of his good looks, his jaw too square, his skin too rude with health.

  Eventually Daisy wanders off to the Ladies and leaves them alone.

  ‘Good to have you back,’ she hears him say. She nods dully, staring hard at her computer screen. ‘Feeling better, I hope?’

  She looks at him then, manages a smile, and says faintly, ‘Yes, thank you.’ For the seventh time that hour she glances at the clock. The girl in the payroll department has told her she must wait until four to collect her wages. It occurs to her to leave without them, but if she is to start her life somewhere new she will need all that she can get.

  ‘Kate.’ The low urgency of Steven’s voice makes her look up in surprise. ‘I need to talk to you about something,’ he says. ‘It’s very important.’

  She’s about to shake her head when he persists. ‘Please, Kate.’ He lowers his voice still further and with a quick glance around the room says, ‘It’s about what you told me the other night. Something I’ve found out. Something you’ll want to hear. I think that I can help you.’

  She thinks for a while, but then nods her head reluctantly, unable to ignore the tiny sliver of hope his words have given her. ‘OK,’ she says at last.

  ‘Will you meet me after work? At six, on the corner of Berwick Street?’

  At that moment Daisy returns to her desk, and Kate only has time to nod.

  He doesn’t notice her approach. Amongst the streams of people – tourists, office workers, shoppers – he stands gazing off into the distance. She takes in the close-cropped shape of his skull, the wide, muscular shoulders. Suddenly every inch of her longs to run, to not have to talk to this strange unsettling man, wanting only to be with Frank, to feel his body in her arms, to smell his scent, to feel his kiss, to beg his forgiveness. But it’s too late, too late. When she’s only a couple of feet away Steven turns, although she has made no sound. And then he nods and says, ‘Let’s go.’

  Without a word, they set off in the direction of Oxford Street. She has no desire to return to the dingy little pub they went to before, but here in his presence, alone with him, she feels again the strange dreamlike sense of being dislocated from reality.

  ‘Steven,’ she begins, finally, after several minutes of silence, ‘what I told you the other night, I haven’t told anyone. Nobody knows who I really am, except you. Not even Frank – not yet.’

  They cross Oxford Street. At last he speaks. ‘There’s something you need to know, Kate. But wait a moment, wait until we’re alone.’

  They continue walking, and as they reach then pass the pub she realises they are heading towards his flat. She stops outside his building, not following him when he bounds up the steps and begins to unlock the front door. At last, noticing her reluctance he walks back down the steps and, before she even knows what’s happening, is pulling her towards him and kissing her.

  At first, shock stops her from reacting and she hangs, momentarily passive in his arms, her lips unresponsive beneath his until at last she collects herself and pushes him away. ‘No, Steven, that’s not what I came here for.’ She stares back at him angrily. ‘The other night was a mistake. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know why I’m here.’ She shakes her head and backs away and doesn’t see the rage that flares then gutters behind his eyes.

  ‘Wait.’ He catches hold of her arm, and with a sudden rush of intensity says, ‘I’m sorry, Kate. Please stay. Please, please come upstairs with me. Just to talk, I promise. I need to tell you something. I think I’ve found a way to help you.’

  The kitchen’s magnolia walls are bare apart from an ugly wall clock noisily clicking away each minute. This flat, she sees now, is a still, soulless place, where no one seems to live, where no one has ever lived. On her way in she had briefly glimpsed a living room but he had hurried her past before she could get a proper look. The bedroom door had been closed, and as she thinks of what had once passed between them there, fresh guilt grips her. Stood in the kitchen, claustrophobia descends on her. The kitchen door clicks shut behind them and she jumps.

  Steven is standing near the window, watching her. She hears her own voice, thin and nervous in the silence: ‘What did you want to tell me?’

  But still he stares without answering and she notices a thin layer of sweat now covers his brow, and it seems as if every speck of him is tensed for something. Her unease grows. She looks around her uncomfortably, glancing up at the clock.

  Click. Another minute gone.

  ‘Steven,’ she says, ‘what’s the matter with you? Why are you looking at me like that?’ When still he doesn’t answer, she turns to the door, ‘I’ve really got to go. I shouldn’t have come here.’ She feels a confusing sadness. The place chills her, fills her with an unnameable bleakness. She is desperate to leave.

  He has crossed the room in seconds, has hold of her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh, the same strange intensity she had seen before. She tries to shake him off. ‘Steven!’ she protests, too shocked and confused to say anything else. And then, to her amazement, he tries to kiss her again, his mouth rammed against hers, his tongue pushing between her lips. With one arm he pins her against the wall while his free hand roams over her body.

  In vain she tries to writhe out of his grip. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, but his mouth has moved to her neck and with clumsy fingers he begins to unbutton her dress. ‘Come on,’ he breathes into her neck, his voice thick and strange. He pulls away and looks into her face, a hunger in his eyes, ‘Come on,’ he urges again.

  ‘No!’ Struggling free at last she makes it to the kitchen door, but before she can cross the hall he is pushing past her. She tries to catch up with him but he shoves her roughly away, sending her sprawling to the floor and she watches as he pulls a key from his pocket and turning it in the lock, imprisons her.

  Anger at last gets the better of her fear. ‘Let me out,’ she tells him, scrambling to her feet. But when he turns back to her his face is chillingly blank. It astonishes her how quickly it can change, the various emotions laying siege to his features, charging around like crazed gatecrashers before abruptly leaving it entirely empty like a suddenly vacated room. As he moves towards her she retreats until she feels the cold wall at her back. Within moments he is in front of her and she feels the dark immediate threat of him as he looms over her. He grasps her arms and she is aware now of his strength. ‘I want to,’ he says, his voice devoid of emotion and when she struggles, his face fills with a childish, impotent rage.

  She feels the danger just before it happens, like glimpsing a missile flying towards her from the corner of her eye. He grabs her wrist, hauling her into the bedroom. ‘No, Steven,’ she pleads, but, ignoring her, he throws her onto the bed. It is his silence that is so awful now. At first she cries out as she struggles beneath him, but soon she too lapses into a tense silence, and the two of them wrestle mutely on the bed.

  He is too strong for her. Effortlessly he pins her down with one hand, while the other reaches beneath her skirt. When she kicks out with her leg he slaps her hard across the face, then fumbles with the zipper of his jeans. He is unrecognizable, as if something fundamental in his chemical make-up has altered to transform him into an entirely different creature. ‘Please,’ she says, breaking the silence at last, but it’s as if he doesn’t hear her. Still keeping her pinned to the mattress he tears at his jeans, grunting with the effort as he pulls them down, and she thrashes beneath him in one last futile bid for freedom.

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nbsp; And then, suddenly, abruptly, everything stops. Time halts, the world is still. There, above her, Steven doesn’t even breathe. Only his eyes move and in the strange sudden stillness they collide with hers and as she stares back into their pale green vacuum the moment finally breaks, he is pulling his jeans back up over his hips and in her astonishment she just has time to catch a glimpse of flaccid flesh before with a shout of fury he has run from the room, and seconds later she hears the kitchen door slam shut behind him.

  She lies on the bed, unable for the moment to make sense of her reprieve. But finally she sits up, her eyes on the locked front door on the other side of the hall. She listens for some sound from Steven, but can hear nothing. Dazedly she wonders what time it is, and how long he will keep her here. She wonders if he will come back and what he will do when he does. Her wrists and face and shins feel bruised and sore where he’d slapped and pulled her and at the memory of his violence she looks again towards the locked front door, cold fear gnawing at her. Shakily she refastens the buttons of her dress and as she pushes herself up, her hand falls upon something cold. There amongst the wrinkled sheets from where it must have fallen from his pocket is the front door key. Instantly she is on her feet.

  The key is in the lock, the door open in seconds, but just as she is about to escape, she happens to glance across to the living room and catches sight of the stacks of papers, books and photographs piled high upon the coffee table. The thought of Steven catching her there impels her to keep moving but there’s something about one of the larger photos, something familiar about its colours and composition that has caught her eye and now causes her to freeze, then turn back and take a few steps closer. In a moment she is crossing the room in quick strides and seizing the photograph from its pile. With mounting disbelief she takes in the familiar image of herself, aged twelve, standing outside the hospital in Rouen.