by Laura Elliot
He checked each room in his apartment as he waited for the guards to arrive. Everything was as he had left it. He opened the fridge, searched for something handy to cook. Fish fingers in the freezer section, kid’s food, exactly what he needed. He grilled the fish fingers and carried the plate into the breakfast room. The sky was starless and the curved window flung his reflection back at him, as it did on the night he said goodbye to Karin Moylan.
The squad car arrived. Kids, they said. High as kites, probably. Jake was lucky. They offered him cold comfort. Usually, in situations like this, those little thugs went joy-riding in the stolen vehicle until it was time to burn it out.
CHAPTER 44
NADINE
The lights of London cross-stitch the night in gold as the plane begins a slow descent into Heathrow. My great adventure is over. Ali is waiting in Arrivals. We spot each other in the same instant and, suddenly, I’m ambushed by tears. I feel as if I’ve been holding them back forever. I don’t know why I’m crying or, perhaps, there’s so many reasons I’m unable to distinguish one from the other. Ali is in my arms, crying too, as we hug each other. Giddy with excitement she swipes her tears away and I notice the man standing beside her.
‘Mum, this is Mark Brewer.’ She sings his name, her cheeks glowing. ‘Mark, meet my intrepid mother.’
He’s tall, dark-haired, sophisticated. He wears crumpled linen with confidence and is probably older than her father. No ring on his finger but he’s married. I can always tell. Married men acquire sleekness. Less of the hunter, more of the gatherer, even when, like this one, they are still on the prowl.
‘I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs Saunders.’ Without asking, he takes my trolley and steers it assertively to the carpark.
‘Oh, Mum, you really do look fantastic. That tan. I thought you were exploring icebergs not sun worshipping.’ Ali quickens her pace to catch up Mark’s long stride. ‘Your apartment is lovely. I checked it last night to make sure everything was okay. Mark is going to drop us off there and come back for me when I’ve heard all the gossip.’
Ali has the key to the two-bed apartment in Chelsea. The rooms are smaller than I imagined when I viewed them online. I’ve taken the lease for two months and it will serve its purpose while I look for somewhere more permanent.
‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ Mark says after he carries my cases into the bedroom. ‘I’ll text to let you know I’m outside.’
‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs Saunders.’ His use of my surname suggests he’s placing an age barrier between us. Does he find it disturbing to know his girlfriend’s mother is younger than him? He gives a slight bow in my direction. I almost expect him to click his heels.
‘Thank you for collecting me from the airport, Mr Brewer.’ I’m equally polite. ‘I haven’t seen Ali for many months so I’m sure you can appreciate why I want to spend more than an hour with her.’
‘Oh, Mum.’ Ali raises her voice in protest. ‘Mark is extremely busy – ’
‘Then I’ll organise a taxi for you or you can stay here for the night.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ His voice is smooth, assured. ‘I’ve been selfish wanting her all to myself.’ He places his hand under Ali’s chin and casually kisses her. I know there’s nothing casual about it. He’s marking his territory, laying down his ground rules. ‘Text me when you’re ready, Alysia, no matter how late, and I’ll pick you up.’
Alysia. When did I last hear that name? Probably at the baptismal font.
‘What was all that about, Mum?’ She rounds on me as soon as he leaves. ‘You sounded so rude.’
‘Rude. How could you let him dictate to you like that? What’s going on between the two of you?’
‘Love, that’s what’s going on.’
‘You must be joking. He’s as old as your father, if not older.’
‘Since when has age anything to do with love?’
‘He’s married, Ali.’
‘He’s getting a divorce, just like you and Dad.’ She marches across the room and swishes the curtains closed. ‘A perfect divorce, unlike you and Dad.’
‘Are you living with him?’
‘Sort of.’
‘What exactly does that mean?’
‘I’m still living with Christine but we intend on moving in together as soon as possible.’ She twitches a fold in the curtain then strokes it back into place. ‘I don’t appreciate this level of third -degree questioning. You don’t know the first thing about Mark yet you’re just as judgemental as Dad was. I hope you’re not going to start interfering in my life.’
She looks as if she’s about to stamp her foot. She was an expert on stamping by the age of two. Instead, she settles for a flurried shake of her head. ‘The way Dad went on about The Arboretum Affair you’d think I was dancing around a pole instead of acting in an amazing play.’
The euphoria I felt as I disembarked at Heathrow is rapidly beginning to fade. ‘I don’t want to interfere in your life. And the last thing I want is an argument.’
She shrugs, slightly mollified. ‘I don’t want to fight either… but Mark is very important to me. I was beginning to lose hope until I joined Barnstormers. You’ve no idea what it’s like out there. All those auditions. It’d be easier swimming with a school of piranhas. Mark’s a wonderful director. I’ve learned more from him since I joined Barnstormers than all my years in drama school. And The Arboretum Affair has been so successful. He believes it will run for at least a year.’
‘Why aren’t you on stage tonight?’
‘I changed my night off so that I could meet you.’ She snuggles down on the sofa beside me. ‘Tell me everything about your trip.’
‘It was great to see Jenny again.’
‘You said she’s met someone. What’s he like?’
‘His name is Larry. He’s her cameraman so they’re well matched.’ I tell her about this friendly Canadian who has made Jenny happy and how he proved to be an entertaining guide during the time I spent with her.
‘And the twins? I’m dying to hear all about them.’
‘They’re in love with California. I can’t see them ever coming back here.’ Samantha filled me in on their life plan before I left. After they graduate they’ll run competitively until they stop winning gold. Then they’ll study sport psychology and work with the next generation of elite athletes. I listened and marvelled at their confidence. How did they get to be so very certain of everything?
‘What else can we be?’ Samantha was surprised by my question. ‘It’s the strength of being a plural.’
I’m still filling Ali in on my hectic Californian holiday when her phone bleeps She stands up and checks the window.
‘It’s Mark,’ she says. ‘He’s outside.’
‘He won’t turn to dust if he has to wait an extra minute.’
She pulls on her jacket and zips it to the neck. ‘He’s thinking of moving to New York when his divorce comes through.’
‘So… what are you saying?’
‘He’s asked me to go with him.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘To be with him wherever he goes.’
I stand on the balcony and watch her running towards his car. The interior light switches on when she opens the passenger door. He leans across to greet her. Everything about him alarms me. If only I could take Ali in my arms and run with her to a safe place. Lock her in a tower and cut off her long black hair. But Ali has long outgrown my protective shadow. She’s a young woman in love and if this man is not to my satisfaction that’s my issue, not hers.
CHAPTER 45
I enrol in The Bonnard Art Institute where I’ll attend classes five mornings a week. I plan to rent a studio and paint in the evenings. London is vibrant after the silent grandeur of Alaska. Here, in the midst of clamour and crowds, I’m as anonymous as I was among the ice floes. Everyone is in such a hurry. Why are they rushing? To what? To where? Stuart’s ashes float on icy tides and all that remains are memori
es and the generous legacy he left me.
The rental property market is a battle ground. Sky high prices and a queue of people all with their eyes on the same flat, maisonette, mews or bijou. I stay away from houses with bay windows and try not to think of Karin Moylan each time I pass those warmly-toned Victorian dwellings with their brightly painted doors. But the act of not thinking brings her more vividly to mind. I also ignore the tall white houses with their columned fronts that form such elegant terraces and can only be rented by millionaires. I’ve no interest in the detached luxurious homes that remind me of Bartizan Downs or the suburban semi’s where Jake and I reared our family. One by one I’m shedding layers yet I still don’t know where I want to live.
I check out a two-bed flat in Tower Hamlets. The second bedroom has good light and could work as a studio. I can turn it back into a bedroom when Ali or Brian visit. There’s a lot of interest, the estate agent warns. She’ll let me know when all the viewings are complete. I’ve three more viewings in the area this evening and an hour to kill before checking out the next one.
The café I enter is full. A woman looks up from the newspaper she’s reading and gestures towards the empty seat at her table. Her face is large, dominated by a domed forehead and broad chin. I’ve almost finished my coffee when she stares at my right shoulder, her gaze suddenly unfocused.
‘Cockatoos,’ she says. ‘Such beautiful birds.’ Her eyes have a dark, almost black glitter. ‘I can see them on your shoulder.’
I look down at the table. She seems harmless but direct eye contact is probably not a good idea.
‘Sorry, love,’ she says. ‘I scared you. I do it all the time. But I see signs. When that happens I have to speak.’
I risk a glance around the café. Hopefully, help is at hand if she lunges at my throat.
‘It’s a curse as well as a blessing,’ she admits. ‘Sometimes it’s wiser to ignore what I see but not this time. Your mother’s passed but she’s very happy and surrounded by cockatoos.’
Of all the birds, why is this stranger talking to me about cockatoos? For years after Sara died I imagined she was still alive. Distance made such an illusion possible. I used to visualise her in her garden with its layers of rock and bush, a flock of cockatoos on the garden fence. She could be on the beach, in the supermarket, barbecuing, relaxing in the hot tub, the swimming pool, the tennis courts… anywhere except buried in a quiet graveyard.
‘I’ve upset you.’ Her gaze is focused again, our eyes meeting. ‘I’m sorry for intruding on your psychic space.’
‘Are you a clairvoyant?’ I ask.
I once went to one with Jenny. I was seventeen and feverishly in love with Jake. She told me I’d never marry and was not destined to have a family. A month later I was pregnant. So much for psychic intuition.
‘I see myself more as an angel administrator,’ this stranger replies.
An angel believer. These I’ve also met. They talk about floating feathers and the scent of roses perfuming the air and everybody… everybody… is happy in this celestial sphere these angel visionaries claim to infiltrate.
‘I run the Not Seeing is Believing angel shop on Wharf Alley,’ she adds.
‘Wharf Alley? Where’s that?’
‘Have you heard of Container City?’
The name rings a bell. I saw a documentary about it once. ‘Is it where shipping containers have been converted into homes?’
‘Exactly.’ She folds her newspaper and pushes it into an Asda plastic bag filled with groceries. ‘Wharf Alley is similar but newer. You should come and see us. We’re quite a diverse community.’
She pulls a woolly hat low over her forehead, slips her arms into a bulky anorak. Then she’s gone, moving lightly across the café for such a heavy-set woman. She has left her business card on the table. Aurora Kent is her name. Perhaps it’s the sound of her name that enchants me. Those Northern lights… that magic… the strength of Daveth’s arms… or is it that flock of cockatoos hovering in the ether above me?
CHAPTER 46
JAKE
The slapping noise awoke him. Once again, the bedroom shutter in Nadine’s apartment had slipped free from its clasp. After breakfast he entered the apartment and secured it. The wood was rotten and needed to be replaced. Another job to add to his ‘to do’ list. On the landing he paused, suddenly uneasy. Something was different but he was unable to pinpoint it. He was halfway down the stairs when he stopped and returned to the landing. The long handle used for pulling down the attic staircase lay on the floor. The last time he used it was Christmas Day and he had left it leaning against the wall. Christmas had been a blur of loneliness, too much nostalgia and whiskey. How could he know with certainty where he left anything?
He hooked the handle into the trapdoor and pulled down the folding stairs. The naked bulb hanging from the rafters cast an eerie glow over the crates and black plastic sacks. One of Nadine’s paintings lay on the floor. The hairs on his neck lifted when he picked it up. A study of fruit in a bowl, the canvas slashed diagonally in three places. He pulled other paintings free, each one destroyed in the same way. His skin was gritty with dust when he climbed down from the attic. He entered the bathroom and ran the cold water over his hands until his skin felt numb.
Nadine listened silently when he rang her. ‘They could have been torn by a rat or a bird with sharp talons?’ He tried to lessen the impact of what he had told her. ‘We’ve no idea what kind of wildlife is running around up there.’
‘How did she get into my apartment?’ Her voice had flattened with certainty.
‘How do you know it’s – ’
‘Did you give her my key?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Then she must have taken a copy of the spare I gave you. Has she done anything else?’ They had not once referred to Karin by name. ‘Has she, Jake?’ she demanded when he hesitated.
‘Small things, moving stuff in my apartment.’ He could not bear to tell her about the family photographs. The blank circles where her head was once visible. The damage to his van. The darkening rim around the image of children and their parents. Speaking such things aloud gave them substance. ‘But I wasn’t sure until now. Your canvases…that’s the first concrete sign. I’d changed the locks on my apartment but I didn’t realise she had a copy of your key. I’m reporting her to the police.’
‘Do you honestly think they’ll believe you?’
‘Of course they’ll believe – ’
‘You opened Sea Aster up to her and now her sick DNA is all over it.’ Nadine ground out the words. ‘Burn the paintings. I’ve no room in my life for contamination.’
The following morning he found a rusting tin barrel in the garden shed and dragged it to the bottom of the garden. The paintings burned easily, combustible materials quickly igniting. Afterwards he showered, the water running black with soot. The smell of flaming oils and chemicals remained in his nostrils for hours afterwards. Did DNA linger forever, he wondered. Did it build a momentum, create its own venom; a blue aura incapable of being eradicated?
* * *
They met in a bar in the Italian Quarter. Karin was perched on a high stool when he arrived, a gin and tonic at her elbow, a pint of Budweiser already drawn for him. Instead of her signature colour she wore a short, black dress with pearls at her neck. Her lips, glossily purple, were darkly outlined.
A group of man entered behind him. Loud and ebullient, they had been to a rugby match and had obviously sipped from their hip flasks throughout the game. Conversation was impossible as they crowded around the bar. Jake lifted both glasses and carried them to a quiet alcove that had just been vacated.
‘I was surprised to hear from you,’ she said as soon as they were sitting down. ‘I thought you never wanted to speak to me again.’
‘Why are you stalking me?’ He blurted out the accusation, embarrassed at how absurd it sounded but determined not to normalise their meeting.
‘Stalking you?’ She wrinkled her nos
e in amusement. ‘I follow your band, Jake. I go to hear you sing. Since when has that been defined as “stalking”?’
‘Are you denying you attended Ali’s play?’
‘Of course not. Why shouldn’t I go to the West End when I’m in London?’
‘Are you denying breaking into Sea Aster and destroying Nadine’s paintings?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. You slashed her paintings with a knife.’
She splashed tonic into the gin and drank from the long, slim glass before she spoke again. ‘You told me to go, Jake. I gave you back your key. She had a separate key. How on earth could I enter her apartment, much less destroy paintings I never knew existed?’
‘I don’t believe you. Neither does Nadine. She knew it was you as soon as I told her what happened.’
‘Really.’ She drank again, crunched ice between her teeth. ‘Nadine is the person you should talk to about blades. She’s the expert. Are you that unobservant, Jake? How can you live with her for so long and not be aware that she was into self-harm? I use the past tense but it’s a nasty addiction. She obviously hasn’t outgrown it. Better a canvas than her wrists, I suppose. But blaming me for your wife’s destructive actions is inexcusable.’
Nadine’s wrists were unscarred that summer in Monsheelagh. Two years later, when they met again, he saw what she had done to herself. Her skin was still rippled but the healing had begun, she said. She told him about the slow erosion of self-confidence. The turning inwards towards self-hatred. She had been bullied, she said, shame written large on her face. How painful it must be to sink a blade into one’s flesh, not once but many times, he had thought. He had been bullied for a while when he was twelve but he fought the boy responsible, bleeding his nose and closing one of his eyes. His own injuries were worse, a broken rib and a gash on his forehead where the boy struck him with a stone. They were both suspended for a week. The bullying never occurred again. Physical action was a male response. Girls, it seemed, suffered internally and created toxic wounds that never healed.