by Laura Elliot
No mistake, said Chloe when he asked if she had hung the wrong paintings. She had discussed them with Nadine and these were the chosen four. He studied each one. Broadmeadow estuary at dawn; the rim of gold beyond the viaduct splitting night from day. Sea Aster at twilight; swallows swooping, a soft focus painting until he noticed the split in the front wall, the old house riven. She had painted Shard rehearsing in the barn but it was the young Shard, big hair and denim, sullen Eighties cockiness. The final one was harsh and edgy. An easel with a painting displayed on it. A nondescript study of fruit diagonally slashed, a silver blade on the ground. Jake winced, as if the blade had pressed too deeply into his own skin.
People stopped to discuss her paintings. He Jake drank tepid wine and listened to comments about texture, form and theme.
‘It’s good to see you again, Jake.’ Aurora rushed through the crowd and greeted him warmly. ‘Nadine’s paintings are splendid. But sad, too.’
‘Sad?’
‘She is showing us the split in life that changes everything.’
He knew what she meant. The painting of the band, he decided, was the only one where there was no sign of a sundering. But he was wrong. He saw the dark frame of the barn window and the motif beyond, almost indiscernible. That fall of red hair she could never tame. Nadine and his future, waiting.
‘How is Nadine?’ Aurora asked.
‘She’s stable.’
‘No sign of an awakening?’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’ Reluctant to continue this discussion he moved on to the next painting.
‘Where is Michael?’ She lifted a glass of wine from a tray and followed him.
‘Michael?’
‘Archangel Michael.’
‘On my dashboard, keeping me safe.’ What a pity his protection had not included Nadine. He stopped the words in time, reluctant to hurt her feelings.
She held out a small gift bag with ‘Not Seeing is Believing’ emblazoned on the front. ‘This is Paschar, the angel of the veil,’ she said. ‘Our link between the conscious and unconscious. She’s my gift to Nadine.’
For an instant Jake cast his doubts aside, banked down his scepticism. ‘Will Nadine come back to me?’ he asked.
Aurora shook her head. The overhead spotlight revealed her sparse hair and pale pink scalp. ‘I don’t know, Jake. The angels only bring messages from those who have passed.’
Her glib response infuriated him. As an atheist his view of life and death was unflinching. Death was the end. Those who claimed otherwise were delusional or, worse, exploitative.
Oblivious to his annoyance, or undaunted by it, Aurora explained how she was a conduit for angel messages beyond the grave. He was furious with himself for having sought comfort, in a moment of weakness, from this charlatan. He should have followed his instincts the first time they met and dumped her tacky little angel in the rubbish where it belonged. That was exactly what he intended on doing with the contents of her gift bag.
‘The woman says she’s not frightened anymore,’ she said. ‘She’s happy now and at peace.’
Startled, he glanced sharply at her. Her broad forehead was puckered with concentration.
‘Her name begins with C… Carol… no… do you know someone who’s passed called Carol?’
‘No, I don’t. I’m not into this psychic stuff.’
Aurora shook her head, as if a fly had flown too close to her face.
‘Not Carol… Cora. She’s handing you a beautiful white feather.’
She cupped his elbow. He was hardly aware of her grip yet he was moving back to stand before the Dawn Above the Viaduct painting. She stared at the road Nadine had painted. A squiggle leading to the jetty where he had sat one morning watching the sun rise. Aurora pointed at a lone swan swimming away from the jetty.
‘Cora wants you to know she’s not afraid of the swan anymore.’ The pace of her speech had quickened. Perhaps the wine was going to her head. Jake was unnerved by her vacant stare. How on earth did she know Cora’s name? She must have read about the accident in a newspaper or online.
Unwilling to listen any longer to such vapid nonsense he glanced across the room in the hope that Chloe would intervene and rescue him but the curator had her back to him. In a gallery full of interesting strangers he was stuck with this crazy charlatan.
‘She was blinded by the yellow light,’ Aurora said. ‘Summer was resting on the tide and the air was filled with musk.’
His stomach turned queasily, the tepid wine souring in his mouth. The floor seemed to shift under his feet. He knew the signs. Focus… focus. He stared at the blade in Nadine’s painting, small, sharp, deadly. Gradually the dizziness passed, the black spots faded. Was that how angels appeared to Aurora, quivering against the blank canvas of space. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, terrified he was going to cry in this crowded gallery.
‘Excuse me. I need to go outside.’ He was shaking uncontrollably when he reached the exit. He had to sit down somewhere before his legs gave way. He leaned against the railing until the trembling stopped. Good guesser, that’s what psychics were. They read faces like a map―islands of loss, mountains climbed, bewildered pathways― and exploited people’s emotions with this knowledge.
A tour boat passed, its windows glittering. Voices drifted from the gallery. An outburst of shrill laughter sounded unpleasantly against his ears. He returned inside and searched for Aurora in the crowd but was unable to see her. The Shard portrait and the sundered house had red dots on them already. He would buy Dawn Above the Viaduct. Chloe promised to send it to him as soon as the exhibition ended but he insisted on taking it with him.
On the tube to Heathrow he imagined the unlit road, two sets of headlights clashing. He visualised a car speeding from Sea Aster. The bend beyond the gate that always required a slowing down before taking the right hand turn onto Mallard Cove. Either car just needed to be slightly over the wrong side of the road for an accident to happen. Theory was not the same as fact. Instinct had no place in a court of law, psychic proclamations even less so.
He took out his mobile and checked back over the hundreds of texts he had received since the night of the accident. Eventually, he found the one he wanted. Berlin Rocks. Just two words sent from her mobile. A warning. She knew where he was. He had intended on deleting it but the call from Eleanor came and everything that happened before that moment became irrelevant.
The air was filled with musk. Intimate secretions from animals and plants; an alluring fragrance on his pillow. Hallucinatory throwbacks to torrid nights. Why that word? Its echo vibrated from the tracks, screamed in the whistling tunnels… musk… musk… musk.
‘You look wrecked,’ Ali said when he arrived home. ‘How was the exhibition?’
‘Four red dots on Nadine’s paintings before the night was over,’ he said. ‘This one is my favourite.’
‘It’s beautiful.’ Ali stood back to admire the painting. ‘Where will you hang it?’
‘In Nadine’s ward.’
‘The perfect place.’
‘That woman with the angel shop. Did you ever meet her?’
‘Once, when I was visiting Mum.’
‘What do you make of her?’
‘She scared me… no… that’s not true. She made me scared of myself… what I was doing. But it was too late by then.’
‘Ali, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine… fine. Why are you asking about Aurora?’
‘I’m not sure… can you remember anything more about the accident?’
‘Like what?’ She stiffened, raised her shoulders.
‘Could another car possibly have been involved?’
‘I was asleep when the car skidded.’ Her voice shook. ‘All I remember is the wall… knowing we were going to hit it. But I can’t talk about it, Dad. I just can’t.’
Sara, as if sensing her mother’s distress, began to cry. She still had the kitten cry of a very young baby but it had a lusty determination that demanded instant attention. Al
i took her from the sling and pressed her to her shoulder.
The evenings were shortening. The grass needed cutting. Tomorrow he would work for a while on the attic before driving to Mount Veronica. The wall, having withstood the force of Cora’s car, still formed a solid barricade around Sea Aster. The overhanging trees had a late autumnal glow, as if the green leaves leaching into yellow and russet knew their time was limited and bloomed all the brighter because of it.
CHAPTER 70
Sensations. Hot. Cold. Sore. Numb. Sting. Tingles. Pressure. Wet. Dry. Shivery. Fear.
Sounds. Ping. Hiss. Bleep. Sigh. Sob. Whish. Whirr. Laugh. Whispers.
Smells. Flowers. Food. Disinfectant. Perfume…
* * *
‘The kingfisher is a beautiful bird. Deadly and aggressive. Not advisable to mess with it. I watched him slide that feather into your hair. I knew then that my suspicions were right. Star-gazing when all you saw was him.
‘My mother hated his other women. She never stopped drinking long enough to know they meant nothing to him… or maybe she was drinking because she knew she was included in that truth. I should ask her, I suppose. But we’ve never been into mother-daughter intimacies and, to be honest, I don’t care one way or the other.
‘When I read your letters I was angry with him. I believed he’d debased himself. I allowed myself to believe your fantastical lies… your mad ravings. You, my best friend. It was intolerable. I heard them fighting that night. I was used to their rows, the names she threw at him… Saumya, Annalyse, Tara, Lynnette. He walked away from her, as he always did. As I wanted to do. Fifteen… eighteen… what was the difference? I wanted to be with him, not her but what was I to make of your lies and insinuations? I followed him. Do you understand? I followed him. He was standing on top of the cliff watching the lightening. Better than fireworks, he said. Better than a shower of meteors. I told him about your letters. Do you know what he called you? A stupid child. A fantasist! Do you know what I called him? A liar. Liar! Liar! I pushed him away when he tried to hold me and ran from him. The wind, I hear it still, screaming in from the ocean, and the thunder. How was I to know he’d slip? The mud turning to sludge. The earth breaking away and he was gone. I never knew. I was running… running to Jake… your letters safe in my keep. Jake would have read them that night. Afterwards, when we were alone. But then… but then…
‘He’s read them now. All of them. He had to know your whorish secrets… what you were like that summer. Lying in that cave with him when all you were thinking about was my father. Imagining him inside you… slut. Strange, isn’t it, how your letters destroyed my father and now they’ve destroyed you?
‘Was it as quick for you in the end? You and the sylph and the old woman who should have been put off the road years ago. You were not supposed to be there. I won’t have blood on my hands… not now… not then.
‘I’ll be back again. I know I can trust you to keep my secrets safe in your deep, dark well.
Hand on mouth. Tight. Door closes. Shivers on skin. Water in mouth. Stomach cramps. Can’t hold back. Imelda must come. Make me clean again… please… please come. I am soiled. I am nothing.
* * *
Jake here. Shame… shame…
‘Imelda…Imelda! Nadine needs attention.’
No one comes. Holds his eyes on mine… a new word… jewels… jewels… jewels…
‘Look at me, Nadine. Don’t think of anything else. None of this matters. You are my love… my love.’
He makes me clean. Basin. Sponge. Towel. Napkin. Opens window. Wind good. Air fresh.
Imelda sorry.
‘Terrible that you had to do that, Jake. We need two pairs of hands in this job, cutbacks… cutbacks… Are you sure you can manage? I’m run off my feet this evening.’
‘Yes. I’ll always manage.’
Jewels… jewels…
‘This is your painting, Nadine. It’s beautiful. I’m going to hang it here so that you can see it. And this angel, Aurora sends it with her love. I’m leaving it here on your bedside locker. Can you see? The angel of the veil, she calls it. Crazy woman, her and her dancing angels.’
Not jewels… tears! Tears falling everywhere.
And another word… love….
* * *
Days pass… words come when I don’t struggle. Like snowflakes on my tongue… then gone. Then back. Rain falls. Rain stops. Colours. Sky. Rainbow. Jake here. Kisses. Soft lips. Goes. Samantha drew rainbow and Sam too… and Brian… Ali… rainbow pictures on fridge… rainbow on angel wings… on wall. Rainbow on wall. See it. Count it. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Tap fingers. Seven times. Rainbow angel prism. Is promise. Tap… tap… tap… tap… tap… tap… tap…
CHAPTER 71
JAKE
Imelda had warned him. Nadine was restless, constant eye twitches, her hand jerking towards the metal frame of the bedside locker and banging against it. Jake sat beside her bed and switched on her iPod. Usually, she was calm when she heard her favourite music but not today. Her knuckles were clenched and reddened as she beat against the metal locker. He tried to ignore the sound, hoping she would become exhausted from the repetitive motion. When this failed he placed his hand over hers, willed her to be easy. Her fingers twitched against his palm and he, aware that he was causing her distress, released his grip.
‘Guess what? Feral’s had a baby boy. Matthew. She’s as bad as Daryl with the mobile. Did I tell you about the attic? Remember you said we should have a window overlooking the estuary. The architect says it’s possible. Anything’s possible, Nadine. Anything.’
Was Eoin right when he claimed that whistling in the wind was as effective as these rambling one-sided conversations? Nadine’s breathing was laboured today, a harsh rasp that worried him. Did she need oxygen? Her head jerked sideways towards the bedside locker. Her eyelids fluttered. He had withstood the temptation to throw the tacky little figurine away and, instead, placed it on the locker in the hope that she could see it. What had Aurora called it? Pasket…or something peculiar like that.
‘I spent the morning working in the attic,’ he continued. ‘I never realised there was so much space up there. It’ll make a better studio than the barn. Daryl has drawn up an amazing business plan. All he needs to do is convince the bank to lend. We’ve decided to call it Tõnality Recording Studio. That was your name. Remember when we were trying to come up with one for our company and you said, “What about Tõnality?’’
Nadine tapped once then stopped. Two more taps at a faster tempo. Three beats and the tempo increased. She ended with four rapid beats and her eyes closed as if the convulsive effort of moving her fist had finally tired her out. She opened her eyes after a moment and banged the locker again. Suddenly, alert to the beat of her knuckles, Jake’s body tensed. That awareness, her sharp focus, was she demanding his attention? He listened again. It was the same sequence. Could she possibly be communicating with him in his own language? Crotchet, quaver, triplet, semi quaver? In sync with her beat and hardly daring to breathe, he placed the palm of his hand underneath her finger. Her knuckles, he noticed, were grazed and swollen.
‘Tap once if you can hear me.’
Tap!
‘Are you making music?’
Tap!
‘Do you know me?’
Tap!
‘Am I Brian?’
Tap... tap!
‘Samuel?’
Tap… tap!
‘Jake?’
Tap!
‘Oh… my darling… my darling…’
Her eyelashes fluttered, not randomly as he had been led to believe but slowly, as if the muscles controlling them were moving to her own internal command. Sunshine spilled through the window and bathed the ward in a white glare. Her eyes once again slid sideways in the direction of the bedside locker. The angel figurine glistened, its shadow elongated against the wall. Her eyes fastened on the wings, glitzy blue sequins. He was attuned to her emotions, his senses alert to every movement
she made.
‘Are you frightened, Nadine?’
Tap!
‘Are you afraid of the nurses… the doctors?’
Tap… tap!
‘Of me?’
Tap… tap!
‘Blue? Are you afraid of blue?’
Tap!
Her breathing became stressed.
‘Karin was here?’
Tap!
‘How often has she come. Once… twice…’
Tap… tap! A trickle of perspiration gathered in the hollow of her throat. Her hand was clammy, cold.
‘Many times?’
Tap!
Imelda entered. Her smile disappeared when she heard Nadine’s breathing.
‘She needs oxygen,’ she said. ‘ I’m going to call Dr Coyle immediately.’
‘Car.’ He spoke directly to Nadine. ‘Was there a car leaving Sea Aster on the night of the crash?’
Tap!
‘Do you hear me, Jake?’ The nurse’s voice carried the full weight of her authority. ‘Nadine needs attention. You must leave while I attend to her.’
He paced the corridor until Imelda emerged from the ward.
‘Nadine is communicating with me.’ He spoke quietly, knowing it was important to remain calm for her sake. ‘That’s why she’s hitting the bedside locker. She’s been trying to attract my attention.’
‘Involuntary spasms. We’ve explained this to you already. She’s bruised her knuckles quite badly. If it continues we’ll have to place her hands in gloves to prevent her hurting herself any further.’
He had seen such gloves, soft but obscenely puffed up like those worn by a boxer, used to prevent patients pulling their tubes out.
‘Don’t you dare touch her.’ His chest heaved. ‘My wife is conscious, aware, communicating. I want to see her neurologist immediately.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Saunders.’ Imelda’s tone became formal, her professional mask keeping him at bay. ‘Professor Daly is an extremely busy man and according to the Glasgow Coma Scale – ’