by Simon Brooke
I buy some bread from another stall and choose a couple of small cheeses from the one next door. We could eat these at the hotel before we go out for dinner. That would be a nice surprise for her when she gets back. Or I could just chuck them away—it’s the buying, the being part of this amazing event that counts.
“I love markets, don’t you?” says a voice behind me. I spin round.
“That’s because you’re an economist,” I say.
Guy laughs.
“No, it absolutely is not. I just love the noise and life of markets. I thought if you came to Barcelona this was the one thing you should see. The Gaudi Cathedral is interesting in a slightly bizarre, surreal way and the view from the top at dusk is breathtaking, but this is the best thing about this city. No one should ever leave without experiencing the legendary Mercat de Sant Josep.”
We walk on a bit as Guy points out some of his favourite stalls, smiling and speaking in authentic sounding Spanish to the owners as he buys bits and pieces, offering me a piece of cheese and a couple of strawberries.
“Are you hungry?” he says after a while.
“Starving.”
“There’s a great tapas bar round here.”
“Brilliant.”
“Where’s Nora? Is she coming?”
“She’s shopping on the other side of the Ramblas. She’s going to meet us here later.”
“Oh, okay. I was hoping I might see her again.”
“She might come over later. She thought we’d better have some time to talk on our own first.”
“Of course.” Guy looks serious. “Charlie, I realise I owe you an apology.”
“What for?” I say smiling pleasantly.
Guy looks surprised.
“Well, for the whole 2cool thing.” He sees me smile and realises that I’m teasing. Nervously he smiles back.
“Don’t worry, I’ve forgiven you.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. I think so. I mean it would be different if it had got serious, if I had been arrested or prosecuted. Oh, fuck, when I think of all the things that could have happened to me.”
“Actually they wouldn’t really. If I’d thought you could have been at real risk of conviction or anything, I’d have come back.”
“Thank you.” We stroll on a bit. “So you just let me sweat a bit.”
“I can only apologise, Charlie. It was a cowardly act.”
Guy’s formal phrase could be just Guy or it could be a way of avoiding the fact that he really does feel guilty. I let him think about it for a moment as we walk, passing a cheese stall where a spectacularly toothless woman in a head scarf is gossiping indignantly with the owner.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” I say at last. “It was pretty horrible at the time but in fact all that happened to me in the end was that I grew up a bit. It was the end of my charmed life, I suppose.”
“How ironic, given that that’s what we hired you for,” smiles Guy. “Here we are. Look it’s only half past one so the Spanish haven’t even started lunch yet.” We take a seat each at a tapas bar in the middle of the market. The counter in front of us is packed with dishes and plates: there are golden crusted tortillas on display and various stews with fish, beans and great boney chunks of meat. Guy orders us both a glass of cava. “Try the tomato and zucchini tortilla,” he says, so I nod at the woman looking expectantly over the counter at us.
“I have to say I think I was most pissed when you rang on my dad’s mobile and then hung up when I answered.”
“Oh, that. God, that was a bit of a shock, I must say. Sorry, I panicked but I just couldn’t think of anything else to do but hang up.”
“Why were you ringing him?”
“I wanted some advice, wanted to know how to get out of this. Of all the people we’d roped into 2cool he seemed the most sensible. You look surprised? Well, perhaps not in his private life but in business he’s a very savvy operator, actually. I thought he might be able to help.”
“He lied to me.”
“He thought it was for the best, Charlie. It was agony for him but he thought that if he could just hang on the police would find nothing to charge you with, 2cool would be wound up and you’d be safely free from it all.”
I think about this. The pasta arrives and I’m distracted for a moment by the rich sweetness of the tomatoes, zucchini and peppers. All my senses seem to be heightened today.
“But you’ve forgiven him?” says Guy, sticking his fork into his own pasta.
“Yes, oh, yes. He is my dad after all. We had a long talk.”
As if he hardly dares broach the subject Guy says:
“You had quiet a near miss that night.”
I shudder as the memories come back. Sometimes I sort of savour my near death experience and other times I find myself reliving the memory involuntarily. I had a nightmare again on the flight over. It was my usual one. I was lying on the floor of that kitchen, the heavies looking over me and other people, fat, old, naked people were laughing and stabbing me. Women in stilettoes stamping on my face, urging each other to get my eyes as I tried to defend myself. “Oh, well done, Jennifer!” said one. “Again, Annabelle, you nearly got him.” Their voices so vivid. I cried out but in a second Nora was leaning over me, pressing my head into her neck under her chin and kissing my hair.
“So you got out safely in the end,” says Guy, obviously as a cue for me to say more.
“Yes,” I take a mouthful of cava. “Yes. Someone had called the police. People were rushing out, in a panic. Desperately trying to get dressed, so I’m told. Nora said two young officers arrived thinking it was a domestic or something. Apparently they were just open mouthed by what they saw—and who they saw.”
Guy smiles at the thought.
“But anyway, they found me. I was unconscious by then, I’d lost quite a lot of blood. An ambulance came. My dad and Nora came to hospital with me. I had an emergency operation and they stitched me up,” I say quickly, trying to avoid dwelling on it in case the memories come flooding back again, here and now. I reach down to my abdomen and feel the strange roughness of the scar. A new feature on the familiar landscape of my body, a new part of me.
“You’re all right now then?”
“Oh, yeah. Wanna see?”
“Erm,” says Guy looking slightly alarmed.
“I’m only kidding,” I say and hit at his arm affectionately. “It’s my war wound.”
“No more swimwear ads, then?”
“No, thank goodness.”
We eat for a moment and then Guy says:
“So Nora never wrote up the story.”
“No.”
“Really? That’s incredible—it was massive.”
“Oh, don’t you start. That bloody phrase! Yes, it was, is, but not for Nora. She promised not to mention my dad but there was also a little problem, with the whole story, a little technical problem.”
Guy looks confused.
I smile and roll my eyes.
“Nora’s camera. She, um…” I laugh.
“What?” says Guy. “What was it?”
“She forgot to put any film in.”
I turn and look at Guy. He bursts out laughing and within seconds we can hardly sit on our stools, tears running down our cheeks. The Spanish around us stop their shouted conversations to look over at us.
“You’re joking,” says Guy, wiping his eyes with a very old, dirty hanky.
“Yeah, the guy at the picture desk on the paper showed her how it all worked and gave her the film cartridge but she was so overexcited that night that she forgot to put it in the camera.”
“But they still had the story.”
“I know but the paper didn’t dare run it without the proof of the photographs. Can you imagine the risk? Nora’s word against the great and good from politics, finance, the arts and everywhere else—including the law. They’d have shredded her.”
He thinks about it for a moment.
“God, she must have been
pissed.”
“Just a bit.”
“But you and her…”
Me and Nora. It still takes a while to get used to the idea after it being me and Lauren for so long.
“Yes, me and Nora. She came to the hospital with my dad and me. I was pretty well out cold by this time but later when I came round in the morning they were both there waiting by my bed.” I can visualise them sitting on hard plastic chairs in a corner of the room. The clean, antiseptic hospital smell is with me again. It took me a moment to realise where I was but the first thing that struck me was the way they were both asleep, Nora’s head on my dad’s shoulder and his head resting on top of hers. I watched them sleeping peacefully for a moment and then I tried to call them but my mouth was so dry that it hurt. Nothing came out but a kind of creaky gasp. I moved slightly. I felt exhausted. Then, remembering what had happened the night before, wondering if it was a dream, I reached down to where that intense, shocking flash of pain had been. I managed to push my hospital gown away enough to get underneath it. A bandage. Ow, it still hurt. Lifting my head up I looked down and saw a large white bandage on the side of my stomach.
I had been stabbed. Fucking hell. But I was still alive. Screwing up my eyes against the glare of the strip lights I looked around me. Everything else seemed to be working. I kicked my feet gently and then moved my other arm and felt a slight pull on my hand. Lifting it up to look at it, I noticed a tube, a saline drip, coming out of it. I tried to look at where this bit of technical equipment, this hospital stuff, was connected to me. More bandages. A small smear of blood along the clear plastic pipe. I felt slightly faint so I dropped my head back down on the pillow.
But the others were stirring now. Looking up again, I saw my dad blink and rub his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Nora was already looking across at me intensely.
“Hey,” was all she said, very softly.
I tried to reply but my voice wouldn’t work. She got up, stretching awkwardly as she did so, discovering where she was stiff, where she ached. Then she came across to my bedside table and poured me a glass of water and held it to my lips. It was stale and tepid but it felt good on my parched throat. I took a few sips. I swallowed hard.
“Hey,” I growled.
She smiled, turning her head to look at me and pushed my hair, which felt sticky and matted, away from my forehead.
“How you feeling?”
“Whacked,” I whispered and I did.
She smiled again.
“I’m not surprised.”
I wondered for a moment if I was dreaming. The room was so brightly lit and so silent. Then my dad appeared behind her, also looking exhausted.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Still with us then?” As I looked again at his familiar face, eyes swollen with lack of sleep, I realised that behind the question a feeling of relief was battling with guilt and confusion. I’d nearly died. His only son had nearly died in front of him and he’d been partly responsible for it.
“Just,” I said, trying to show that I didn’t hold anything against him.
“Do you want some coffee?” he asked Nora.
“Mmm, yes, please, that would be nice,” she said without taking her eyes off me.
My dad moved off and left the room. I lay back and closed my eyes again—tired out by this simple exchange. I felt Nora take my hand and squeeze it gently. Hers was soft and cool in mine which felt sweaty. I opened my eyes again and asked her:
“What happened?”
She laughed softly at the inadequacy of my question.
“Are you sure you’re well enough to hear?”
I wasn’t sure but I said:
“Yeah…yeah. What happened?”
“Well,” she said, thoughtfully. “I don’t know how much you remember. I thought for a moment they’d just thumped you in the stomach so I tried to pull you away but then I saw…this blood…it was everywhere. So much of it.” She stopped for a minute and bit her lip. I squeezed her hand. “I didn’t, couldn’t, believe it was yours at first. Then I realised you’d been stabbed by one of those…bastards…and I thought for a moment…” She blinked back tears and then put her head down on my hand, opening it out and kissing my palm gently. I tried to touch her hair with my other hand but my drip held it back. She lifted her head again, wiped away tears and struggled to give me a reassuring smile through lips that she didn’t seem able to control.
“Luckily someone there knew about first aid, some guy…” she grunted with disgusted amusement. “Some guy dressed as a schoolboy had seen it and he came forward and began to rip up clothes or something to stop the bleeding. Then, soon afterwards the paramedics arrived. By that time almost everyone else had left, run away.” She drifted off for a moment, staring into space. “They did their thing. They didn’t seem to notice anyone else. I’m afraid the guy who did it, who stabbed you, whichever one it was, got away. One minute they were both there looking like ‘Oh, my God, what have I done?’ and the next they’d disappeared. The police took statements from everyone who was still there—they’ll want to talk to you too, I suppose—but I don’t think they’ll ever find those guys.”
I watched her speak, trying to remember any of it or at least visualise what it must have been like. I was wondering about the effect it must have had on Nora. I remembered her bravery when we were in the house where Piers was hiding.
“I don’t care about them,” I whispered. She took another deep breath.
“And then we came in the ambulance with you, your dad and me that is, and we had to leave you when they rushed you into the emergency room.” She bit her lip again at this moment to stop it quivering. “And then we waited and waited and finally the doctor came out and said it was all okay and you’d be all right.” She stopped again and swallowed hard. “He said…” She laughed gently. “He said it was just a routine stabbing. Can you believe it? A ‘routine’ stabbing.” She laughed again. “I suppose they must see so many.” Now her laughter turned to sobs. “Oh, Charlie…we really thought…”
“Kiss me,” I told her.
She looked almost surprised, then relieved. I felt her lips on mine. I smelled the remainder of her perfume mixed with stale sleep. She rested her cheek against mine for a moment and I wished she could get into bed with me and we could hold each other.
The door opened. Nora stood up and looked around. It was my dad holding two plastic cups.
“Oh, er, sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay, John,” said Nora. “Is that coffee?”
“Hard to say without a lab report,” said my dad, looking down at it uneasily.
“What? No latte?” I croaked. They both laughed, more out of relief than amusement. My dad walked forward and handed one cup to Nora. I could smell it now.
“Thanks,” she said, taking a sip.
“Listen, I’ll, er, I’ll be outside,” he said. Nora got up and turned to look at him.
“No, you don’t have to,” she said. But he left anyway, closing the door quietly behind him. She sat down again.
“Nora.”
“Yes.” She looked expectantly at me.
“Just, you know, be careful,” I said, looking over at the coffee. “I don’t fancy third degree burns as well as a stab wound.” She looked quizzical and then smiled shyly as the penny dropped. She said: “I’m glad he’s giving us a minute.”
“Is there an ‘us’?”
I remember looking at her as if I’d met her for the first time. Did I really know this girl at all? I looked away trying to get my thoughts together. I still felt groggy and tired.
“Nora, I love being with you, I’d love there to be an ‘us,’ but…” I looked back at her. She was staring intently at me, obviously trying to work out what I was going to say next. If only I knew myself. All I could do was say what I thought as it came into my head. “You’ve lied to me so much over the past few weeks, I can’t forget that.” She began to cry again, this time she didn’t try
to stop herself. “Why did you do it?”
“I don’t know,” she said eventually. “I can’t help myself sometimes. It was a story and it was exciting and people were talking about what I’d written and I was getting stuff into the paper and the editor was coming into the office and saying ‘Well done….’”
I tried to understand what she meant, what this all-consuming motivation was that she was describing.
“What about me, though? We made love and then you used that story about 2cool closing….”
Looking down at my hand which she was still holding, she began to cry again.
“I don’t know, I’m so sorry, Charlie. I told you, sometimes I just can’t help it. Causing trouble, stirring it up. It’s this part of me that does it. The thing is…” She took a deep breath. “The thing is, I knew I was hurting you but I couldn’t stop myself. I think it was also because I wanted to hurt you, wanted to make you pay attention to me. That’s horrible isn’t it?” she looked up at me through eyes reddened with crying and lack of sleep.
“Well, getting me stabbed certainly got my attention.” She stared horrified, anxious. “I’m kidding,” I said, lying back, suddenly feeling very tired, unable to think this all through at the moment. She was right, it was horrible but, on the other hand, I was beginning to feel that perhaps we had moved on. If she could recognise that part of her then perhaps she could do something about it, control it. Perhaps I could help her.
“Oh, God, Charlie, it’s not funny. I did get you stabbed. I made you come to that party, got you messed up in this whole thing.”
“I got myself messed up in it. You just added to it a bit.”
“And then when you told me Lauren and you had split up I was so upset. I’d wanted it, sure, in a way, but I couldn’t believe you’d ever do it. I felt guilty, like it was my fault—and it was my fault.”