by Alex Preston
On the train back to New York she slipped her shoes off and tucked her legs beneath her on the seat. She was reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Mouse had sent it to her. It was the edition they had given to him for his nineteenth birthday. He had crossed out their message and written underneath it. The new inscription read: For Mummy and Baby Glass. She smiled. The sun was going down as the train moved out of the leafy New Jersey countryside and into the vast urban sprawl that surrounded New York. She liked to listen to the strange place names as they edged towards the city: Rahway, South Amboy, Secaucus. There was something terribly exotic about it all, even though the towns themselves were ugly smears of industrialised wasteland.
Abby sat back in her seat with her hands resting across her tummy. She knew she wouldn’t feel a kick for another month, knew that there was still a long way to go. But the baby was blessed. After everything that had happened, after all the heartache and the loss, the baby had to survive. It was only fair. It kept the world in balance.
She spoke to the baby sometimes. Only just moving her lips, a half-whisper. She told it about its father. She told it about Lee. She spoke about David. She shivered with excitement as they pulled into Penn Station. She said a little prayer as the train clunked and hissed to a stop. God, please look after the baby. After that, I really don’t care what else happens, just please let the baby survive. Amen.
*
Marcus was drunk. He had stopped at Bergdorf Goodman on the way home from the Course office on 52nd Street. He wanted to buy Abby a dress. They had a fundraising dinner at Trinity Church on Wall Street that evening. Abby was on the train home from one of her university sessions. He had walked through the dimly lit corridors of the mazelike department store until he came to a large room full of beautiful dresses. There was some sort of event being held. A group of women in their sixties stood around drinking champagne. Their hair was immaculately coiffed, their nails dripped red varnish, diamonds hung from earlobes and wattled necks and wide lapels.
Marcus began to wander around the room looking at the dresses. He held one up to the light, trying to make out whether it was black or navy blue. One of the older women came up behind him.
‘You buying something for the girlfriend, sweetie?’
‘It’s for my wife, actually.’
‘Oh, don’t you have the cutest little English accent? So it’s for your wife. It’s for his wife, Carmella.’ She took the dress from him and held it up against her, looking critically in the mirror. ‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll like this. Now what does she look like? About my build?’ She was tiny, her wasp waist held in with a large black belt. Marcus smiled.
‘Oh, no. She’s very tall. And she’s pregnant.’
‘Wonderful! How far along is she?’
‘Coming up for four months.’
‘Well, we must have a drink to celebrate. Come on, take a glass of champagne. Carmella, Nicole, get the girl to bring this young man a glass of champagne.’
Marcus took the glass, feeling rather dazed.
‘Now she’ll want something slimming. Is she showing properly yet? Does she have a bump?’
‘No, not a proper bump yet.’
Marcus drank almost an entire bottle of champagne with the ladies, who he discovered were members of an exclusive Bergdorf Goodman loyalty club. He left carrying a beautiful gold dress, another bottle of champagne slipped into the black-and-white carrier bag.
He walked along the concrete and steel canyon of Fifth Avenue until he reached the great green breath of the park. The sky above was a deep blue. The sun touched the uppermost branches of the trees. He browsed the bookstalls that had colonised the railings along the south-east corner of the park. The first leaves were appearing on the trees above him. He bought a copy of Fitzgerald’s short stories and walked across the busy street. He made his way into the Frick Gallery, flashing his membership pass at the guard on the door, who recognised him and smiled.
He had taken out membership of the Frick on his first day in New York. He walked through the quiet atrium where a fountain babbled soothingly. The gallery would close in an hour and the tourists had already left, heading back for cocktail hour at their hotels. Marcus strode through the rooms that held the major collections, barely looking at the Italian and Dutch masters, which he knew by heart now. He made his way up the narrow winding stairway at the end of the gallery to the second floor where the collection grew more haphazard, less easily negotiated by the portly tourists, less amenable to holiday snapshots. The rooms here were high and dusty, full of Louis XIV furniture and Limoges porcelain.
Marcus wandered through the silent, airless rooms until he came to a gallery overlooking the lily pond with its sparkling fountain. The dusk had a quality to it that he could taste at the back of his throat, something nostalgic and poignant. He knew it was partly that he was drunk. He sat down in a green wing-back chair. The trick was to manoeuvre the chair so that the security guards wouldn’t be able to see him when they did their rounds. Not that they seemed too concerned when they did. He and Abby were increasingly treating these upper rooms as their own.
They chose times when there were few visitors: just after opening time on weekday mornings, or in the evenings when the tourists had gone home. They settled themselves into the high, comfortable chairs and pretended that it was their home. It was an elaborate fantasy, and a thrilling one. Abby would speak about the children downstairs with the nanny, Marcus would bring a copy of the Wall Street Journal with him in order to make worldly-sounding comments about the day’s financial news. They would spend hours moving around the gallery’s labyrinth of still rooms, constructing slight variations in their imaginary lives: in some, Marcus was an oil baron; in others, he had made his fortune in pork bellies. Sometimes Abby was the great heiress and Marcus a devious adventurer.
That evening, he drew out the bottle of champagne from the Bergdorf Goodman bag and removed the cork very slowly to muffle the pop. He sat back and opened the book of short stories, his feet drawn up beneath him. He sipped at the champagne as he read, the small bubbles exploding upon his tongue. The yeasty aftertaste always made him think of money. He was reading ‘Babylon Revisited’, and when he came to the passage where the hero’s wife dies, he was overcome by a sudden heart-clutching sadness. He put the book down on his lap and concentrated on drinking, staring out with cool, dry eyes into the atrium. When the bottle was almost finished, he put it back in the carrier bag and made his way downstairs. He nodded at the security guard as he left the building and walked slowly up 70th Street to the apartment, smoking one of the cigarettes that he kept hidden in the inside pocket of his coat.
When he got inside, he hung the dress in a cupboard, made himself a gin-and-tonic and took a bath, listening for Abby as he lay back in a nest of foam. He could hear his heartbeat in the whisper of bursting bubbles. He missed being able to smoke in the bath. He knew he was drinking too much, and let some of the gin-and-tonic dribble from his mouth and into the water. Stretching one arm along the cold porcelain and resting his head on it, he fell asleep, his half-snores sending little puffs of foam into the air with each out-breath. When he awoke, the water was tepid, the bubbles gone. He heard the clanking of the lift shaft and then, a few moments later, the clink of Abby’s keys in the lock. She dropped her bag in the hallway and sighed. He closed his eyes and muttered a prayer. God, look after Abby and the baby. And when it comes, let it bring light into our lives. I pray for Mouse, Lord. I pray . . . But then Abby appeared in the doorway and stood staring down at him. Marcus, shivering in the lukewarm water, felt very vulnerable. He drained the last of the watery gin-and-tonic, folded his hands over his shrivelled cock and closed his eyes.
*
David Nightingale was dreaming about Lee. In his dream, he awoke from a deep sleep and slipped out of bed. He heard the sound of a piano playing downstairs, but couldn’t be sure that this was what had woken him. Sally slept on. In his dream he knew that his wife was taking sleeping pills, p
erhaps also antidepressants. Something was not right with her, although he wouldn’t allow his conscious mind to acknowledge this. He made his way downstairs in pale blue pyjamas and padded into the drawing room. The standard lamp was on in the corner, casting shadows across the room. Lee was sitting at the piano, playing the ‘Promenade’ from Pictures at an Exhibition. She swayed with the music, her willowy figure stretching upwards and quivering as the song reached its conclusion. When she finished, she paused for a moment, and there was total silence. Then, with a deep intake of breath, she began again.
David crossed the room to stand behind her. He saw a slight shiver acknowledge his presence. She didn’t turn around. He began to stroke her hair, which was long again, and fell down upon her shoulders in waves. He ran his nails across her scalp and then pulled his fingers through her blonde tresses, allowing the hair to tumble through his hands. It was so fine that it was like moving his fingers through sand. Lee shivered again. He stroked her hair in time with the music. The motion of his fingers, and the swaying of Lee’s body, and the wheeling notes of the piano, building towards the great tragic finale: all combined to create an aura of exquisite sadness that pricked tears in David’s eyes. He leaned down and pressed his hard cheek against her soft one, inhaling, twining his fingers deeply into her hair. A heavy scent of straw filled his nostrils.
David continued to run his hands through her hair. The music changed subtly. Minor chords that had previously resolved into tender major arpeggios now dissolved into fluffed notes, discord. The song, which had always made David think of Parisian couples flirting in the Tuileries Gardens, now seemed full of bitterness. Lee’s hair began to come out in his hands.
At first it was the occasional strand. He stopped stroking for an instant and unwrapped a long fine hair from around one finger. It shimmered in the light from the standard lamp. He ran his hands through her hair again. This time more came out. Thick clumps of her lustrous hair fell through his fingers and writhed like eels at his feet. He could see chunks of her scalp attached to the roots. Desperately, he stroked faster, as if trying to wash his hands. Lee’s head was now dappled like coral, tufts of hair rose like anemones from her scalp. He drew his fingers across the bald crown of her head.
Initially a fine dust rose in the tracks of his fingers, then waxy slabs of skin came away with each motion of his hands. Lee was now pressing down keys at random, banging out hideous combinations that mirrored the scream that was rising in the back of David’s throat. He knew that if he was able to scream it would wake him from the nightmare, but the sound was caught in a choked gasp, a gargle of skin and saliva. It felt as if his throat was full of swabs and bandages. Lee’s face was peeling back from her mouth. The top layer of epidermis had come away entirely, and David could see deltas of veins running across her scalp. He knew that she would turn around to look at him, and he would see her skull, her dead eyes pleading. He tried to back away from her. The music stopped. Lee turned.
David’s eyelids snapped open. His sheets were damp and wrinkled. He got out of bed, shuddering for a moment as he thought he caught the echo of the piano. He made his way down to the kitchen and fixed himself a mug of coffee. It was five o’clock. He looked out over the graveyard to the shadow of the church. The first planes lumbered through the sky. He watched their lights disappear for an instant behind the dark peak of the church’s spire. When they reappeared, they seemed somehow changed, blessed by their intersection with the high tapering point of Portland stone. Slowly it grew lighter, and the houses in the square surrounding the church began to show their serene white cheeks.
David woke Sally at seven. She lifted her head from the pillow with narrow eyes blinking at the bedside light. David placed a cup of coffee beside her and opened the cupboard at the end of the bed. He drew out a navy suit with a fine pinstripe.
‘This one?’
Sally, who had shifted into a half-seated position, squinted at him. Her hair was stacked on her head in an untidy pile. For the first time, David remembered his nightmare in its entirety, and realised that it was not the first time he had dreamt it. The images had all seemed horribly familiar. He shuddered.
‘Of course that suit,’ Sally said. ‘It’s your lucky one, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes, this is the one. I had the most awful nightmare.’
‘Mmm . . . Did you?’
Sally stretched and David could see the ugly crêpey skin under her arms, blued by stubble.
‘Just terrifying. I’ve been up for a couple of hours.’
Sally smiled at him.
‘It’s a big day for you. You should expect that. To feel nervous.’
They had breakfast together in the kitchen. David insisted on eating standing up. He was gulping coffee, his fourth cup already. He could barely swallow. The muesli tasted dry and seemed to expand in his mouth. The feeling of having a throatful of bandages returned, bringing with it the white horror of the nightmare. Sally came and stood behind him. He knew that she was worried about him, and he tried to relax his tense body against her. David watched his wife pluck her eyebrows in the bathroom mirror while he showered. He bounced his foot impatiently while she straightened his tie. They were ready to leave.
David drove badly when he was nervous. Sally twined her fingers around the armrest and closed her eyes as they made their way through red lights and clipping traffic cones, the wrong way down one-way streets. There was a jam on Park Lane, but they still reached the church far too early. David got out of the car and strode up and down with his mobile clenched in his hand, trying to work out how to use the automated parking line. Sally stood on the steps of the ancient Marylebone church while David went to buy another coffee from an Italian delicatessen up towards the Euston Road. He stood reading his notes as he waited for his coffee. He pulled out a pen and scribbled furiously, held the paper out in front of him, as if judging the effect of his editing, then scratched out the words he had written. His shoulders slumped.
The Earl arrived at ten. He was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit. He looked hard at David.
‘Are you ready? You look like shit.’
‘I’m ready. It will be fine.’
‘It has to be. We won’t get a second bite at this.’ He looked up. ‘It’s going to rain. Let’s go inside.’
They made their way into the cool interior of the church. Someone was practising the organ. David watched the Earl turn his head and listen for a moment, nodding in appreciation. Chairs had been laid out alongside the pews. They were expecting a large audience. David felt a brief tremor of nerves. He breathed in through his nose, savouring the familiar fusty air that reminded him of being a young priest, of the endless hopefulness of those days.
‘We need the help of the American churches, David.’ The Earl guided him into a corner and placed a thick hand on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘With the support of these organisations, the Course will be taken seriously in the States. And not just in New York and LA. We’ll be rolled out across the country. Every white clapboard chapel in every hick town in every flyover state will have your picture in it. Billboards along the highways, ads on the radio blasting your voice across America. I’ve already had talks with three cable channels. One of them will be here this morning. They want you to have your own show. You’ll be watched by millions. It will finance everything we’ve dreamed of doing. You deserve this, David. We all do.’
Time seemed to accelerate suddenly. One moment, David was sitting sipping coffee in the chaplain’s office, then the Earl was pumping his hand and Sally was hugging him and he was walking out onto the stage, blinking into the bright white spotlight that followed him to the lectern. The chorus of a song by The Revelations blasted out of the speakers either side of him.
‘All shall be well,
And all shall be well,
And all manner of thing
Shall be well.’
He realised that he had forgotten his notes. He must have left them on the counter in the cafe. He drew another dee
p breath and looked down at the audience. Sitting beside the bulk of the Earl was a row of four serious men in dark suits. All in their fifties, all wearing sober ties, wide-collared shirts, shined black loafers. They looked up at the stage with cool, calculating eyes. The representative of the Evangelical Free Church of America took notes in a black leather notebook. The head of the American Family Association stared up into the dim heights of the church’s roof. David recognised the charismatic leader of the Back to the Bible organisation. A heavy thatch of white moustache perched above his lips, a silver fish was pinned to his lapel. Next to the Earl sat the CEO of Mission Media Productions. He leaned back in his seat, chuckling at something the Earl had said, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a hairy wrist.
The Earl was looking up at David expectantly from the front row, his large hands knitted together in his lap. The doors at the back of the church slammed shut. David waited for the music to stop. There were three, perhaps four hundred people staring at him. He attempted to unleash his famous grin, but felt his skin tightening as he smiled. He found himself thinking of the smell of Lee’s hair in his dream, the way the strands had come glittering out in his hands. Pull yourself together, he said to himself, then suddenly worried that he had spoken the words out loud. He smiled again, and the smile came more easily this time. He twinkled his eyes. The music faded. A beat of silence.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. A particular welcome to our friends visiting from across the Atlantic,’ he began, his voice remarkably steady. ‘I started the Course because I kept hearing the same thing from the young people I spoke to. And it was very different from the message that I was hearing from the press, the message I got from my own church. This wasn’t a Godless generation. These young people weren’t drugged up and lacking in morals and beyond saving. They just didn’t feel that the church, or rather the experience of church that they had through school or through their parents, spoke to them at all. So I decided to do something about it.’