by Meg Carter
‘Sorry,’ Fraser smiles, sheepishly. The hand on hers has gone.
‘Me too,’ she mouths, before she can stop herself.
But Fraser is once more watching the lumbering giant who is now stumbling back into the room. His lips are butcher’s pink from constant wetting by the tip of his tongue. And now that he’s unbuttoned his boiler suit and tied the sleeves around the waist, padded bandages are clearly visible around each wrist.
Though she’s not seen him since, apart from in her waking dreams, Zeb recognises him immediately. And she is struck by the curious contradiction of her feelings. First relief – her temples ache with it. The realisation that, thank God, he hadn’t… wasn’t… that he is OK. And then a surge of fear.
It was me. I did it.
By killing his dog, she was the one who drove him to howl like an animal. To shake the creature’s lifeless body as if convinced he could force the life back into it. To sob like a baby into its fur. It was her actions which made him grab the knife from the kitchen floor then draw it once, twice, three times and more across the inside of his wrists. Like he was punishing himself for letting it happen; carving himself an escape route to follow.
He was deranged, of course. Why else would anyone do what he did, she thinks, staring miserably at his bandaged wrists. Which is when it strikes her. All he has to do is look up and he’ll see me, she thinks. And when he does, remember…
She wants to leave, right now, but dares not risk it. He’s not seen her. Getting up will only draw his attention. So instead she hides low, warily observing his reflection in the windowpane.
Fraser looks anxious as the hulking figure barges like a trapped bear through the throng of drinkers, impervious to the cries of those whose drinks he’s spilled. Then, sensing Zeb’s fear, he slides his chair towards hers, obscuring her from potential view.
‘Hey,’ he whispers. ‘Is everything OK?’
Burying her face in his shoulder, Zeb finds momentary comfort in the musky smell of him. Woodsmoke and recently-laundered brushed cotton; his body heat. But then, as she twists her head to peer over his shoulder, she finds her face being turned back into the light. Her body tugged closer against his. His mouth tightly locking with hers. No, she tries to say. Zeb pulls away from Fraser and breaks free. This is not what this is about. Not here. Not like this.
A few paces away, a couple of the men Davy’s knocked into are man-handling him towards the rear door. It’s her only chance, she thinks, striding towards the bar with such haste she only just manages to avoid colliding with one of Fraser’s schoolmates, returning to his friends with yet another tray of pints.
‘Watch yourself,’ the man barks as a tall figure in a donkey jacket roughly shoves Davy into the car park.
‘Zeb—’ It’s Fraser.
She presses on, desperate to be outside – away from the clamour of voices, the bass line pulse of the place, the company of strangers. But he won’t take the hint, and is closing the distance between them, pushing his way across the room. She’s nearly at the main door, just another few paces should do it. But suddenly someone is holding onto her arm. Trying to hold her back. Dragging her back into the light – the piercing, searching, unforgiving light which leaves no room for shadows; no place to hide.
‘Hey,’ he pants. ‘Wait a minute!’
‘Please,’ she cries out. Her body is shaking, her forehead is damp with sweat. It wasn’t her fault, but self-defence. She killed the dog, yes, but not its owner. The wounds on Davy Duffy’s wrists were self-inflicted. Which is awful and shocking. But. Not. Her. Fault. ‘Let go of me!’
Oblivious to the faces turning their way, Zeb shakes her arm free then shoves Fraser with such force he almost loses his footing. She runs, out through the front door of the bar into the darkness beyond. Down towards the crossroads. Back towards McLellans, where, a few minutes later, outside her room, she is fumbling with the key when a figure appears beside her.
‘Here, let me try,’ Fraser offers, and a warm hand enfolds hers.
‘Really, I can manage—’ Zeb retorts, indignant that he has followed her not just back to the hotel, but inside. After two turns the door opens.
Taking care to remain in the corridor outside the open bedroom doorway, Fraser reaches inside to turn on the light. Which is when she sees a folded piece of paper on the floor – someone must have slipped it beneath the door while she was out. Scooping it up, Fraser passes it to her unopened.
’I’m sorry,’ he says, taking a conciliatory step backwards. ‘Whatever is going on, I’ve obviously made things worse. I just wanted to make sure you got back to your room OK. And now you have, well, I think I should say goodbye.’
‘No, wait!’ Zeb cries, her attention split between what he is saying and the message she now holds in her hand. The neatly printed note on McLellans-headed paper is from one of the receptionists – to let her know that someone called for her, earlier, with a London accent.
No message, it reads. Just left his name, Brian, and said that he’ll be back tomorrow.
Zeb’s legs buckle as she thinks of the man who broke into her flat. The same man, she fears, she’s seen parked in her street and who chased her across the concourse at Euston Station. Can he really be here?
‘You’ve got to help me,’ she sobs, holding Fraser’s arm to stop herself from falling; praying she can trust him. ‘Please don’t leave.’
22
Kensington, October 1975
Fists of rain drum the pane of the window then splash inside the cubicle, wetting Alma’s head. Opening her eyes, she looks up and considers whether if she stands on the toilet seat she’ll be able to reach the catch. No, she decides. With her arms clasped tightly around her knees, waiting for the dizziness to subside, she does not have the strength.
‘Hey, are you in there?’
Viola’s voice is accompanied by a soft tap-tapping. Mr Steadman must have sent her out of their tutorial to see if everything is OK. Maybe if Alma says nothing, just sits there, quiet and still, she’ll go away. It will pass in a few minutes. All she needs is some quiet. A drink of water, perhaps.
‘Alma?’ Viola knocks twice this time. ‘Come on. I know you’re in there. Open the door.’
‘I’m fine,’ Alma croaks. ‘Really.’
‘Like hell you are. What’s up? Come on, tell me.’
Though insistent, her friend sounds weary. Just as she has since she arrived back at the Conservatoire a few days earlier, with little explanation of what has made her miss the first two weeks of term. All Alma has been able to deduce is that she has split with Geoff and now prefers to stay in her room every evening reading Valley of the Dolls.
But she has not yet had the courage to talk to her friend directly, given how distant and offhand Viola has grown since she last saw her earlier in the summer.
Alma feels jaded, as if teetering on the brink of flu. Even the memory of the long, summer days she shared with Pete can’t rally her as, with tears welling, she flinches at another slap from Viola’s palm against the cubicle door. Biting her lip, she tastes blood then sees traces of red on her skin.
‘Well hello,’ Viola declares, stepping backwards to let Alma pass when she finally opens the door. ‘So, are you OK?’
Pressing her hand to her mouth, Alma counts to ten before she replies to check she’s staunched the flow. What a fool she’s been to skip breakfast, she decides. Running the cold tap for a moment, she splashes her face with water.
‘Here.’ Viola holds out a handful of paper towels.
‘Thanks,’ Alma replies, scrutinising her reflection.
‘Mr Steadman wonders how you’re doing.’ Viola is leaning against the wall by her side, watching her in the mirror. ‘What shall I tell him, or are you going to come back in and tell him yourself?’
‘Coming.’ Alma dries her face then tosses the paper towels into the bin. ‘How do I look?’
‘Peachy,’ Viola lies. Turning to stare at her own face in the mirror, she rubs her eyes
which, Alma notices, are surrounded by dark rings. Her skin is grey, too, and it looks as if she’s lost weight.
’Thanks.‘Alma hesitates. ’Though I can’t say the same for you. Is everything OK?’
Viola pulls a packet of cigarettes from her pocket, offers one to Alma which she refuses, then lights up. ‘I’ll survive,’ she observes. ‘It’s just… it’s been a difficult few weeks.’
Alma turns away, sickened by the smell of smoke. She knows just what her friend means. In the wake of another terrorist bomb going off just a few days earlier, this time in the lobby of the London Hilton, the whole city now feels on edge. ‘Look, I’m sorry I’ve not been around much,’ she begins. ‘And being grounded after six each evening is a real pain. But maybe we could go out together, just the two of us, one lunchtime.’
Viola’s face brightens. ‘Saturday?’
‘Ah, well, no, not tomorrow, I’m sorry,’ Alma flounders, for she has already arranged to spend the day with Pete. ‘But maybe after we could go to the student union bar?’
Viola groans – the bar, which doubles up as a communal TV room in the Conservatoire’s main building next door, is usually empty and sells only pints of warm lager. ‘It’s OK you know,’ she snaps. ‘To have a life. But you’d better watch out, Alma Dean, if you and lover boy are getting serious. You need to be careful. Take precautions, if you know what I mean.’
‘Sorry?’ How dare Viola think she could be so naive? Alma wonders, crossly. What does she take me for, a fool?
‘Don’t be angry,’ her former roommate blurts. ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m sure you know what you’re doing, it’s just… be careful, that’s all.’
‘Like you are, you mean?’
‘No,’ Viola replies, firmly. ‘Not like me. I mean—’ She drops her voice. ‘—learn from my mistakes, that’s all.’
Alma turns away, unconvinced.
‘No, wait,’ Viola insists, reaching for Alma’s arm. ‘Over the summer I got pregnant. It was his. I didn’t want to keep it; that was never an option. But I told him, and when I did he didn’t want to know – not about me, not about what I’d do, how I’d cope. That was it. He dumped me. It was over. Finished. Just like that.’
‘Oh Viola, I’m so—’
‘So I sorted it out. Got another abortion.’ Viola’s laugh is hollow. ‘It was all quite simple, really. The same private clinic. I got it done a week before coming back to college. Look, I’m sorry… it’s just, it all still feels a bit raw, you know?’
‘Losing it, you mean?’ Alma offers, gently.
‘No,’ her roommate exclaims, recoiling. Incredulous. ‘I mean splitting with Geoff.’
Alma runs a hand through her hair in a vain attempt to relieve the dampness now pricking the back of her neck. What’s her point? she wonders, vaguely, at once hot and short of breath.
‘So, Alma Dean,’ Viola presses on, though her tone has cooled, ‘I wanted you to know that just because life starts to get serious doesn’t mean things can’t go wrong, OK? And that if you ever need anything, just let me know.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve got some of those new home pregnancy kits – you know, so you don’t have to go to the doctor? Well, not to find out, at least.’ Though she throws her cigarette butt onto the floor, Viola doesn’t bother stubbing it out as she turns towards the door. ‘I just thought you might want to know, that’s all.’
Alma stares at her, unsure what to say. Because she isn’t pregnant. Just hungry, that’s all. Skipping breakfast always makes her feel queasy.
* * *
Alma rings the bell then steps back from the communal front door.
It is bonfire night and the air tastes of cordite, giving the streets through which she’s just raced an incendiary feel. With a shiver, she begins counting backwards from one hundred. As she hits seventy-five it starts to sleet. Where is he? she wonders, as she presses the bell for his flat again. Will she have to stand here, alone and in the cold, waiting for long? Come on, she wills him. Be there, Pete. Please. Come. Now.
‘Christ, Alma, is everything OK?’
He is standing behind her and must have seen her hunched in the half-light, wet and bedraggled, as he made his way from Mornington Crescent. But he is here now, which was why she has come. To see him. Tell him. Beg for his help. Though the enormity of the situation she now finds herself feels too great to articulate; too frightening to say.
As she dithers, the void is filled by Viola’s voice.
I told him and he didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to know – not about me, or what I’d do.
As the church on the corner chimes quarter past the hour, the wind brings with it the smell of woodsmoke. A distant memory forms: the thought of simpler times and the excitement of raking leaves with her father to burn on the bonfire.
Pete scoops her in his arms as soon as they are inside.
‘Come on, tell me – whatever it is,’ he whispers, rubbing the warmth back into her hands. ‘Nothing can be that bad.’
Though it is, of course. Viola was right. And her roommate’s words now threaten to eclipse reason. Though Alma had guessed a while before, she’s only known for sure these past three long miserable days – seventy-two hours, during which she’s never felt as miserable. Fearful, too, of Viola’s I-told-you-so’s. So she’s kept it to herself, to wrestle alone with the likely outcomes of the stark choices that lie ahead.
‘Trust me,’ she mumbles, dully. ‘It is, and worse.’
With Viola’s support, Alma knows she could have sorted it without telling anyone else. But she was frightened. Guilty, too.
Then, as the hours passed, she came to realise something else. That telling Pete isn’t just something she wants, but needs to do. Because despite what her parents would say and what she was brought up to believe, confronted by the blunt reality of the thing she cannot keep it. Admitting this, to anyone let alone him, is the ultimate challenge. But she must test him, too. Because after what Viola said about Geoff, she has to know how Pete will react.
‘Ah,’ is what he says at first, repeating it a few times as he buys time to think. ‘Only I’m not quite sure what to say. How do you feel about it? How do you want me to feel about it? What do you want us to do?’
Us. A simple word but one that says it all. Not you, us. The relief of hearing it makes Alma cry.
‘I don’t think I can—’ she stammers. Tell her parents. Explain to them that, contrary to everything they’d raised her to believe, she will choose to have a termination. Because it is the wrong time; too soon. And she is the wrong person; too immature. ‘—You know, go through with it.’
‘The abortion?’
‘No, no. Not having an abortion.’
Doesn’t everyone need to live a little first if they are going to be a good mother? She can’t help wondering if that’s maybe where her own mother went wrong. And she does want to be a good mother, very much; but one day, not now. Which doesn’t make her an evil person. Her parents won’t understand, but God will. Because this is about doing the right thing. And it is the wrong thing to bring a child unwanted into this world. If she did that she’d be a bad mother, surely.
Alma gulps. ‘I don’t think I can keep, it, I mean…’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready for that, either,’ Pete says. ‘In fact I know I’m not, not yet. But that doesn’t mean never. We could always wait for the right time and try again.’
He makes her soup, assembling whatever he has left in his fridge with results that are unexpectedly rich and comforting. Then they sit on the sofa underneath a tartan rug, until she is warm again. She drifts off for a while into a dreamless sleep, until he tries to squeeze out from beneath her and wakes her in an instant. It is past seven and through the window fireworks pepper the city skyline with smudges of colour.
‘Open your hand,’ Pete whispers, placing a small, brown paper packet into her palm. ‘I was going to wrap it and give it to you for Christmas but I think it would be best if you h
ave it now. To wear it, and by wearing it to know that I am – we are– serious.’
Alma opens the packet carefully to discover a slip of tissue paper folded over, twice. Inside this she finds a tiny silver charm in the perfect, detailed shape of a miniature grand piano. ‘It’s for the necklace,’ he smiles, reaching out to release the chain from around her neck. ‘It should be a perfect match.’
‘Oh Pete,’ says Alma, trying not to dampen the moment with tears. ‘It’s beautiful.’
As he refastens the necklace around her neck he positions the piano to hang just beneath the soft dip at the base of her throat which he then leans forward to kiss, just once.
‘I want it to remind you whenever you look at it that we’re in this together, you and me. We don’t have to decide right here and now, do we? We can sleep on it, just for a bit. And whatever we decide and whatever happens next, Alma, remember: you can always trust me.’
23
Beauloch, February 2016
Zeb wakes early the next morning, before daylight. Lying on her back. Half covered by the duvet. Her head pounding.
Staring up at the ceiling rose, she wonders where she is as other details creep into focus. The room is lit by silver threads which spill through the cracks around the bathroom door. Empty whisky miniatures decorate the floor. And beside her in bed, a sprawled figure breathing quietly.
My God, a voice inside her chides as she tries pulling herself upright without disturbing the cover. What have you done?
Balancing awkwardly on the edge of the mattress, her naked body cool and spent, Zeb gazes miserably at the empty minibar bottles on the bedside table. Her head seems surprisingly clear – thanks to Dad’s old tip about not mixing grape and grain, perhaps, but her conscience hangs heavy. For breaking her so recently-made resolution not to drink so as to prove to the world – Richard in particular, but also herself – that she is in control. And for Fraser, the stranger whom she met only yesterday, whose presence right here, right now seems the ultimate proof of folly.