I’d booked a taxi to take me straight into London from the airport. Expertly, the cabbie swung my one large suitcase into the boot and then got in the car. I was already in the back.
‘How long will it take?’ I said.
‘Pretty lady like you,’ he glanced in his rear-view mirror appreciatively, ‘no more than thirty-five minutes this early in the morning.’
I gazed back at him in the mirror and caught sight of my hair and the top part of my face, startled at the reflection that looked back. Marek had done an amazing job. I didn’t recognise myself. Gone was my long, light brown, sometimes-blonde hair. In its place was a short, symmetrically cut, very dark brown hairstyle. Once grey eyes were now hazelnut, courtesy of contact lenses. The rest of my face seemed more alien. Marek had given me a brow lift to alter the look of my eyes, and implanted silicone into thin cheeks to bulk up my face. He’d assured me it was all reversible; I didn’t tell him it didn’t matter.
I shuffled sideways in the seat and away from my reflection, feeling the soreness in my thighs. I’d insisted he took away the remaining bulk from my hips. Now I looked nothing like Margaret, and nothing like the silhouette of Rachel, and this pleased me.
‘Traffic’s light today, don’t know why – we’re nearly there,’ the cab driver said, his affability annoying and his chatter even more so. I saw him looking at me, probably thinking what a grumpy cow I was.
‘Yes, it’s a tough job being a cabbie,’ I replied.
He grinned widely, pleased I’d taken notice.
The cab took me into the heart of the West End. I’d rented a room above a row of shops in Greek Street, above a Chinese herbalist. I’d fretted on the plane that this was Jonathan’s turf, and allowed myself a grim smile: an American phrase, for a soon-to-be American woman.
Soho was teeming with people; the chances of my bumping into Jonathan were remote. I checked myself again in the mirror. Anyway, he’d never recognise me. Thinking of Jonathan brought a hard lump to my throat.
I peered upwards from the car window. My new home – for a while.
‘That’s forty quid, lovely lady.’
I found a crisp, new fifty and handed it over. I thought of my dwindling bank account; I wanted the change but didn’t wait.
‘Thank you, pretty woman.’ The cab driver looked happy that I hadn’t waited for the change and even retrieved my case, placing it on the pavement. I waited for more questions from him, because now I felt inexplicably lonely and his chatter would be welcome. I’d never really liked London: too big, too sprawling, too impersonal, sterile. Jonathan had always disagreed; he loved the city’s anonymity.
Again, I looked up towards the building and fought the unsettling disorientation that engulfed me. The elation I’d felt on the plane – at being so near to where I wanted to be – slid away like the euphoria of landing a new job that you need but don’t particularly want. A void descended, like an imaginary net flung over both me and my life.
I was still standing on the pavement and hadn’t moved a limb. Taking a deep breath, I hauled the case towards the door and pressed the glinting intercom.
An oriental-sounding female voice answered immediately. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello, this is Amanda McCarthy.’
The intercom made an even louder sound and the door opened.
A tiny Chinese woman scuttled towards me. Her skin was smooth like polished steel, but I knew she was older than me.
‘You are early, but that fine. I have to open shop soon.’ She gave a half-smile, and I suspected that was all she ever gave.
‘I can wait, if I need to?’
‘No, room ready.’ She took me in, staring upwards; I was a good foot taller than her. ‘More than a room, as we discussed on phone. It was bad line, not normally that bad from the UK.’ Her look was a question.
I’d called her from Poland. ‘I’m sure it will be more than adequate.’
She nodded and turned delicately, beckoning me to follow her towards the stairs. She gesticulated at my case. ‘You stronger than me. You carry?’
I nodded, holding my breath as much as I was able. The smell wasn’t good; I recognised it as boiling Chinese herbs. Once, long ago, in another life it seemed now, I’d taken Joe to see a Chinese herbalist. He was always getting sore throats. Western medicine could do nothing, but the Chinese herbs had worked wonders. The Chinese doctor told me Joe’s neck and throat were his weak points, we all had one, he said. ‘A mental and physical fragility, always better to know which ones we are born with. This knowledge enables us to cope better with the periphery elements.’ Liam had poo-pooed him. But, from that day, with any ailment Joe or I had, I went to see the herbalist. I never told Liam; it was easier not to. It surprised me that he’d taken to Buddhism so readily. It didn’t sit well with his life-long belief in what he always insisted on calling ‘conventional western medicine’ – as if the fancy title made it infallible.
Throat. It was impossible to shut out memories of the day Joe’s body was found. How he had died, and what had been done to my beautiful Joe afterwards. His neck, his throat. Over the years I’d done a good job of blotting it out; and not because I couldn’t tolerate the thought, which I couldn’t, but more because I sensed that it was something on which Joe didn’t want me to dwell.
The Chinese woman waited, watching me. The suitcase clattered onto the wooden floor of her hallway; my breaths increased in speed but the air going into my lungs reduced; and I followed the suitcase to the ground.
‘You OK, lady?’ I had no breath to reply. ‘Don’t want ill people here,’ she eyed me from the stairs as if contemplating whether to give me sympathy or a swift exit speech. Her face softened, as if she’d changed her mind and then offered me her hand. I took it and felt something so strong, and so unnerving. It came from her. It was calming too, the awareness I felt around her. Like a comforting, soft aura.
‘Thank you,’ I managed to whisper.
She tapped her forehead. ‘Ill in mind, a little. Leave suitcase, I bring later.’
I followed her up the stairs. She showed me my new home as if nothing had happened.
As I had followed the Chinese woman through the small hallway, I sensed him. He was here, with me. I didn’t question why, only glad that he was. And, in a strange way, it felt as if the Chinese woman had some effect on Joe coming.
Belatedly, she introduced herself as Lanfen Xú, owner of the building. The shop was called Xú. She opened the door and stepped in, I followed. Sweeping her arms around the room she awaited my response.
‘It looks good,’ I said. ‘Perfect,’ I added.
It wasn’t perfect. It was small and the smell from downstairs was stronger in the enclosed space. I suspected my room was above the kitchen where Mrs Xú cooked up her concoctions. But the aroma brought me closer to Joe.
‘No separate bedroom, but bed folds into wall,’ she indicated towards the bed, which wasn’t folded into the wall.
Mrs Xú carried on. ‘Separate kitchen, small but clean, separate bathroom, with shower. No bath.’ She looked towards me, ‘I explain that on phone?’
‘It’s fine ... perfect.’
‘Well, let you settle. If you need any information about anything, I do not mind you knocking on door. Alone now. Husband died few years ago. Live in room downstairs.’
‘I’m sorry about your husband.’
‘No matter. He left me well provided, left me with shop.’
I studied her; a tiny, almost frail woman but I knew this was deceptive.
‘That’s good ... Well, thank you,’ I said.
She nodded and left me with my loneliness. I watched as she walked down the short space of corridor towards the stairs and I saw Mrs Xú’s isolation, too.
I closed the door and walked towards the window that faced onto the ugly backs of London buildings. I pulled up the blinds: the dust too visible in the late morning glare. Fine particles rushed by my eyes with the last of the draft from the closing door. I waited for it
to settle. Belatedly, I sneezed three times and went to the bathroom to find toilet paper to wipe my nose. The holder was empty. I delved inside my bag looking for Kleenex, and eventually found some. Sitting down on the bed I began to clear out my bag, but there was absolutely nothing in there of consequence to indicate my life. Everything was in a safe-deposit box – out of the way and untouchable. All buried, although tucked away in the bottom of my bag was the large file, full of Amanda McCarthy’s correspondence. I had a part of someone else’s life but not my own.
I sat back on the uncomfortable bed and threw the bag to one side. It didn’t matter. What were photos? Nothing. Only reminders of what had been snatched from me and, by my own choice, given up.
Tom Gillespie was always telling me: we make our own choices, Rachel. And then we have to live with the choice until we see fit to change our mind. And free will is what defines humanity.
I had chosen to do this. I rose and pulled the blinds closed. The room was quiet. The mild smell of damp and boiled herbs had disappeared, or was it that I had just become accustomed to it? I stood motionless and looked at nothing, and then the clear smell of Joe filled my nostrils. Of mildly perfumed soap, a hint of toffee popcorn. I smelt him as strongly as I felt my heart beating inside my chest.
‘Joe, are you here?’ I said, aiming the question towards the heavier smell near the door of the bathroom. There was no reply. For a moment the aroma became more powerful and then it disappeared. I felt wetness on my cheeks. He’d left, if ever he’d been there at all, but I spoke into the room: ‘I love you, Joe.’
In the bathroom I stood in front of the square, smudged mirror and looked hard at the reflection, trying not to think about Joe’s questioning of my plan, my questioning.
‘It’s for the best,’ I said to him inside my head, and then out loud into the small space of the bathroom.
I was talking to myself, answering my own reluctance.
Tracing my index finger down my left cheek, I felt the plumpness. The right side felt different. Probably because I was left-handed, something else I would have to address. I could leave nothing to chance. The pads of my fingers rested on my cheeks; I stared into the mirror. Marek had done as little as possible but achieved a lot. He was a genius. I scraped hair back from my forehead. Nothing of Rachel remained, not even the scald scar on my left hand. Marek had even fixed that.
I was a different person on the outside and felt something changing on the inside, too. Standing tall, my face disappeared above the mirror. Marek could change many things, but my height was non-negotiable. At six foot, I was tall for my generation – another defining feature. I’d studied ballet as a child, and only given it up when Margaret told me my lessons were a waste of time and money. That I was selfish to expect them and selfish not to give them up easily. She had burnt my ballet gear in the garden while I was at Sunday school. I’d loved ballet and now the legacy of an upright posture made me appear even taller. I knew I could take off a few inches in height just by rounding my shoulders. With appropriate coaching it would be no problem.
I let my hair fall back into its perfect bob and absentmindedly wiped the greasy mirror with the sleeve of my blouse. I returned to the room, finding the brochure.
Cambri School of Voice Coaching and Acting
London
Cambri had accepted my deposit for the course without too many questions, and luckily I didn’t have to mention Jacob to get my place.
My introductory class at the ‘bijou’ school was in two days.
Two days. I could sightsee. Find a gym.
Or, I could disappear into the pleasure of prescription painkillers. The plastic container lay at the bottom of my bag. I pulled it out and stared at the innocuous-looking holder. I took a deep breath and once again walked into the bathroom with Charlotte’s words inside my head, ‘Find another way of dealing with this, it’s time.’
I emptied the contents into the toilet, flushed and put the lid down, turned and sat on the flimsy cover. I was still sitting there when the intercom rang.
It could only be Mrs Xú. I thought about ignoring the sound. It rang again. I couldn’t. I opened the door and looked down into her dark eyes, noticing the unhealthy circles surrounding them. Maybe she didn’t sleep much either. I looked closer. Yes, I saw the pain in Mrs Xú’s eyes too. Pain was everywhere and I felt a huge compassion for this woman I did not know. For the first time in five years my empathy was stronger than my hatred for someone I did know. Although only a moment. A piercing, unselfish moment. We all suffer; we all struggle; we all attempt to live. We should do so together, not hurting and wounding each other. That was Liam’s line from one of his Buddhist meetings. I’d wanted to kill him.
‘You have call.’ I turned and glanced towards the phone that sat on a rickety, cheap table by the door. She saw me looking. ‘Not working – last tenant not pay bill, be connected tomorrow. The call come through to me.’ I still hadn’t spoken. ‘You can take in my room ... He on phone now, holding. I told him could call back ... said he hold.’ She watched me. ‘Not English.’ She had brought up my suitcase and placed it inside my door.
‘Thank you, Mrs Xú.’ I pointed to the case. ‘Do you mind me taking the call?’
‘Not have mobile?’
‘No, I don’t.’
Unlike many people, Mrs Xú accepted easily my ‘mobileless’ state. I liked Mrs Xú. I felt she saw into the centre of me; that centre still holding Joe.
It could only be Marek. I was beginning to wish I hadn’t told him my destination, and not because I didn’t trust him, but because I didn’t want him to be at all implicated. Although he already was, and the ripple of guilt threatened to turn into a wave. Shamelessly, I’d used Marek’s friendship to persuade him to carry out the surgery.
His call had to be about something important.
Mrs Xú’s living space was only fractionally bigger than my own, but, unlike my space, my landlady’s was bright. Light streamed in from the living room, which faced onto the busy London street.
I picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’ I looked towards Mrs Xú and waited. She didn’t move. In an exaggerated movement I put my hand over the phone. ‘I won’t be long,’ I said. It took her too long to move towards the bright light of the sitting room and out of earshot. ‘Hello,’ I said again into the phone.
‘Rachel?’
‘Amanda, Doctor Gorski.’
‘Amanda,’ he emphasised the syllables, ‘Marek – Amanda. We’re not in the clinic now.’
‘Is everything all right?’ I said.
‘Yes, but I think you should know, I’ve had a phone call. A while ago now. I wasn’t going to tell you, but thought I should.’
‘Who?’
‘Jonathan Waters.’
‘Jonathan? What did he say?’
‘He wanted to know about you.’
‘Does he know anything?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Says he’s worried about you. He wants to know where you are.’
Jonathan, why are you doing this?
‘Is there any way he can get to speak with your nurses?’
‘They won’t talk, I hope, but I hate to ask people to lie.’
‘He must know something.’
‘Sniffing. You know Jonathan.’ Marek was quiet for a long moment. ‘Give this up, Rach ... Amanda.’
Yes, I did know Jonathan. He didn’t give up.
‘Give what up? I’m only a woman trying to rebuild her life, and a part of that reconstruction is changing the way I look. That’s all I’m doing, Marek.’
‘I shouldn’t have agreed ... Let it go.’
‘Stop worrying, Marek ...’ I paused. ‘I’m sorry...’
‘It’s all right. But you have to stop punishing yourself.’
‘I know. Soon ... You didn’t say anything ... did you?’
‘No, of course not. And I won’t contact you again, unless I need to.’
‘OK.’
‘How are you?’ he
asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Are you still taking the painkillers?’
‘Only when I need them, don’t worry.’ I thought about the toilet.
‘Take care.’
‘I will, Marek. You too.’
I put the phone down. Why had Jonathan called? What did he know? I’d done a good job in covering my tracks. A positive leftover from being in the force. Then I thought of Marek’s words, sniffing. Jonathan knew nothing. He was following a hunch.
Unfortunately, Jonathan’s hunches tended to be spot on.
But a warmth whisked over me: that Jonathan cared enough to bother.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I had too much time to think, and still two days before my course began. I did contemplate finding a gym. There had been no way I’d been able to keep up my fitness routine during my time in Poland. I’d managed some short runs at Malina’s parents’, but after less than a mile my thighs hurt and the swelling started. Marek told me over the phone that I was stupid, and he was right, so eventually I took to going for long walks; my legs could cope with that. Did I wish I hadn’t taken it all so far? Sometimes I did. Then I thought of Hemmings, of Joe, and there was no question.
After school, Kacper had often joined me on my walks, and they were an unexpected joy. I guzzled the tales about his classes, and holidays with his grandparents and Malina to the seaside resorts of Poland. He regaled vivid second hand stories of his great-grandparents from the time of Hitler’s occupation; of his great-grandmother who’d survived Auschwitz. Kacper was young and too wise for his age. Did he remind me of Joe? No, he didn’t, he was so different. Joe had never been that wise, seemingly acquiring his wisdom in death, inside his ghost, inside me.
Feeling as if my life was being vacuumed away, I sat down heavily on the bed. Often I would move from the elation that taking control gave me, to despair that what I was doing was so very wrong. I wanted Joe to be able to go to the final destination, sensing he was unable to travel there until everything was resolved. And this resolution I saw only in the death of Michael Hemmings. That’s what I felt and saw. And my feeling and seeing were so knitted together with memories of my son I became one with him.
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