by Sanjida Kay
‘Stop it!’ shrieks Amy.
I feel as if my breath has been sucked from my body at the magnitude of my sister’s unfairness.
I seize Bethany and shake her as hard as I can, and I shout in her face, ‘I will never forgive you!’
When I finally release her, I expect her to hit me again, but she doesn’t. She staggers, then steadies herself against a chair. When she’s recovered, she marches over to the fridge, grabs a bottle of Prosecco and walks out of the front door, slamming it behind her.
Matt stands up. He’s trembling. ‘Get out. Get out now!’
I do. I go in the opposite direction to Bethany, through the kitchen and towards the pool. Luca is sitting outside with Lotte and Theo, his travel chess set on the table in front of them.
‘Nick,’ he says.
I ignore him and keep going.
‘Nick,’ he says again, more urgently. He stands up and comes over, reaching out an arm to detain me. ‘I saw…’
I dodge him and break into a run. I’m so angry my heart is hammering in my throat and my hands are bunched into fists. I sprint through the stiff grass and into the olive grove, and keep going up the hill until I can’t breathe and my throat feels raw, blood pounds in my ears and the cicadas throb like the dullest of aches.
29
NICK
I return as dusk is falling. The house is in darkness and there’s no one by the pool. For one moment I think they’ve all left and gone back to Bristol, leaving me behind, and my breath catches. I walk silently through the empty sitting room; Chloe and Amy’s iPads are on the table and the full-size chess set is laid out with a black king and a white queen facing each other in a silent stand-off. I go into the coolness of the archway connecting the two parts of the former barn and see my family in silhouette.
They’ve moved the tables and the chairs to the front of Maregiglio and they’re sitting watching the sun set. Amy and Matt have opened a bottle of Prosecco and the children have glasses of lemonade. The sky is purple with layers of gold and pink folding into the sea; the sun is a blood-red ball. I slip in behind them and Amy silently pours me a glass of fizz.
Luca says quietly, ‘There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery’ and raises his glass to me. ‘Dante Alighieri,’ he adds, when it’s obvious the quotation has passed me by.
Amy lights four candles on the chocolate cake and they flicker in the twilight.
‘All right, Son? You ready?’ asks Matt.
Theo nods and unfolds a sheet of lined notepaper and reads:
I will lend you, for a little time,
A child of mine, he said.
For you to love while she lives,
And mourn for when she’s dead.
He and Lotte blow out the candles and we all clap, and Amy and Dad wipe their eyes. Chloe leans over and kisses Theo on the cheek.
‘I’m so sorry, darling, I’m so sorry, I can’t—’ Dad says.
Matt puts a hand on Dad’s shoulder and he blows his nose into his handkerchief. Amy cuts the cake and passes him a slice. Fireworks whistle and boom; the sound reverberates in my chest. I can’t see them, though, sheltered as we are by the slope of the hill, facing towards the ocean.
‘Remember when Ruby-May had chocolate cake for her birthday? She put the pointy bit in her mouth, and then she put both hands on the other end and stuffed the whole piece in her mouth at once,’ says Theo.
‘You know that time when she heard Uncle Nick singing?’ says Lotte. ‘She put her hands over her ears and she kept shouting, “Stop, stop, you’re going to break that song, Uncle Nick!”.’
Luca clears his throat. ‘Do you remember the time I say to her, “I love you”? And she reply, very satisfy with herself, “Yes, you love me!”’
Tears are running down Luca’s cheeks. Chloe has her hands clasped tightly in her lap and she stares down at them. I can’t see her face. I glance at Matt and Amy to see if this is going to break them. Amy tries hard to smile.
She says, ‘Do you remember that time when I couldn’t find my best bra? And then Ruby-May came back from the park with Daddy and she was wearing it!’
‘Fastened at the front, with the boobs on her back,’ says Theo, ‘Daddy hadn’t noticed she was wearing a lacy pink bra. On the swings!’
‘I tried to take it off her and she got very annoyed. She said it was her—’
‘Rucksack,’ shouts Lotte. ‘And when you tried to put in on, in the bit for your boobs, you found a Peppa Pig plaster, a gummy bear and a toy stethoscope!’
My skin itches with dried sweat; my hair is sticky with it. I haven’t shaved for two days and my stubble prickles. I could do with a shower. And I’m not sure I can listen to one more story about my dead niece. I raise a glass to my sister, who is laughing and crying at the same time, and to her husband, and I force myself to sit down, to take a piece of cake. I feel a complete tool, now that the anger has drained from me as suddenly as it had sprung up. Christ, today of all days I had to be such a monumental wanker.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, to no one and everyone.
Matt grunts.
‘We forgive you,’ says Lotte and grins at me, her smile gappy where she’s lost a tooth.
I let my shoulders relax and perch on the corner of the chair Theo’s in and he leans companionably against me. Without the candles, it seems even darker. I wonder if my father is still upset with me, and then I feel guilty for thinking that, even if he is, he’ll have forgotten what I said to him soon. Hopefully.
Strike while the iron is hot, I think. Otherwise, with my shit memory, I’ll probably forget. How ironic: forgetful son forgets to make dementia appointment for father. If Bethany wants, she can take him. I go inside and google ‘private hospital’, ‘Bristol’ and ‘Memory Clinic’. The first hit I get is for a private facility on the outskirts of the city. It’s called The Castle. I feel an overwhelming sense of relief. So Bethany had taken Dad, and he’d remembered enough to write it down in his journal. Thank God.
Perhaps because it’s not NHS, the phone is answered immediately and within seconds I’m transferred to the Memory Clinic. A voice as warm and smooth as caramel assures me that my phone call is of the utmost importance and, although no one is in reception at the moment, if I leave a message, someone will get back to me as soon as possible. I’m an idiot; it’s Saturday evening, of course there will be no one there. I leave a message requesting a follow-up appointment for my father. I give his full name and date of birth, and my mobile phone number.
‘Bethany,’ I say out loud, when I rejoin them. ‘Did she go to the festa after all?’
Chloe looks at me and then away. Bethany’s anger can be incandescent, but the good thing about her is that she never holds grudges and bounces back quickly.
‘I haven’t seen her since lunchtime,’ Amy says. She sounds tired. ‘I thought she was sulking in her room. Or drinking in that bar at the top of the road.’
‘Wasn’t she with you?’ Matt asks me.
‘You told me to get out, if you recall.’
‘I meant, get out of the way for a few minutes, so we could calm down and clear up. I didn’t mean for you to disappear all afternoon. Bee left the house when you did. With you,’ he adds pointedly.
I jump up and snap on the outside light and we all blink in the glare. I go inside and knock on her bedroom door, then push it open. She’s not there. I check every room, and the shed in the garden.
Lotte and Theo trail after me, calling in sing-song voices, ‘Bethany, where are you?’
Luca looks inside his apartment and comes out, shaking his head.
‘She’s probably at the festa,’ says Matt. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. Right, you two monkeys, it’s time to have a big, bubbly bath and hit the hay.’
‘But we haven’t had any tea! Or lunch,’ protests Theo.
‘You’ve had cake,’ says Matt.
‘And many, many snacks,’ adds Luca.
I don’t look at him. It’s ba
d enough acting like an utter tosser in front of your family, without a stranger witnessing it too.
Chloe shrugs. ‘Can I go to the festa too?’
Matt shakes his head. Chloe slouches off to her room, but she knows him well enough not to push him. I guess she’s annoyed Matt wouldn’t let her hang out with Carlo and his friends and watch the fireworks.
‘The last time I saw her today was at lunch,’ I say, echoing Amy.
I can’t remember whether Bethany left before I did, because all that I can dredge up is my rage and shame, and the incessant chop of the knife that Amy had been wielding.
My sister calls Bethany, but it goes to voicemail.
‘Nick? What’s going on?’ asks my father.
He’s sitting at the table, his hands resting on the wooden surface. His wrist bones, jutting from his shirt cuffs, are bony, and his hands are flecked with age spots. He looks forlorn and I think how lonely old age is; even in the midst of family, even surrounded by others, he is isolated, as powerless as a child, but without the vitality. He is no longer the leviathan he once seemed to me.
‘We don’t know where Bethany is.’
‘She’s probably in her room. Or out. She always was a party girl,’ he says.
Not any more, I think. Her towering ambition and rigid selfdiscipline put an end to that.
I go back and stand in the doorway of her bedroom, as if I believe him. It smells sweet, of her breezy, floral perfume. Her clothes are strewn across the floor, workout bras drying on the back of a chair. And then I see her phone lying on top of the bed. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I can’t imagine Bethany ever leaving her mobile on purpose. Usually she’s surgically attached to it.
Amy is in the sitting room, looking forlorn.
‘Where is Bethany?’ she says. She sounds fretful. ‘She should be here. She would be, if you hadn’t shouted at her. I know she can be self-absorbed, but really this isn’t like her. Not when it’s Ruby-May’s—’
‘Matt’s right. Bee’s probably at the festa. She said she wanted to go. Or at that bar at the vineyard up the road, like you said, and she’s lost track of time. You remember when she was Chloe’s age? Dad wouldn’t let her go to a party at James Mason’s farm. His parties were legendary. All that cider. You’d left home already. Bee propped a ladder against the wall and climbed out of her bedroom window. Came home for breakfast. Dad hadn’t even realized she’d gone.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ Amy says, smiling. ‘I guess she wouldn’t hear her phone at the festa.’
‘She didn’t take it with her. It’s in her room.’
She stares at me.
‘That’s really not like her,’ Amy says slowly.
‘No. And she doesn’t drink much these days,’ I add.
‘She does have blowouts now and again, when it all gets too much for her – you know, the endless push-ups and early starts. Perhaps today was the day.’
‘Maybe.’
The most likely explanation is that Bee accidentally forgot her phone and is nursing one glass of wine and a tall soda in some cafe. I tell Amy I’m going to go and see if I can find her. It’s a tiny place. How hard can it be? I check the bar in the vineyard. Carlo is there and gives me a wave that looks friendly to his mates, but which I can tell is actually aggressive. Macho little shit. I wonder, not for the first time, what the hell he was doing in our house the other day. And with my niece.
As I approach the town, the roads are so clogged with abandoned cars that I leave ours on a grass verge. Music is pumping from the hill, and bright lights, fluorescent green and orange, illuminate the fortress walls. Fireworks explode across the sky, chrysanthemums of incandescent white and iridescent purple. I walk along the beach: the palm trees are lit up with garish green LEDs, their leaves whip in the wind; the damp sand is cool underfoot and a skim of surf freckles my face. Half-naked teenagers are snogging and splashing in the shallows. The sea is black and choppy, snarled with crosscurrents; I wouldn’t fancy anyone’s chances if they slipped in. I can’t see Bethany.
On the other side of the promenade is the street leading to the supermarket, and on the corner is the stazione di polizia. The windows are sealed with iron shutters. I try the door, but it’s locked, just as Amy said it would be. I head up the hill towards the castle, pressing myself through the throng. The music and the boom of the fireworks rattle in my ribcage. Dark alleyways spiral from the main route up to the top of the fort and I try to peer into them, but I’m carried onwards by the mass of people heading for the square.
The piazza is crowded; there’s a stiff breeze rising from the sea and most of the Italians are seated, on the steps of the fountain, round the bars and cafes or at long trestle tables. There’s a large marquee with a knot of holidaymakers at the entrance; those emerging are carrying plates of chips, roast chillies, focaccia, ciabatta, bowls of shellfish. The air is pungent with fried garlic and there’s the greasy smell of cooking oil, seared meat and hot dogs; my stomach rumbles and I realize that, apart from a slice of chocolate cake, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. The old men we saw previously are still there, sitting by the giant chess set, drinking Grappa, only now small children weave in and out of the pieces, hiding behind pawns and rooks. There’s a carousel with chairs on metal chains swinging out as the ride spins; the children on board scream. Light bulbs above them flash on and off, illuminating the sign on the front: Lasciate ogni speranza o voi che entrate. Whatever the hell that means.
I climb onto the stone wall round the edge of the square, trying to ignore the drop of several feet to the streets below. I scan the crowds slowly. There’s a West African man selling shells and cheap sunglasses from a tray around his neck. I’m looking for my tall, handsome sister, who has long brown hair, but almost everyone here is dark-haired, and the square is packed.
It’s the walk that’s familiar: a man with a broad chest and a spring in his step, surrounded by a group of other young people. Joe? Could it be Joe? I can’t see his face, but as he moves away, I catch sight of the man’s dark, curly hair. I thought Joe left early this morning. Had he stayed on?
‘Joe!’ I yell and wave my arms. ‘Joe!’
The man turns towards me, as if he’s responding to his name being called, but I can’t tell – he might be too far away to hear me. I jump down, and now I can’t see him at all. I haven’t seen Bethany, either, although I suppose it’s not surprising as there are so many people here. I’m about to push through the crowds to see if it really is Joe, when I notice two policemen heading towards me.
They halt, now that I’m no longer a public liability, standing on top of a national monument, and they’re losing interest already, but I elbow my way through the Italians and I seize one of them by the arm.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘Prego. We’ve lost someone.’ I feel a bit ridiculous. After all, Bethany’s only been gone for an afternoon and an evening. I have no proof that she’s missing, other than her phone, left behind on her bed, and the fact that I can’t imagine Bee missing the whole of Ruby-May’s anniversary, no matter how cross she was with me.
The older one shrugs, as if to say, Haven’t we all? The other, the younger one whose sleeve I grabbed, puts his head on one side.
‘It’s my sister,’ I say.
‘From here?’ He gestures to the square with his chin. ‘How old?’
‘Thirty-four,’ I tell him and the urgency fades from his expression. ‘I don’t know if she came here. She left our holiday house by il cavalluccio marino sometime this afternoon. We haven’t seen her since.’
He taps his ear. ‘Is loud. We go.’ I follow him out of the square and under the lee of the fortress wall. It’s only marginally quieter. The older police officer stands a couple of feet away, as if to distance himself, and watches the revellers making their way up to the piazza.
‘I am Agente Marco Martelli. My colleague is Agente Alessandro Pianozzi. Tell me what happen. Why you worry about her?’ Martelli takes out a notepad and a pen. He’s
young – younger than me – with grey eyes, dark hair and a thick, bristly moustache. He nods as if he knows the place, when I say we’re staying at Maregiglio.
I tell him it’s not like Bethany to leave her phone behind, or not to tell us where she is. The other officer must have sharp ears because he interrupts, ‘She like a drink, a party. She come back.’ He gives a lugubrious shrug. ‘She is the grown woman.’
Martelli nods. ‘Agente Pianozzi is correct, no? It is not an emergency. And you can see, we have many, many people here and on the island, and there is only we two. The stazione di polizia is closed. But I say you, if she don’t return by midnight and you still have the concern, you call to me. I go to the ferry, I watch the last boat leave – it is one or two of the morning – and then I come to the holiday house. She is not back by the breakfast time, we telephone to the Carabinieri in Grosseto. They cannot come any earlier.’
‘Who?’ I ask.
‘The Carabinieri. They are the important police. We are only the small town polizia.’ He hands me his card, points to his mobile number and taps the notepad. ‘I have your details, Signor Flowers.’
The older officer speaks to Martelli in Italian and he nods gravely at me and they return to the piazza. They look supremely unconcerned. One of the barmen leans over the heads of the Italians crowded around his counter and hands both police officers an espresso.
30
AMY
She runs to the door when she sees the lights of the hire car, but Nick is on his own. He shakes his head when he gets out.
‘I spoke to a police officer,’ he says. ‘Agente Martelli. He’ll be here between one and two a.m. if Bethany doesn’t come back before then.’
‘What the hell for?’ Matt says. ‘You Flowers – making everything into a drama. She’ll be propping up a bar somewhere.’