Frozen

by Richard Burke

  Verity's flat also seemed the right place to go through her Filofax and ring everyone who needed to know what had happened to her. I had neatly asterisked the names of her friends, the ones whose names I knew. Most were just names I had heard; in many ways, I had always been on the fringes of her life, comfortably isolated from the neurotic world of fashion.

  There were fewer people than I had expected; the address pages bulged and threatened to push open the Filofax's clasps, but most of the entries had been crossed out, some with a single neat line, others violently scrubbed. Not many were current. There were a few old and constant names—me, Sam, Gabriel, a couple of others from college days—but most were fairly new. There weren't as many calls for me to make as I had imagined. Probably I should have been grateful that I was not part of her social circle; if I had been, doubtless my name would have been vigorously scratched out years ago.

  Verity had a way of reinventing herself. She had a regular cycle. It began with enthusiasm, and then there was a slow slide into aimlessness and dissatisfaction; then depression, and resurrection. Her friends changed with each cycle; she would move to a new flat in a new area, her ideals would change, she would announce a new creative vision to all who would listen (so, mostly to me). And, of course, she would still be exactly the same old Verity, brilliant, scatty, emotionally disorganised, and always on the rebound from some disastrous fling. Then the slide would start again, as the complexity and compromises of bank managers and men and fashion politics smothered her sense of self. It usually took about two years.

  What was strange was that she had just come through her latest bad patch. She had been full of sap and enthusiasm. She was creative and alive. When I had seen her at Jim's two weeks before, her eyes had been clear and purposeful, lined with laughter. She had teased me all evening, told me that I wasn't irresponsible enough, that whatever was bothering me (work, I think, or perhaps that no one really loved me) mattered not at all. It had been Verity on top, mad form, full of big ideas and philosophies, so sure of herself. So happy.

  And I think that perhaps that was the real reason I wanted to go to her flat. To get inside her head. To touch the same things, look at the same walls. Find the connection between the Verity I thought I had known and the new, real Verity, mashed and stitched, in a bright pool of hospital light.

  I certainly did not expect to find the flat occupied.

  *

  He was tall and pale, with rough stubble on a narrow chin. His eyes were dull, his nose sharp and straight. His thin lips twitched sometimes at the corners. He smoked endlessly, pinched little roll-ups, preparing the next one as he puffed, his eyelids fluttering in the smoke. His booted feet were on Verity's white calico sofa, and grey ash flecked the cushions. He was using a saucer as an ashtray. Verity didn't smoke, and couldn't abide anyone smoking near her—unless it was one of her bits of rough, and this guy fitted the bill perfectly. He didn't look surprised when I walked in. He glanced at me casually, and then bent back to the cigarette he was rolling, twitching his head sideways to avoid the fumes of the dog-end in his mouth.

  The television was on in the corner, a bland quiz.

  “She out.” His accent was Slavic, his voice deep and blurred. He leaned forward to stub out his cigarette, and a thin line of ash dribbled onto the sofa, the floor, the table. The saucer overflowed as he prodded the butt around in it. He lit up once more, and leaned back to watch the quiz again—as though I wasn't there, as though Verity's flat was public property. I sized him up. Distinguishing features: (1) he was a bastard, clearly; (2) long legs in rancid-looking jeans, a ripped, over-tight T-shirt, groomed over-shiny hair; (3) probably a model; (4) probably unemployed; (5) probably Verity's type, damn him. She had probably pulled him at some two-bit fashion show.

  I crossed the room, and switched off the TV. ‘You're going to tell me who the fuck you are,” I spat, “and then you're going to fuck off.”

  He jerked upright and pinched the roll-up from his mouth. “Shit, man, relax, baby.” I wasn't sure if it was his weak English or if he was on drugs. He seemed to understand me well enough, though. “Hey, I say same for you. Who are you? What you do here?”

  I hadn't expected him to challenge me, and it punctured my indignation temporarily. I told him who I was, and he shrugged. I told him about Verity's fall, and he shrugged. He didn't seem to care, although he obviously knew her, because here he was. Then he put the cigarette in his mouth and put his feet back on the sofa. After a deep drag, he introduced himself. “Karel,” he said lazily. “Verity and me, lovers. You know. I give her good time. She like me.”

  “Well, stop smoking, then,” I snapped. “She hates it.” And I hated him.

  He ignored me. He sat forward and started working on his next roll-up. When he was finished, he looked up at me appraisingly. “Is Harry, yes?” I said nothing. “Harry, there is things for you to learn. A girl like Verity, you know, you got to show her who the boss. She not like smoke, no problem—I like smoke.” He tapped his chest and scowled. “So smoke, no problem. She complain, I go. She not want this.”

  A better man (meaning one with more guts) would have hit him. Instead I barked, “You've got thirty seconds to get out of this flat or I'm calling the police.”

  He snorted. “And say what? Is burglar?” He fished in his pocket and dangled a set of keys in front of me, exact copies of the ones I was still holding. I took a step towards him. He shook his head soulfully and raised a finger to stop me. “Is all right, Harry, man. You stay cool. I go. This place is no point now.” His English was ridiculous, limited to hackneyed slang and compressed self-importance, but somehow it made his arrogance impossible to puncture. There was no way to hurt him. I stood firm, balled my fists and took a heavy breath.

  He rose, relaxed and lanky. He flicked his roll-up on to the table, and left it to burn there. Then he walked—strutted—lazily towards Verity's bedroom. “Hey!” I yelped. He waved a hand dismissively without looking back. I followed and watched from the doorway. A few clothes were scattered on the floor. Three pairs of her shoes were jumbled on an armchair in the corner. The bed was unmade. He ignored this, and went to a battered chest of drawers on the side wall. He opened one of the top drawers and fished at the back of it, emerging with a small key. He unlocked the other top drawer and peered in. He tutted.

  “Not much,” he drawled. He pulled out a wad of money and flicked through it. He pursed his lips. “Fifty? Eighty, maybe. Usually is more.” He walked back towards me, and waved the money at me. “I make her feel good. Is worth more than this, but… hey...”

  He grinned nastily and pushed past me. I was paralysed by his contempt. I couldn't quite believe it. He turned when he reached the door, with Verity's keys hung casually from his finger.

  “Hey, Harry, man,” he called, much more loudly than he needed to. “You know something? Your girlfriend, man, she frigid. She is worst fuck I ever do. Maybe she fancy girls, yeah?”

  His boots jangled on the steps, and then the pavement, and his laughter drifted through the open windows as he walked away.

  *

  I started by clearing up the ash. I even took off the cushion covers to put them in the washing machine. I couldn't wash the sofa cover because it wasn't loose. Instead I hoovered it. Then I cast about for other traces of Karel. The work surfaces in the kitchen were a mess—crumbs and dried red stains from a tin of beans. The plate and saucepan would need to soak, as would the ash-encrusted saucer. I filled the sink, and then went into the bathroom—nothing there—and then the bedroom, the only other room in the flat.

  It smelt of smoke. The snarled-up bedlinen and the confused piles of her clothes forced me to imagine them together here. How had it been? She not like, no problem—I like...

  I put her room in order. I smoothed and folded her clothes and set them in piles on the shelves in her tattered wardrobe. I pulled away the sheet, pillowcases, and duvet cover, and put them aside to wash. I dressed the bed in clean white linen, straightening, patt
ing, tugging at the corners. I threw open all the windows and let in clean air. I did all the comforting things for her that she could no longer do. I spent the next hour cleaning. I emptied the washing machine, reloaded it, hung everything out to dry. Then I made myself a coffee and sat on a hard chair near the windows in the sitting room—I couldn't bear to sit on the sofa—and I cried.

  Who the hell was he, this man? She had never mentioned him, but he had the keys to her flat—which she'd never given me, because, she said, she cared too much about me. She didn't want me to catch her unprepared; it might put me off her. This man had walked casually over my feelings, in pipe-thin jeans and cowboy boots. What would he have done if he had seen her in hospital? Tapped ash on the white sheets, perhaps? Blown smoke at the ventilator, to prove his superiority? But no, he didn't care enough for that. He hadn't even asked about her or the accident. No point in staying. That was all he thought about it. He'd just stolen from her, and walked away. From his perspective she was all used up; time to move on. I was terrified that I would find she had loved him, that her growing happiness and certainty were because of him. The thought was intolerable. And if she had loved him—please, no—how would she have felt if he had rejected her?

  I shook myself. Get practical. Adam was coming.

  I went through her post. There were four letters. The first was a mammoth phone bill. I was glad it wasn't mine; the listed calls ran to twelve pages. Next was a letter from the bank, informing her that her overdraft now exceeded ¬£1,500, which was the limit she had agreed two weeks before. They had bounced her last two cheques—both to fabric suppliers by the look of it—and unless her finances were set in order immediately (underlined, in bold) the bank would be forced to demand the return of her cards and cheque book, and would warn all credit agencies of her unreliability. The third was junk mail, telling her that she had been exclusively selected for a platinum credit card with an automatic £20,000 limit. That made me smile—and then I stopped. Poor Verity. What a nightmare. The last was a credit card bill, spent up to its £8,000 limit and beyond. I'd known she was broke, she always was, but I hadn't known it was this bad.

  Was it bad enough for her to kill herself? It wasn't a thought I wanted to pursue. I set the bills on one side, and moved on.

  There were three messages on the answering machine. One would be from me, of course, my petulant message from Wednesday. I assumed the other two were from that bastard Karel—he'd probably tried to call before coming over. I couldn't face the prospect of hearing him again, so I left the machine alone. Its flashing light followed me as I moved around the flat, a blinking, reproachful eye.

  Verity was all around me. The hot yellow walls, the thin muslin instead of curtains; the mad tangle of ironwork that served as a candlestick on the dining table, the calico sofa she loved. And everywhere the kitsch touches that had changed almost every time I visited. An irregular clump of unmatched tassels hung from the main lightshade. A furry pink boa framed the doorway to the kitchen, and clashed boisterously with the walls. A voluptuous nude in Perspex stood next to the candelabrum, its base lit up in acid green, a flex trailing to a wall socket. There was a second telephone, not plugged in, shaped like a randy frog.

  Verity loved to laugh.

  And alongside the always-changing parade of frivolities, her other things, the things that were always with her. The shabby old furniture salvaged from a nurses' hostel, the oval oak table Gabriel had given her for her twenty-first. Two of my photos were mounted on stands on a bookshelf: one of her holding a rude-looking lollipop, on a day at the seaside we'd had years ago; the other of a row of schoolchildren, all with their tongues out, except one urchin on the end with a gap-toothed grin.

  And the zoetrope.

  I'd made it for Verity long before I knew what its proper name was. I eventually found the name “zoetrope” in a book about the history of cinema at a friend's. When I got home I looked the word up: “An optical toy... A cylinder with a series of pictures on the inner surface which give an impression of continuous motion when seen through slits with the cylinder rotating.”

  Yes. Well. Whatever. The one I made for Verity was hardly posh. It was a broad hoop of card, with a series of photos spaced around the inside. Between each photo, I had cut a narrow vertical slot; on the opposite side of the hoop from each slot, there was a photograph, so if you peeped through each slot, you saw a different shot. There was a spindle sticking up in the middle, and the hoop had cross pieces that rested on top of it so the whole hoop could spin freely. You put your eye against the first slot, spun the hoop, and image after image flickered in front of you, like a primitive movie projector.

  Each picture was of the same thing: a girl, frozen in mid-leap and mid-happy-yell. Her arms were thrown out, her hair lifting, her slim legs kicked up behind her. A great hornbeam arched overhead, a brilliant green shell. Some pictures were larger or smaller, some were a different colour, but they were all of the same moment. In each shot you saw the moment from a different angle. When the hoop was spinning, you had the feeling that you were flying jerkily around her.

  I spun it—and there she was, free and happy, for one mad instant long ago. Verity, frozen forever in the middle of the air.

  A horn sounded in a staccato burst on the street below. I looked out, and saw Adam peering up at me through the windscreen of his BMW. Startled, I checked my watch: ten-forty. He was late. I had been in the flat almost two hours, and I still hadn't accomplished what I came here for. I waved at Adam, then hurried into the bedroom and rummaged for nightclothes.

  I found a large old shirt that she could only have slept in; she certainly never wore it out. I felt very uneasy going through her drawers; her bras and knickers brought out thoughts in me that I would rather have kept buried, and which, in any case, were more than a little inappropriate when the woman you were thinking of was in a coma. I found a dressing-gown folded away in a corner of the wardrobe, some warm socks in a drawer, loose calf-length trousers, and a sweatshirt. I grabbed a toothbrush, a hairbrush. There was a leather case on top of the wardrobe, and I jammed everything in. I closed the windows, grabbed the zoetrope, and carried the bag down to the car, double-locking the front door behind me.

  *

  “So this guy Whatshisname—”

  “Karel.”

  “Karel. He's got a key?”

  “Yes.” I was weary. “I'll have to get someone in to change the locks tomorrow.” I didn't really want to talk about it, but Adam was doing his best to be supportive and I didn't want to seem ungrateful.

  Verity's suitcase was on the back seat. Next to it, in two halves, was the zoetrope. It looked impossibly fragile. The paper hoop was so light that it bounced off the seat with every bump. The base was solid enough, but the thin wire spindle jiggled subtly in time to the vibrations of the engine. I hadn't designed it with travel in mind. I had made it for her birthday, inspired by a drunken evening of reminiscence. When I gave it to her, she had hugged me. She laughed and she cried. And when she spun it and looked through the slits at the tiny world frozen inside, her eyes were as large and glossy as they had been all those years ago. To her it was ancient history, but once I had reminded her she had been swept up in the idea all over again. We'd sat in silence, both staring into a long-gone past, me staring at her, she through the open window into the dark, gazing at somewhere far away.

  “And he nicked the money right in front of you?”Adam shook his head. “Amazing.”

  We rode in silence for a while.

  “Sounds like she has some rough friends,” he said reflectively.

  “She has pretty bad taste in men,” I admitted.

  He glanced sideways at me. “Yourself excluded, Harry.” He laughed. I snorted back, to show I appreciated it. Sort of. Adam peered at me again. I had a feeling he was about to say something I wasn't going to like—again.

  “She did care about you, you know, Harry.”

  I snorted again. “How would you know?”

  “Po
int,” Adam conceded. “I can't claim I know. But you only have to think about it. She spent an evening with you once every two weeks, minimum. And there's all the things you've told me—she listens to you, she doesn't care if you're up or down, she still wants to see you. You always said she was there for you, no matter what. She cared, trust me.”

  I really didn't want to hear this. I tried to concentrate on the road, the ceaseless loom and whip-past of trees, bollards, signposts... and failed.

  “Trouble is,” Adam went on, “there's caring and then there's caring.”

  I said nothing. Tried to think nothing. He was only trying to help. But I wished he would stop, until later. I knew that one day I was going to have to face all this—but for now, even a glimpse of the truth was unbearable.

  “Hey,” he said. “You think Whatshisname's the reason she jumped?”

  “Karel, he was called.” I could see what Adam was thinking, but I couldn't bring myself to accept that Verity had ever really... cared for such a bastard. It was a horrible idea, and I didn't want to think about it. “Listen, Adam—”

  He held up a hand to forestall me. “Didn't mean to open wounds, Harry. Sorry. How about some music?” He rummaged with his free hand among a chaotic assortment of cassettes in the well by the gearstick.

  Before I could answer, he slapped in a cassette. The Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams,” at top volume. It was a blast from the old days, the words and tune familiar, the delivery so confident, the comfort of another old friend. Adam's fingers drummed the wheel in time to the beat. I looked ahead. The road blurred towards and underneath us, and Eastbourne drifted ever closer, while behind me the zoetrope tapped restlessly against the seat.

  CHAPTER 9

  “BUT I HAVEN'T got a camera,” Adam said miserably.

  “That's your problem,” Verity said self-righteously. “Four cameras or you don't go anywhere near the treehouse again, not ever.”