Frozen

by Richard Burke

  Well, someone had certainly done it, but I found it impossible to accept that it was a gang. It was too unfair, the coincidence too brutal. This was personal—at least, it was to me. But if it hadn't been a gang, then who? Who would hold her in such contempt that they would rip her flat to shreds when she could never return to it anyway? Did they care at all? Did they even know? That was when the answer hit me.

  “Wait!” I yelped. “I know who did it!”

  The policeman looked at me attentively, pencil at the ready. I felt like bouncing up and down. I was so sure: that thin face, the sneer, the fag ash on Verity's calico sofa, the spite.

  “Karel,” I said firmly. “Karel... shit, what's the bastard's name? Karel...”

  “Novak?” Sam sounded startled. “The little runt Verity was seeing? What makes you think he did it?”

  I explained about my encounter a couple of days before. Knowing that Sam was listening made me go red. I wished I had been able to tell her earlier—the embarrassment of revealing it now was far worse.

  The policeman earnestly took notes. “And you know where we could find this Mr. Novak, do you, sir?”

  I was about to reply, probably something unhelpful about whose job it was to track down criminals, when Sam stepped in.

  “I do,' she said, “but honestly, I can't see it being him. He's a poisonous little worm, but he's too lazy for this kind of thing. He's a sponger, not a burglar. All that ripping and banging around... and what's he going to do with a telly, for goodness' sake?”

  I was torn. I was secretly pleased that she shared my opinion of him, but her scepticism was annoying—particularly because I half-suspected she was right; trashing Verity's flat was taking malice a little far.

  “Well, how come the door wasn't kicked in?” I asked petulantly. “He's the only other person with keys.”

  “Probably picked the lock, sir,” the policeman said helpfully. “Kicking a door down makes a lot of noise.” He was staring around him distractedly. He'd lost interest. “Well, we'll have a word with Mr. Novak, sir, just to be sure. But gangs is more likely, I'm afraid.”

  And with assurances that they would do everything they could, and yes, they would keep us informed, the police left.

  “Down to us,” I said to Sam.

  She shrugged. “We'd better get going, then.”

  I nodded but didn't move.

  She added, “Come on, Harry. It's not going to be any easier tomorrow.” She gave my arm a quick rub. I was frowning at my watch. I was trying to figure something out, but I couldn't find a place to start. I was caught in an endless loop of irrelevant thought—four-thirty, best get going, four-thirty, best get going...

  “Harry?” When, again, I didn't respond, Sam disappeared into the building.

  I looked along the street. Hot red brick, and a grubby breeze that puffed grit and dust at me. The place was quiet. There were only a few parked cars and no people, as though some apocalypse had removed everyone, and left only the buildings, mouldering slowly in the wind and dust.

  But there was no time for self-indulgence. There was some bastard's piss to clean up. Sam was waiting. Reluctantly I followed her upstairs.

  She had already found the cleaning materials, and was zipping efficiently from place to place armed with some kind of spray, wearing Marigolds and an apron. There was something foamy on top of the carpet puddle. It already smelt a little better. She had set the table straight and the chairs were upright in a neat row against it.

  I hopped over the foam pool and gaped around vaguely. Sam stopped and appraised me, and then bustled into the kitchen and came out with a plastic sack, dustpan, and brush.

  “Cans. Curtains. Glass.” She pointed with her spray canister. “Anything that's broken. Those burnt cushions. There's newspaper for the glass over there.”

  And she was off again. She didn't stop moving for a second. I pottered. I swept a bit of glass, stared at the wall for a while, emptied the dustpan, maybe picked up a crumpled beer can, stared at the wall again. I couldn't even blame my misery; happy or sad, I'm just crap at cleaning. Still, I was trying. Sam worked around me as best she could. By the time my bag was full, the flat was looking better, small thanks to me.

  “Coffee,” I said. She nodded.

  I headed off towards the kitchen, but she caught me by the shoulder and twirled me back to face the living room. “I'll make it. I'm not sure I trust you.”

  She pressed past me. Her body was cool and firm, an odd counterpoint to the strange sensation of my shoulder being squeezed by a yellow rubber glove.

  “If you're done with the glass and stuff, try to find a number for the insurance company,” she called.

  I hadn't even thought of that. I scanned the room. The cupboards had been stripped, and the mounds of stuff on the floor had all been sorted and stacked. Sam had covered the table with orderly piles: CDs, instruction manuals, ornaments, mostly broken. No papers, though. I started going through the cupboards. They were all empty; the burglars had pulled everything on to the floor, and Sam had tidied most of it up.

  She was clattering around in the kitchen while the kettle boiled. I leaned against the door, my chest against the jamb, the side of my face pressing against the door itself. While the kettle boiled, she was cleaning the kitchen surfaces.

  “Sam?” She stopped and looked at me. “I'm really grateful, Sam. This must be as bad for you as it is for me.”

  She straightened and pursed her lips at me. “Insurance,” she said sternly, and waggled a canister at me.

  I headed reluctantly back towards the piles of paperwork. On one corner of the table was the answering machine, its cable stretching dangerously across the room to the wall socket. The table it had been on was splintered and unstable and had been consigned to a corner, along with the support for the television, several ripped cushions and curtains. The machine's display showed four messages.

  Vaguely I remembered that when I had come here to collect the zoetrope there had only been three, and I hadn't wanted to play them. Now they seemed more appealing: the alternative was to keep rummaging through the remains of Verity's life. I hit the button.

  First message. “Verity, dear, it's Erica.” An old woman's voice, deep and throaty—too many cigarettes, I thought. She didn't say anything else. There was a long silence, followed by a few rattles and then a click.

  The next message was just a dialling tone.

  The third was short as well: “Where were you?” My own voice, muttering indistinctly.

  Good question, Harry, and where were you?

  Fourth message; the new one. “Verity? It's Erica again. Erica McKelvie.” This time, the voice was nervous and unsure. “I just wondered if you were all right, dear. It's pension day tomorrow. I didn't know whether you had gone away, perhaps.” There was a long, uncertain pause. “Do call, darling.” Another long silence, as though she wanted to say something more, and then a click.

  “Harry, insurance.” Sam was standing watching me, Marigolds on hips.

  I was avoiding it, of course, though I have no idea why. I think I was overwhelmed by the huge amount that needed doing—and now I had to add tracking down Erica McKelvie to the list.

  The kettle clicked and Sam went back into the kitchen.

  I stared round the room for inspiration. I started to call to Sam, “Any idea where—” and then stopped, because I had caught sight of the answer. In the middle of the room was Verity's precious sofa, one end of it blackened and burned away. The foam from what remained of the cushions was tarry and molten. I muttered something under my breath.

  “Any idea what?” Sam said. She was standing in the doorway, balancing two mugs, the Marigolds finally removed. I ignored her.

  The fire had burned a hole right through to the base of the sofa. I peered in. It was full of ash and blackened springs. Charred edges of paper hung from them. “Shit!” I yelled, and kicked the side of the sofa angrily. The ashes settled a little, and black motes rose into the sunlight, filling
the air with the reek of stale smoke.

  “No insurance papers,” I snarled. “In fact, no papers at all.” I booted the sofa again.

  “Harry, sit,” Sam said firmly. She pushed a coffee cup across the table towards me. I felt terribly weary. I sat.

  “There's nothing left,” I mumbled. “I'm going to have to chase down the whole damn lot, aren't I? I know there was a phone bill and a credit card. I'll have to ring and get duplicates. God knows what else there was.”

  “You didn't find papers anywhere, then?” In answer, I pointed at the sofa. Her eyes widened. “They burned the lot?”

  “I've looked everywhere else. Oh, shit... how the hell am I supposed to work out who her insurance company even was?”

  Sam's eyes crinkled, her lips pressed together in sad sympathy.

  “We,” she said gently. “Not you. We. And don't worry, we'll work it out. Maybe she had them in her Filofax. Or the bank will tell us who she paid bills to. We'll get there.”

  Her words solved nothing, but they helped. I wasn't alone, and that made all the difference. I put my hand over hers and squeezed. We sat silently amid the wreckage for a while. Occasionally I sipped my coffee—I have to admit, it was better than when I made it—but I put my hand back on hers afterwards.

  She stood and announced it was time to get back to work. The Marigolds reappeared, and once again she was all business. Watching her bustle round Verity's flat, though, I could see the pain in her eyes. Her skin seemed flushed and fragile.

  Nice bum, though.

  She caught me looking at her, and cocked her head at me; then she threw me a flirtatious kiss.

  And a duster.

  *

  When we drew up outside Sam's house, it was late, somewhere past eight o'clock. We sat in the car, both unsure what to say. “What a day,” was hardly going to cover it.

  “Okay. I'm going to ask you in for a drink,” she said. 'You won't take it the wrong way, will you? Only I damn well need one, and I don't fancy being alone.” In answer, I shut off the engine and climbed out. I hadn't been looking forward to staring at my own empty walls either.

  Sam's flat was large, and simple to the point of austerity. The walls were white. The furniture was pale wood and cane, upholstered in rough, undyed canvas. The sitting room was dominated by a single abstract painting in vivid blues and yellows that somehow managed to suggest both the sea and a prison.

  “Like it?” She handed me a strong gin and tonic. It was sharp and bitter, and the fumes drove through my head. It helped.

  The painting must have been eight feet square. It wasn't in a style I recognised, but it was definitely an original; I could see the lumps in the oil paint. I squinted to make out the signature, but it was illegible. She looked at me, amused. “Before you pronounce judgement, I'll tell you. It's one of mine.”

  I was astonished. It was good. But now she wouldn't believe me when I told her. I did anyway, and she seemed to accept it.

  I wasn't used to people who were secure enough to accept a compliment. I found it unnerving. I was baffled by Sam—but I liked her too. What was strange was not quite knowing who it was that I liked. She was still staring at the picture. “I did it as a backdrop for my graduation collection,” she said. “The clothes were crap, but everyone loved the painting. Ironic, really. I'd been working on the collection for the best part of three years. The painting only took me half an hour.”

  She crossed the room to a sofa. I followed.

  “I'd say you've got a whole new career there.” I meant it.

  She snorted softly into her gin, drained it, and half-got up. She looked at me enquiringly. I knocked back what remained of my own drink and handed her the glass.

  While she fixed the drinks, I looked at the painting. Aquamarines in soft-edged curves, barred rays of gold and fine black lines. It was beautiful. It spoke to me of order and regret. It made me think of trees—and of Verity, now lost to the implacable truth of her fall.

  Sam came back in and slumped next to me. Her eyes were watery. Guilt shot through me again. I turned sideways on the sofa to face her, and gently stroked her knee.

  “I... don't really know what to say,” I mumbled. “I keep being selfish. Sorry.”

  She looked at me and then away. Her lip trembled and she sniffed fiercely. She took my hand and swung it back and forth aimlessly. Her eyes were brimming.

  “And we will get there. You were right,” I added.

  She leaned over and settled against my chest. I wrapped my arms round her. I could feel the sobs shaking her. I let her finish before I spoke again. “I miss her, Sam.”

  She straightened. Her face was marked by dried tears. Her lashes were matted and her eyes were reddened, and her hair was in a mess. She looked fragile and strong all at once—like her painting. I brushed away a lock of hair that was getting in her eyes. She leaned her face towards my hand—and I kept it there.

  We looked at each other for a long while. Then she took my hand and led me to her bedroom.

  *

  It wasn't the best sex in the world, for either of us, and it didn't mean anything much—but who cared? We both needed it, we were both adults, we both did it—and I suppose we both got what we wanted from it. For a small while, during and after, I felt a little less alone. Sam seemed content enough to lie next to me. Don't ask me why we did it, because I don't know. I don't think Sam had planned it any more than I had. Maybe it was for comfort, maybe to forget. Whatever. It was urgent and basic. Neither of us was thinking. I'm sure we both knew there would be embarrassment afterwards, awkwardness and uncertainty. But, of course, we didn't let that stop us.

  Afterwards we were both quiet, making no demands, expecting nothing. When we started to fidget, Sam mumbled something about another drink. I volunteered and wandered naked into the kitchen. There was a bottle of white wine in the fridge and I found a corkscrew in the drawer under the hob. There was something comfortable about finding things so easily in her kitchen. They were in familiar places. And, of course, it was secretly thrilling to be naked in someone else's flat. I felt airy, liberated. When I walked back through the sitting room, the feeling evaporated as I noticed it was dark outside, the room lights were on and the curtains open. Then I thought, What the hell? It's not my place anyway; who cares? And I padded back with the bottle and two glasses to the bedroom, free as you like.

  While I was gone Sam had put on her dressing-gown and switched on the television. Some cookery show was on, with two chefs-cum-drama-queens and a load of pointless celebrities, struggling to do something inventive with tomato sauce, half a courgette, and a bar of chocolate. I handed Sam a glass and sat next to her, glad not to have to talk. She patted my leg absentmindedly, and then pulled her hand back on to her lap.

  The wine had a cool perfume. Like the sex, it felt good: ordinary, undemanding, safe. I poured us both another glass.

  When the bottle was finished I felt self-conscious. I was naked, and she wasn't. The TV was boring. Neither of us was speaking.

  “Look, it's getting late,” I said. “I ought to...” She looked at me. I smiled weakly and muttered, “Yeah. Er... thanks.”

  It was awkward. I got dressed. She switched off the television and watched. She hovered by the door to the flat while I prowled round the living room collecting my things. At last I was ready, and I stood in front of her.

  She didn't quite know what to do with her eyes. Neither did I—not least because her dressing-gown was gaping open. I remembered her small breasts, soft skin. Her bum had been as nice as I had thought.

  “Well...” she said.

  “Well...” I agreed.

  I glanced at the door-latch, but did not reach for it. She put a hand on my chest and slipped a finger in between the buttons.

  “Harry... stay,” she murmured.

  I looked at her. Her eyes were earnest, pleading.

  “Stay,” she said again.

  And I did.

  CHAPTER 13

  I HOPE I HAVE
N'T shocked you. I never claimed to be celibate.

  I had flings and one-night stands and not-quite-girlfriends, but nothing you might call even semi-permanent—and in between, I wondered what might have happened if that childhood kiss had been the beginning of something, and not its end. But you can't build your life on a fantasy, can you? The point is, my blood is as red as anyone's. Why shouldn't I sleep with Sam? This may be Verity's story, but it's not as though I had nothing else in my life.

  I woke next to Sam, aglow after that strange, restless sleep of a night in bed with someone new. Sam woke a little later, and we made love again, slowly this time, and with more purpose and attention than we had the night before. We sat opposite each other at the breakfast table, me clutching a cooling mug of tea, neither of us knowing what to say, my thoughts whirling impossibly fast.

  The shadows of the trees outside threw complex patterns across Sam's huge painting, flattened reminders of the street below, the sinews and bones of living shapes. I have always loved trees: their stillness, their strength, the lightness of their beams. Now, suddenly, I needed to capture that feeling on film. I made my apologies, gave Sam one last kiss—which I enjoyed enough to come back for another before I'd even reached the door—and headed for home. There, I scooped up my cameras, and headed for Battersea Park.

  Perhaps I was trying to recapture the long-ago magic of when Verity and I kissed, or the lightness and comfort of my night with Sam. Or perhaps it was a memorial of sorts, a way of recording Verity's passing. Perhaps it was just therapeutic. Whatever: it worked.

  As I sank into the work I actually began to feel properly. For the first time in days, the numbness lifted. I became what I was doing, absorbed in each shot. Massive branches arching up into a hot sky. Crazed silhouettes of twigs and leaves, blurred by the sunlight bleeding through them. Vast, impassive trunks in ordered rows, one with a small boy crouching by its bole to touch a squirrel. The texture of flaking bark. I was in love with all of it. I laughed aloud. I cried. Everything was intense; the world was heightened. It was hard to bear. It was a kind of ecstasy.