Frozen

by Richard Burke

  “She doesn't want to see you anymore, Harry,” Gabriel said calmly. The words sliced through me. There was a small, bitter smile on his lips. “I'm sorry, Harry,” he said.

  He closed the door very gently in my face.

  *

  The next morning, my five cameras were in a torn cardboard box on the back doorstep. None had films in them, although we had bought or borrowed new film for almost all of them before we had even developed the first set of photos. A few days before, the cameras had seemed like instruments of infinite potential. Now they were a message, written in brute lumps of plastic and brushed chrome. Their single eyes were dulled and unseeing.

  Later that day, as I came downstairs from reading a comic in my room, I saw Gabriel start his car and drive hastily away. In the back seat, next to a few bags and boxes, hunched a small figure. A yellow dress, dark brown hair in a bob, and for a fragment of a moment, two wide dark eyes. Then they were gone. When Gabriel drove the car back two hours later, he was alone.

  *

  I waited in the garden. I nudged my toe under the half-inflated football, and flicked it upwards towards the tree. It slapped against the underside of a branch and dropped heavily into the grass.

  I picked it up and began again.

  CHAPTER 15

  “HARRY, I'M WORRIED about you.”

  I shook my head vigorously, and then had to hold on to the table for a moment or two to get my bearings before I could carry on. I must have been about three pints in and the evening had barely begun. Typical Adam. “What's to worry? I'm just saying that whoever Verity was supposed to see in that pub must have had something to do with her falling.”

  Adam opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it again and settled for rocking his hand uncertainly from side to side.

  He had been ringing me for days, worried that I wasn't as fine as I sounded—which, of course, I wasn't. Actually, I was confused—by what Kate Fullerton had told us, by the burglary, and also by Sam, although I didn't admit that to him. The burglary and the psychiatrist were enough for Adam to insist that we should meet. I'd agreed, reluctantly.

  I had intended to spend the evening with Sam, going over Verity's Filofax for anything we might have missed; I suggested to her that she stay over anyway, and promised I'd be back sober and in good time. But good intentions and an evening with Adam were not exactly compatible. I'd already blown it, and the night was still young.

  “She was seeing someone,” I insisted.

  “Yeah, her boyfriend. That Slav bloke, Karel Whatshisname. Plus the psychiatrist. You told me.”

  “No, not them. The person she was supposed to meet at the pub.”

  I fished around in the plastic bag at my feet and slapped Verity's Filofax down facing Adam on one of the few dry patches on the table. I flicked through the diary section and smartly tapped the Birling Gap entry to drive home my point.

  Adam rolled his eyes impatiently. “Harry, I'll bet you any money it was Whatshisname. Or even if it wasn't, maybe she's got some frail little auntie, lives in Eastbourne.” We were on uncomfortable ground, and we both knew it. Adam really didn't see any mystery; when he looked at me, all he saw was a friend in distress.

  His suggestion was no help at all. Verity had no relatives other than Gabriel. I thought guiltily of the calls from Erica McKelvie on her answer-machine, and promised myself yet again that I would track her down. Tomorrow. Soon. Some time. Whoever she was, though, she surely wouldn't have arranged to meet Verity in Birling Gap, then left messages at Verity's as though nothing had happened.

  “Well, if there isn't an auntie, then it had to be Whatshisname,” Adam said, as though it was self-evident.

  I wagged a finger at him and gulped at my beer at the same time. “This was someone new. Look.” I pushed the Filofax closer to him.

  I marched him through the last few weeks of Verity's life, page by page, jabbing and barking in a rather more emphatic voice than I really wanted to use. Against every appointment in the diary, she had neatly written who she was seeing. Mostly she used initials. I was H; KF was the psychiatrist; K, I assumed, was her poisonous boyfriend, Karel. But over the last two months, there had been frequent meetings with no name attached, one or two a week, sometimes with a gap. There didn't seem to be a pattern, except that they were all in out-of-the-way places: a hotel in Dorking, a pub in Catford, another in Docklands; a couple were even in car parks and lay-bys. The only thing that connected them was that none had a name attached to them, just a time. There were also a few entries with just a time and no other information; Sam and I had wondered if these marked meetings at places Verity already knew.

  It looked nothing like a life. There were very few fixed points. I was there, an H every second Wednesday, circled. There was also a note from the day before the fall, ring H, also circled, and then question-marked, circled again. But she hadn't.

  Adam listened patiently to my explanation. Then he shrugged and pursed his lips.

  “Anyway, it's just not her style,” I yelled, over the din. A television had been switched on at the far end of the bar, adding a fuzzy rumble to the higher notes of chattering drinkers. “Beachy Head's not her style.” I was getting nowhere with the mysterious meetings. Time to play the trump card.

  Adam frowned. “But you said yourself. It's beautiful. Perfect spot.”

  “But she didn't know that, did she? Not until she got there. So why would she go there in the first place?” I really thought that was the clincher. Adam didn't, though, and his argumentativeness was irritating.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose for a moment, trying to squeeze some clarity into my thoughts and my tired eyes. The drinks weren't helping my concentration—not the three pints I'd already had, or the fourth, which was half empty in front of me now.

  “What I mean,” I said slowly (and loudly), “is that she had a big prejudice about that whole stretch of coast. If she talked about old people she'd make jokes about sending them to Eastbourne. She thought the whole coast was made up of retirement bungalows and screaming children.” I reached for my beer. “It just isn't her style,” I said again, and then corrected myself. “Wasn't. Whatever.”

  Adam slapped his thighs and stood. “Food,” he said. “We'll talk about it on the way.” He pointed at my drink. “Down the hatch.”

  I obliged, and immediately regretted it.

  It was around half past nine, and still light. It had clouded over, and the streets were grey, glowing, and quiet. Adam knew a wine bar nearby, and we strolled through the streets, me meandering, him walking more purposefully.

  “Then there's the break-in,” I said. “It all ties together. You're not going to tell me that that's coincidence as well. I mean, come on!” I stopped dead and waved my arms expansively, forcing an oncoming pedestrian to veer into the gutter to avoid being hit. “Oh, sorry. Very sorry.” The woman didn't look back.

  Adam watched me expressionlessly. “I thought you said that was this guy Karel. He knew the flat was empty, didn't he?”

  I squinted at him. “Actually, you've got a point there,” I conceded. I felt a little foolish, the way you do when you have become absorbed in something and then suddenly see yourself as others must.

  Adam laughed and clapped me on the back. “It doesn't matter, Harry. We'll work it out.” He pointed across the road towards the far end of the street. “Nearly there.” I could see a cream-coloured awning with a few diners sitting at tables on the pavement.

  We got a table, ordered more beer and a couple of steaks, then some wine.

  “It's not just me, Ads,” I said. “We both reckon there's something weird about this.”

  “We? Who's we?”

  “Sam and me. Verity's design partner. We both reckon—”

  “I thought you were pissed off with her.”

  “I was, but then she came round. And... well, stuff.”

  “What stuff?” He frowned at me. Then a grin split his face. “Harry, you're not screwing her?”

  I
couldn't help grinning. “I demand my right to a lawyer.”

  “Aha! That'll be me! You'd best tell me everything.” Adam slapped the table and roared. “Harry, you crafty old bastard!”

  “Well, I like her.” And as I said it, I discovered that it was true. Within limits, of course. Sam made me feel good and guilty at the same time. Since the fumblings of our first night, the sex had been fantastic. That wasn't the appeal, though—and neither was the fact that I liked her, if I'm honest. It was something far more basic; it was just knowing that someone was there.

  But nevertheless, it was a kind of betrayal. While Sam and I made love, Verity lay in ITU, with a tube down her throat. Verity deserved better—from me, in particular. I clung all the more fiercely to my determination to understand what had happened to her.

  “You really think there's nothing to it, Ads?” I asked. “Just life as normal, just what happens if you're down?”

  Adam sighed dramatically. “Harry, how could I possibly know?”

  It was a rebuke, if a gentle one. I had reminded him endlessly over the last few days that I knew Verity and he did not. I studied him blearily. He hadn't shaved that morning. The light, patchy stubble almost hid the way his jaw muscles tightened and then released, over and over. And there was something in his eyes; they were remote, and perhaps a little sad. Had I been sober, I might have read the signs of his growing frustration, but I was drunk, and although I was aware that he was chiding me, I took his gentleness as encouragement.

  “What is it between you and Verity?” I blurted.

  Adam looked startled. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “You always avoided her.”

  Thinking about it (fuzzily), it seemed odd that Adam and I had never discussed it. As the years passed the subject had become taboo somehow, for no other reason than it had become pointless to discuss it with either of them. Long before any of us moved to London, they had become insignificant to each other. It had never seemed anything other than natural, but now, obsessed and inebriated, it seemed worth chewing over.

  Adam looked at me expressionlessly for a long time before he spoke.

  “Harry, you're upset, and you're tired,” he said carefully. “And, to be completely candid, you're pissed.” He blew out sharply. “Look, I really can't cope with this. I'm...” His eyes were shining. “Um, I'm pretty fragile myself at the moment. So let's just get you home, yeah? Talk in the morning.”

  I failed to ask him what the problem was. It wasn't that I didn't care; it was just that I was too busy being selfish. Adam waited for me say something. I didn't. I simply didn't think to.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “Whatever.” He dumped his napkin on the table next to the half-full carafe, and stood. I sat back. He was right: I was drunk, very.

  He went over to join the waitress, and bantered with her in a low voice as she prepared the bill. She laughed. I watched from a great distance, my thoughts swaddled in booze and indistinct memories that were just out of reach.

  When he came back to say that the taxi had arrived, he had to help me up.

  *

  Coping with the jolts and sudden swerves of the cab took all my attention. Adam sat neatly next to me, gazing out of the window. We didn't talk much. It was me who broke the silence; about halfway home, a thought drifted through my head. And when I studied the idea, I was puzzled, and then surprised. So surprised that, for a moment or two, I felt almost sober. The question blurted out of me, with no conscious intervention on my part. “So how come you know where she lives, then?”

  “Oh, for—” Adam snapped. Then, more calmly, “What is this, Harry?”

  “Nothing,” I protested. “Just… you don't know her, right, 'sall nothing to do with you, you said—so how come you know her address? Picked me up there the other day.”

  “You must have told me.”

  “Didn't.”

  “You must have. On the phone. When you rang me. How else would I know it?”

  “Didn't.”

  “I'm not going to argue, Harry.”

  “Yeah, but how did you know?”

  “You told me, Harry. You must have. Now leave it.”

  “Well, I think it's weird,” I muttered.

  Adam ignored me. I tried to focus my thoughts enough to make sense of the puzzle, but the effort blurred my vision. Drunkenness swept back over me, and I felt sick. I concentrated once again on keeping my head from rolling.

  The taxi stopped at the end of my street, because there's a one-way system and it takes another five minutes and a couple of extra quid to get dropped at the door. “Nightcap time,” I said to Adam, and lurched out of the cab.

  Adam leaned forward to talk to the driver. “Can you take me on to Clapham?'

  “Nah, mate. Got another job, see?” the driver yelled cheerfully. “That's six-eighty, ta, guv.”

  I reached into my pocket and had to stagger to stay upright. Adam shook his head and fished in his own pocket. He paid, and we set off towards my flat. He flipped out his mobile and ordered a taxi to collect him from my address.

  “Thanks, Adam,” I said blearily. “Not for the taxi,” I added, in case there was any confusion. “Just thanks. You know. Being there and stuff. I know I'm being a bit—well, you know...” I banged him on the shoulder, an attempt at a gentle squeeze. He staggered, looked at his watch and sighed again. We stopped outside. I groped for my keys, and then poked around for the lock.

  “Hey!”

  The yell came from somewhere behind us. I turned as quickly as I dared, which wasn't fast. By the time I had got all the way round, Karel Novak was mounting the kerb. He stopped a few paces short and waved his fists at me. “You fucking shit bastard! I fucking kill you, maybe.”

  His heavy accent didn't disguise his fury. But somehow his anger made him seem smaller. Maybe I just didn't care. Maybe I was drunk.

  “You!” he yelled.

  He lunged closer and pushed me in the chest. I tottered back until my ankles caught on the doorstep, and sat unceremoniously—and painfully.

  “Fucking bastard fuck idiot, Harry, man!”

  Really, it would have been funny if only I hadn't been so tired.

  “You fucking tell police! You say, ‘Oh, yes, Novak, he bad guy, do stuff with flat of Verity.’ And police, they come take me. Lose fucking girlfriend, lose fucking job next day. I complain and they say they send me back to Czech Land! Is lie, I have visa—but is no fucking good, man! And Karel do nothing!”

  I buried my spinning head in my hands, feebly hoping that perhaps he would go away. A woman down the road opened her window and yelled at us to shut up. All three of us ignored her.

  “This is Karel Whatshisface, is it?” Adam asked me coolly.

  I tried to nod. Failed. I looked blearily up at Adam, who seemed as sharp as ever.

  “Novak!” Karel screamed at him. “Not Whatface, Novak. Karel Novak.” He thumped his chest in time to his name and jerked his head forwards aggressively.

  Then he made a foolish mistake. He spat at Adam's shoes. Worse, his aim was bad. The spit smeared across Adam's trousers. Karel stood glaring at him.

  Adam stared at his trousers. “You dirty fucking snake...” he said wonderingly. Then he stepped forward, and buried his fist in Karel's stomach. Karel's eyes nearly popped out. He made a slow, retching noise and doubled over. Adam kicked his knee, and he slumped on to the pavement. I was still sitting propped against the door, struggling to follow what was going on. Too much, too fast.

  “There's a couple of things you might like to think about, Karel.” Adam spoke quietly, although he was breathing hard. “First, watch your language. Second...” Adam paused just long enough to kick him. “... Do not break into other people's flats.”

  “Not me,” Karel rasped. “I not—”

  “Bullshit the police if you want, Novak,” Adam snarled, “But don't—bullshit—us.” The last three words were accompanied by kicks. Karel was past talking. He lay in a ball, gasping out little spasms
of air. Adam stood back and took a deep breath. “Now fuck off.”

  He turned away from Karel, dragged me upright, took the key from me and shoved me inside ahead of him. I think I must have mumbled something, but I'm not sure. Adam just growled, “Up.”

  There were heavy breaths behind me on the stairs.

  When we reached my flat, he helped himself to a whisky, without asking or offering, and slumped on the sofa. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were damp—whether from the whisky or for some other reason I didn't know. We sat and waited for his taxi.

  It arrived and he left, without saying a word. I tottered to the window and leaned out unsteadily to watch him go. Through the branches of the trees that lined the street I saw him sweep outside and into the car before the front door had slammed behind him.

  The empty pavement was glossy with heat and streetlights. The trees hung motionless, their leaves limp and yellow. There was no sign of Karel Novak. I wondered where he had gone. Then I wondered if Sam had stayed, or if she had lost patience with me and left. Then I wondered how I was going to get to my bedroom. Then I realised I was going to throw up. But I was too tired for that; I flopped back on to the sofa, and let the humid warmth wash over me—the flickering orange of streetlights on the ceiling, light glimpsed through a cage of leaves, a neon, pavement-hard echo of one soft summer, long ago.

  CHAPTER 16

  I WAS WOKEN from a dream. Someone knocking.

  I rolled over and grunted. Sam was next to me and I was in bed. I must have made my way to the bedroom some time during the night; I didn't remember it. She had stayed. Her skin was warm and smooth, and I had an instant erection. I peeled myself away from her while I could. The alarm clock said six-twenty-five. I had no idea how long the knocking had been going on. I padded out of the bedroom, grabbing a towel; I didn't own a dressing-gown.

  Birdsong drifted through the living-room windows, the cool air of a summer dawn. Amazingly, I didn't have a hangover—at least, not yet. Perhaps I was still drunk. I wasn't particularly alert, but I did feel fairly good, which was a change. No, I didn't just feel fairly good. I felt good. I could smell Sam on me.