Frozen

by Richard Burke

  Adam shook his head. “It's been so hard, Harry.” His voice was a sigh. “Lying to you. All the pretence. Keeping secrets. Harry, I'm so sorry.”

  “Not sorry enough to fucking tell me,” I muttered.

  Adam pinched his nose. He spoke carefully. I had the impression that he was irritated with me, the bastard, but was trying to stifle it. “I did try to tell you, Harry. I wanted to last night in the pub. But you were so absorbed in your own troubles, you didn't have the slightest—oh, forget it...”

  His hand strayed up to his forehead. He took a handful of hair, clenched it and twisted. When he sighed, it sounded as though someone had punched him. “I should never have let it happen in the first place. It was only a bit of fun anyway. And I admit I should have told you. We should have told you.”

  “We,” I echoed bitterly. But the anger in my voice was a lie. What I was feeling was more like... grief.

  Adam met my gaze. His eyes were glassy, his face was sad and... puzzled, I think; as though my reaction had bewildered him. “You're supposed to be my friend,” I hissed.

  “I am,” he said. I snorted mockingly. “Listen, Harry,” he went on, “I wish I could turn back the clock and not do it but I can't. I did it. And I can't make that okay for you. I can't even ask you to forgive, because how could you? I did it. We did it. It's over. I'm sorry.”

  We.

  Adam's betrayal was only part of the cold fury that was creeping over me. We did it, we lied; that was the real agony. And now Verity would never be able to explain or beg forgiveness, or comfort me through the pain of learning what she had done. I would not have the reassurance of her guilt, of her sadness at my hurt. There would be no attempt to deny the intolerable truth that was searing through me: that I had lost Verity long before she fell.

  “Why, Adam?” I moaned. “Just—why?” Tears were burning in my eyes, and in his.

  “It was just fun, Harry. We both knew it wasn't going to last.” He gazed at me mildly.

  I glowered back.

  “Okay, the truth. The truth is, Harry, we didn't want to hurt you.” He held up a weary hand to forestall any response. “I know, it's the oldest cliché in the book, but it's the truth, Harry, I swear. We knew how you felt about her. If you knew we were... you know... it would have torn you apart. It didn't mean enough to risk that.”

  I wanted to laugh. It was so bloody ironic. Adam nodded. He knew what I was thinking. “And now here we are,” he murmured. “And you do know. And look what it's doing to you. Harry, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.”

  “Don't even try,” I grated.

  He couldn't help himself, though. This was his opportunity for confession. I wished he would shut up—but I listened.

  “I was so close to telling you, Harry, I swear. But it wasn't love or anything. It was completely casual. It was never going to last long. Verity swore there was no point coming clean.”

  “So you kept quiet,” I said coldly.

  He nodded again. “Except Sarah found out, so we had to stop it anyway. She hired a private detective, can you believe that?” He laughed bitterly. “We drew a line under it. Said our goodbyes, went our separate ways. I promised Sarah that I'd be a good boy, but she still doesn't trust me. Well, you've found that out for yourself now.”

  “When?” I tried to keep my voice steady—and almost succeeded.

  “When what?”

  “When did you finish it, Adam?”

  “With Verity? Months ago. I was trying to get my marriage back together.”

  “What, going out secretly at night and pretending you were with me?”

  He spread his hands in surrender. “Like I said before, it hasn't been working. It's been a nightmare. I've wanted so much to talk to you about it. Sarah's been obsessed.”

  “I'd say that's understandable.”

  “For fuck's sake, Harry!” he barked. “If you're going to cut me dead, can you do us both a favour and get it over with? You're my friend. Did you want me to hurt you?” I started to protest but he cut me off. “Don't bother denying it, Harry. Of course it would have hurt you. It's hurting you now. You know it; I know it.”

  I could see him trying consciously to get a grip. I was trembling, a bizarre mixture of rage and fear. My heart was knocking, I felt weak and dizzy. For a moment I had thought he would hit me.

  “It was months ago, Harry,” he said at last. He was talking hesitantly now. “It was over. We saw each other for a couple of months, and then Sarah found out and that was that.”

  “When?” I asked again.

  “Oh, for—how would I know? Four months ago? Thereabouts... I suppose I saw her a few times in the month or two after.” He waved his hands vaguely.

  “Sarah thought you were still seeing her.”

  Adam laughed bitterly.

  “Not now,” I said. “Before. Until—you know.”

  His eyes were filmy and distant. “Until she fell? Harry, that was such a shock. It was only a few months after... and we'd had such fun. What happened?”

  “Well, for one thing, you dumped her.”

  Adam shot me a withering stare. “Just forget it, Harry.”

  “I'm just saying—”

  “I know what you're saying, Harry, and it's rubbish. You have no idea what you're talking about. It was a fling, that's all. It was no big deal. We met up a few times afterwards, and she was fine.”

  He slapped the tabletop; our cups jumped, and clattered back into their saucers. A waitress in a pink check pinafore looked round and pursed her lips at us, before turning back to chat in Italian with the man behind the counter.

  Every word was another cut, slicing away any illusions I might once have clung to—that I mattered to her, that I knew her better than anyone; that I knew her at all. My thoughts, my memories, my certainties shredded.

  And if it hadn't been for Sarah, I'd never have found out. Verity had been so careful; he wasn't even listed in her Filofax... unless...

  Perhaps it was a moment of unworthy suspicion, but it was going to take more reassurance than Adam had yet given me to restore my faith in him. “Was it you?”

  “Was... Harry, what are you on about?”

  “Was it you? At Birling Gap?”

  Adam laughed angrily. “Oh, wake up, Harry!” I waited for more. He peered at me speculatively. “Good God, you don't think—oh, for Christ's sake, Harry, I was in Manchester, remember?”

  I had forgotten. I'd barely registered what Adam was up to when I rang him after Verity's fall; all that had mattered was that he'd dropped everything to be with me, that he'd been there for me.

  Yeah. Ha bloody ha.

  “So, what about the other times? In her diary.”

  “Leave it, Harry! Please. Look, I don't know who she'd been seeing. What about the psychiatrist woman you told me about? Or that bastard Karel? It could have been Gabriel for all I know—or Sarah, or the Pope. Harry, I don't know.” He stood abruptly and fished in his pocket. He slapped a couple of pound coins on the table. He caught himself before he left. “Look, I'm upset, Harry. Sorry. But I've got to get back. We'll have to talk later.”

  The two Italians stopped their chatter to watch us go. Immediately we were out of the door, I heard them start again.

  As we walked back to the town hall, Adam grimaced and stopped. When I peered at him, he set off again, his voice cracking. “I couldn't even tell you, Harry.”

  Was that true? How would I have reacted? Verity and Adam...

  Oh, I would have been hurt, so hurt, they were right. Maybe, even if she had told me, I would have turned her away.

  And Adam. Stupid, callous, hurtful—and so obviously desperate to put this behind us. Our friendship was changed forever, of course—if I could even think of it that way now. Certainly, I would find it hard ever to trust him again, no matter how hard he worked at it. As for forgiveness... it would either come or it wouldn't; although I was humiliated and resentful, we had known each other over twenty years—and despite the strangen
ess between us now, he was still Adam and I was still Harry. I groped for an explanation of my own feelings, some reason why I was not intent on removing every trace of him from my life and thoughts. I clung to the first idea I found that seemed sufficiently harsh: he was useful to me. The real reason I buried as deep as I could. But it itched at the fringes of my thought, and I couldn't keep it away. Without Adam, I would be utterly alone.

  *

  I rang his secretary later—of course—and of course, she wouldn't tell me anything without Adam's permission. I needed to know for sure that he had been in Manchester that day; I could never recover my confidence in him on the strength of his word alone.

  Rita Patava was less than pleased to hear from me. I can't say I blamed her, but it made a difficult process even harder.

  “Mr. Waddell, I am sure you will appreciate that there are issues of principle here.” She was enjoying this. She rolled her R’s, and made the most of her shrill Indian accent, phrasing her sentences in a manner that was most proper. She had a score to settle. “You will realise, Mr. Waddell, that a job such as mine involves certain responsibilities, there are obligations, there are protocols to be observed. The job must be done corr-rrectly, the right way. This is most important.”

  What she meant was that she was “most important”—and that I had broken her rules. I bit back on my annoyance; it wasn't going to help me. “Rita, I do absolutely understand. And if—”

  “What I am saying is that there is a proper procedure.”

  “Yes. And—”

  “There are rules.”

  “Absolutely. Could—”

  “We cannot simply do as we wish, Mr. Waddell. As I am sure you appreciate.”

  “Can I suggest—”

  “That would be most improper.”

  I gave up, and overrode her. “Look, Rita. I'm sorry about this morning, but can we take the apology as read, and get on with it? You can't go through Adam's diary without his permission? Fine. Is he there?”

  There was a nettled silence, and then muted shuffling noises—a knock, a door opening. I heard her voice, but not what she said, and then Adam's gruff reply, a brief exchange. She picked up the phone again. She didn't sound happy.

  “Mr. Yates has consented to allow me to discuss his business arrangements with you, Mr. Waddell. Why, I am not sure, but this is none of my affair. Please be brief. I have many things to do.”

  The bad grace didn't matter, just the facts—and those she told me.

  Adam had been in Manchester the day Verity fell, exactly as he had said, and exactly as I already knew. As we went back through the dates in the Filofax, relief flooded through me. There was another trip to Manchester, a meeting at the town hall, he was in court, on a fact-finding trip to Leeds... his diary was blank for one or two of Verity's mystery dates, but Rita was able to tell me where he had been for almost all of them. I thanked her, and she made it clear that it was Adam I should thank. She kept her opinion of me to herself—sort of.

  Adam called me about three minutes later. “Satisfied, Harry?”

  “No, Adam. Not satisfied at all.”

  “But you do believe I wasn't there?”

  “Yes.”

  I resented it that he had been telling the truth. I wanted to hate him. I wanted a new betrayal that would make everything his fault, rather than merely the consequences of a squalid affair that I couldn't bear to think about.

  “I know I can't expect you to trust me, Harry, but I will do what I can. I'll try my best to help you. And no more lies, I promise.”

  As if a promise meant anything now.

  CHAPTER 18

  VERITY'S EYES WERE open and she stared. Not at me, not at Sam, not at anything.

  The ventilator was gone; the heart monitor's endless beat had stopped. A thin plastic tube was taped to the side of her head below the bandages; it slid into one nostril. The swelling had reduced, and reds and blacks seeped across her face beneath the olive skin. A round plastic mount for a non-existent drip bulged out of her wrist, swathed in grey surgical tape. Beneath it, I knew, a needle sank deep into her, and the thought made me cringe.

  But it was the eyes. I couldn't help but search them for a blink, for the flick of a glance, the subtlest movement in the iris or the lids, a narrowing so slight that you were never even aware; the person behind them, the life. I tried to smile at her empty face.

  I crouched beside the bed, in the line of her not-really-sight, and spun the zoetrope for her. It flickered in the corner of my vision, vivid green, bright warm light, Verity turning round and round and round, screaming with delight—and as she was now, eyes lolled, drool trickling thickly from her mouth. I imagined her lost inside herself, tumbling in the dark, falling endlessly, grasping, finding only emptiness. I spun the zoetrope again and ached for it to help. Perhaps it would reach her, give her at least a memory to live with. If she was there at all.

  Did she dream? If there were nightmares, who would comfort her?

  “Hey, Verity,” I whispered. I brushed back a lock of hair that had escaped from the bandages, more for my own comfort than anything because it wasn't out of place. I leaned past the slowing zoetrope and kissed her temple. “It's okay, gorgeous,” I said. “It's all okay.”

  I felt Sam's hand on my back. She brushed the lock I had just straightened.

  “Hey, babes,” she murmured. “It's all right.”

  Why do we say these things? Nothing was all right. The same slack face sagged towards us. The same dulled eyes kept watch on a point somewhere past my shoulder, loose in their sockets. But who else was there to keep her company in the dark?

  Gabriel was in Oxford. Probably by now he was waiting in the corridors outside the neurology ward, waiting even though it would be hours before we arrived.

  I crouched again, and spoke to her gently. “We're going to take you home, Verity.”

  And when I smiled again, I cried.

  Not home at all. We were taking her to another ward, to a hospital closer to Gabriel. If she had been conscious, she would have told me that her home was London now, and Gabriel had nothing to do with it. But she was comatose, and Gabriel was her next-of-kin. And lying there, her eyes blank and wide, she looked again like a little girl, lost and bewildered and afraid of the dark.

  The porter snapped off the bed's wheel brake with an expert flick of his toe, and leaned against the metal headrail. The bed squeaked reluctantly, and rolled towards the door. We followed, carrying the clothes I had brought, and the zoetrope.

  *

  We cruised behind the ambulance at a sedate sixty miles an hour. It seemed cruel to abandon her. We had to be there. The air seemed somehow easier as we left Eastbourne behind.

  It was a grey day, cool and bright and somehow quiet despite the roar of the motorway. It had rained that morning, but now the road was dry. The oncoming traffic was a glare of reflected metal. My old Renault snarled and bumped, and added an overtone of stale rubber to the unconvincing breeze from the fan.

  On the back seat, the zoetrope jogged and jittered. Sam had turned to look at it, kneeling dangerously in her seat. “Did you really make that when you were thirteen?”

  She and I had settled for a vague truce based on the idea that we were both free agents, companions because it suited us now, and to hell with the future. There was no obligation, no meaning, we were two people sharing whatever they chose to share, for now. It was liberating. I reached over and patted her behind. She wriggled contentedly, and grunted. I left my hand there for a mile or so, then had to reclaim it to use the indicator.

  “Did you?” She squirmed round to face forwards.

  “Hmm? What? Oh. Did I make that when I was thirteen? No. I was thirteen when we took the photos, but I didn't make the zoetrope until I was... oh, twenty-five, I suppose.”

  “Why wait?”

  “It didn't occur to me at the time. Verity and I had a few ups and downs while we were growing up.” I said it as lightly as I could, and grinned uneasily. “Ac
tually, when I was thirteen, I fancied the hell out of her... anyway, the treehouse gang broke up at pretty much at the same time as we took the photos. I ended up with the negatives, but we pretty much buried the whole photo thing for years.” I laughed, remembering. “Then there was this party. We must have been in our twenties—and we got badly drunk and started reminiscing.”

  Sam swivelled and sat sideways, facing me. “Wasn't it odd, not talking about it all those years?”

  Uncomfortable questions. Instinctively I prickled, and then tried to relax. She wasn't prying, she just didn't know...

  “To be honest, Sam, I counted myself lucky that we were talking at all. She was so flighty—all the way through school, always. Say the wrong thing and she'd just vanish, wouldn't talk for months. Most of the time I was worried that she was about to cut me out completely.”

  The zoetrope tapped. Sam listened, and thought. Cars washed past, sun-bright machines full of bright, busy people.

  “I'm not really sure she liked it that much,” I added. “The zoetrope.”

  Sam gaped at me.

  “Are you kidding? She loved it! She put it carefully away before every party, wouldn't let anyone touch it. We always wondered, you know—sneaked a peek when she was out of the room. Sometimes when she was pissed she'd just sit there holding it.”

  That was too much for me. I didn't want to think about it; I didn't want to think at all. I put on the radio.

  The news—a reassuring background mumble that the world was full of tragedies, that all of this was normal; it had happened before and would happen again, the endless miseries of the turning world.

  But I couldn't exorcise my ghosts so easily. I imagined Verity, clutching the zoetrope, rocking back and forth maybe, gazing at somewhere far inside.

  “I always thought she just put it out for me when I was there,” I said. The car's din made my voice high and insubstantial.

  Sam rested her hand on my thigh, stroking lightly with her thumb, and had the wisdom not to reply.

  It was ten past twelve. Two hours to Oxford. We swept along a brilliant grey stone stream, past cars, trees, buildings, past other people's lives, glimpsed for an instant. The zoetrope pattered restlessly against the seat. We reached the M25—more a river than a stream, broad, flat, slow—and filtered on to it. The junctions came and went in slow counterpoint to the zoetrope's impatient beat.