Frozen

by Richard Burke

  “Okay. But just remember I'm here, okay? Please. And that I miss you. The last two days have been hell.”

  “Bye, Adam.”

  There was a long silence. Then he rang off. I crawled back to bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Sam rolled over on to me, still half-asleep. She trailed her fingers over my stomach, and then her hand drifted downwards.

  “Mmmmm... who was that?”

  “Adam. Wants to meet.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason.”

  Given what her hand was doing, Adam was the last thing on my mind.

  “Why, though?”

  “Dunno. Wants to stay friends.”

  Sam was stroking slowly. I arched up, trying to strengthen the contact with her hand.

  “So where was he calling from?”

  “The office. Town hall.”

  She brushed her lips against my neck. “Now's your chance to go and see Sarah, then, isn't it?” she murmured. “You can have the rest when you get back.”

  And she kicked me out of bed.

  *

  Adam and Sarah lived just south of Clapham Common, in a large house on a wealthy, leafy street.

  It was Sam who had insisted that I should see Sarah. Unfortunately, I knew she was right. I needed to know more about Adam and Verity's affair—and I refused to ask anything more from Adam. Also, as Sam pointed out, I was going to have to apologise for Adam's behaviour. He was, after all, still my friend... sort of. I was dreading it. The apologies would be uncomfortable; the revelations about Verity could well be unbearable. The mission could only go ahead when Adam was not there, of course, and for the last few days I had been using this as a pathetically thin excuse for not going. Sam had been needling me more and more, and this morning's escalation of the rules of engagement to include sexual frustration was... well, actually, it was rather fun. I was looking forward to getting her back to the negotiating table later.

  First, though, there was the small matter of the moment I had been trying to avoid.

  The air was sharp and clean, and the familiar faint roar of London traffic seemed more remote than usual. On the street itself, nothing moved. Adam's house (well, mostly Sarah's, actually; she was the one with capital) was set back from the road. It was high, white and square, with steps leading up to the front door, flanked on both sides by a sunken well that let light into a lower-ground-floor-cum-basement. Through the windows I could see a terracotta-tiled floor, and a pair of feet in socks and dark blue cargo pants, standing against a kitchen unit. I rang the bell and the feet turned and walked from view. Thirty seconds later Sarah opened the door and stared at me, her blue eyes full of calm hostility. Her hair shifted in a whisper of breeze.

  One cheek was swollen and blue. Her eye was puffed to a slit.

  She said nothing, just turned and walked ahead of me along the darkened hall and down the stairs to the kitchen. I shut the door behind me as quietly as I could. Ahead of me, I heard crockery clattering.

  The kitchen was huge and bright, despite being half below ground, because one wall was all window, giving on to a well-lit garden. The floor was an ocean of terracotta with a breakfast bar set in the middle of it like an island. Sarah was sitting at it on a stool. She held a cup of coffee neatly in her lap with both hands. She offered me nothing—not a drink, not a seat. Her bruised cheek distorted her frown. She didn't speak. Eventually I gave up waiting and sat at another of the stools, the worktop a reassuring barrier between us.

  “I didn't know,” I said. “About the affair. I had no idea.”

  She jiggled her head at me—“go on,” “who cares?” and “heard it all before” rolled into one easy gesture.

  “Seriously,” I persisted. “What you told me. I never even guessed.”

  She smiled bitterly. The skin of her bad cheek went hard and shiny. “Why are you here, Harry?”

  Good question. I wished I wasn't. I took a deep breath, conjured a vision of Sam's face if I bottled out, and went for it. “I wanted to make sure you were okay. You seemed pretty upset when you... when… er...”

  “Barged in? Yes, that must have been terribly disturbing for you. I'm so sorry.” It would have been nice if she'd sounded more like she meant it. She set down her coffee and rose, fiddling with some drawers on the other side of the kitchen, doing nothing in particular.

  “Adam wasn't best pleased either,” she muttered.

  She must have sensed me gaping, because she snapped at me, “I fell, Harry. On the stairs. I'm clumsy, apparently.” Her hair framed the bruise and almost hid it. She slumped against the worktop, and her head drooped. “Sometimes I wonder if he hates me.” She spoke to the floor. A mocking smile. “And then, other times, I wonder if I hate him.”

  Occasionally I'm clever enough to let other people do the talking. Today I was clever. She went on, “It's not just that Hadley woman. If it was just her I could forgive him. Maybe. But again and again and... and I'm tired of it. I'm sure she was nothing special, just his latest screw.”

  “Actually, Sarah, that's the other reason I'm here.”

  She stared at me blankly, then went on, as though I hadn't spoken, “I don't think he even means to be cruel, you know. But he is. Emotionally, he's cruel. But you know, the thing is, after a while you just give up being hurt. You realise that actually what you are is not hurt anymore, but really, really angry.”

  She looked around her, and then walked over to an open shelf scattered with plants and designer crockery. She fetched down a thick handful of dinner plates—porcelain white with a thin rim of blue and gold. She held them out in front of her, and then dropped the whole pile on to the floor. The shrill sound of the crash was over quickly, but she held the pose, hands open in front of her, gazing at me, dazed. She looked down at the shards at her feet. China splinters had scattered across the tiles. A pile of jagged-edged half-moon plates lay before her, toppled to one side. She lifted her foot and stamped down on them. Her sock slid sideways and she wobbled on one leg but kept her balance. The pile did not shatter. Instead, the middle four plates squirted outwards, landing flat and sending a second wave of shards skating across the floor. Still wobbling, Sarah set down her stamping foot, with no regard for the fragments beneath it. I heard the bone-dry, high-pitched crunch of crushed ceramic as her foot settled. She wrinkled her face—half-pain, half-disgust, all control.

  My heart was hammering.

  “Why are you here, Harry?” Her voice was quiet.

  You had to admire it. You had to be scared, too.

  I spread my arms feebly. Then I did it again, because I still wasn't sure what to say. “When did you last see Verity?” I blurted at last.

  Sarah looked at me for a while, and then gave a soft laugh. “Fuck off, Harry.”

  “I'm serious,” I said. “You knew they were seeing each other. You had her followed. Adam told me. Just followed? Or did you try to warn her off?”

  Sarah walked slowly back to the breakfast bar, limping, shards tinkling and grinding as she trod on them. There were tiny smears of blood on the tiles where her feet had been. She picked up her coffee cup and sat. Then she set it down again.

  “It's not just the affairs,” she said thoughtfully. She delicately pressed one fingertip on to a knot in the wooden work surface, and then onto another. “It's not even the lying—well, he scarcely bothers with that, does he?” She tapped a couple more tiny knots, and then drew her hand back to her coffee. “It's the future. It's what happens next.”

  I was confused, so I stuck to my guns. “Sarah, did—”

  “Did I go to see her?” she laughed. “What the hell would that have accomplished?” She raised her hand limply, forefinger dropping over another knot in the wood. She squinted at it, so hard that she winced as her cheek pulled tight. Then she stood. More delicate crunching noises. “I'd like you to go now, Harry.”

  “Look, I need to know what happened, Sarah. I know it's hard for you to—”

  “Hard?!”

 
“But Verity was my friend. I didn't know about the affair. If I had, believe me, I'd have given anything to stop it. But it happened. Look, I... cared about Verity. A lot. And I'd just like to know what happened to her. You may be able to help.”

  “Oh, I can. What happened to Verity Hadley? Easy-peasy. A poisonous little tart who got exactly what she deserved. Well, maybe not exactly. People who fuck other people's husbands in lay-bys deserve a lot worse than Beachy Head. And bars, too. It's so tacky. They couldn't even manage a decent hotel. But I shouldn't complain. He was using her, of course, and she must have been feeling miserable. That's a comfort. Bitch.”

  She drained her coffee, and then lightly dropped the cup on to the floor to join the plates. She bent and picked up one of the pieces, frowned at it, scraped its sharp edge across her palm. It left a white line. She did it again, harder, and beads of blood oozed out. She sniffed them, looked bemused.

  “I'd like you to go now, Harry,” she said again, absently, still gazing at her palm.

  What she read there, I have no idea. I didn't stay to ask. I stood uneasily, and led the way back up the stairs. On the doorstep, I turned, unsure what to say. Her cut hand was clenched white at her side. “Do you think I should hate him, Harry?” She looked genuinely puzzled. So was I. I shrugged, and she nodded her understanding—although goodness knows what she understood. I made to go. I looked again at Sarah's cheek, and she touched it self-consciously. Suddenly her eyes filmed, and she covered her face.

  I watched, helpless, as her shoulders shook. “Sarah... did you really fall?”

  She looked up, curious, enquiring. Unreadable. She sniffed away the tears and straightened. “Remember after our wedding, Harry? Your speech.” Her eyes creased. She half closed the door then slumped against it, her uninjured cheek pressed against the flat of the white-painted wood. “You told me to look after him.” She laughed at that, sadly.

  “Um. Look, Sarah—”

  “Fuck off, Harry.” She sounded tired.

  An aeroplane coming in to land moaned distantly. Another shone in the sky, white steel against the blue.

  She began to close the door again. I turned and started down the steps. “Harry?”

  I stopped, looked back at her.

  “Don't tell him you've seen me this time, Harry. Please.” Her face was a mask. There was more than just fear there. More than weariness. I saw something deeper, and far more shocking.

  After everything, all he had done, she still loved him.

  CHAPTER 23

  I WAS LOOKING forward to getting back to Sam. I was on a promise, after all. But my encounter with Sarah hadn't left me feeling exactly frisky, so when Sam announced that she had other plans for me, I wasn't as frustrated as I might have been. She was dressed and ready for business.

  “Done?” She quickly cleared away her coffee and newspaper.

  “Done. Weird—scary, actually—but done.”

  “Learn anything? Oh, never mind, you can tell me on the way.”

  “The way where?”

  “Unfinished business, remember?”

  The unfinished business I'd had in mind had been in the bedroom. But she came over to me and pushed me gently through the front door.

  “Karel Novak,” she said firmly.

  Just as I had begun to get interested again.

  Damn.

  *

  Karel Novak was the closest Sam and I had yet come to an argument.

  I had only meant it idly when I'd said I should try to find him. My thoughts had been in a slow post-coital drift. Sam had answered equally idly that she had his details. I tried to ask, casually, what she was doing with his phone number. She must have felt me stiffen. “He's sexy, Harry,” she said defensively. “A girl's got to take her chances.”

  “He doesn't do a thing for me,” I grumbled.

  She rolled over on top of me and pressed her nose against mine.

  “D'you want to find him or not?” she asked, grinding her hips against me. I felt myself rising in response.

  “Mnngh...” I said, because her tongue was in my mouth. When she was finished, I added, “I suppose so, yes.”

  She rolled back to her bedside table and groped beneath it for her bag.

  “Anyway, you already knew I had it.”

  “I did?”

  “Well, how else could I have given it to the police after the break-in?”

  “Point,” I conceded. And added, trying to sound casual again, and failing, “So when did he give it to you?”

  She peeped over her shoulder at me, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching subtly at the corners. She had those wonderful lips that seem soft and alive, they moved with her every expression. Right now they were laughing at me. “Harry Waddell, are you jealous?” She poked me in the side. She didn't pull the jab. Her nails were rock hard and they hurt. “Harry Waddell, the great international man of mystery, seducer of women. Mr. Commitment himself—oh, don't worry, Harry! You, jealous!”

  I huffed a few times in a wounded sort of way. I couldn't win. If I said I was jealous, I sent her all the wrong signals. On the other hand, if I denied jealousy, she'd know that I was lying.

  She gave up looking for the address book and sat on top of me, wriggling herself against me comfortably. She stroked my chest and neck with one hand and reached down behind her with the other to trace a finger along my thigh.

  “Relax, Harry, he's just a flirt. He gave me the number ages ago. Fancied his chances. I was pissed. I must have taken down five boys' numbers that evening. Didn't phone any of them. But you never know when you might want to. And, like I said, Karel's sexy. He's a bastard, but he's sexy.”

  Her finger reached a little higher. “Now, you, on the other hand...”

  Her hair and warm breath were tickling my face. Her skin smelt of warm sheets and the faint perfume of our sweat. I ran my hands down her sides towards her hips, over her back and the crease of her buttocks. She crushed her mouth against mine.

  I could feel her smiling as we kissed.

  *

  But that had been then. No sex today, just unfinished business.

  Karel Novak lived in a shabby house near Elephant and Castle. The road was shadowed by tall, boarded up warehouses. The house squatted between them, red brick underneath the grime. Large metal bins clustered opposite in a disused lorry bay. The rubbish overflowed on to the pavement—drifts of paper and half-eaten burgers, bent bike wheels, empty TV casings. A thick smell oozed from the pile and seeped along the street, loamy and warm, like dry yeast. The smell itself wasn't unpleasant, except when you knew where it came from.

  With a nervous glance back at my car—the only one on the street, and an open invitation to whoever lurked behind the blanked-off windows—I rang the bell. Sam put her hands into her pockets and rested her chin on my shoulder while we waited. I fidgeted uncomfortably, and she pulled away, which made me feel even more uncomfortable. I hadn't meant her to.

  A young man answered the door, wearing a green satin bathrobe, pink fluffy slippers and mascara. He looked us up and down, then pouted and waited for us to speak.

  “Hi. Could we see Karel? Karel Novak.”

  “Well, it was hardly going to be Karel Vorderman, darling, was it?” The man rolled his eyes. “Not in a dump like this,” he added, in case we hadn't got the point. He looked at us some more, stroking the lapel of his dressing-gown between forefinger and thumb.

  “Is he here, then?” I asked.

  Which got me another looking-over, but no reply.

  “Who is it? Josephine?” someone called.

  Josephine?

  Boots thumped on wood flooring, and then the tatty blue mat in the hall. They belonged to a tall man in a white T-shirt and black leather trousers with high cheekbones and an unshaven chin. He peered at us over “Josephine's” shoulder.

  “Is Karel in?” I asked the newcomer.

  “Upstairs. Second floor,” he said. “Still in bed, the lazy bitch.”

  Josephine was still in the
doorway, eyeing us. “I'm not surprised he's in bed,” he said. “He can't work, can he? Not with a face like that.” He winced, pursed his lips like he was sucking a lime, nodded in satisfaction.

  “Come on, Joe. Let the nice people in,” the other man said caustically.

  “Do this, do that,” Joe snapped, without taking his eyes off us. “You've no sense of timing, have you, Michael? That's your problem.”

  “Oh, shut up, you old tart. Get out of their way.” Michael stomped back along the hall and yelled, “Second floor!” over his shoulder. Joe tossed his head in the direction of the stairs and sashayed down the hall after Michael.

  “Models,” Sam muttered to me. “They're bad enough on their own, but get two of them together...”

  It hadn't occurred to me that they might be models, but thinking about it, they had both been quite good-looking, in a gaunt sort of way. Mind you, Joe's mascara was doing him no favours.

  We trudged upstairs, our shoes slipping on the ratty hessian carpet, worn smooth where it wasn't worn through. On the second-floor landing there was a shabby bathroom and one closed door. We knocked. A muffled voice yelled at us to fuck off in an impenetrable accent. I walked in.

  Clothes were everywhere in rumpled pools; they lapped over magazines, speakers and wires from a stereo I couldn't immediately see, empty tobacco pouches, crisps packets. I couldn't tell if the carpet was patterned because I couldn't see any of it. A large mirror balanced on top of a long low dresser. Photos—all of Karel—were slipped into the frame by their corners. At the mirror's base, a scattering of toiletries stood like offerings at a shrine. The bed was a double mattress on the floor, its smutted covers spilling into the general chaos. A bony foot protruded from the end.

  Karel was lying in bed with an overflowing ashtray next to him, a magazine balanced on his knees, a television droning at him from the corner, his hairy chest and taut belly exposed to the world. Smoke from his roll-up curled into his eye and the lid flickered. He wasn't happy to see us.

  “Hello, Karel,” I said evenly.

  He dragged on the butt and then picked it out of his mouth, tapping the ash on to the covers, a good six inches away from the ashtray. He blew a thin cloud of smoke at us.