Iona shrugged. ‘How does anyone end up fucking anyone? He came into the pub, we got talking, he was nice.’
‘He’s in his forties.’
Iona laughed. ‘Hello? Tom?’
Surtsey sighed. ‘He’s bad news.’
‘How do you mean?’
Surtsey thought about the Inch, all the people connected with it in some way.
‘I’m not sure, he just is.’
‘Sur, he’s just a fucking guy,’ Iona said. ‘They’re ten a penny. It doesn’t mean anything.’
She took a hit of tequila and winced.
‘Do you think Mum knew?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘When you saw her yesterday. How was she?’
Surtsey considered the question for a long moment. Pictured Louise on the Inch letting the sand run through her fingers. ‘She was on good form. Happy to be out on the water, even happier on the island.’
‘Was it her idea to go out?’
Surtsey tried to remember. ‘Yeah.’
‘Maybe she knew she was going to die.’
‘We all knew she was going to die. She had cancer.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Iona said. ‘In the night.’
‘I don’t know.’
Iona passed the bottle back. It was half empty already. At some point they would have to stop and sober up.
Surtsey swigged and smacked her lips, getting a taste for it. ‘She seemed so lively yesterday. More energy.’
‘She knew.’
‘You weren’t there.’
Iona stared at her, took the bottle. ‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s typical you would have a great last day with her out on the ocean, mother and daughter sharing a final moment while I was serving lager to pot-bellied arseholes, doing the shit job she wanted me to quit.’
She waved the bottle over her shoulder at the pub back on the prom. A spurt of tequila left the bottle and made a splat on the sand.
‘Don’t,’ Surtsey said.
She reached out to touch her sister’s hand but Iona misinterpreted and handed her the bottle.
‘Why not?’ Iona said. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
Silence for a while between them before Iona spoke again.
‘Nothing matters now.’
31
When they got home, Iona phoned the Espy to say she was sick. They didn’t believe her, not least because she’d been in earlier to liberate the tequila, but she hung up before she could get a bollocking. She drank a pint of water then took the dregs of the tequila to bed. Surtsey watched her slouch up the stairs and wondered if she would sleep, if either of them would ever sleep again.
Halima wasn’t around, Surtsey presumed she’d gone into the office. Surtsey would have to tell her about Louise, and she suddenly felt the burden of that. Halima had felt awkward about moving in when Louise moved out; imagine taking your best friend’s mum’s bedroom in a shared house.
Surtsey took her mum’s rucksack to the living room, opened it and began lifting things out. Some nightclothes at the top, cleaned and neatly folded. Then a toilet bag full of nondescript items – toothbrush, sponge, moisturisers and the like. Louise had never been fussy about her appearance – no strict regimen of creams or make-up, just throw together whatever felt right and get out the door. That had continued in the hospice, even less reason to care when you weren’t going to be around forever.
Underneath the toilet bag were some books on volcanology and copies of New Scientist. Before the diagnosis Louise read a lot of fiction, mostly detective stories, but she reverted to non-fiction once she had cancer, said she didn’t want to waste time in made-up worlds. She kept up on developments in geophysics, interested in new analysis techniques and theories about seismic disturbance.
Near the bottom of the rucksack Surtsey pulled out some photographs, a Boots packet stuffed with fading images of the three of them through the years. Surtsey felt sick as she flicked through them, a lifetime in thirty-seven photos. Nothing amazing, just snaps on birthdays, Iona blowing out six candles, a beach shot with a picnic of sandwiches and lemon drizzle cake. It was the only thing Louise could bake from scratch and Surtsey craved it now.
She felt something under her feet, another tremor. Christ, they were happening all the time now. This was a light one, more a shimmer of the air than anything substantial, but still tangible in her body. She gripped a photograph, smudging the edge. It was over in a few seconds, a change in air pressure from the windows moving in their frames, then that was it. She looked up at the ceiling and wondered if Iona was awake to feel it.
She remembered something she’d read about how early humans had prayed to forces of nature – earthquakes, volcanoes, lightning storms – any displays of power inducing awe in primitive minds. That power highlighted our own insignificance, made us humble. And it went further back to apes, she’d seen a documentary about bonobos in Africa demonstrating similar behaviour. The presenter said it was because social groups got bigger and needed something to replace the conventional alpha animal. What better replacement than God in the shape of the trembling earth, a tidal wave, molten rock spewing from the ground? It was the need to impose order on chaos, the urge for a higher power to blame, a god to appease. But what happened when you did everything in your power to appease them, then they still destroyed you? What happened when your god deserted you? Your mum can die of cancer days after your lover is murdered, why not? There’s no reason to any of it.
Surtsey held a pair of red heels that she’d pulled from the bag. She couldn’t remember Louise wearing them since she went to St Columba’s, though she’d loved them and worn them often beforehand. Her life had become reduced, that was the truth. Why add more discomfort in the form of heels when you were fighting against the pain of your body destroying itself?
Louise had raged about the language of cancer, the combative imagery of ‘fighting’ and ‘beating’ it. Cancer was part of you, it was you, so fighting cancer meant fighting yourself. How could you win that battle? It was too simplistic and the way cancer charities exploited it left a bad taste. Surtsey had never considered it until her mum was diagnosed. Louise ranted to the consultant when he wheeled out the tired old lines. There had to be a better metaphor, or maybe metaphors weren’t the answer. You just had to live with it until you couldn’t any more.
There was a tiny ripple under Surtsey’s feet, a short aftershock, as if the house was breathing. Then just the clock on the mantelpiece with its thin tick, the burr of bike wheels as a cyclist passed outside.
The rucksack was almost empty now. Surtsey stuck her hand in and pulled out the last item, an envelope. Louise’s elegant writing on the front: To My Girls. She weighed it in her hand for a moment, listened to the clock ticking, then opened it.
Surtsey & Iona,
I’m sorry I can’t be with you any more, but my time was up. At least I got to see you both grow into beautiful, smart, independent women. Being a parent is hard, you spend your whole life wondering what you did wrong, what you could’ve done better, worrying that you’re fucking up your kids for life with your own hang-ups. But looking at you two now, I think maybe I didn’t fuck up too badly.
I know it’s hard now, but try to celebrate life, for me. Try to live life to the fullest, take chances, follow your hearts. I know that’s a terrible cliché, but it’s true, you really have to seize every moment. I don’t doubt that you’ll both have amazing full lives and incredible experiences like I did, and that thought fills my heart with joy.
In one sense, it wasn’t easy bringing you two up myself, but in fact you both made it so easy. Of course you were both total pains at times, from toddlers to teenagers, but I wouldn’t swap a single second of it. Please know that you made my life worth living from beginning to end.
But it was my decision to raise you on my own. I always told you that your father left us when you were little, but that’s not exactly true.
/> Surtsey broke off reading to wipe tears from her eyes and take a breath. She heard some girls laughing outside on the prom and thought about what Louise wrote. She had never hidden from her and Iona who their dad was, a professor of climate science at the University of Canterbury in Christchurch called Andrew Ford. He left before Iona was born, Louise claiming it just wasn’t working out. These days he had his own family on the other side of the world, and Surtsey and her sister got birthday cards and nothing else. Surtsey realised she would have to tell him about Louise too. She sniffed and turned back to the letter.
Andrew and I did split up, that much is true. But it was because of me. I had an affair with a colleague. Andrew found out. It was pretty simple, really, I was pregnant, and Andrew and I hadn’t been intimate for a while. Even then, he was willing to try to make things work, but I was so guilty and ashamed, I couldn’t. I had the affair because I wasn’t in love with Andrew any more, and I couldn’t live a life pretending that I was. That’s the worst thing you can do, girls, live a lie.
The colleague was Tom Lawrie. He’s Iona’s father, not Andrew.
Surtsey’s hands were shaking as she gripped the edge of the paper. She tried to swallow but couldn’t seem to do it. She closed her eyes and tried to breathe, her exhale was shaky and erratic. She touched her face with her hand, her whole body trembling. Christ almighty. She opened her eyes and forced herself to read the rest of the letter.
I’m sorry I never told you, that was stupid and selfish of me. But Tom was with someone, is happily married to her now, and they have a family. I didn’t want to destroy that. Maybe now, now that so much dust has settled, Iona, you can have some kind of relationship with your dad, I don’t know. I hope so.
Surtsey checked the letter for a date. Nothing. Written before everything that had happened. Fuck.
I’m so sorry to tell you this, and I’m so ashamed that I kept this a secret. It has eaten away at me all these years, my one regret in life. But once the initial decision was made, it became harder and harder to tell you the truth. Secrets can kill you, girls, try to live your life without them, and you will be much happier.
I love you both so much more than I can put into words. I’m so sorry that I’m not with you any more, but please live with me in your hearts.
Love, love, love Louise xx
Surtsey stared at the last words through blurry eyes, her whole body shaking as if there was another quake. She thought about Louise, and Tom, and Iona, and ran to the kitchen sink and was sick into the basin, retching until there was nothing left, the burn in her throat, her eyes watering. She rinsed her mouth and spat, then stared at the ceiling.
She went back to the living room, picked up the letter, and dragged her weary legs upstairs. She stood looking outside Iona’s door, then let her head rest on it for a moment.
She knocked, and her heart sank when Iona replied.
‘Come in.’
She felt like she was in a nightmare, unable to control her own body, forced to move forwards into situations she couldn’t handle.
Iona was on the bed on her phone, the reek of tequila everywhere. She didn’t look up. Surtsey held up the letter.
‘You need to read this.’
Iona glanced up and pressed her mouth into a line.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s from Mum.’
Iona lowered her phone and something registered from seeing the look on Surtsey’s face. She took the letter and squinted at it, started reading, the tip of her tongue poking out the side of her mouth in concentration.
Surtsey stood still, watching. Iona just read. It seemed to take forever. She looked up once, shared a look with Surtsey, returned to the letter. She shook her head, mumbling ‘no, no, no’ under her breath like a mantra. She put a hand out on the bed, her fingers gripping the covers, her head still shaking, her eyes beginning to water up. Eventually she looked up.
‘Holy fuck.’
Surtsey gulped. ‘Yeah.’
‘Holy fucking fuck.’ She returned to the letter, read to the end, breathed deeply.
Silence for a long time.
Iona looked out the window, her chest rising and falling, staring at nothing. Some sparrows on a telephone line, a seagull scratching across a neighbour’s roof.
‘So,’ she said eventually. ‘My mum and dad have both died this week. Good times.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Surtsey said.
‘And you were…’ Iona raised her eyebrows at how ridiculous it all was.
‘I know.’
Iona laughed. ‘Old enough to be your father, right?’
‘Don’t.’
Iona picked up the tequila bottle from the floor and lifted it to her lips but it was empty. She dropped it and burst out crying, just sat there hunched over on her bed, her shoulders shaking, sobbing, her hands to her face.
Surtsey sat on the bed and put her arms around her, just shushed and rocked her, like when they were little and she’d grazed her knee on the prom or been stung by a jellyfish on the sand.
They sat like that for a long time in each other’s arms, not speaking. There was nothing to say.
32
The doorbell.
Surtsey came to with a start. She was lying on top of the covers on Iona’s bed, spooning her sister. She didn’t know how long she’d slept. The letter was on the floor next to the tequila bottle. She blinked a few times, shook her head, tried to get her shit together.
The doorbell again.
Surtsey sat up slowly and placed her feet on the floor. Iona hadn’t moved an inch, was out cold. Surtsey stood up and walked down the stairs, dreading whoever was on the other side of the door. She put her hand on the snib, breathed, then opened it.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Donna said. ‘About your mum.’
Tears came up and out of Surtsey in a flood, a hot rush she couldn’t quell, gasping and sobbing, reaching for Donna and pulling her into the house, burying her face in the woman’s shoulder, clutching at her back in a hug, swaying on her feet as if another aftershock was throbbing through them both.
They stood in the hallway with the front door open, Surtsey immersed in the smell and feel of the other woman, not thinking anything for as long as she could manage. Eventually she became aware of passers-by on the prom, an elderly couple, one pushing the other in a wheelchair, two young women in training gear walking fast and gossiping, a dad with a baby in a harness on his chest.
She pulled back from Donna, her fresh scent lingering in her nose.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be.’
Surtsey reached for the door and shut it.
‘How are you doing?’ Donna said.
‘Not great.’
‘I can’t imagine.’
Surtsey showed Donna through to the kitchen. ‘Can I get you anything?’
Donna frowned. ‘Sit down, I’ll get the kettle on.’
Surtsey smiled and wiped her nose with a tissue, did the same with her tears on her sleeve. She leaned against the small table, not wanting to sit down in case she never got back up. She thought for a moment.
‘Was it you who found her?’
Donna shook her head. ‘One of the night shift, just before I came on this morning.’
‘They didn’t call me straight away?’
‘The charge nurse has to verify the death before informing next of kin.’
‘Right.’
‘I wanted to call you, but I wasn’t allowed.’
She got mugs from hooks, opened a cupboard and threw teabags into them. Her sense of calm reminded Surtsey of her mum, but then everything made her think of Louise at the moment. Donna finished making tea then handed one to Surtsey.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?’
‘I’m fine.’
Donna made a show of looking round the kitchen. ‘Where are your housemates?’
Surtsey shook her head. ‘Halima’s at the office, Iona’s upstairs sleeping it off. She cam
e with me to the hospice this morning. The nurse said we had to do it straight away.’
‘That’s normal.’
Surtsey sipped her tea. ‘Did you see her?’
Donna nodded. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I popped in after the nightshift nurse told me. I wanted to say goodbye.’
‘That’s nice, you and her were close.’
Donna looked around the room again. Surtsey realised it was a nervous gesture.
‘What is it?’ Surtsey said.
Donna shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I should bring it up.’
‘Well, you have to now.’
Donna took a big drink of tea, eyes down. She took something from her pocket, put it down on the table between them. An empty pill packet.
Surtsey picked it up. Morphine. Prescription strength with Louise’s name on it. The date was old, from before she went into the hospice. They monitored pain relief carefully there in case of overdoses.
‘Where did you get this?’ Surtsey said.
‘I was tidying up this morning after they removed her. I picked her slippers up from the floor and this was inside.’
Surtsey turned the packet over. Thirty-six tablets, more than enough. Empty, out of date, her mum’s name. Had she planned this all along?
‘Did you tell the hospice?’ Surtsey said.
‘I thought I’d leave that decision to you.’
‘They’ll find out anyway with the post-mortem.’
Donna shook her head. ‘They don’t do a post-mortem unless it’s suspicious.’
Surtsey remembered the nurse on the phone saying the same.
‘And there isn’t anything suspicious if I don’t tell them?’ she said.
‘Exactly,’ Donna said. ‘Some people don’t want this kind of thing out in the open. There’s still a stigma. And if anyone helped they could be charged with complicity to murder.’
‘Christ.’
‘I know, it’s crazy, but that’s the law. You think they would let people end their time peacefully.’
Fault Lines Page 13