by Gayle Curtis
‘This.’ She waved her hand at the linen etchings pinned to his easel. ‘You said you’re experimenting with faces so I’m offering you mine.’
Sebastian shook his head and moved across the room to sit on one of the sofas.
He placed his elbows on his knees, head in his hands and breathed deeply. The line was cast and Caroline was reaching the shore.
‘Are you all right? Have I said something wrong?’ Caroline followed his steps and tentatively sat next to him.
After a few moments he looked up at her, tears glistening in his eyes. He was waiting for her to tell him about Lydia, a sign she trusted him, but he needed her to feel some sort of empathy towards him. Hesitantly, and with practiced steadiness he lightly placed his hand on her knee. His thumb pressed into the small hollow fold of her bent leg.
He could feel the draught rising up again like a gentle swirl of smoke from a newly lit camp fire and he had to suppress the almost overwhelming urge to touch the other leg because he knew it would be too much for her at this time. All he wanted to do was check the symmetry, see if it was the same.
‘I’m fine. Come on, your mum will be worried about you. You should go.’
‘I’ve upset you, haven’t I?’
Sebastian held her gaze. ‘Not at all, Caroline. I’m just finding it hard to adjust . . . and things aren’t good right now with Mum being in hospital . . . I miss her . . . I miss your mum as well actually. I thought things would be different when I came out . . . that she’d forgiven me. I guess I just have to be patient.’ He looked up and smiled softly, going along with the lie Cecelia had possibly told Caroline.
The sudden change in his demeanour would worry Caroline, he knew that, cause her curiosity to stir and swell. And he was right, it had. The atmosphere had changed and beneath the miasma an entire, intangible mist was swirling around their feet and he wanted to grab her hand and dive in. It was enough, he’d done enough.
He stood up, a signal for her to leave. ‘Come and visit me again soon.’ He embraced her briefly, squeezing her shoulders, his fingers touching the line of the sharp pointed blades, the draught subsiding, somewhat.
‘She’ll come round. I’ll speak to Dad and he’ll talk to her.’
‘I’m fine, honestly,’ he said, smiling as he placed his hands in his pockets.
She got up from the sofa, hitched her school bag across her shoulder and walked ahead of him out of the room and down the stairs. He watched the shape of her calves, the slight jolted movement of her muscles through her tight white jeans as she walked. The symmetry, the perfect symmetry.
They reached the front door. ‘If you’re serious about becoming my muse, pop round again in a couple of days.’
‘OK, I will. Thanks for . . . well, thanks.’
‘Bye,’ he called, as he watched her walk down the street.
Back inside he wandered around Yvonne’s living area feeling completely lost. Spending time with Caroline had reminded him of the hours he’d spent in his cell recalling the moments he’d sat in the bath drawing Cecelia’s beautiful frame. His imagination had shown him memories so clear that he’d been able to feel the hot water on his legs, the steam covering his nose, the faint taste of newly smoked tobacco in his mouth and Cecelia’s laughter, her quiet chatter. And now he couldn’t recall any of these memories with anywhere near as much clarity.
The problem Sebastian was battling with was that he didn’t feel symmetrical; in fact, he’d felt completely off balance since being released from prison. The confines of the stark building had kept everything tied up in a neat package and now he’d been spat from the large security gates, the string had come undone. He’d lost his extra limbs, the matching side to his own form. His sister.
Sebastian still, even all these years on, reached out in the night for Cecelia, like an amputee who can feel their missing limb. It cut the words from his mouth, the breath from his lungs, leaving him lonelier than he’d ever felt in his life.
Sitting down in Yvonne’s living room he took himself back to the first night of his release, so he could possibly try to erase any thought processes detrimental to him now, because he’d sat for hours, contemplating his future, pondering his suicide. Then he’d realised, quite shockingly, that he wasn’t prepared to go anywhere without Cecelia. Death could easily take his hand and lead him away but he wasn’t going to accept the invitation without her.
That night the moment had passed and Sebastian had felt as though he’d stepped onto the other side of death, his ego gently coaxing him from the edge of the bridge, the frayed rope, the kicking away of the chair. But now, he felt different. Now he felt happy to die alone. He sat in the chair as the dark turned into light and another day began to unfurl.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The soft sound and the pattern of the footfall told Cecelia that Samuel was coming down the cellar stairs. She didn’t stop what she was doing or turn to see what he wanted. This was where they were at the moment; how their relationship had developed. In the strained, exhausted tone that had become his voice since he’d decided to change his role from husband to carer, he spoke.
‘Your brother is at the door.’
She paused briefly. ‘Tell him I don’t want to see him.’
‘Is that it?’
The emphasis in the sentence echoed but she chose to ignore it. ‘That’s what I said.’
She heard the more purposeful steps as he turned to go back upstairs. She stopped what she was doing and placed the freshly cut pictures on the table. The cellar was her domain, the place she came when she needed time to think, to meditate, as she had done since she’d lived there. She was continuing with her project. She would cut out sentences from old books, words she liked, and stick them to the walls to make a collage. On and on it went – she wouldn’t settle until she’d finished the entire room. The books she used usually appeared in junk shops sold as job lots; occasionally they were delivered to her through her business and had missing pages or spines so they were unwanted, unsellable. Not to her though; she loved these more than the fully formed, perfect ones she sold in her shop. She would spend hours cutting out sentences and paragraphs, illustrations of knights and damsels, beautiful flowers and fantastical sea creatures.
Idly and without much thought to the pieces of paper, she moved them around the table. She felt strangely tranquil, like she’d been drowning and had suddenly released the fight. Floating back to the surface, breathing again. Even the arrival of Sebastian hadn’t really disturbed her.
Heavier, more serious footfall broke her thoughts. She hitched herself onto the table to give her feet a rest and saw Samuel appear, a sombre look draped across his face.
‘Cecelia, you need to come upstairs and speak to Sebastian.’
She breathed deeply. ‘Can you not just do one thing for me, Samuel? I don’t want to talk to him. Please ask him to leave.’ She stared at him over her glasses.
‘Your mum’s dead.’
Holding his gaze for a few moments she suddenly became aware she wasn’t breathing. Steadily she took in some air.
‘Can you please tell Sebastian I have nothing to say?’ Pushing herself off the table, she continued to trim the new pictures she’d laid out.
Samuel moved towards her and she flinched as she felt his arms around her body, holding her up, always ready to fix everything.
‘Come on love, you need to speak to him.’
Shrugging him off she turned to face him. ‘You haven’t let him in? Where’s Caroline?’
‘Did you hear what I just said?’
‘Yvonne’s dead, I heard you the first time.’ She pushed past him and made her way upstairs to the kitchen, up three more steps to the sitting room where she was astonished to see Caroline talking to Sebastian.
‘Caroline, please would you go to your room and finish your homework.’ Her heart pounding, she prayed her daughter wouldn’t argue for once.
Watching Caroline’s face darken, she matched it with
a look of her own. Eventually Caroline got up, said goodbye to Sebastian and went up to her room.
‘Bye, Caroline.’ Sebastian stared at Cecelia as he said it.
She folded her arms defiantly. ‘You really are a piece of work, aren’t you? You’ve been asked to leave, now go.’
‘Have I? News to me.’
‘We have even less to connect us now and certainly nothing to discuss. I’ll leave the funeral up to you, I won’t be coming.’
‘I don’t know where all this hostility has come from, Cecelia. Whatever you think of Yvonne, she’s still our mother . . .’ His voice broke and he leant forward, resting his head in his hands.
She turned to see Samuel and Caroline standing in the doorway, slight looks of shock on their faces.
‘I told you to get upstairs, now do as I ask.’
Caroline tutted and folded her arms. ‘I’m not a child!’ She stomped off up the stairs.
‘I know what you’re doing, Sebastian, don’t think I don’t. Now get out of my house or I’ll call the police.’
‘Cecelia!’ Samuel shouted, disappointment clear in his voice.
‘Stay out of this, Samuel. It wasn’t long ago you would have thrown him out yourself. Didn’t you say that when he was released from prison? Since you had a nice little chat with him, you’ve changed your mind. Pathetic.’ Cecelia knew she sounded childish but she was feeling singled out, alone amongst her own family.
She felt Samuel’s hands on her arms, restraining her emotions again, shushing her as he always did, trying to fix things she didn’t want him to.
‘You’re in shock, just sit down a minute and listen to what Sebastian has to say.’
Cecelia flung her arms free. ‘Fuck off with your bedside manner; I’m not one of your clients!’
‘I’m just trying to help.’
‘Well, don’t.’ She turned to Sebastian. ‘I’m asking you calmly, to please leave my house. You’re on licence, you wouldn’t want me calling the police.’
To her surprise, Sebastian stood up, raised his hands as if in defeat. ‘OK, I’ll go.’
‘You’ll find your own way out. You know where the door is.’
She turned to watch him leave the room and then her attention was drawn to Samuel’s astonished face.
‘You really are a callous bitch at times.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s callous, shall I? The fact that if I told you what he’s really like and what he’s been doing since he came out of prison, you wouldn’t believe me. If you had any respect for me, you’d trust what I say and support me. When I say I don’t want him here that should be enough. But no, because I’m forgetting, aren’t I? I’m forgetting that you think I’m mad, or was it crazy as I heard you say to your mother the other day? Because everything’s my fault, isn’t it? Our daughter dying was my fault!’ Cecelia was becoming hysterical and she knew he was even less likely to listen to her if she began screaming.
She watched him walk away – heavy and tired – into the kitchen. His silence was enough. His lack of argument told her that she was right – he did think she was to blame.
She had an urge to follow him and confront the situation, but something told her to leave it. There were things she didn’t need to hear or say. She began counting to calm herself down: one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . the cold breeze inside her began to subside as she thought about where she’d put her tablets.
It was in this quiet moment that she heard the front door open. Spinning round she saw the back of Sebastian just as he closed the door behind him again. She sank down into the chair nearest to her as she felt the miasma descend like a heavy mist around her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The draught descended when Sebastian realised it was Cecelia standing at the front door instead of Ava. He wasn’t in the mood for Ava this evening. Since he’d taken an interest in her life the other evening in the bath, she’d become far more intense, assuming an understanding of him, when she actually knew very little. When he’d asked her not to call round for a few days, she’d become very defensive about all the artwork she’d enabled him to do, as though she had some sort of ownership over it. All he’d asked her for was some time to himself, but her reaction made him see that this wasn’t a relationship he needed right now.
Sebastian nodded his head at Cecelia.
Even though he didn’t particularly want her to come into the house, which he now felt was his domain, he offered anyway, knowing she would decline. As she talked he could see her eyes wandering past him and into the house. Reflections of memories flitted across her face and it pleased him. She was remembering and that was all that mattered to him.
‘I don’t want Caroline coming round here. If she turns up, tell her to go home . . . and stop waiting for her outside the school . . . it’s weird.’
‘OK.’ He shrugged and went to close the door but to his surprise Cecelia caught it with her hand.
‘Let me put it another way, so you understand. If I find out you’ve spoken to her or seen her, then I will call the police.’
‘Spoken to or seen who?’
He smirked as he watched Cecelia take an exasperated breath.
‘Caroline.’
‘Oh yes. Caroline. Pretty girl. Very intelligent. Well, I should be grateful.’
‘What for?’
‘Last time we spoke you were going to kill me and now it’s just a call to the police.’
‘Just stay away from us, Sebastian.’
‘I can’t stop her coming round, Cecelia. And calling the police would be pointless. I believe she turned seventeen a few months ago?’
He watched Cecelia staring at the ground, struggling to get a grip on the situation. He knew her so well, a fact that she’d clearly forgotten since he’d been in prison. They were one and the same and always would be.
‘Why is it so wrong for her to see her family? I am her uncle.’
‘Because you’re filling her head with lies.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cecelia. You’re the one telling all the lies. If she asks me a question I’ll tell her the truth. You learn that in prison.’ He lowered his voice as an old woman laden with shopping bags slowed as she passed, trying to hear what was being said.
‘Evening!’ Sebastian called. She muttered something back and quickly moved on, embarrassed he’d drawn attention to her. His hand hovered in mid-wave and then gently he lowered it to his mouth, resting his fingers on his lips. He talked over Cecelia’s head as though someone was behind her.
‘It would be terrible for her to learn that you lied about who killed her grandfather.’ He squinted as though he was thinking. ‘I’m not sure how that would affect your relationship with her.’
He looked down into her matching eyes, the dark forest of her irises, daring her to challenge him, contradict what he had said.
‘Well, I can’t stand on the doorstep chatting all evening.’ He stepped back and slammed the door in her face.
He knew that now she would go home and do some real damage with her daughter. Telling a teenager not to do something would inevitably make her want to do it even more, especially when Samuel was on his side. He’d had quite a conversation with Samuel at the hospital before Yvonne had died. Obviously feeling vulnerable, he’d confided in Sebastian about everything that had happened since Lydia’s death and the state of Cecelia’s fragile mind.
Rummaging through an old box of records he’d found in his mother’s cupboard under the stairs, Sebastian searched frantically for the record she used to play when they lived at the farm. He hadn’t known what made him think of it but he suddenly had an overwhelming desire to hear it again. He eventually found it: Schubert – Ständchen, Cecelia’s favourite. Memories of their time in the loft room, a time when they’d been happy, rushed in, giving him the same feeling he’d had then when it was just him and his twin.
Less than two hours later, Sebastian answered his door to a sobbing C
aroline.
‘I’m not supposed to let you in.’
‘OK, I’ll go.’ She looked as though he’d struck her and the draught rose inside him.
His immediate reaction was to grab her as she turned away but he stopped himself. The last thing he wanted was the eyes of the inhabitants of the other houses on the road witnessing him dragging a young girl inside.
‘Come in,’ he called to her. She stopped and slowly turned back.
In the hallway she stepped into his embrace, as he kicked the door closed with his foot. He gently held her, breathing in the scent of her hair, the same smell as Cecelia’s. After a few moments he kissed the top of her head, patted her back and led her into the sitting room.
‘What’s all this about, hey?’
‘Mum told me I can’t come and see you anymore but she won’t give me a proper reason why. Ever since Yvonne died she’s been acting really weird. I know it’s a big thing losing your mum, but she didn’t even like her. We were never allowed to see her and she was supposed to be my grandmother.’ Caroline tried to take a breath and he watched her vulnerability deepen on the intake.
‘Death does affect people in different ways, perhaps she just needs some time.’ He walked over to the table in search of his cigarettes.
‘But what I don’t understand is why she hated her so much. Why she hates you?’ She lifted her hand towards him.
Flinching, he reached up to the mantelpiece for his lighter. ‘Did she say that?’
‘Well . . . not to me but I heard her and Dad arguing about you the other night. I’d be able to accept it better if she explained it to me properly.’ She pulled at the bobbles on her lacy scarf. ‘Anyway, I’m seventeen so I can do what I like.’
Sebastian pulled some tobacco from his lip and wiped it on his jeans. A warm mist was filling his chest, lifting the corners of his mouth, as he recalled Cecelia at Caroline’s age. She had been adamant that she was grown up, but her behaviour suggested otherwise.