‘There you are.’
She said nothing, thought she might pass out. The colours in the room were changing. The light becoming frail.
‘Stand up.’
Naomi was sure she couldn’t. She couldn’t make use of her tongue, much less her legs. ‘There’s something I want and you’re going to help me, right? Vincent will have to be distracted for several hours. On your feet. Now.’
47
Four hours later. Naomi was sitting on a chair in her room in Vincent’s house, her limbs twitching from stress, her head heavy and full. She had no reassurance that Vincent had slept through it all. She only knew that she had no choice but to stay, wait, take her chance when she could.
She kept standing, pacing, sitting, lying. Couldn’t do anything for long. Her phone was on her bedside table. She kept looking at it, at Annabel’s name, the missed calls, the squares of messages pleading for her response, her help. She didn’t open the messages. Daren’t let Annabel know she’d seen them. Annabel in labour, and here Naomi was, numb with shock, her jaw trembling and her teeth clattering together. Was she cold? She didn’t know. She did know that she was incapable of doing a thing to help her twin, that she was unable to keep her promise. That she was powerless to explain.
And then she heard noises, the first during those intense hours of waiting. Movement upstairs, close by. The first sign that Vincent was still breathing. She straightened her back, strained to listen. Vincent was up and was leaving his room. His footsteps closed in on her door.
One knock. ‘You still here?’ His voice was thick and gritty from sleep, which calmed her nerves. Her jaw stopped quaking. She moved silently to the door. Only the wood stood between them now.
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘I told you to leave.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ she lied. She wanted to look at him, see if she’d learned to gauge his expressions and read his eyes the way he could read hers. To see if he knew.
‘It isn’t safe to be here anymore. I’m giving you till midnight to pack up and leave.’
Naomi opened the door and Vincent took a step back as if he’d been caught off-guard. He didn’t look like him. He looked as though his top layer had been peeled away, as if she’d managed to uncover the softer, more vulnerable part beneath the tough shell. He was wearing a pair of grey trousers, no top, no socks. His eyelids were heavy. A shadow of stubble was beginning to mark his face. She’d never seen him like this.
‘I need coffee,’ he said, turning away, not wanting to meet her gaze.
She followed him, caught up with him, touched his shoulder. ‘Vincent.’ He turned and she was very aware she’d used his name, but he only responded by looking confused. ‘Let me get it for you.’
‘I need to go out,’ he seemed agitated. Not with it.
‘Why not get a shower then? Let me make you some coffee and toast with eggs. I know how you like it.’
After a few moments of thought, where he seemed to be sorting through her words, he nodded, said nothing, returned to his room and closed the door. Her pulse was throbbing in her wrists, her neck and chest. Thud, thud, thud. Did he know where she’d been? What she’d seen?
She turned, went mechanically down the stairs to the kitchen. Horribly aware of the camera, she set about making his coffee in the machine. It would squeeze out as dense as syrup. She took twenty minutes to prepare the table, to toast the bread, poach two eggs and slice and grill a large tomato and arrange them just as he liked them. She knew he’d been out of the shower for ten minutes or so because she’d heard the water shut off. She put the plate on the table, cutlery ready, napkin by the side. She didn’t know how to let him know she’d finished, so she wandered into the library and sat at the piano and sent a Chopin prelude through the house, a sign that she’d vacated the kitchen, in case he wasn’t spying on her.
She heard his careful footsteps on the stairs. It didn’t seem right to stop playing, so she continued to churn out music while her stomach growled about emptiness and neglect and stirred the acid round and round. She realised she’d eaten nothing all day, and not a drop to drink.
She regressed four years at the piano as she sat there playing – slipping into the past and to her Saturday lessons at the Royal Northern, her fingers fumbling to recover a poetic piece of Grieg she used to play with ease and was struggling to find now – when Vincent stood in the doorway dressed in black – shirt, trousers, shoes. His hair was neatly managed, the skin on his face was still flushed by steaming water. She realised several minutes had passed. That he had finished in the kitchen. She stopped playing and stood up. His expression was very serious.
‘It was excellent,’ he said. ‘The music and the food.’
Suddenly self-conscious, she said, ‘My playing is rusty.’
‘Your playing is divine.’
‘No it –’
‘Stop talking and listen. Time is short.’ She didn’t understand, so she stood still, her fists clenched with anxiety. ‘You coming here has changed everything for both of us. No point denying that.’ He stopped as if he was continuing a dialogue in his head that he couldn’t release out loud. ‘So, thank you.’ He was grappling for words and couldn’t find them. His mouth moved a couple of times, but produced no sound. Then, ‘If I’m here when you leave, no goodbyes. Just get out of here.’
He turned and began to pace down the hall in his shoes.
Instinctively, she followed him. ‘Vincent?’
He reached the door, put his key in the lock. There was no detaining him, she could see that. ‘Game’s over. I’ve resigned,’ he said. ‘My king is lying dead on the board. No turning back now. I have to go out. When I get back, I won’t be hanging around for long. You shouldn’t either.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve said everything that needs to be said. There’s no stopping the rest now.’
He swung the door open and marched through it without a backward glance and Naomi dropped onto the stairs and listened attentively as his car backed out of the drive and sped away, leaving her alone in the silence of the hall, Vincent’s vivid artwork her only company now.
When she’d recovered her strength, she scuttled to her room and closed the door. It was what she had to do next that was causing her legs to tremble.
***
‘Will you stop rubbing my back?’ Annabel snapped at Camilla. Henry was keen to leave the room.
‘I’ll go and make some tea.’
Annabel’s muscles had locked again and an intense and nauseating cramp burned through her centre, clamping her at the front and creeping slowly round to her back. It was as though her body had been possessed by some demon who was inflicting a dark and menacing kind of torture.
Camilla stepped back. ‘I thought it might help.’
‘Nothing helps,’ Annabel said, breathing shallowly, leaning over a chair and gripping the arms, her knuckles white with tension. The pain intensified to a powerful crescendo, holding her in a vice, then the demon slunk away. It’d be back soon enough. Annabel panted through several seconds of discomfort, then stood straight, her face flushed. Joel was right there, stroking her cheeks with a facecloth soaked in iced water. ‘Why didn’t you tell me what it was like, Mum?’
Camilla shook her head. ‘You forget what it’s like.’
‘Forget?’ The word tasted sour in Annabel’s mouth. ‘How?’
She turned and dropped into the chair and leant her head back and allowed Joel to wet her face right up to the hairline on her forehead. He dropped a kiss on her head and took hold of her hand.
‘You’re doing really well.’
‘Maybe it’s time to go to the hospital now,’ Camilla suggested, gently.
‘I hate hospitals. They said to come in when the contractions are ten minutes apart and they’re more than that.’
Joel added, ‘The NHS is crumbling, babe. They’re understaffed. They’re bound to hold you off as long as they can. If you turn up . . .’
&nb
sp; ‘Why you didn’t just go private –’
‘Mother!’ Annabel shouted. ‘You know it’s against my principles.’
‘Principles? We’re talking about your life. Your health and safety, and your baby’s.’
Joel intervened. ‘Don’t let’s argue. Annie, I think your mum’s right. In hospital, they can help with the pain. You don’t have to struggle like this.’
‘I’m managing. Where the hell is Naomi?’
‘I’m sure she’s on her way,’ Joel said, but he cut eye contact and looked out of the window.
‘She hasn’t even replied. Mum, can you try calling her again please?’ Camilla looked horribly uncomfortable and Annabel’s temper flared. ‘When are you going to stop doing this? Cutting us off for doing things you don’t approve of? What’s Naomi even done wrong? All her life she’s tried to please you and now you’re blanking her at a time like this?’
‘I told her if she left –’
‘If you just stopped threatening people, you’d never have to back down. It’s not the nineteenth century, Mum.’
‘It’s the way I was brought up –’
‘Well it’s a crap way of doing things. I’m never going to ignore my child no matter what he does.’
Camilla raised her voice. ‘I’m not ignoring her, I’m –’
‘Yes you are. You’re too proud. You never let things go. You’re not exactly perfect yourself, you know.’
‘Annie,’ Joel said. ‘How is this helping?’
‘I’m in pain and I want my sister and she feels she doesn’t belong here anymore because Mum’s chucked her out.’
‘She left,’ Camilla insisted. All the tiny muscles in her face had tensed.
‘And you told her not to come back. It’s ridiculous.’
Henry returned carrying several cups on a tray. Camilla took a drink and marched out of the room. Henry set the tray down and looked at Joel. His look said, what’s happened? Joel shrugged and Henry took his drink and followed Camilla, leaving Joel and Annabel alone.
‘You have to stay calm,’ he said to her.
‘You try being in labour.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘I couldn’t do it. Look, I’m not patronising you, I’m saying that, for your sake, tension won’t help. You really need to relax.’
‘And she needs to get over herself.’
A few quiet moments went by. ‘Family relationships are complex.’
‘Whose side are you on?’
Joel smiled, but soon snatched it back. ‘I don’t think you realise how lucky you are to have the family you’ve got. It might not be perfect, but you all care about each other a lot. That’s pretty special.’
Annabel weighed Joel for a moment, the way his eyes flashed over the room and settled on the window. ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I’m forgetting about your mum being ill. I can be insensitive sometimes, you know that.’ Annabel shuffled in the chair, trying to get more comfortable. ‘How come you never talk about your dad?’
Joel kept his eyes trained on the glass, but his focus was beyond it. ‘Because I really didn’t know him. All I know is that he wasn’t a good person.’ Joel’s mood seemed to sink, which took him from her. She felt the gap between them open up, though he didn’t move an inch. ‘I wonder sometimes if there’s any of him in me – I mean any of his character traits. And then I worry that they’ll pass on to our kids.’
‘Kids? I’m not doing this again. No way!’ She squirmed in her chair, an attempt to wriggle away from the aching in her back. ‘Look, stop worrying. You’re all good,’ she said, and Joel shook his head in disagreement. ‘Our son will be awesome. He’d better be after all this. He’s a little fighter, I’m telling you.’
‘I don’t want him to be a fighter,’ Joel replied. ‘I hope he hates violence as much as I do.’
‘Lighten up would you? I’ve got to get him out first and I’m starting to panic about that bit now.’
Joel leant over and kissed her cheek. A part of him returned, but his eyes were still distant. ‘It’ll be OK. Look, I’ve brought your bag downstairs. Everything is packed and ready. I think we should go to the hospital now.’
‘No. Not yet.’
Suddenly, another big wave approached and began to crash down on her. Joel took her hands, talked in her ear, told her to breathe as deeply as she could and keep her muscles as loose as possible. She told him where to go before pain silenced her. She closed her eyes and gripped his hands as the demon pinned her to the chair and she surrendered to its fury. She couldn’t hear Joel anymore. The demon slinked away with the promise of returning. She found her legs were trembling. She panted through the funnel of her lips until the pain had vanished and she could hear Joel’s voice again.
‘That wasn’t much more than ten minutes since the last one,’ Joel said. ‘We’re leaving right now.’
‘No, no.’
Joel moved in front of her chair and crouched down until they were face to face. ‘Annabel, you have to. It’s time.’
For a few frozen moments she looked at him, at the concern in his eyes. ‘I’m terrified.’
He took her face in his hands. ‘Me too.’ He gently kissed her lips. ‘And I feel excited and helpless and worried all at the same time.’ A pause. ‘I wish we were married.’
‘How can you say that after the way you’ve acted over the last few months?’
‘I’m sorry. I really wanted to marry you and I wish it had worked out as we planned.’
‘I’ve been wanting us to move in together so we could be a proper family, but you’ve been pulling away from me. I thought I was losing you.’
‘I’ve told you, you’re not,’ he said. ‘I’ll never let you down again. I promise.’
‘I was beginning to think you didn’t want us.’
‘Don’t ever think that. It couldn’t be further from the truth. Come on.’ He eased her to her feet. ‘Let’s get you to the car.’
‘I’d feel better if Naomi was here. I’m worried about her. Something doesn’t feel right. I’ve sensed it for –’
‘Shhh.’ He touched her lips with his fingers. ‘Annie, Naomi promised she’d be at the birth, so I’m sure she’ll do all she can to be there. But for now, our son needs you to focus on him. And I need you to focus on you. OK?’
She nodded, wrestled a thick swelling in her throat. Camilla was hovering in the hall with Henry.
‘I’ve tried to get Naomi,’ Camilla said, voice quiet. ‘Maybe she isn’t answering because it’s me.’
‘Rubbish,’ Annabel said. ‘She isn’t like that. Just text her and tell her we’re going to the hospital now.’
‘Thank goodness. Would you like Dad and me to –’
‘No,’ she said, before trimming the edge off her tone. ‘No, just stay here, Mum. Please. We’ll call when there’s news.’
Camilla nodded. Henry looked ghostly white. It bothered Annabel how Henry stared intently at Joel as they passed him at the front door. The look seemed to say, you look after her . . . or else.
***
Vincent zipped through the streets in his black Mercedes feeling breathless and mildly claustrophobic. He slid his window down and inhaled the air, an attempt to revive his mind and blow away the fog of drowsiness.
He called his solicitor. The ringtone pealed from the car speakers until the secretary answered in her satin voice.
‘Edward Blake’s office.’
‘Put Edward on the phone please.’
‘If you’d like to call back or make an appointment –’
‘I never make appointments. Or call back.’
Irritation crept into her tone. ‘I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting –’
‘Tell him to wrap his meeting up quickly. It’s Vincent Solomon. I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘Oh I see.’ Silk and satin laced her tone again. ‘Thank you for calling Mr Solomon. I’ll get your message through to –’
Vincent switched her off. Job done. Pleasantries were an irritation. He weaved t
hrough Manchester’s streets and roads, a placid breeze cooling his right side. Edward Blake was waiting for him when he walked into the solicitor’s, his hand outstretched, a smile lighting his face. What people did for money! It took an hour and forty minutes to plough through the legalities of dull business matters, and then Vincent left and returned to his car.
He sat in the driver’s seat attempting to sort his mind, order his plans. It required concentration he didn’t have. It was strenuous to try to apply his mind to business, to stretch his thoughts beyond Naomi Hamilton and how much he wanted her. She was forever there, a great obstacle to logical thought, a barrier to his intellectual pathways. It was senseless and defied all reason, this obsession. It had slackened his control, robbed his steel.
He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest and began to rotate his neck to the left, up, across, down, round again. He could see her now even with his eyes closed, every fascinating detail of her. She’d crawled inside his head and seeped beneath his skin, filling him, fuelling him. Finishing him, ultimately.
This was the end.
He’d just signed his business over and arranged other financial matters without a moment’s hesitation, and yet the notion of never seeing Naomi Hamilton again sent shots of poison through his bloodstream that made him want to reach for a gun and put a bullet through his brain.
‘Focus,’ he said, flicking his eyes open. He could still see Naomi even while he reached for his phone. She was everywhere he went, everywhere he looked. He picked his phone up and his thumbs skimmed over the letters at speed. He sent a mass message to his flock, to everyone but Charlie. King four in sixty minutes. It wouldn’t take him an hour to travel, but they’d need time to extract themselves and get there.
Vincent got going right away. Within twenty minutes, he was crawling down the concrete path, rolling to a stop at the dead-end, staring right ahead past the stretch of grass, fixing his attention on the old derelict mill with its blackened bricks, its shattered windows in straight lines, piled on top of each other. The dark tower that pierced the sky and once huffed smoke at heaven. As if heaven gave a crap. Heaven blew it right back, to choke the town. Until the fires went out. Now the fires had been cold for decades, leaving this crumbling shell wondering what it was still doing here.
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