A Richer Dust Concealed

by R P Nathan

  “How are you feeling?” His voice was low and composed: attractive.

  “I’m fine now. Thank you.”

  “You were very kind back there the way you spoke to Frances.”

  I shrugged. “She was just a nice old lady. A bit lonely; and a bit confused.” I felt a sob threatening to rise inside me but I choked it back.

  After a pause he said, “You were right about wanting to give the notebook back. It made a difference to her. Thank you for overruling me.” He smiled at me and for some reason it made me feel a little better.

  A couple of minutes passed, a station came and went, and then, our conversation beating time with the easy progress of the train, he said, “You seemed really upset when you came back from her room. Did anything happen?”

  Passing trees. Passing fields. Cows and green. Birds and air. Free as a cow. No one ever said that. But a cow would do. “No. It was just me. Just being there with her. The thought that her life had been reduced to the contents of that tiny room. The whole ageing thing. It scares the shit out of me. I find it scary enough just the thought of turning thirty.”

  “Aren’t you thirty yet?”

  “Hey,” I yelped; but I was happy to go off at a tangent, away from that room. “You don’t have to sound quite so surprised. It’s weeks away. I don’t look over thirty do I?”

  “I guess not,” he said and I glowered at him and he laughed. “Definitely not.” He considered my face for a moment or two until it made me feel uncomfortable, shy almost. “What?” I said. “What are you thinking?”

  “Just thinking how you’d changed since I first saw you.”

  “You can’t remember surely.”

  “Yes,” he said innocently. “I can.”

  “Oh,” I said flattered. “I can’t really remember you. Well maybe a little.”

  Maybe a little more than that. I remembered his eyes, grey-blue, piercing, and remembered his body and his hands on mine. I remembered his touch against me, his lips, his tongue. I remembered our laughter and the stupid drinks we drank and the sudden realisation of attraction crystallised in an instant and then back, walking with him on a black night, memories rolled in passions rolled away, thoughts that made me happy. I grinned at him. “So what do you remember about me? How have I changed? Fatter right? I used to be a size 8 when I was nineteen. Can you believe it: size 8. Now I’m size 12.”

  “Is that bad?”

  I eyed him suspiciously.

  “But, OK, your hair’s different. You were blonde back then.”

  “God! Yes. That holiday was the only time. Boring brown now though.”

  “I like your hair brown. And you were a vegetarian.”

  “Was. Pretty much lapsed now.”

  “And you smoked a lot.”

  “Oh God did I? I’ve been trying to cut that down. It’s only social now.”

  He laughed. “But you do look older.”

  “I do?” I said taken aback.

  “Yes. Around the eyes you have some lines now.”

  “Oh don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

  “But they suit you. They’re very… womanly.”

  “I doubt that,” I said feeling my cheeks go warm at the compliment. I smiled at him and he smiled back. It felt friendly and easy talking to him all of a sudden and I wondered which of us had changed.

  “So...” he said. “Are you going to have a big party for your thirtieth.”

  “No way. I just want to forget all about it. I hate birthdays.” I sighed and made a face as I thought about Frances again.

  He leant forward and touched me on the knee. “You brightened her day you really did.”

  I blinked at him, pleased that he had known what I was thinking, surprised at his gentleness. “But anyway,” I said after a moment, “if anyone brightened up that place it was you. Those ladies loved you.”

  He laughed bashfully. “Women of a certain age...” he said grinning. “They can’t get enough of me. Fifty-five and above and they’re mine.”

  We were both amused by that and we looked in opposite directions to quell our laughter. Next to me Patrick stirred, his eyes opening for a second, almost surfacing then closing again. I stared out through the glass, the pleasant giggle in me fading to a dull ache, the fields fading to concrete and a sea of brick houses and industrial estates and roads seen from the rails, long lines of street lighting and fast cars moving backwards.

  “I’m sorry about your parents,” I said after a while, my heart thumping in me, hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way, reaching out and touching his knee the way he had touched mine, feeling a ridiculous charge at so chaste a gesture.

  He looked at me, studied my face for seconds that felt like minutes, our eyes meeting and holding and then he nodded at me. “It was a few years ago but thank you.” I nodded as well and we both stared out of the window together.

  Eventually, he asked, “So what did she give you?”

  “Frances? A letter. She said it was the last one that Henry wrote to his wife from the War.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “He must have written it during the Gallipoli campaign. Have you read it yet?”

  “No. And maybe I won’t. It was the last thing he wrote before he died.” I made a face. “It wasn’t meant for us. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so…”

  “I know you must be interested having had his diary for so long. But the letter really is too private a thing to have given to strangers. I’ll return it to her when I see her again. She probably won’t even remember she gave it to me, poor dear.”

  “So you will go back?”

  I felt myself about to cry again. “Yes. She hasn’t got anyone else. And she was really nice. I did genuinely like her. She’s just a bit... just a tiny bit disconcerting at times.”

  “You know, I told Elsie and her friends that I’d pay them another visit too.”

  “Really? They must have been over the moon about it.”

  He gave an embarrassed smile. “They were quite pleased. I thought I could coincide it with a College reunion that’s happening in a few weeks. Patrick had wanted to go and I hadn’t been too keen... But maybe it would be a good thing to do. Lay some ghosts to rest.” He smiled and then said, his voice a bit more hurried, “You know I’m allowed to bring a guest. Would you, maybe, like to come? We only need to stay for an hour or two and then we could head over to the old people’s home and you could see Frances again.”

  “Are you asking me on a date?”

  He looked suddenly very embarrassed. “I suppose so – but I mean Patrick would be there too. I mean it was just a thought—”

  “You’re asking me on a date... to an old people’s home?” I stared at him and then we both started laughing, loud happy laughter, and the more we looked at each other the more we laughed.

  We got in at seven and had a quick drink at the pub in the station, all fake mahogany and cigarette burned carpet.

  Patrick, fully rested, did most of the talking, and he was eloquent and funny yet not so loud that it made me worry about him. But it really was just a quick drink, no more than an hour, and at the end, having first of all checked he would be OK to get home – John said he would go with him – I said goodbye to Patrick and gave him a kiss and said I’d see him the following night for Julius’s big reveal on the carbon dating of the journal. I hesitated, then gave John a kiss on the cheek as well.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?” he said surprised.

  “Just for coming along.”

  He looked at me and laughed, but then said “I’ll see you tomorrow,” and I nodded and he gave me a kiss on the cheek as well and the tiniest of hugs, no more than his hand brushing my side, the barest touch, but with it a wealth of warmth and a thrill that I couldn’t quite explain but which had passed through me from head to toe by the time I’d walked away.

  Chapter 35

  That night I thought about him.

  I thought what I would s
ay to him when I saw him again. And I thought what he would say to me. I wondered what he would be wearing – a suit I guessed, it being a weeknight: not very interesting. So I wondered what I would wear instead, what he might like.

  I thought about what we had said on the train and how he had been kind and how he had laughed.

  I thought about being with him, our being together, now, and then, and I wondered why I had never rung him like I’d said I would. Back then. Way back then. A sudden ache of guilt, a bruise on my conscience long forgotten, because I should at least have rung him. A prick on soft skin, a stab against bone, pain either way. I should have rung him. Even if just to say nothing.

  Because of course Julius and I were together by then, my fantasy made flesh, and he was all I needed, wanted, desired. Everything else was awkward and superfluous and was best left; so I left them, small acts in the main of indifference and cowardice, let them fade into memory and then beyond memory.

  And now I wondered if I had rung him how things might have been different. I wondered whether I should apologise. I wondered whether he was single. And I wondered whether he was thinking about me. At all. A little bit.

  I hoped he was.

  I’d got off work a bit early so had managed to go home and change before coming out, my linen suit and white shirt combination, three buttons casually undone, going rather well with supercool retro Golas. I headed straight out again to Aunty Jean’s and was surprised when Patrick himself answered the door.

  “Mum and Dad are going out tonight.”

  “We’d arranged it weeks ago,” said Aunty Jean appearing from the living room, Uncle Malcolm behind her. “Now you will be OK dear?” she asked Patrick anxiously.

  “Of course, Mum.” Much kissing and hugging and anxious farewells later and we were left alone. “Thank goodness for that,” Patrick said as we walked up to his room and he crashed out on the bed.

  “Well, you can’t blame them for worrying,” I said sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  “But I’ve been feeling fine for days now. What’s there to worry about?”

  He was looking good, it had to be said. He was dressed and shaved and looked like he’d been eating. There was a spark back in his eyes and his conversation was entirely normal, not a trace of paranoia. And yet, and yet…

  “So when are you going back to work?” I asked.

  He got up and switched on the TV, lying back down again with the remote control on his chest. “Maybe not for a while.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “They have to take you back you know. You’ve got rights.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not like that. I just don’t know whether I want to go back.”

  “How come? I thought they were about to make you a partner?”

  “Perhaps. But I’d have to work like a dog to get it.”

  “Well I’d work like a dog if I was about to get paid—” I broke off realising I had no clear idea how much someone senior not working in crappy old PR would be on. “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure it must be stacks.”

  “I don’t care about the money. I just don’t want to work so hard anymore. Not lunchtimes and evenings and weekends anyway. Life’s just passing me by. I haven’t been out with anyone for almost two years and even that wasn’t serious. I only see John at work. I hadn’t seen Julius for months. And when was the last time I saw you?”

  I shrugged. The description of his life was uncomfortably similar to my own.

  “And now because of my…” He waved his hands around him searching for the right word.

  “Incident?” I helped him out politely.

  “Breakdown,” he said firmly. “Because of my breakdown, I’ve had time to stop and think about what I want to do. And I don’t think it’s accountancy.”

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know yet. Just something different. Something that would help people. If you help somebody you help yourself.”

  “Is that your catchphrase now? It sounds like someone’s been hiding crystals in your room.”

  He laughed. It was a nice sound. I liked to hear him laugh. But then he said, “Maybe you need to think about doing something different as well. I get the feeling you’re not exactly wild about your job.”

  “It’s fine,” I said immediately, defensively, having no desire to let anyone pick my life to pieces: God knows I could do that easily enough if I needed. “What time are the guys turning up?” I said hurriedly.

  “I haven’t heard from Julius. I hope he hasn’t forgotten.”

  “He doesn’t forget things. He’ll be over. How about John?” I said as casually as I could.

  “He rang about half an hour ago to say he couldn’t make it.”

  “Oh,” I said deflating obviously.

  “Just kidding.” Patrick grinned. “He should be over any time now. I thought you might be looking forward to seeing him again.”

  “Not particularly,” I said feeling my cheeks colour.

  “Oh right. So do you normally have that many buttons undone?”

  “Yes,” I said instinctively reaching to my chest and doing one of them up again. “It’s called fashion, Patrick.”

  Over the sound of his laughter I heard the tring of the doorbell.

  “That’ll be him,” said Patrick lying back, hands behind his head.

  “Well aren’t you going to get it?”

  “No. I think I’ll let you do that.” And he gave me a big stagey wink that had me punching him hard and laughing out loud at one and the same time.

  The doorbell went again and he really wasn’t intending to move so I groaned and got up, rolling my eyes at him, “I don’t believe you,” I called back over my shoulder despairingly as I walked down the stairs, one flight, two flights, and I felt a sudden skitter of nerves at the thought of seeing him again, and I let out that third button, because it was summer after all, and PR slutty was a pretty good look.

  The bell went a third time and I called out “I’m coming,” and I skipped to the front door thinking I should have kicked off my shoes as bare feet were even sexier and turned the lock and started to open the door, my heart thumping out of my chest, and saying, “Hi John,” in as cool and clear—

  The door smacked into me and I spun round and hit the wall hard,

  My shoulder

  My face,

  And then the floor.

  I was on the floor. Crouched down. I tried to get up but was shoved sprawling again.

  There were shouts behind me and now I was pulled to my feet.

  My mouth was full of blood and I tried to struggle free but was pinned against the wall.

  Shouting. A hand gripped my head so that my face was squeezed into the wallpaper. Straight on not allowing me to turn profile.

  Shouting. My head pressed against the wall. I couldn’t breathe or scream. My body pinned there by the force behind me.

  Shouting. An order. My hair was yanked back and a band of cloth brought down in front of my eyes; but I squirmed and the material slipped.

  Then I felt a punch. A thump of incandescent pain. I almost passed out there and then. The material, a scarf, was brought back up to my eyes, yellow, a repeat pattern, Hermes-style my fashion mind thought, a one inch repeat motif forced onto my face, deep gold on lighter yellow, a hundred winged lions, coming home to roost.

  We were moving. I gasped for breath as whoever it was behind me pushed me along the hall, another of them in front of me, I realised as I bumped into them. “Patrick!” I yelled up the stairs in warning. “Patr—”

  And then more pain. I didn’t even know where I was hit this time. I was on the floor again. Gasping. Pain and air. Air and blood.

  I was shoved along. Rolled down the hall. Voices around me. Not English. Maybe Italian. I knew Italian. But the voices faded in and out and my mind wandered.

  Then the stairs. In my blindfolded state I banged into them and stumbled. Whoever was in front reached back and dragged me by the hair so that I screamed at the white heat p
ain. “I’m coming,” I screamed, I cried, tears soaking my blindfold. “Please don’t hurt me.” I staggered to my feet and started up the stairs, pushed from behind, my shins hitting the steps as I went. Such a little thing. But pain each time. Bruise on bruise.

  More stairs. Up to the top of the house. My head lolled. Eyes open. Eyes closed. Blackness either way. Shuddering at the pain. Cowering from it. Why were they doing this? Who was doing this?

  A door banged open and I was thrown into a room, Patrick’s room. The shouting started again. Patrick’s voice. Other voices. Two. Three maybe.

  I didn’t care. I was facedown on the carpet. My cheeks and forehead resting on the soft pile. Ignored for the moment. Glorious freedom.

  “Leave her alone! Sarah are you OK—?”

  “Then tell us what we want to know.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

  A dull sound. The sound of hard stuff on soft stuff, bone on flesh. I lay there. They’d forgotten about me. I could stay there forever. I could sleep for a hundred years.

  Patrick’s scream rent me. But I could do nothing. And I was glad it wasn’t me.

  “Tell us the key.”

  “I don’t know the key.”

  “The girl,” he said. He, the leader.

  Suddenly fear. Not of pain but that the carpet warmth might be taken away from me.

  “Hurt the girl.”

  The words before the actions.

  “No! Leave her alone—”

  “Then tell us what we want to know.”

  The words before the actions. I felt the carpet beneath my hand. I clutched at the softness, the kindness. My heart banged.

  Suddenly I was being lifted into the air and my feet set on the ground. I was forced forwards and put my hands out to stop me hitting the inevitable wall. But I felt nothing save fresh air and I knew immediately I was on Patrick’s balcony. It had started to rain, hard, the fat drops pelting me. A sudden sear of light. A flash of lightning. Yellow through my blindfold. The winged lions of St Mark lit up before my eyes.

  “Tell us or we kill the girl.”

  “OK, OK—”