by Leah Mercer
He glances up from his phone. ‘Yeah?’
‘I’m looking for the contents of locker number 103.’ I gesture down the corridor, as if he doesn’t already know where that is. ‘I have the key’ – I dangle it in front of his nose – ‘but there’s nothing inside.’
He sighs and plonks down his mobile. ‘Let me see.’
I drum my fingers on the counter, the metallic noise like rain beating on a tin roof as he clacks away on the computer.
‘Ahhhhhh.’ He shoves his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and meets my eyes. ‘Did no one tell you?’
‘No one tell me what?’ I ask, impatience tinging my voice. Anna always said I was the most patient man in the world – Margo said that, too – but I haven’t the time for patience now.
‘About two years ago there was a flood. A pipe burst or something and most of the units on the ground floor experienced some water damage. We would have tried to email or call . . .’ He peers at the screen. ‘Yes, we did try to reach you.’ He tilts the monitor towards me. ‘Is that your email and number?’
I lean in to examine the tiny text. It’s my old number – the number I had before changing all my contact details – and the email is one I only use when I have to enter an address online. I never check it.
‘So where are all my things now?’ I ask, my chest tight. Surely he can’t be telling me they’ve been thrown away, disposed of? They couldn’t do that, could they? And how damaged could they be? Suddenly, I’m beginning to feel like the universe really is conspiring against me – like it doesn’t want me to find Grace after all.
‘Let me see . . .’ He taps a few more buttons, then scrabbles in a drawer and pulls out another key. ‘After drying everything out, we moved your stuff to an upstairs unit with more ventilation. But it says here to tell you that some items may have been damaged irreparably’ – he stumbles over the word – ‘and to offer you some vouchers.’ He pushes up his specs again, then rips off a few luridly coloured coupons and hands them over.
‘Keep them,’ I say.
‘Can I have the old key back?’ the teen asks, but oddly I don’t want to part with it. I manage to jemmy it off the key ring and I take the new one, then I follow the directions on the wall towards locker 237. As I climb some stairs, dizziness swoops over me, forcing me to grab on to the handrail and wait for it to pass. The fluorescent lights burn my eyes and I almost feel like I’m going to be sick, but I gulp in air and take another step up.
The second floor is a carbon copy of the first. I lurch down the corridor and fit the key into the lock, panic prickling my gut. What if everything inside is damaged? I’m not sure what I’m looking for exactly, but I’d hoped for something . . . maybe a letter from the social worker containing some sort of useful information or . . . I don’t know. But while I’m worried that the damage may have erased a vital clue, my fear is so much more than just that. I packed away these precious things for safety’s sake – to keep me safe, yes, but also as an attempt to preserve Margo untainted by time. But now . . . My sister’s life is all hidden in this locker, but it’s not been protected – untouched – like I’d imagined it would be.
I open the door, bracing myself once again. The overpowering odour of damp and mildew hits me like a wall, and I force myself to reach for the small stack of boxes, heart sinking as I examine the water-stained sides and sagging cardboard. I grab a box and rip it open, my stomach twisting as I take out Lopsy, the soft toy I’d given Margo so long ago. That rabbit had lived by Margo’s side through each and every one of her treatments, it had rested in a cot with Grace, it had come to live in my flat . . . and it had been nestled by Margo’s side when she died, the one constant in her terrible journey.
That rabbit is now covered in black mould. A huge patch stretches across one side of its face, transforming its perky, cheery grin into a sinister leer. I stare at the toy in horror, feeling the same mould creep over those very few happy memories I’ve managed to hang on to, pushed down deep inside me where nothing would reach them.
I drop the rabbit like it’s scalded my fingers and collapse on to the floor, the cold, hard concrete seeming to bite at my bottom. The boxes loom over me, sneering at my weakness, taunting me with their damaged contents. I want to keep going – keep searching – on the off-chance that there’s a random paper, some important letter tucked away or document I’ve missed.
But I can’t. I can’t do this now. I’ll find another way to track down Grace . . . a way that doesn’t involve combing through the desolation of my sister’s life. I drag myself to my feet, throw Lopsy back in the box, and lock the door. I trudge down the stairs to the reception, then I ask the boy to call me a cab. A car pulls up and I walk as fast as I can towards it, escaping into the warmth of the back seat. I close my eyes and will the taxi to move.
It’s not the storage centre I want to leave behind, though – it’s this place inside me, full of darkness and death.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Anna
If I was desperate to find Mark before, now I feel like every cell of my body is on fire. I long to throw my arms around him – to tell him I want to be there for him and to let him know about this child growing inside me. I choke down food when I remember to, telling myself the baby needs it. I swallow awful prenatal vitamins and try to rest, but I barely sleep. My brain won’t let me, envisioning again and again the moment we track down my husband. Because just knowing where he is – or at least where he’s receiving treatment – means that the moment is imminent. It has to be, because I’d rather pluck out my eyeballs with hot tongs than wait any longer.
Will Mark be surprised to see me, I wonder? He must have known I would try to find him. What will he say when he finds out I know about Margo? I bite my lip remembering the times he’d retreat into himself, and my insides go all shivery as fear plunges through me. He’ll be relieved, I know, I reassure myself. He will let me in this time. He won’t push me away.
Not with the baby, I think, hope lifting me up again. Not with our child. I smile, picturing his shock and surprise morphing into happiness and joy as he takes me in his arms and holds me tightly . . . but then I wonder if he can even take me in his arms. Will he be so weak with the illness beating him down? Not yet, surely. It’s only been a matter of weeks, and Richard seemed to think he’d be all right.
But what if – I swallow hard as fear rises up again. What if Mark is very ill? What if he doesn’t even live long enough to see the baby? Or what if he dies when our child is so young . . . too young to even remember their father?
No. I shake my head, as if I can dislodge the doubt and worry ricocheting inside me. Mark will recover. We’ll have a wonderful baby. And together, we will be a family.
Around and around my thoughts spin, on a merry-go-round that morphs from darkness to light with the flick of a switch. The dark circles under my eyes deepen, spots take up residence on my chin and my hair is greasy and lank. But I don’t care about how I look. All I care about is keeping this baby healthy and finding Mark.
Sophie and Richard are just as anxious to locate him, and although there’s not much left to say, it’s good to have their company as we take up residence in the cafe across from the cancer centre’s entrance (thank God there’s somewhere to sit and wait – I’d crouch in the cold if I had to, but having fresh coffee on hand is so much better).
In the week we’ve been watching for Mark, we’ve developed a daily routine. Sophie joins me here almost every morning after sending Flora off to school. She bursts into the warmth of the cafe with a smile and without even asking, she grabs two mugs from the man at the counter who has our regular order ready for us (espresso for Sophie, decaf latte for me). Then she sits down, gets out her mobile, opens her laptop and continues calling every hotel and B & B close to the centre. She’s about halfway through the list now and we still haven’t had any luck, but at least we know we’re in the right area because, as Richard says, Mark might not be able to handle much travel af
ter his treatments, so he’d have to be nearby. I shudder, picturing my husband shrunken and in pain, clutching at himself tightly as he makes his way down the pavement.
Or would he stride down the street with his usual grin, standing up to the cancer with courage and certainty?
Either way, I wish I knew.
I’ve told Sophie to stay home if she wants to, but she’s adamant that she wants to help me. I can’t say I blame her wanting to get away from her empty house. Without Mark, I’m not keen to hang around at home either – I’ve taken up residence at Sophie’s. Asher’s apparently checked in to a hotel close to his work, and Sophie says that even though she was the one who brought up separating, she’s finding it harder to adjust to his absence than she thought she would. I think she sleeps even less than I do.
Richard turns up just before lunch after his kids have been sent off to school and his train gets into London. Despite Sophie making up a rota so that each of us can take shifts, we all seem to spend as much time as we can here . . . each trying to find Mark for our own reasons. Sophie takes off first, heading back to Hampstead to greet Flora home from school, then Richard and I wait until the lights flick off in the chemotherapy centre on the first floor before heading our separate ways into the dark November night. As I trudge back to Sophie’s, it strikes me that after keeping our marriage to ourselves for so long, it’s ironic that these other people in my life – in our life – are helping to bring Mark and me together again.
My time with Richard has helped me get to know him, too. He’s quiet yet warm, coming to life when he talks of his family. I long to ask him more about Margo – what she had, how she died and everything in between – but every time I contemplate bringing it up, I remember his expression back at his house that day . . . like someone had torn open his chest and mangled his heart. No matter how much I want to know, I can’t ask. Not now, anyway. Someday, when Mark and I are together again, I’ll understand what happened and why it had such an impact on his family.
I shiver now, watching the wind whip down the street, rustling the rubbish and sending it flying into the air. I follow the progress of an empty plastic bag wheeling and spinning before turning to Richard. The sky is darkening, and I cannot ignore the call of nature any longer. If ever I doubted I was pregnant, my constant need for the loo is certainly affirming it. My bladder is definitely getting a good workout.
‘I’ll be right back,’ I say. ‘Just heading to the loo.’
Richard nods and sips his coffee, his eyes never leaving the cancer centre across the street. As I head down the narrow stairs to the toilet, I hope that when we do finally find Mark he will let his father be a part of his life . . . and Richard’s children, too. We need to throw open the doors of our closed-off world and let his family in – let it join with our little family. For the first time I can see that the more people we have around us, the stronger we will be. And I have a feeling we’ll need every little bit of that strength in the future.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mark
It’s time to head to the doctor for a check-up to see how my body is coping with the first cycle of chemotherapy. Even though it was over two weeks ago I still feel incredibly weak, and I thank God that I booked this B & B so close to the cancer centre. It’s only a few streets away, so I might just be able to drag my sorry body over there.
It’s obvious why I’m feeling so wretched (apart from this disease, of course). Ever since I returned from the storage centre, I haven’t been able to sleep for longer than an hour or two. And when I do, I’m plagued by horrific visions of Margo’s face covered with mould, filling her open mouth and forming lacy patterns on her distant eyes. Visions of the black earth heaving up to swallow her coffin . . . and of my final visit to her grave after learning I’d soon be joining her. It was there that I pledged to find Grace, my whisper torn away as the wind whipped past. But I know she heard me, and I won’t fail her this time. I won’t.
I haven’t eaten nearly as much as I should, either. The cleaner, whose cheery face is the one thing I look forward to each day, is kind enough to bring me some fruit and yoghurt from the breakfast buffet downstairs. And sometimes I manage to make it to the off-licence next door to buy stale bread, sweaty cheese and ham made from God knows what. But everything tastes like sawdust, sticking in my throat with each attempt to swallow. I’m not sure whether that’s down to the quality of the food or my changing taste buds.
In an odd twist of fate, this is the very same off-licence where I bought Anna and me a bottle of champagne just after we got engaged. She lived in a shabby studio a few streets away . . . I’ll never forget that place. It was where we first made love, and where I realised that she was the one I’d been looking for – the one I’d make a fresh start with. I wasn’t nervous and I wasn’t scared. I was sure of the path forward, and certain Anna was it. And when I asked her to marry me and she said yes, I wasn’t surprised. Together, we were secure and happy. I knew she felt that, too.
I glance down at the empty pages of my letter to Anna still awaiting my words, then shake my head: maybe later. I creep into the shower, standing under the tepid spray and trying not to look down at my body, at how the weight is dropping off me, how my skin is starting to pull across my bones in a way I know all too well from Margo. I picture my wife leaning her head on my chest and pulling me close, and I shudder. What would she make of my ribs beginning to poke out under my skin? How would she feel when I cringe and move away, the pain of her embrace outweighing the pleasure?
Thank God I left when I did. I couldn’t bear her witnessing my transformation from man to cancer victim – from her husband to a weight around her neck, dragging her towards my death. Thank God she can’t see me now . . . that she won’t ever see me again.
I shake off the grief that grips me and run a hand over my chin. Bristles scrape against my palm in a comforting way, reassuring me that at least something is still growing. Something besides my tumours, that is . . . although I pray that the chemo has had some effect besides obliterating my appetite. I won’t know if I’m closer to death or further away from it until all three rounds are over, and it’s driving me crazy. Do I have weeks left, or months? I’ve always got through life by knowing my end goal: making Margo better, marrying Anna, having a family. Now I’m operating blindly, a silent passenger inside my body. One thing’s for sure, though: I don’t have time to waste.
I step out from the shower and pull on my clothes, thinking for the millionth time of those boxes back at the storage locker. Despite lying on the bed for hours with my mind working like crazy, I still haven’t hit on an idea to help me track down my niece. I should go back to that locker. I need to go back to that locker – to muster up the strength to open those boxes – but every bit of me baulks at the thought.
I close the door behind me and head out into the frigid afternoon, gathering my padded parka around me. Its warmth and comfort have been my saviours these past couple of weeks; the jacket is worlds away from the thin, formal overcoats of my old life that looked so professional, but offered no protection from damp, chilly winds.
My appointment’s not until 5 p.m., but the sky is already darkening. Suddenly I long for a steaming cup of coffee, to duck into the warmth of a cafe and tuck myself up against the cold afternoon. There’s a small coffee shop just across from the cancer centre – I saw it last time . . . I quicken my pace, hurrying as much as my shaky legs will allow towards the golden light streaming from its interior. I can almost taste the rich scent of coffee beans, almost feel the goodness of the hot liquid on my tongue. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like vomiting.
Ah, here it is. And good, it doesn’t look very busy. I’m not sure I could take standing in a queue for very long. I lean closer to peer through the window – and I freeze.
Staring back at me is a face I haven’t seen for a very long time – for thirteen years, to be exact, ever since Margo’s funeral.
It’s my father.<
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Mark
At first I’m not sure if he recognises me. It has been a while after all, and I don’t exactly look the same. My hair is greying for a start, and that’s without the beard I’ve been growing for the past few weeks – not to mention this thick coat that looks more rapper than banker. But then his eyes widen. Shock and surprise sweep over his features, and I spin away, heart pounding.
What the hell is he doing here? I wonder, trying to force my legs to move faster. My muscles don’t seem to be getting the message, though – it’s like a bad dream in which you feel like you’re moving through sludge. The bright lights of the cancer centre across the street beckon, looking for the first time more like a sanctuary than a death sentence. If I can just get in there – get beyond reception and up to the chemo floor – I’ll be safe.
Safe from what, exactly, I don’t know, but I need to get inside.
I slow at the pedestrian crossing, willing the light to turn green. I swivel this way and that, trying to find a safe route through the traffic clogging the road, but the cars keep coming. I pull up the hood of my coat and huddle inside it, hoping to shrink into myself, to hide away.
‘Mark?’
My heart sinks when I hear my father’s voice, feel his hand on my arm. Shit. Sighing, I pull down the hood and turn to face him, struggling to keep the surprise from my face. Close up and without the window to blur his features he looks like he’s aged not thirteen years, but thirty. His hair is cropped short, tiny strands valiantly clinging on to the sides of his head, and his thick beard is now completely white. His face has changed, too, beyond just physical looks. He always seemed so sure of himself – so confident he was making the right choices. But now . . . there’s something less solid about him – less certain.