by Sarah Rayne
‘Chris, look, you know I . . . I’m still your mate and everything. It’s just a very bad situation and it’s best if we, if we don’t communicate for the moment, you know?’
‘Is it because of Bec?’
‘Look, Bec’s really been through it, mate. She’s still going through it.’
‘Does Bec hate me?’
‘Chris, don’t, please. Listen, I’ll call you.’ He put the phone down.
Chris’s suddenly cut-down life might have carried on this way for any amount of time, but, perhaps mercifully, two incidents within twenty-four hours persuaded him to leave Melbourne.
The first was Lisa, an old university friend, getting in touch: she’d been away in Britain for some years and was throwing a big party for her return. She had obviously been briefed about the situation; her tone was careful and affectionate. It would be great if Chris just wanted to stop in and say hello. She understood if it wasn’t a great idea, but she’d missed him. Chris hadn’t had meaningful contact with anyone for some months, and the idea of someone’s having missed him, and making a genuine effort to solicit his company, struck him in a vulnerable place. He decided to see it as a turning point, the latest in a handful of moments he’d attempted to see that way. A turning point was all he needed, he told himself, a change of luck. He got a haircut, shaved off the default-beard which had built up, bought a nice shirt. In the mirror he practised saying the sort of things people say at parties. ‘Yeah, you know, some ups and downs.’ ‘This and that.’ ‘How’s your brother?’ ‘Good to catch up.’
And for the first half-hour it went well. He found a quiet spot in the garden and Lisa went out of her way to put him at ease, devoting her almost exclusive attention to him, telling him all about London: so much fun, but so expensive. Then he looked up and saw Matilda on the porch, with a new haircut and a new man. He was patting and stroking her ostentatiously and she, clearly all too aware of Chris’s presence, was shaking him off with a resistance that was only misread as playful encouragement to keep going. Lisa’s eyes darted between Chris and Matilda as she became aware of the awful mistake of inviting them both. How on earth did she overlook this, thought Chris, after all this effort to get me here? But perhaps she hadn’t known that Matilda was going to bring someone, or known the full story of the break-up. In any case it didn’t matter. He waited until Matilda had gone inside with the man, who looked like a footballer, short-haired and broad-shouldered, and left as quickly as possible. Walking away down the street, past pretty old brick houses with faded yellow paint and wrought-iron balconies, he registered the cruel visual joke of a skywriting plane slicing through the sky, almost as if it was inevitable.
The next evening his mother made a bold but poorly timed attempt to broach the subject head-on.
‘You know, Chris,’ she said, nervously interlocking one set of fingers with the others, staring at her wedding ring. ‘When I was a bit younger than you, and I was working nights at the hospital, we had a patient who I was very fond of, and—’
‘Mum, I don’t want to talk about it.’
She swallowed.
Rick and Steve gave each other warning glances.
‘All I wanted to say was,’ she persisted, ‘everything happens for a reason.’
‘What the fuck does that mean!’ Chris said, far more aggressively than he had meant to, or even realized he was capable of.
‘Let’s leave it there, shall we,’ Rick began, dishing out a look of vicious warning to Chris, which Chris overrode, because for once what his older brothers thought made no difference to him at all.
‘What’s the point of saying “everything happens for a reason”! What, so I gave a kid brain damage, but never mind, because there must be a reason! That’s meant to cheer me up? What if the “reason” is that everything is fucked?’
‘OK, that’s enough, mate!’ said Rick in a voice that Chris had last heard him use just before he punched someone in the face. Steve laid an arm on Rick’s, but Rick pressed on regardless. ‘You don’t speak to our mother like that, mate! You need to go away and have a think about whether that’s a good idea!’
‘It’s all right, Richard.’ This was the outcome their mother most dreaded, to have the boys at odds with each other. ‘It doesn’t matter. I was just trying to . . . I’m sorry.’
‘Are you going to apologize?’ Rick, six foot four with huge, tensed biceps, leaned across the table.
‘I’ll apologize to her in my own time. I’m not going to apologize to you. You can butt out of it.’
‘Oh, can I! Shall I butt out of the fact that you’re just living off Mum here, wallowing in your own misery? Contributing nothing to the fucking—’
‘It’s not worth it, mate,’ Steve muttered.
‘I’m not being unsympathetic or whatever but this has gone on long enough!’ Rick said. ‘And do you want to know something else? I’ll tell you something else!’
‘Stop it, stop it, all of you.’
She was sobbing. Steve put an arm around her. Rick never did tell Chris what the ‘something else’ was. Their mother left the room, collecting up plates as she went, helped by Steve, and the scene fizzled out to a thick, sullen silence.
Chris knew then that he would never be able to dispel the memory of his mother crying like this: that it would, like a bully, supplant many happier, more representative memories of her. He also knew that he had to leave immediately.
Xavier watches as Monday morning dawns, a brief smudge of pink giving way to a cloudy sky, and hears the week’s clockwork start up once more outside. Tamara trots down the stairs outside his door. Jamie, below them, has a tickly cough. The mug of tea is still in front of Xavier. I haven’t moved for three hours, he thinks, getting slowly to his feet. The release of these memories, imprisoned for five years, feels as though it has cost him a physical effort. It’s as if after relentlessly walking down a road he has looked back for the first time and only now realizes how exhaustingly long it has been.
It’s about thirty-six hours since Pippa left. Xavier lies down on his bed and laboriously composes a text message. I’m really really sorry is too melodramatic, Please accept my apologies too formal. What’s needed is an explanation of the fact that she set off something crucial but violent, that she somehow made him confront what he’s been avoiding for years: in other words, not a text at all, but a full conversation, something he doesn’t dare attempt just yet. In the end he types It was all my fault. Please get in touch. Sorry. Xavier. The fifty-odd characters take him almost twenty minutes. He stares at the phone for a couple of minutes in the faint hope of an instant reply, and then falls into a thick sleep untroubled by dreams of Australia or anything else.
A shrill, monotonous tone interrupts the sleep. Xavier feels as if he has to drag each eye open individually. By the time he’s fully awake, the phone has stopped ringing. It starts again straight away. Hope speeds up his heartbeat momentarily, but the display reads MURRAY.
‘Just checking up on you.’
‘Much better, thanks, mate.’
‘So yer, yer, you’ll be coming in tonight? Good news all round.’ As incapable of subtlety over the phone as in person, Murray betrays a certain disappointment with his wavering voice.
‘I will. How did last night go?’
‘Oh, not too bad, not too bad at all. Had some good feedback.’
They agree that Murray will pick Xavier up at the usual time. Only when the conversation ends does Xavier, with a sudden stab of nerves, realize that he should see whether Pippa has sent a text back. She hasn’t.
There are a number of emails from listeners enquiring as to Xavier’s health; many of them express the hope that Murray will not be left to present on his own again. Xavier tries to respond to these, and to tackle various other tasks, in vain: even the paltry reminder of Pippa afforded by the tidy bookshelves in the study keeps pushing everything else out of his mind. There is also the sudden overload of formerly forbidden memories to contend with: he’s aware that
it will end up being a relief, but for now he feels groggy and confused.
As the evening wears on, it becomes impossible to explain the lack of a reply from Pippa by imagining that she might be too busy, or that she is weighing up what to say. He’s irritated with himself for this adolescent nonsense, all this second-guessing, and decides to call her. The simple press of a button is far more nerve-racking than it ought to be. ‘Sort yourself out,’ Xavier mutters. But the call isn’t answered, and there isn’t even the opportunity to leave a message. ‘Your call cannot be connected,’ a prim voice gloats. ‘Please try again later.’
The week crawls by at the same lethargic pace, and with the same sense of befuddled inertia in Xavier’s brain. He sends more texts to Pippa, the tone beseeching, even pleading. I would really appreciate it if you got in touch. I would never normally snap at someone like that, but you seem to have got inside my head. You’ve come to mean a lot to me. He is surprised at this statement – both that it is true and that he’s prepared to say it – but lets it stand. There are no replies, and each fruitless message feels like a humiliating failure. At night, Xavier slips in and out of grey, threatening dreams.
On Wednesday afternoon Xavier meets Tamara on the landing outside his flat. They smile warily at each other, each aware the other heard potentially incriminating noises from their respective homes at the weekend. Tamara has dark glasses on, Xavier notices with a jolt. Isn’t that what they do, people in violent relationships, to conceal black eyes? He tries to remember the ad campaign – they played it on his show for a bit; what were the other warning signs of an abusive relationship? He can only remember the message: If you know someone who is a victim of domestic violence, don’t keep quiet. He peers at her as closely as he dares.
‘So, you know that petition?’ Tamara says.
‘Sorry?’
‘The one on road safety, the one we all signed. About putting speed bumps on this road.’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘So it went all the way through to head office, and do you know what happened?’
‘Er . . .’
‘They’re going to bring it up in a meeting in a month. A month!’
‘Long time to wait,’ Xavier nods. He really can’t think of anything better to say.
‘So everything is on hold till then. This kind of red tape. Bane of my life.’
Holding her briefcase down by her side, her handbag in the other hand, Tamara is on her way.
‘I’ll let you know of any developments.’
‘Yes, do,’ Xavier agrees faintly.
Pippa was right, of course. He doesn’t know a thing about his closest neighbours. He hears Tamara’s heels on the landing above, hears her door swing open on a room he has never set foot in. Perhaps some good will come out of all this – perhaps he’ll make more of an effort with everyone from now on – but for the time being it’s enough of an effort to think about tonight: the cold studio, the half-drunk mugs of coffee, and Murray with his oversized headphones dragging him towards four o’clock.
Halfway through the Wednesday night show – a customarily sluggish one, which Xavier in his current frame of mind is unable to revive – Murray turns to him during the news and weather.
‘Wer, what’s up?’
‘Nothing, nothing’s up. Still not quite feeling myself.’
‘Who are you feeling?’ Murray coughs. ‘Sorry. Poor joke.’
Xavier tries to smile.
‘I was thinking about wer, Wednesdays,’ Murray soldiers on. ‘We could maybe address the fact that everyone always seems a bit pissed off. We could make it a bit different, somehow. Try and really crank it up.’
‘We could call it “Wacky Wednesday”,’ Xavier says flatly.
Murray’s uneven eyebrows shoot up.
‘That’s a great idea!’
‘I don’t think . . . I wasn’t suggesting it seriously—’
‘But imagine! Wer, wer, wer, wer, wer, wake up, it’s Wacky wer, wer, wer . . .’
‘I might have to introduce it,’ Xavier observes quietly.
After they’ve laughed at this, Murray gets up from his chair and, unexpectedly, puts his hands on Xavier’s shoulders.
‘You’re tense as hell.’
‘I don’t feel any tenser than usual.’
‘Let’s get these knots out.’
Murray begins to massage Xavier’s shoulders, neck and back. His thick hands lumber across the terrain like unwieldy vehicles trying to negotiate a mountain road.
Xavier sighs in discomfort, which Murray misconstrues as relief.
‘Good to get it all out, isn’t it! Didn’t know I had this skill, did you?’
‘I didn’t.’
Murray moves his hands in rough circles over Xavier’s shoulders, up and down his spine, his fingers straining fruitlessly for tenderness.
‘Back on air in one minute,’ he says, finally going back to his seat. ‘Any emails? Let’s have a look. Bet you feel better now.’
Saturday is a Scrabble day. By now it’s clear to Xavier that Pippa won’t be replying to any of his messages, and it seems plain enough that he has strangled what briefly grew between them. All the same something makes him leave a note on the kitchen table just in case she comes. I doubt you’ll read this, but if you do: I accept complete responsibility for what happened. Complete responsibility is hopeless, he sounds like a politician. He puts a big line through the whole phrase and just writes SORRY in half-page-high letters. He leaves money in an envelope a discreet distance from the note, and keys in the flowerpot outside 11 Bayham Road. All this feels to Xavier like a foolhardy lowering of his defences, and he walks hastily up the hill away from the house as if to pretend it has nothing to do with him.
He’s not surprised to find himself some way off his best form. After the mental turmoil of the past few days his brain has little interest in reacquainting itself with anagrams and suffixes, and he can’t find the will to ignite the competitive edge needed when playing against even moderate opponents. He blunders his way past a couple of serial losers before being beaten by the semi-retired pop star, whom Vijay effortlessly crushes in the final. Once again, he gambles repeatedly on letter-swapping and, although only one gamble in every four or five pays off, the impact of each successful one is so striking that it doesn’t matter.
As always, Vijay spends some of his winnings on drinks for everyone at the pub. The organizer tells a long anecdote about the minibus he drove to Torquay last weekend; overloaded with unhelpful details, it raises only polite laughs. There is brief talk about football, the forecast hot summer, youth crime. The pop star tries to get people interested in a second round of drinks, but the kayaking couple have to leave – off to France tomorrow – and this takes the steam out of the gathering. Pretty soon Xavier heads for home.
Feeling in his muscles the weight of the week – ridiculous, he thinks, I’ve barely done anything – he gets on a bus and sits next to the door. After a couple of stops he’s conscious of a woman’s hostile glare like a torch beam shining in his face. He makes eye contact, hoping she will look away, but instead her expression crumples in disgust and she shakes her head.
‘Are you not going to offer me a seat? How long do I have to stand here?’
Xavier clambers to his feet guiltily.
‘I’m sorry, are you . . . I didn’t realize you were . . .’
She takes the vacated seat, shaking her head again. From the side Xavier can see that she is, indeed, pregnant, but it’s not conspicuous; it’s certainly not enough to justify such rudeness to him. Or is it? Xavier wonders if he has suffered a loss of perspective over this long week reliving the past, especially as he’s not sleeping properly. Maybe he is failing to connect with other people, maybe it’s quite obvious to everyone else on the bus that he should have volunteered his seat. He looks at other passengers, raising an eyebrow for opinions one way or another, but nobody meets his eye.
The incident is enough to remind him of Pippa’s sister, also pre
gnant, which reminds him of Pippa, which means that as he walks down Bayham Road he is forced to consider the question he’d resolved to put out of his mind: will Pippa have come? Of course it seems very unlikely, they’ve had no contact at all. And she would have read the note and called or texted by now. And she has better things to do, surely. But the grain of a doubt is stuck between his teeth. She might have come and cleaned almost to make a point, to shame him or something. Or she might have come, all ready to make up, and left a note back. But then – his lunging brain topples in another direction – she might have come, knowing he would leave the keys for her, and taken some sort of revenge, done some damage, stolen something. I mean, this is a woman I barely know, thinks Xavier. I employed her, kissed her, then made her feel humiliated and more or less threw her out of my home. If she did do something like that I’d fully deserve it.
But he doesn’t quite believe that, and in any case doesn’t quite believe she will have visited at all. And he’s right: he can see straight away that the keys are exactly where he left them. And Pippa is wherever she is, but it’s not here.
To Xavier’s surprise and horror, tears sneak into his eyes. Ambushed, he stands weeping for perhaps forty seconds, for the first time since he left Melbourne, spluttering as he tries to stem the flow. A boy with a nasty scar on his right cheek walks past and glances at him with some curiosity, as if at a strange animal. Xavier, half-recognizing him, flinches like a criminal caught in the act and hastens inside, sensing in embarrassment that Mel, with Jamie in her arms, is watching him through the window with concern.
In the window of one of Soho’s many Italian bars, Maggie Reiss sits with her friend Stacey Collins, at the dusk end of an all-day drinking session which began before the lunch menus had been handed to them. Stacey is a journalist. The two of them have known each other twenty years. Maggie called Stacey last night to say that they were going out, she had something to tell her. They’ve tottered their way in a zigzag across these teeming streets; this is their fourth stop-off.