The Casualties

by Nick Holdstock

  Everything is determined by what came before: I am here because of collisions. Because the rock of Sam struck two other rocks, and the impact was pleasing to him. Yet although Sinead’s unhappiness was a kind of revenge, it remained unsatisfying. It was a few hours before Sam found the solution. He opened Sinead’s diary and found the page where she had first written about feeding Toby. After marking the page, he put the diary in an envelope. When he put it through Evelyn’s door the next day, he felt a satisfaction he knew would endure. So what if he was motivated by revenge? It would also help Toby. Sinead would get sacked, then Toby would start losing weight; it wouldn’t be long before he and Evelyn could escape.

  17. One

  THERE ARE NO CLEAN COLLISIONS. One of the objects—the smaller, the weaker—will certainly be damaged, if not by the loss of a fragment, then certainly with a crack. But this can take time before it becomes apparent. This was why no one was murdered or beaten on July 25 or 26.

  On July 27, Sam bought a rucksack and started learning Filipino. “Ako po si Sam,” he repeated to the bare walls of his flat. His name did not sound right in the sentence. It was a jarring shift that suggested the speaker was trying to be two people at once.

  He moved onto other phrases. “Mahal kita, Malea,” he said, then wondered when he would able to say this to her. Definitely not on the plane. It was better to work up to such a declaration: First he would tell her she was maganda, which meant “beautiful.” After a few hours he could introduce himself, say his age, thank someone, ask where the toilet was. The only word that defeated him was pinagsisisihan. He hoped there was an easier way to say sorry.

  On the morning of July 28, Sam packed his rucksack full of summer clothes. He put most of the rest of his clothes into two large rubbish bags but left himself a change of clothes for the week ahead. He went to the delicatessen to buy a piece of Explorateur for lunch. The owner cut him a piece, then said, “Is that all?” His tone implied that such a small purchase was a waste of his time.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Sam, and paid him. After being given his change, he said, “No, wait. Actually there’s something else. You’re a pompous shit and everybody hates you.”

  The result was a rush of blood to the owner’s face that purpled to such a degree it suggested haemorrhage. He was holding the long, sharp knife he had used to cut the cheese when he came round the counter. “What?” he said, but Sam was already out the door. It was only when he was on the pavement that he realised the man was right: He should have bought more. He had nothing to eat with the cheese. The perfect thing would be one of the small brown loaves he could see through the window. But to go back in, after what he’d just said, would require courage.

  He went into Mr. Asham’s. He didn’t like buying from there, but sometimes there was no choice.

  When he brought the bread to the till, Mr. Asham was reading a newspaper. On its cover was a picture of the queen, who was visiting Japan, and this gave Sam a brilliant idea.

  “Are you interested in her?”

  “Who?”

  “The queen. What do you think of her?”

  “She’s very good. A wonderful lady.”

  “Oh, so you like her. Do you want to meet her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And what would you say to her?”

  Mr. Asham turned his hands palms up. “I don’t know,” he said, and smiled. When Sam did not reply, he said, “That’s eighty-five,” and put out his hand.

  “What do you think she’d say to you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What would you like to hear?”

  Mr. Asham shrugged as if trying to remove a heavy coat. If Sam had gone no further, Fahad might still have remembered this peculiar conversation when brushing his teeth or as he entered sleep. But by morning it would have been gone.

  Unfortunately, Sam was determined that Fahad get the joke. He took the paper from him, held up the cover, pointed to Her Majesty.

  “Imagine she’s here now,” he said. For a few seconds Fahad smiled politely. But given the lack of any obvious joke, he stopped. For a moment he looked puzzled. Then Sam saw what he was looking for. Nothing as dramatic as realisation, just a narrowing of the eyes, a contraction of the mouth: signs of suspicion.

  Sam ate lunch while sitting on his front doorstep. The sun was so powerful it seemed to be entering him.

  Afterwards, he took his clothes into Caitlin’s shop; given that she’d left the previous day, there was no risk of seeing her. When he saw a young woman with coiffed black hair standing in the doorway of the back office, he thought she was Caitlin’s replacement. She was pale and thin and wore green eye shadow. She was talking to someone he could not see.

  “And the head can come right off,” she said.

  Sam stared at the woman till she noticed him. “Hello?” she said, trying to sound friendly, but her voice had a catch in it.

  “I have a donation,” he said, and held out the bags. She took a step towards him. “Thanks very much,” she said, and her face was carefully blank. Then there was movement in the background and he saw Caitlin. The woman turned and blocked his line of sight. Sam was surprised, but only momentarily. Of course Caitlin had chosen to stay: He had given her hope.

  He took a step towards the woman. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is going to sound stupid. But I was wondering if you wanted to go for a coffee sometime. My name’s Sam. I work in the bookshop.”

  “I’m Abby,” she said, and her pale skin acquired a faint pink hue. “That sounds fine. But I should tell you that I have a girlfriend, so if we do go for coffee, there won’t be any hand holding.”

  From the back room there were no curses or sounds of breakage or noise of any kind. It was very quiet.

  “What about tomorrow?”

  Abby looked thoughtful. She pouted. “I finish at six. Come by at six thirty. But I don’t know where we’ll go. Everywhere round here is shit.”

  “We’ll go to the Italian place.”

  “Really? My friend worked there for three hours then quit. She said they’re all perverts.”

  She laughed and said “perverts” again. The word delighted her. I used to know a girl from Macao who said pìgu the same way. Both she and Abby had this way of completely enjoying something small.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Sam.

  “I expect so,” she replied, then walked into the back office. She waited for a few seconds, long enough for him to have walked away, before saying, “Did you hear that?”

  There was a pause. Then Caitlin said, “Yeah.”

  “I mean, who does that? Who asks out someone they’ve only seen for ten seconds?”

  “Are you sure he was asking you out?”

  “Come on. You heard him. He wasn’t exactly subtle.”

  “He might not have been. Some people are just friendly.”

  “That wasn’t platonic friendly. You didn’t see how he was looking at me.”

  “Maybe,” said Caitlin, to which Abby responded quickly.

  “Definitely! He was leering. He’ll probably go home and have a wank about—”

  “Shut up!”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t want to hear that kind of thing. It’s disgusting.”

  Sam thought it best to leave. If Caitlin came out of the back room and saw him, the shitty thing he’d done would be worse for being pointless. He wasn’t even sure it would work. Though it seemed likely their kiss had made her stay, there were many other possible reasons. Some member of her family—about whom he knew nothing, and of which she never spoke—might have had an accident. Or she might just have been daunted by the prospect of leaving her life behind.

  Yet for all the mistakes Sam made during that last week, this was one thing he got right. When he met Abby in the San Marco Ristorante, she was exhausted, her makeup smudged. She ordered two espressos and a tiramisu then slumped in her chair.

  “Fuck me,” she said loudly, then shook her head
, perhaps at the way the waiters—of whom there were four, all greying—sharply turned their heads.

  “Why,” she said, reaching for the sugar, “is everyone fucking nuts?”

  “I don’t know. I used to think it was because of our parents. Now I think it’s probably the Internet. Or capitalism. Or both.”

  “Twitter!” she said, and laughed at the stupidity of the word.

  “I’m guessing you didn’t just figure this out. What was today’s proof?”

  “My boss left me a note that said she’s quit and gone to Egypt.”

  “Amazing. Great,” he said, and felt a huge relief.

  “Yeah!” she said, with almost as much enthusiasm. “I’d think it was terrific if she hadn’t dumped this shit on me. I’m going to have to work for the next two weeks without a break.”

  “Did she say why she was going?”

  “No, but I’m not really surprised. I hardly knew her, but I could tell she wasn’t happy. She also had a massive crush on me. When you asked me out, she got really jealous!”

  When Sam got home, the police were waiting. They were standing in his doorway, talking to one another whilst looking in different directions. He felt that sudden twist in his chest that even the most innocent feel when confronted with authority (a phenomenon, I am told, that persists).

  “Are you Sam Clark?”

  The police officer’s voice was firm though not unfriendly, certainly not accusatory.

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “What’s happened?”

  “I’m afraid I may have some bad news for you.”

  Understandably, this was frightening; but then a woman’s voice spoke from the officer’s radio, and the suspense of waiting was worse. It was only a short period, barely five seconds, long enough for Sam to hate the messenger. What the fuck did he mean? “I may have some bad news for you.” Either he did or did not have “news.” What he meant, but did not fucking say, was he had news that Sam might think was bad.

  “Copy,” said the police officer, then turned back to him. “Mr. Clark, I’m sorry to tell you that Sinead Gorman is dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “We are still conducting an investigation. But we believe she may have accidentally consumed a toxic substance.”

  He had done his best to hurt her; this was the result.

  The police officer stretched his arm towards Sam’s door.

  “Do you mind if we come inside for a moment?”

  “Yes,” he said, then “No.” There was relief in the actions required. He had to establish which pocket his keys were in. He had to push his hand into that pocket. He had to pinch the metal with his fingers. He had to withdraw that hand. He thought he was doing incredibly well until the police officer asked if he needed help.

  “No,” he said. He wanted to open the door by himself. He got the key in the lock and turned his hand.

  Sam went inside, and they followed. When they entered the lounge, he said, “This is the lounge.” He did not know what else to say. One of them sat next to him. I’m not sure what he looked like, except that he was young. The other, who had a beard, remained standing. Sam asked, “How did it happen?” Sinead was dead, and he knew why, but something didn’t make sense. They had said accidentally.

  “I’m afraid we can’t tell you much at the moment, except that it happened when she was at work. Do you know Evelyn Boyle?”

  “Yes.”

  “She said her son made Sinead a drink. She said he got two bottles mixed up. She went out this morning, and when she came back in the afternoon she found Sinead, but it was too late.”

  This seemed odd. He couldn’t believe that Toby was allowed to make drinks; anything poisonous would have been in locked cupboards. If it was indeed a tragic accident—the collision of negligence and Toby’s mistake—then its timing was curious. Evelyn definitely had a reason to kill Sinead; he had made sure of that. Had she found a way to blame someone who could not be blamed?

  The older officer took a step towards him. “Mr. Clark, can you describe your relationship to Sinead?”

  He thought this a strange question.

  “She and Toby used to come into my shop. He likes books about cooking.”

  “Which shop is that?”

  “The charity bookshop at the end of the street.”

  The police officer noted this down.

  “Were you good friends?”

  “Not really. I mean, I knew her, but not very well. We didn’t hang out.”

  “All right,” said the police officer, and it was hard to gauge his tone. It could have been an All right that meant “If you want to lie, that’s fine.” It could have been an acknowledgement.

  “Do you mind if I ask why you came here?”

  The younger police officer replied, perhaps too quickly, “It’s just routine. We try to inform family or close friends directly in the event of a death. I’m afraid we thought that you and Ms. Gorman were much closer.”

  “How come?”

  “We found a lot of photos of you on her phone. We asked Mrs. Boyle who you were and she said that you were Sinead’s boyfriend.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, she was quite sure.”

  He doubted that Sinead had told Evelyn about him. Perhaps she was trying to confuse the police.

  “I wasn’t her boyfriend. She just had a crush on me.”

  The younger police officer nodded. “That would explain why she had so many pictures of you.” The silence that followed seemed accusatory. But if they had suspicions—of what, he had no idea—it was probably not of anything he could be convicted of.

  * * *

  SAM WOKE ON the sofa with a pain in his back. His first thought was that he and Malea were leaving in two days. Then he remembered Sinead. Who was poisoned, dead.

  He barely made it to the sink before he vomited. Each heave was like a serrated spoon taking scoops of his stomach. It cleared the fog of sleep, and he realised what had to be done. He and Malea had to leave at once. It would cost a lot to change their tickets, but this was their future, their lives, so what did that fucking matter? If they didn’t, they were asking for trouble. Malea might change her mind; the police could arrest him.

  But how could he convince her? He couldn’t say he was also leaving. Even though he’d done a good thing for her, she had no reason to trust him. If he insisted too strongly, she might cancel the trip.

  And so having made himself anxious, almost panicked, Sam ended up rejecting any course of action. For this, we should not blame him: We never know what is at stake.

  All he could do was stay busy. He wasn’t going to tell the charity he was leaving. He did feel bad about not telling his volunteers, but that would mean answering the same questions twenty times.

  That afternoon he practiced his Filipino. He learnt the words for family members, numbers, dates; how to say Pleased to meet you. He read the dialogues out loud, imagining himself asking Malea questions and answering hers.

  By the time it was dark, his head felt full. He wanted to sleep. After seven or eight hours he would wake and realise that only one day remained.

  But it was only nine o’clock. He had to find something to do for the next few hours. He tried reading, but he couldn’t concentrate. He repacked his bag. In the end, he decided to clean the house. It didn’t matter that there was no need—no one else was going to move in—it was just to kill time. He started with the bathroom, which took longer than he had expected: The bath had a ring of yellow stains that took a lot of scrubbing. From there, he moved onto the lounge and kitchen. When he moved the sofa he found a book of matches, a green sock, and some screwed-up paper. He opened one piece carefully and found the paper was blank. On the next the word Environment was underlined three times. The third was covered by a list of his bad qualities and how they might be solved. It was a long list.

  Problem

  Solution

  Boring

  More time with people

  Selfish


  Drink more water

  Violent

  Drink less caffeine

  Tactless

  DRINK URINE

  Short-sighted (literal)

  6 carrots daily

  Short-sighted (metaphor)

  Don’t know

  Flatulent

  Keep windows open

  Greedy

  Eat less sugar

  Anxious

  Walking

  Big ego

  Urine

  Drug addiction

  Urine

  Masturbation

  Spinach (raw)

  Suicidal

  Laughter

  Bad breath

  Keep mouth open

  Bad reflexes

  45 sit-ups/press-ups/jumps

  Bad temper

  see “violent”

  Bad skin

  Spinach (cooked)

  Body odour

  Better baths

  Sleep disturbances

  Teddy bear

  Constipation

  Lemongrass

  Guilt

  Don’t know

  Sam screwed up the paper. He didn’t have bad breath, and there was nothing wrong with his skin. As for the part about “drug addiction,” the idiot must have meant coffee.

  Sam swept and washed the floor, which meant he had to move the trunk. He had wanted to have it shipped to Manila; it had been there before, in the 1950s, on his grandfather’s first tour with the merchant navy. He liked the idea of it returning after more than fifty years. It would be a point of continuity with the life he was leaving behind, but one whose meaning stretched beyond the bounds of his lifetime, enough to make him feel it wasn’t really “his.”