Tandem

by Alex Morgan

  After the service, lots of people kissed or hugged her, others just shook her hand or patted her arm, all made some kind remark or other, but she heard no-one.

  She walked with her parents and Ollie to the graveside. There were more words and slowly, very slowly the coffin was lowered. Paula tried to focus on the wooden casket sinking into the ground in front of her. And then someone began screaming “no, no, no” over and over again.

  Ollie caught her under the arms as her legs buckled and pulled her back from the edge of the grave.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” he said, stroking her hair. “Shh, shh, quiet now.”

  In the days immediately after the funeral, Paula somehow managed to continue functioning. She understood now that Pete wasn’t coming back, but she refused to let herself feel it. If she could keep all feeling, all emotion frozen and stay away from anyone whose grief might disturb her equilibrium, she could get through. She knew instinctively it was the only way.

  She worked and ate and, providing she had a couple of glasses of wine before bed, she slept on and off. She didn’t venture out other than to do research that wasn’t possible over the internet and to buy food, and she didn’t answer the phone or go to the door when the bell rang.

  And then she had that dream about the little girl. The first time she had it, she didn’t think much of it. She was trying not to think about anything other than work, which was piling up. Even though she was putting in far longer hours than normal, she didn’t seem to be making much progress. After the second dream, she couldn’t get it out of her head. She had never had the same dream before and it seemed odd that it should happen now. Then it came again and again.

  It was a Wednesday night, almost three weeks after the police arrived at her door, and she was sitting with a large glass of wine, flicking through some old Sunday supplements before she put them out for recycling, when she came across the feature on Scottish seaside towns. She recognised the wide panorama of the opening spread immediately. It was the beach from her dream. The caption said it was Craskferry. The name was familiar but, at first, she couldn’t think why.

  She studied the picture again, focusing on the sweep of sand and the red stone harbour, and suddenly she remembered: it was where they went for the holiday she spent without Pete. Puzzled, she continued to stare at the picture. Why was she dreaming about Craskferry?

  Draining her glass, she bagged up the papers for recycling and went to bed. But she couldn’t get the photograph out of her head, and when she finally fell asleep, she had exactly the same dream.

  She woke the next morning knowing what she had to do. She pulled on her dressing gown, fired up the laptop and did a search for property to rent in Craskferry. Rachel Fanshawe’s name came up straightaway. It wasn’t even nine o’clock when Paula phoned the letting agent’s number and left a message.

  Unravelling

  The light glowed red inside her eyelids. Her temples were pounding, neck muscles knotted tight and something dug into her cheek. Lifting her head a little, she felt hard plastic. One eye opened a fraction to see the corner of her laptop keyboard. It was the morning after her and Pete’s extra-special extra summer birthday, and she had fallen asleep at the desk – in Mrs McIntyre’s rental flat, in Craskferry. She opened the other eye and immediately regretted it. The room rotated, or maybe it was her. Something moved. Her eyes snapped shut and she swallowed back the nausea. Why had she ever thought it was a good idea to get out of bed?

  Footsteps.

  “Pete? Is that you?” she asked uncertainly.

  They stopped but there was no answer.

  “Pete?” She sat up. Every muscle hurt. “Pete, where are you? I need to talk to you.”

  Silence. She tried to stand but her legs folded like pipe cleaners.

  “Please, don’t leave me, Pete.” Tears obscured her vision. “I need you. I need you now. I was always there for you. I always did what you wanted, didn’t I? Remember when you broke Granny Crabtree’s kitchen window with the football? I took the rap, didn’t I? And at Halloween when you dyed Sonia Matheson’s poodle green. I said it was me and got grounded for a fortnight.”

  She wiped her eyes and nose on her arm. “You let me take the blame. Never once said it wasn’t my fault.” Her voice rose. “So why can’t you be here for me now? Don’t you owe me that? Can’t you see I’m falling apart? I’m having weird dreams. I’ve fucked up with Ollie and made a complete fool of myself with Andy, and Sanders hates me and now he’s missing, and Bovis is going to die …” Paula slumped sobbing onto the desk.

  A blatter of rain on the study window roused her. The light had faded to grey. Shivering, she straightened up. The skin on her face was tight, her head aching worse than ever.

  Gripping the edge of the desk, she managed to haul herself upright. She edged sideways and transferred one hand to the end of a bookcase. Shuffling a bit further, the other moved to join it. Slowly, reaching hand over hand, she made it to the doorway between study and sitting room. She looked around for something else to hold onto, but there was only the sofa and it was too far away. Sinking to her knees, she crawled across the carpet and stuck her head out into the hall. Certain the coast was clear, she scuttled across the lino and shouldered open the bedroom door.

  Sitting back on her haunches, she tried to make sense of what she saw. All the discarded clothes were gone and there was a different duvet cover on the bed. She crawled over and peered underneath. The empty wine bottles and chip wrappings had vanished.

  “Come on, let’s get you up.” Arms encircled her from behind and, with surprising strength, eased her onto the bed and laid her down.

  “Pete?”

  “Paula, he’s gone.”

  “What?” She turned to the voice.

  Her landlady knelt beside her. “I phoned your mother and she told me. Paula, your brother’s passed away.”

  “No!” Paula shook her head so fiercely it made her feel sick. “He hasn’t.”

  “Aye, darling, he has.” Mrs McIntyre stroked her forehead. “I couldnae let go o’ my man, Gordon, after he died. I used to see and hear him all the time, but it passes.”

  “No,” Paula wailed. “I can’t be without him.” She took a great gulp of air. “Can’t, can’t …”

  “You have to let go.”

  “But … I’ll … die … too,” she sobbed.

  “You willnae. You’re stronger than you know.”

  Paula looked at her landlady. “That’s just it. I didn’t know.”

  “Didnae know what?”

  “That he was dead,” she said desperately. “He’s my little twin. I should have known, should have felt it somehow, but I didn’t. I ate dinner, had a bath, watched a DVD, and it didn’t feel any different from any other night of my life.” She gave another huge, choking sob. “I didn’t know until the police came.”

  “And you think that makes you a bad sister?”

  Paula nodded miserably. “I shouldn’t have let him go out on his own before a big race. He wasn’t thinking straight. It was my job to look after him – I promised I’d protect him.”

  “It was an accident,” Mrs McIntyre said softly. “You’re no’ to blame.”

  Paula tried to respond but she was no longer able.

  Mrs McIntyre sat down on the edge of the bed and put her arms around her. “That’s it, you let it all out.”

  When Paula could cry no more, her landlady brought a damp towel and wiped her face. She made sweet tea and held the mug while Paula drank it.

  “Could you manage a bit o’ toast?”

  Paula shook her head.

  “When did you last eat?”

  She looked at the clock. It was almost eight o’clock. “Is it morning or evening?”

  “Evening.”

  “Is there any news of Sanders and Bovis?”

  “That wee lad and his dog?”

  “Yes, he ran away and Bovis is hurt – the vet’s got her, but she might not live. Please phone her, and call
Nora along the road – she’ll know about Sanders.” Paula started to sob again.

  “I’ll find out.”

  Mrs McIntyre returned ten minutes later. “You can stop worrying. The wee lad turned up at home late on Sunday, cold and drookit but no harm done. Said he spent the night in a cave.”

  “I should have been able to help him, but I didn’t.” Paula tugged at the front of her hair. “He wanted my help and I wasn’t there for him.”

  “You arenae responsible for Sanders. He has a family o’ his own.” Mrs McIntyre eased Paula’s hand down onto the duvet. “You’ll have that hair out by the roots.”

  “What about Bovis?”

  “She’s lost a leg but the vet says she’s going to make it.”

  “Oh, my God! If I’d helped Sanders he wouldn’t have run away and Bovis wouldn’t have been left behind. And, I don’t know …” Paula slumped back on the pillows. “I don’t know anything anymore. I don’t know anything. I can’t be with people. I can’t be on my own. My head’s a mess and I can’t make sense of it. I’m dreaming stuff, remembering fragments, but none of it makes any sense at all. I think I’m losing my mind.”

  “You’re no’ losing your mind.” Mrs McIntyre smoothed Paula’s hair back into place. “It’s grief. In time your mind will settle and you’ll get on with your life, but you cannae rush it. You just have to live with it. You breathe and you eat and you sleep and the time passes. You think about the person you’ve lost and the time passes.”

  “But half the time I can’t remember.” Paula said in a small voice. “There’s so much I want to remember but I can’t and I’m frightened … I’m frightened that before long I won’t be able to remember. I won’t remember what it was like when we were little or when we rode together, that I’ll forget his face and the way he spoke, the sound of his voice … everything. It’ll all just fade away as if he never existed.”

  “Oh no, darling, that willnae happen. Trust me, you’ll see.” The old woman stood up. “I’m going to make some more tea and I want you to have a slice o’ toast.”

  After she had eaten, Paula fell into a doze. She was woken by Mrs McIntyre. “There’s a phone call for you.”

  She pulled the duvet around her neck. “Who is it?”

  “Don’t look so worried. It’s only your young man. Come on now, let’s get you through to the phone.”

  Mrs McIntyre helped her out of bed and, with her arm around Paula’s waist, steered her through to the study. She handed her the receiver and left, closing the sitting room door firmly behind her.

  “Andy?” Paula was amazed by the eagerness of her own response.

  “Who’s Andy?” Ollie’s voice.

  When Paula didn’t answer, he tried again, “I said, who’s Andy?”

  “I said Sandy,” she replied desperately. “Short for Sanders.”

  “Oh. Thanks for the warm welcome. It would be nice if just once you could be pleased to hear from me.”

  “Sorry.” She sank down onto the desk chair.

  “Paula, we’re all really worried about you. Your mum and dad wanted to get in the car and come up – I had a hell of a job to stop them.

  “Thank you – I couldn’t face …” She felt herself crying again.

  “I know, but you can’t go on like this. You really can’t.”

  “But what is it you want me to do? You tell me off when I don’t show any emotion, and when I let it out you’re not happy either. Aren’t you pleased that I’m grieving?”

  “It’s not the grieving I’m worried about.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Your landlady told your parents you’d been drinking.”

  “She what? How dare she?” Acid burned in her throat. “It’s none of her business.”

  “Hold on a minute. You’re living in her house and she’s worried about you. Of course it’s her business. She called them because she didn’t know what else to do. You have to let us help you.”

  “And you think you can just wave your magic wand and make everything all right? Well, you can fuck right off, Ollie. Do you hear me? I said fuck off!”

  “There’s no need to be nasty.”

  “Isn’t there?” she yelled. “I think nasty’s about all we’ve got left.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m going to hang up now, Paula, unless you tell me not to. Okay? Do you hear me?”

  Without waiting to see if he would carry out his threat, Paula banged the receiver back in its cradle.

  The sitting room door opened. “I owe you an apology,” Mrs McIntyre said. “I shouldnae have called them.”

  Paula just stared at her.

  “I made a mistake.”

  “You did,” she said flatly.

  In the garage

  Strange how the details stayed so clear. After sixteen years packed away under layers of experience and incident, when Paula closed her eyes, she could almost smell her own teenage skin, feel it burning as she watched the scene unfold.

  The bottle-green paint on the window ledge was blistered, long strips of it peeled back by sun and rain to reveal wood the colour of old bones. She pressed her cheek into the corner of the frame, gritty with dead flies and exhaust fumes, terrified they would see her, but unable to carry on up the path now that some deep, instinctive part of her knew.

  She could tell they had been smoking. An open packet of Benson & Hedges, a pack of Rizla papers and a book of matches with a pale blue cover lay on the old kitchen table that had become their dad’s workbench, and even through the thick glass, milky with cobwebs, she could smell the cannabis. She could smell it now, more than a decade and a half later.

  On the concrete floor, the open lid of the big metal toolbox revealed trays of tiny, nameless items. The tandem sat on its stand, a spanner and an oily rag abandoned beside it.

  Pete sat on the edge of the table, the toes of his once white trainers dangling above the dust. His hands rested on the thighs of his jeans. He was grinning. The air was filled with smoke and creosote and traffic noise. A police siren. The shouts of small boys cavorting along the street. And, loudest of all, the buzzing, crackling white noise that came from Paula’s own brain, making it impossible for her to catch any ghost of Pete and Ollie’s banter that might seep through the glass.

  Ollie bent down, wiped his hands on the rag and dropped it back on the floor. He turned to Pete and said something. Pete’s lips moved in response and they both laughed. It was like watching a silent movie without the subtitles, the racket of the outside world fading away to let the sounds inside her head take the place of a piano score.

  Paula watched as Pete handed Ollie the remains of the joint. He held it between thumb and forefinger and took a drag. Gripping his chest, he staggered back and, in slow motion, crumpled to the ground, cigarette still between the fingers of his right hand. She counted her heartbeats as he lay motionless: one … two … three. Pete frowned, his mouth forming words of concern as he bent forward. Suddenly, Ollie stretched himself out, rolled onto his back, took another long pull on the joint and sat up. They were laughing again.

  He stood and passed it to Pete, who took a last drag and dropped the butt onto the concrete. Ollie ground it out with the heel of his trainer. Pete held the smoke in his mouth, cheeks puffed out like a hamster. Ollie leant towards him. Paula held her breath too and counted the beats once more: one … two … He placed his hands on the edge of the table, thumbs millimetres from the outside of Pete’s denim covered thighs and leant in a little further. Pete exhaled in his face and then it happened: they were kissing. Three … four …

  For a second, the next couple of beats, she couldn’t be sure if it was real or merely a crazy illusion formed from all the static in her own head. Then they shifted slightly, the back of Ollie’s head no longer obscured Pete’s face. She thought they would part now. That it would be over. Surely they’d had long enough to emerge from their weed trance, to spring apart in horror and disbelief at their own inexplicable actions. Seven �
� eight … nine … But they didn’t. Ten … eleven … They shifted again. Paula closed her eyes and took a long breath. It would be over now. Ended. Safe to look.

  She opened her eyes. Ollie’s hands were on Pete’s forearms. Twelve … thirteen … One moved to hold Pete’s head, fingers twisting in his hair. Fourteen … fifteen … sixteen … Breathe, she told herself, keep breathing. She could see the tendons, see the veins pulsing in the back of Ollie’s hand – how could she see, remember such detail; surely it wasn’t possible at that angle, over such distance and time – as he pulled Pete closer, held him there. Lips against lips.

  So she breathed and counted. Thirty … fifty … eighty-three … ninety-one … The sound of car tyres on gravel. A door clicking open. Mum and Dad’s voices. One hundred. Ollie let go. Paula turned away and walked up the path to the back door.

  Home truths

  Paula ate the breakfast of bacon and egg that Mrs McIntyre brought her. After her landlady removed the tray, she ran her a bath in her bathroom upstairs. It wasn’t until Paula lay back in the warm bubbles that she realised just how sore she was. Everything, from the roots of her hair all the way down to her toenails, ached as if her whole body had a hangover. She stretched out and let the water soak away physical pain, until the bubbles were gone and the bath was cold. She was drying herself on the vast rough towel Mrs McIntyre had laid out when the doorbell rang. After a few moments there was a tap on the door.

  “There’s someone to see you,” Mrs McIntyre said.

  “Who is it?” Paula asked.

  “The other one.”

  “What?”

  “The other young man.”

  Paula pulled the towel around her and opened the door. “Andy?”

  She looked down the stairs. He was waiting in the vestibule, staring at his feet.