by Jane Shemilt
He was given a month off but refused, agreeing instead to bereavement counselling. Sometimes he looks in the mirror in the operating theatre and sees Ted as he had been in the last weeks, stooped, sallow and hollow-cheeked. Harris is looked after by a dog-walking team from early to late; he should sell him or give him away but lacks the courage.
He eats microwaved meals standing up, drinks bottles of wine. He focuses on the next thing and the next. It seems possible to stay on the surface; the mechanics of travel are helpful. Conferences in America, Japan and Australia, there are talks to prepare, airports to arrive at and leave from, checking in and out of hotels, sapping heat to endure, all useful. Four months in, he manages whole days without thinking of anything except work. Sometimes it’s as though the last three years have never been. He treads around the chasm of her loss, never going near, and wonders if he can keep this up for ever.
On a late return from a Paris conference he has to force his way into the house; the front door is caught on wedged mounds of post. He tells Owen the next day.
‘You need a housekeeper.’ Owen’s glance takes in his face and his clothes.
‘I just need someone to pick up the post.’
‘Your shirts should be ironed. You’ve lost weight. We got Natalie so that Elsa can be free for Gus. She does laundry and cooks. She’ll pick up the post too.’ Gus is now a demanding four-year-old; Asperger’s syndrome has been recently diagnosed.
‘It’s different for me. My place is a little untidy right now but when things get less busy—’
‘I’m asking Natalie.’
Natalie is neat, her jeans are precisely torn. She chews gum neatly. She irons the shirts, stacks the post on his desk. He finds meals in the fridge on the days she comes, labelled in a careful hand. He leaves her money every week, cash. Two months go by.
‘How are you?’ Owen and he are alone, the only ones left in theatre. The four American neurosurgeons who had been watching the operation have all gone to lunch. Albie feels sorry for them; it’s harder to watch than to perform, much more tiring. People come every week, almost every day. He’s becoming famous for his operations, for the use of viruses. They use different ones now. The university admitted no responsibility for the misleading trial results but regrets were fulsomely expressed to the bereaved families. Billy’s death was reviewed by the coroner and found to be a result of his chronic condition; it was intensely regrettable that the unavoidable trauma to the choroid plexus led to frank haemorrhage; no fault was found or ascribed to the surgeon or his team. Owen must have sensed how the pressure had mounted that afternoon, but only Albie knew that the ghosts of the past had stood with him and that he took a wrong turn.
He started several letters to Jake and Gita but was unable to think of what to say or how to finish. He tried to phone them once but his call was blocked. They have never been in touch. Perhaps they are coming to terms with Billy’s death in their own way, perhaps treading it down as he is, for now. What happened to Ted went largely unacknowledged, at least in public. The open verdict still stands, but if the parents of the children who died in the trial thought justice had ground appropriately fine, who could blame them? The final report summing up investigations at the lab revealed nothing untoward, but stringent new procedures are in place.
Bruce’s fate was the subject of media interest for a while, his denials greeted with scepticism. Both his laptop and his hospital desktop had been used in the attempt to download the images; the odds were overwhelmingly against him. His lawyer was unable to prove it wasn’t his crime. He escaped prison after a protracted trial, but the police monitored all his devices from then on; he was ordered to pay a punitive fine with community service on top. His career was over. He was occasionally seen in clubs, once or twice lurching on the streets, then he disappeared. Bridget thought he’d left the country, but for all anyone knew he could have died of an overdose at the back of a club. In Albie’s dreams he sees Bruce sometimes, vomit-stained and unconscious, slumped against a toilet bowl on a stained floor. By day Albie blocks out everything with work. He is congratulated for his persistence, for his endurance against all odds, for turning the laboratory into an internationally respected centre.
‘How are you, really?’
A diminishing number of people ask him that now, the questions fell away quickly. ‘Fine’ covers everything: the days he pushes blindly through a fog, the better ones when he can taste food, the bad ones when terror keeps him awake. The way the cliché turns out to be true, that money doesn’t buy happiness. How much he misses Ted and even Bruce.
‘Albie?’
‘Sorry.’ He looks at his friend’s earnest face. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Come to supper tonight.’
He can’t think of an excuse, so he goes, taking a bottle of wine. Owen lives in a flat in a converted warehouse in Brixton, it takes an hour to reach it. The spaces are large, a little cold. There are scattered pieces of Lego everywhere. Elsa has cooked pasta for Gus, the only food the boy will eat. Gus is leggy with large teeth and an uneven fringe of silky hair. There are layers of plasters over his knees. He glances up from the Lego he is laying end to end across the room then hunches down again, disappointment in his contracted silhouette. Albie only then remembers how Beth had sat with the boy at a lunch party, missing the meal, looking at a book, answering questions about plants. At the table, Gus pushes away his food. Elsa’s shoulders droop with tiredness. Owen brings her drink to the table, touching her shoulder; she puts her hand up to cover his, Albie looks away.
‘I want Beth,’ Gus whines.
Pressure builds behind his eyes. He was wrong to come here. He has worked out how to avoid her at home; here he has been ambushed.
‘She can’t be here,’ Owen murmurs to his son, glancing at Albie.
‘Why can’t she be here?’
‘She died, Gus. She drowned in the sea.’ Albie’s words are out of place in the bright kitchen with its jumbled pans and Lego underfoot. Gus begins to rock in his seat. Elsa puts her arms round him, resting her forehead on his head, she closes her eyes; the room is full of unspoken reproof. Albie would like to continue now he’s started, blurt out that the police found her in the shallows. The weather had been bright and calm, a summer’s day, the island at its best. Her body was being gently pushed this way and that in the surf, hair spread like dark seaweed. Naked. He would like to tell them that it wasn’t her in the morgue with a bruised face and mauve mouth, stitches on one pale palm. Her rings had gone. She had gone. Nevertheless, he had put his mouth next to the cold ear, a trail of shining salt on its rim and a fingerful of water in the meatus; he had wanted to beg for forgiveness. He shouldn’t have left her alone. He loved her, he thought she knew.
He says nothing. He doesn’t know Owen well enough; he doesn’t know anyone well enough. Elsa puts Gus to bed.
‘I heard from Ed this afternoon.’ Owen pours him more wine and sits down, leaning back in his chair.
Albie drains his glass; the wine burns his gullet. He has been drinking too much lately. ‘How is he?’
‘Busy,’ Owen says. ‘He asked for news about your research.’
‘I’m glad he moved away, for his own sake.’ Albie watches Owen. Does he ever wonder what really happened?
‘I agree.’ Owen puts his glass down and stretches. ‘He needed to put some distance between him and his father’s kingdom; yours now, of course.’ He looks at Albie’s empty glass, gets up to retrieve the bottle, pours and then sits down again. ‘He told me Theo’s staying with his mother for the present. She took Ted’s death hard, harder than they thought she would. Theo’s put his career on hold for now. I wasn’t entirely sure from the conversation when he plans to resume.’
Jenny’s recovery may not be possible, the grey landscapes of her paintings will darken. Theo has lost everything. Albie is scalded with remorse and leaves without waiting to say goodbye to Elsa who is reading Gus a story. He is relieved to reach home; he feels calmed by the extreme tidines
s. The post has been stacked in two heaps on the desk. He makes coffee and sets himself to work through the night, sorting the letters of condolence, old parking fines and invitations to conferences. His thoughts become ordered; it’s an hour before he gets to the bills. The one from Scottish Power is written in red print, warning they will cut off the supply in two weeks if the bill is not paid.
That was two months ago. It’s November now. The house will be icy without warmth from the night storage heaters. The pipes will freeze, may have already frozen. He went back after Beth’s post-mortem to pack up and collect Harris from Iona, but left again swiftly, neglecting the end-of-summer jobs. The water should have been drained down, the night storage heaters left on. Beds stripped. For all he knows there is still food in the fridge. He pays the electricity bill online and at lunchtime the next day Googles tourism in Jura. A picture of a stag on the beach comes up, water curling invitingly on the sand. He sends an email to islandholidays.com, a family agency who let and service holiday cottages. He asks for a house clean, and as an afterthought, enquires about letting the house out. He adds that spare keys are at the hotel. An email comes back that evening from a Mary Mackay, agreeing to service the house; her parents knew his. It is their quiet time; they’ll go to the house in a couple of days. A letting contract is promised, the cleaning bill will follow when the work is done. The name is a familiar one, an old island name. When the contract comes he signs it quickly.
Three weeks pass; life has changed since the evening with Owen, becoming grey, shot through with black when his guard is down. He hasn’t heard back from Mary Mackay, she must be busy, distracted by family. He sends another email. On Friday of the fourth week his operating list is cancelled to make room for emergencies; the day is stormy and he works from home, catching up. There are seventy emails to go through, including one from Scottish Power informing him the electricity has now been restored. In the afternoon he settles to write a paper, but as the hours go by the house seems full of noise and his concentration falters. Rain blows at the glass walls in diagonal sheets. Worsening gales are forecast. In Jura water will be crashing against the cliffs, the waves pounding the beach where they found her. He stands at the thought, the chair falling behind him, and walks outside, pulling his anorak from the hook by the door as he goes. The last time he was in the garden it was a warm evening in late spring, but now the cold day has darkened with the storm. The wind is so strong he can scarcely breathe. There is an old pot by the door he hadn’t noticed before, rosemary straggling over the edge. Rosemary for remembrance. The lawn is covered with a blanket of dark leaves; the apple trees are bare. Behind the hedge, the vegetable patch is thick with weeds, foliage grown high, rotten seed heads and the blackened leaves of ancient potato plants. Her hand had been in his; she had been showing him a heaped row of freshly turned earth; new potatoes, your favourite, she’d said. He picks up the trowel on the grass; the wooden handle is soft with rain. A watering can is full of rainwater and leaves; he empties it and takes it into the shed. The light bulb has blown and he treads on grit. Some animal has torn holes near the bottom of a paper sack of fertiliser. Mice or foxes perhaps. A notebook, swollen with damp, lies on the bench, faded to brown though a flowery design is still visible. A torch is sitting on the side amongst the nibbled bulbs. He switches it on and off, memory flickering. The ground is wet but he lies full length to angle the torch under the hut. The weak beam picks out stones, leaves, a pile of chewed paper, red fur, white bone. Small skulls: the remains of cubs.
The tears are hot against his face, unstoppable. On all fours, he is dimly aware that he is making noises like an animal. He loses track of time. The remaining light fades around him, the wind becomes more fierce, rain soaks his scalp. Gradually the cold penetrates his palms, Harris is whining by his side. He pushes himself to standing and walks slowly back to the house.
The hot water in the shower sluices the mud and the tears; he stays under the spray for a long time. When he switches the water off, he is conscious that the doorbell is ringing in long, impatient bursts. He dresses rapidly, pushes his feet into trainers, walks to the door, and swings it open.
It takes a second to recognise Jake.
32
London. Late Autumn 2018
Finale.
The theatre is dark. No movement, no music.
The audience hesitate – is it over? Should they leave? A voice in the darkness begins to recite a poem, part of a poem. Well, a line of a poem, with additions.
‘No man is an island.
‘He considers himself an exception, unconnected and enduring, like his island. Time and the tide win in the end though he thinks he still has time on his side.’
Rhythmic sounds fill the auditorium, like heartbeats or the breath sounds of a runner or waves. The sounds grow louder and louder and louder until there is a deafening roar as if a cliff face has been cleaved from the land. Then, silence.
Jake looks much older though it’s hard to say exactly why. Larger but not fatter. His chest is bulky, his shoulders more broad. His hair has been shaved to a reddish stubble over his head. The odd-coloured eyes are blank; his hands hang loosely by his sides. Albie last saw him at the inquest into Billy’s death; he had seemed young then, a youth bewildered by grief. He’d left immediately afterward, followed by Gita who was unrecognisable.
A wheelie bin has been tipped over by the wind, the contents scattered on the tarmac. Gulls are already at the rubbish, there are branches on the road.
‘Jake. Come in.’
The wind blows into the house, carrying with it leaves and twigs, pieces of bark, they swirl down the hall. Jake steps across the threshold and then stands still. His clothes stream with water.
‘Let me take your coat.’
Jake hunches his shoulders, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.
‘Well, let’s have some coffee.’ Albie shuts the door and the leaves on the floor lift and dance.
‘I think I know how you might feel.’ He reaches to touch Jake’s shoulder but the man jerks away. ‘I understand the place you are in.’ Christ. He’s beginning to sound like his own grief counsellor; the aggression in Jake’s face is making him nervous. He leads the way into the kitchen and switches the kettle on. ‘I hope you and Gita—’
‘She’s left me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Fuck off.’ The foxy face becomes wolf-like, the words are snarled. Jake walks closer to Albie, and for the first time, Albie feels a frisson of fear.
‘She blames me for what happened to Billy. I blame me for not being there, but you and I know why he died.’
‘He died as a rare complication of his chronic condition, Jake. You were at the inquest; the blood vessels were entangled in the tube before Billy even came to the hospital.’
The room had been hot, very crowded. He had told the judge that Billy had been admitted immediately, monitored, treated with antibiotics, scanned and operated on within hours once the situation began to deteriorate. What had happened was a chance event, a million to one occurrence that wasn’t his fault. He didn’t tell them he’d waited to operate until Jake’s return – that wouldn’t have made any difference anyway – or about the moment of despair, which had. Nothing would have brought Billy back.
‘Fuck off.’ It’s louder this time.
Albie makes coffee, he concentrates on steadying his hands. Jake’s instincts are honed; there is no way he could know exactly what happened, yet he senses the outcome could have been different.
‘Ed’s back.’ It sounds like a threat.
The coffee slops into the saucer. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s come for his job.’
‘I’m told he is settled in Nottingham.’
‘The job you’re keeping warm for him.’
So Jake’s here on Ed’s behalf. Albie blots the saucer dry and turns to face him. ‘I appreciate Ed might feel passed over, but Ted made it clear he wanted me to be in charge. Ed knew that.’
/> ‘How the hell do you make that out?’
‘I was reliably informed that Ted advised his son to step back and make way for me. He made his views clear in a consultant meeting. We shared a vision, you see—’
‘Fuck that.’ Jake laughs, he moves closer still. ‘You’ve obviously been sold some kind of half-truth. Ted knew his career was over after the children died; he warned Ed you’d stop at nothing to run the lab. Ted told Ed exactly what had transpired in the meeting: he’d advised his colleagues to let you take the flak from the trial and tidy up the mess – you were to be the fall guy – but Ed was the future of the lab. He’d told the consultants he’d advised his son to wait then apply a few months down the line. That time has passed, he’ll be appointed soon.’
Where do you find the truth, the whole truth? How deep do you dig? How far back do you go? Perhaps it depends on where you stand and what you need, on who you choose to believe. Rain is pelting against the glass; Skuld’s shuttered face seems to float in the green-grey light outside. Had he been purposely misled? Perhaps he’d only heard what he’d chosen to. Truth is like the sea, whose changing colours come from the weather at the time. What he told himself as a boy became the lies he believed later on. It’s years too late for the truth.
‘Well, Ed’s ready now.’ The menace in Jake’s voice is clear. He has come to prepare the way for his friend.
‘I think we’re talking at cross purposes. There’s no vacancy. Even if Ted did say those things, which I doubt, I can’t be forced out.’
‘Force won’t be necessary. Ed has the evidence to bring you down.’
There’s no evidence. It’s a trick to make him talk, the oldest one in the book. He smiles. ‘I’m sorry, Jake, you’ll have to try harder than that.’