What the Eye Doesn't See

by Alice Jolly

  I walk up the hill to the supermarket. Small, dingy place, half the food past its sell-by date, cabbage leaves trodden into the floor. Typical Burrington. I never cared for it much as a place. Reeks of poverty and failure. Too many poets and painters, hippies busking on street corners. I work down the list Fiona gave me – tomatoes, rice, milk, biscuits, eggs, cloves, washing-up liquid, bread. After that I head for the High Street, thinking I’ll have time for a quick drink before home.

  Then I see the newspaper, gripped between nicotine-stained hands, crossing the road ahead of me. A headline on an inside page. I follow it, my eyes fixed on the top left-hand corner. The photograph. The text shifts and sways as my eyes rush over it. The newspaper folds up. I reach to catch hold of it. The blue duffel coat dodges away through the traffic.

  That poor devil, they’ve got him. That’s what I think. There’s the smell of blood, the thrill of the hunt. Then I realise it’s me. The fox and not the hounds. Cornered. The line of the pavement tips. My breath stops. I look around me. A blue autumn sky. A car horn blares. I’m standing in the middle of the road. A silver car bonnet presses towards me. The blonde in the driver’s seat is mouthing swearwords. I move towards the car. The horn blares. I stumble off the road. Fish and chip papers in the gutter.

  I rush into a newsagent, pull a paper from the stand. An old biddy at the counter fumbles through her purse. She chats to the old chap behind the till. Hurry up, hurry up. Racks of cigarettes. Plastic jars of sweets. Nice weather. Your mother? Remarkable, isn’t it? A loud ticking in my head. Hurry up. I hold the newspaper face down so I can only see the sports on the back page. I won’t look at the newspaper until I’m outside. Give it a chance to change what it says. The doorbell jangles. A woman shunts a pushchair past racks of crisps. The other newspaper headlines on the stand. Interest Rate Cuts Hit Industry. Blue-Blooded Bank In Bonking Row. Werewolf Seized In Southend.

  Finally I pay. Don’t suppose you’ve got the change, have you? My fingers twitch. Can’t get the money out of my wallet. I push the note at him. Take the newspaper, trip over the wheels of the pushchair. Outside everyone is walking away, their backs turned. The grid pattern on the pavement opens and closes like the blades of scissors. I try to read, the paper flaps in the breeze. I press the article I want against a shop window. I read three paragraphs. The wind blows the page shut. Open it, try to read again. It’s as bad as it can be. They know I was there that night. New evidence reveals that … Who? My mind stops.

  I walk back and forwards, up and down the pavement. The words I’ll say are forming in my mind. I can explain. There’s been a mistake. I didn’t harm her. I would never have harmed her. This is all just a misunderstanding. I look at my watch. Half past five. Fiona will know. She’ll have heard it on the radio. Or someone will have telephoned. Come to think of it, a couple of journalists left messages this morning. I never returned their calls. Digging dirt about Mother, that’s what I thought. Gus – that’s who I need. But he’s on holiday. The lawyers, Geoffrey. What should I say? It’s all going to start again. The police, the newspapers. I’ll be arrested. Fiona. Prison.

  In the Memorial Gardens I sink down onto a bench. A man walks past with the newspaper in his hand. I turn away. But of course he doesn’t know who I am. I’ll be all right while I sit here. I put the copy of the newspaper in the bin. But no, I may need it. I pull it out again. I could go up to Thwaite Cottages. Only two miles up the hill. Have a cup of tea with Mother. She’d like that. I’d find her in the sitting room, writing letters. She’d turn in her chair, smile, shake her head. Then I remember she’s dead. I get up and walk back to the High Street.

  I know I’ve got to go home. Start explaining. But somehow it doesn’t seem reasonable I should have to do that. As I move the joints of my knees are loose and jarring. A pub at the top of the street is just opening. I go inside. Low beams. I order a whisky. A man rolls in with bristly grey hair. He’s a working man with deep lines in his brown skin and sharp blue eyes. For a moment I think he’s going to recognise me. I raise a hand to my face. He starts to chat to me about how wonderful the weather is. A smile spreads across his face. When the barman gets him a whisky he pulls an envelope out of the back pocket of his jeans. Coins rattle inside it. Only a man with no money keeps change in an envelope.

  ‘Let me pay,’ I say.

  He asks if I want to play pool. I say I will, put down the bag of shopping on one of the bench seats. I’m good at pool but it’s a long time since I’ve played. The room with the table in is next to the bar. It’s got one frosted-glass window, high up, smells of beer. A dartboard on the wall. The man is fat and, as he reaches up to take down a cue, a line of beer belly appears beneath his T-shirt. He has a ring in his ear, dust all over his jeans. I buy us a second whisky, ask the man what he does, just for something to say.

  ‘This and that,’ he says. The skin on his hands is thick and cracked. ‘Building mainly, but I’ve no work at the moment. There’s no money round here.’ He plays his shot, stands upright, smiles, then laughs. He’s about my age, I suppose. Perhaps he could even have been at school with me. Or Mother might have taught him. Probably he lives in the council houses in the back lane. He stands waiting for me to play, his weight on one leg, the corners of his mouth still turned up in contentment. He’s got a cigarette in his hand, a twist of smoke rises from it.

  He beats me the first time, but it’s close. We play again.

  ‘So what do you do?’ he asks. I remember the newspaper, the shopping, Fiona. New evidence has revealed that … Who was it? I make such a mess of the shot that I nearly dig a hole in the baize.

  ‘I’ve nothing to do either. At the moment.’

  We both laugh, keep on playing. I win the second game, and get us another whisky. I want to play a third, but he says why not tomorrow, if I haven’t got anything much to do. I say why not and we go out of the pub together. We’re at the top of the town here. Around us the hills are turning russet. Sheep in the fields and above them white clouds. ‘Bugger all around here,’ the man says. He’s standing beside me, and he breathes in deeply. A gust of wind buffets us. I’m still holding the newspaper. It blows in my hand.

  ‘Tomorrow then?’ the man says. He’s looking at the newspaper.

  ‘Do you want it?’

  ‘If you’ve finished with it, yes. Perhaps I’ll go and sit in the Memorial Gardens and read it there.’ I pass the paper to him. It leaves the feel of newsprint on my fingers. The man raises a hand and wanders away down the hill, his training shoes slapping along the pavement. He walks with a rolling step. I think about tomorrow. Going up to London for a meeting. Back to Brussels. Start of a new term.

  Then I know I’m not going back. Not to Brickley and Fiona, or to London, or Brussels. It’s over. Finished. I’m not running any more. A weight lifts from me. I shut my eyes and feel the wind on my face. I start to walk and my feet carry me down the High Street as though I’m dancing. I’m not going back. It’s finished, finally finished. Burrington looks beautiful. I remember Nanda as I gave her the pills. The dribble of water running down my hand and her cheek.

  I can’t find where I left the car, wander around looking for it. Finally I walk up the steep hill towards the theatre, find it in the car park there. I’ve left Fiona’s shopping somewhere. She’ll be wondering where I am. Everyone will be wondering where I am. I find some change in my pocket, go to a nearby phone box. I telephone Rosa, leave a message on her machine. For a moment I think about ringing Maggie. Some time I’ll have to know. She must have spoken to the police. I lay my head against the door of the phone box.

  When I get back to the car, I worry about the lost shopping. Then remember it doesn’t matter any more. I shouldn’t drive, given the amount I’ve drunk, but if I’m about to be tried for murder, what does drink-driving matter? That thought amuses me. How long have I got? Probably only a matter of hours. I could go back to Spain, to the room I used to have there, high in the tiled roofs of Seville, with my one bag pushed under my b
ed. I could unpack all the years, turn the handle backwards.

  I’m a failure now.

  Decide, decide. I must decide. Then I realise that all responsibility has been taken from me. The fuse is lit. Just a question of time. Whatever happens will happen. The police may already be looking for me. I’ll get in the car and drive. Just drive and drive. See where I finish up. I take the road towards Gloucester, the long road across the top. I open the window and the wind buffets my face and dries my eyes. Perhaps I’ll drive to Brussels. I reach a straight stretch and put my foot down and watch the speedometer rise. My mind is swimming with whisky and relief. It’s over. It’s over.

  The car swerves.

  Death is so easy. Nothing more than sleight of hand. A moment when you could have saved a life. And didn’t. What was I doing when Lucía died? I was blowing my nose. Ridiculous. Ridiculous. There I was. Blowing my nose. High up on that ledge. And that’s how a life is lost. A split second. Then someone you love falls three hundred feet and their dear, dear head breaks open on a concrete slab, their eyes spill, their black hair clots with blood. Meanwhile you blow your nose.

  Love is short and forgetting long.

  Maggie

  Adam arrives with the newspaper in his hand.

  He shows me the article and the words move over my eyes. The reaction is shock, yes. Except I’ve already felt all there is to feel. I am out of emotion. This is just another thump on an old bruise.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Adam says. ‘You did the right thing.’

  He has bought me a bunch of white lilies wrapped in cellophane. Their sap leaks onto my hands. The letter I wrote to Tiffany’s lawyers still lies on my desk. ‘I didn’t post the letter,’ I say. ‘I didn’t post it.’

  ‘What letter?’ Adam says.

  ‘It wasn’t me who told the police that Dad was there that night.’

  I pick up the letter. My handwriting crawls across the front of it. The last line of the address is smudged.

  ‘But who said that he was there? Who said that?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Adam says. ‘But I didn’t say anything to anyone. You know, I would never do that.’

  I try to make my mind be hurt by this but I can’t believe that it has really happened.

  ‘I promise you I haven’t said anything to anyone,’ Adam says.

  ‘No, of course not. Of course. I know that.’

  In the street below an ambulance siren blares. The truth has a life of its own and it tends to make itself known. That’s the way it always goes. I feel myself starting to cry. There should be a map for this, things we should do, procedures to follow, people to telephone. Leave the building by the nearest exit. Do not run. Do not use the lift. But instead we are just staring at the page of the newspaper, the unsent letter, the bunch of white lilies.

  The telephone rings. I think – it’ll be Nanda. Then I think – no, she never calls. Her death slaps me in the face again. My hand jerks, moving to protect me. Probably it will be Dad on the phone. I go to answer it but Adam is there before me. ‘Don’t answer it. It would be better not to answer it.’ The phone keeps ringing. The sound of it pierces my skull. Adam’s finger goes down onto the button that turns the answer machine off. The telephone continues to scream on the desk, the sound getting louder and quicker.

  When finally there’s silence Adam steers me into the kitchen. He’s talking to me all the time. ‘This is better for you,’ he says. I’m not walking upright because the shock has hunched my shoulders and pulled the muscles of my arms tight. In the kitchen he shuts the windows and closes the curtains. Then he starts to tidy up the mess of dirty pots, papers and books. My hands and feet are numb but blood beats in my lips and inside my head. I think of this news spreading, each person answering the phone, sitting down after the call. All of them hating him.

  ‘You know, Maggie, this is really the best thing that could have happened,’ Adam says. ‘Because now you’re not in any danger. You just say what you’ve always said. But the police know the truth now – so they’re going to be able to start a proper investigation.’

  I watch my hand on the tablecloth. Adam wraps his hand round the back of my neck and pulls me to him but I’m stiff and it’s hard for him to hug me while I’m sitting down and he’s standing up. So instead he makes me tea, lifts a solid bag of sugar down from the cupboard, smashes inside it with a spoon, and puts several large pieces into my mug. His knees touch against mine as he sits down at the table. ‘He shouldn’t have done this to you.’

  I nod and move my knees away from his.

  ‘It wasn’t fair of him,’ Adam says.

  I nod again and try to drink but I hate sugar in tea. The teaspoon is gripped tight in my hand and I move it round the bottom of the mug, scraping hard against the china surface. The telephone rings again and I stand up to answer it. Adam puts out his hand and takes hold of my arm. ‘No, Maggie. You’ve done enough for him. It’s not your business.’ I look at Adam’s eyes, close to mine. I sit down and put my head in my hands while the telephone rings and rings. The sound pulls at the muscles in the side of my neck.

  When it finishes he gets up from the table. ‘I’ll do us some supper.’

  On the fridge there’s an empty bottle of rioja. ‘You don’t drink that stuff, do you?’ he asks.

  ‘No. The guy downstairs came up for a drink.’

  ‘The gay guy who plays the piano?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s not bothering you, is he?’

  ‘No, no. I wouldn’t say that.’

  I watch his back as he cracks eggs into a bowl. He’s made a mess of it so there’s pieces of shell in the bowl. He tries to hook them out with the corner of a sheet of kitchen paper. I wish he’d just stick his fingers in and get them out that way. This is how it will be when I go back to London. Cooking supper, just the two of us, in a flat together. We eat at the kitchen table, sitting very close. Except that I can’t eat. I push omelette around my plate and it sticks to the inside of my mouth. My stomach is rolling like seasickness. The last night before an execution, a pause before the axe falls. Everything seems swollen and significant.

  We’re clearing the table when the telephone rings again. I turn towards the kitchen door. Adam looks at me and I look away from him. I move to go but Adam takes hold of my arm. ‘Maggie?’ he says.

  I’m holding a plate and I put it down on the table with a clatter.

  ‘Maggie, you’ve got to get yourself clear of this …’

  His fingers massage my arm. I pull away from him.

  ‘OK. Let me answer it,’ Adam says. ‘I can always take a message.’

  A moment later he hands the receiver to me. ‘It’s Rosa,’ he says.

  ‘Maggie, do you know where your father is?’ Her voice has a serrated edge.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He isn’t with you?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Listen, I’m in London and he left a message for me but I don’t know where he is. I think he may be in Brussels. Can you go around to the house and find out if he’s there? Then I’ll come.’ Her voice is keeping the lid tight down.

  ‘Rosa …’

  ‘Go now.’

  Adam is still standing watching me.

  ‘Maggie, are you there?’ Rosa says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you do that?’ Her voice rises and the line crackles.

  ‘Yes.’

  I say goodbye and put the phone down.

  ‘Who was that?’ Adam asks.

  ‘Oh, no one. Just a friend of Nanda’s getting worried about Dad.’

  We finish clearing up the plates. Adam goes to the bedroom where he left his bag and returns with a small black and white striped box with a ribbon around it. He gives it to me and I already know what it will be. I open it, sitting at the kitchen table, and inside there’s a necklace that matches the bracelet he gave me before. It’s made of the same strands of gold. I take the bracelet off and hold it next to the nec
klace, so he can see them lying together in my hand.

  He takes the necklace from me and reaches up to put it around my neck. I feel the cold touch of his hands. I lift my hair and twist it onto the top of my head. I feel his breath on my face as he fiddles with the clasp. ‘So you’ll come back to London now,’ he says.

  ‘Yes, I will.’

  He kisses me and his tongue against mine is cold.

  ‘You know, I can bring the car over to pick up your stuff. That would be the easiest thing to do. And it doesn’t matter if you haven’t got a job in London. You can just live in the flat and take your time deciding what you want.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I switch on the computer and check the e-mail, although there’s no chance that Dad would get in touch that way. Instead I find a message from Tyger. It says – Maggie, where in God’s name are you? I tried to call but no answer. What’s happening with your Dad? Are you OK? Sam says he reckons you always knew. Whatever … you did the right thing. Call me and you know I’ll come straightaway. So will Sam, and Dougie. Any time. Tyger.

  I stand by the computer reading the message again and again. Strange how there aren’t really any secrets. I start to reply to the message but Tyger’s words go so deep I can’t think what to say. I turn off the computer but keep those words close to me. Call me and you know I’ll come straightaway. So will Sam, and Dougie. Any time.

  Adam puts the sheets on the bed, his hands making neat hospital corners. When I pull back the duvet there’s a dust mark on the bottom sheet and I put my hand down and brush at it but it doesn’t go away. We get undressed and lie side by side under the sheets. Adam tells me that he loves me and I tell him the same. He locks his arms around me and sleeps. I lie awake, my head spinning round and round. Surely now there should be peace. After a year trapped in my own lie, I am released. It’s just as Adam says. No one will ever know I lied. This is the end of the story. They all lived happily ever after in a white flat in Fulham.