Frozen (26 page)

Who was going to take responsibility for her now? Me? Not possible. Nurses had to turn her every four hours, day and night. They had to scrape the shit from her sheets, empty her catheter bag, feed the tube that snaked into her nose and down into her stomach. They talked bright nothings to her each morning, opened the nylon curtains that never quite met. Verity had company; what need did she have of family or friends—or love? Fallen, she didn't need Gabriel, and she didn't need me.

For a moment I felt empty. Then I looked at her, and I remembered what emptiness really was.

Gabriel, dead.

Sam leaned in the doorway and watched me; and when my shoulders started shaking, she said, “Come on, time out.” We went to the visitors' room. As we walked along the corridor, a nurse looked up, smiled, and then whisked into Verity's room. I heard the bright tone, but I couldn't make out the words.

The back of my nose filled with salty liquid. I sniffed and swallowed, and blinked as savagely as I could, which seemed to help.

Sam stroked my back.

I tried to say, “It's just...”

She answered, “Shhh.”

There was a print on the wall to my left: three narcissi, garishly splayed from a red blob of a pot. Next to it, and low enough for children to look at, was a poster of a stegosaurus, ripped and scrabbled at by crayons and small grubby fingers.

“I don't know what to do,” I said.

Sam had no answers. Instead, she lifted her free hand and rubbed it over my shoulders. “Shh,” she said again.

She left me and padded off in search of tissues.

*

The car. On the way back to London.

“I counted the pictures.”

I drove.

“The zoetrope,” she said. “Seven.”

“There were eleven cameras. Definitely.”

“Seven pictures now, though.”

“Any idea what's missing?”

“They're all just Verity, twizzling round. It's pretty jerky.”

“It would be. It was jerky even when there were eleven.”

I recalled the strange jolts in the picture that I'd half-noticed when I was spinning the zoetrope for Verity in her hospital room, but it wasn't much help; at the time, I had been trying hard not to look. I tried to picture the zoetrope's pictures as they had been, shot by shot: scuffed knees, and her grubby cheeks bunched up in a huge grin; her dress about to fly up; her hair lifting behind her, arms up and to the sides. The pictures were all of the same thing—that had been the whole point—so why cut out four photos? What could be different about them? Verity would still be spinning there whether there were eleven pictures of her or just seven...

I banged my palm against my forehead and yelled, “D’oh!”

Sam looked at me, puzzled, and slid her hand away from my leg.

“The tree!” I explained. “Where did the tree go? Shit—what an idiot!”

I felt so stupid. I should have noticed instantly, weeks ago.

“Why get rid of a tree, though?” Sam asked the question as if I might know.

“Maybe she wanted the photos for something else.”

She sniffed philosophically. “Or maybe she didn't like the look of it.”

“Maybe we'll never know.”

Light drizzle spattered the windscreen, out of a bright grey sky. I flicked on the wipers. They left muddy arcs across the glass, so I switched them off again and let the tiny drops dry in the wind. The sky ahead was darker.

“Thanks, Sam,” I said, much later.

She chuckled. “What for? Telling you some pictures were missing?”

“For putting up with me. Giving me another chance.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Her eyes were creased with amusement—and suspicion.

I had no idea if I was feeling all right. I had no way to judge what was normal any more. Hour by hour I was swooping from elation to despair, confusion to certainty, and I could trust none of it. One moment I was full of purpose, the next I was paralysed and contemplating the void.

“Sam, I truly don't know,” I said eventually.

Sam thought about that for a long time before replying. Her voice was soft and sad. “Yeah. Well. Let me know when you do.”

The journey passed in a kind of peaceful sorrow. For me, that was progress. Then we turned on to my street—and Sarah Yates was waiting on my doorstep.

SHE HAD BEEN “clumsy” again. The left side of her face was swollen and reddish-purple. Her nose was swollen too, and a butterfly stain was spreading across both of her eyes. She squinted at us, and flinched as she stood. She wore a jumper and a pair of jeans that were ripped on the left thigh. Her hands waved around in front of her as though she was trying to shape words with them, but nothing came.

“I didn't know where else to go,” she said unsteadily. One hand touched her puffed-up cheekbone, and then fell back to her side.

I pushed open the door and stood back to let her in. Tension tugged at my neck and jaw. I was tired. I wished the world would leave me in peace.

Sam offered her some water—and, diplomatically, made the task of finding a glass and filling it last for about ten minutes. Sarah and I spent all that time in silence. I couldn't find a way to start. Sarah stroked her face endlessly, outlining each new bulge and bruise. She started at sounds from the kitchen, even at things she caught in the corner of her eye—a photograph, a doorframe. Then, when Sam came back with water, Sarah spoke—to her.

“It's over,” she said. “He… he...” Her hand trembled up towards her mouth, and then settled round her other hand on the glass. I could see her knuckles going white. I was convinced the glass was about to fracture.

“Where is he, Sarah?” I asked coldly.

Her eyes searched mine, then she turned back to Sam. “I was scared of him,” she whispered. “I had to make it stop.” Her lips twitched, forming a stream of half-words. Her eyes were wide and wild.

“
Where's Adam
, Sarah?” I was having trouble staying calm. I struggled to keep my voice low; the intensity, I couldn't prevent.

“He's—I—”

“Harry!” Sam's warning was a growl.

Sarah hunched over her knees and rocked slowly. Her eyes never left mine. They were wide and deep and terrified, and they showed no sign of rational thought at all.

“I had to end it,” she whined. “I
had
to.” She said it as simply as a child.

End it
how
? Had Adam confronted her as he'd promised? What had happened? I heard Adam's voice—
She's killing me, Harry, I swear
. It was just a turn of phrase, not something anyone would really do... surely? But I had seen her, seen the shards flying, the blood on the floor from her ripped feet, so calm, so full of hate. And it wasn't going to go away. I was going to have to confront it myself.

“What have you done, Sarah?”

This was horrible. Images flooded through me: Adam stabbed and gasping, or his eyes bulging inside a plastic bag wrapped tight at the neck; Sarah at home among her shattered glass and crockery, while private eyes followed Verity, reported her every move; Sarah's hatred; Verity, falling into oblivion... Sarah's reaction, so cold.
Oh. What a shame
.

“Oh, Sarah, no...” My voice was a whisper, but I could feel each tendon in my neck, and my blood hissed in my ears.

Sarah was frozen, her gaze locked on me. And, looking at her wounded face, I slumped, my tension replaced by miserable certainty. “Oh, God. It was you...” I swallowed a sob, momentarily exhausted. “Wasn't it, Sarah?
Wasn't it
?”

My heart was thumping. Sarah cowered in her seat, hid behind her hands, and shrieked, “
Stop! Stop it!
” She curled up, whimpering.

“
Harry!
” Sam. She threw me a contemptuous glance and sat on the arm of the chair. “Hey, hey,” she soothed. She stroked Sarah's hair. “It's okay. You're safe. He's upset, that's all.”

I was drained and unsure of myself. I felt as strange, as dangerous as Sarah had been the day I had gone to see her. I'm not good at anger. Frostiness, fine; remoteness, hostility, no problem. Anger? Not really me at all. Now the fury was gone, and its memory disturbed me. Looking at Sarah, I couldn't get Verity out of my head—the bruises, the vulnerability. All I could see was Verity.

“There. See?” Sam said, frowning at me.

Sarah breathed in slowly and faced me. Then she flung away her glass convulsively. It landed intact on the carpet and splashed water on to the wall.

“He's been stealing from me,” Sarah said. She looked desperately at Sam and then at me.

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” I muttered.

Sarah wrenched herself away from Sam and lunged towards me. “
He's been stealing from me!
” she shrieked. Then she stopped dead, and folded back into her chair, each successive sob making her whole body bounce. Sam grimaced at me.

“A hundred and eighty thousand pounds.” Her voice was still congested with tears. She waved her tissue futilely. “I thought it was only sixty, but it's everything. Granny's estate. Everything. How was I supposed to know? Michael deals with all that. And Adam.”

Michael: accountant, broker, brother? Maybe all three. Who cared?

“What happened?” Sam asked.

Sarah shrugged angrily. “I owned shares. Now I don't. Michael sold them. Adam showed me. Signed instruction letters, everything. Money to be paid into a joint account I've never even heard of... that
bastard
!” She howled inarticulately. Then, suddenly, she was perfectly still again. She even laughed lightly. “Of course, that account's closed now. God knows where the money's gone.”

Both of them were looking at me—as though the ball was somehow in my court. If it was, I had no idea how it had got there, or what I was supposed to do with it. “What do you want, Sarah?” I snapped.

She looked at me like a deer in a gun-sight. Sam glared, her fury with me barely concealed. She had such an immediate affinity with Sarah; I hated it.

“Look, Sarah,” I said bluntly—but, I hoped, more calmly, “you won't tell us where Adam is. You were talking to Verity on the phone right up to the day she fell—we
know
that. You hated her; we all know that. What are we
supposed
to think, Sarah?”

Instead of answers, I got another dose of the same—two shocked expressions, Sam and Sarah both looking at me as though I came from another planet. And I lost it.

“Oh, for God's sake!
Wake up
, the pair of you!” I roared. “Verity's in hospital! She's a zombie. She might as well be dead.
And there's no fucking reason for her to be there!
And that's
it
, isn't it? She's gone, for good!” I was furious and, in a way, it felt good. “
And you know all about it, Sarah, don't you?
”

The silence swelled.

“
Where's Adam, Sarah?
”

Sarah's glance flicked between Sam and me. She stood, painfully and slowly. “I shouldn't have come,” she muttered. She made for the door. When she reached it, she turned.

“Oh, and since you asked, Harry, the day your precious little tart Verity tried to kill herself, I was with my parents in Wales. Adam was away,
again
, and I needed some TLC. Also, for your information, I've never met the bitch
or
talked to her on the phone—and I never had the slightest desire to do so. Goodbye, Harry. If you're ever in desperate need, I hope you find someone you can count on.”

She limped away, fighting the contortions of her face with each step.

We both listened to her slow progress down the stairs and out of the building.

Sam looked at me with absolute contempt. “That went well, Harry, don't you think?” she said acidly.

You don't want to know how I looked at her.

In answer, Sam strode into my bedroom. I followed, feeling a little sick. She packed a few things into a plastic bag, slung it over her shoulder and squeezed past me.

“Um... Sam?”

I stayed in the doorway, and even though I kept my voice pretty level, I did not sound remotely casual or calm.

She smiled a small smile, and pecked me on the cheek. “Call me when you've grown up, Harry.”

After the front door closed, I stared around the room we had—occasionally—shared. My room. There was a pair of her knickers on the floor by the bed, and she must have left the box of tampons in the toilet. Somehow I didn't think they'd be enough to lure her back.

I poured myself a drink, put on some music—I don't remember what, but I put it on very, very loud. I sat through a beautiful cool summer evening, watching the light change, sipping and staring, raging at the savage injustice of life. And feeling very empty indeed.

TOWARDS LATE EVENING, the walls of my flat became too small for my misery. I trudged to Battersea Park, and walked along promenades of trees with my camera in hand.

Heavy clouds were massing above me, although the sun was still shining. I caught glimpses of a purple-grey sky through the leaves. Heat beat up at me from the Tarmac paths. It was hard to breathe. Rain would have been a relief, even thunder, but none came.

In fact, anything would have been a relief. I had hoped the trees might spark some feeling back into me, but they were drab and textureless. The living arches that had so often inspired me were meaningless shapes against the clouds. The leaves were limp in the heat. A grey-muzzled dog plodded listlessly across the grass towards some shade.

There was nothing for me here—no inspiration, no answers. Verity was gone. She wasn't a puzzle I could solve; she had simply gone. Now there were just memories, a parade of regrets among the stiffly upright trees.

The park ended, and my meanderings took me through heat-deserted streets. The pavement crunched greasily under my shoes.

I was depressed—of course. It must have been building for some time and now, finally, the tide had overwhelmed me. The world looked physically dark to me, it was a black and alien place. If the business of those around me on the streets had a purpose, it was hidden from me.

And then her door was in front of me, her familiar windows above me, the plants on the sills now dried to ragged sticks. Her name was still on the slip next to her bell—
Verity Hadley, Ring twice but don't ask for Rosie
—and a little yellow and gold daisy, hand-drawn with a smile and pinprick eyes.

And, finally, I knew what I needed to do. I had an appointment here. This was the place. Here, Verity and I could perhaps be together again, at least for a while.

I wrestled my mobile out of an over-tight pocket, and called Sam. While it rang, I rummaged for Verity's keys. Answering-machine. My voice sounded lifeless and flat; I didn't care.

“Sam, it's Harry. Don't delete this. Please, it's important. I want to apologise. There's nothing I can say. I understand what you think about me, and you're right...” I found the right key and fumbled it into the lock. “But, listen, it's all making sense now. I've ended up at Verity's place. I went for a walk and... I just got here somehow. And that makes sense. I mean, she's gone, isn't she? So to hell with it. To hell with it all. I wreck everything I touch, and it's all because of me and Verity, and it's taken me all this time to work it out. So what's the point?” I laughed hollowly, headed up the stairs. My voice was too dulled to echo. “Anyway... I suppose I rang to say sorry. Really. I know it doesn't change anything but—”

Then I dropped the phone.

Because the door to Verity's flat was ajar. And there were sounds on the far side of it.

I leaned cautiously towards the open gap. There were soft scrapes and clunks—cupboards and drawers, perhaps. Floorboards creaked, shoes whispered on carpet in a flat that should have been empty. The sounds were brisk. The pace was even. Whoever was in there was busy. I waited, breathing as shallowly as I could manage.

The sounds faded. Probably the interloper had moved down the corridor towards the bedroom. What choice did I have? This was my moment. I wished it hadn't come.

I swept open the door and stepped in. There was the brush of the wood on the carpet, but no creaking hinges or floorboards. I was in.

There are moments that make a photograph in your head. I saw everything in a glance; it was the processing that took time. The flat had been trashed—again. What had been left of the curtains had been torn into strips and lumped in a pile. The sofa had been shredded. In places, the carpet had been completely ripped away; green humps of underlay were scattered through the room. Floorboards had been pulled up, leaving gashes in the floor, full of joists and insulation and wiring. Cupboards had been flung open, and their contents—which Sam and I had put back so neatly—had been slung into piles. Shelves had been ripped out. Plants had been uprooted from their pots.

And the interloper had not left the room. He was there, squatting near the door to the kitchen, sifting through a slippery pile of paper. His shirt was stained with sweat. His hair was damp and tangled. His tie was loosened and thrown over one shoulder. Behind his thin-rim designer glasses, his eyes were wide and alert. He was looking at me intensely.

“Thank God you're here,” he said, in a rush.

There are no prizes for guessing who it was, I'm afraid; still, I was shocked as hell.

Adam picked up the sheet of paper he had dropped when I appeared, and frowned at it. “Look at this. I've cracked it. I swear.” He beckoned excitedly.

“What are you doing, Adam?”

“It's all here, Harry!” He slapped the piece of paper with the back of his hand. It looked ordinary—an invoice or a letter, maybe.

As Adam dusted himself down, I picked my way across the room. His eyes were dark and manic. His nostrils were flared and he was breathing heavily. Sweat glossed his face, a milky drop hung from his nose. The air had a salt tang. I hopped over the last curl of rolled-back underlay, negotiated a hole in the floorboards, and took the paper from him.

He gazed at me and smiled. Then he smashed his fist into the side of my head.

The blow lifted me off the ground, and threw me sideways. As I fell, my head and one shoulder snapped down painfully on to the bare floor. I didn't get up, because Adam didn't give me the chance. He kicked me hard in the face. He grunted a little, but his expression remained calm—at least, it did until the moment of impact. After that, I have no idea what he looked like.

Did you know that noses are crunchy? They are when they're kicked. You get a kind of gritty collapse for the first fraction of the strike, as the cartilage crumples, and then a dull thump as boot hits bone. There's a bending sensation, and then a snap as the fragile bits give way; then, a lurch as the main bone breaks—it sort of grinds off sideways, like rubble. Then the impact spreads across your face, heat and pressure through your cheekbones, and your ears start to ring. But it's the rubbly part that stays with you; it's like rolling logs across gravel.

You notice these things. Time slows to treacle—and, later, you play out the memory over and over again.

Adam moved round behind me, and swung his foot savagely at my ribs a couple of times.

There ought to have been pain.

He moved further up my body. His boot connected with the back of my neck, just where it meets the skull—and my already crumbling world shattered into brilliant shards.