Summer Lies Bleeding (14 page)

‘Let's see how we get on with these reports,' she replies, brusquely. ‘Or we won't be going anywhere.'

Cal shakes his head playfully, then sits up and returns to his computer screen.

Kerstin slides her hand into her pocket and pulls out a packet of anti-bacterial wipes. Sliding one quietly out of the pack she rubs it across the mouse and counts to twenty and back. Satisfied that there is no trace of Cal left, she scrunches the wipe into a ball and tosses it into the waste-paper basket. Then, her heart pounding with anxiety, she clicks open a new document and begins to prepare a brief for Cal on the next report. But her head is full of Moroccan music as she types, the deep male voices and mosquito strumming of the guitar form a soundtrack to her fingers as they punch the numbers and letters on the keyboard, then settle onto the screen like a thousand petals forming and reforming until they make sense. She is so engrossed, so inside the music whirring about her head that when the phone rings, she thinks at first that it is part of the beat, a syncopated buzz, playing alongside the scratchy sounds in her head. Only when Cal nudges her and gestures to his ears does she notice the green lit screen
of her mobile phone, another set of words appearing then disappearing like a dying light:
Mutter
.

She stops typing and picks up the phone, suddenly aware of where she is and of Cal's presence just centimetres away. She clicks the green square on the screen and hears her mother's agitated voice, telling her that her father has collapsed.

A thick fog fills the air, opaque and smoky like the room is on fire, as Kerstin listens to her mother telling her about the heart attack that struck as Kerstin's father was leaving the house yesterday morning, how a neighbour found him on the driveway spread out like a starfish and called an ambulance that took thirty minutes to arrive as it was delayed by a learner driver crashing into the back of it. And all that time he lay there, her father, her brilliant father, the man they called the human computer so precise and advanced was his brain, the brain that had spent thirty years engaged in theoretical physics, in Complexity Theory and chain reactions, in finding pre-determined patterns and sequences, finding answers to questions that other people did not know existed and trying to establish order from chaos; the brain that slowly shut down through lack of oxygen as he, Felix Morgen Bsc/Msc/PhD/Emerit, lay sprawled on his driveway like a great, ungainly beached sea-creature.

There is too much for Kerstin to take in all at once. She needs to put the phone down, to silence her mother's stream of information, to let her own thoughts in.

‘I will call you back in a moment, Mama,' she whispers, but as she goes to hang up she hears those words, dreaded words weighted with agony and impossibility.

‘You must come, Kerstin. Jump on a plane and come now, before it is too late. You must come.'

She presses ‘end call' and sits motionless. No tears come to her eyes, no compulsion to tell any of her colleagues what has just happened. Instead, she types out a hurried email to Karen, informing her of an urgent dental appointment. Then she switches off her computer, picks up her coat and bag and heads out of the door. Now she must focus, she must do the thing that will keep all of the bad things at bay; as she reaches the top of the stairs she begins to count.

It is hunger that eventually drives Mark out of the bedroom; a ravenous, gnawing hunger in the pit of his stomach. He had planned to have breakfast in some quiet café nearby, a big plate of bacon and eggs and a mug of strong tea to set him up for his day of reconnaissance. He was going to slip out of the room quietly, like a shadow, avoiding the huddles of backpackers in the refectory and grinning Stewart perched behind the reception desk ready to pounce. But this hunger is so powerful, he needs something instant to stem it. He rummages in his rucksack to see if there's a bag of crisps or some sweets he can eat to stave it but there's nothing but a packet of chewing gum.

He remembers the vending machines out on the corridor, the ones he passed last night. The hunger is making him light-headed, he hasn't got the strength to even think about taking a shower and getting dressed. He is still wearing the T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms he slept in last night. The day has not
started as he had planned at all. He had set the alarm on his phone for 6 a.m. but then slept through it. If he'd got up then he could have gone across the corridor to the shower room without any fuss, without being hassled. Now, at nine forty-five, the hostel is alive, he can hear their voices outside, their high-pitched laughter, their heavy footsteps and the twang of someone attempting to play a guitar.

He looks in the mirror. His eyes look tired, heavy from over-sleep and a dark line of stubble has spread across his jaw. But as much as he would love to stay in this room, to crawl back into bed and sleep, hide away in this tiny cell, away from it all, he knows that he is here for a reason; he has to get on.

Taking his wallet from his bag, he picks up the plastic key-card and opens the door a fraction. He looks up and down the corridor; the noisy group that passed a moment ago have gone. He slips out, closes the door behind him and speed-walks down the corridor towards the vending machine.

The landing area is empty. Thank God, thinks Mark. He looks at the machine; everything seems to be £2 or more. Two pounds for a fucking Mars Bar, he mutters as he roots around in his wallet for some change. He counts out a pile of ten and five pences but they only come to £1.25. Sod it, he thinks as he unzips the inner compartment of his wallet but there are only ten- and twenty-pound notes in there and the machine clearly states in large black letters that notes are not accepted.

Mark suddenly fills dizzy with hunger and frustration and he slams his fist at the machine.

‘You okay there?'

A female voice behind him; a low husky voice, American? Mark closes his eyes and sighs. Just what he doesn't need. All he wanted was a lousy bar of chocolate and now someone is here, and she will ask questions and offer to help when all he wants is to get the hell out.

He turns from the machine and sees a slight young woman sitting on the red sofa. Her hair is short and messy, a strange, dirty-blonde colour. She reminds him of the little stray Tabby cat his mother adopted when he was a kid. She has the same wide-eyed, slightly dazed expression, the same gaunt little body. She is sitting with her legs pulled up towards her chest and Mark can see the white lace of her knickers peeking out from her denim shorts.

‘I'm fine,' he mutters. ‘Er, don't suppose you can change a tenner?' He holds the note limply in his hand.

The girl stands up and starts to rummage in her pockets, pulling out sweet wrappers, travel cards, notes and a handful of coins.

She counts out the coins in her hand, lightly brushing her tongue along her bottom lip as she concentrates on the counting. ‘Yep, I got a five-pound note and five pound coins,' she says, holding the handful of money towards Mark.

Mark nods his head and curls the corner of his mouth into
what should be a smile but which comes out as more of a sneer. ‘Cheers,' he says, as he takes the money and hands the girl the ten-pound note.

‘No worries,' she says. She is looking at him in that way; the way Mark remembers girls in the pub looking at him, before Lisa, before Zoe's death, back when he was a single young man without a care. The look unnerves him and he tries to block it out by returning to the vending machine, but his hands are shaking as he feeds the pound coins into the slot and waits for the chocolate bar to fall into the tray with a thud. He picks it up and sees the girl still standing there.

‘I'm Liv,' she says, holding out her hand.

Mark's mouth goes dry, he feels the pulse in his head start to thump against his temples. It's the hunger, but it's also a sense of panic. He has to get back to his room, get dressed and get out of here. He has an itinerary to stick to, a list of places to visit, locations to reccy, a brain to get into gear; the last thing he needs is to be distracted, least of all by this girl with her slim, tanned legs and white lace knickers.

He ignores her outstretched hand and simply nods his head as he walks back to the corridor, back to the safety and anonymity of the room. As he closes the door behind him, he rips open the chocolate and stuffs it into his mouth, the sugar hitting his bloodstream in great instantaneous bursts.

He looks at the thin grey towel folded on the bed. He had collected it in the early hours of the morning, tip-toeing along
to the laundry room like an intruder. Fuck it, he thinks. He can't face going back along the corridor to the shower room; can't risk another backpacker offering help and guidance and inane chit-chat. So he takes off his clothes, goes across to the small cracked sink and turns on the hot water tap. It shoots out in little intermittent sprays but it is warm and Mark splashes it onto his face, under his arms, his groin. Then after drying himself with the towel, he sprays a great stream of deodorant all over his body. It's not ideal but it will do and he can have a proper wash when he gets back tonight, he thinks, when it's quiet, when all those numpties have gone out clubbing or whatever it is they do.

He pulls his jeans and sweatshirt on and slips his feet into his trainers, then kneeling on the floor he drags the long black bag out from under the bed. This must stay with him at all times, he has to guard it with his life and he holds it to his body like a baby in a sling as he creeps along the corridor and makes his way out into the crisp Soho morning.

*

Stella looks at Paula as they stand on the steps outside the clinic on Harley Street. She looks thin and pensive, thinks Stella; scared, like a small child.

‘Come on, we'll be late,' she says, grabbing Paula's arm and marching her up the steps.

Inside, the clinic is more or less what Stella had expected; a three-dimensional version of the website that Paula has pored
over each evening for the last few months. The waiting room is painted a sickly pale peach colour, there are large posters on the walls of parents cradling chubby-cheeked babies, a glass vase filled with cerise and orange gerberas stands in the middle of the table, and the insipid hum of classical music floats through the chlorine-scented air.

They walk across the waiting room to the front desk where a nervy-looking receptionist is sitting.

She looks up at them, wide eyed, as they approach.

‘Welcome to the clinic,' she says, the words rushing out of her like hot stones. ‘Can I take your names?'

‘Yes, it's Stella Blake and Paula Wilson,' says Stella, smiling as the girl shakily types their names into the computer.

‘You're booked in to see Dr Wyatt is that right?'

‘Yes,' replies Stella. ‘For 11 a.m.'

The girl nods then picks up the phone.

‘I'll just tell her you've arrived.' As she goes to dial in the extension number the phone rings and she quickly slams the receiver down, then picks it up again.

‘Good Morning, The Vita Clinic, how can I help you … hello? … hello? … oh, damn they've gone.'

Her face reddens as she looks up at Paula and Stella.

‘I'm really sorry. It's only my second day and I'm still getting used to the phone system.'

She replaces the receiver and tries again to buzz the consultant.

‘Oh hi, it's Lara … erm I've got Paula Blake and Stella Wilson here to see you …' She puts the phone down and smiles nervously. ‘If you want to take a seat, Dr Wyatt will be along in a minute.'

Paula looks irritated at the mistake with their names but Stella smiles reassuringly at the girl, remembering all too well the feeling of being new. She had worked as a receptionist herself once and can easily recall those first few days on the job; having to learn all the different extension numbers, the nuances of the switchboard, the entry system. All those details swishing around your head as you tried to remain composed and friendly as one person after another interrupted the flow and led you off in a completely different direction.

They take a seat by the window and Paula picks up a magazine. Stella watches her as she absent-mindedly flicks through the pages. Her face serious; her back curved forward, the pose she always adopts when she's nervous. Stella places her hand on Paula's arm; it's freezing. She rubs the prickly skin and Paula goes to speak but her words are swallowed by the high-pitched tones of the receptionist.

‘If you want to go through, Dr Wyatt will see you now,' she says. ‘It's the first door on the left.' She nods as though relieved that she has got through another task without stumbling.

Paula puts the magazine back into its rack and they hold hands as they walk towards the narrow corridor. It is lined with mirrors and Stella catches a glimpse of herself in the
glass. Her dark hair falls in loose curls onto her shoulders; she is wearing black skinny jeans, a white silk top and her favourite navy blue blazer. She looks sophisticated, assured, safe.

Who are you? she thinks.

Thirty-four; not old but older, older than the receptionist, older than she was when she lived in this city. The ageing process is rather like diving down into another part of the ocean, not the deepest bit, but the next stage. Life is fluid, like this moment, the moment she is living through now, standing next to the woman she fell in love with as a teenager, holding her hand as they make their way into the unknown.

One day this will be a memory; like Soho is a memory and the eating disorder is a memory. Even tomorrow's meeting with Dylan O'Brien – such a loaded, potentially life-changing event – seems, at this moment, as though it has already happened, as though it has consigned itself to the long, unbroken line of memories that follow Stella now as she lifts her hand and knocks gently on a blank, wooden door.

She squeezes Paula's hand, reassured by the fleshy solidness of it. As Paula's fingers thread around hers she can feel herself departing; her ‘real' self floating off into the air, waiting for the ‘other' Stella, the duty-bound, serious married woman to do what she needs to do.

The door opens and they are greeted by Dr Wyatt, a tall, big boned woman with half-moon spectacles, who insists they call her Sarah.

‘Do take a seat,' she says, gesturing to two comfy-looking armchairs that are wedged together in front of her desk.

It is all rather perfunctory and they sit there nodding and listening as Sarah explains the procedure to them, discusses their medical history and talks them through their options.

In her usual blunt manner, Paula explains that she will be the birth mother as Stella has ‘… a history of eating disorders and a still birth.'

Stella winces as Sarah smiles at her, a limp, pitying smile.

‘Gosh, if you put it like that, I'm quite a catch aren't I?' Stella says it with a dry laugh, trying to lighten the situation, but neither Paula nor Sarah appear to see the funny side.

‘So how long have you been planning this?' asks Sarah. Her body is curved across the desk and she reminds Stella of a Quentin Blake drawing; all big limbs and rollered hair.

‘Well, we've talked about it for a while but began to think about it seriously at Christmas,' says Paula, nodding to Stella for affirmation.

Sarah starts to type something into her computer, making little noises of acknowledgement as she does so.

‘And I've been getting into shape,' says Paula. ‘No alcohol or processed foods and I've been drinking lots of red clover tea to help my fertility.'

‘That's excellent,' says Sarah, smiling politely. ‘You're doing the right thing in addressing your diet and it will certainly help if you reduce your alcohol intake.

Stella notices that the doctor avoids the subject of herbal medicine; she looks like the kind of no-nonsense woman for whom a tincture of red clover tea would be considered as about as much use to a woman's fertility as a voodoo doll.

‘Now,' says Sarah, standing up. ‘If you want to come with me I'll take you along the corridor for your ultrasound scan.'

Stella takes Paula's hand as they accompany Sarah out of the consulting room and back along the mirrored corridor. Paula looks up at her as they reach the door.

‘You'll come in with me, won't you?'

‘Of course,' says Stella, squeezing Paula's hand. ‘I'll be right beside you.'

‘It's a simple procedure,' Sarah assures them as she opens the door of the ultrasound room, where a young black nurse is pulling latex gloves over her hands. ‘We just need to look at Paula's womb and ovaries. The scan will detect any cysts or polyps that may cause problems with fertility. I'll leave you with Joyce now.'

Stella stands back in the shadows of the darkened room as Joyce makes Paula comfortable on the examining table and covers her lower body in a blue paper sheet.

‘You're not allergic to latex are you?' she asks.

Paula shakes her head and Stella sees in the glow of the lightened screen that Paula's hands are clenched into tight fists.

‘This won't hurt at all,' says Joyce, her voice light and soft
like she is addressing a child. ‘But it might be a bit uncomfortable.' Paula gasps as Joyce inserts the probe inside her and the screen fills with the fuzzy, blue outline of Paula's empty womb.