Summer Lies Bleeding (31 page)

Seb smiles half-heartedly at the woman standing next to him. He can hear snippets of what she is saying but nothing that could constitute a sentence. Henry is with them, regaling the woman who, Seb has gathered, is a journalist from the
Evening Standard
.

‘Yeah, it's been about three years in the planning, if truth be told. I've always wanted to open a restaurant in Soho, and had come very close over the years, but for one reason or another it had never come to anything. But when I met Yasmine, and heard her plans, I knew that this was going to be pretty special …'

Seb nods in agreement as the woman listens intently to Henry. He hears someone call his name and looks up to see Liam Kerr and his wife waving at him from the door.

‘Will you excuse me,' says Seb to the journalist.

‘The kids had a better offer, I'm afraid,' says Liam, as Seb approaches. ‘It was a toss-up between this and a Disney
DVD marathon with their Aunt Bella. This is my wife Kate, by the way, I don't think you two have been properly introduced.'

He holds out his hand to the tall, attractive blonde woman but as he does so he feels a shiver course through his spine. He looks around the room but he can't see her; he can't see Cosima or Stella. It's useless, he can't do this, he can't stand and talk while this threat hangs over his family and now he has lost sight of Cosima.

‘I'm sorry,' he says to the woman whose hand is still outstretched. ‘You must excuse me.'

‘Seb, what is it?' Liam's voice disappears behind Seb as he runs through the crowd like a drowning man.

‘Cosima,' he shouts as he pushes people aside. ‘Cosima, where are you?'

But his voice is lost inside the music that seems to be growing louder and louder as he frantically calls out for his child.

*

Stella pauses as a familiar face appears in the alcove.

‘Don't stop, it's lovely.'

She continues reciting as Maggie squeezes into the space between her and Cosima.

*

Kerstin stands looking out onto the streets of Soho. Down below everything is alive and thriving. She sees the lights of the BT tower twinkling on and off like a space ship waiting to take off into the starless night sky; she sees a million lives beginning and ending; souls rising and falling; happiness and sorrow being cast out into the night from a thousand different directions.

Amid the lights and neon she can make out a church steeple, pointing up into the grey sky like a witch's hat. But it offers no comfort. The time for praying is over, for what does it achieve? All those incantations, meaningless mantras, empty recitations that keep the world turning, keep secrets buried, the economy on its feet and people in their place. She remembers the statue of the Madonna in her room, maybe it was best that Cal had turned it to face the wall; at least that way it would be spared the sight of all those penitents on their knees and the noise of prayer; prayers in every language from the mouths of children and world leaders, beggars and nuns, murderers and priests, the voices rising in a great cacophony of sound; like birds twittering in the dawn their interchangeable anthems to faceless deities and invisible currencies.

She hears something move behind her and for a moment she thinks she is at home, back in Cologne, where she was
happy and safe, and her mother is calling her to come and have dinner.

‘Mama?' she whispers but her mother's voice has fallen silent and another takes its place.

‘Hello, Kerstin.'

She turns and sees him, his face glowing in the light of a hundred candles.

Cal.

She turns her back on him; willing him to leave but he comes up behind her, so close she can feel his breath on her neck.

‘Nice view,' he whispers. His breath smells of wine and cigarettes and as he speaks drops of spittle land on Kerstin's face.

‘Get away from me,' she says, gripping hold of the wooden frame that stands between her and the street below. ‘I know it was you who took my things; all this time it was you trying to drive me mad.'

‘I have no idea what you're talking about, Kerstin,' he says, his voice measured and calm. ‘All I know is that you are in serious trouble. An old lady has been murdered and you are the main suspect.'

Kerstin's head feels heavy like all the oxygen is being sucked out of it. He is lying. She saw her things in his wardrobe; a whole box of them.

‘Why are you lying?' she yells. ‘Why are you trying to make out I'm mad? I saw my things in your wardrobe; I wrote everything
down; all the times you'd been in my flat; the things you'd taken, the things you'd moved about …'

The roof terrace is filling up and a band is setting up in the far corner. Kerstin feels her chest contract. She has to get out of here but the entrance is blocked by people; hundreds of people so it seems to her.

‘I tried to help you,' says Cal, standing aside to let a group of women past. ‘I told you about my cousin suffering from OCD, advised you to get help. Jesus Christ, I offered you my bed for the night. If I'd known you had just murdered someone I wouldn't have come near.'

‘You are evil,' shouts Kerstin, her voice almost drowned out by the opening bars of Van Morrison's ‘Brown Eyed Girl' that the band have just struck up. ‘You drugged me then you locked me up.'

‘Kerstin,' says Cal, putting his hands on her shoulders. ‘You need help, serious help. Maybe you will get it in prison.'

‘Get your hands off me and let me get out,' she yells, grabbing at Cal's hands but he pulls her tighter, squeezing her towards him until she can't breathe.

‘You're sick, Kerstin,' says Cal, his grip tightening. ‘You're not safe to be left alone.'

Kerstin grapples to disentangle herself from his arms but he is too strong. The music is growing louder and louder until it feels as though it is cutting into her skin. She has to get away from here and if she can't use her arms there is only
one weapon left. With the last ounce of strength she sinks her teeth into Cal's arm.

He shrieks and jumps back.

‘You fucking psycho,' he screams. ‘I'm bleeding.'

There is only one way out now and Kerstin sees it.

‘What are you doing?' shouts Cal, as Kerstin climbs onto the railings.

‘Get away from me now or I'll jump,' she shouts as a hush descends across the terrace. ‘I swear I will jump.'

*

Seb clambers up two flights of stairs, taking them three at a time. He tries to hear her voice; he knows that if she is there he will be able to hear, despite the noise of the crowd. He has always been able to hear her voice. When he goes to collect her from school, the shouts and screams of the children playing in the yard ring out in a cacophonous wall of sound; but he can always hear Cosima's voice in the midst of the din, as clear as day; he can pick out her voice because she is his child; his blood. He cranes his ears to listen but there is nothing.

‘Cosima,' he yells. He feels someone touch his arm.

‘Seb, mate, what is it?' says Liam. But he shakes his friend off and pushes his way through the tables and chairs that seem to be deliberately blocking his way.

‘Cosima!'

He calls out her name, her blessed name, as he makes his way out of the open doors and into the intoxicating air of the terrace. A crowd of people are standing huddled at the far side; he tries to see what is going on but his vision is obscured by two giant pots of herbs. Then he hears something; a gasp, a scrape of metal against stone. He runs towards the noise, calling out into the cool air but no sound will come.

‘That was lovely,' says Cosima, as Stella finishes the poem. ‘I'd like to go and live with the fairies. They eat blueberry stew you know?'

‘That sounds delicious,' says Stella.

‘Oh, I hear Mummy,' says Cosima, leaping off the stool.

‘She's making her speech,' says Maggie. ‘Come on, Cossy, let's go and hear.' The older woman hauls herself from the cushion and takes her granddaughter's hand.

Stella goes to follow but she feels awkward as though she is intruding on a special family moment. Still, she promised Seb she would look after Cosima so she walks at a distance behind Maggie and the girl.

After the dimness of the alcove the restaurant seems bright even though it is bathed in soft candlelight. Yasmine stands on a chair, her face beaming as she welcomes the guests to the restaurant. Stella notices Henry standing at the front of the crowd, clapping his hands and nodding to his celebrity guests.

‘Hi everyone and welcome to … The Rose Garden.'

A cheer rings out across the room led by Henry who whistles with two fingers. Cosima and Maggie stand by a pillar; Stella stands on the oppsosite side, not too close but near enough to keep an eye on Cosima.

‘This restaurant has been years in the making,' continues Yasmine. ‘And it would never have got off the ground if it hadn't been for the love and support of my lovely husband.'

She stops and scans the room, her eyes expectant.

‘Where is he?'

‘He's camera shy,' laughs Henry, looking around at the sea of smartphones recording and photographing the moment.

‘Seb,' shouts Yasmine, playfully. ‘Darling husband, where are you? Honestly, men,' she says, shrugging her shoulders. ‘You can never rely on them.'

The crowd laughs but Stella feels uneasy. She thinks about going to look for Seb but she can't leave Cosima. She feels her phone vibrate in her hand and she grabs it, hoping that Paula has arrived.

‘Hi Paula, where are you?' she shouts to make herself heard over the crowd.

‘Oh, darling, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but I'm still at Carole's. She's in such a bad way I feel bad leaving her. Are you having fun?'

‘No, I'm not having fun, Paula. I'm tired and I'm only here because you wanted to come and now … now I've got myself
into something that I can't get out of and I really could do with you being here.'

‘Stella, I can't hear you, it's so loud in there. I'll call you back in ten minutes and give you an update. Sorry darling. Love you.'

The line goes dead but Stella holds it to her ear for a moment as though Paula is still there; as though somehow beneath all the noise and shouts and music she might still be able to hear her voice.

*

Seb strides across the terrace, his heart pounding as he pushes his way past the crowd of people. He hears someone call his name but he can't stop, he has to get to her; he has to find his daughter.

‘Seb, quick I think she's going to jump.' It is Kia running towards him; her face ghostly white.

‘Cosima,' screams Seb as he elbows his way through and then he sees it; not his daughter but a young woman standing with her back to him; standing with arms outstretched on the edge of the railings.

‘Jesus Christ,' whispers Seb. ‘Is she drunk? How the hell did she get up there?'

‘I don't know,' says Kia. ‘I came up a couple of minutes ago with the champagne and she was already on the ledge.'

‘Kia, go and call the police,' says Seb as he inches towards the woman; holding his breath lest the slightest noise sends her falling.

‘No need,' says a voice and Seb turns to see a young man. ‘I've already called them. They're on their way. I'm Cal Simpson. I work with Kerstin. She's not well … she's seriously not well.'

‘Get him away from me or I will jump, I tell you I will jump,' shouts Kerstin.

‘What does she mean?' asks Seb, keeping his voice low.

‘I told you,' says Cal. ‘She's sick; she needs help.'

‘I said get him away from me,' screams Kerstin, her body leaning forwards.

There are gasps and screams from the crowd and a flash from someone's smartphone.

‘I'm going to go and see if the police are here,' whispers Cal. ‘Stay with her; make sure she doesn't do anything stupid.'

‘No,' says Seb. ‘I need to find my daughter; she's … she's in trouble.'

‘What?' says Cal, pointing to the shadowy figure standing on the railings. ‘More trouble than that?'

Seb goes to speak but Cal has gone.

Taking a deep breath he walks slowly towards the girl; telling himself with every step that Cosima is fine, she is with Stella and no harm will come to her.

‘Come down, you silly cow,' shouts a drunken woman in a pink dress.

‘Ssh,' says her friend. ‘You'll scare her.'

Seb tries to clear his head; tries to channel his father the army officer. If he were here he would know what to do. He
used to tell Seb about the terrified soldiers; the ones who would rather put a gun to their heads than face another moment of war. ‘Keep them talking,' his father would say. ‘No shouts, no sudden movements, just keep talking.'

‘Could I ask you all to move aside, please,' he says to the baffled onlookers. ‘Just go and stand over there, please, and let me deal with this.'

Kia shepherds them towards the doors of the terrace where they stand open-mouthed, watching as Seb starts to talk to the woman.

*

Mark hears her voice as he enters the restaurant; the low, sensuous voice he last heard as he stood on the street and enquired after her husband.

Straightening his suit he walks slowly towards the voice; past dull men holding champagne glasses and overly made-up women adjusting their hair; all standing around like lemmings; waiting on the words of the small dark woman who stands perched on her chair talking enthusiastically about a restaurant as though it is something important, as though these people really care; as though they don't spend their futile lives going from one opening night to another; chitchatting with strangers with rictus grins on their faces as they approach the host and tell him or her that their restaurant/painting/album/book is the best thing they have ever encountered.

It's all bollocks, thinks Mark as he elbows a skinny blonde
in the ribs and walks towards the curtained booth where he had spoken to Bailey yesterday.

‘… sure he's here somewhere,' continues Yasmine, as Mark pulls back the curtain and enters the deserted lover's corner. ‘But I know that he would join me in saying how delighted we both are to declare The Rose Garden well and truly open.'

A cheer rings out across the room and Mark flinches as he stands looking at a white mound on the wall. The painting Bailey was hanging yesterday is now covered in a sheet, waiting for the grand unveiling, no doubt.

Arrogant bastard, thinks Mark. He can't be left out can he? Even at his wife's opening night he has to be the centre of attention. Wanker.

He leans across the table and tugs at the sheet. It billows slightly like a feather caught in the breeze before dropping to the floor.

And there it is: an oil painting depicting a vast lake at twilight with shafts of light rippling across the surface.

Mark stands staring at the painting; he looks at the moon glowing in the right hand corner; the dark trees dipping their heads into the water; the sparks of light bouncing off the surface like bullets and an old rage stirs up inside him.

This man has it all; a beautiful family, talent, love. Everything Mark has lost flashes in front of him as he stands looking at the painting. He sees his dad lying in a bed with manky hospital sheets clinging to his emaciated frame; he sees his mother
sobbing in her tiny kitchen with its cheap ornaments and own-brand tinned goods; he sees Ernie's face on the top of the moor, happy to be away from Middlesbrough, happy to be play-acting at being a toff. He sees a lifetime of making do and wrecked dreams and shattered lives. No wonder Zoe wanted to get away, wanted to create something better for herself and she almost got there didn't she, he thinks, as tears well up in his eyes, she almost made it. But he got in the way, Bailey and his sob story; he got in her way that night and he sent her to her death.

‘All this is bullshit,' he yells as he pulls a shard of glass out of his pocket and lunges at the painting.

As the shard strikes the canvas, tears blur the image and as one strike becomes another and another; as each shaft of light is extinguished Mark feels the room slip away; voices merge into one loud voice, telling him to carry on, not to stop until he has done his father proud.

As he slumps on the velvet banquette, his energy spent, his lungs dry and tight he looks up and sees her, standing by the curtain like a gift from God.

*

‘Has he gone?' asks Kerstin, looking down at the man who has appeared next to her. He has a kind face, she thinks.

‘Yes, he's gone,' replies Seb, remembering, as his father once told him, to keep his voice bright.

‘What's your name?' he asks, trying not to think about the fifty foot drop below.

‘Kerstin,' she whimpers.

She is young, thinks Seb, too young to feel that this is her only option.

‘I'm in big trouble,' says Kerstin. ‘There's nowhere left to go.'

‘There is always somewhere,' says Seb. ‘I've often felt like it was all too much; years ago I even tried to…' He stops, reminding himself to keep it light. ‘But it got better and it will for you.'

‘It won't,' says Kerstin. ‘It can only get worse.'

‘Where are you from, Kerstin?' asks Seb, trying to reel her back word by word. ‘Which part of Germany?'

‘Cologne,' she replies, though her voice is barely audible above the roar of traffic below and Seb has to lean in to hear.

‘Cologne,' he repeats, again trying to keep his voice bright. ‘A beautiful city, famous for its cathedral I understand.'

Kerstin nods her head but the movement seems to unbalance her and she sways slightly. Seb instinctively goes to steady her; his heart in his mouth.

‘You don't have to do this, Kerstin,' he says, his diplomacy skills deserting him with the shock of her near-miss. ‘There is always a way out; always. No matter what happens we can all start again.'

‘I can't,' she screams, this time her voice wins the battle against the noises of Soho. ‘I can't start again; I am over, finished. You don't understand, I'm not a good person. I killed someone.'

*

Stella slips her phone into her bag and watches as Yasmine climbs down from the stool.

‘Your mum did really well,' she says turning to Cosima but she is not there.

‘Cosima,' she shouts.

She sees Maggie hugging Yasmine and she goes towards them, praying that the child is with them but there is no sign.

‘Maggie, have you seen Cosima?' she asks as the older woman disentangles herself from her daughter's arms.

‘No, I thought she was with you.'

The smile fades from Yasmine's face as she weighs up Stella.

‘Sorry, who are you and why would my daughter be with you?'

Stella goes to speak but before she can someone screams. She turns and sees him; the man from last night.

He is holding Cosima to his chest. It's a pose that could almost be protective though Stella can see that it is not, she can see what he is holding in his hand; broken glass. A flash of silver glints in the candlelight as he presses it to the back of Cosima's head.

Mark's face is red and twisted but Stella carries on walking towards him, her arms outstretched.

‘Don't come near or I'll cut her,' he shouts. ‘I swear I will.'

The music stops and two security guards rush towards him.

‘I'm warning you, you bastards,' he yells to the guards. ‘I'll slit her fucking throat.'

There is a piercing scream and Stella turns to see Yasmine running towards them.

‘My baby! Get your hands off my baby. Somebody do something.'

Henry grabs her arm to hold her back.

‘Where is he?' yells Mark and he directs the question to Stella rather than Yasmine.

‘Where's Bailey?'

‘He's not here.'

Stella's voice, so calm in the midst of this terror, sounds wrong.

‘Ah, we meet again,' says Mark, waving his free arm at Stella. ‘Thanks for the invite.'

‘What?' shrieks Yasmine as she lurches forwards but Henry stops her.

‘Yasmine, no,' he whispers. ‘The police are on their way. Don't do anything.'

‘Seb's not here,' says Stella. ‘Let her go. Whatever grudge you hold against her father, you can sort out between the two of you, as men. She's a child. Now let her go.'

*

She looks so vulnerable standing there; so delicate and slight; how could someone so refined, so unassuming, be a killer?

Seb tries not to dwell on this; it could be part of what her colleague had referred to as her ‘sickness'; it might all be in her mind.

‘We all make mistakes, Kerstin,' he says gently, and as he speaks he sees her face twitch slightly; she is listening.

‘None of us are perfect,' he continues. ‘And sometimes we do things that don't make sense; or we think we have done things that have caused others pain and hurt when really we have only hurt ourselves.'

She shakes her head.

‘I need to be punished; I will be punished for what I did,' she says, her voice riven with fear.

Seb wonders how old she is; she can't be more than thirty. He thinks of her parents; all the expectations you have for your children; the daily fight for their happiness; their safety, and he knows he has to keep trying to get her down.

‘You have people who love you, Kerstin,' he says. ‘People who want you to get better.'

She lets out a sob and he feels he is getting somewhere.