The Company of Fellows (41 page)

Hedley was red
with anger, and the suddenly he went completely white, “And then
Stephen Knightley came to see me. He’d done something terrible. The
kind of thing that you can only do if you tell no-one as long as
you live; not even after you’re dead. But he wasn’t strong enough
to cope with the corrosive worm eating at him from the inside so he
told me.” Hedley stopped for a moment. It was the slightest of
pauses, as though he had decided that it was better for Clarissa to
have to cope with the truth than for there to be any more secrets.
“He told me that he’d told Haydn that Carol was dead, replaced her
with an unwanted stillborn from the morgue, and given her to
Charles.

“
I had to know
what happened to her, so I followed Charles to the continent. I
took a post at Tübingen so I could use their links with the
Sorbonne to watch him. But he didn’t spend any time in Paris, he
spent his time in Spain. I went to Jerez on a number of occasions.
He never knew, of course.”

“
When did you
know that Carol was still alive? Did you see her?”

“
No. It was
more like a steady drip of acid that finally burnt
through?”

“
When?” Tommy
asked.

“
Shortly after
he came back. I saw him in a theatre.”

“
Let me
guess,” Tommy said. “The Tempest. A father keeps his daughter
prisoner with him on his magical island, far away from the world
and its so-called dangers.”

“
No. It was a
student production of Alcestis. He was sitting in the audience with
Barnard Ellison. It was the look on his face when she offered
herself to the gods. It felt like a revelation but it had been
building for years.”

“
Alcestis?”
Clarissa asked.

“
In the play,
Death comes calling for an old man,” Tommy explained. “But his
daughter, Alcestis, loves him so much that she offers herself in
his place.”

“
I could see
in his eyes that Carol was alive and that he wouldn’t hesitate for
a moment to sacrifice her for any of his pleasures.”

“
And you
devoted your life to finding out which pleasures they were?”
Clarissa said.

“
Yes.”

“
And
me?”

“
I fell in
love with you, C. I didn’t mean to but I fell in love with
you.”

“
But you
couldn’t let her know. Not until you found out what happened to
Carol.” A choice made once and never reneged on. More lives wrecked
by a promise.

“
No.”

“
And
now?”

“
Now I’m
released from all the promises of the past, and maybe some day
there will be time to think about a future.”

“
I’ll leave
you to talk,” Tommy said. “But I need to know, Clarissa, whether
you wrote the letters to Charles.”

“
No. God, no.
I got the idea after I heard you and Becky talking after the
memorial service.”

Tommy turned
to Hedley “You were right,” he said.

“
Sorry?”

“
I saw Harry
this morning. Your hunch was right. He had Carol at number 37. She
was there until a few months ago.”

For a second
Hedley’s eyes lit up, but Tommy shook his head.

Hedley had
stopped crying. It was as though he had been waiting to punish
himself for 18 years. To punish himself that he couldn’t stop
Valerie killing herself. And now he knew that Carol had been alive
right under his eyes and that he had left it just too late he had
the reason he needed to banish himself to his own mental hell.
Whether Clarissa would stay long enough to lead him back Tommy
couldn’t tell. But she was still sitting at the breakfast bar when
he left, and for the moment that was the best that Hedley could
hope for.

____

64

Tommy turned
his back on St Saviour’s and headed up Barton Street. He wasn’t
shaking or breathing hard, but he knew that he should be. His mind
was racing with questions that he couldn’t hope to answer yet, and
hadn’t missed a beat. He forced himself to make the conscious
choice to shut down for the day, before his body did it for him.
The symptoms of depression can be very like those of shock as the
body closes off its non-essential circuitry switch by switch until,
almost before you notice the darkness coming, the whole organism
itself collapses. Tommy had learnt to be aware of every sensation,
every neural tic that felt even a little out of the ordinary, and
the calm control he felt now was wrong. Wrong in the way that
Charles’ otherworldly patience was wrong. And the only weapon that
Tommy had left was to pull the trip switch for the night whilst the
decision was still his to take.

Think what
comes next, he said to himself. Only one what’s one step ahead.
Supper, cooking for Becky and Haydn. He was already at the entrance
to the Covered Market. He smiled. It was Thursday, which meant the
fish stall would have fresh sushi-grade tuna. The thought of
Haydn’s sushi knife in his hand flashed across his mind and he
closed his eyes. Cold and heavy, the soft tear of flesh giving way
to the gentlest pressure.

Tommy opened
his eyes and found himself in the middle of the press of people
pushing to get the best and freshest fish. The ice granules
sparkled like rhinestones on silver lamé sides of sea bream, and
the gaping crimson tournedos of tuna flashed like open lips. If
he’d had no sense of taste or smell he would have thought he was in
Blackpool. Eventually he found himself pushed to the front of the
crush and picked out the richest transparent red tuna and a few
squid. He collected two heads of fennel and some lemongrass from
Bonners’ fruit and veg stall opposite and headed home.

Tommy
monitored every repetition of his light workout closely, leaving
the music off so that he could hear for thoughts in his head and
the sound of blood in his ears, as though he were waiting for the
swoosh in his arteries to cut out audibly as his body went into
shock. By the time he had bathed and dressed it was nearly time to
leave. No, if he set out now on foot he would get there at just the
right time, and he didn’t want to drive, so he slung a coolbag with
the fish wrapped in an iced wine cooler inside it over his shoulder
and turned to Penderecki violin music on his i-Pod, a challenging
piece that he would have to focus on. Anything to occupy his
thoughts.

Becky answered
the door and threw her arms around Tommy before he could put the
coolbag down. “Hey, you.” She kissed him roundly on the lips and
beamed.

“
Don’t you
tell me I look terrible.”

“
You look
great,” she said. And, quieter: “It’s so good to have proper
company.”

He heard a
gentle cough from the end of the corridor. Haydn was wearing a
fitted turquoise shift dress, with what looked like darts of jade
running on the bias. Tommy slipped off his loafers and set down the
bag. She offered him both hands, which he took and kissed her
lightly on the cheek.

“
I hope you
don’t feel pressganged, Tommy,” she said.

“
Not at all.
It’s always a pleasure.”

“
Let me put
this into the fridge for you.” Haydn disappeared into the kitchen
and re-emerged with a small bowl of green tea. “I didn’t hear a
car.”

“
It looks like
it’s the last beautiful day of summer,” he said. I thought I should
walk.”

“
Then I’m sure
you’ll want to sit down. Please.” She directed him into the
reception room. “Let me see if I can guess what music you’d
like.”

Haydn picked
up a control and pointed it at what seemed like an empty wall. She
moved her finger around and finally tapped the ceramic panel. The
opening of Wagner’s Siegfried.

“
Perfect.”
Haydn smiled to herself.

“
Mum loves
Wagner,” Becky said. “It’s a compliment. Unless she puts on
Tristan, which means she thinks you’re too like dad.”

Tommy looked
rather awkwardly at Haydn, who was sipping her green tea calmly. He
still couldn’t tell how much conversation about her former husband
would upset her. Then again, he figured, even if he could see it
worry her he wouldn’t know if that was because he was dead, or
because he was her ex.

“
Becky tells
me there’s a woman in your life.”

“
Yes.”

“
Don’t be shy,
Tommy. Everything about your taste intrigues me.” Tommy could feel
her eyes piercing him. Her head wasn’t tilted. There were none of
the usual signs that accompany the clawing tendrils of someone’s
gaze. It wasn’t even that she didn’t blink. It was just that the
gentle calm of her voice was reflected back from everywhere else
except her eyes.

“
You’ve met
her, mum. The night dad died.”

Tommy watched
for a reaction, but he couldn’t see one. He thought he had seen a
hint of her father’s mischief in Becky’s eyes, but if he had it had
gone.

“
Chief
Inspector Harris?”

“
No,” said
Tommy. “Rosie. Sergeant Lu.”

“
I’m glad to
hear that,” said Haydn dryly. “DCI Harris has no appreciation of
Wagner.”

“
Mum made an
allusion to Tristan and Isolde,” Becky explained. “Emily didn’t get
it.”

“
I think DS Lu
did.” Haydn smiled. “She’s from Hong Kong, isn’t she?”

“
Yes.”

“
You’ll have
to bring her to dinner.”

Tommy sensed
Becky beginning to fidget next to him. He wondered about dinner
with Rosie and the Shaws. He remembered his first dinner at her
flat, how she had felt nervous having an interior designer in the
place. What would she say if he took her to dinner with a
sociologist of China firing questions at her about Hong Kong? All
it would have needed was afternoon tea with Dr Knightley the
gynaecologist to make her feel completely at home.

Tommy waved
his empty tea bowl. “Let me go and wash up,” he said, deciding that
changing the subject would be politic. “And I’ll begin
dinner.”

“
Everything’s
where you’d expect it to be,” Haydn said, “but I’d be happy to show
you around.”

“
I’ll be fine,
thank you.”

Tommy felt the
cooling floor beneath him, and his hands enjoyed the smooth
surfaces. He felt himself slowly easing into an almost relaxed
tiredness, and even the sushi knife sat easy in his hand. He
wondered if he might kick start his mind back to life, but knew
that it wasn’t the right time. There was too much to take in, and
it would have to wait for morning. Becky would have at least
another night to wait.

For now he was
content to get to know a new kitchen. He could get a feel from the
way it was laid out of how Haydn occupied the space, of her elegant
movements from one cupboard to the next, gathering ingredients and
utensils in just the right order as she went, and the progressing
from work surface to hob. He imagined the lines she formed as she
cooked and, having a feel for the forms she liked to make, he felt
instinctively where everything should be, and smiled each time he
was right. With ease he found the chopping boards, the paring knife
to clean the squid, the flour dredger, the oils, and the different
strengths of soy. He wondered on which principles she had designed
the kitchen, whether it was the tenets of feng shui, or Greek
geometry, or simply elegance.

Soon
everything was nearly ready. The squid ink pasta dough was sitting
waiting to be rolled out – he thought that a raviolo of coriander
and pine nut on each plate, speckled with calamari and draped
around the edge with tuna sashimi would appeal to her
aesthetic.

Tommy lowered
the ravioli into water that was boiling at a gentle roll and
chopped a shallot for his dressing. He felt his hand gliding to a
drawer for a shaker to mix together some oil and rice wine vinegar
with a little lime juice. In one movement he pulled on the handle
that gave way with ease. He smiled again as the light caught the
rows of shakers and stoppers, little moulds and cutters.

His hand
stopped a centimetre above the drawer. For a moment he didn’t know
what had made him stop, and then he saw it. Just a few centimetres
long, a little piece of flexible rubber that had the consistency of
a mould. He shook himself again.
Oh God.
Bags, where are they?
He opened drawers at
random but the rhythm was gone. He hadn’t seen any and he had no
idea where they would be.

Come
on
, he said to himself,
don’t start clattering
.
Think. He scanned the side. Kitchen towel he had used to pat the
squid dry. It was the best he could think of. He tore a piece off.
It felt as though his nails were an inch long as he ripped the
first sheet. He tore frantically at another and held it, shaking,
in his hand.

He fumbled
with the handles that refused to open for him. Yanking first one
and then another until he ripped the second sheet of kitchen towel.
He was aware of the sound of a rolling boil above him. The ravioli
would be overdone and dry, and she would be sure to suspect
something was wrong. Come on. He tore off another sheet, trying
desperately to force his breathing slow and shallow. Too much
oxygen. Slow down. He touched at the drawer with his free hand. It
opened. He reached inside and cupped the tiny spoon without
applying any pressure. Mustn’t wipe any prints. Eased the drawer
shut.