Black Chalk (37 page)

I looked at his friend.

‘Can I speak to you alone?' I asked.

‘Fuck, fucking hell!' James shouted.

‘Please, James. Please.'

‘Alright.' He stood up and sniggered. ‘Here will do right,' he said in the corridor. There was no point in arguing, in pushing for more privacy. ‘What do you want?' he said.

‘Well,' I started, looking at him, thinking that if I didn't do it now, it would never happen. ‘I wanted to say that you're very important to me.'

He rolled his eyes.

‘You're my brother,' I said.

‘Fucking hell, Nate.'

We stood looking at each other, me trying to convey sincerity, him sweating impatient disdain until the bell rang. He rushed to open the door, shielding his guest from my eyes, and negotiated in whispers.

‘Hold on,' I heard him say. Patting his pockets, he walked towards me. ‘You care for me, right? Then give me ten pounds.'

I felt like running away, last chance or not. I only had a twenty.

‘Twenty will do,' he said.

Half a minute later, he was back in the corridor, hiding his fix from me, exuding a relaxed charm.

‘Thanks Nate, I heard you. I'm on edge sometimes. It hasn't been easy, you know. But I'm feeling better after rehab. Slowly climbing the slope, you know. One step at a time,' he smiled.

I smiled back, trying to hide my pain.

‘Alright, I need to spend some time alone with Julian,' he said. ‘I'll call you when I come to Oxford, alright?'

‘Yeah,' I said, and we stood with our arms hanging awkwardly.

‘Hug?' I asked.

‘Yeah.' He tapped my back three times, and he was moving into the next room.

‘Enjoy London, Nate,' he said over his shoulder, ‘it's a nice city. Plenty to do if you have a few hours to spare.'

Hours to spare. I bit my lips to stop a grimace, said goodbye to both of them, and left my brother for the streets, their blackened bricks, their leafless trees, all whooshing in unison with the wave of despair that took hold of me. Where was the beauty gone now? Even the cloudless sky couldn't reach a decent blue. I had three days left and I was walking through London, bloody London, choked with cars, sprawling wherever it could clone another row of bland houses, spewing its smog into lungs, leaves, and that flock of silly birds acting like it was spring. Where was the memorial now? The grace that had inspired me felt as pale as a London sky. Still, mechanically, for I had no alternative, I made my way to Paddington station and caught the next express train to Oxford, back to my computer and my schedule.

After an hour of watching city dissolving into fields, I felt like I could once again rationalise my path. It was how society worked: do something wrong, pay for it. The only difference between me and the child killers splattered over the
Daily Mail
was that I hadn't been caught.

I unpacked my guilt, each element strengthening my resolve. I'd become Eric's friend; I'd made him care about people so he could better hate them; I'd nodded along to everything he'd said and I'd kept quiet when I should have spoken out; and the list continued, more satisfying for the pain it caused me: I'd followed his words when he was firing his guns; I'd frozen when I had a chance to help Jeffrey and Anna and Grace, and then, in the epitome of a deep-seated selfishness, I'd finally come into my own when it'd become about my own life; and I'd betrayed the one who'd put his whole faith into me. But it didn't stop there. That couple, sitting across from me, a happy toddler smiling and laughing on their lap, wouldn't let me tickle his feet if I told them the half of it. I'd survived when everyone else had died, and I'd let my mother shape my memories with every one of her well-meaning prods, and I hadn't told the truth when I'd been given the chance, and I'd lounged on Chris and Mary's sofa like a man without a care in the world. And then I'd fled, and I'd come back to corrupt a good girl, ignoring every sign, pushing and pushing until she cracked, just so that I could sleep better at night. Yes, the list was long.

But above all – I dried the sweat off my palms on my seat's chequered felt – my crime was a passive suggestibility. It had dogged me my whole life, from the days I'd followed Tom and Paul around the streets of Oxford; to my fascination with Eric and that moment when, gun in hand, I could have done so much more; to my weeks in hospital and the hours I'd let my mother reshape my story; to my years travelling and the months I'd spent following Denret. It had made me into a criminal. But now I was going to follow Leona, and for once my crime was going to prove my redemption.

By the time I rode home from the train station, I was remembering parts of what I'd felt, the hours I'd spent on the field in the sun, the silence inside the memorial, the freedom of my thoughts. I couldn't stop something I'd started, no. I'd decided to capture it all – now I had to write quickly and finish my story before nos quatre mois. I was following no one this time: writing was my own pursuit. But I still wanted to share it, someone to read this text, someone to like it, even when I was dead. The more I imagined a reader, the more I remembered the inspector's visit on my eighteenth birthday, the more I addressed my words to him. He'd laid claim to my story when he'd asked me for the facts and nothing but the facts, when he said he wouldn't judge me, when all he sought was the truth. I would find his email address and I'd send him these two files, the one I'm typing now and the one I finished before I met Leona, and one man would know all. One man would be able to understand me. It crossed my mind that what I'd done lay so close to the edge of the law that, if I were to come clean today, he might opt not to charge me. But that just proved that there was something wrong with the law – the thought of my arms swinging merrily, free of the shackles they deserved, repulsed me. If there was even the smallest of chances that I'd walk free, then I was right to seek my own punishment.

I stopped at the corner store – it was the young Bangladeshi's day off – and I bought three loaves of bread. One per day. Once in the flat, I filled two empty bottles full of water, found an empty jug in case I needed to piss, and I locked myself into my studio, piling three chairs and two boards I'd found in a cupboard, kitchen table extensions I gathered, in front of the door until it looked as though I would die were a fire to start in the kitchen. For forty-one hours, I stayed locked in my bunker, on my green exercise ball, dozing an hour here, an hour there with my head between my arms, and most of all typing – typing when I felt good, typing when I had cramps, typing when I had doubts.

There was a point yesterday when I pictured OJ, the sailor from the Home Counties I'd met onboard
Hunter
, and I recalled my first storm. A ship as big as ours, and she was rocking, creaking, heaving, water and wind trying to throw me overboard. The thrill of it! All I had to do was leave England and I could face another storm – my passport still had twelve months on it, my bank account 11,000 pounds. Another bottle of whisky with OJ and he'd tell me to find myself a fresh cunt. ‘She's got you locked in with those lips of hers, my boy. A new girl and you'll be right as daybreak,' I heard him say. Picturing him, I looked at the barricade I'd built myself and stood up. But I hadn't been on my feet for hours, and I was hungry, dehydrated, tired. I sat back down. There was no escape.

Hours later, when I was dozing next to my computer, I felt vibrations travelling through the concrete slabs up to my bones. I woke up and tried to listen. The sound of footsteps. It was Leona pacing around the flat, her steps heavy when they used to be light. I rushed to my feet, pushed the chairs aside, and opened the door. Her hand on the main door, her bag over her shoulder, she looked surprised to see me. Guilty, I thought.

‘Are you leaving?' I said.

She let go of the handle and walked towards me, concern fighting off the guilt on her face.

‘I didn't know you were here,' she said. ‘But yes, I have to meet a friend in town.'

Extending a hand, she stroked my cheek. There were tears in her eyes.

‘You look terrible, and you smell too,' she said.

‘I'll look good tomorrow, don't worry.'

She bent her head and stifled a sob.

‘Don't cry,' I said. ‘You don't have to.'

She looked up and gave me a brave smile. Then, her fingers finding the back of my head, she leaned in and kissed me, salty tears on her lips. Our foreheads touched and our kiss stopped, each resting on the other, catching our breath. After a few moments, she leaned back and looked at me:

‘Don't cry,' she said.

‘I'm not.'

She smiled sadly and kissed me again.

‘Thank you,' she whispered, leaning back, clutching her bag to her chest.

‘I should be thanking—' I started, but she laid her hand over my mouth.

‘No,' she said. ‘I'm going to be late otherwise.'

‘Alright,' I said.

She pulled out a tissue and wiped her eyes.

‘Leona?'

‘Yes?' She looked up, her eyes moist.

‘Term's about to start. Are you ready?'

She tried to smile me away.

‘Have you bought your books?' I insisted.

‘No.'

‘Why not? You have money.'

‘I… I haven't thought about it.'

‘But you will, right?'

‘I don't know,' she said.

I needed more. There was no point otherwise.

‘Term starts soon, and you need to do well if you want to go to Paris, remember? Promise me you'll buy your books. You'll buy them tomorrow.'

‘Yes,' she said, looking at my feet.

I grabbed her by the shoulder.

‘Promise me,' I said with more force.

‘Yes.' She looked at me, blinking a tear away.

‘Say it!'

‘I promise I'll buy the books,' she said slowly.

‘And you'll study hard,' I added.

‘Yes.'

My grip loosened. And it became a caress.

‘Okay,' I said. ‘Thank you.'

For a few instants, my thumb traced the contour of her shoulder, while we both looked at the ground.

‘I put the herbs in the bin,' she said. ‘They'd gone bad.'

‘You did?' I said, suddenly hoping.

‘Yes, I told you, I have a new dish in mind. I'll cook at home and bring it tomorrow. See you at seven?'

‘Seven, yes,' I said, conjuring benign ingredients, searching her face for something that would confirm that hope. But she still looked caught in between sadness and relief.

As soon as she left the flat, I went to the La Rochelle cake tin. The medicine bottles were gone. In that bag she'd clutched to her breast, I thought. My hopes soared further, giddy with possibility, and crashed, cruel as they hit the ground. There was no point in hoping, I knew, and yet, despite my best efforts, my mind kept on looking for a way out. I didn't remember putting them there, but both of my credit cards were now resting on top of my passport, inches from my left hand, so that it need only take a moment of weakness, and I could put on my jacket and be back at what I do best: flee. And this morning, just as I was writing about the moment I discovered the medicine bottles, I told myself that perhaps she wouldn't be able to feed me the drugs when it came to it. The happy Leona I'd fallen for would resurface and put a stop to the whole masquerade. In which case I had to be careful: of course, I'd open the bottles I ordered the other day (they arrived this morning), but I shouldn't take the drugs until I was sure she was going to poison me.

I punched my thigh hard, the pain clearing my mind. Hope was torture. I'd accepted her decision. Now, I had to take the pills before she gave them to me. That way, like the one man shooting a blank in a firing squadron, she'd be left clean. Police would confirm it, I'd make sure of it – yes, I'd leave a suicide note, the drugs' receipt, such evidence that no one could ever accuse her – and in a few years, she'd once again live as if nothing had happened.

Twenty minutes to seven, and I need to shave, to put on some perfume, to iron my shirt. Don't hesitate! Tonight, first here in this flat, and then later on the river, I will make up for everything I've done. I must be proud of myself. Many lesser men would have fled already. Just like I did when I turned eighteen. It's simple: I should have stopped Eric or I should have died with him, and I did neither. I shouldn't have talked to Leona about her brother, and I spent two nights confessing. Tonight, I'm a man in control of my own heart, of my own mind, and tonight, pills in my pocket, I'm a man in control of my own death. Surely, a man's final act can atone for the rest. Yes, I see it again, the beauty. It's there, my redemption, the beauty of a graceful death.

I wrote this book in Paris over a twelve-month period. Many people helped me to make it what it has become and deserve to be acknowledged.

First, my parents, who not only wilfully suspended any disbelief they may have had in a novelist's prospects, but also did their all so that I could write a decent book.

Then, the Anglophone literary community in Paris: that eclectic mix of poets, novelists, and musicians hovering around Shakespeare and Company and spilling into breakaway groups; meeting over coffees, cakes, beer, or at one of David Barnes' creations. Special thanks to the Montmartre Thursday-nighters: Rafael Herrero, Wendell Steavenson, Sophie Hardach, and Helen O'Keeffe. Bloody hell, we helped each other!

And the people who read and commented on full drafts of this book: Dane Austin, Sarah Hancock, Gina Hanrahan, Anita Koester, Barbara Lauriat, Emily McLaughlin, Chris Newens, Valentina Olivastri, Alberto Rigettini, Laura Silver. I asked a lot of you, and you delivered.

And finally, the people who turned this book into a solid object. My agent, Peter Straus, who never seems to waste a word. His wonderfully efficient assistant, Felicia von Keyserlingk. And the people at Garnet: Arash Hejazi, Marie Hanson, Pam Park, and the rest of the team.

Thank you.