Never Tell (6 page)

Startled, I gazed at a glowering James.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. Fine, thanks.’ Together we stared down at the crumpled Peter. Greying Y-fronts were visible above his ill-fitting brown cords, large sweat-patches staining the underarms of his striped shirt. I shuddered. I was drunker than I realised.

‘I don’t think she was enjoying that very much.’ James was absolutely nonchalant, but his fists were both clenched. ‘Were you, Rose?’

‘Not much,’ I agreed, nervously.

‘Who the fuck … ?’ Peter scrambled inelegantly to his feet, a mottled red suffusing his clammy complexion. ‘Who the fuck asked you?’

‘No one,’ James shrugged pleasantly, turning away.

‘Oi!’ Peter pulled James round by the shoulder. ‘I said, who asked you, you jumped-up little twat?’

‘Let go, mate.’ I could feel the tension rising in James as he stared at Peter’s hand.

‘You’re one of those Society X morons, aren’t you? Licking bloody St John’s arse.’

James punched Peter square on the nose. There was a nasty crunch and an almost immediate spurt of blood. The taller boy crumpled forwards again, clutching his nose. James just stared down at him, and the blankness on his face chilled me.

‘James!’ The pale girl he’d been canoodling with in the bar stood in the doorway, her red beret pulled down over her curls, false eyelashes like spider-legs framing her huge shocked eyes.

‘Yeah, all right, Kate.’ James shook his hand ruefully. ‘Ouch. His nose was harder than it looked.’

I gaped at him.

‘You might want to think about leaving now,’ James said softly, propelling me back towards the bar. ‘We could walk you …’

‘James!’ The girl was scowling. She was very young, fifteen or sixteen maybe. Younger than we were. Peter groaned on the ground.

‘I’ll be fine.’ I sensed her hostility. I’d had enough aggro for one night. ‘Honestly. Thank you, though.’

As I left the bar, I glanced back at James. He was holding his companion’s arm, apparently soothing her as they gathered their coats to beat a retreat themselves. Catching my eye, he held a hand up in farewell. I was utterly confused.

The following day was the anniversary of my French grandmother’s death. I spoke to my mother on the phone in the morning; she tried valiantly to mask her sadness.

‘Light a candle, love, if you get the chance. She’d like that,’ she said, but I knew it was unlikely I’d be near a church. I mumbled something placatory, and promised to write soon.

Around four o’clock, after a day spent struggling with Blake’s
Songs of Innocence
, I was desperate to get out of my stuffy little room. I grabbed my coat and fled into the fresh air.

The light was already dying in the chilly autumn afternoon as I walked aimlessly; my feet taking me across the Christ Church Meadow towards the old cathedral. The windows suffused with gold looked welcoming against the darkening velvet of the sky, and the choir were just finishing their rehearsals as I slipped into a pew at the back of the great building, listening to the last few beautiful lines of what I later learned was Handel’s
Messiah
.

I waited as they packed up, calling to each other jovially, agreeing to meet in the pub over the road, and then I wandered down to the great table where the candles were kept.

The door slammed behind the last chorister. I put my money in the honesty box, chose a candle and then carried it to the wooden rack where the others flickered. I placed it alongside the others, some still lit, some melted to tiny jagged stubs, the flames shining bravely in the dim light.

As I picked up the matches I thought I heard a footstep, but when I looked round, the cathedral seemed deserted apart from me. I lit my candle and tried to focus my mind, thinking fondly of my grandmother, her funny Anglicisms, her boeuf Bourguignon that melted in your mouth, her horror when my mother cut my infant hair short. (‘Mon
Dieu! So common, Lynette. Vraiment, tout le monde dirait qu’elle est un garçon!’)

Placing the matches back, I felt a draught down the back of my neck. A sudden scraping noise made my heart jump – and then a great gust of wind blew through the cathedral from nowhere. All the flames guttered. My candle went out.

I tried to stand but I had cramp in my leg. Limping, I hurried as fast as I could towards the great doors – which suddenly seemed very far. I didn’t want to stay and relight the candle; I wanted to go now. But before I reached the door, a slim figure slipped from behind a pillar, framed against the stained glass like an unholy apparition. I blinked. It was Dalziel.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ I stuttered. I gathered my wits. ‘Hello.’

‘Praying for redemption?’ He arched an eyebrow. Wearing a long black Astrakhan coat, the collar turned up to frame his pale face, he looked otherworldly. ‘Are you the religious type then?’ He regarded me coolly. ‘You don’t really look it.’

‘No. I – it was my grandmother. She died – just, a few years – well, I – I just came to remember her, I suppose.’

‘Well, All Souls’ Eve is past.’ He flicked his blond hair back.

‘So?’ I didn’t know what he meant.

‘When, my dear, the boundary is open between the dead and the living. But perhaps she’ll rise again tonight.’

‘Oh.’ I thought of how very sick and slight my elegant grandmother had been at the end. ‘God, I kind of hope not. I think she might be happier where she is.’

‘Really?’ Dalziel looked amused. ‘Remind me of your name.’ He took a step towards me. ‘Something floral, wasn’t it?’

‘Rose. Rose Langton.’

‘Ah yes. Rose. “Of sweetest odours made.” Well, perhaps you can help me, now you’re here.’

I blushed hotly. ‘Help you?’

‘Yes. Number Four.’

‘You’ve lost me,’ I mumbled. He was so beautiful, close up. Ethereal, almost.

‘Never mind. No time to explain. Got to defile Sabbath’s day before the protectors get here.’ Dalziel picked up the bag at his feet. A bright pink feather boa protruded from one end. ‘Jesus needs a little help with his outfit. He’s been feeling a bit chilly.’

As I watched in amazement, Dalziel produced full suspenders and stockings, crotchless knickers and nipple tassels in red satin, a push-up bra in black lace and a bottle of champagne, still cold, all from his bag.

‘You open the Krug.’ He pressed the bottle on me. ‘I’ll dress him. And get a move on. This place is never empty for long.’

I didn’t dare admit I’d no idea how to open a bottle of champagne. Like a lost puppy, I followed him as he carried the underwear over to the six-foot Jesus, who gazed sadly down at the floor near our feet.

‘See.’ Dalziel ran his hand lovingly down Jesus’s torso. ‘He’s freezing, poor bastard. Where’s Mary when you need her, eh?’

Our eyes met and I felt a strange heat suffuse me, somewhere in the very core of me. Quickly I looked away again, struggled with the champagne’s foil, untwisting the metal. For some reason my hand was shaking.

‘Tassels or bra?’

The cork popped suddenly, nearly taking my eye out. It hit the pillar and ricocheted beneath a pew.

‘Oh, you bugger,’ Dalziel was murmuring to himself as champagne sputum poured over my leg, the froth spraying Jesus’s new outfit.

‘The tassels won’t stay on. His chest’s too slippery. So that decides it.’ Dalziel clipped the bra round the back of Jesus. ‘There we go.’ He took the bottle from my hand and toasted Jesus. ‘Genius.’

‘But …’ I looked at the incongruous idol before me. The suspenders flapped in a slight breeze coming from somewhere. ‘I don’t understand. Why …’

Voices were audible from the back of the cathedral. Dalziel took a quick slug and then shoved the champagne at me as he gathered up his bag. ‘Come on.’

‘You forgot the boa,’ I whispered.

‘Too late.’ Dalziel grabbed my other hand, and we ran for it, giggling up the side aisle, dribbling champagne and pink feathers as we went.

Outside we kept running, expecting to hear angry voices behind us, through the grounds, past the porter in his bowler hat and Crombie, towards the Meadow, ending panting beneath a huge tree as it began to drizzle. Dalziel took the bottle and drank, long and hard. He looked at me.

‘You know, you’re more fun than I expected,’ he said, and I felt my heart turn over. ‘Little Rose.’

‘I’m not so little,’ I protested. ‘I’m eighteen.’

‘Are you?’ He passed me the bottle. ‘Very grown up. What’s the time?’

I checked my watch. ‘Six thirty.’

‘Gotta go.’ He leaned down and kissed my cheek. He smelled a little of something sweet; later I learned it was patchouli oil. ‘Gotta meet a man about a dog.’ He winked at me. ‘See you around. Keep the Krug.’

He melted into the night. I stood for a moment under the tree in the Meadow, the city bright before me, the night dark behind me. In a window of Christ Church halls, a grinning pumpkin flickered.

I was more than a little light-headed. I was utterly intoxicated – and not just from the champagne.

GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

James was shouting desperately in his sleep. As I came to, I could hear him moaning that he was being crushed.

‘It’s so dark,’ he kept repeating. ‘Let the light in, please.’

Befuddled with sleep, I pulled the curtains back although it was still night, and gently tried to wake him. He hadn’t had one of the really bad nightmares for a while. Now he was sweating and gurning, his face pallid in the moonlight, thrashing across the bed like a fish in a net. I tried to hold his arms still but it was impossible, his desperation making him strong as Samson. As he flailed he caught me hard across the face – but it was only the next day I realised he’d cut my cheek.

In the morning he said he didn’t remember the dream, but he looked unkempt and exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all, huge circles beneath his Labrador-brown eyes.

‘You’re up early,’ I said, plonking some toast in front of him that he pushed away. ‘Are you all right?’

He didn’t speak. He just sat at the breakfast table drinking black coffee and reading the
Financial Times
in sullen silence whilst the children ate cereal and bickered, and the
Today
programme murmured in the background. Liam and Star were still in bed; I didn’t expect to see them before noon.

I was plaiting Alicia’s hair when James ordered me to turn the radio up.

‘News just in this morning: as feared, the Nomad Banking Conglomerate has gone down with the most devastating effect,’ John Humphrys announced. ‘A huge shock to all involved. What exactly is it going to mean for the investors?’

‘Turn it off, for fuck’s sake.’ James stood up, his face horribly taut, a muscle jumping in his cheek. ‘Christ, all this fucking doom and gloom. I thought this was meant to be boom-time.’

I realised it wasn’t the time to reprimand the swearing.

‘Mummy,’ said Effie, ‘can I have a cross hot bun, please?’

‘I’m not sure how much more I can take actually.’ James rammed his chair into the table. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re not out on the street soon.’

He was prone to exaggeration, but I wondered now if the warning signs of his former depression were rearing their head again. I thought rather nervously of the troubles he’d mentioned the other day.

‘James, please,’ I beseeched as Alicia looked at him curiously. ‘Let’s talk about it in a minute, OK?’

‘Cross hot buns, cross hot buns,’ the twins began to chant, oblivious.

James threw the paper on the table and slammed out of the room. It was obviously not the time to tell him I wanted to go back to work, although if the money worries were real, he might welcome it. I slathered my toast with marmalade and glanced at the front page.

‘Art Dealer’s socialite daughter protests for Islamic Fundamentalism,’
the headline read. There beneath the print was a photo of a girl struggling with a policeman in Parliament Square, dark hair falling across her beautiful but angrily contorted face, a black boy with short dreds behind her, partially obscured. Licking marmalade from my fingers, I pulled the paper closer and looked again. It was the girl from the petrol station.

UNIVERSITY, NOVEMBER 1991

The River of Oblivion rolls … whereof who drinks,
Forthwith his former state and being forgets
.

Paradise Lost
, Milton

I didn’t see or hear from any of them again until the middle of November. There were vague murmurings on campus about the incident in the cathedral, and one mention in the
Oxford Gazette;
and sometimes I wanted to shout, ‘That was me’ – but I never did. Life went on as normal. I immersed myself in my work, but I found myself searching streets, bars and crowds longingly to see if Dalziel was there. He never was, and there was a part of me that was relieved. Once I saw Lena and the beautiful dark girl in the King’s Arms but they looked through me in a way that made me shrivel. I wanted to do well at Oxford and I had a feeling deep in my bones that these boys and girls, this group, were never going to be good for me. I asked a few people about Society X but no one seemed to want to talk about it. Some just smiled and looked away; lots had never heard of it – and a few looked faintly appalled when I mentioned it, so eventually I stopped; I started to forget about them all.