Secrets of the Tides
Read Secrets of the Tides Online
Authors: Hannah Richell
For M, J & G
Contents
Fever of the heart and brain
,
Sorrow, pestilence, and pain
,
Moans of anguish, maniac laughter
,
All the evils that hereafter
Shall afflict and vex mankind
,
All into the air have risen
From the chambers of their prison
;
Only Hope remains behind
.
From ‘The Masque of Pandora’
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
A half-empty train rattles through fields and farmland towards the grey concrete sprawl of the city. There is a young woman huddled in the farthest corner of the last carriage. Her hair is like a veil, hiding her tears. In her pocket is an antique brooch. Her fingers brush the cold arc of it before flipping it over and over in time to the rhythmic clatter of wheels on track. When she can resist no longer, she releases the clasp and stabs the pin deep into the flesh of her palm
.
It’s agony, but she won’t stop. She presses the needle deeper still, until warm blood streams down her wrist and splashes crimson onto the carriage floor
.
Finally, the train jerks and slows. Brakes squeal
.
As they reach their destination she pushes the bloodied brooch deep into her coat pocket, grabs her bag and then drops down onto the platform
.
People dart about her. Two women shriek and embrace. A tall man in a turban races for the ticket barriers. A spotty teenager hops from foot to foot, gazing up at the departures board as he shovels crisps into his mouth. Everything around her seems to buzz and hum while she just stands there on the platform, a single fixed point, breathing deeply
.
Signs for the Underground point one way but she ignores them, hefting her bag onto her shoulder and making for the street exit. She strikes out across a busy pedestrian crossing and turns left for the bridge. Big Ben looms in the distance; it is three minutes to twelve
.
She walks with purpose; she knows where she is going and what has to be done. But then she sees the river, and the sight of it, a shifting black mass carving its way through the city, makes her shudder. Whenever she’s imagined this moment the water has been grey and flat, not dark and viscous like seeping oil. But it doesn’t matter now. There is no going back
.
She stops halfway across the bridge and leans her rucksack up against the wall. Then, with a quick glance about her, she scoots up and over the barrier until she is clinging to the other side of the balustrade
.
The toes of her trainers balance precariously on the concrete ledge. She grips the wall, wincing as her bleeding palm scrapes the stone, and then twists so that she is facing the water below. The wind blows her hair, whipping it across her face and stinging her eyes until hot tears form. She blinks them back
.
‘Hey!’ She hears a cry behind her. ‘Hey, what are you doing?’
She is out of time
.
She locks her gaze on a sea of grey buildings on the far horizon and, with a final breath, lets go of the balustrade. Then she is falling, falling, falling
.
Any breath left in her body is punched out by the ice-cold water. She fights the urge to kick and struggle, instead surrendering herself to the inky blackness, letting the weight of her clothes take her stone-like towards the bottom
.
By the time Big Ben chimes midday she is gone, lost to the murky depths below
.
Present Day
It is late when Dora arrives home. She lets herself in through the heavy metal door of the old button factory and climbs the three flights of stairs to her flat. It’s cold and gloomy in the stairwell but as her key turns in the door she hears music playing and the welcoming sound of saucepans and cutlery clattering from deep within the kitchen.
‘Babe, I’m back,’ she calls out, slipping off her killer shoes and kicking them into an ever-growing pile of footwear by the front door. A wet nose and huge brown eyes appear from behind the shabby leather sofa, followed by a long wagging tail. ‘Hello, Gormley,’ she says, giving the dog an affectionate pat on the rump. ‘Busy day?’
Dan’s chocolate brown Labrador wags his tail again, yawns and slinks back into the lounge.
‘Don’t come into the kitchen,’ she hears Dan yell. ‘I’m cooking . . . something experimental . . . very Blumenthal . . . you’re going to love it.’
Dora smiles; they both know Dan doesn’t cook. She rifles through the post on the table by the door – nothing but bills. ‘I didn’t think we had any food?’ she asks suspiciously.
‘Er . . . we didn’t. Oh shit!’ There’s the sound of something smashing.
‘You went shopping?’
‘Sort of. Just don’t come in yet, it’s nearly ready.’
Dora walks into the living space, a large, white, open-plan area flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows on opposite sides. As she moves through she starts at a movement out of the corner of her eye, but calms as she realises it’s just her own pale reflection in the windows; she’s feeling jumpy. Obediently she remains in the room, switching on a couple of lamps, returning a few of Dan’s splayed art books back to the shelves next to the television. Gormley is already curled up on his bed next to the sofa, one lazy eye tracking her movements. Dora looks around her, wondering when it will ever really feel like
their
place. It’s been six months and they’ve barely scratched the surface of the enormous project they took on. The exposed brick walls have been painted white and the floorboards sanded and polished. It’s clean and spacious, but it feels a little like an exhibition space waiting to be filled. They just haven’t had the time to turn it into a home; it’s been one thing after another.
‘Right, you can come in now,’ she hears Dan shout.
Dora pushes the door to the kitchen; it sticks momentarily on the torn lino until she gives it a firm shove with her shoulder and it flies open with a bang.
Dan is standing by the wonky trestle table currently masquerading as their kitchen table. He indicates with a flourish two steaming bowls of tomato soup and a plate of buttered white sliced bread. She can see the open soup tin on the counter behind him. She walks across and puts her arms around his neck, kissing his stubbly chin.
‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve seen all day.’
‘That bad, huh? How did the presentation go?’
Dora shrugs. ‘Hard to tell; the clients weren’t giving much away.’
‘But your boss was pleased?’
‘I think so. He’ll be more pleased if we sign them. It would be a real coup for the agency – good for me too,’ she adds, ‘as I’d be on the account.’
Dan releases her from his big embrace and ushers her to the table. ‘Come on, let’s eat before it gets cold.’
Dora seats herself at the table and reaches for a slice of bread. ‘Thanks for this.’
‘It’s nothing, really.’ He pushes a mug of tea towards her. ‘Are you OK? You look a little pale.’
‘I’m fine; it’s just been a really long day. I’m tired.’
He looks at her with concern. ‘You’re working too hard.’
‘I’m fine,’ she says again, with a shrug. ‘Anyway, how was
your
day?’ she asks, steering the conversation away from her. ‘Did you get much done?’
It’s as if someone has switched a light on in Dan’s face. ‘It was terrific. I had a huge breakthrough. I know exactly what my next piece is going to be. And Kate Grimshaw rang me back to confirm her order for three of the sculptures from my showcase, so I’m certainly going to be busy over the next few months.’
‘That’s great!’ Dora raises her mug and he clinks his against it. ‘Really, it’s wonderful news.’ They both know Dan has been waiting for inspiration to strike. His last set of bronze sculptures showed at a tiny London gallery and were picked up by a noted art collector, but since then he’s been struggling with the pressures of following up with something better. Dora knows he’s been privately agonising over the delay, so it’s a relief to hear he has, at last, found inspiration. ‘Do you want to tell me about the new piece?’
Dan shakes his head. ‘Sorry, not this one. It’s a surprise.’
‘Intriguing. I take it the back room is out of bounds for now then?’
‘Yes, and it’s a studio, remember, not a back room?’
She smiles down into her bowl and they fall into a comfortable silence, slurping at their soup until they are both staring down at empty dishes.