Something You Are (26 page)

I thought it would have been serious enough to warrant a queue-jump, but apparently, now that the bleeding had stopped, we could afford to wait. Not surprisingly, we didn't have much to say to each other.

In front of us on another row of seats, two old ladies were talking. One of them, in a pink coat, had her left arm in a cast. Her friend, a taller, thinner woman wearing a blue cardigan, was talking her through her treatment.

‘They'll have to cut those rings off,' she said.

‘They're not taking my wedding ring.'

‘They have to. If they don't, you'll lose your fingers, Lou. It's the swelling.'

‘They're not taking it.'

‘Why does it matter? You can still keep it.'

‘But it'll look like I was never married.'

They lapsed into silence.

As long as I didn't move my leg I could ignore the pain with relative ease.

‘You knew the woman well,' Katz said. ‘That is what Mark said. I am sorry.'

‘What do you actually do in Russia?' I asked, ignoring the statement.

‘My family own restaurants. We own some here too, that is why my family are here for Christmas. Obviously, we do not only own restaurants…'

I nodded.

‘What are you doing for Christmas Eve?' he asked. ‘Apart from… convalescing? Recovery?'

‘Dunno. When is it?'

‘It is today.'

‘Shit, right…' It hadn't even occurred to me. Days of the week had meant nothing recently. ‘Probably just go home, hang out with Mark, maybe some other people if he's planned something. He's probably planned something or other… How did you meet Mark?'

Mark had never told me how he came to be working in Russia after his Oxford education. Despite the years we had known each other there were still a lot of holes in our respective histories.

‘We met not very long ago – two years. He was working for friends of mine in Moscow.' Katz looked at his nails and I noticed, now that he had unzipped the coat with the fur-lined hood, that his shirt was inside-out. ‘He is godfather to my youngest, Alex. My children like him very much.'

‘Your shirt…' I gestured.

It only took one hesitation, but it made him human. It was the first time I had seen any evidence of it.

‘Oh, I did not notice. When you are working fast you…' He trailed off, but didn't have enough of a natural grasp of English to turn it into a lie.

‘No, I get it.' I nodded as the insight clicked into place. ‘I don't mind, Mark sees whoever he likes.'

I wasn't sure what I thought of it, but I was surprised. He didn't seem like Mark's type, who, more often than not, tended to be male models. It seemed to bother Katz though. He frowned as he searched for the right phrasing.

‘I believe in the sanctity of marriage.'

‘So you're a non-practising believer?' I smiled. ‘Don't worry, my family call themselves Catholics and we couldn't count a dozen Masses between us.'

I wondered why Mark hadn't told me. It wasn't as if he was discreet with anything or anyone else. Maybe it was because he knew that I didn't like Katz? Or because I knew Katz was married? Either way, it was still odd.

‘Don't worry, I don't care, I wouldn't tell anyone,' I said.

‘Thank you.'

The two ladies in front of us were still sat in silence. The one on the left was looking at her wedding ring, almost hidden by the purple skin.

‘I wouldn't say I believed in marriage,' I said. ‘But I've just seen the worst fucking advert for it, that's for sure. It's just… dangerous, getting to know someone that well, isn't it?'

After a while, I sat back in my chair and felt my pocket, reminding myself that the cheque was still there, thinking of the money that Clare had waved in my face.

My phone started vibrating.

I tried to stand up to answer it, but Katz stood up instead to give me some privacy.

‘Hi, Harri,' I said.

‘
Hi, how are you?
Whatever. So, Mum and Dad want to know if you're coming over for Christmas.'

‘Are you there now?'

‘Practically moved back in, haven't I. Well?'

I rolled my eyes. ‘Why don't
they
ask me?'

‘I don't know. I'm just the fucking go-between.' She sighed. ‘Are you coming?'

I watched Katz reading the chlamydia leaflets pinned to the wall. Beside them were some posters about coping with diabetes, and another about the dangers of unprotected sex.

‘Probably not, to be honest,' I said. ‘I'm in A&E. My leg is a bit… stabbed.'

‘Huh, surprise. But you're coming to the funeral, yeah?'

‘Yeah, of course.'

‘Sorry I was a dick to you… Last time, I was a bit of a dick. Dad was just on my back, you know. Made a change to see him disembowel someone else for once.'

‘You shouldn't let him shit all over you, Harri. That's why he does it.'

She snorted. ‘And you are such a classic example of that. The way you ran away last time, that was
scathing
, I mean, he couldn't get over it. I watched you, running away, and just thought, “There goes a guy who doesn't let people shit all over—”'

‘OK, fuck off, you've made your point.'

Even on the phone she reminded me of Daisy. It was unnerving; the two of them had almost morphed into the same person in my head.

‘What are you going to say at the thing?' she asked. ‘If you don't do it then I'll have to say something and we all know that no one wants that…'

‘Oh, fuck no, I'll play Rock Paper Scissors for it at the church?'

‘No way, if I'm getting lumbered with throwing confetti all over his rose-tinted life then you definitely have to do it too.' She hesitated. ‘Are you all right? You sound a bit… weird.'

My mind went blank on any kind of convincing lie. To me, the house I had left behind didn't seem to have existed. Like Katz had said, the sense of loss was like a nagging ache, diluted by the shock. Lost car keys.

‘Just work stuff.' I grinned suddenly. ‘Hey, I dare you to read the eulogy while high. Then afterwards everyone will try
and work out why you stopped halfway through and became transfixed by the candles!'

‘Ha-fucking-ha! Don't bail on me for the memorial, yeah?'

‘I won't.'

I hung up, and managed to smile at Katz as he came to sit back down.

‘Thanks for this,' I said. ‘You know, coming, clearing up. It's… appreciated.'

‘It is no problem. I owe Mark many things. As I said to him earlier, when you called for help, where I come from there is no favour that we do not do for our family or our country.'

‘Sorry, we probably give the wrong impression. We're not related.'

‘It does not matter. Mark said you are both his family and his country.'

The ladies in front of us got up to see the doctor on duty, and we were called not long after.

Katz dropped me at home after my leg had been dressed and bandaged, and Mark didn't get back until the early hours of the morning.

I'd fallen asleep on the sofa, watching the webcam videos, at around midnight, and woke up when I heard the front door shut.

My laptop was on standby on the coffee table.

In my dream I had been sat on the floor, against the mirror in Clare's dance studio. She had been dancing for me, back and forth, in black and white. The mirror had been cold against my back. It seemed impossible to comprehend, waking up and realizing that I would never touch her again.

I swung my legs over the edge of the sofa and rubbed my eyes as Mark sat down heavily. He smelt of bleach, and soap,
and cigarettes. Mark never smoked unless he was stressed; it was one of the only ways I was able to discern problems.

‘What's the line?' I asked through a yawn.

‘You were never there. He killed her, then himself. That's it.'

‘Any puppetry?'

‘Not for now. We think it looks fairly convincing, especially given their… history.'

‘Seriously, thanks.'

‘I'm keeping a tally.'

‘She wanted him to kill her,' I said. ‘I kept thinking, why the fuck would she do that? Just tell him everything? But that was all she wanted really, she wanted one of us to lose it.'

‘It's not your fault.'

‘Oh, I know. She would have found a way eventually.'

‘No, I mean, you couldn't have helped her.'

‘Well…' I glanced at him. ‘Road's closed. No point thinking about it now. Just need to find Matt and then I can forget all—'

‘I don't think you should find Matt.'

He looked tired, and I didn't want to get into a debate with him. I still hadn't told him that I had effectively let Matt go, and I wasn't sure I ever would. I wasn't even sure that was what I had done… I could see the white cracks on the backs of his hands from the cleaning products. Deciding to tackle the issue later, I changed the subject.

‘So how long have you and Katz been at it?'

‘
At it?
' He grinned to himself, uncharacteristically coy. ‘Mm, he said you knew. I don't know exactly, I suppose since we met, almost, but with living in different countries we don't see each other very often so…'

‘You happy?'

He pulled a mocking face at me and I reddened.

‘Well, I'm just checking,' I said. ‘Being fucking
nice
.'

‘No offence, Nic, but…' For the first time I could remember, he didn't have a response, and he picked at a tuft of his hair awkwardly. ‘Just fuck off, Nic, OK?'

‘Fine, nice evasion, real smooth.' I raised my eyebrows. ‘Do you believe in marriage?'

He laughed at me. ‘Bit of a loaded question, right now, isn't it? No, not really. If you have kids then you commit to something but I don't see any longevity in just the piece of paper. What's to respect about that?'

‘No, I get you.'

‘And yeah, I'm happy. You make the best of what you get. The world doesn't fucking move around how you feel, you just… make it work, somehow.' He shrugged. ‘She wanted to die. She engineered it from the start. In fact, she probably thought you would do it for her, instead of Pat, am I right?'

‘You're right.' The idea that she had only bothered with me because of my job, because she knew that I was so naturally inclined to violence, made me feel uncontrollably sad. ‘Pat never laid a finger on her in her fucking life, and even now people are just going to believe the same. He hit her, he killed her… You know she threw herself down the stairs? It wasn't him who put her in hospital.'

Mark's expression was serene, even with his exhausted bloodshot eyes.

‘Just let it go.'

‘I
know
,' I said, touching the stitches by my hairline. ‘I just need to… get it straight in my head.'

‘OK.' He nodded at the clock over the fireplace. It was three-fifteen. ‘Try and get some sleep, yeah?'

I had never heard Emma's voice before.

It seemed a bizarre thing to realize now; I had devoted this much time to her yet had never heard her say a thing. I had never seen her in motion either, only in photos, but hearing her voice was the most surprising thing.

‘Mum, stop it. You're being a pure bitch!'

The first thing I heard her say. She was well spoken, and her clipped rhythm reminded me of Pat.

I rewound the video, listened for any sound of Mark returning, and started again.

My phone was on the sofa next to me. A couple of hours ago I'd had a text from a number I didn't recognize, saying,
SORRY
4
BEING A MOODY BINT THE OTHER DAY. HOPE YR WELL N KICKING. DAISY X
.

The Doors were playing, the same song that had been playing the first time she had danced in front of me. A red skirt, flaring with a spin, was the most vivid memory. That, and the way her mood could turn so quickly.

Would you like that?

Clare was posing in front of the webcam, adjusting the screen, looking as if she wasn't confident with using the device yet. Her hair was in plaits. She pushed the lens down so that her arms and chest were in shot, and sat back a little, watching herself.

The lights were down and the door was shut, but I could
see the rest of the living room, down to the end where the shelf was.

Clare looked at herself for a while, adjusting her hair and moving to different camera angles, and ran a small razorblade across the inside of her forearm. It was only a shallow cut, and she watched it until it started bleeding, checking how it came across on camera. There wasn't enough blood to make much impression on the lens; the lighting blurred it.

She stood up, struck some basic poses and turned a few circles. Smiling, she pulled up the hem of the dress to admire her legs.

The door of the living room slammed open, flooding the room with an abrupt onslaught of light.

‘Mum, Danny's coming over.' Emma was standing in the doorway with her arms folded, her hair pulled back and wearing the same boots she'd been wearing the day she was murdered.

‘OK, darling.' Clare went to turn the CD player off, not meeting her daughter's eyes.

‘What the hell's this?'

‘I'm just listening to music.'

Emma looked her up and down with scorn. ‘I thought you said you'd stopped doing this.'

‘Doing what?'

‘That fucking shit all over your arm!'

Clare stood her ground but covered the cut. ‘Don't use that language with me, young lady, not in my house!'

‘It's so
embarrassing
.'

‘Don't give me theatrics, Emma. I hope Danny's not staying over.'

‘Mum, stop it. You're being a pure bitch!'

‘Don't you dare speak to me like that!' She pointed at her.
‘Don't you dare, or don't even think about Danny coming over!'

‘Oh, what's the matter, can't take it when Dad's not here to defend you?' Emma took a step forward. ‘You're sad, you know that? Who do you think you are, some emo teenager?'

‘I mean it! He's not coming over if you carry on.'

Clare walked away, looking unsteady, but Emma followed her. Seeing them this close to each other only seemed to emphasize how much Emma looked like Pat; it was as if she had rejected her mother's genes as well as her traits and mannerisms.

I couldn't help but feel sorry for Clare. It was painful watching someone as fragile as her being verbally dismantled by one of the only people whose opinion she seemed to care about.

‘No, you're pathetic! Living like you're this clichéd tortured fucking artist but you're
not
!'

‘Emma,
shut up
.' Clare put her hands over her eyes, spitting out the words. ‘Just shut up, go to your room…'

‘Whatever, I'm going to Danny's—'

‘Oh no, you're not!' Clare whirled around, her voice becoming shrill.

‘Oh, go make up a dance routine, you fucking
has-been
.'

The first thing that came to hand was the statue. Clare dragged it off the shelf and before Emma could react she had swiped it at her head, catching her across the cheek. It was swung with such force that Emma had to grab hold of the doorway to keep herself upright, and she put a hand to her cheek with an expression of utter astonishment.

Clare burst into tears, dropping the statue on to the sofa.

‘Oh God, oh darling, I'm so sorry—'

‘Go to hell.' Emma backed away and disappeared from view into the hallway.

Clare followed, pleading through the tears. ‘Please, darling, please, I'm sorry…'

‘I
hate
you! Go carve the fucking Mona Lisa in your arm for all I fucking care!'

The front door slammed. Clare came back into the living room and sat down, crying, a loud, violent crying with heavy tears and swollen eyes. After a while she remembered the camera was still running, and came across on her knees to turn it off. She paused for a while beforehand, and I realized that she was watching herself again, observing how she looked while crying.

The last thing I saw was her tears in close up.

Even now, I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her beauty was so hard-edged; so aggressive that she used it to lash out at others while she lashed inwards at herself.

Mark came in, dropped shopping bags and let out an animated sigh. ‘Jesus, who does Britain think it is,
Russia
?'

I considered shutting the laptop, hiding any evidence of having been watching the videos, but it was too late; he would hear and become suspicious. I chose to lie instead.

My leg twinged when I turned. ‘Hey!'

‘What you up to?'

‘Just watching some stuff. You know, I'm thinking of picking up this lead I had for Matt…'

‘Still looking for him?'

‘I don't feel right unless I finish something. It should be finished, right?'

‘No, sure thing.' Mark stood by the sofa, looking at the laptop, and gestured for it. ‘Let's have a look?'

Glad that he seemed to be in agreement, I started the same video from the beginning, and we watched it through again. Every so often I glanced at Mark, to judge his expression, but he didn't look shocked by this one.

‘It's sad,' he said as Clare switched the camera off. ‘Here, can I check something?'

‘Yeah, sure.' I picked up the laptop and passed it back to him, relieved that he hadn't found anything strange in my behaviour.

‘This all of them?' he asked, tapping keys.

‘Yeah.'

‘Cool.' He shrugged and handed it back.

I went to return to the previous video, but the online file I had created was empty. Confused, I refreshed the page, then clicked back, then forwards, to try and find them. But there was nothing.

‘What the
fuck
, Mark!'

‘What?' He shrugged.

‘You deleted them?' I stood up, shouting through the pain it caused. ‘I fucking needed those!'

‘For what, exactly?'

‘For…' I couldn't think of a convincing answer, but I carried on shouting anyway, as if it would make a difference. ‘You have no fucking right,
no
fucking right!'

‘It's for your own good.'

‘You patronizing fuck!' I spat.

‘You weren't going to reform her, Nic!' He squared up to me, raising his voice. ‘You weren't going to change her or help her or marry her and have two point five fucking children! She was a screwed-up woman, a beautiful screwed-up woman who knew how to make people as crazy as she was,
that's
what you need to get, OK? You weren't going to be her fucking saviour!'

I punched him but he deflected the blow.

‘Nic, don't.'

I went for him again and this time he just stood there and took it. Hitting his stomach was like fighting a sheet of iron.

He grabbed me by the front of my shirt and threw me sideways into the wall. I rebounded with some force, caught him around the waist and took us both flying over the back of the sofa. My shoulder smacked against the corner of the coffee table as we hit the floor, and Mark came out on top, pinning me down.

I tried to get up but he wouldn't let me.

He pointed a finger in my face. ‘I'm not having you sitting there and mythologizing her!'

‘Get off!'

‘I swear, I'll kick your fucking arse!'

I could have backtracked, but the scale of my overreaction had confirmed his theory. I couldn't even pinpoint why I was so angry, other than because he had taken away my only way of seeing her again.

All I could hear was our breathing.

Mark was glaring down at me, waiting for a response.

‘Fine,' I said.

‘Fine, what?'

‘Fine, you're right.'

After a couple of seconds, he seemed pacified.

‘Apology accepted,' he said, standing up and pulling me to my feet.

The back of my calf complained, and I had to sit back down again quickly. It struck me, with some regret, that we had never done that before; never even a raised voice, let alone a full-on fight.

Mark brushed himself down and stalked away without a word.

I had watched him work out before, seen the endless
push-ups
and pull-ups and hours of running that he insisted on doing any day he wasn't hung-over. He was fucking lethal, but
it rarely occurred to me that if he wanted he could snuff me out like a candle.

I looked at the screen and the empty storage file, and called, ‘Look, I'm sorry.'

He came back in with an empty mug in his hand. ‘Do that again, I'll break something.'

He wasn't joking.

‘Are you going to see Katz later?'

‘Yeah, drop round some presents for the kids.' He sat on the arm of the sofa and glanced at the laptop. ‘I just didn't think it was healthy.'

‘No, you're right. It's just… she had this way of getting to you. I mean, how many people love someone so much that they would blow their own brains out instead of carry on living without them? I can't imagine it.'

‘It's not something to envy.'

I smirked. ‘You wouldn't blow your brains out for Roman Katz?'

He spread his hands. ‘I'm kinda against the idea of sacrificing anything for anyone, if they wouldn't be willing to do the same in return.'

‘Yeah, I get it.'

He ruffled my hair, and then stopped and checked his nails. ‘I know it's hard, accepting that some people just don't change.'

I wondered who he was referring to.

‘Is it that fucking wrong though?' I said. ‘Wanting to find Matt? You want me to let him get away with it, after everything he's done?'

‘It's not your fight any more. It's not going to change anything.'

‘But—'

‘Just let it go, Nic,
Jesus
!' He put a hand to the side of my face, elongating the words. ‘Let. It. Go.'

I could see the scar across the curve of his top lip, where someone had swiped at him with a penknife three years ago. He was that close.

My phone vibrated on the sofa next to me, and I was surprised to see that the name on the message ID was Daisy's.

Mark stood up again and he was laughing.

‘What?'

‘Daisy… Well, fuck me.' He shook his head as he wandered back into the kitchen. ‘Got to admit, I thought you'd made that one up.'

She was wearing a tweed poncho and nothing else. After a brutal fuck against the wall, on the stairs and on the sofa, Daisy put on some music and we lay on the floor smoking weed.

‘If you'd told me you were gonna do that I'd have warmed up. You know, done some aerobic stretches, fucking Pilates…' She wrapped herself tighter in the tweed and rubbed her smudged lipstick. ‘Nothing broken, it's all good.'

‘What can I say? I'm glad you got in touch…'

‘Well, I was curious. Did you off them then? Matt and Kyle?'

She sounded disturbingly matter-of-fact.

‘Matt? No, he wasn't at that address. He went up north apparently. Does he have family up north, do you know?'

‘Sorry, you're confusing me with someone constructing his family tree.' She ran a finger down the bridge of my nose. ‘What are you, Italian or French or something?'

‘Scottish-Italian.'

‘Sweet. Least you could do is cook me dinner and all.' She
dug an elbow into me and turned on to her side. ‘Is Nic your real name?'

‘Yes.'

Her expression seemed to alternate between sardonic boredom and a persistent excitement. It didn't seem to bother her that she had run out of the hard-core drugs. If it had been Harriet she would have been rifling through the bathroom cupboards looking for a shower cleaner she could convert into a solvent.

‘Yeah, but I bet you're a
filthy
liar.'

‘It is. It's Nic Caruana; I can get people to vouch for it and everything.'

‘Same people who can vouch for not knowing you, eh?' She blew smoke at me and shrugged. ‘I don't give a flying one, really. Nic, Brian, whatever, I'll call you fucking Vanessa, if you like? … What are you up to post-Christmas then?'

‘I've got a funeral actually.'

‘Oh yeah?'

‘My brother's.'

‘Fuck, sorry, man. I just talk and talk and
bleurgh
and you've actually got proper shit going on? How did he die?'

‘Shot down in Afghanistan. He was a helicopter pilot.'

She whistled, writing words in the air with the smoke trail from her spliff. ‘Wow. Hero.'

I hesitated, and she laughed.

‘Ooh, favourite child, right? Tough shit, everyone has them. Seriously though, sorry, it must be… difficult, painful, I don't know. You're probably sick of people saying the same old same old…' She rested her head on my arm and fell silent for a bit.