Greenwich Park(53)

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she says, seeing me. ‘I’ve just made Helen one.’

‘Thanks, I’m fine.’

I notice a bottle of what look like headache tablets next to the kettle. I could do with one of those, I think.

‘Where’s Helen?’

‘Gone to bed.’ Serena smiles, motions at the chaos. ‘Just thought I’d make a start.’

I nod. ‘Let me help.’





GREENWICH PARK





He tells her he will keep watch a while, just to make sure. They don’t want any more surprises. When she leaves him, he hears her moving around in the house, like a ghost. The floorboards creak underfoot. The house straining to keep its secrets.

When he can’t sit there any more, he turns the light out, and goes and sits outside. He takes the bottle of Scotch. He drinks and waits and drinks until his throat is raw. He is waiting for the morning, as if the morning might bring with it an answer. But the morning does not come when it is supposed to. And it is dark, so dark.

In the embers of the bonfire, something moves. At first, he thinks it is a fox, or a rat. But then he sees the smooth sheen of feather, black that shines blue in the light, like a velvet dress. Not velvet. Feathers. A raven, come to bury the dead.

The raven perches on the hedgerow, folds its wings and cocks its head at him against the moon. There is silence. Its eyes are ink black, its feet red raw. A hunchback. Its head moves all the way round. In the background, four roses stare at him, their faces blank and pure.

He looks at the raven and lifts his glass in salute.

Nevermore, he says to the raven.

And the raven speaks back.

Nevermore, the raven says.

Nevermore. Nevermore. Cellar Door.





TEN YEARS EARLIER





I wonder when the music stopped, and where I can get some water. I need to get up, but I can’t get up. That’s when bits of my body start to come back. Arms first. My wrists are heavy. I imagine them weighed down by bracelets. Gold and diamonds.

No, not bracelets. Something warm. Something that is squeezing tight.

I force my eyes to focus. The sky has gone too. It is different now, wood and a rippled metal, the underside of corrugated iron. And either side of me are boats, but we’re not on the water. The boats are piled on top of each other, their edges long and shiny, painted numbers on the side. I wonder if the person who paints the names is the same. What names? I can’t remember. Can’t remember.

Then on the walls. Long spoons, giant ones. Not spoons. Paddles? Oars. They are oars.

It’s so quiet, so cold in here. Yet there is a hot feeling, pressing into me. And only now do I notice the pain, like a red flag in the distance. But as soon as I notice, I can’t not notice. And then it is everywhere, spilling out like ink in water. Starting down, moving all over. It hurts, it hurts. And now, I see his face.

The face I saw before. The dark fringe, the hooded eyes, watching me. What happened to me? The quiet one is on top of me. The pain is him. The wrists is him. The noise is him. It’s all him. The blanket scratches on my neck.



Huh. Huh. Huh.

And behind him, another. A laughing face.

Huh, huh, huh.

The panic comes now, replaces the pain. I pull my head up off the ground, but my shoulders won’t follow. My wrists are pinned. I open my mouth. I have to speak.

Hey, I hear myself say. I mean it as a shout but my voice sounds far away. Like a whisper. It’s all I can say. Hey. Hey.





37 WEEKS





HELEN





The morning after the party I wake with my head heavy and spinning, almost as if I had been drinking last night. I am aching all over, my chest clammy against my clothes. I wonder whether I might be getting the flu.

I walk downstairs to survey the damage. The kitchen floor is cold, and when I run the hot tap, ghosts of hot steam drift out of the boiler pipe, escaping into the frosty garden air. I take a deep breath, rub my eyes, flick the kettle on. My shoulders ache. I don’t feel right. Maybe I should take some paracetamol. I put my hands to my throat. It feels red raw, as if I have spent the whole night screaming.

I pull my blue check coat over my pyjamas, stepping into my wellies with one hand on the wall in case I topple over. The coat will no longer fasten over my bump.

Outside, the bonfire has burned out, leaving a huge black wound in the centre of the garden. There are crows in the trees and on the fence, diving down to pick over the charred remains. I shoo them away, pick a path through the wet grass to check on my roses. I pluck a cigarette butt out of their beds, retrieve an upturned wine glass. When I stand up again, the earth swims. I grasp at the trellis. I can see those twists at the sides of my vision again. Little spirals of black and white, like tickertape.

I make my way back to the kitchen to make tea. It is spotlessly clean, the surfaces wiped, with that artificial forest smell everywhere. The mugs and glasses are all washed up, sparkling and stacked neatly on the draining board. Did I do all that? I don’t think so. Katie must have stayed after I’d gone to bed, helped to clear up the house. I suppose it might have been Daniel, though he doesn’t normally leave anything this neat. It won’t have been Charlie. Charlie always disappears whenever there’s work to be done.