Читать книгу In a Cottage In a Wood - Cass Green - Страница 7

It’s surprisingly quiet. Apart from the occasional vehicle hissing past on the damp road, she has the bridge to herself. She stomps onward, ignoring the bright blue corona of the London Eye to her left and the comforting glowing face of Big Ben across the water. Normally she gets a thrill from these sights; loves the reassurance that she no longer lives in a tiny village near Leeds. But it’s too cold and too late for that.

Here, exposed on the bridge, the knifing wind feels mean and personal so she tries to tuck herself down into her coat, tortoise-like.

When she sees the figure ahead of her, she has the disorientating sensation that it is a hallucination, or even something ghostly. It’s partly because of the paleness of the woman’s skin and hair, combined with the clingy, bone-coloured dress. Maybe it’s the sheer incredulity she feels on registering that the woman wears no coat in the small hours of this December night.

The woman stands on the left, facing towards Blackfriars Bridge and the gold-lit Parliament, staring out over the water. She is very still.

Neve involuntarily shivers at the sight of the woman’s thin, bare arms, which hang by her sides. In one hand she carries a small, silver clutch bag.

As Neve approaches, the woman turns to her, with a hopeful look on her face. Neve feels the stab of embarrassment of the Londoner, despite the late hour and the strangeness of the encounter. She dips her head but can tell the woman is watching her. She turns, reluctantly, to face her again.

‘Look, are you okay?’ she says. Her voice sounds hoarse from the cigarettes she smoked with Whatsisface earlier. ‘Haven’t you got anything else to put on?’

The woman shakes her head in a quick, sharp movement and then smiles with something like sympathy. It’s almost as if Neve is the odd, vulnerable one rather than the other way around.

Make-up-less, apart from a slash of scarlet lipstick, the woman is startlingly beautiful, with wide pale eyes and a full mouth. Unlike Neve’s thick, dark blonde hair, the other woman’s is so pale it’s almost white. It is pinned at the sides and falls in silky waves around her thin, white shoulders. Her waxen skin is almost blue from the cold.

She’s clearly not poor, thinks Neve, eyeing her. The dress is made from some kind of ivory silk and clings fluidly to her slim frame. It’s almost unnatural, the way it hangs in a sweeping circle around her feet. A princess dress. The words float into Neve’s brain from some childish part of herself and she’s a little ashamed.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asks with a sigh. This one brief exchange means she now has a sense of responsibility to this woman. It’s why no one usually bothers in London.

She should know better. She delves into her handbag and pulls out her purse.

‘Look, I haven’t got much,’ she says, ‘but I can probably stand you a night bus. What happened to your coat?’

A particularly vicious gust of wind sweeps across the bridge, making both women take a step to the side. The bitter cold is ramping up Neve’s headache now and the other woman’s silence is starting to get on her nerves. Maybe she doesn’t speak English?

Neve has had enough and is about to walk away when the other woman finally speaks.

‘You’re lovely,’ she says. Not only is she English, but she has the refined, smooth voice of the girls who always looked down on Neve at school. The swishy-haired ones who dominated the sixth form common room.

‘I’m not, not really.’ Neve feels strangely annoyed by this compliment. ‘I can see how cold you are, that’s all.’ She pauses. ‘Look, I’ve just had a totally shit evening too. Is this about a bloke? Have you had a row with someone?’

The woman makes a non-committal sound that Neve takes to be assent and takes a step closer.

‘He’s not worth it,’ she says. ‘Trust me. And no offence, that’s a lovely dress and everything but you really will get hypothermia wandering about like that.’

‘What’s your name?’ the woman says quietly. Neve sighs again. Why did she get sucked into a conversation? Her instinct is to tell the woman to mind her own business but she is too tired now. Her heels hurt. Her head aches. It’s freezing here.

‘It’s Neve.’ Neve wraps her arms around herself as a shudder of cold mingles with a yawn.

‘Neve … what?’ says the woman.

Neve stares at her.

‘Why?’

‘Please?’ says the woman, and her eyes sparkle. She makes a small, desolate sound in her throat. Neve takes another step towards her.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Don’t cry.’

‘Please,’ says the woman emphatically. ‘Can you just tell me your name?’

Neve stares at her for a moment before replying. ‘Neve … Neve Carey. Um, what’s yours?’

‘Isabelle,’ says the woman in barely a whisper, and then, with more force, ‘Neve, will you do something for me?’

She pictures herself getting on the night bus with this strange wraithlike creature and both of them rocking up at Lou’s. Clearing her throat, she has to work hard not to sound sulky.

‘Uh, yes, I guess,’ she says. ‘But it depends on what it is.’

Isabelle opens the clutch bag and produces a small brown envelope. ‘I want you to take this.’

Neve hesitates and eyes it suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a gift. For being kind to me.’

Neve takes a step back and holds up her palms. ‘Look, I’ve done nothing. I just don’t want you freezing to death on my conscience. I’m not that kind, trust me. I’m actually a bit of a cow. Ask anyone.’

‘You are kind,’ says Isabelle quietly. ‘I can sense it. Will you take this, just to humour me? Say you will. Say it.’

Neve stares back at the woman, discomfited by her intense, strange manner.

A passing car washes them with its headlights. For a moment Isabelle looks cadaverous, her eyes sunk in deep pockets of shadow.

‘It’s important,’ she says fiercely. ‘Please.’

Neve is so unnerved now that all she can do is thrust out her hand and take the envelope.

Isabelle’s shoulders droop and she seems to shrink in on herself.

‘Thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘Thank you so much.’

She fumbles inside the bag and, after producing a mobile phone, turns away and whispers something quietly into it. The she returns the phone to the bag and looks at Neve. Her eyes are gleaming now, as if she is close to tears.

‘You should go,’ she says thickly. ‘I’ll be fine here.’

It’s tempting.

Neve sighs heavily.

‘Come on,’ she says, ‘let’s get the fuck off this freezing cold bridge. Where do you need to get to? I can—’

‘No.’ The sharp retort makes her gasp. ‘I’m sorry. But you need to go now. Leave me here. You shouldn’t be—’

She seems to bite the end of her sentence off and, for the first time, Neve sees that she is terrified in a way Neve has never witnessed before in real life.

Neve crosses her arms.

‘No way,’ she says. ‘I’m not leaving you here. It’s bloody cold and—’

She yelps as Isabelle lunges, kissing her quickly on each cheek with cold, dry lips. Her grip is surprisingly strong. Neve feels a flash of fear as Isabelle’s lips brush her ear.

‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me. And keep it, if you can bear to.’

Then she turns to face the water and, in one neat movement, climbs over the side of the railing and jumps into the river.