Читать книгу Finding Henry Applebee - Celia Reynolds - Страница 15

Ariel closed the basement door behind her and dragged her wheelie bag back up the concrete steps. She followed the zigzag of turns in reverse and retraced her steps to Finsbury Park tube station. As she neared the entrance, a crowd of commuters with misery splattered across their faces came pouring towards her.

‘Has something happened?’ she asked a woman in a camouflage parka and bright orange boots.

The woman sighed. ‘There’s a security alert at Victoria. The entire line’s been closed. Don’t even bother trying to get on the Piccadilly Line… the platform’s rammed. It’s total chaos down there.’

Ariel’s heart sank. ‘Are there any buses? I have to get to King’s Cross.’

‘Sure, if you’re willing to spend the rest of the day getting pushed around in a queue with everyone else here.’ She flicked her eyes to Ariel’s wheelie bag. ‘It’ll be a bun fight to get on them, though, especially with that. Personally, I’m calling it quits and going home.’

Ariel looked up and down the length of Seven Sisters Road. If taxis ever drove along it, they weren’t doing so today.

She checked the time on her phone. If she didn’t get to King’s Cross in the next thirty minutes, she wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of catching her train.

She stared back at the entrance to the tube station. ‘Sod it,’ she said, to anyone who cared to listen. ‘I’m going in.’

Tightening her grip on her wheelie bag, Ariel threw herself into the fray – one more nameless face (or so it seemed to her), caught up in the slipstream of the day, the rush hour crush eventually propelling her onto a heaving Piccadilly Line platform, its force pressing in around her, relentless, immense.

Five trains came and went before she finally managed to squeeze herself through the doors of a carriage which was already bursting at the seams. Her wheelie bag dug into her legs, as well as those of the strangers squashed up close and personal against her. ‘Sorry,’ she kept saying, over and over. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’

‘’S’alright, love,’ one man replied with a resigned grimace. ‘This is London. We can take it.’

Ariel gave him a nervous smile. All she could think about as the tunnel closed around them was that she wasn’t going to make it. No way was she going to make her train.

At King’s Cross, she spilled out of the tube train door and jostled her way through a scrum of commuters funnelling upwards into the mainline railway station.

The time on her phone showed 8:26.

‘Shit.’

She stepped off the escalator and paused to orient herself. A young boy with a freckled face and a mop of unruly hair crossed in front of her, tripping over his shoelaces, shooting her a curious stare. Hey, you look just like my brother, Isaac! she almost called out to him. But the crowd swept them onwards, the momentum carrying her all the way to the central concourse, where the boy disappeared from view.

Positioned high against the back wall, the electronic departure board displayed running updates on an array of trains bound for the north. Ariel scanned the screen until she found the one she was looking for:

Destination: Edinburgh. Departure: 9a.m. Status: On Time. Platform: Not Yet Allocated.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted a Starbucks to her right. Weaving her way towards it, she placed her order at the till and moved to the end of the counter to collect her drink. Her hand slipped inside her canvas bag while she waited and wrapped itself around her phone. She toyed with it in the palm of her hand, then fished it out and saw that a message from Tumbleweed had just that second come in.

Ariel opened it. A close-up shot of a pair of bright purple running shoes – primed and ready for action in the middle of a sun-drenched field – filled the screen. As usual, there was no message; the rule was they always let the pictures do the talking. (‘Sounds like a cop-out to me,’ Linus liked to tease her, but then in her humble opinion, her father had always been overly fixated on words.)

‘Grande cappuccino for Ariel?’ A dough-faced barista slid her cup across the counter and winked. ‘Is that Ariel as in “brilliant cleaning every time”?’

‘Yes,’ she replied with a well-practised smile. ‘That’s me. I haven’t heard the washing powder reference in a while, actually. Lately, it’s either been Sylvia Plath or The Little Mermaid.’

A large, floor-to-ceiling window separated the interior of the coffee shop from the station concourse beyond. She dragged her wheelie bag towards it and turned her attention back to her phone. The implication of Tumbleweed’s message seemed to be that someone – she – was running.

But in which direction? she wondered. And towards, or away from, what?

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked her.

‘What am I going to do about what?’

For the past quarter of an hour, Ariel and Tumbleweed had been sitting on a stretch of gorse-covered cliff top; a long, rugged cummerbund of land which leaned, and eventually fell in jagged increments, to the sea. Behind them lay the billowy green contours of the Langland Bay Golf Course. Ahead, the bay itself, languid, flecked intermittently with wispy bursts of spray.

‘The package Estelle gave you,’ he replied. ‘Don’t you want to know what’s in it?’

Ariel shrugged. ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. Not really.’

She clamped her arms across her chest and reminded herself to breathe. It was the previous November, two days since Estelle’s funeral, and all she felt was numb. Was this normal? she asked herself. Everyone had told her it would bring closure. Relief. It was, she’d discovered, a lie. To her, it felt more like the ceremony’s solemn finality had brought with it a kind of shutting down – a formal sealing in, in a way – of everything that was ransacked, and empty, and broken.

Linus, Ariel, Isaac: they were three now. It didn’t fit, would never fit, she was sure of it. The void in her heart was indescribable. The last thing she wanted to think about was the package when it was as much as she could do to reorient herself on solid ground.

‘You’re still in shock,’ Tumbleweed said. He leaned his long, rangy body against his elbows. Tossed a hank of straw-coloured hair from his eyes. ‘My bad. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

‘This sucks,’ Ariel replied. She gave him a placatory smile. ‘Sorry.’

She hadn’t been out on the cliffs in weeks. Once, when she was small, Linus had brought her not far from where they were sitting now in search of lost golf balls. He told her he’d be able to sell them on for extra cash, though as it turned out, the payout was barely more than negligible. She’d trailed along behind him, stopping every few paces to gaze at the mountains of bright yellow gorse. It was only when she felt a familiar pressure building between her legs that she remembered where she was.

‘Daddy, wait!’ she’d cried. ‘I need the toilet!’

Linus turned and gave a carefree wave of his hand. ‘Hurry up, then! We’ll stop off at the loos by the tennis courts on the way home!’

Ariel peered to her right. The gorse was almost as tall as she was, its prickly fronds rising just inches from her chin. Beyond it, she knew the earth sloped away to the edge of the cliff and a dense outcrop of rocks below.

Her legs froze.

‘Daddy, please come back and get me! I’m scared!’

Linus’s reply, breezy as the air itself, floated backwards on the wind. ‘What’s got into you? Come on, pet. I’ll wait for you on the path.’

She watched him plough ahead, hands on hips; his easy Sunday stride. Ariel lowered herself to her knees and began to crawl through the thick, briery grass. Overhead, a scalding sun beat down onto her shoulders as a warm trickle of urine seeped between her thighs. She dug her fingernails into the earth, determined not to cry. When she finally reached the path, Linus (who was oblivious still) caught her by the waist and swept her playfully into his arms.

‘I wish it could change things,’ she said. She turned back to Tumbleweed and brushed the memory aside. ‘But whatever the envelope contains, it’s not going to bring back Estelle.’

Ariel felt a tear forming in the corner of her eye. ‘And there’s something else… I don’t understand why she’d ask for pen and paper and then not write a single word to Linus. Or Isaac. Or – or me.’

Tumbleweed draped his arm around her shoulders. ‘Oh,’ he said gently, ‘that’s what’s bothering you.’

She shifted her gaze to the distant demarcation where the sky dripped down to meet the sea. ‘None of it makes any sense. Freaks me out when people find stuff out after someone dies.’

‘Seriously?’ Tumbleweed raised his eyebrows. ‘Like what?’

Ariel shrugged. ‘I don’t know… Affairs. Secret lives. Debts. Stuff like that.’

She saw him suppress a smile.

‘Come on, that’s not who Estelle was. And anyway, if you want to get to the bottom of that enigma, all you have to do is deliver the package like she asked. Either that, or open it yourself.’

‘No way, Tee!’ Ariel recoiled so fast, Tumbleweed’s arm plummeted like a dead weight to the ground. ‘I’m not going to open it when she specifically asked me not to. It would be –’ she paused, searching for the right word – ‘disrespectful.’

‘Fair enough. So then you know what to do. You’ll deal with it when you’re ready, right?’

‘Right.’

She watched the setting sun burn a hole in the sky, the dying embers of a red-hot fire which sparked and flared, and eventually extinguished itself as it slipped, still smouldering, into the bay.

‘Aw sod it,’ Tumbleweed cried. He raised himself up off the ground and pulled Ariel to her feet. ‘In my experience, things rarely turn out the way we think, anyway. Sometimes, my friend, they actually turn out better.’

Ariel tossed the plastic lid from her cappuccino into the waste bin and stared through the glass wall. The commuters who up until now had been congregated in a dense mass beneath the overhead departure board appeared to be mysteriously drifting apart. There was no pushing or shoving; no obvious threat, whispered or otherwise, of genuine alarm. Instead, what she was witnessing was far more subtle; more like a slow, insidious peeling away…

She moved closer to the window and followed the rift to its natural conclusion. Hovering at the end of it, about halfway between the coffee shop and the electronic screen, was a well-dressed elderly gentleman, a small brown suitcase at his feet. Judging from the empty space around him, he was alone, and to her horror, he was bleeding profusely.

‘Oh my God!’ she cried. ‘That man needs help!’

A handful of customers standing alongside her raised their heads, stared for a moment or two, looked away.

The man was leaning heavily on his walking stick, his expression dazed. The collar of his shirt and the cuffs peeking out of his coat sleeves were a brilliant white. His shoes glistened. Everything about him – from his elegant woollen coat, to his smart grey suit, pale blue shirt and tie – was immaculate; everything apart from the jarring sight of blood pouring from his nose.

‘What’s wrong with everyone? Why doesn’t anyone help?’ she muttered under her breath.

Tear-shaped droplets of blood were now running down the man’s neck and seeping into the edges of his shirt collar. Several splashes landed on his shoes. On the ground immediately before him, a widening circle of liquid was slowly beginning to pool.

Suddenly, Ariel started.

Frank…

A revolving zoetrope of images began to rotate in rapid-fire flashes to her brain:

The wound – jagged, gaping – running along the back of Frank’s head…

The blood – creeping like a scarlet inkblot between his shoulder blades, trickling along the crease of his trousers, all the way to the shards of broken glass at his feet…

The child’s face – her own face – streaked with tears, a protective grip on her arm warning her there was no permissible way to intervene…

Grabbing the handle of her wheelie bag with one hand, her cappuccino with the other, Ariel pushed her way through the door of the café and ran. Directly ahead of her, the old man lurched from side to side, as though on the brink of falling down. Ariel sped through the crowd towards him, hot coffee sloshing over the edge of her cup as she moved, burning her fingers, staining her clothes, splashing messily to the ground.

When she reached him, the old man’s eyes – a pale, muddled grey – met hers and widened in surprise.

Instinctively, they both looked down.

‘It looks like a Jackson Pollock. I think the technical term is “drip painting”,’ he said, pointing at the pooling canvas with his stick.

His voice was warm, and, Ariel noted with surprise, unexpectedly calm.

She turned the name over in her mind. Pollock. Linus would know him, she was sure; and yet ironically, during her most memorable visit to a gallery – the National Gallery, as it happened – Linus hadn’t been with them.

She thought back to the endless rows of paintings and the cathedral-like dimensions of the rooms. Now, so many years later, her most vivid recollection was of Estelle’s disappointment at finding Van Gogh’s vase of yellow sunflowers permanently obstructed by the shoulders, heads and hats of tourists conspiring to keep it hidden, on one side or another, from their view.

‘Looks to me like the inside of my head,’ she replied. ‘When I’m having a bad day. A day full of demons.’ She drew her hair back from her face and leaned her head to one side. ‘It’s dramatic, though. Like an explosion of light and dark.’

She pulled an unopened packet of Kleenex from her canvas bag and pressed it between the old man’s fingers. He was a full head taller than she was, and, she couldn’t help noticing, impressively upright for someone who was obviously more than a little reliant on his stick.

Ariel placed her hand behind his elbow and did her best to reassure him with a smile. ‘Are you okay?’

The old man nodded and tilted his head to the ceiling.

‘That’s it, keep your head back. Don’t look down.’ She slipped a tissue from its packet and began to wipe the smears of partially dried blood from his face. ‘Is there someone I can call for you? A friend or relative, maybe?’

‘No,’ he said quickly, ‘there’s no one to call. No one I want to bother, at any rate.’

His face was waxen and drawn, but his eyes seemed more focused close up – sharper, and somehow more determined.

He shifted his gaze an inch or two to the right, in the direction of the electronic screen. ‘I can’t understand what happened. It just –’ he paused, clicked his fingers – ‘came on like that! Right out of nowhere!’

Ariel guided his hand to his face and encouraged him to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. She noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding band, but then she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen a man as old as he was wearing a ring. She tried to imagine what it must feel like not to have an ‘in case of emergency’ person to call. And yet he was on his way somewhere; there must be someone who cared enough to know if anything happened to him, surely?

‘Are you all right, sir? There’s an awful lot of blood. I’ll call an ambulance and have someone take a look at you.’

Ariel tightened her grip on the old man’s elbow. Standing alongside them was a middle-aged man with a Station Supervisor badge pinned to his lapel. He’d come armed with a folding plastic chair which he was already in the process of opening.

‘There’s no need for an ambulance,’ the old man said. He squeezed out a narrow smile. ‘It’s nothing serious, and the bleeding’s stopped now, as you can see.’

He took a concerted step away from the chair and lowered his gaze to the floor. He seemed far more interested in the whereabouts of his suitcase, which was still lying next to the Pollock at their feet. Bending very gently forwards, he caught hold of the handle and moved it an inch closer to his heel.

‘With respect, sir,’ the Station Supervisor resumed, ‘it’s my responsibility to ensure the safety and well-being of all incoming and outgoing visitors to the station. I’d be a great deal happier knowing someone had checked you over.’

The old man’s eyes darted once again to the electronic screen. Ariel followed his gaze and saw that the Edinburgh train was now ready for boarding on Platform 6.

‘Thank you,’ he replied, ‘but I’m afraid I have a train to catch. In fact, I really should be on my way…’

‘Sir, under the circumstances I’m not sure continuing with your journey would be wise.’ The Station Supervisor slipped a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket and gestured to the circle of blood glistening at their feet. ‘There’s clearly some sort of medical issue here… I’ll need to compile an incident report at least. May I take your name, please?’

‘You have to file a report?’ the old man cried. ‘For a nosebleed?’

Ariel gave him a discreet look of solidarity.

His arm tensed lightly beneath her hand.

‘I don’t have much time, but of course – if you need it – my name is Henry Applebee. From Kentish Town.’

‘Mr Applebee, are you travelling alone today? If so, I think it would be best if I alerted a relative before you board your train. You really should have someone meet you at your final destination.’

Ariel threw Henry another sidelong glance and saw that the first real flicker of alarm was now flashing across his face. His eyes flew from the darkening smears of blood on his clothes, to the thick, liver-coloured streaks on the backs of his hands and nails. He rubbed distractedly at a stain on the lapel of his coat, his chin sinking to his chest, his posture drooping, as though his entire being were buckling beneath the force of an impossible weight. The change was so pronounced, she wondered if he might be suffering from some sort of delayed shock.

‘What must I look like?’ he mumbled, seemingly to the ground.

And suddenly, she understood. What Henry was experiencing wasn’t shock, after all. It was shame.

Sliding her hand upwards from his elbow, Ariel squeezed the back of Henry’s arm.

‘Henry isn’t travelling alone. He’s with me,’ she said, looking the Station Supervisor squarely in the eye. ‘My name is Ariel Bliss. From South Wales. Thank you for your help, but we really have to get going.’ She turned to Henry and smiled. ‘We’ll be fine once we’re settled on the train.’

‘Absolutely!’ Henry said brightly. ‘We’ll be right as rain!’

The Supervisor gave her a hard stare. He seemed to be acknowledging her presence for the very first time, and didn’t appear overly impressed with what he was seeing. ‘I see.’ He made a low grunting sound at the back of his throat and bent over to retrieve his folding chair. ‘One last question,’ he said, pulling himself upright once again. ‘Could I just verify where you’re both travelling to today?’

‘Edinburgh,’ Henry replied at once. ‘We’re on the nine o’clock train.’

‘Edinburgh?’ The Supervisor raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s quite a journey!’

‘Oh yes,’ Henry said, reaching for his suitcase. ‘You have no idea.’

Neither of them uttered a word as they set off towards the ticket barrier, their suitcases at their sides. Ariel could feel the Station Supervisor’s eyes boring into the backs of their heads as they walked, tracking their progress through the crowd. She was sure Henry could sense it too, because the moment they were through the barrier he began to move more quickly, the acceleration of his footsteps accompanied by the heightened tap-tap-tap of his stick on the granite floor.

She glanced at the train, eager to depart, before them.

Promise me, a voice rang out in her head.

I promise, Mam.

Ariel tightened her hold on her wheelie bag. She focused on the soft, rhythmic rattle of its wheels, and kept one eye trained on the mysterious stranger at her side. She wondered who he was, where he was going. Most of all, she found herself wondering who or what could be so important to him that he was prepared to lie to catch his train…

Finally, as Henry leaned in and whispered the words, ‘Thank you,’ under his breath, she stopped wondering altogether, and knew only that she had done the right thing.