Читать книгу Entanglement - Katy Mahood, Katy Mahood - Страница 22

18 November 1977

More than a month after the papers and almost all of London had forgotten the attack, Charlie stood in an unfamiliar church and waited to bury his sister. Ben was in the front row, weeping into his hands, which were mottled red and white like raw meat. But for those huge hands, it was almost possible for Charlie to feel sorry for him. At the front of the church, the priest mumbled the mass, his voice almost inaudible except for the occasional sudden spike in volume that seemed to take him by surprise every time it happened. Charlie stared at the wooden box with his sister inside. It baffled him that all that life could just have vanished. Vaguely, he recalled that energy could not be destroyed, only transferred. So where had Annie gone? It was impossible to believe that she had simply ceased to be, however unknowable the alternative.

His mother leaned against him, shell-like and smelling of drink. Charlie shifted in his seat. Beth had offered to come back, but he’d told her she should stay in France; in part because he wanted her to finish the final days of her course, but mostly because he was afraid of the scene that his mother would make at the funeral. But when he’d met his mother at the Tube at Kilburn Park he’d realised there was nothing left to be afraid of: she had become a shadow of a woman. The figure from his childhood had gone. The flashes of glory, the fury and despair were all just memories now.

The priest was flicking arcs of holy water across the casket. Ben shuddered, blew his nose into a large grey hanky and took a surreptitious swig from a small brown hipflask.

The priest continued: ‘… but to command thy holy angels to receive it, and to bear it into paradise; that as it has believed and hoped in thee it may be delivered from the pains of hell and inherit eternal life through Christ our Lord. Amen.’ His final words reached a wild crescendo and Charlie flinched as he muttered ‘Amen’ along with everyone else.

The pub afterwards was packed with black-clad family members and nervous-looking friends of Annie, awed by their first funeral, uncertain how to behave. Charlie watched as Ben shook their hands, accepting the drinks pressed into his, as his eyes grew vacant and his mouth set hard. The voices grew louder and blurred with drink so that the room seemed to become a singular bellow, a bright and clanking hub of life.

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder and Charlie turned. Ben’s eyes were small, his face flushed and cruel and when he started talking it seemed as though he was already halfway through a conversation.

‘… but Charlie, right, the thing I want to know is, yeah, why was she even in that pub on our fuckin’ wedding night? I was entitled to a few drinks with my mates, y’know? But then she’s gone and I says to Roddie, “Where’s Annie got to?” and Roddie was giving it all “You’ve had too much mate” and “I think it’s time we got you home”, so I smacked him – ahaha! – I mean, for fuck’s sake, it was my wedding, yeah? And then someone nuts me and the next thing I know I’m in a police cell on the Edgware Road an’ it’s all chaos cos some terrorist fuckers have bombed a pub. But what I want to know is why was she at that fuckin’ pub?’

Charlie winced as the hand gripped tighter. Ben’s face was damp with sweat and a streak of snot glazed his upper lip. Three drinks in, Charlie was less drunk than Ben, but he wasn’t sober. He felt the thud of his blood through his body as he listened to his dead sister’s husband slur and rant. As gently as he could, he lifted Ben’s hand from his shoulder. He tried to look his brother-in-law in the eye but Ben’s gaze was hooded and unfocused.

‘Ben, she’s gone. It makes sense that you’re angry. We’re all angry.’

His head slammed back sharply as the two huge hands pinned him against the wall. Someone, perhaps his mother, gave a hoarse shriek and the pub fell quiet, watching.

‘Fuck, Ben, what are you doing?’

There was at least two stone in weight between them. Charlie’s bones were balsa-light beneath the tight-packed bulk of those straining arms. A muscle in Ben’s jaw flexed and a ferocious roar ripped from him. ‘Why – was – she – there?’

Ben’s contorted face receded from view as images flashed in front of Charlie’s eyes: pale hair streaming down, a livid lick of bruise, a hand against burnt-out blackness. He realised with sickening clarity that Annie wouldn’t have survived this man. There was another roar, but this time it came from Charlie as he brought his forehead down against the bridge of Ben’s nose. Blood spilled and Charlie ducked away from the hands that had lost their grip on him, grabbing a bottle and smashing it against the edge of a table. Looking up, Ben saw the glint of glass as Charlie’s arm thrust towards him, but there was no time to shield himself before the jagged edge connected with the soft flesh of his neck.

Afterwards, Charlie remembered that the noise began only when he hit the floor. In the moments before, the pub was entirely silent, a collective held breath. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, then a bursting of voices, as if he’d suddenly surfaced into sound. Ben was looming above him, a thread of blood along his neck where Charlie’s hand had swooped away at the last minute. Two huge cousins held Ben’s arms and someone’s knee pushed Charlie down, his face twisted into the beer-sodden carpet. His mother emerged from the gathered crowd and with a sharp word to the owner of the knee, pulled Charlie up and pushed him with surprising force towards the door.

‘Just go.’

‘Mum, he hurt her.’

His mother stared hard at him, a stripe of white roots visible along the scalp of her dirty yellow hair, a greasy glass of vodka tonic swaying, iceless, in her hand. Her rheumy eyes glistened and her thin mouth twisted into a joyless smile. ‘That’s life, kiddo.’

With a swig of her drink, she pushed the door open. Charlie looked at her for a moment, then, without another word, he walked through the door and into the busy street.

Life on the High Road had carried on as usual since the police cordon had come down a few weeks ago. The shoppers and the traders went about their business as usual, passing without a second glance the boarded-up windows behind which his sister and his best friend had died. Charlie felt his fury burn. How dare they act as if nothing had changed?

At the off-licence he bought a quarter bottle of whisky, the shopkeeper eyeing his injured face as he handed over the change. ‘Looks sore, mate.’

Charlie stared, wordless, until the older man looked away. Then he walked out of the shop, drinking his way through half of the bottle before he reached the top of West End Lane.

The next morning, as Charlie slept on the sofa where he had passed out the night before, Beth stood in her flat in Montpellier, smoking the last of her cigarettes. She turned her father’s letter over in her hand. His pen had pressed so hard that mirror images of the words were embossed on the other side of the paper; but then, her father had always been a man of strong feelings. That’s why he had offered the money – so much money that her mind still swirled at the thought of it – for her to move to Paris and study at the Sorbonne. Not only for the prestige, but because he wanted her away from Charlie. He’s dragging you down, her father had said after she’d refused his offer and told him of her plans to teach. She read the letter again, then bit her lip and tore it into pieces. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried to break herself away. She thought of the student from Marseilles she’d met weeks ago, and how her desire had extinguished the moment they had kissed – his smell and taste so wrong. When she was with Charlie the world felt full of fire and promise. She craved it with an addict’s passion. Outside, the airport taxi blew its horn. She knew where she needed to be.

From above, London spread out grey and green, a sprawling mass of conurbation. The plane turned and banked and Beth felt the sweat soaking her underarms. How contrary to all common sense to trap yourself inside a metal tube and launch into the air. She’d had a maths teacher once who’d tried to explain the magic of flight, the way the wing was shaped to make the air move faster below and create lift. But then, as now, all she could think was that none of it made sense: not the maths or the physics or the desire to travel at a height of 36,000 feet. Below, the silver band of Thames snaked through the miniature city. As the plane circled a descent Beth followed the river’s path, her eyes passing over a stretch of embankment near Hammersmith where, if she could have seen that far, she would have discovered the dishevelled shape of Charlie, drinking beer from a can and looking up at the sky.

When the can was empty, Charlie retraced his steps towards the Tube. He had come here on a whim, remembering the day he’d stood on these banks to watch the boat race with Beth and her school friends. They had bought two rounds at a time in the overflowing pub, their public school voices full of confidence. Charlie had marvelled on that bright spring day at how they seemed ready for anything, so blithe and unafraid. Around him now the light was fading and a November wind whipped off the river, stinging the cuts on his face. At the foot of a block of flats an unruly group of children were playing on a bald patch of earth. There was a shriek and Charlie saw a young girl clutch her cheek as her mother dragged her away by the wrist, the woman’s voice an angry slur. He thought of Beth and how different it must be to choose your own responsibilities, instead of having them thrust upon you. He was glad she’d never known the bitterness of looking after someone that you sometimes hate, and yet it was a gap that stretched between them. How could she ever understand a life like his? And yet, an hour later, when he saw her sitting in the doorway of his flat, a sudden realisation passed over him like wildfire. Their difference didn’t matter; she was the only way he could survive.

Beth was startled when she saw his battered face. She touched her lips to his eye, his cheek, his forehead, his mouth.

‘Charlie, what happened?’

He shook his head as he held her. ‘It’s a long story. Let’s go inside.’

The next morning, as the sun filled the bedroom with a cold white light, Beth leaned over him, her dark hair brushing his face. ‘Charlie, wake up!’

The room smelled of coconut oil and smoke and sex. He ran his fingers along the silky curve from her breastbone to her hip and she closed her eyes and stretched. He looked up. Beth was here. Not in France, not with her parents, but here in his bed. She had chosen him.

He pressed his mouth against her neck. ‘Beth?’

The soft rise of her breast brushed his arm and he felt himself grow hard again.

She smiled, hooked her leg across his hip and rolled on top of him. ‘Mmm?’

He kissed her again. ‘Will you marry me?’

She looked down at him and laughed. ‘Are you serious?’

He sat up and wrapped her legs around his waist. She smiled and raised an eyebrow, but her eyes were bright with tears. Charlie took her hands and kissed them. ‘Please? Please marry me.’

Beth leaned against him, her tears dampening his shoulder. ‘Oh, my love. I thought you’d never ask.’