Birdman

28

Veronica was sitting at the kitchen table preparing for the party — a glass of wine at her elbow as she shredded and cut, adding to a pile of mint and tomato on the marble chopping block. She wore a silk blouse pinned at the neck with a gold brooch, and had draped a Heals tea towel over her navy pinstriped trousers. The couscousier hissed softly on the hob, steaming up the darkened window.

'I was just about to arrange a search party,' she said, smiling. 'I expected you back by seven.'

Caffery reached to the shelf above the door for the bottle of Glenmorangie. He filled a tumbler, dipped his finger in and sucked on it.

'There's a couple of Oddbins boxes on the terrace need unpacking.' She wiped the knife on a tea towel. 'You could make some garam masala for the spinach if you feel like it and the pestle needs washing.'

Putting the glass on the top of the fridge he found tobacco and papers in his suit pocket.

'I couldn't find any decent glasses so Mum's lending us her Florentine goblets. They'll need taking care of. OK?' She halved two lemons, jammed one onto a squeezer and looked over her shoulder at him. 'Jack? I said OK?'

Caffery dropped a plug of tobacco into the paper, rolled it, sealed the cigarette and felt in his pocket for a lighter.

'Jack. Did you hear me?'

'I did.'

She put the lemon down and hooked her arm over the back of the chair. 'Well?'

'Well what?'

'Mum's lending us her lickle babies. Her favourite glasses. Imagine that. She's trusting our evil friends not to smash them. We're supposed to flop around on the floor in gratitude.'

'Not me.'

Her face changed. 'No, seriously. We should be grateful, you know.'

He removed a piece of tobacco from his tongue. 'I am serious.'

She regarded him carefully and then gave a short laugh. 'OK, Jack.' She turned back to her work. 'I've got a million things to do for tomorrow. I really haven't got the energy for—'

'You lied to me.'

'What?' She turned slowly back. 'What did you say?'

'I thought you might die.'

'What?'

'I believed you. I believed the Hodgkin's was back.'

She wrinkled her mouth, shaking her head in disbelief. 'You're sick, you know. You really are. You think I'd make up a thing like that?'

'I saw Dr Cavendish.'

Veronica became still. He could almost see the ticker tape of possible lies, possible excuses, rolling out behind her eyes. After a moment she pressed her lips together so tightly he saw the muscles in her neck flex. She turned and started furiously halving the lemons, squeezing them, tipping the juice into a jug with jerky movements.

'I said I saw Dr Cavendish.'

'Yes — so?' She threw the lemon rinds into a pile. 'I thought it was coming back. You can't blame me. You're difficult, Jack. It's been very difficult for me to be with you.'

'Well, thank you. It's been very fucking difficult to be with you too.'

'I don't think you realize what a mess you were when I met you, Jack. A mess. You'd only get out of bed for work or to spy on that fat fuck over the railway, moping over your idiot brother. I've pulled you out of that.' She used the heel of her hand to drive the knife into the lemons. 'Me, it's me has pulled you out of it, made you forget your wallowing. Everyone — Mummy, Daddy — they all said I was wasting my time, but I didn't listen — God, what an idiot I was.'

'I don't love you, Veronica. I don't want you in my house any more. You can leave the key.'

She dropped the knife and turned to him in amazement, staring at him for a long time, until he was uncertain whether she was formulating a reply or trying not to cry. Eventually she forced out a high brittle laugh.

'Well, that's fine, Jack, that's fine.' She leaned forward in the chair, her shoulders trembling. 'Because I've been thinking.' She pointed a shaky finger at him. 'I don't love you either. I don't think I ever loved you.'

'Then we're quits.'

'Yes, quits.' She was shaking now. 'I'll — I'll stay for the party and then I'll get out of your life. And don't think I won't, because I will.'

'We're cancelling the party.'

'No, we're not. You can't. Not now. If you cancel it I swear—' She paused a moment, tears in her eyes. 'I swear… Oh please, Jack, I swear you'll finish me if you do this.'

'For God's sake.'

'Please, Jack! It's my party too. My friends are coming. Please don't ruin it for me!'

Caffery picked up his glass.

'Where are you going?'

'To have a bath.'

'Look.' She jumped up and placed a shaking hand on his chest. 'I'm sorry, Jack, I'm sorry. I am. It's because I love you so much—'

But he gave her a look of such distaste that her eyes filled again with tears. He lifted her fingers carefully away from his chest and pushed her back into the chair. She sank down, sobbing uncontrollably. 'You bastard — you bastard. You made me do it, you made me lie. You and that fucking obsession of yours—'

Caffery took the bottle from the top of the fridge, closed the door and went upstairs.

Later, when his pulse had returned to normal, he took the bottle of Glenmorangie into the bathroom, and slid into the water, his eyes closed, his fingers curled around the steamy tumbler on the bath edge. A body-length wave of tiredness engulfed him. He lay motionless, breathing through his nose, thinking, absurdly and self-pityingly, that this was all Penderecki's fault. That Penderecki had set a small stone in his heart which had stopped him growing well and healthily, excluded him from a universal birth right, the right to love.

He thought he could hear Veronica downstairs, moving something heavy, the front door clicking softly closed. He drank more whisky and slid under the water; his mother's St Christopher on its chain around his neck floated up to the surface and bobbed gently under his chin, soft as a nibbling fish.

He thought about Rebecca. About her face at the top of the stairs. 'He scares me, you know. The killer.'

A stair creaked. For a moment he was sure the mobile was ringing. He lifted his head, straining to listen.

Silence. He let himself slide back under the water. Rebecca. He could feel the familiar longing deep in his stomach. Would he do to her what he had done to the others, force her to unmask herself, skin away the fragile dignity and then lose interest, abandon her because he had something so much more important to think about?

He sat up and finished the whisky, got out of the bath and dried himself. In the bedroom Veronica was lying on her back, quite still.

'Veronica?'

She was silent, her eyes blank.

'Veronica? I'm sorry.'

She was silent.

'I've been thinking.'

'What?' she said dully. 'What've you been thinking?'

'The party. I'll do it.'

She sighed and rolled away from him. 'Thank you.'

'I'll sleep on the sofa tonight.'

'Yeah,' she said, her arms limp on the bed. 'You do that.'