On Honeymoon With Death

19

Prim’s sudden departure for California knocked me completely off balance for a while. The family was the main reason why I’d stayed behind in Spain, and yet with her gone, I felt odd with them around; not uncomfortable exactly, but ill at ease. I had run out of interesting things to do with two pre-teen nephews, my dad and I had played all the golf that Mary and Ellie would allow, and so I was quietly relieved as I stood at the end of the driveway on the fourth of January, waving them off as the hired people-mover turned out of Carrer Caterina, bound for their flight home.

By that time, the Elanore situation had resolved itself: not for the better, but at least we all knew what she faced. The bad news was that the lesions removed from her stomach by the LA surgeon were indeed cancerous. The better news was that a full body MRI scan, carried out as soon as she was cleared to leave intensive care, had revealed no secondary growths, or metastases as Prim had called them in medic-speak.

In a rare show of his power and influence, Miles had flown in one of the top oncologists from the Mayo Clinic to supervise the diagnostic procedures. She had pronounced that, with a precautionary course of chemotherapy, our mother-in-law stood an excellent chance. . not of a cure, for a cancer specialist will rarely use that word. . of long-term survival.

Prim’s relief had flowed out of the telephone when we had spoken at seven that morning. ‘Do you want me out there now?’ I’d asked her.

‘No; it’s not necessary. Anyway, Miles says that he’d rather you used the peace and quiet to get on with mastering the script. I’m going to stay on here for a while, though, until the treatment is well under way, to help Dawn understand what’s happening to Mum.’

‘How’s she handling it?’

‘You know my sister; she was terrified at first. But she’s not so bad now; once we had the diagnosis and prognosis she got a hold of herself. Christ, Miles is worse than she is; it’s his first child too, and the way he’s acting you’d think he was going to have it himself.’

So that was it. I had my orders from the boss. . from both my bosses in fact, Prim and Miles.

The trouble was, I am still a high-handicapper at the acting game and, like all high-handicappers, there’s a limit to the amount of time I can usefully spend on the practice range without a pro around to take my game forward. However, we were talking big money, and a lot of responsibility, so I was responsible about it. From the day the script arrived, I had committed myself to starting work on it at nine thirty every morning. Apart from a day or two over the holiday period, I had managed it too; yet, invariably, I was wasted by midday.

It was the same on the day the family went home; only it wasn’t.

There have been times in my life when being alone has been my natural state. A flatmate does not count as a companion, especially not when he’s a green iguana named Wallace.

I’m not talking about being lonely; loneliness is something completely different. It’s possible to be lonely in a room full of people you love. There have even been times, intimate times, when I’ve been with Prim and yet I’ve been swept by a feeling of loneliness. Mind you, it doesn’t do to let it show.

This was different, though; it was the first time that Prim and I had been apart since the night before our wedding, when she had followed established bride protocol by sleeping at her parents’ place, and I. . Ah, now that is, most definitely, another story, and one which she’ll never know.

It was different also in that I was on my own in Villa Bernabeu.

Until that point, the moment when my brain cried, ‘Enough!’ and I put my script away for the day, I had never felt the slightest unease about our new home. You may have thought that, at the time, I was a shade blase about the stiff in the swimming pool, but my life leading up to that point had been so bizarre that when it happened, I dealt with it as just another occurrence. Since I met Primavera Phillips, I’ve seen a few dead people; my first wife among them. I’ve even seen one or two of them being killed, close up.

Since I met Prim. . Only now she was gone and, as I stood on the terrace and peered into the pool, I felt a slight shiver and imagined for a second that I saw something on the bottom. I turned and looked up at the villa, and had the distinctly deranged impression that it was looking back at me.

I can say honestly that I don’t remember ever having panicked in my life. I did faint once, but I had an excuse. No, I’ve had a few scrapes and a few scares, but I’ve never bottled out of anything. I came pretty close to it then, though, under the gaze of that bloody house.

Then I thought, This is silly, and pulled myself together. ‘You can take that look off your face right now,’ I barked up at it. And, I’ll swear, it did. I guess that houses are not used to people speaking sharply to them.

I pressed home my advantage. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen to you, pal. Your fucking name’s being changed for a start. Villa Bernabeu, indeed! I’m not even a bloody Real supporter. You’re going to be Casa Nou Camp from now on.’

I knew, as I said it, that I meant it; my friend the iron forger was in for a visit as soon as his holiday was over. I knew also that if being afraid of a house is silly, giving one a loud-voiced bollocking in broad daylight crosses the frontier into the land where the happy whistlers live.

So I went indoors, made myself a coffee, and brought it back out to the terrace. As usual, the sun was shining, and the temperature was in the low teens Celsius, or fifties in old money, as my dad says, so I settled down on a lounger to drink it. As I sipped it, I closed my eyes, feeling the gentle warmth on my face, and, without willing it, began to think about Primavera.

I recalled every detail of the moment that I met her. How she looked as she walked into the hall of her flat, at the end of a two-day journey; tired but not weary, crumpled but not unkempt, without make-up but still beautiful, and with a light in her eye which told me, ‘This woman is different. This is someone to whom things happen.’

Despite an unfortunate incident with a traffic warden, it was indeed lust at first sight, for both of us; I know that now. Before either of us knew it then, we were in over our heads, I more so than she.

Had it not been for the malign influence of S. T. Antichrist, and a couple of his agents, it might have been over almost as soon as it started. I might have been living with Jan and our two point four kids in a nice suburban house in Glasgow, doing my boring job and earning decent if unspectacular money.

If it had worked out that way, I’d have seen Prim as an interlude in my life, that’s all, and I’d have ended up as the happiest man in the world. But there is no such creature; STA won’t allow it. I’m in tune with the German philosopher who believes that some people are temporarily less unfortunate than others, that’s all.

Primavera was there when my happy life went to rat-shit. When I tried to piece things together again, she was there for me too. I didn’t see her as part of the Dark Plan but, as I lay there, I did begin to admit to myself that she had been the easy option, a crutch I had been all too keen to grab and lean on, one that I was leaning on still.

As I lay there thinking, I understood that her departure hadn’t simply thrown me off balance. It had made me realise that I didn’t know any more who Oz Blackstone was, or even whether he was, in his own right. Everything in my restored existence, the winning lottery ticket which had been based on her parents’ birthdays, even this weird new career of mine, this acting game, had come from or through Prim.

Whatever they said after the event, I knew damn well that if Miles Grayson hadn’t happened to be married to her actress sister, no way would he have cast a part-time wrestling announcer and voice-over artist in one of his projects. The fact that his publicity department has orders never to refer to our relationship is proof of that.

‘Will the real Oz Blackstone please stand up,’ I said, aloud once more.

‘Will any Oz Blackstone please stand up,’ a voice replied. I opened my eyes and sat bolt upright.

It was Susie Gantry.

I shook my head and squeezed my eyes shut, expecting that when I opened them again, she’d be gone. But she wasn’t; she stood there, short, trim, tits like racing airships, shown to their best advantage in a red woollen sweater, thrusting out from her fur-lined black leather jacket as it hung open.

I felt disorientated for a moment. I swung off the lounger and pushed myself to my feet. ‘Susie. .’ I heard myself mumbling.

‘Surprise, surprise,’ she chirped, in her slightly nasal Glaswegian accent, oblivious of my confusion. ‘How’s my favourite yuppie, then?’ She swung her bag into a more secure position on her shoulder, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed me on the cheek.

‘Astonished,’ I answered her. ‘What the hell. .?’

Her expression changed, dramatically and suddenly; cheery, chesty Susie turned before my eyes into a wounded robin redbreast. A frown creased her eyes in a way I’d never seen before, and her pretty face fell. ‘Oz, I’m sorry,’ she exclaimed. ‘Have I got it wrong? Yes, I have, haven’t I? But when you and Prim put that note in your Christmas card, with your new address, and said you’d be pleased to see me early in the New Year, I thought I’d just turn up out of the blue, to surprise you, like.’

She chewed her lip for a second or two. ‘Silly Susie, right enough.’ Her chin trembled and I could see how fragile she was. I gathered her up in my arms, lifted her clear off her feet, and kissed her on the forehead.

‘Silly Susie nothing!’ I said firmly, setting her down gently. ‘It’s me that should be sorry. I was miles away there. Welcome to L’Escala. Sit down there and I’ll make you a coffee.’ She raised an eyebrow; I remembered that sign of old. ‘Or I could get you a drink …’

‘A beer would be nice, thanks.’

I decided that I needed one myself, so I uncapped two Sols from the fridge and carried them outside.

‘Thanks again,’ said my visitor. ‘I’m fair parched.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘I flew to Barcelona yesterday, stayed overnight in a hotel and got the fast train to Girona this morning. Took a taxi from there. The driver had a hell of a job finding this address; eventually he dumped me at the big roundabout coming into town. I went into the fruit shop there and asked for directions.

‘Lucky for me there was an English woman there. . elderly, long dyed hair, dressed sort of gypsy style. She heard me mention your name and said she knew you. She gave me a lift. A right character, she was.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ I laughed. ‘I’ll take you to her bar some time.

‘You got a suitcase?’

She jerked a thumb over her shoulder; I saw it sitting at the top of the driveway, a great big black thing on wheels, with a handle.

‘So where’s Prim?’ Susie asked. ‘Down the shops? Having a lie-in?’

I glanced at my watch. ‘Probably still asleep,’ I told her. ‘She’s in Los Angeles.’

She gave a small scream. ‘Oh my God,’ she exclaimed. ‘I’ve really done it, stupid wee bitch that I am.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ I told her quickly, in case she got emotional on me again. I explained the situation with Elanore, painting the rosiest medical picture that I could.

‘Oh dear,’ she sighed when I was finished. ‘I’d better go, hadn’t I? I’ll check into a hotel and fly home as soon as I can.’

If it had been anyone else, I’d probably have left it at that, but not with Susie. She and I had been to the same place emotionally; she had lost a partner, and her scars were a lot fresher than mine. She didn’t have all that many friends, and I didn’t fancy the thought of letting her go back to Glasgow on a downer, embarrassed and with her tail between her legs.

‘No you bloody won’t,’ I told her. ‘We invited you, and you’re staying. For as long as you like. . How long is that, by the way?’

‘My return flight’s booked for a week on Sunday.’

‘Fine. Chances are, Prim will be back well before then.’

‘If I stay here she’ll be on the first plane,’ Susie murmured.

‘No she won’t.’

She gave me a faint smile. ‘But what will the neighbours say?’

I laughed. ‘This is L’Escala, kid, and you’ve been in town for an hour. They’re saying it already. Come on, I’ll show you your bunk.’

I picked up her suitcase and carried it into the house, then upstairs to the main guest bedroom at the front. Before the family had left, Mary and Ellie had insisted on changing all the beds. I was glad now that I had let them. For all it was unexpected and unorthodox, I was glad of Susie’s arrival too. There would be no brooding with her around. Mind you, I still had to break the news to Prim.

‘I like the new pad,’ she said, after I had given her the grand tour round the place. ‘I wish I could find one like it in Glasgow.’

‘So build yourself one.’ Susie had taken over the running of her father’s construction group; after a sticky start she was making a damn good job of it too.

She wrinkled her freckled nose. ‘I could think of twenty good reasons why I don’t; every one of them a degree Fahrenheit.’

I left her to unpack, then, when she was ready, took her to lunch at a place in the country, a nice traditional farm-house restaurant called Mas Pou, where they don’t get upset at all if you skip the main course and have a couple of starters instead. The house red there is very local, very new and fairly strong. Susie took a liking to it at once.

‘Are you two ever coming back to Glasgow?’ She dropped the question without warning, as soon as she had finished her omelette cake.

‘Sure we are, Susie,’ I told her. ‘I don’t know how much time we’re going to spend there in future, but we’re not going non-resident or anything drastic like that.’

‘So you’re not going into tax exile then?’ She smiled as she said it. The red had relaxed her; the surface tension that she had displayed earlier seemed to have gone altogether.

‘No way. I’d rather pay tax than become a nomad. We’ll still be around. We might sell the flat, though.’

She looked at me in surprise. ‘You serious?’

‘I think so.’

‘Give me first refusal, then.’

‘If you want, but why?’

‘Ach, I’ve got to get out of my place, Oz. It’s just full of Mike.’

You find your own truth in bereavement. I don’t know a hell of a lot about life, but I do know about death, and that there are things for which we can’t plan, and through which we have to find our own way.

‘Funny,’ I told her. ‘That’s exactly why I chose to stay on in my apartment. . because it seemed full of Jan.’

‘And is it still?’

‘No. It came to me eventually that it never really was. I’m full of Jan; that’s the truth of it.’

‘And how does Prim feel about that?’

‘They get along.’

She looked at the empty carafe; I caught the waiter’s eye and ordered another, only a half this time. ‘That’s nice for you,’ she said. ‘But Mike wasn’t like Jan. I want to scrub him off me, to put every trace of him behind me.’

‘Moving house might not be the answer,’ I warned her.

‘It’ll do for starters. Let me know about the flat when you’ve made your mind up.’

I took her for a drive when we left the restaurant, taking advantage of what was left of the short winter day. We looked at Pals, and then at Estartit, which was slightly less winter-dead than usual. Finally we called in at Torroella del Montgri, where Susie bought herself a nice leather jacket. . red, of course, to match the sweater. . in a specialist shop I showed her.

It was dark when we got back to the former Villa Bernabeu; late enough in the day for me to phone Prim. I called her on her mobile, rather than on Miles and Dawn’s home number, figuring, correctly as it turned out, that she might be at the hospital. She was at her mother’s bedside, so I got to speak to Elanore.

‘How are you feeling, Mother Phillips?’ I asked her. I’d never called her that before, but it had a Victorian echo, which seemed to fit her.

‘I’ve never been shot,’ she answered, ‘but I imagine that afterwards it feels a bit like this.’ She sounded tired, but there was still a booming tone in her voice that made me feel good. ‘They’re going to give me some chemicals tomorrow. Once that’s under way, there might be a chance that these fussy daughters of mine will clear off and get on with their lives.’

Prim came back on line. ‘Family gone?’ she asked.

‘Yup.’

‘So you’re on your own.’

‘Nope.’ I told her about Susie arriving and merging with my half-dream. She was fine about it; I hadn’t expected her to be otherwise, but still. .

‘I could move her into Crisaran, if you like,’ I suggested.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she retorted. ‘You’re not going to stick her out there all on her own. How long’s she staying?’

‘About ten days.’

‘Right; all being well here, I’ll fly home on Sunday. Dad’s staying on for the duration, so he can keep an eye on Dawn, and let Miles concentrate on work. How’s the script going, by the way?’

‘Steadily.’

‘Keep at it. Can I speak to Susie?’

‘I think she’s in the bath.’

‘Okay,’ Prim chuckled. ‘Just don’t be scrubbing her back!’

The thought had never crossed my mind, until my wife put it there.

We ate out again that night. I knew that Susie liked seafood, so we went to the fishermen’s bar in the new marina complex, to pig out on prawns and monkfish. I would have moved the wine choice a bit upmarket, but Susie saw a bottle of Penedes rosada, nestling in an ice bucket two tables along, and asked if we could have some of that.

The table talk was easier than at lunchtime. Susie told me about her construction company, the Gantry Group, which was running well, it seemed, now that she had slimmed it down, and proved herself in the eyes of the business community and of her bankers. She tried to surprise me by telling me that she had given Joseph Donn a non-executive directorship. She failed though. Old Joe’s her only living blood relative, her natural father, for Christ’s sake, although his isn’t the name on her birth certificate; for all the bust-ups they’ve had in the past, there’s nobody she could trust more.

I have trouble keeping count of my own drinks, far less anyone else’s, but it did occur to me that Susie’s intake during the day had been pretty formidable. She was holding it better than I’d known, too. When we’d finished dinner, she reminded me of my promise to take her to Bar JoJo, and since I had left the car at home in favour of a taxi, I had no good reason for wriggling out of it.

As it turned out, we were the only customers. . well, it was still short of midnight. . apart from a couple of guys whom I could hear but not see, playing pool in the back room. Jo treated Susie like a long-lost niece, and even poured her some of the best brandy, unbidden.

‘You heard any more about that upset you had?’ she asked me as she handed me a beer.

‘Not lately,’ I answered. ‘I’m trying to forget it.’

‘Was it the Frenchman then?’ I was surprised; I thought the jungle drums would have sent out the message.

‘No, as it happens. It turns out that it was another of your customers, Sayeed.’

‘What? The fisherman? Him as went to prison?’

‘He didn’t go to prison, Jo. He got a death sentence.’

Susie was intrigued. ‘What’s this?’ she asked me.

‘A bit of local difficulty, that’s all. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.’

‘No! Tell me now.’

‘Tomorrow!’

By the time the taxi arrived to take us home, she had forgotten all about it. By the time it had got us there, she had probably forgotten her name into the bargain. One minute she was okay, the next she had crashed, right there on the back seat of the white car. I suppose I shouldn’t have let her drink as much, but I’ve never been my sister’s keeper, literally or figuratively. As a matter of fact, in my childhood it was the other way around.

I had to carry her, more or less, up the drive, into the house and up the stairs to her room. I sat her on the edge of the bed, knelt down and pulled off her ankle-length boots. She gave me a woozy smile, then a giggle. ‘The rest you do yourself,’ I said.

‘Easy,’ she mumbled, then slowly toppled backwards. I swung her legs up on to the bed and left her to it.

My alarm read forty minutes past midnight. I undressed, got into bed and picked up a book; my dad’s Chester Himes. He had finished it and left it for me; half-cut though I was, the magic Technicolor prose got to me at once.

Next thing I knew, the alarm was showing seven minutes past three. The bedside light was still on, but the book was on the floor. I reached over and snapped the switch off, as I did so I thought I heard a faint sound.

In Spain, the night is full of noises; I dismissed it, until a few seconds later, I heard it again. It was a squeak, more than anything else. Then it turned into a kind of shuffle; and next, a soft bump. I got out of bed, knocking over the table lamp with my elbow in the process. ‘Shit!’ I swore, and again, as I half-tripped pulling on my boxers, which I had left on the floor earlier.

I wasn’t even halfway to the door when there was another sound, long and continuous this time, a bumping, tumbling noise. It ended in a thump, and a soft, short squeal, then there was silence.

I stepped out into the upper hall and switched on the light. There was nothing there, but the rug, which ran along to the left of the stairway, to the point where it opened on to a wide landing, was twisted and crumpled in places, as if someone had staggered their way along its length.

I strode to the top of the wide flight of steps and looked down. The ground floor was in darkness, but there was enough light spilling down from above for me to make out the form which lay motionless at the foot of the stairs.

I jumped on the right-hand banister and slid down; it was the fastest way I knew to get down there.

Susie was lying on her back, motionless, her eyes closed. Her red hair was damp with sweat, and was plastered across her forehead. She had managed to get out of her clothes, apart from her black push-up bra. I was relieved to see from the way her chest rose and fell that at least she was still breathing. I stared at her for a moment, trying to think what Prim would do in these circumstances, and, as I did, she moved. Her eyes flickered open; she looked up at me, trying to focus, but she was badly dazed and confused.

I decided that I had better give her some reassurance, before she could start to panic. ‘It’s all right, Susie,’ I said, as calmly as I could. ‘It’s Oz. You’re in my place in Spain, remember? You’ve had a bit of a fall, that’s all.’

She let out a whimper, and began to cry, softly, small, sad sobs. I wondered if this was the real Susie Gantry, lying before me, lost and lonely in the dark, with her sparky exterior stripped away. I felt desperately sorry for her.

‘Lie still for now,’ I murmured. ‘I know a bit of first aid. Relax, now; just let yourself go, and tell me whether anything hurts.’ Her right leg was bent at the knee, awkwardly up under the other. I touched it, gently. ‘How about there?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she whimpered. ‘That’s okay.’ I took her by the right ankle and straightened the leg, letting her lie more comfortably.

‘My shoulder, right shoulder. That’s sore.’

I felt my way from the joint along the collarbone, squeezing gently as I went. She didn’t scream and everything seemed in one piece.

‘I think that’s okay,’ I told her. I reached across and smoothed her hair back from her eyes. She winced as I touched her and I saw a vivid red mark on the right side of her forehead.

‘Sore,’ she whispered.

‘I think you banged it.’

‘Where am I?’ she asked.

‘At the foot of the stairs. It looks as if you fell down them.’

‘No!’ She looked more distressed than ever.

I pressed on with my injury check, trying to put her at her ease. ‘I want you to take a deep breath.’

She did as she was told, without showing any fresh signs of discomfort. ‘Okay, let it go.’ She gave a great sighing sound. ‘Good. If you had rib damage you’d have felt it there. Now, I want you to move your arms and legs one by one; lift them up and put them down again.’ I nodded approval as she checked each limb. ‘Now make a fist with each hand, then unclench it.’

By the time we had finished the fear had gone from her face. ‘Oz,’ she murmured, so softly that I had to bend over her to hear her, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

She smiled. Just a wee crack in her face, but a smile nonetheless. ‘Have I got any clothes on?’

I tried to stay matter of fact about it. ‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ I told her. ‘It’s probably just as well that you were too pissed to undo your bra. . even though it spoils the view. . otherwise you might have squashed your tits on the way downstairs.’

She started to laugh, then winced and put a hand to her forehead.

‘Lie there,’ I said, ‘I’ll get a sheet to put over you, then I’ll carry you back up to bed. It’s safe to move you now.’

‘Don’t bother with the sheet, just help me up.’ She grabbed my arm and tried to haul herself into a sitting position, but struggled. I got my arms underneath her and lifted her clear of the floor.

She put her arms round my neck as I rose carefully to my feet. ‘You’re stronger than you look,’ she said, with a degree of surprise which hurt my feelings.

I carried her upstairs back to her room. The door was ajar, and the light from the hall let me see the bed clearly enough; the duvet was turned back, almost neatly. I laid her down and pulled it up to cover her. At once she rolled over, putting her back to me. ‘Undo that for me,’ she asked. She meant her bra. ‘I don’t think I can reach the catch with my sore shoulder.’

I flicked it undone quickly, expertly even. She slipped out of it, awkwardly, tossed it out of the bed, then turned towards me again, pulling up the duvet to cover her chest as she did.

‘Thanks Oz,’ she murmured. ‘Can I have a drink?’

‘I think you had enough last night.’

‘Go on, just a wee one. I feel really shaky.’

I gave in. I went downstairs, poured her some Le Panto from the decanter and brought it to her. She looked at me gratefully and took a sip. I sat on the bed, beside her. ‘What happened?’ I asked her.

She frowned, then winced from the pain of the lump on her forehead. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

‘What’s the last thing you remember?’ I asked.

She thought for a moment. ‘I remember you pulling my boots off, then I remember looking up at you downstairs. There’s nothing in between.’

‘You don’t remember getting up? I heard you in the hall.’

‘I don’t remember at all.’ Then she began to cry, for real this time. ‘Oz, I’m just so frightened. It’s so bloody diff icult.’

‘What is, love?’

‘Everything.’ She finished the brandy in a swallow. ‘Just everything.’

‘But you get through it.’

‘Do I? Do I really?’

I smoothed her hair again, and took the goblet from her. ‘You get some sleep now, kid. You’ve had a shock, that’s all; that and a bad fall. You’ll have a few bruises in the morning, but a few hours’ kip and you’ll feel better.’

I stood up, but she grabbed my hand. ‘Don’t go, Oz. I’m really scared; I think I must have been sleepwalking. What if I do it again?’

I had to admit that there was some logic behind that fear. So I sat down again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, plaintively. ‘I’m a wimp, I know, and it’s a hell of a thing to ask, but stay here with me, eh?’

Call me daft if you will. . and you will, I know. . but there was something small and fragile in her expression that got to me. ‘Okay,’ I conceded, crossing my fingers in the hope that Prim would understand. I went out to the hall and switched off the light, then closed the door and slipped under the duvet, beside her.

‘Thanks,’ she whispered. I felt the warmth of her as I lay there awkwardly in the dark, practically hanging off the edge of the big bed to make sure I didn’t touch her, listening to her as her breathing softened, and grew slower, in time with my own.