The Missing World (24 page)

“He does seem like the jealous type.”

“Why?”

Again Charlotte wished she’d kept her mouth shut. “Well, he’s very intense, and—” she hesitated—“last time I was here, I’m almost sure he was eavesdropping on our conversation.”

“He spies on me,” said Hazel matter-of-factly. “And he always answers the phone. Sometimes I hear him making excuses, as if I were still at death’s door.”

“Why didn’t you get married?”

Hazel shrugged. “I’m not sure, but we are in a few weeks.”

“You’re getting married? To Jonathan?” For some reason Charlotte couldn’t keep her voice from shrilling.

“He saved my life,” Hazel said tonelessly. “He loves me.”

She’s scared shitless, Charlotte thought, and caught herself. Exaggerating as usual, Bernie would say. Hazel was convalescing, out of sorts, no big deal. “That’s enough for today,” she said
briskly. “How about a fried-egg sandwich? Where shall I put these?” She held out the notebook and pen.

“You keep them. I don’t have a place for papers.”

“But what about your work? Surely you must have a desk, files.”

She spoke unthinkingly, but the effect of her words was immediate. Hazel stood up and motioned her to follow, first to a room at the back of the house. A desk with a computer stood in front of the window, bookshelves lined one wall, a narrow bed stood against another. “Jonathan’s study,” said Hazel. “He showed it to me the first time I came to supper.”

Charlotte nodded and ran her finger along a line of books. Here, after all, was her area of expertise. You didn’t get this kind of layering of papers and dust in under six months. Together they moved along the corridor to the spare room where the furniture could be counted on one hand. A bed, a built-in wardrobe, a chair in front of the window, and to the left a bookcase, its shelves bare save for half a dozen paperbacks. No pictures, no clutter.

Charlotte wandered round the bed. In the carpet by the window she discovered four indentations. She beckoned Hazel over. “Maybe you used this as a study and stopped once you got an office at work? It looks as if someone had moved out and the room was waiting to be turned into something else.”

When Hazel clutched her arm, Charlotte remembered the seizures. “Why don’t you come back to bed? You don’t want to be rushing around.”

She watched uneasily while Hazel moved the chair to face an imaginary desk in front of the window, and sat down. Was she about to witness one of those Hollywood scenes: the victim recalls the long-ago crime? But Hazel’s amnesia was the result of an accident, not some kind of malice.

She swung around. “I did have a desk here. I can remember writing, editing my interviews.”

“When did you move it?”

Hazel gripped the edges of the chair. “Last year, sometime during the last year. Oh,” she exclaimed, turning back to the window.

Over her shoulder Charlotte saw a young man with a crest of dark hair and a ragged backpack walking down the street. As they watched, he stopped, made a circle, and walked on. “It’s the Tourette’s boy,” said Hazel, as if Charlotte would know what this meant. “He frightens me.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“I don’t think so, or at least only to himself.” The boy, after a scant thirty yards, was circling again. “I’m afraid I could end up like him—completely separated from normal people.”

You, Charlotte wanted to say, you’ve nothing to worry about. You could grow an extra head and still be normal. “Come,” she said, “take a bath while I make us sandwiches.”

chapter 14

That she came downstairs instead of waiting for him to bring her breakfast was unusual; that she was fully dressed, more so. But, absorbed in the newspaper, only half-awake, Jonathan offered juice and cereal without registering these danger signs. Since her damning question, he had been the one to leave rooms and seize a book. If she brought the matter up again, he planned to say Hogarth had warned him that paranoia was a possible side effect of one of her pills. I saved your life, he would remind her. He was sinking back into the financial news, having given her a bowl of muesli and the arts pages, when she said, “Where is my desk?”

“Your desk?” He made the mistake of looking up.

“Yes. I’m a journalist, I write articles. I must’ve written them somewhere.”

The important thing was not to hesitate. “We sold it. You said it wasn’t large enough and you wanted a new one. Don’t you remember?” he added. That usually brought her to heel.

“And where is the new one?”

“On order. I’m sorry, I keep meaning to phone and chivvy
them.” He made a little gesture suggesting, modestly, how overworked he’d been these last few weeks.

Hazel clutched her spoon. “I don’t believe you. The room is stripped. You call it the spare room, not my study—and there’re no books, no papers. I haven’t worked there in months.”

Shut up, he wanted to say. None of your fucking business. “You moved everything to your office. If you feel up to it, I thought we might go shopping later. Get ourselves some new togs for the big day. You always complain you don’t have enough dresses.”

“Jonathan, I’m a freelance journalist. I don’t have that kind of office.” Then, almost pleading, “Why won’t you tell me the truth? I might’ve lost my memory, but I haven’t lost my mind.”

He recognised the tone: his mother asking if he couldn’t come home for his father’s seventieth birthday; Suzanne asking if he didn’t want the baby. He glared across the table, his brain bursting with confusing impulses. I’m in charge, he thought. I don’t have to answer. He got up, as if to get something from the fridge, and went straight through to the living-room. But alone with the cheese plant, he was afraid of being cornered. He rushed out again to climb the stairs to his study: his papers, his computer, his window. He closed the door, turned on the computer, and, on second thoughts, left the door ajar; he didn’t want to be ambushed. As the screen went through its paces, he thought, In two weeks all will be well. The wedding rings he’d ordered would be waiting on Monday.

But why hadn’t she believed him? Yesterday, in Finsbury Park, the man had fidgeted and cleared his throat in such a way that Jonathan had credited every word of his improbable story about the immersion heater. If only he’d listened to Maud. She’d warned him this would happen but, day by day, he’d been reluctant to upset the delicate balance. Now he must sit Hazel down and throw the bomb himself so it would explode exactly
where he wanted. Maybe he’d even tell her that the other night, after a good-night kiss, she’d kissed him back and they’d ended up making love—a mutual act that subsequently, because of her seizure or medicine, she’d imagined into something else. Her beloved, a rapist? And afterwards, how wonderful, no need to be afraid. They could visit Steve and Diane, friends or colleagues, whoever they pleased.

He was staring blankly at the computer screen when the front door opened and closed. An office messenger, at this hour? Then, he was on his feet, scrambling down the stairs and—no time for keys—propping the door open with the mat.

The street was empty save for a woman with a bag of shopping, an elderly black man in a grey suit, three youths in baggy trousers, and a woman pushing a pram. No Hazel in either direction. He looked again to make sure she hadn’t been hidden by a lamppost or car. For a few seconds, all he could think was that the paving stones had swallowed her up. He crossed the road to the blare of a horn, then ran to the nearest corner.

She was standing, talking to the bitch next door, wearing her winter coat, a dark green scarf, and, incongruously, her grubby blue trainers. No bag, though. She looked like a woman out for a stroll, save for the way she gripped the nearby garden wall.

Jonathan paused to catch his breath. “Hazel,” he called. “Your parents are on the phone. I told them you’d ring back, but Nora said it was urgent.”

“Oh.” She glanced at him, cheeks flushing and instantly paling. “Thanks.” And then, to Mrs. Craig: “It was nice talking to you.”

She took a step, another, away from the house. Shit, he was thinking, when Mrs. Craig intervened. “Come, dear. Let’s walk together.” Taking Hazel’s arm, she steered her homeward. Jonathan fell in behind, playing heel-to-toe, triumphant. So
much for managing without him. She couldn’t even make it to the corner alone.

Inside, he closed the door and allowed himself a moment of respite, leaning against the thick, comforting wood while Hazel continued into the living-room. Of course, the phone. When he followed, she was holding the receiver, looking perplexed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did lie. Twice. Once in the kitchen, and just now. I didn’t want Mrs. Craig to know we were having a row.”

She replaced the receiver and curled herself into a corner of the sofa.

“Hazel, forgive me. I’ve been worried sick, and it makes me say the stupidest things. I keep thinking you’re not well enough to hear the truth. You don’t know how frightening it is—” he paused—“when you have seizures.”

Her shoulders sank. Whatever spark had driven her to flee was being extinguished. “What was the first lie?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you for weeks. When you were still in hospital, Maud and I talked and we decided it would upset you too much and—”

“Jonathan, tell me.”

He blurted out the story they’d concocted: how he’d been overwhelmed at work, ignoring Hazel, the handy sublet. All his fault, each and every difficulty. He pushed on, not daring to check her reaction. After the accident, of course, he felt terrible.

“Thank you,” she said at last. “I wish you’d told me sooner. I remember back at the hospital, I sensed something was wrong—the four of you saying ‘home’ in such a strange way.”

“I’m sorry.” He crossed the room, light-footed with contrition, to kneel beside her. “We were trying to protect you.”

“So I ought to be specially grateful that you’re taking such good care of me.”

Her voice was small and forlorn, and suddenly his playacting was genuine. “Hazel, I was barking. Work got on top of
me. Two of my cases were in court, I’d lost the company a ton of money, I was worried about being made redundant. And it didn’t help that you move in such glamorous circles.”

He held out his hand, hoping she’d take it, their first voluntary touch since her seizure, but she ignored him. “I can understand,” she said. Then she broke off. “No, I can’t. I can’t understand systematically lying to another person. You even asked me to marry you without telling the truth.”

“I’m sorry.” Grovel. Lick that dirt. “I was planning to, every day. I never knew where to start. I was afraid you’d think I didn’t love you. As soon as you were hurt, I realised what …”

He saw her eyes, the muscles in her neck. “Hazel, take it easy, relax. Here, lie down. Let me get the rug.”

But she was gone. No bad thing, he thought, as she slipped to the floor, heels drumming. “Boris,” she said. “Where is my book? Where is it?”

When Maud arrived that evening, Hazel was still lying next to the armchair. Together, they got her to her feet and half carried, half dragged her up the stairs. She seemed not to know who they were or where she was, but once in bed, she said, to Maud, “Don’t go.”

Jonathan withdrew, saying he’d make hot milk. Back in the kitchen, he thought, Sod it—he was fed up barging in where he wasn’t wanted—and began to pace the hall. Why, in her delirium, had she said Boris’s name? From now on, he’d work harder at reminding her of their happy life together. Without him, she’d still be at Plantworks or teaching foreigners.

At the sound of footsteps, he hurried into the living-room and flung himself in an armchair. “Everything all right?” he said.

Maud sat down in the other chair. “Not everything. But Hazel seems okay. I gave her her eight o’clock pills.”

“Thanks. Would you like a drink?”

“Please.”

When he came back, a glass of wine in each hand, she appeared to be watching the television; as he approached, though, he saw her eyes brimming. “Cheers,” he said. “I took your advice today, finally.”

“My advice?”

“To tell Hazel about the flat, our ups and downs. You were absolutely right. I was an idiot not to do it sooner.”

“What did she say?”

“She was upset, but mostly that I hadn’t told her.” He tried to remember if she’d asked anything about the flat. “I don’t know if she really took it in.”

“Before the seizure,” Maud said.

He hadn’t seen the sequence in quite that light. “Well, she’d been overdoing it. She escaped this morning. Fortunately she ran into Mrs. Craig at the corner.”

“So you’re keeping her prisoner.” Maud examined the arm of her chair with fixed attention.

“Of course not. This is her home.”

“But you and I don’t ‘escape’ when we leave the house, do we?”

Once again he got that scary feeling about Maud. He stared at her shadowed eyes, her full mouth. What was in it for her? He hadn’t a clue. “Shall we get a take-away?”

“You didn’t phone.”

For a moment he couldn’t think what she meant, then recalled her request to meet. “I’m sorry.” He explained about Alastair, his suddenly hectic schedule. “We can talk now,” he offered. With Hazel comatose, even that seemed safe.

Maud drained her glass and, still scrutinising the chair, stood. “Not tonight,” she said. “I have a feeling I might fall apart and behave badly.”

“Maud.”

“What?”

If he knew, if he had the faintest notion what she was asking for, he might’ve answered. All he could do was raise his empty hands.

Outwardly, Freddie was in his usual position, sprawled on the couch, a cup of Earl Grey beside him, the
Herald Tribune
open across his chest. Inwardly, everything was changed. The couch was no longer a place of hibernation but the headquarters of his campaign to save Hazel. He tried to recall Mrs. Craig’s words. Hazel had been so angry she could hardly speak. She had moved out. Then he thought of what Hazel herself had told him on his second visit.

The
Tribune
slid to the floor. Somehow, Littleton was taking advantage of her problems. Or did the seizures keep her captive? He remembered visiting a friend in Santa Monica. One minute they’d been hulling strawberries at her kitchen table; the next, she dragged him into the doorway and made him crouch down, arms around his head, while the berries rolled to the floor and the books tumbled from the shelves. What scared him was not the earthquake so much as his own absolute lack of premonition; he’d always believed the world would give him the signals he needed. No wonder Hazel couldn’t leave when, at any moment, she might be felled by her own personal earthquake.