After You'd Gone (22 page)

Her hand is bandaged, stitched up, hurting less and held to her chest in a sling when, the next morning, she finds a small envelope in her pigeon-hole. It has 'Anne' written on the outside in blue ink. Strong, squarish letters. The misspelling makes her sure, makes her heart thud, makes her hand ache in a strange excitement. It has to be him. Ann's never had a love letter before. Never wanted one before. In the library, she slits the top of the envelope open with a steel ruler. But out comes not a letter with love held in its folds or steeped in its ink, but lots and lots of paper squares, each with a letter on them. Ann stares at them, confused and disappointed, lets them fall

through her fingers. Then she sees that in the corner of each square is a number.

Electrified, she spreads them out before her like a croupier, turning over any that are face down. People around her circle the shelves, or turn over pages of books, or scribble lines of writing on paper. But Ann is forming words out of cut-up squares, looking frantically for the next number, the next letter, blood pounding through her body: C a n ' t s t o p read the first two. Can't stop, can't stop, Ann chants to herself, as she searches the slough of white paper squares in front of her. He can't stop. Can't stop what? t h i n k i n g a b o u t . Then: y o u . M e e t m e a t t h e H e a r t o f M i d l o t h i a n , s o o n a s y o u c a n , B e n.

Ann jumps up. Then she sits down. Then she sweeps all the letters back into the envelope. Then she goes over to the nearest person. 'Excuse me, do you know what the Heart of Midlothian is?'

Ann has never been to the cathedral, never noticed that in front of it, set into the cobbles, is a stone heart. She is worried, as she walks as fast as she can up the Royal Mile, that she won't be able to find it among the chaos of the cobbles, that she might miss him, that he might think she never came, that he might have gone. But as she turns round the corner of the blackened cathedral, she sees him sitting on a bench, hunched into his coat, a book in his hands. Seeing her, he stands and gives a little wave. She thinks: he is smaller and thinner than I remembered. She thinks: my hand hurts. She thinks: do I love him? She thinks: he tied his shoelace around my wrist to stop me losing blood. She thinks: I wonder how long he's been waiting.

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There are times when I am there and times when I am not - when I am elsewhere, blocked off, blocked in. But there are times when I am closer than others and I can hear and smell and feel the things I cannot see outside myself. It's like a tide that bears my body up, taking me closer to the light and sound.

Now that they are here, I am glad.

My father used to tell us the story of how he met our mother ('I looked up and there she was, red blood running down her arm and on to the floor'), and we used to get her to show us the scar, white like a fork of lightning across her palm. Sometimes she would - opening her hand for us like a plant reacting to light - and sometimes she wouldn't.

Throughout my life, I have imagined it over and over again - I have a perfectly constructed image in my head of the laboratory and how it looked; and my mother with the scalpel that slipped and sliced through her hand; and her walking through the room; and my father being the only one to jump up and help her; and him climbing into the ambulance with her. I see them so clearly: young, my mother's hair long, pinned up; my father with one laceless shoe slack around his foot, and a linen handkerchief washed and ironed by Elspeth. But today, in this state I'm in, I'm somewhere up near the ceiling, looking down into the laboratory as if into a dolls'

house: I see my mother advancing towards my father, her sleeve stained red. And just at the point when he hears the hairpin drop and is looking up to see her for the first time, I want to take them up like Plasticine figures, lift them out and press them tightly together with the palms of both my hands.

The only light now was from the fire which someone must have built up - a hissing roar leapt into her ears, Alice found, if she tilted her head towards it. The faces beyond it dissolved and reformed in the heat haze it threw up. Beyond them, she could still just about make out the line of the horizon and the shoreline. If she tilted her head the other way, away from the fire and the whirling, hard-edged, jangling music thudded out by the sound system, she could hear the rhythmic suck and crash of waves.

She stood up, brushing the sand off the back of her long black skirt. Where was Katy? She'd disappeared down the sand dune a while back to find them something else to drink, making Alice promise to wait for her. Alice peered down into the gloom, scanning the faces, searching for the blaze of Katy's red hair. She would go down and look for her. She flicked the trailing end of her feather boa over her shoulder and set off down the dune towards the fire and the main bulk of the party where bodies were standing about or gyrating to the music. Her boots sank into the soft sand and her feet were carried faster than she intended by the momentum of the slope. The sudden speed thrilled her and she held out her arms against the rush of air: she seemed to be whizzing past groups of people, her feet moving beneath her involuntarily, her hair and the ends of the feather boa flying out behind her. Giggling to herself, she came to a halt by crashing into someone at the bottom. Whoever it was had to grab hold of her by both arms to stop themselves from falling over.

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'Sorry, ' Alice said breathlessly, 'sorry, I couldn't stop.' The person didn't let go of her. She screwed up her eyes in the serrii-dark. It was a boy, taller than her. Did she know him? 'Sorry,' she said again, expecting him to let go. The boy pulled her round to face the fire and both of them were staring into each other's faces by the demonic, orange glow of the flames. She knew who he was - Andrew Innerdale, in Kirsty' s year at school. He had a brother in the year below Alice, or was it two years below? Their father, the kind of arty, ex-hippie type that stood out a mile in North Berwick, owned the antiques shop on the High Street. Still with his hands curled around her upper arms, he said, 'I thought it was you. '

Alice felt incensed, curious and flattered all at the same time. His face was very close to hers and she could smell the tang of beer on his breath. His eyes raked over her face in the semi-dark: there was something about his gaze that unsettled her. She put her hands flat against his chest and shoved him away from her. He staggered back a step, uttering a small, mewing cry of surprise. She turned and drifted away through the crowd of people, searching for Katy, nestling deeper into the mass of feathers coiled about her neck.

She had found the feather boa at the back of Elspeth's wardrobe. She had been half-heartedly groping in its dark depths for a cardigan her grandmother had asked her to fetch, when her fingers brushed against something soft, silky and springy. She'd snatched her hand away in surprise, examining it as if expecting it to be injured by what she'd just touched. Then she'd ducked down so her eyes were on a level with the shelf and cautiously inserted her hand again. This time she didn 't draw back her hand when she'd felt its imperceptible brush, but gripped it carefully and drew it out towards her. It uncoiled like a cobra from its resting place at the back of the wardrobe and, within seconds, a long spray of blackish-green

feathers was travelling past her astonished eyes. On and on it came and when she finally placed it around her neck, its ends almost reached the floor. She looped it round and round her neck then surveyed herself in Elspeth's mirror.

The feathers, piled up to reach her ears, were the sleek, oiled black-green of a starling's throat. At the centre of the boa, where they were woven into some invisible cord, they were gossamer soft before frothing out into the firm, spiky feathers with hooked filaments that caressed her cheeks like blades. Alice had never seen anything so beautiful and she had never wanted anything so badly: it made her weak with longing, the will to possess this thing. Why did her grandmother have it? Why had she never seen it before? Where had Elspeth worn it and would she let her have it?

Alice had stood for a few moments in front of her mirror, her fingertips stroking the outermost feathers. Then she had picked up the cardigan Elspeth had wanted and gone downstairs, the end of the feather boa trailing down her back like the tail of a sea monster.

Elspeth had, of course, given it to her, and tonight's beach party was its first outing. She was being careful not to let it touch the sand, as she wove in and out of groups of people. The idea of wet sand among the sleek feathers made her shudder. Suddenly an arm was being passed around her waist. She whipped round, but it was a grinning Kirsty, materialising out of the dark. 'Hello, girlie,' Alice said, throwing an arm around her sister's warm neck, 'how are you doing?'

They walked on together through the crowd of people, arms round each other, Kirsty leaning heavily against her.

'Just fine. How about you? Having a nice time?'

'Mmm. I've lost Katy. You haven't seen her, have you?' 'Um, no. Don't think so.'

Someone behind them shouted, 'Kirsty! Kirsty!' and Kirsty

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slipped out of Alice's grasp, back into the gloom. 'Have to go,' she said, over her shoulder. 'See you later.'

'OK. What time are you going home?' Alice called after her, but Kirsty didn't hear.

Alice climbed to the top of the other dune and, shivering in the stiff breeze that always returned at night, looked around again for Katy. She couldn't see her. If she went home she'd be better to walk some of the way following the seashore, rather than take the more direct route over the golf course: it was too dark now and she'd be sure to fall into a bunker. She knew the way via the beach much better. She made her way down the slope, gripping handfuls of marram grass for balance this time, and walked off down the beach. A few people called after her. 'I'm going home,' she called back, her voice carried by the breeze, ' bye-bye.'

Without the contrast of the fire, it was easier to see down by the sea. The foam of the waves caught what little moonlight there was filtering through the thick cloud. Five hundred yards or so away from the party, she turned and walked backwards for a few steps, watching the small black cut-out shapes and the glow of the fire's embers. Then she turned and faced the direction she was walking in. The first chill of nerves at the darkened, empty beach ahead of her passed over her skin. She crossed her arms, pushing her hands up into her sleeves and walked quickly, her head down, her boots slopping through the wet sand of the shoreline, the hem of her skirt absorbing salty water, sand, seaweed and tiny flakes of shell. When the jagged rocks of Point Garry appeared out of the pitchy black, she began to relax. She breathed into the feathers around her neck and began to sing to herself in a whisper a song that had been playing on the sound system at the party. Not far now.

Alice stopped, her breath catching in her throat. On the rocks in front of her was a person, just standing there. She couid

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see their outline, darker against the sky. She cleared the hair from across her face and called out, 'Hello? Who's that?'

Whoever it was didn't answer, but jumped down from the rocks and started walking towards her.

'Don't!' she shrieked. 'Don't come anywhere near me! I'll scream! Tell me who you are!'

The person stopped and held up its hands in a supplicant posture. 'Sorry.' It was a boy. 'Don't be scared,' he said. 'Is that Alice?'

'Maybe,' she said, still angry. 'Who are you?'

'It's Andrew,' he said, advancing forward on the sand again.

'Andrew Innerdale?' she demanded. 'Yes.'

'Well, you scared the fucking life out of me, Andrew Innerdale,' she said, and marched on. She could sense him somewhere behind her, hear his breath coming in shortened gasps as he caught up with her.

'I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. ' His voice was even, very close to her ear.

'Well, you did.'

They walked on in silence for a bit, then Alice stopped and said, 'I'm going to cut across the golf course here.'

'I 'll come with you. '

, She hesitated. Blood was pounding past her eardrums. This male shape in the dark beside her made her nervous and excited and confused. What was it wound up behind his eyes that frightened her?

'All right,' Alice said.

Over the golf course, they could see a necklace of sulphur ous yellow street-lights. She felt more composed as they neared them, and they both gradually emerged from the gloom. He was tall and skinny, wearing thick-soled boots like hers.

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'You're Kirsty's sister, aren't you?' he said. 'Yes.'

'You don't look like her.' 'I know. '

The manicured lawns of the golfing greens rolled under their silent feet and they bobbed in and out of the small artificial hillocks of the course.