Kissing Through a Pane of Glass (24 page)

Unfortunately, the circumstances of our meeting were not as simple as that, and someone did object, and made the objection known by hurling a brick through the window, a brick which, whilst having no identifying marks, made the same accusation that you’re all making now.

“How could you?

It’s an interesting question. It deserves an answer. Ideally, the answer would placate the enquirer in such a way that the incident need never be mentioned again. Alas, no such answer exists. You may wish to choose an answer for yourself that offers a neat explanation. How about, “Because he’s an evil, thoughtless bastard.” Or, “Because he has no scruples, no moral sense, no soul. ” Or how about, “Because he doesn’t know better,” or, “Because he’s a victim of social conditioning,” or, “Because he’s a slave to his hormones,” or, “Because he’s young and wants to experiment.” Let’s face it, even if all the above were true, would it have vindicated me in your eyes? Would you have said “fair enough” and forgiven me? I doubt it.

More to the point, would any or all of the possible reasons or excuses have vindicated me in the eyes of a woman who felt she had been in her sister’s shadow all her life, a woman who had been physically beaten, emotionally abused and sexually manipulated, perhaps by a succession of men, culminating in an alcoholic misfit who particularly liked slapping her about after they’d made love? Would any excuse or reason suffice for a woman who, within a matter of years, would no longer know her own identity, no longer recognise her face in the mirror, be unable to differentiate between the true facts of her personal history and a mythical version that she had unwittingly manufactured to protect herself?

Would any of it have made any difference to a madwoman?

Richard may have been right about fidelity; he may even have been right about love. But I’m afraid he was much mistaken about guilt. Guilt has nothing to do with feeling insecure. Richard may have enjoyed
Crime and Punishment
, but he certainly didn’t understand it. We may do all manner of extraordinary things because of love, but they are nothing compared to the things we will do because of guilt.

However, when you combine an excess of both love and guilt, only then will you see someone behave in ways that defy all reason. Especially if that someone happens to be an obsessive neurotic...

I pulled on my jeans as swiftly as I could, taking care not to step on the jagged glass, and ran to the front door.

‘What are you doing? Are you mad?’

‘Just stay there; make sure you don’t cut yourself...’

‘Michael!’

I opened the door and peered out into the darkness. I could hear my pulse throbbing in my temples, distracting me, tugging at my attention. My right hand was bleeding - just a scratch, I could feel nothing. The air was bitterly cold, and everything was so still, so quiet, that at first I didn’t even notice her. Then I heard the quiet sobbing noises that I’d become so familiar with.

She was kneeling on the lawn, her face in her hands. I knew it was her; even in the half-light she was instantly recognisable; the silhouette of her body, her posture, the gentle heaving of those lovely shoulders.

A million thoughts rushed forward, each jostling and elbowing to make room for themselves, each demanding recognition, requesting attention. For every thought there was an accompanying emotion, and wedged in between were a number of physical responses which were mostly irregularities of pulse and breath. I had no sooner set eyes upon her than I was a mess of confused responses, unable to speak or act.

I stood there for a moment or two, waiting for a sense of normality to return, hoping something would happen so that I wouldn’t have to make a decision. As it happened, no sooner had the thought entered my head than Lee appeared and with a half-whispered “Angela”, pushed past me and ran on to the lawn where she threw her arms around her totally unresponsive sister.

There have been many moments in my life when I have wished not to exist, when the sheer effort of living was just too great, the problems too harsh, the reasons “for” mere shadows when placed alongside the reasons “against”. It is not a suicidal wish; I have never wanted to die; just to be for ever unconscious, no longer aware of my own existence.

As I watched Lee hug her sister close and rock her gently, as Liana’s sobs seeped into the cold winter’s night, I was overcome with such a feeling. I did not want to be there, standing on the doorstep of a suburban detached in Surrey watching this latest bizarre scenario; I did not want to be anywhere. I did not want to be. It didn’t make sense. In theory, I should have been overjoyed. Liana was back, she was here, she had returned; we could start again. I should have been delighted, but I was not. I was terrified.

What was it I sensed that cold December night? In those few moments that followed, did I actually feel my freedom disappear, leaching into the air, the soil, the ether? Did I really see my life strung out ahead of me like a reel of film, predestined, a life over which I would no longer have control? Did I know, in that moment, that the door that had threatened to slam shut had already done so, that the key had been turned in the lock and thrown away?

It cannot have been more than a minute later when Lee looked up at me and called.

‘Michael!’ There was a desperation in her voice that I had never heard before; I knew something was terribly wrong, that I would have to take responsibility, that I would be asked to act.

I walked over slowly, trying to regain my breath, to steady my nerves. Lee’s eyes remained on me the whole time.

‘There’s something wrong, Michael; I don’t think she knows who I am.’

‘What?’ I knelt down in front of the two sisters. Liana was staring straight ahead, focusing on empty space. She had stopped crying. Her face was almost completely devoid of emotion; she looked like a shop-window dummy. ‘Liana?’ I took her hand; she was cold to the touch, lifeless. I squeezed her hand but she did not respond. ‘Liana? Are you okay? Liana?’ Nothing.

‘What’s wrong? Michael?’

‘I don’t know,’ I croaked. Once again, my world was falling apart. There was something wrong with her, something desperately wrong with Liana. If previously she had been fragile, on the edge, then now she had fallen and finally cracked.

And it was all my fault.

‘Let’s get her inside.’ I looked at Lee and for a moment the enormity of it all flooded over me. She must have seen it in my eyes, because she looked away. My life with Lee was over; my life with Liana was just about to begin. My God was keeping me to my word; I had touched the stars, I had inhaled heaven’s breath, I had known ecstasy, and now it was my turn to pay.

Even in the poor light, with her eyes and cheeks red from crying and the sad, blank expression in her face, she was still as beautiful as ever. This was what I had begged God for; to be with this Woman. In so doing, I had forfeited my right to a happy future. This was where it all ended. This was where it all began.

‘Liana, we’re going inside now. Come on.’ We helped her to her feet and guided her to the house. She said nothing, allowing herself to be led like a lost, lonely child.

It is all something of a blur now. I cannot recall exactly what happened. We called a doctor, I think, who said something about shock and mild catatonia, and suggested we put her to bed, keep her warm and call if there were any problems. For two days Liana said nothing. We fed her, kept her warm, never left her alone, not for a moment. Lee and I said little to each other; she wondered whether she should try to contact her parents, but I advised against it. There was nothing they could do, and anyway, if Liana was in shock, their arrival might only complicate matters. Besides, hadn’t they given up on her?

We never did find out how long Liana had been following us, or where she had stayed, or why she had waited so long to confront us. The reason for her disappearance would never come to light. When she finally “came to”, she had no recollection of what had happened. The period between when she had arrived back in London and “woken up” in her old bedroom was a complete blank. She was still a little dazed, and remained so for a few days.

Her memory seemed haphazard and unreliable, an amalgam of real events and totally contrived episodes; she could remember India, but not what she had been doing in the preceding months. She knew she hadn’t seen Lee for a while, but thought it closer to six months than eighteen. It was not until much later that I discovered how advanced this mythomania was. At the time, I didn’t really care. Liana had indeed returned, and she was so pleased to see me, so enthusiastic, that for a moment I genuinely thought that everything would be okay.

Her parents were due back from their holiday by then, and we all thought it sensible that Liana be somewhere else when they returned. Mum and Dad offered to put her up, but this didn’t feel terribly comfortable. It was Richard who came to the rescue, and this time I did take him up on his offer to move in. Richard went to stay with Mandy or Melanie or whoever it was he was busy with, and Liana and I moved into his bedsit.

But it was not for long. A week later I got my first job working as a journalist on a local newspaper. We rented a tiny flat near Highbury Corner. Liana took a part-time job in a fashionable clothes shop in the West End, and within a month we were settled and, much to our joint delight, happy. It was all far too good to be true. Work was fun, the flat, though small, located in a great area, and we seemed to want for nothing. Every night we would make passionate, death-defying love, and at the weekend we’d retire to bed with nothing but a few packets of cigarettes and a bottle of champagne. It was a return to the magic of those first days together. But it was not to last.

A year later, we were married in the local Registry Office; Mum and Dad, Richard, Lee and Tony (from the café in Charing Cross Road) attended. Liana’s parents did not attend. They had never forgiven Liana for the agony she had put them through. They had had nothing to do with her since her return to the fold, and were not about to start just because she was getting married. It seemed impossibly heartless to me, and I even took the liberty of writing to them, but I never received a reply. Lee said she could do nothing to persuade them, so that was that.

Three months after the wedding, Liana had her first major breakdown, more severe than anything I had seen so far. That was when we sought professional help.

***

Today is our last day together for six months. Liana is not speaking to me; she ranted and raved all night, and is now so exhausted that she has neither the energy nor the inclination to converse. Tomorrow I will drive her down to Devon, to leave her in the capable hands of Doctor Jerome and his merry band of helpers. The following day I will fly to Jakarta and start the six-month odyssey that will, hopefully, provide me with enough material to keep us both alive for another year.

If I have given the impression that I resent this, any of this, then forgive me. In case you are in any doubt, understand that I do these things not because I have to, but because I want to. If I was paid at higher rates, then I would work for just three months, and I would take Liana and look after her for nine months of the year.

You see, she may be crazy, she may spend half her time hating me, or wanting to kill me, but Liana is still the most enchanting, the most desirable, the most beautiful woman I have ever known. And I love her.

Desperately.

About the Author

Peter Michael Rosenberg is an award-winning novelist, screenwriter and self-confessed nomad. He has travelled in over seventy countries around the world but has yet to find one to call home.

To learn more about Peter Michael Rosenberg visit his website
http://www.petermichaelrosenberg.com