Sottopassaggio (22 page)

I walk east. The summer sun beating down scorches the right hand side of my face. The concrete shimmers in the heat. Literally everyone is smiling broadly.

Families are walking four abreast, holding hands in contented nuclear family formation, seemingly unaware of my presence. They all seem to be heading towards the pier, and irritatingly I have to zigzag left and right as I struggle to walk against the tide.

On my left the buildings end and are replaced with grassy sand dunes, and I notice, for the first time, a windmill behind them, a modern, gleaming structure slicing through the wind, shining against the blue sky.

I scramble up the beach and head across the dunes towards the structure, but as I approach, I realise that it isn't actually a wind turbine, but a rotary clothes drier.

As I continue towards it I rise and fall in and out of the hollows, catching ever clearer glimpses of the structure, and as I near the top of the final hill, I see a man with mad blue eyes standing beside it, spinning it and laughing.

To my right the hollows between the peaks are no longer sandy, but muddy and brown, and I notice a series of pulleys emanating from the clothes-drier, stretching across the peaks.

I carefully make my way around the mud-pools, following the system to its destination, a huge iron
mechanism pumping a stream of gushing, spluttering mud.

At the bottom of the hollow I'm surprised to see Jenny on her back, the mud lapping around her. I wave to her but she merely raises her head and shakes it from side to side.

I slip and slide down the wet bank to her side, but the nearer I get, the harder it seems to make progress. My feet are sinking into the mud.

The mud is still gushing from the pulley-driven pump, the level still rising around her, and I realise for the first time that she is in danger.

I pull a leg from the swamp and move forward onto the other foot, sinking deep into the mud. As I move, now almost in slow motion, I glance behind at the clothes-drier to see if there is any way to stop it.

By the time I reach Jenny, only her face and her swollen belly are still protruding from the mud.

I kneel beside her and stare into her eyes. They are wide and brown and full of terror.

“Keep it off the baby,” she says, nodding at her stomach. “Keep it away from the baby.”

I frown at her, unsure what to do. The pipe behind me gushes and gurgles as the level rises. I begin to push the mud away from her face – it's touching her nostrils now – but inevitably it flows around my fingers.

I try to form a tube with my fingers to enable her to breathe, but the mud comes faster and faster and as her eyes disappear beneath the brown sludge it starts to flow over my fingers. I can see it falling into her mouth. I can see her pink tongue gagging and swallowing as it enters her body.

I start to cry, still desperately casting around for help. I see the man on the hill, still spinning the drier.

“Stop!” I plead. “Please?” But he just laughs demonically.

When I look back, my hands have disappeared beneath the mud. I lay my head on Jenny's belly and weep as the level continues to rise.

When it starts to touch my chin, my grief is replaced by fear for my own safety, and I try to stand, but slip and fall again and again. My feet knock against something solid beneath the mud – Jenny's stomach.

Finally the weight pressing against my shoulders is too much, and I give up and lie back, slowly sinking into the mud. As it touches my lips, I realise that it tastes like the black pudding from my school dinners.

It isn't mud at all. It's blood.

I sit and gag and gasp for breath. I look madly around the bedroom, and then exhale deeply.

“Shit!” I say.

I swallow, and lie back, raising one hand to cover my mouth. Then I wipe the tears from my cheek and sigh heavily.

“Wow!” I say.

It takes a few cups of coffee before I start to feel present in the late-morning here and now of Owen's kitchen.

As soon as I feel able to speak, I dial Jenny's mobile, but she's already in conversation or it is switched off, so I leave a message on her voicemail.

In the shower, I realise that she used the house phone to call home, so I rinse myself quickly and head back downstairs.

The last number list contains a single unrecognisable number, so I shrug and hit redial. It rings endlessly and I am just about to give up when a breathless voice answers.

“Hello?”

“Jenny?” I say, relieved that I have the right number.

“No,” the voice says.

I frown.

“Oh.”

“Who is this please?” she asks.

“Sorry, I think I have the wrong number,” I say.
“Weird,”
I think. “
It sounds like Jenny.”

“Jenny who?” the woman asks.

“Jenny Holmes,” I say.

There is a pause.

“This is
Mrs
Holmes, Jenny's mother. Who is this?”

“Ah,” I say. “Great, I'm, um, sorry to disturb you. It's Mark, Jenny's friend. Could you give me…?”

“Mark,” she interrupts. “It doesn't surprise me that you forgot she's married.”

I bite my lip. “I'm sorry?”

“She's called Gregory now. Jenny Gregory. She's married you know.”

“Yes, sorry, that's what I meant,” I say. “Can you give me her number?”

Another pause.

“Please leave her alone,” she says. “Don't you think it might be better if you just left her alone?”

“I'm sorry, I…”

“Don't you think you've done enough damage?”

I make a silent, “
Eh
?” sound. “I'm sorry, Mrs Holmes, but I don't really understand,” I say.

“He wasn't like this before. Not till you came on the scene.”

I shake my head. “I don't…
Who
wasn't like
what,
Mrs Holmes?”

“Nick. They were OK before. Please, just leave her alone, can't you?”

“Well, um, I'd like to, but, I'm not sure I can Mrs Holmes,” I say. “I'm, well… I'm her
friend
.”

Mrs Holmes makes an exasperated gasp.

“No, I'm sorry, but I'm not going to give you her number,” she says. “And I'm going to hang up now.”

“But I…”

“So please just leave them to sort their marriage out. Before something dreadful happens.”

“Mr Holmes? Please can you ex…”

But Mrs Holmes has hung up.

I drop the telephone heavily onto the base.

“That was worse than the dream,” I say shaking my head.

I wander solemnly down to the marina and order coffee and a croissant at a quayside café. It's sunny again, the breeze is warm, and the reflections of the water shimmer against the boats as the cables gently clank against the masts. It feels almost Mediterranean.

The terraces are still calm before the lunchtime rush, so I stare at the swaying boats and sip my coffee and rake through my mind for missed information about Jenny, for a clue about what to do, how to act.

I've been warned to stay away by her mother, warned that I am the problem. But what if I am the ally. What if she has it all wrong?

I sigh and bite into the croissant. It's a poor bready copy of the real thing, so I spread it thickly with the butter and jam provided.

A tiny wind-turbine spins on the top of a mast, inevitably producing images of the dream and making me shudder.
Could Jenny really be drowning? Could she really need saving?

I need to discuss this with someone else who knows her. I have been resisting calling Tom, but he's the only one I can talk to about this. Plus it's the perfect excuse.

I decide to phone him as soon as I get back.

As I climb the stairs to Kemptown, I see a cute guy heading down. It's John.

“Hi Mark!” he exclaims. “Long time no see.”

I laugh and pause at the landing. “Not that long,” I say.

“So how's things?” he asks.

I nod. “OK really,” I shrug. “Fine.”

“Seen Benoit recently?” he asks.

I scrunch my nose. “Nah,” I say, trying to calculate as I speak just how much to reveal. “I think I upset
him,” I say.

John raises an intrigued eyebrow. “Yeah?” he says.

“Yeah, I lost something, and well, I phoned him up in case he's taken it by accident, and he kind of went mad,” I say. “He thought I was accusing him.”

I hear the lie, but calculate that it might just smooth things over with Benoit.
“But then,”
I think.
“Is that what I want?”

John nods. “Benoit's in a bad phase at the moment, so I wouldn't worry too much.”

“A bad phase?” I say.

John nods. “Yeah, you know,” he says glancing at his watch. “Anyway, I've got to go. I'm meeting my other half for lunch.” He leans forward and we kiss on the cheek.

“Come round,” he says, already skipping down the stairs. “We've got some new toys.”

I laugh. “Yeah,” I say, with a little wave. “Thanks, I can imagine.”

Within seconds I'm regretting not pressing him for more information about Benoit, but I'm more worried about Jenny, so I hurry home.

I leave a message on Tom's voicemail telling him I need to speak to him, that it's urgent and serious. He phones back immediately, bless him.

“I'll be driving past the end of your street in about half an hour actually,” he says. “You can make me a cuppa.”

The sight of Tom on the doorstep stuns me.

Sure, I've never considered Tom anything but attractive, but today he's wearing a black suit, crisp white shirt, and a bottle green tie. The transformation is stunning.

“Wow!” I say, looking at the sleek shimmer of his impeccable clothes. “Look at you!”

Tom grins sheepishly. “I had a meeting with the directors,” he explains. “So, you know…”

I stand aside, ushering him into the lounge. “Your
lordship,” I say.

Tom blushes and heads through to the dining room.

“I never really imagined you in a suit,” I say. “Not with the hair and everything.”

Tom shrugs. “Doesn't happen often,” he says.

I nod at a seat, indicating that he should sit and switch on the kettle.

“It works though,” I say. “That suit is stunning.”

Tom shrugs and smoothes his lapel. “Yeah,” he says sheepishly. “Cost too much really,” he laughs. “But, I thought, well, I only have the one, so…”

I pull two cups from the cupboard and put a teabag in each.

“Tea I presume,” I say.

“Yeah,” Tom nods. “So what's happening? You sounded serious.”

I sigh and lean on the counter top.

“Yes,” I say. “Well, I wanted to talk to you about Jenny. I need your advice.”

Tom raises an eyebrow and nods.

“Hey, where's your piercing?” I say.

Tom shrugs and rubs his eyebrow. “Didn't go with the suit,” he says. “I'll put it back in tonight. So what's up with Mrs Stroppy?”

I smile. “I'm worried about her,” I say.

Tom nods. “So he
is
hitting her?”

I frown. I stop breathing for a moment and stare at him.

“Nick, I mean,” Tom says with a nod.

It's obvious and amazingly clear and it has never crossed my mind. But the second Tom says it, I know that it's true. At some deep level, it is as if I have always known.

“I think he is,” I say. “Yes, I think he probably is.”

I tell Tom about Jenny's decision to leave Nick, her decision to keep the baby, and the phone call to her mother. Tom nods and listens and sips his tea.

Finally I shrug. “So what do
you
think?” I say.

Tom nods soberly. “Well if he
is
slapping her around I think we should talk to her, don't you?” he says.

I nod. “I know,” I say. “But we don't know that, and even if he is, well, she doesn't seem to
want
to talk.”

“Maybe we should go see her,” he says. “Maybe we should just turn up. Surrey's not that far, and I've got fuck-all on this afternoon.”

I nod half-heartedly. “I suppose we could. Except that I don't know where they live.”

Tom shrugs. “Directory enquiries?” he says.

I shake my head. “I don't know Nick's surna…” I stare at the ceiling an instant before correcting myself.

“Actually I do,” I say. “Her mother said it. It's
Gregory
. Nick Gregory.”

Tom winks at me and pulls his mobile from his top pocket. “It's worth a try,” he says.

On the motorway, I try looking out of the side window but it doesn't help. I try closing my eyes and feigning sleep, but that's worse. In the end it's no good. I have to ask Tom to slow down.

He glances at the speedometer. “I'm only doing eighty-five,” he says petulantly.

I nod. “I'm sorry Tom, but since the accident…”

He frowns.

“I was in a really bad accident. My friend died,” I remind him.

Tom reaches across and touches my leg. “Sorry,” he says, dropping his speed to seventy. “Is that better?” he asks, glancing sideways at me.

I wrinkle my nose and grin falsely. He glances in the rear-view mirror and moves into the slow lane.

“60!”, he says with a laugh.

I grimace at him and nod. “Sorry,” I say. “Thanks.”

Tom shrugs, squeezes my leg and returns his hand to the steering wheel. “If it creeps up then just remind me,” he says.

“I am sorry about all this,” I say. “I mean, I may be imagining it all.”

Tom shrugs and glances at me. “I quite like the adventure really,” he says. “Surrey! Imagine!” he laughs.

“She couldn't even live somewhere interesting,” I say nodding.

“No, but seriously, I'm quite intrigued to see this Nick guy,” Tom says. “And if there's no problem, then, well, our dropping in won't be a problem either, will it.”