The Other Me (22 page)

‘You mean now?’ I’m confused by his attention. I brush my palms over my jeans. I feel grubby and crumpled. I remember his girlfriend’s casual elegance.

He shrugs. ‘It’s so hot,’ he says. ‘I was thinking that it would be cooler in the park. We could go together… if you like.’

He said ‘we’. Something opens inside. Relief. Happiness. I pinch the skin on the back of my hand, needing the nip of pain to steady me.

‘You’re on your own?’ I manage to keep my voice casual.

He looks puzzled. ‘Yes.’

‘I thought… I thought you might be with your girlfriend.’

His face is blank. And then he steps closer. ‘Who told you I had a girlfriend?’

I pray he can’t see the blush spreading across my cheeks. ‘I saw you with her. A dark-haired girl. In Brixton. A while ago.’

‘Beth?’ He frowns.

I’m thrown for a moment. I thought she’d have an Italian name, or Spanish. Carmen. Florenza. Something exotic.

‘My sister?’ he’s saying slowly as if I’m hard of hearing. ‘God. I hope people don’t make that mistake often.’

Relief turns my bones to liquid; I wish there was somewhere to sit down. Happiness is back in my chest, bright and bubbling and dangerous. I can’t afford to feel like this. I look away from the creaturely energy coiled under his skin. If he didn’t have that lop-sided smile, that tapering of muscle above the line of his jeans, perhaps it would make him easier to forget.

I keep my voice level. ‘I don’t have to go home yet. Just as long as I get the last train.’

We walk gritty streets. Cars thunder past, the boom of bass echoing from walls like thunder. Everyone has the same idea. People spill onto the pavement. Whole families awake at midnight. Mothers sit with babies on their laps on their front steps. Grandmothers doze in armchairs dragged out from sitting rooms. A Rastafarian passes us, tall and aloof in the darkness; he carries a staff like a wizard. His locks fall down his back in a thick dark mass.

‘Won’t it be shut at this time of night?’ I say as we come out of Milton Road, the bulk of the lido in front of us. Behind that is the open expanse of park, just visible as smudged shapes rearing up towards the skyline.

‘Gates are made for climbing,’ Cosmo replies.

He goes first, and helps me clamber over, holding my bag out of the way of the spikes. I jump down and he steadies me, clasping my shoulders. We bump up against each other and break apart quickly. The park is seeped in ink, trees throwing long shadows across patches of creamy moonlight. We set off up the hill. Bushes, bins and benches crouch, making shapes that seem to grow eyes and move towards us. I edge closer to Cosmo, resisting the instinct to grab his hand.

Even in the wide-open spaces of the park, the air gathers in thick swathes. Cosmo heads off the path and onto the grass, dry and uneven underfoot, the slope rising steeply. It’s difficult to move one leg in front of the other, as if the sinews of night are drawn tight. I hear a rumble somewhere, vibrations grumbling through my bones.

We reach the top of the slope, panting, and Cosmo throws out his arms. ‘Look!’

The whole of the city falls open, glimmering in the distance. Tower blocks and church spires pushing towards the moon. We stand together in the hot night, lost inside the basin of winking lights, the rise and fall of the skyline marked out in glitter. London seems far away. It’s as if we’re alone on a planet circling the city.

‘Spectacular, isn’t it?’ He sounds pleased, as if he’s personally responsible for conjuring up the view.

Our arms brush. I can feel the heat of his skin. He’s always hot, as if the energy inside him makes him glow. I close my eyes. A drop of rain splashes onto my closed lid. I open my eyes in surprise and the tiny pool floods my vision. There is a crack of thunder. This time rolling across the sky above us. Water is coursing through the atmosphere, soaking us.

Cosmo grabs my hand. ‘Come on!’

Another crack of thunder like a tree crashing on top of us, and the whole park lights up in a technicolour glow. Jagged lines flicker on and off across the horizon like silver flares. We are running now, feet flying across wet grass. It’s downhill and the momentum of the slope gives us a giddy speed. Cosmo races ahead, pulling me behind. Water blinds me. I can’t see the ground. I slip, but Cosmo jerks me onto my feet. We reach the bottom panting and laughing, hearts racing.

He looks down and pushes a strand of hair away from my wet cheek. ‘This is how I remember you.’ His voice is husky.

Above us rain shimmers like a fall of needles. The crack of thunder is fainter now, rolling away. My clothes cling to my skin. I’m trembling.

‘I’d give you my coat if I had one,’ he says.

‘I know,’ I smile. ‘You always were a Walter Raleigh kind of man.’

We clamber back over the fence and begin to walk, splashing through water. The road is a river. Rubbish bobs in the streams gushing into manholes and gutters. Tarmac shines across the empty road. The storm has swept people back into their houses, and we have the place to ourselves. Salsa music plays, curling out of a club somewhere.

‘I should go home.’ My voice sounds odd. Prickly. I don’t know how to leave him.

‘Actually,’ he says quickly, ‘there’s something I’d like to show you. If you’ve got time?’ He stops. ‘It’s not far.’

I look at him under my fringe of dripping hair.

‘It’s the mural I’m working on. In a restaurant round the corner. I’ve got the keys.’

Hope pumps through my veins, quick and hot as adrenalin. He wants my approval. This is his way of telling me that he’s forgiven me. We walk for ten minutes and he stops in front of a restaurant door. The sign says ‘Closed’. He stoops and turns a key in the lock.

I squint in the dim light, making out chairs piled on tables. An abandoned broom leans against a counter. Tiny coloured fish flicker and turn in an aquarium built into the wall. Blue light fills the room with a watery glow. A square of brilliance shines through an open serving hatch at the back. I guess it’s the kitchen from the sound of pans crashing. ‘They’re finishing up in there,’ Cosmo explains.

He moves to the side and I hear a click. Overhead lights glare and I blink. But now I can see a half-finished painting across one of the walls. I recognise his style. The fluid sweeps of paint, the lush colours. I move closer. He’s working on an underwater scene. There are trailing coils of seaweed, flickering fish like the ones in the tank, and strange underwater creatures. He’s almost finished painting a mermaid. She floats towards me, a tremulous smile on her lips.

I stare. Shock makes my skin burn. I recognise her face from the one I see every day in the mirror. It’s my reflection swimming out of the glass. My face. I turn to him, puzzled.

He’s gazing at the painting. ‘I can’t stop painting you, Eliza.’ He’s talking so quietly that I have to strain to hear. ‘I see you when I close my eyes.’

I swallow with difficulty. It feels as if I’ve got Scarlett’s corset on. I can hardly breathe.

He drags his gaze away from the mural. ‘I lied. I didn’t want to see Josh tonight. It was you I came to see.’ He scratches the back of his head. ‘I have no idea what’s happening here.’ His voice is growing stronger. ‘I thought after I found you again that… that we’d continue what we’d begun in Leeds. I mean, I’m not imagining things, am I? You still feel it too, don’t you?’ He opens his hands. ‘I know you said you just want to be friends; and I’ve tried to stay out of your way, tried not to think of you. But it doesn’t work.’

Blood thunders in my ears. I hang my head. Tears seep from under my lashes.

‘Eliza,’ he murmurs, stepping closer.

‘I’m sorry.’ I stumble towards him, blind with longing, and his arms are there, sliding around me. ‘I’m just so scared. I’ve made all these mistakes…’ I gulp, rubbing my face against his damp chest.

He hugs me tightly, his ribs against mine. ‘It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.’

‘No.’ I push away, out of the circle of his arms. My mouth isn’t working properly. ‘You don’t know that. There are things you don’t understand. Things I’ve done.’

‘What do you mean?’ He’s got hold of my arms, and his fingers tighten. I’m forced to look into his face. ‘I knew there was something else,’ he says. His black eyes are steady. ‘Tell me.’

My knees sag. I feel as though I’m going to fall. The hard, true facts line up in my head, ready to spill into sound.

‘I’m not…’ I stumble over the words. ‘I’m not… really…’

‘Hey, Cosmo. I thought we’d been broken into!’

A tall man stands in the doorway, a meat cleaver in his hand. He has a French accent. ‘
Merde!
Let me know next time you come back. I could have sliced you open with this.’ He waves the heavy blade in his hands. It glints.

Cosmo runs a hand through his hair. ‘Sorry, Vincent. Didn’t think.’

Vincent looks at me and back at Cosmo, ‘OK. OK. I see what’s going on.’ He rolls his eyes and retreats back to the kitchen.

Cosmo turns to face me again. ‘What were you saying?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes.’ He takes hold of my hand. His fingers dig into mine. ‘Yes. It does.’

‘I can’t do this.’ My voice comes from far away.

There’s too much to tell – my father, my lies, my real identity; it’s too much of a betrayal to expect his forgiveness. I don’t want him to hate me. I couldn’t bear the look on his face – the disappointment and disgust.

‘Eliza,’ he says, his voice trembling, ‘remember my grandmother? Remember what I told you about her?’ His fingers grip me harder. ‘I know you’re brave too.’

Panic kicks at my guts. I wrench away from him. My heart is shrinking. ‘It’s better if we’re friends. That’s all.’

He swings away from me with an exclamation of frustration. His hand closes into a fist. ‘Damn it, Eliza! I never know where I am with you.’

I stand, dumb and heavy, flinching at his fury.

‘Do you think this is a game?’ He narrows his eyes.

‘No!’ I sound harsh.

‘And you think we can be friends?’ His face twists.

‘No,’ I admit, hanging my head.

He turns his back to me. He dips his chin and I hear the sharp intake of breath. ‘Right.’ His voice is hurt. ‘I won’t bother you again. You don’t have to worry.’

He’s walking towards the door, keys dangling from his fingers.

‘I can’t explain,’ I whisper, balling up my hands by my side. But he doesn’t hear.

ERNST

1938, Germany

In March we’re called into a special assembly at school. The hall is crammed with muttering boys; there have been rumours. The principal climbs the stage and stares out, a look of jubilation on her usually sour face. She adjusts her robes and waits for us to fall silent.

‘This is a glorious day. Since early morning, our troops have been marching into Austria.’ There’s an audible intake of breath. ‘They have met with no resistance,’ she continues, her voice trembling. ‘In fact, the Austrian people have hailed us as liberators. Our brave soldiers are even now being celebrated and welcomed in Austrian towns and villages. From this day on, Austria returns to Germany to be part of the Fatherland, and will be known as the Ostmark.’ The principal raises her right arm.

Our arms shoot into the air. The cry goes up, ‘
Sieg heil!
’ The nuns can’t restrain us after that. Every boy is chattering and boasting; the talk is of brothers and fathers who are soldiers, and of how soon we can join up.

I slip away to the cottage straight after school to see what Daniel thinks. Our rule that we don’t talk about politics is finished with. We can’t ignore what’s happening. Now there is bound to be a war.

‘My father has had to close his practice.’ Daniel paces the fusty kitchen, kicking a loose tile, pushing the broken chair out of the way. ‘And did you know that Jews can’t even sit university exams now?’ Despite his rage he looks tired, dark circles smudging his skin. ‘The country is gripped in this madness.’ His mouth quivers. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. ‘There seems to be no end to it.’

I guess he’s copying what his father’s said, and I glance around instinctively. Speaking out against Hitler has consequences. One of the boys in my class repeated some things his father had said about the Führer, and the next day men in leather coats took his father away.

Sarah leans against the doorframe twisting her fingers together. ‘Dad says there’s no future here. We have to leave.’ She stops fidgeting with her hands and crosses her arms, wrapping them around her ribs. ‘We have relatives in Europe. But he’s thinking about America, or even Israel.’

They may as well be going to the moon or Mars. I’ll never see them again. A pain grips my belly as if I need to empty my bowels.

Weeks pass, but when I ask about their plans to leave, Daniel tells me that his father is still trying to get the right paperwork. ‘We’ll be leaving any day now,’ he says. And each time he answers my question with his stiffened smile and those same empty words, my heart does a little flip of relief. I haven’t lost them yet. On a hot evening in July, I arrive at the cottage to find Daniel in a strange mood. His gaze is flat and withdrawn. He shows me an identification card. It has a big yellow ‘J’ on the front and inside his fingerprint and all his details.

‘I have to carry it all the time. As if I’m a criminal.’ His voice is dull. He shoves the card back into his pocket, crumpling its edges.

Daniel isn’t in the mood for games or talking. He sits on a blanket in the corner with his long legs folded under him, and loses himself in a novel. I don’t know how he can immerse himself in a story. It’s too hot to concentrate on anything. The air is oppressive and muggy. A fly buzzes at the cobwebby window. After abandoning a game of cards, Sarah and I go into the forest for a walk, ducking under swags of greenery. There’s no escape from the languid heat. The canopy of branches makes it worse, shutting it in.

Sweat trickles down my shoulder blades. I hope I don’t smell. I dip my chin to sniff my armpits. We drag our feet through drifts of lush grass, pushing aside brambles. ‘My father’s found someone who can help us – he thinks he’ll get our visas next week,’ Sarah says, as she unpicks a thorn from her skirt.