Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

PART THREE

Chapter Seventeen

My new camera arrives. It’s a Canon, a single-lens reflex, not quite top of the range but smaller and lighter than the one I’ve been using for the last few years. I researched it online and ordered it a few days ago. I don’t need it, it’s an extravagance, but I want to get out more, take more photographs on the street, like I used to. It was Hugh’s suggestion that he buy it for my birthday and he looked delighted with himself when he handed me the package on Saturday.

I opened it later that day, upstairs, and alone, and then took it out, on Upper Street, around Chapel Market and the Angel. I tried a few test shots, and as I brought it to my eye the action felt intuitive, instinctive. When I looked through the viewfinder it felt almost as if this is how I prefer to see the world. Framed.

I take it out again now, slung round my neck, with a zoom lens I ordered at the same time. It’s very different taking pictures on the move. I have to spot a potential shot among the chaos, and then wait for the perfect moment, all while trying to stay inconspicuous and unobserved. My shots on Saturday were poor; I was indiscriminate. I felt rusty, like a singer who’s spent years in enforced silence.

I tried not to be disappointed, though. I told myself that once I’d regained my confidence I’d find my subject; for now I just need to take photos and develop my eye. The joy of these shots is in their taking, less so in how they end up.

But then, that’s how it always was. I think back to the pictures I took in Berlin. It was easy, there. The friendships we forged were deep, people were drawn to us, our place quickly became a refuge for the rootless and abandoned. It was filled with artists and performers, with drag queens, junkies and prostitutes; they came for a few hours, or a few days, or months. I found I wanted to document them all. They fascinated me: they were people for whom identity was fluid, shifting, something they chose themselves, without being constrained by the expectations of others. At first some treated me with suspicion, but they soon realized that, far from trying to pin them down, I was attempting to understand and document their fluidity. They began to trust me. They became my family.

And always, in the centre, was Marcus. I photographed him obsessively. I took pictures of him as he slept, as he ate, as he sat in a bath full of cool water that ended up looking like sludge, as he worked at a canvas or sketched on the war-scarred streets of what used to be the East. We cooked dinners for everyone, huge pans filled with pasta, served with tomatoes and bread, and I took photos. We went to the Love Parade and took ecstasy and danced to techno with the other freaks, and still I took photos. All the time. It was as if I didn’t consider a life lived unless it was also documented.

Today I’ve come to the Millennium Bridge. It’s mid-afternoon and very hot – on the walk here the city steam seemed to rise from the streets – but at least here on the bridge there’s a breeze.

I crouch down to make myself as small as possible and set up my equipment. I drink some of the bottled water I picked up on the way here, then my hand goes back to my camera. I’m scanning faces, looking for the shot, waiting.

For what? A feeling of otherness, of the extraordinary that resides in the mundane. For a long time I see nothing that interests me. Half the people on the bridge are tourists wearing shorts and T-shirts, while the rest sweat in suits. I take a few shots anyway. I change position. And then I see someone interesting. A man, walking towards me. He’s in his late thirties, I guess, wearing a shirt, a jacket but no tie. At first he seems unremarkable, but then I pick up on something. It’s intangible, but unmistakable. I feel a tingle, my senses are heightened. This man is different from the others. It’s as if he has a gravity, is disturbing the air as he moves through it. I bring my camera to my eye, frame him in my viewfinder, zoom in close. I focus, wait, refocus as he comes towards me. He looks right at me, right down the lens, and although his expression doesn’t change, something seems to connect. It’s as if he both sees and doesn’t see me at the same time. I’m a ghost, shimmering and translucent. I squeeze the shutter release, then wait a second before squeezing it again, and then once more.

He doesn’t even notice. He looks away, over my shoulder towards Tower Bridge, and keeps on walking. A moment later he’s gone.

I stay for a while longer, but even without looking at the pictures I’ve taken I know it. I have my shot. It’s time to leave.

I go through the lobby and up to the room. Lukas comes to the door in a towel; as usual, he’s poured us both a drink – a beer for him, a sparkling water for me – and once we’ve kissed he hands me mine. I breathe him in, the deep, woody smell of his aftershave, the faint trace of the real him underneath, and smile. I put my camera down on the table. It’s the first time I’ve brought it with me.

‘You took my advice.’

‘I did. An early birthday present to myself,’ I lie.

‘It’s your birthday?’

‘Next week. Next Tuesday, in fact.’

He kisses me again. Tuesday. It’s become our day. We haven’t missed one yet, and in between we chat online. It’s almost as good, but not quite. We share each other’s lives. We describe the things we’d like to do to each other, with each other. We tell each other our most private fantasies. But Tuesday is the day we meet.

‘I should’ve known that. I should know when your birthday is.’

I smile. How could he? It’s something else I haven’t told him, something I’ve kept for myself, along with my husband’s real name, and the fact that I have a son.

But I have told him the truth about Kate.

I hadn’t intended to, but last week he was telling me how he’d known from the moment we first began chatting that he wanted to meet me. I felt guilty.

How could I reply? I only met you because I thought you might have some connection to my dead sister.

‘It’s not that simple,’ I said, instead. I decided to be honest, to tell him the truth. There’d been enough lies. ‘I have something to tell you. My sister, the one I told you about? She didn’t kill herself. She was murdered.’

That familiar look of shock. He reached out to touch me, then hesitated. ‘But …?’

I told him what had happened, that the only thing taken was an earring. I even described it to him. Gold drop, with a tiny dreamcatcher design with turquoise feathers. I told him about going to see Anna, the list of names I found in Kate’s things, the first time I’d logged on to the website. Encountrz.

‘And that’s why you came to meet me?’

‘I’m sorry. Yes.’

He held me close. ‘Jayne, I understand. Maybe I can help.’

‘Help? How?’

‘There are other sites. Your sister might have been on those, too. I could try to find her.’

It was tempting, but it felt futile, and I wasn’t sure I could go through it all again. I told him I’d think about it.

And now he’s here, in front of me. Talking about how he hadn’t known when my birthday was. ‘We’ll do something special,’ he says. He picks up my camera. ‘You’ve been taking photos?’

Special? I wonder what he means. Go out for a meal, take in a show? It sounds ridiculous.

‘I thought it was time. See if I’ve still got it.’

‘And do you?’

I shrug, though I’m being modest. Today, on the bridge, I’d felt like the old me, back when I was in Berlin and taking pictures all the time. I can already feel myself slipping back into my talent. It’s like going home.

He holds up the camera. ‘May I?’

I sip my drink. ‘If you like.’

He turns it on and flicks through the pictures, nodding as he does. ‘They’re good.’

‘I brought you some of my old shots. Like you asked?’

He puts the camera down and takes a step towards me.

‘Want to see them now?’

He kisses me. ‘Later,’ he says, then kisses me again. ‘God, I’ve missed you.’ He slips the towel from his waist and I glance down.

‘I’ve missed you, too.’ And even though it’s only been a week since the last time I was in a room like this – and we’ve talked online every day – I mean it.

We kiss again. I feel him stiffen between us and know that in a moment he’ll be on top of me, and then inside me, and then once again everything will be all right.

Afterwards, he stands at the window. A gust of wind lifts the curtains and I catch a glimpse of the street outside. We’re on the first floor; I see the sky, wisps of cloud, I hear the murmur of the street, the traffic, the voices. It’s hot in the room, sticky.

I let my eyes travel the curve of his body, his neck, his back, his behind. I notice his blemishes, the details I don’t see on the camera and forget every time we meet. The mole on his neck, the vaccination scar on his shoulder that matches Hugh’s, the red flush of a birthmark on his upper thigh. It’s been a month now, and these details still surprise me. I grab my camera; he turns as I click the shutter, and when he sees I’ve taken a picture of him his face breaks into the same half-smile I used to see on Marcus.

‘Come back to bed. Let’s look at these pictures.’

We lie, side by side. The envelope I’ve brought with me is between us, its contents spilled out. My work, my past. A pile of glossy ten-by-eights.

He holds up a picture of Marcus.

‘And this one?’

It’s Marcus in the Mirror, and I tell him the same story that I told Anna, more or less. ‘An ex. That was taken in the bathroom of the flat we lived in.’

‘Also in Berlin?’

‘Yes.’ I’ve told him about my time there. About what I used to be like, who I was before I became the person I am now.

‘You were happy there?’

I shrug. It’s not an answer.

‘Some of the time.’

‘Why did you leave?’

I sigh and turn on to my back. I look at the ceiling, at the curlicues in the plasterwork. When I don’t answer he puts the photo down and moves closer, so that he’s right next to me. I feel the warmth of his body. He must sense my struggle.

‘When did you leave?’

It’s an easier question, and I answer straight away. ‘I went over there in the mid-nineties, and stayed for three or four years.’

He laughs. ‘When I was at school …’

I laugh, too. ‘You were.’

He kisses me. My shoulder. ‘It’s a good job I love older women,’ he says.

And there’s that word again. Love. We haven’t used it. It’s something we’ve approached only obliquely. I love it when you … I love the way you …

We haven’t yet lost the verb, the qualifier. We haven’t gone as far as I love you.

‘So, I was hanging out, you know. Bars and clubs. Living in a squat.’

‘East Berlin?’

I shake my head. ‘Kreuzberg.’

He smiles. ‘Bowie … Iggy Pop.’

‘Yes, though that was years before. I was taking pictures. It started off small, but people liked my stuff. Y’know? I met this guy who ran a gallery. The picture editor at this magazine heard about me, wanted to use me for some pictures. From there it kind of went crazy. Exhibitions, even fashion shoots.’ I pause. I’m approaching it now, this thing I want to tell him, this thing he might not like. ‘This was the mid-nineties. Heroin chic.’

He says nothing.

‘And, well, there was a lot of it about.’

A beat.

‘Heroin?’

I want my silence to be answer enough, but it isn’t. I have to tell him.

‘Yes.’

‘You took heroin?’

I look at him. His expression is unreadable. Is it that hard to believe? A part of me wants to rise up, to defend myself. Plenty of people did, I want to say. Still do. What’s the big deal?

But I don’t. I force myself to take a deep breath. I want to respond, rather than react. ‘We all did.’ I turn back to face him. ‘I mean, I didn’t at first. I went over there with Marcus. He was an artist. A painter. Very good, very talented. A bit older than me. I met him when he was at art school. It was him who encouraged me to take up photography. When he moved to Berlin, I went with him.’ I nod towards the pictures between us. ‘We fell in with that group—’

Or they fell in with us.

‘A bad crowd?’

‘No.’ Again that urge to defend. ‘No. I wouldn’t say that. They were my friends. They looked after me.’ I’m thinking of Frosty, and the others. They weren’t junkies. Or even addicts, not in the way that he probably thinks of the word. ‘They weren’t a bad crowd. They were just … we were just … different, I guess. We didn’t fit in. We all just gravitated to each other.’

I hesitate. It’s easier than you think, I want to say. Taking heroin every weekend becomes every other day becomes every day. It’s frightening, going back there. Though not all of my memories are bad, it still feels raw. I’m being dragged back, and down. It’s not a place I can stay too long.

‘The drugs were only part of that.’

‘So, what happened?’

‘When I left?’

‘Yes. The other week, you said your husband “saved you”?’

‘It got too much.’ I’m being careful. I don’t want to tell him everything, yet I know I must not lie. ‘I needed to get out. Quickly.’ I hesitate, stumbling over the name I’ve given my husband. ‘Harvey was there for me.’

My mind goes back to that time. Me in the kitchen, with Frosty. She was making coffee for me, sipping red wine from a mug. I don’t think she’d been to bed, it was festival time; the day before we’d been marching with friends of Johan, partying in the bars, and then a group had come back here. Now the place was quiet; most people had left to carry on, or were asleep.

Marcus was upstairs, playing a guitar someone had left months ago. ‘There you go,’ said Frosty, handing me my drink. ‘We don’t have any milk.’ I was used to that. We never did.

‘Thanks.’

‘How’s Marky?’

‘He’s good,’ I said. ‘I think. Although his family are freaking out.’

‘Again?’

‘They want him to go home.’

Frosty gasped in mock-horror. ‘What? Away from all this? But why?’ She laughed. ‘I guess they don’t understand.’

I shook my head. ‘No. I guess they don’t.’

‘Have you met them?’

I put my coffee down.

‘No. Not yet. He thinks his dad might come over. He wants the three of us to go out. Says we should insist. He wants to show them he’s cleaned up.’

Frosty tilted her head. ‘Has he?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I was only telling half the truth. We’d kicked together, gone through cold turkey. It’d been a hell of sweating, of vomiting and diarrhoea and stomach cramps so severe we’d both moan with the pain. Our bones ached, and neither of us could find relief in sleep. I felt like I was burning up, nothing helped, and all the time the knowledge that just one more hit would make all the pain go away shone in front of us. But we were both strong, we helped each other when it threatened to get too much, and we’d been clean for a few weeks. Now Marcus’s father was on his way and Marcus had begged me for one last hit. Eventually I’d agreed. One, and then no more. Ever. We were going to do it later that day, or the following morning as the sun came up. A final farewell.

I didn’t tell Frosty all that, though.

‘We both have,’ I said. She said nothing, then smiled. ‘That’s good,’ she said, then changed the subject. We finished our drinks, talking about the partying we were planning for the weekend. ‘You’ll help me get ready?’ she said, and I said, yes, yes of course I would.

‘Good,’ she said, but then it happened. Something passed through Frosty; she looked as if she were somewhere else entirely. It lasted only for a moment, and then she looked up at me.

‘Honeybunch,’ she said. ‘Where’s Marky?’

I said nothing. The room was silent, and had been for a while. The guitar playing had stopped.

Now, I look at the picture on the bed – Marcus in the Mirror – and then up at Lukas. He’s shaking his head. I worry that he disapproves, that this conversation will mark the beginning of our disconnection, yet he deserves my honesty, in this at least. He takes my hand. ‘What happened?’

I don’t want to go back there; I can’t. Sometimes I think what I did that night was the catalyst for what happened to Kate. If I’d behaved differently she’d still be around. ‘I had a wake-up call, I guess. I left. I knew I had to. But I had nowhere to go. Not until Harvey rescued me.’

‘You knew him already?’

‘Yes. He was the son of my father’s best friend. The two of us met when I was still at school and we became friends. He was just about the only person who stayed in contact with me while I was in Berlin, and when it all came to an end it was him I called. I asked whether he’d speak to my father for me. You know, smooth the way …’

‘And he did?’

‘He paid for my ticket. He was waiting for me when I got off the plane. He said I could stay with him, for a few days, until I got myself sorted out …’

‘And you’re still there …’

I feel a momentary anger. ‘Yes, but you make it sound like an accident. I’m there because we fell in love.’

He nods, and I calm down. I’m glad when he doesn’t ask the next logical question: whether that’s still the case. The answer isn’t straightforward. Where once our love was deep and clear, now it’s more complex. We’ve shared good times, and bad. We’ve argued, I’ve been angry, I’ve hated him as well as loved him. We’re there for each other, but it’s not uncomplicated. Things settle, over the years. They become something else. I can’t summarize it with a simple Yes, I still love him, or No, I don’t.

‘And then you met me.’

I hold my breath. ‘Yes.’

The room is silent. From somewhere, way off, I hear the sounds of the hotel, the other guests, doors banging, laughter, and from outside comes the steady buzz of traffic. But inside all is still.

I turn on to my side. I face him. ‘Tell me about your wife.’

He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, then opens them again. ‘Her name was Kim. We met through work. She worked for a client. I loved her very much.’

‘How long were you married?’

‘She was diagnosed just before our first anniversary. They gave her a year to eighteen months. She died about seven months later.’

There’s a silence. There’s nothing to say. I tell him I’m sorry.

He looks at me. ‘Thank you.’ He reaches out to take my hand. ‘I miss her. It’s been years, but I miss her.’ He smiles, then kisses me. ‘She’d have liked you.’

I smile. I don’t know how that makes me feel. It’s meaningless, we’d never have met. If she’d still been around, Lukas wouldn’t be here with me now. For a long time I’m silent, and then I ask him.

‘You said you’d help me to find my sister online?’

‘Of course. Do you want me to?’

It’s been a week since his offer, but I’ve thought about it since. It might be painful, but it’s worth a try. And I won’t be on my own. ‘Yes. If you think you can.’

He says he’ll see what he can do. I give him her name, the name she’d used on encountrz, her date of birth, anything he might find useful. He taps them into his phone, then says he’ll do his best.

‘Leave it with me,’ he says. The room feels claustrophobic, full of ghosts. He must feel it, too; he suggests we go out. ‘We can get some lunch. Or a coffee.’

We get dressed and go downstairs, out of the hotel and down to the station. The concourse is busy but we find a table in one of the coffee shops. It’s near the window and I feel on display, yet somehow, right now, it doesn’t seem to matter. People’s gazes slide across me. I’m invisible. Lukas gets our drinks.

‘That’s better.’ He sits down. ‘Are you okay? With me talking about Kim back there, I mean?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

He smiles. ‘I’m glad we can talk about real things. Things that matter. I’ve never had that before.’

‘What do you normally do, then?’

‘With people I chat to online?’

I nod. He looks down and scratches his shoulder absentmindedly. He’s still smiling. I think of the fantasies we’ve been sharing.

‘The same thing we do?’

‘Yes. But nothing’s been as crazy as it is with you.’ He pauses. ‘How about you?’

He knows I’ve never done anything like this. I’ve already told him.

‘My husband and I …’ I begin, but then my sentence evaporates. ‘We’ve been married for a long time.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I guess I mean I love him. I want to be there for him. But …’

‘But it’s not always that exciting?’

I don’t answer. Is that what I mean?

I look at Lukas. It’s easier with you, I think. We want to impress, we save the best for each other. We don’t share the stresses of everyday life, not yet, even if we have shared our big losses. I haven’t had to sit with you as you vent your frustration at the family who’ve complained about you, as you’ve moaned that you’ve had to write a letter, a ‘grovelling apology’, even though you know damn well you’d warned them of the possible side effects of surgery. I haven’t had to try to support you, knowing that you won’t be supported, that there’s nothing I can say or do that will make any difference.

‘Not always,’ I say.

‘But you’ve always been faithful?’

I think of Paddy, in the summer house. ‘Pretty much.’

He grins. It’s lascivious.

‘It’s not that exciting, really.’

‘Tell me.’

‘There was this guy. Quite recently—’

He shifts forward in his seat and I pick up my coffee.

‘He’s a friend of my husband.’ I think back to the dinner party. I want to give Lukas a story. ‘His name’s Paddy. He’s been flirting with me for a while.’

‘Flirting? In what way?’

‘Oh, you know. When we get together he always laughs at my jokes, compliments me on my clothes. That sort of thing.’ He nods, and I hear myself say it. ‘I even thought he might be stalking me.’

‘Stalking you? How?’

‘There was this guy one night. As I was getting ready for bed.’

‘You told me.’

I did, I think. He told me he wished he could protect me.

‘You really think it’s him?’

Even though I know it was never Paddy out there on the street – was almost certainly no one at all, just my vivid imagination combining with a lack of sleep – I hear myself say it. ‘Yes.’

His eyes flash wide. He looks almost pleased. I think back to what he’d said. I’d never let anyone hurt you.

I’d felt protected. Safe.

Is that why I’ve told him I thought it was Paddy? Because I want to feel like that again?

‘Someone put some cards through the letterbox, too.’

‘What cards?’

I tell him. ‘The ones the prostitutes put up in phone boxes.’

He holds my gaze. Is this turning him on?

‘You think it’s him?’

My mind goes to Paddy and his clumsy attempt to kiss me. He’d hate to know the lies I’m telling about him. But he never will.

‘Maybe. He tried to kiss me, and—’

‘When?’

‘You remember the party? When you were at your wedding? He tried to kiss me. I told him I’d never sleep with him. I think it was his way of getting back at me.’

‘Did you kiss him back?’

I remember all the times we’ve been chatting online, talking about our fantasies. Isn’t this just the same?

‘No. I didn’t want to. He forced himself on me.’

‘Bastard. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I felt ashamed …’

‘Ashamed? Why?’

‘I could’ve said no.’

‘Didn’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ I look at the table top. ‘I dunno. Maybe I could’ve fought harder.’

He takes my hand. ‘Tell me where he lives.’

‘Why?’

‘He shouldn’t get away with shit like that. No one should. I’ll have a word with him.’

‘And say what?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

I think of him, knocking on Paddy’s door, but then the vision shifts, like a dream that’s twisted back on itself and become horrific. I see him standing over Kate’s body.

‘No,’ I say. I try to clear the image, but it persists.

‘You’re scared.’

‘No. No. I’m fine.’

He lifts my hand to his lips, kisses it. ‘I want to protect you.’ He looks into my eyes. ‘I’ll look after you. If you’re scared.’

Something in the room clicks over. I think of the things I’ve told him. The things I’ve wanted to do and have never done. The things I’ve wanted to have done to me. The air thickens with desire.

‘I know.’

‘Are you scared?’

I look up at him. The cord between us tightens. The skin of his hand seems to hum with energy, his flesh melds into mine, and I realize I want him, and he wants me, and he wants me to be frightened and if it’s what he wants then it’s what I want, too.

‘Yes,’ I say. I’m whispering. He shifts still further forward in his seat. ‘I’m very frightened.’

He lowers his voice, too, even though there’s now only one other person in the café. A lone traveller, with a suitcase, reading.

‘This man. Paddy. What do you think he wants to do to you? If he could?’

My own arousal begins to pulse and grow. It’s within me, something physical, something I can touch, I can feel. Something begins to open.

I open my mouth to answer but I have no words. There’s only desire left. He pushes himself away from me, still holding my hand. ‘Come on.’

He pushes me into the cubicle and locks the door. He’s a blur of activity, kissing me, shoving me, holding me. I abandon myself to his will, to whatever is happening. He’s tearing at my clothes, our limbs flail, and I realize, as if from a distance, I’m tearing at his. There’s the smell of disinfectant, or soap, and beneath it urine.

‘Lukas …’ I say, but he silences me with his mouth, then twists me round, pushes me up against the wall. ‘What do you think he might do?’ he’s saying. ‘This?’

I try to nod my head. He has his arm around my throat; it’s not rough, he’s not holding tight, but it’s far from gentle. He pulls down my jeans. I help him. I can feel his cock pushing into me as he separates my legs with his knee. I arch my back, to let him. Somewhere a decision is made; I will let him do what he wants. Whatever he wants. To a point.

Is this what it was like for Kate? I think. Is this how it felt for my sister?

‘Tell me,’ he whispers. ‘You want me to teach him a lesson? Tell me how scared you are …’