In the Kitchen (53 page)

'Unbelievable,' said Charlie, loud and clear. 'You are fucking unbelievable.'

'Yes?' said Gabriel. 'Really? In what way?'

'You want me to talk about you?' shouted Charl
ie.
'It's all about you? You want me to tell you what you're like?'

'You're the one who knows me.' He could scarcely breathe but he pulled on one cigarette and then the next. In a moment she would tell him. Charlie, who knew him best.

'No,' she yelled. 'I won't do it. I'm not going to stand here and talk about you. I'm not interested. I don't care.'

'Oh, please,' said Gabriel with great ardour. 'I'll never ask you for anything else. All I'm asking for is a few words.'

'I'll tell you what you're like, then,' cried Charl
ie.
'You're selfish. You're the most selfish person I've ever met.'

'Oh, thank you,' said Gabriel, almost crying with relief. 'Selfish, I see, I'm sure you're right, not the best quality but still ... and what else? Anything else you can think of ? Anything at all?'

'Self-obsessed, pig-headed ...' said Charl
ie.
She began to count off on her fingers. Her eyes flashed. Her nostrils flared. She looked quite crazy but Gabriel didn't mind in the least. '... insensitive, unfeeling, stubborn, stupid, selfish, selfish pig!'

Gabriel sank on to his knees on the sofa. He tried to hold her but she escaped. 'I want to thank you,' he gasped, 'for your honesty, for speaking so freely. I want to thank you for ... knowing me.'

Charlie crumpled into a chair. She shrank inside her clothes. 'Oh, Gabriel, I don't know you. I don't know you any more.'

Somehow he was in the street, and by some means he was moving although he seemed to make no contact with the ground. Perhaps he was being blown along like a paper bag. He didn't know where he was. Buildings, pavement, tarmac and then buildings again. What would it matter if he went on for ever this way?

And was he moving or was it the street that moved? It seemed to flow around him. It seemed to pass through him.

He was sure now that he had stopped. He shivered. It was dark and cold. For a time he stood there and marvelled at the miracle of his own body, so true to itself, so fully occupied with shivering. The next moment an enormous jolt passed through him, as if he had received an electric shock. He began to run.

His feet slapped the pavement so hard he could feel it in his teeth.

He ran and ran, every muscle, sinew, nerve ending on red alert. He could feel everything. He felt the marrow bubble in his bones. Only minutes ago he had been nothing, an empty husk, and now this. A million things were happening inside him, a frenzy of activity, dilations and contractions and connections, circuits made and lost, pumping and pounding, absorbing, excreting, reacting, every bit of him living and living from the skin of his fingertips to the very depth of his bowels.

And still there was more. He was crammed with fragments, memories, images, songs hurtling through his brain, a picture of his mother singing, a premonition it would rain, an advertising slogan – the ride of a lifetime, a snatch of conversation on a loop, Jenny riding a bike, Nana's clacking teeth.

He kept on running. He was getting warm. He looked up at lighted windows, at streetlamps and neon signs. The lights streamed into him and he into them. The cars streaked, the buildings blurred, fuzzy people went by. And he wasn't whole, he was part of it, or it was part of him. He was in the bloodstream of the city that was in his blood. And he was growing hot, too hot, and he was only a molecule, a protein speck in the city and his bonds were beginning to break. At a certain temperature a globular protein will begin to uncoil. The basic science of cooking. He ran though his legs were shaking now. Heat a molecule and it vibrates more and more, and if the vibrations are strong enough a protein will shake itself free of its internal bonds. He remembered, he still knew this stuff. It was called denaturing.

He looked up behind him, head between his knees, trying to catch his breath.

Upside down he read a street sign – Holloway Road. Oona lived here, somewhere close, this very area, maybe he would see her, she might get off that bus that was pulling up. He straightened and jogged over to the bus stop. The people queuing kindly moved out of his way but she was not there. Disembarking passengers stepped around him carefully. How considerate they were. He would wait here, take a seat in the shelter and rest. Oona would surely come. It wasn't a sign he had seen – it was a sign. How could it be a coincidence? He hadn't meant to come here and yet here was where he was. As if some hand had guided him to this very place. Oona was the person he needed. Oona would put him right. Dear, sweet Oona. She would take him home with her. She would make him a cup of tea. His eyes filled. He rocked to and fro.

He shifted up to make space for a woman with heavy shopping bags but she didn't notice and walked to the kerb and set the bags down.

Over the road, in the window of a pizza parlour, a word flashed on and off –

DELIVERY. He watched the buses come and go. There were signs everywhere. In the windows, above doors, on the walls. They were pasted on the sides of buses, painted on taxi rumps. They were in the leaflets and newspapers that flowered from the pavements. They were lettered on to the bins. They sprouted at junctions, splashed along hoardings, and shouted out from the billboards.

Open, closed, no turning, three reasons why, no hot ash, deep discount, beauty, best value, fried chicken, free. Gabriel closed his eyes. Where was Oona? Why didn't she come?

He smelt the acid smell of old urine, the hard burnt smell of the road. Brakes flared, someone erupted, a radio blazed from a car. Gabriel burst into action.

He had to get out of here before the whole place went up in flames.

For a long and unknown time he drifted and dissolved from one street into the next. The traffic began to drain, and the walls sucked people in. Lights flicked off, shutters closed. Gabriel was pulled along. He saw a man in surgical scrubs dry-heaving in a doorway. A tramp passed by holding a can of Special Brew and a mobile phone. A woman cycled on the pavement, a book tucked into the back of her skirt. Gabriel tried to get his bearings. He looked around. That was a train station. Where were the signs when you needed them?

A man approached. His face was round and waxy, like a church candle. 'How long have you been on the streets?'

'Oh,' said Gabe, 'I don't know. I lost track.'

The man smiled with infinite kindness. 'Yes,' he said, 'it's difficult, isn't it?'

'I don't know where I am.'

'Don't know if you're coming or going. Have you eaten tonight?'

'No.'

The man nodded. He seemed to understand everything. 'Do you want to come with me, and we'll get you sorted out?'

At last, thought Gabe. He began to shake. 'Yes. Where will we go?'

'Start with some food, shall we, and take it from there.'

Gabe reached out to the man and stumbled. He almost fell on his saviour.

'Where shall we go? I know a lot of places. I'm a chef, and I know ...'

'Chef, were you?' said the man, retreating a little. 'Tell me all about it as we're walking. Soup van's parked around the back. Where are you going? Hey!

Aren't you coming with me? We can find you a bed for the night.'

*

Gabriel stood on the bridge and looked down at the slick black water. The bloated city fizzed all around. He opened his mouth and let out a low moan. He looked up at the sky that seemed to hold, not stars, but the weak reflected lights of the never-ending earth. If Oona were here she would pray for him. He would pray for himself if he knew how. He fell to his knees and bowed his head to the railings. He dug deep, he squeezed, he wrung, he couldn't do it, he couldn't manage, he didn't have, he wasn't given, he'd never been blessed, and it was only tears that came. Oh, the pity of it. The pity. He lifted his head, he threw it back, have pity, have mercy, let us pray. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. And the greatest of these is love. Oh, dear Lord, why do you not hear me? Why do you not help me? Why do you not exist?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

HE IS IN THE CATACOMBS, DRIFTING, AND WHEN HE COMES TO THE place the body is not there. He looks into the other rooms as he floats down every corridor.

Only one room remains, and when he opens the door it is filled with dazzling white light.

'Hello,' he calls. 'Hello?'

'Oh, there you are,' says his mother. She reaches out a hand from the far side of the room and takes a step towards him, the collar of her swingy white coat turned up, her earrings snagging on it. 'Oh, there you are. I've been looking all over for you.'

'Mum,' he says, squinting into the brightness. 'I'm sorry, Mum.'

'That's not why I've come,' she says.

'Is this ... are we in ...?' He cannot see clearly. 'Are those wings on your back?'

'Don't be silly, Gabriel Lightfoot,' she says, laughing, 'and get yourself ready. Get your dressing gown on.' She turns on her heel, and calls out to him before she is swallowed up by the light. 'Ever seen a shooting star? Hurry up, Gabe! Don't miss it. Be quick. Don't miss it this time.'

He woke and sat up on the sofa. The sun licked a broad stripe down the sitting room from the casement window to the door. For a few moments he struggled to remember what had happened and why he had slept in his clothes. He blinked in the primrose light and rubbed his eyes, unfurling from his sleep. He had found his way home, walked the long night through, the dark edges of the sky beginning to crumple by the time he climbed the stairs. At most he'd had a couple of hours asleep. Some instinct had saved him. Something deep within delivered him home. Through all the tiredness, it shone in him now.

He crept into the bedroom and watched Lena sleeping. Usually he felt like a thief when he watched her, even if she was awake. But now, he knew, he would never take anything from her again. He would only give. She had not believed him when he said that he loved her. Well, she had been right. But he loved her now, pure and true. If he had loved before it was only blue flicker and red crackle, not this still white heart of the flame. She turned on her back. Love lifted him off his feet. He loved Lena as he should. He had it in him. He loved Charlie and always had. He loved Dad and he loved Nana and Jenny and Harley and Bailey and it was inexhaustible, inextinguishable, this love of his. He looked around at the blandly furnished bedroom and saw its potential.

All it lacked was some photographs, some flowers, a few touches to bring it to life. Even a room needed love.

He went to the kitchen and checked the time. Nearly eight o'clock. He filled the coffee machine.

All night he had walked and thought. He had worked things out, he had come to realize, had come to understand ... No, what he had done was suffer. If there was light in him now it wasn't because he'd screwed the bulbs in, it was the light of suffering. It had changed him and he had woken – it should be no surprise – to a new and better self.

He was glad of it. He wouldn't miss the old Gabe, that miser, counting his love like money, hoarding and rationing, seeking out bargains. With Lena he was always calculating who did what for whom in a trade that was never fair or free. All that careful accounting to make sure he got his share. What did he want from her anyway? What did he deserve?

He recalled with shame the many times he had shaken her down for information, sifting through her story for flaws and inconsistencies, marking them down as lies, every lie a debit chit. He had understood nothing.

'Why?' she would say, when he asked if it was the Bulgarian girl she had lived with first or the Ukrainian and whether it had been for six months or three.

'Why? What is difference to you?'

He wanted to believe her story. It had to have order and neatness. It had to be credible.

But life had not been reasonable to Lena. Life was random and cruel. And why should she, to please him, try to make sense out of it?

He wondered if the changes inside him would be reflected on his face. Was love visible? He went to the bathroom to wash and smiled serenely to himself. He wanted to see what others would see.

He almost reeled back but held on to the sink and lowered his eyes to the plughole. It wasn't possible. There had to be some mistake. He tried again.

Again the image confronted him. A lunatic stared out of the mirror with red-rimmed eyes. His skin was grey, unshaven and flaked. He had a cut on his forehead and a green and purple bruise on his cheek. There was a wild look about him, his hair standing in tufts and clumps as if he had been pulling it out. His chef 's jacket was stained with blood and other unidentified substances. He looked like a man on the run – an escapee from the asylum in a stolen white coat, a pathetic attempt at disguise.

Gabriel took a deep breath. It's what's inside that's important. Everyone knew that. But he ran the hot water, stripped for the baptism, shaved his face and brushed his teeth. He arranged his hair as best he could. Then he tiptoed into the bedroom and assigned himself a new identity with a red sweatshirt and a clean pair of jeans.

Lena had kicked the covers off. She sprawled across the bed like a homicide.

Tenderness welled in Gabriel, and a new feeling grew in him. The fact that he had met Lena held great importance. It was meant to be. The feeling nurtured itself; it grew and thrived. Their meeting had been momentous. It had changed their lives. It was not some hapless and shoddy encounter. He would make sure of that. He touched his fingers to his lips.

Although minutes ago he had been certain that life was random and beyond control he was in no doubt at this moment that everything happened for a reason. He was meant to help Lena and help her he finally would. Lena was not insignificant. He would not let all that had happened be meaningless.

He would begin by emptying his bank accounts. There wasn't much left after putting the sixty thousand in ... Never mind. The point was to make a start.

He fizzed around the flat gathering his wallet, watch, keys, chequebooks and, in an inspired move, the passbook for a longfallow Post Office savings account. He was fired by a sense of purpose. There was so much you could do if you opened your heart. And it wasn't just Lena – he would seize every chance.