Long Lies the Shadow (9 page)

The sea is stone-grey in the winter light. White waves whip to choppy peaks and then curl to the soft swish of their demise. Long licks of water eddy up the beach; sighing as they are pulled back along the smooth sand, swept back into the depths. Viv gazes out to where the light shifts pink and gold upon the slow swell of ocean beyond the Sentinel. She fingers the edge of the photo. Manyanga has returned, panting, with her stick-offering to Nick, who throws it again into the strong wind. It arcs and slices, bouncing and cartwheeling haphazardly further up the beach. The dog barks after it.

“Why are you giving this to me? To give to Gin?” she asks, finally. “Shouldn’t it stay with his wallet? Isn’t it evidence of sorts?”

His mouth twitches slightly in a corner, as if amused. But his voice is serious when he answers. “Well, Gold’s personal belongings were all returned to his family last week. I saw no reason for them to have this.”

Viv draws her thin jersey around her shoulders. Nick seems to have a singular ability to tug at her emotions. She swallows. “That was kind of you.” He looks at her and she cannot read the expression in his eyes. They are as grey as the sea, and as dark. It makes her feel uncomfortable and she is not sure why. “Is the insurance all sorted out now?” asks Viv, looking away from him again. She is aware she is making conversation.

He does not answer immediately. “Only that one claim is outstanding.”

“Still?” Viv’s voice lifts in surprise. “You mean, they won’t pay out
because they still doubt it was an accident?” Viv crosses her arms. The wind has picked up; her hair billows out about her face.

Nick shakes his head, then says, “Why do you ask?”

She is taken aback by his tone. As if he is questioning her. She looks directly at him. “What do you mean? You told me about it. Why shouldn’t I ask?” Abrasively. How dare he question her? He was the one to produce the photograph, talk again of Gin and Simon. The picture must have been taken not long before Gabe’s funeral, she figures.

The funeral, the first time she had seen Gin. Her face had seemed a pale reflection of Gabe’s, Viv had thought impassively at the time. And Simon, a dark blur amidst the others at the church hall. She tries to remember his face, but she can only see him older, the features of the man who had helped her so many years later. That awful day of the funeral, all she could think about was holding herself upright, and trying not to vomit with morning sickness. And grief. And no one to help her. Gabe’s mother clawing at her arm, presenting her to everyone like some sort of bizarre consolation.

Gin had disappeared from the hall, followed shortly afterwards by Simon. And in the corner, watching them leave, Viv had seen Hannah. Simon’s cousin. Hannah’s face remained the only vivid imprint of that day, framed by her mahogany hair cascading in curls down her back. Even as the image forms, Viv feels a wave of nausea pass over her. She stops, inhales deeply.

Nick comes up to stand beside her. “Vivienne,” he asks, his voice low, “why didn’t you tell me Gin was Abbie’s aunt? Why didn’t you tell me about Gabriel McMann?”

Gabe’s name sounds odd on his tongue. She finds herself resentful of him saying it, but the question confuses her. “Why should it make a difference? Does it matter how I know Gin? So, she’s Abbie’s aunt. So, Gin is – was – Gabe’s…” she finds herself stumbling over his name, and repeats it, mockingly, the way he had said it, “Gabriel McMann’s twin sister.” Acid rises. “And Abbie looks like her. Hardly
surprising, then. So what?” She says this sharply, angry with him, for saying Gabe’s name, for bringing him between them again.

Since that night he left her at her front door, Nick has made no attempt to touch her, to kiss her. She shivers.

Nick is pulling off his jumper. He holds it out to her. Viv shakes her head, but he takes her hand and puts the still-warm jersey in it.

“Put it on before you freeze. Come on,” he says.

She relents, lets him help her pull the thick wool of it over her head. She shivers again. It falls too long over her hands but she tucks the ends of it around her frozen fingers. “What about you?” she asks, her teeth chattering now. She makes a conscious effort to relax into the warmth of the jumper.

He smiles at her. He is wearing a thick long-sleeved shirt. “I came prepared.”

Manyanga has been gone for some time. Nick whistles, and the dog emerges from behind a rack of rock. She races up to them, her snout sandy, and bounds around them in circles. Nick grabs her collar, and brings the dog to heel.

He turns back to Viv, “Come, it’s cold, let’s get some tea or coffee.”

They walk slowly back along the length of beach to the dockside where he has parked his car.

“I mean it, Nick,” she says, her voice as icy as the wind, “why does it make a difference?”

He sighs, as if he regrets the conversation. Instead he stops walking, answering with another question, look at her directly, asks evenly, “Vivienne, why didn’t you tell me how Gabriel died?”

She blinks, looks away from him. The nausea has returned.

Viv closes her eyes. She feels a kind of revulsion at herself, for being able to be here, to be walking on the beach with Nick.

Gabe’s face swims before her; Gabe laughing, that deep honest laugh of his, running his hand through his dark hair, but as he pulls his hand away, his face changes, mutates. And it is Hannah’s face that stares at her, dark blue eyes boring into her.

Viv’s eyes flick open. Nick is looking at her. He looks sad.

“There are two reasons why the insurance company is making such a fuss. Firstly, the policy I told you about… Simon Gold took it out about twenty years ago and never stopped paying it, so it’s a huge amount. So of course they are being careful about it, about the circumstances surrounding his death. And secondly, the beneficiary of the policy…” He rubs his forehead, leaving small grains of sand at his temple, “you see, Vivienne, the beneficiary is Gin.”

Viv brings a hand to her mouth. “So of course – oh, Nick, that’s so silly! What? They’re suspicious of Gin? Because she was with him?” She laughs, shortly, harshly. “I guarantee you, Nick, Gin doesn’t even know about any stupid policy, and if she did, she probably wouldn’t care. She loved Simon Gold.”

She looks at him, relieved that the tension between them has diminished. She thinks perhaps she ought to tell him about Gin’s pregnancy.

“
Ja
, I know that. And yes, it appears she didn’t know about the policy.”

“But then why are they still suspicious? It’s so ridiculous, Gin was in the car herself, for goodness’ sake. She was
hurt
herself, remember!” Viv is incredulous.

She feels the tension between them return, and she feels sick again.

Nick looks out toward the sea. A ship glides on the horizon, a silver mirage.

“Because, Vivienne, you see, it’s not that they think she was trying to murder Simon for money, or anything that melodramatic. But they do think there’s something odd about it all. That maybe Simon was suicidal, or that Gin caused the accident, you know, grabbed the wheel or something.”

“But the other car…” stammers Viv, uncomprehending, “you’ve got those witnesses…”

“
Ja
,” Nick turns back to her. “But there has been some suggestion that their car, the one Gin and Simon Gold were in, may have been the one to swerve. They may have caused the accident.”

Viv is shaking her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“Witnesses get things wrong, you know, mixed up,” says Nick. He sounds as if he is trying not to distress her. “You see, Vivienne, it’s to do with Gin’s family. The insurance company investigators think she’s unstable.”

Viv is sure she is going to vomit now.

Nick pauses. Then he says, and his voice is hard, “They think she may have been trying to kill herself. Like her brother. Like Gabriel.”

“Gin, it’s almost seven,” repeats Michael gently, “wake up.”

She stirs, opens her eyes. He puts a hot mug of tea on her bedside table. Light silts onto the pine floor beneath the window. Michael sits down on the edge of the bed, cradling his own mug in his hands.

She sits up, pulling the pillow behind her head. “Morning,” she says, and hears her own voice croak with sleep.

“Morning,” he says, “sorry to wake you, but we’ve got the scan later.”

Gin nods, glad he has woken her from yet another nightmare. Since Michael arrived, she has slept later, deeper. But the nightmares have not ceased. Every night she sees Simon’s dead face, his hollow eyes, his hand reaching out to her. On the worst nights, his hand becomes a claw, tearing at her, into her even. As if he is trying to reach his unborn child. Some nights she feels him breathing next to her, and hears him whisper:
I’ve something to tell you
. But she wakes to find the bed empty, the house cold and dark and silent. In other dreams her world spins and all she is left with is the imprint, over and over.
1989. 1989
.

She takes a sip of her tea. It is sweet. Michael has put sugar in it.
She looks at him. He knows she does not take sugar. “Are you trying to fatten me up?” she asks, stretching her hand out to him, and he takes it. His hand is warm from the heat of his mug.

He grins at her. “It’s honey, a super-food. It’s good for you. Come on Gin, let’s get going.”

They wait for over an hour to be seen. Michael is infinitely patient, thinks Gin, although she herself has become inured to waiting. There is something soothing about sitting on the hard-backed chair and watching the hospital move around them. She finds it comforting, and familiar, the bustling business that is England’s National Health Service. She had spent her life in hospitals, around them. With her father, or Jacob. With Jonnie.

And with Simon.

Her name is called, and she clutches at Michael’s arm. Wordlessly, without hesitation, he stands, walks with her into the bland, square room. The doctor who sees them talks to them as if they are a couple, as if Michael is the father of her child. To Gin it is a relief. The scanner, cold with gel, moves heavily over her stomach. She closes her eyes briefly. Fragments of her dream wash over her. It has summoned odd feelings, which she cannot name, and they swirl about her like a mist.

Simon’s face looks back at her, he mouths the same meaningless words, “Nineteen eighty-nine.”

Her eyes flit open. The consultant is pointing at an image on the screen, talking to Michael, who nods. If they notice her lack of interest, they do not comment.

They drive back slowly through the traffic. A horn blares. People crowd the pavements. The heat is oppressive.

“Well, that was good news, hey, Gin?” says Michael, as they wait at red traffic lights.

She looks blankly at him.

“The scan, I mean. You know, all fine.”

Gin watches a bicycle fly through the red light, swerving around a pedestrian.

“What do you want for lunch?” asks Michael.

“Pineapple,” she replies immediately and does not know where the answer comes from.

He smiles at her. “That’s better. I felt you going off somewhere while we were in there.”

Nineteen eighty-nine.

Gin looks out the window. Roadworks clog the street. A bus negotiates the narrow middle pathway, while another idles, waiting for it to pass. She stares out at the shimmering coal tarmac. Will his image never fade? She does not know what his words mean, if anything, although the thought that he is trying to tell her something persists.

“After lunch,” says Michael, as they finally pass the bottleneck, “we’ll tackle those boxes.” He speeds up slightly to catch the amber of the next traffic light, turning right to take the less congested route back, over the bridge onto the highway that junctions with Harrow Road.

Gin looks into office buildings made of glass, sees people working at their desks. Below stretches the canal, straight, deep, and dark.

“Nineteen eighty-nine,” says Simon’s dead mouth to her, bleeding upwards.

Gin shivers despite the heat.

Michael grills steak and serves it with her requested pineapple, but he notices that Gin leaves the meat untouched and eats only the fruit. They eat in the kitchen. He drinks two glasses of chilled white wine and watches her pick at her plate. It is mid-afternoon before they can face the descent to the basement, to where box upon box is stacked, possessions from their old flat. Michael brings the open bottle of wine down with him. Gin sits cross-legged on the one piece of furniture, an old Persian rug, skinny and bleached with wear. The air is blissfully cold compared to the muggy cloak of summer outside.

Michael starts unstacking the boxes. He lays them neatly out side-by-side on the cold cement. He stands back when they are all at floor level, dusts his hands off.

“You’ve hardly unpacked anything. How long has this stuff been packed up anyhow?”

Gin bites her lip. “Ages. The removal company did it all. I threw in a few things. It was all such a rush. I just kept stuff out I needed most. You know, clothes and cups and plates and things.” She sounds apologetic. “I just couldn’t face it.”

He makes light of it. “Well, at least it’ll fill up this big empty house.” He pauses. “Right, you start that end and I’ll start this end. Shall we make piles of stuff for where it’s to go? Lounge, kitchen, linen, that sort of thing? Maybe once the first few boxes are emptied, we can label them and then put the stuff in there to take upstairs. And maybe a box for the charity store, things we don’t need.” He finds himself suddenly invigorated by the task.

They sift through, sorting. It is fairly tedious and routine until Michael opens a box that contains a CD player and cases of compact discs. He plugs the player into the wall socket, peers at the discs, pulls one out and holds it aloft, shaking it at her. “Ha! I knew you had my
Peto
CD.” He turns it over to read the back.

“Rubbish! That’s mine!” she laughs, grabbing it from him with dusty hands. “See… this is mine, it’s got a scratch right here, across the spine.”

He snatches it back from her, grinning. “You didn’t even know it was here!” He sticks the CD in the player and African drumbeats echo through the room. He sings along lustily to the chorus, watching her out of the corner of his eye, glad to hear her humming along softly. Progress, he thinks.

They break for cheese sandwiches and tea upstairs in the kitchen. He feels almost agoraphobic after the closed atmosphere in the basement. The late afternoon has brought a breeze.

“We’re almost there, Gin,” he notes, as they return downstairs. He slots more African music onto the player. “And now, of course, I’ve found all my missing CDs…”

Gin thumps him on the arm playfully and pulls another box towards her. The cardboard side of it rips as she does. Books, letters, and jewellery spill out onto the floor.

“Ah,” he says, full of mock gravity, “and those will be my missing books.”

Gin is picking up scattered pieces of jewellery. “And I suppose these are your missing earrings?” she flashes back, then stops. She makes a small sound.

“What is it? Have you cut yourself?”

Gin cradles one hand in the other, staring down at her hands. She does not look up. Michael starts to move over to her, but she suddenly extends her hand. “I’m okay,” she says, but her voice is thick, “Can you put this with the rest of the stuff for the charity shop?”

She turns from him and picks up a fallen book. Michael looks down at what she has given him. Glinting blue through the gloom of the basement is a sapphire ring.

“Gin,” he asks, after a pause to examine its brightness, “this is beautiful. Are you sure you want to get rid of it?” He turns from her, holds it closer to the light in the room. Facets fire back at him. “It’s probably worth something.” There is a brownish mark on the silver. “Oh, hang on, maybe not… it’s rusted, I think, so it can’t be silver,” he says. He scratches at it and the mark crumbles away beneath his nail. He examines the residue and says, pondering. “No, I’m not sure if it’s rust. Where did you get it?”

Gin has not made a sound. Michael turns back to where she had busied herself with another box. What he sees horrifies him. Gin is bent double over herself, clutching at her stomach.