Mortal Love (7 page)

She turned to stare at the row of candles on the porch rail.

“I never knew any of this,” Daniel said. “I mean, you always seem so forgiving of him.”

Sira gave him a rueful smile. “I was—I
am.
But this was different. I truly thought he was going to go mad. He got so ill he had to go into hospital for several days. I think—no, I
know
—he had somehow managed to see her again. He'd gone off alone to Budapest for a weekend, and when he returned, he was so sick I thought he'd die. Fever. And these . . . scars.”

She fell silent, gazing into the darkness beyond the porch. From the other side of Highbury Fields came the sound of a car alarm. Daniel stared at her. After a moment he gently asked, “How could you let her come here, then?”

“I don't know.” Sira sighed, running a hand across her cropped scalp. “It's been such a long time, and I suppose I wanted to make sure that the fire'd gone out, you know? And it's what I've always done with Nick's girls—befriend them, try to make it like family. I guess I was mostly curious, to see what she was really like. And, well, she seems perfectly all right, doesn't she? She's attractive, but she doesn't quite seem like the sort you'd kill yourself over. Does she?”

Daniel smiled wryly. “Probably not. How long ago was all this?”

“The first time was, what—thirty years ago? 1973; so yes, more than thirty years. The time in Budapest was about ten years after that—'82, I think.”

“How long were they together? The first time, I mean.”

“Well, that's the other odd thing. Even before we met, I knew Nick's music. All his best songs came from then—they were
all
about her. And the way he talked about her, I always assumed they must have been together for ages. But it was just a little while.”

“How little?”

“A week, maybe. Nick told me once it was less than that.”

“A
week?
Jeez, I've had hangovers that lasted longer than that!”

“I know—it sounds funny, doesn't it? But you know, Daniel, if you'd seen him then, you wouldn't laugh. He looked like death. He looked like someone who'd have looked
better
dead.”

“What about her now?” Through the open door, he could see Nick pacing back and forth in the hall. “Nick said something about her being mentally ill.”

“I don't really know anything about that. I suppose she can't have been all that together if she tried to kill herself. He did tell me once—this was when he was in hospital, so I took it with a grain of salt—he told me then that he thought she was delusional, or had some kind of personality disorder. Which was why she would use a different name—although he lied to me about that, too. He said the woman he'd seen in Budapest was named Durene, but later he told me it was really Larkin. So who knows? Anyway, Nick says she's fine now, she's taking medicine, and she's not supposed to drink. But that's pretty common, isn't it? She appears sane enough to me.”

“Me, too,” Daniel said. “And we all did some fucked-up stuff back then, right?”

Sira smiled sadly. “Right.”

He wanted to feel relieved. Instead he had an unpleasant sense that he was fooling himself about this woman. But even that was absurd—he didn't know Larkin well enough to have any sense of her whatsoever. He began to shake his head impatiently, when a sound from the next room made him look up. Larkin was heading toward the porch, while behind her, Nick scowled at the phone, then with a rude gesture hung up.

“It's a bit later than I thought.” Larkin stopped in the doorway, smiling down at Daniel. “I think I'll be heading back now.”

“Really? Wait, hold on, I'll walk out with you.”

Quickly Daniel scrambled to his feet, nearly forgetting Sira beside him. “Oh—Sira, thanks, that was great.”

She looked at him, amused. “Right. Here's Nick.”

“Well, we got the Wednesday night,” he said. “But not without a fight. What, going already, Danny?” He looked from Daniel to Larkin. “But the night is still young!”

“I've got work to do. Someone from
TimeOut'
s interviewing me in the morning.” Daniel said. “But thanks.”

“
TimeOut
? Must be a slow news week.” Nick stared at Larkin. For a moment it looked as though he'd move toward her; instead he abruptly turned to go inside. “Well, I will leave you two to discuss your minor Victorian artists. Fucking bourgeois wallpaper.”

“Nick, no one but you wants Chris Mars wallpaper,” Daniel shouted after him, then turned to Larkin. The two of them left the flat, calling good-byes to Nick and Sira as the door clanged shut behind them.

They made their way down the sidewalk. The broad expanse of Highbury Fields had a sickly orange glow from the streetlights. A small white dog minced across the grass, foxlike, its brushy tail held high and its pointed ears erect as its owner sat on a bench and watched.

“Look,” said Larkin, pointing. “It's stalking something.”

The man on the bench whistled; the dog leaped into the air, its tail a white pinwheel, then darted across the lawn. Daniel glanced back at Sira's place. He had a sudden nagging sense that he had forgotten something, but what? When he turned back, both dog and owner were gone. Larkin stood waiting for him against the iron fence.

“Ready?” she asked.

They walked slowly, heading in the general direction of the Underground and saying nothing. Daniel shivered; the unease that had touched him briefly in Sira's flat grew more pronounced. He glanced at Larkin. She appeared lost in thought, her hands in her pockets, a tangle of dark hair obscuring her eyes.

When they reached the corner, she stopped. Above them loomed an old-fashioned street lamp. Brown moths spiraled in a frenzied orbit around its egg-shaped lobe. Larkin stared at the insects, then cocked her head so that one acid-green eye shone from beneath her hair.

“Can I give you a lift?” She pointed to the car parked beside the curb, a red-and-white Mini not much bigger than a bathtub. “Or did you drive?”

“I took the tube. Sure, I'd love a ride—but where're you going? I'm in Camden Town.”

“I know. Nick's place. That's not far—come on, get in.”

She unlocked the car. “I've never been in a Mini before,” Daniel said, stooping to peek in the tiny window. “I don't think I can fit.”

“Sure you can.” She opened the passenger door and performed an intricate series of adjustments to the seat. “There.
Lots
of room.”

They drove off. Daniel had to slump with his knees almost touching his nose and one arm dangling out the window; this gave him a child's-eye view of the streets outside, as well as an intimate perspective on Larkin's left elbow. They circled Highbury Fields and headed toward Camden Town, passing Indian take-aways and a desolate stretch of sad-looking shops and shabby Irish pubs. He shifted so that his head was cradled against the door, and gazed at Larkin.

“So is that your real name? Larkin?”

“My real name?” She smiled and steered the car down a cobblestone alley. “I suppose it's real.”

“I mean, were you christened with it?”

“No, I wasn't christened with it.”

“Were you
born
with it? I mean, did your mother quote Philip Larkin's poems when you were a little girl?”

“No.” Her expression grew wary. “I chose it for myself. I've done that several times now.”

“Changed your name?”

“Why not? I mean, look at you—‘Daniel Rowlands.' Wouldn't you like to change
your
name?”

“To what?” He tried to angle his knee more comfortably beneath the dashboard. “No. My name is branded. And I'm not a rock band—people read my column; they don't want to see Daniel Rowlands one week and Grope Swansong the next. And I happen to like my name. But you just change yours whenever you want? Very interesting. You're not a spy, are you?”

“A spy? I'd be a very bad one if I admitted it. No. I just liked Larkin. Some people call me Lark.”

“Christ, that's
much
worse.”

“Hush!” She slapped his thigh, and Daniel grinned. “Now, listen—would you like to see those studies I was telling you about? The Burne-Jones
Tristan and Iseult
?”

“Sure.” He liked watching the glitter of light upon her face as they darted in and out of traffic, trucks and double-decker buses suddenly looming above them like ocean liners. Even pedestrians seemed huge beside the Mini. “Can you give me directions?”

“I'll take you there. Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Larkin, I'm on sabbatical. I'm never busy. But aren't you? Don't you have a job, or an important list of new potential names to consider?”

“I told you, I don't work.”

“You must do something,” he said, then blushed.
Back off,
he thought.

“Arcana imperii,”
retorted Larkin. “It's a secret.” She frowned, peering out at the bright rush of Camden High Street, minicabs and motorcycles, the tube station like an afterthought shoved in among storefronts with cartoonish bas-reliefs protruding from their upper stories: Doc Martens as big as a man, a Brobdingnagian corset speared by an immense pair of scissors. Without warning, the Mini lurched into a space in front of Nick's maisonette. Daniel's head banged against the front seat as Larkin announced, “I'll pick you up tomorrow at nine.”

Daniel rubbed his head and stared at her, not wanting to leave. He waited for her to say more, then suddenly remembered his interview. He groaned. “Tomorrow morning?”

“This offer will not be repeated.”

“Yes, yes!” Fuck the interview: he began to pry the door open. “Can I buy you breakfast?”

“At nine o'clock? I'd have starved by then.”

“Lunch?”

“We'll see.” She turned and smiled at him. “Daniel.”

He went cold. In the car was a smear of silvery green where Larkin was, where Larkin had been: a nimbus that cohered into a blinding jab of light, emerald-colored. He gasped. His fingers clutching at the door handle were wet, and the door handle was wriggling; it was
gone,
like a minnow sliding from a cupped hand. He closed his eyes, sick and shivering, felt something small and smooth pressed against his lower lip. With an effort he blinked—

—and there was only Larkin, if that was really her name, a woman with strands of gray in her chestnut hair and fine lines drawn down the side of her mouth, wearing faded clothes and silver bracelets set with lapis lazuli and variscite, a woman leaning over the stick shift to touch her finger to his lip.

“Good night,” was all she said.

And yet, and yet. He was outside the car now, stumbling to his feet with his upraised hand mirroring hers as she pulled the door shut, then turned from him and wheeled the Mini back into traffic. And yet she had eyes of a color he had never seen, moss green, acid green, apple green; and she had never really told him who she was or what she did.

And the acorn . . .

He reached into his pocket, pulled it out, and held it up to the streetlight.

“Shit,” he whispered.

Thrusting from a crack in the acorn was a tiny root—bright red, pomegranate red—curling like an inchworm. A minute droplet of clear fluid clung to the root's tip. Daniel stared at it, bemused, then, with a half smile, stuck out his tongue and touched it. The fluid had no taste, but when he swallowed, a bitter warmth spread across the back of his tongue.

“Huh,” he said. He lifted his hand to throw the acorn into Inverness Street—and stopped.

There was a sound, a prolonged sibilant sigh. His hand remained half raised before him. Something moved against his cheek; he brushed a strand of hair from the corner of his mouth.

“What is it?” he said aloud.

There was no one there. He stood alone in front of Nick's flat, the summer air tainted with the smell of rotting greengages and cabbage leaves strewn along the curb. He turned to gaze back at the High Street, half expecting to see Larkin there, laughing at him from inside her Mini.

But no. There was nothing save the night's traffic, a group of teenagers drinking in the abandoned stretch of market across the road. Daniel shoved the acorn into his pocket and trudged toward the door. Upstairs in Nick's maisonette, the phone begin to ring.

“Damn it,” muttered Daniel.

He fumbled for his keys, opened the door, and ran upstairs, grabbing the phone just as the answering machine kicked in.

“. . . reached Nick Hayward at 0207 . . .”

“Hello?” he gasped. He had a quick exuberant thought that it would be Larkin. “I'm here—”

“Is that Daniel?”

“Nick.” Daniel swore and sank into a chair. “Christ, I nearly killed myself—”

“Just wanted to make sure you got home all right.”

“What are you talking about? Of course I'm home. I answered the fucking telephone!”

“Alone?”

Stony silence as Daniel glared at the kitchen table, the tumble of his own papers and a few loose music sheets, Nick's unanswered mail. He could hear reedy music on the other end, then Nick drawing a deep breath.

“Listen, Daniel.
La belle dame sans merci
—did she ask you out or anything?”

“What are you talking about? Larkin? Are you nuts?”

“You're right.” Nick laughed. “I must be nuts. She'd never ask you out.”

“I meant, why the hell should you care? And yes, of course she did. Tomorrow.”

“Don't go.”

“Don't go?
You
were the one introduced us!”

“I've changed my mind. Bad idea. She's not your type. It'll end in tears. Trust me.”

“Nick.” Daniel fought to keep his voice even. “She's taking me to see those paintings she was telling me about. The Burne-Jones studies for Tristan. It's for my fucking
book,
Nick—remember? I'm writing a book?”