Sottopassaggio (30 page)

Jenny nods. “That's radical,” she says.

I shrug. “It makes the point,” I say, handing her the wallet.

“OK,” Jenny says, opening the door. “Number eleven you say?”

I nod. “And be quick,” I say. “He's probably in and I don't want a scene.”

As we drive away, Jenny buckles her belt. “So what did you say?” she asks.

I fidget, settling into my seat. “The pedals are really weird in this car,” I say. “In the letter? Oh I just said how sorry I am, and that if he ever wants to forgive the fallible human being that I am to get in touch,” I say.

Jenny nods. “But you never really accused him did you? I thought you said…”

I shake my head. “Nah, I didn't really. But I thought it. And Benoit thinks I did. It's quite karmic really.”

Jenny snorts. “You like your karma, don't you,” she
says.

I pull a face. “I'm not really a believer,” I say. “But things often seem to work out the way they should, despite everything.”

“The way they should,” Jenny repeats dubiously.

I pick up the London road and head north towards the A23.

After a minute or so, I add, “You know, when I was a kid I nicked loads of money, from my mother's purse.”

Jenny rolls her head around, stretching her neck. “Yeah?” she says.

I nod. “This friend I had, I can't remember his name now, anyway, he encouraged me. We used to nick all sorts of stuff.”

“But from your
parents
!” Jenny says, shocked.

“They never actually noticed,” I say. “But my dad caught me with my mate spending loads of money in the amusement arcades.”

“Shit,” Jenny says. “What did he do?”

I shrug. “Not a lot really. He threatened to hit me with his belt,” I say. “But he didn't actually do anything I don't think. I wasn't allowed to see the friend anymore though.”

“Ah, loss of privileges,” Jenny says. “My dad was hot on that too.”

“The funny thing was though,” I continue. “That the money we were spending, when he caught us… Well it wasn't stolen at all. My mate's mother gave it to us just before we went out.”

Jenny laughs. “Really?”

I nod. “I thought there was something profound about that, even then,” I say. “You know, being caught for the right crime but for the wrong reason.”

“The birth of Mark's theory of karma,” Jenny laughs.

I shrug.

By the time I reach the motorway, Jenny has slumped
into her seat. She's been silent for nearly twenty minutes, so I start when she suddenly speaks. I had thought she was asleep.

“Put your foot down a bit,” she says. “We'll never get there at this rate.”

I frown and glance at the speedometer. “I'm doing seventy,” I point out.

“Yeah,” Jenny says with a sigh. “But everyone else is doing ninety, even the trucks are overtaking us.”

I glance at her and frown. “Everyone else wasn't pulled from a car wreck four months ago,” I say coldly.

“Oops,” Jenny says.

“Whilst you were screwing,” I add.

“Sorry,” Jenny says. “That was dumb of me. Are you OK? Or do you want me to drive?”

I shake my head. “Nah, I'm fine really,” I say.

I notice a mirage shimmering on the horizon and realise that it's turning into a hot day. I roll down my window, but the roar of a truck overtaking unnerves me, so I roll it back up again.

Jenny fiddles with the controls and with a puff of dust, cold air starts to stream from the vents on the dashboard.

“I was thinking,” Jenny says, “about that coincidence.”

I nod and wait for her to continue, but when she says nothing, I prompt her.

“Go on,” I say.

Jenny sighs. “Nah, it's nothing,” she says. “It's stupid.”

I shake my head. “No, go on,” I insist. “I'm interested.”

Jenny rolls her head from side to side again. “It's just,” she says slowly. “Well, you know, the way I conceived, at the same time as…” Her voice fades away.

I swallow. “At the same time as Steve died?” I say.

Jenny sighs and stretches her arms before her.

“Did you think that too then?” she says.

I nod. “I even considered reincarnation,” I say, adding, “Well, considered isn't really the word. It crossed my mind, against my will.”

Jenny snorts.

“I know,” I say. “The weird workings of my mind.”

Jenny snorts again. “No,” she says. “I thought that too.”

I drive for a while without speaking.

“It
is
strange though,” I eventually say. “I mean the odds can't be that high can they?”

Jenny shrugs.

“Though, I suppose, if you think about it, the accident was probably a couple of hours before,” I say.

“Before we started shagging, you mean,” Jenny says. “Yeah. I thought of that too, but I know what you mean, it's like this can't really be just a random event, you know?”

“Exactly,” I say. “And yet, apparently it is.”

“I thought, you know, that if it had been a boy, I might have called him Steve,” Jenny says.

I'm feeling tired and fragile from lack of sleep, and this thought suddenly makes me feel very raw, very emotional.

I screw up my eyes and concentrate on the road ahead. “That's a nice thought,” I say.

“And, well, this isn't really the moment,” Jenny says. “But I thought, well, you know how much you said you enjoyed your friends' kids.”

I nod and swallow again.

“And how you won't be having any of your own,” she continues.

I frown and grit my teeth. “Yes?” I say.

Jenny reaches out and squeezes my leg. “Well, I thought, maybe you'd accept to be godfather?” she says.

I nod but say nothing.

“Not in a religious way, but, well, it would be nice.”

I nod and cast a watery glance at her. “Yeah,” I say. “I'd like that.”

I wipe my eyes, laugh, and then clear my throat. “Now, before you make me weep and
we
crash as well, maybe we could lighten it up a bit?”

Jenny laughs. “Sorry,” she says.

“And stop saying sorry all the time,” I say. “Do you have any idea how many times you apologise in a day?”

“I know,” Jenny says. “Sorry?” she mugs.

I glance at her and wink.

“Music?” she says, reaching for the radio.

I nod. “If you can find anything,” I say.

Jenny switches on the radio and hits the scan button a few times.

Finally the radio settles on a song I know. “Stop there,” I say. “That's good.” I drive for a few seconds trying to identify it.

“Hum. I know this too,” Jenny says.

“You know who sings it?” I ask.

Jenny shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. “It's lovely though.”

I nod. “It's
Fleetwood Mac
,” I say. “From
Tusk
.”

Jenny nods. “John had that,” she says. “Years ago.”

I nod. “Everyone had that, years ago,” I say. “This one's called
Over and Over.
But do you know who the singer is?”

Jenny cocks her head and listens to the radio for a moment. “No,” she says. “It's somewhere in my mind, but…”

I laugh. “Her name's Stevie,” I say.

“Stevie,” Jenny repeats.

“Stevie Nicks,” I say.

Jenny nods.

“Stevie,” she says again.

“And Nick's” I say pointedly.

Once we get to Farnham, Jenny is remarkably efficient for which I am grateful. Though I know, logically, that Nick is back in Brighton, sitting in the Fiat in front of their house has my nerves on edge.

When Jenny throws a bag onto the back seat, I sigh
with relief.

“Weird,” she says, reaching for her seatbelt. “It gave me the creeps being back in the house.”

I pull away across the drive. “Me too,” I say.

“Yeah,” Jenny says. “But I
lived
there for two years.”

“You got everything though?” I ask.

Jenny nods. “I got the credit cards and my passport,” she says. “Nothing else really matters.”

“Good attitude,” I say, driving past the point where we discovered the blood rushing from Tom's head. “Swimsuit?” I ask, trying to lighten the tone.

“Nah,” Jenny laughs. “I think I need a new one. A special model for fat pregnant women.”

“Maybe we should phone Tom,” I say. “I don't know when he's leaving, but…”

“It'll have to be from a payphone I'm afraid,” Jenny says.

I frown at her. “You forget your mobile?”

Jenny laughs and shakes her head “I left it in the back garden,” she says.

“Shit!” I spit, glancing in the mirror and looking for somewhere to pull over.

But Jenny grabs my leg. “I left it on purpose,” she says.

I stare at the road ahead and raise an eyebrow. “That way, Nick will think…” I say.

“That I never
did
get his message,” Jenny finishes. “Plus, every time it rings I won't have to worry if it's him,” she says.

I nod. “That's radical,” I say.

Jenny nods and glances at her watch. “I know,” she says.

“How are we doing for time?” I ask.

She nods. “It's all perfect really,” she says. “An hour to get to Heathrow and two hours for check-in.”

Jenny drops her bag on the floor.

“Wow!” she exclaims. “What a great place to live.”

I look around the apartment, but feel nothing. Though I dozed for most of the flight I feel numb with tiredness, and jet-lagged with the simple shock of suddenly being back in Nice.

My flat for some reason isn't speaking to me. It's saying nothing at all, except maybe, “I am an apartment. I need cleaning.”

“I don't think my brain's caught up with my body yet,” I say, shaking my head.

I cross the room and open the windows and shutters. Jenny follows me and peers down at the street below.

“Gosh you're really in the middle of everything here,” she says.

The air is hot and clammy and the interior smells musty. I run a finger along the windowsill. “Everything's so dirty!” I say.

“Dusty,” Jenny corrects me. “We'll clean it tomorrow.”

I nod. “I'm just surprised though,” I say. “It's been closed. I mean, where does the dust
come
from?”

I lead Jenny to the office-cum-spare-room and fold out the sofa bed.

“I should have some sheets somewhere,” I tell her turning to leave.

She grabs my arm. “Mark, look, I'm
so
tired, really, I just need to sleep, kind of right now?” she says. “It's so warm anyway, really, lets sort out proper bedding tomorrow.”

I nod. “Sure,” I say, vaguely. “Suits me anyway, I'm not actually sure there
are
any clean sheets.”

I return to the lounge. A group of drunken tourists are shouting in the street below, so I lean on the window ledge and watch for a while before closing the shutters again.

When I hear Jenny leave the bathroom and return to the office, I switch off the lights and sink onto the big red settee and try to reconnect with my place, with my stuff, with my own environment.

The glow from the streetlamps is shining through the shutters casting orange strips of light along the ceiling, and down below I can hear the rowdy group moving away into the distance.

The street falls silent, and I lie listening to the hum of this southern city whirring around me, a car alarm in the distance to the left, a moped buzzing madly up a hill far away to the right, chatter from a distant
brasserie
. The sounds are so different here.

The last time I was here was with Owen; a ten minute visit to pick up stuff for my trip to England, and to drop off…

Doubting my memory – it all seems so distant now – I glance over at the corner of the room. For a few seconds, I am unable to make out the form of Steve's saxophone, unable to spot the big black case lurking in the shadows. I actually feel a certain relief that it's not there, but then I spot it, peeking out from behind the speaker cabinet.

A profound sadness washes over me, as if a black hole has opened in the middle of the room, swirling and sucking me in.

It suddenly seems that the trip to Brighton has been pointless, that by returning here I have simply wiped it all out. And that pointlessness spreads and contaminates everything I think about until
everything
seems futile. My life itself seems pointless and absurd.

Steve's saxophone, Tom's saxophone, so many un-played instruments, so many bridges built, Hugo, Benoit, all of them. And then so much waiting and watching until it all crumbles away. “
Why bother?
”

I cross the room and kneel before the sax case. I gently turn it on its side, release the clasps and open the lid.
“Like opening a coffin,”
I think morbidly.

Sure enough, the inside of the box is lined in blood-red velvet, and nestling in the velvet, like a buried relic, is the gleaming saxophone.

I feel desperate and alone. For a moment I feel so bad I actually consider waking Jenny, just to be able to cry in her arms. But she's as exhausted as I am, and that – I logically reason – is probably all that's wrong with me.

That, and the fact that coming home has closed the brackets opened when Owen whisked me off to England. Suddenly it seems as if the previous sentence has been resumed, only I don't know how to finish it. I don't know how to finish any of it.

All the dilemmas of my life are still here to be faced. What to do, who to love, how to get through this thing we call life in some meaningful, or at least, less-than-awful way.

I stroke the saxophone. I had imagined Tom playing this, somehow making it
his
, somehow making it all OK. I imagined that Tom would delimit the past by opening a new paragraph for me, maybe even a whole new chapter.