The Deadly Space Between (23 page)

Why had my life turned to rock crystal between the two of them? Other people grow up, leave home, pass beyond their parents or the adults in their lives. Yet Isobel had remained dependent upon her aunt Luce, the woman who had paid for her, educated her, formed her thinking, encouraged her gifts, brought her up. And Luce had clung to Isobel like a desperate tick, afraid of something unspecified that lurked in our vicinity, always present, out of our line of vision. Luce would ring Isobel every day. Why? Why was this necessary? Were we being protected or policed? Why were we unable to let each other go?

I had refused to share all other lives but hers. I had resisted intrusion like a crouching panther. I had watched over her goings out and her comings in. I had never allowed her to escape my grasp.

Yet she had calmly stepped away across the floor to dance with another man. And had never looked back.

Standing on the night ferry, gazing at the long columns of light, steady on the water, the choppy cold and endless dark stretching away, above and below, I clambered back through the last five months of tension and betrayal. I remembered all the nights lying awake, waiting for her to come home, all the sly prying which had turned me into a spy, the sexual Charybdis of triangular desire, the moment when he had offered her to me, the moment when he had made me long for him. But above all I remembered the uncanny sensation, which came and went like the flutter of a moth, that it was not the woman that he wanted but the boy, and that he had seduced the mother to possess the son. I whispered his name into the strange night wind with its horizontal edge of cold: Where are you? What did you want? The rumble of the ferry engine, the faint tinkle of music and news from half a dozen car radios, the stamp of someone else walking the deck to keep warm, this was all I could hear in the freezing night.

Zum wilden Jäger
was an orange, square palazzo built directly on the water’s edge. There was a garden with Italian arrangements of fountains and terraces all frozen into winter ice. The floodlights from the gardens picked out the green shutters and white moulded swirls surmounting the windows, all the elegant austerity of early Baroque detail. A battered wisteria coiled around the building like a dead snake. Someone had laid grit upon the steps. The town rose up the slope behind me. I saw steep rows of vines between the villas, strung out upon wires, stretched leafless and twisted like torture victims. The Renault was nowhere to be seen. I looked round once, then marched straight through the double doors.

It was an expensive hotel. We never stayed in expensive hotels. I sashayed up the monogrammed carpet to a glass and marble edifice, which was occupied by a young woman wearing a uniform with the same monogram that littered the carpet. Behind her were dozens of wooden pigeonholes with suspended golden keys. The hotel was nearly empty.

I launched the attack in English.

‘I’m looking for Isobel Hawk. Is she here?’

‘Yes. She’s in her room.’ She picked up the internal phone. ‘Who shall I say is here?’

‘Tobias Hawk.’

‘Ahhhh . . .’ She was visibly relieved. ‘Frau Hawk? Your husband is in reception.’

The woman almost dropped the phone. But even I could hear that my mother had begun screaming.

‘Which room is she in? Quick.’ I raced for the stairs.

‘
Zwölf. Im ersten Stock
.’

The hotel was decked out in religious kitsch. I nearly knocked over a festive altar to the Virgin Mary as I flung myself round the corner of the landing. I heard thumps and crashes from behind her door. She was moving all the furniture she could displace into a barricade. I hammered on the green wood, yelling.

‘Iso! Iso! It’s me. It’s Toby. I’m on my own. Let me in.’

My voice sounded hollow in the empty, overheated passage. Her sobbing was audible through the door. The number twelve was painted on a ceramic plaque, wreathed in violets. I eyeballed the offensive flowers.

‘Iso! Can you hear me?’

The furniture scraped and crashed. Something heavy hit the floor with an evil thud. Then the door flew open and she leaped straight into my arms. I held her tightly and looked round the room, which had apparently been ransacked by mad burglars. She had shifted a huge chest of drawers and both chairs across the entrance. Armed with the strength of pure terror she had managed to shift the massive, painted wardrobe.

‘Iso, it’s OK. It’s all over. It’s finished. Listen to me. I went back to our house. Yesterday. He was there in the bed. As if he was in a coma or something. I plugged all the windows and turned on the gas tap. Then I got out and came to find you. You didn’t kill him. I did. Do you understand that? Roehm is dead. And I killed him.’

She was crying uncontrollably. I persuaded her to sit down on the edge of the bed. She was wearing a dirty checked shirt and nothing else. The sheets were a knotted jumble, as if she had been fighting with the bedclothes.

‘Iso, have you eaten anything? Anything at all? Have you slept? What’s happening to you?’

We stared into one another’s faces, red-eyed, hunted. She smelt stale and unwashed. Her hair drooped in lank strands.

‘Iso, I’m going to run a bath for both of us.’

But she clung to me whenever I moved. She was unable to speak. I talked to her quietly, gently. Her eyes were huge, the pupils blank. I rearranged the furniture while she sat on the bed and watched, saying nothing and not offering to help. I could scarcely move the wardrobe. She had hauled it halfway across the room. She followed me into the bathroom, which was a symphony of white towels and pink tiles. I poured oils and scented foam into the bath and turned the taps on full. She was still crying silently. The shutters leading onto the balcony were closed. The only light came from the yellow tube above the basin. She sat shivering in the half-light. And still, she didn’t speak.

I began, slowly, quietly, to undo the buttons on her shirt. She flinched.

– I won’t hurt you. I promise. I’m here to take care of you. Not to make any more demands on you.

– Iso, I love you. You know how much I love you. I want to make up for being cruel. I promise that I will never knowingly hurt you again. Give me another chance.

– Let me touch you.

– I won’t hurt you.

– Why don’t you want the light on?

– What’s this on your shoulder?

– My God, Iso! Your back is like a ploughed field. Did Roehm do this to you? When?

– And what with?

– Iso, these are old scars. I’ve never seen these. What in God’s name has been happening to you?

– Why are you shaking your head? What do you mean? Don’t ask? Don’t look? I can hardly help seeing this. It’s visible at sixty paces. He can’t have done this to you without your knowing about it. He can’t have done it without your consent.

– Why are you shaking your head? Why can’t you speak? Has he cut your tongue out?

– You must have felt this? You must have felt
something
.

– All right. I’m not trying to bully you.

– No. You can have the first bath. I won’t go away. I’ll sit here.

– Look at me. Let me touch you.

– Have you got any more of this cream?

– Don’t wriggle. Don’t pull away.

– Oh, for God’s sake, Iso, relax. I’ve done this for you a hundred times. The cream’s not that cold. Let me rub it in a bit more. You’ve got huge white blobs all along your spine. It’s antiseptic. I’ve washed my hands.

– If you don’t mind me saying so, you’ve got very thin.

– It’s as if he’s eaten you up.

– Of course it’s his fault. He did it.

– Is that any better?

– Breathe.

– Relax a little. That’s much better. Now stretch out. You can turn over. I’ve finished.

– How can you possibly be afraid of me?

– You know me. You’ve always known me. I belong to you.

– Let me touch you.

– Iso, you’ve got to talk to me.

– You look dreadful. Really ill.

– Are you cold? You’re shivering.

– Then get back into bed. Do you want something hot to drink?

– You do? What? Tea? Chocolate? How about tea and whisky? They must have some sort of room service. Even in the middle of the night. OK. I won’t be long. Please don’t start crying again. And don’t barricade the door.

– It’s all right. It’s me. I wasn’t long, was I?

– Look, this has got sugar in it. Lots of sugar. God, you look as if you haven’t slept for weeks. It’s OK, it’s OK. I’m here now. Hang on. Don’t cry. Drink this.

– There.

– Let me touch you.

– There.

– And there.

– Don’t hold your breath.

– Talk to me.

– Don’t turn away.

– Let me touch you again.

– Take this off.

– Kiss me.

– Are you warm enough?

– Talk to me, please.

– I love you. I’ve always loved you. Only ever you.

– I love seeing you smile like that.

– Go on smiling.

– Move your knee.

– I can’t be too heavy. I’m the same weight as you.

– Let me touch you.

– Iso, come back to me.

– We have the same face.

– Talk to me, Iso. Talk to me.

– Iso, look at me.

– You have to talk to me now.

– Iso, who is Roehm? Why is he part of our lives? Why did he come between us? Nothing ever did before. You never allowed anyone to come between us. We loved each other and no one else mattered. Where did he come from? Iso, I know nothing about this man. Who is he? Talk to me.

7

BODENSEE

You’re right. I should talk to you more. Sometimes you know what I’m thinking, even when I don’t say anything. But there are things you can’t know. I forget that you’re a man now, not a child. You’re an adult. You’re over eighteen. It’s as if you’re catching up with me. I don’t feel that much older than you are. You can just about drive. You take responsibility for things. It’s as if we’re becoming brother and sister, no longer mother and son. That woman downstairs thinks you’re my husband. I shouldn’t laugh. But isn’t it odd? Given that we look so alike? Still, they do say that couples get to look like each other. Or like their pets. Luce says it’s uncanny, the way we look alike. And I think it is too. I’ve missed you terribly. I feel like a jigsaw and you’re the missing piece. There have always been two of us. You, me. We never had pets. Not even a cat. You never asked for one. When everybody else’s children asked for rabbits and guinea pigs, you weren’t the slightest bit interested. I always took that to mean that you were happy with me, just me. Silly, isn’t it? It could have meant you loathed rabbits.

I never had pets either. My parents forbade it. Pets are supposed to help you develop attachments and affections, to practise love. Most children try to assassinate their small furry animals and begin by dissecting their teddies.

Maybe I’m not good at loving correctly. I never imagined myself as a parent, and certainly not as a mother. I wasn’t going to treat you the way my parents had treated me. I was locked up. Never allowed to go out with my friends. Hardly allowed to have friends. My parents decided who was suitable. My father used to haul them in and interrogate them on their incomes and morals, even the girls. As if he were working for the Gestapo. My mother sat in on the interviews. Not many passed the test. I stared at the men in church. And wondered how on earth I would ever meet one that I liked.

School was the only time I ever managed to escape from them. How I longed for the beginning of term! My father took me to the very gates in the car every morning and my mother used to pick me up. She was always there, waiting. After three-thirty the car was parked halfway down the street, as if the school was under perpetual surveillance. I once managed to skip the last period and get to the shop and back before she arrived. She never knew. I felt as if I’d gotten away with ram-raiding. Unbelievable really, everybody else was doing drugs and having sex. What did I do? Pray, sing hymns, serve soft drinks. My father said grace every night before we sat down to tinned soup, tough meat, two veg, and pineapple chunks. And do you wonder why Luce and I brought you up as an atheist who visits expensive French restaurants?

I’ve never talked about the Saints, have I? So it’s one of the things you don’t know.

My parents belonged to the Communion of Saints. I was washed in the Blood of the Lamb and destined to labour in the Lord’s vineyard. Don’t laugh. It changed everything. When they were hardly older than you are now they were missionaries. They were sent to Africa when I was very small. I can hardly remember my first years. Just the banana trees. There was always a new shoot my height in the brown crackly folds of the old tree. We came back from Africa when I was five. Mother had accumulated some beautiful things she was given at the school where she taught and by the people among whom we had lived. They had nothing. But still, they never came to us empty-handed. We returned loaded with gifts: extraordinary small seats carved from black wood and decorated with images of birds, grain-sieves with painted leaves and lizards on the rim, strings of beads and silver bracelets, brilliant, woven coloured baskets, toys made from hard wood with eerie symbols in labyrinths. Our house was exotic, different from everyone else’s house. Then the former minister of our new congregation told my mother that her pagan grave goods were covered in magic symbols that would lure us away from the love of the Lord. And so she burned the lot. A huge black pyre of Africa. I cried and cried. She told me they were evil things, which could not disturb me any more. But they were gifts that were given with love. It seems to me that she tried to destroy everything I ever loved.