The Furies: A Novel (23 page)

But I think it’s somewhere that was important to them, and she goes there to think about him so that she can come back and be with us and not miss him so much. That must be it, mustn’t it?

5

I couldn’t ignore this theft. I couldn’t get back into my flat, for a start: my keys were in the bag, and the bag was gone. I walked up to Robert’s office, and asked Cynthia if he had a few minutes. She waved me through, as always. She placed little value on Robert’s sporadic pleas not to be interrupted. She’d probably noticed that he worked best with a deadline, and the easiest way to create one of those was to allow the rest of us to keep disturbing him.

‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I began.

‘How can I help?’ he said, gesturing at the kettle. I nodded, and he walked over and switched it on. He picked up a jar of instant coffee in one hand and a box of tea bags in the other and waved both at me. I pointed to the left. ‘Coffee it is,’ he said. The kettle growled at him.

‘Have you noticed anything going missing?’ I asked him.

‘More than usual?’

‘Yes. I think so. Alison’s purse was stolen the other day. She had us all looking for it in the staffroom. Did she mention it?’

‘She did say something,’ he agreed. The sound of water boiling was growing increasingly loud. ‘But she couldn’t remember where she’d last had it, so in the end we decided to report it as lost rather than stolen.’ Steam was flowing from the kettle, and though it hadn’t yet switched itself off, he pulled it from its base and poured. He had no patience for objects which didn’t fulfil their function quickly enough.

‘There have been a few other things,’ I said. ‘A hooded top of Ricky’s went missing a couple of weeks ago. And now, today, my bag’s been taken.’

‘Oh no, really? I’m sorry.’ He handed me a cup of muddy coffee. ‘Definitely stolen?’

‘It was on the back of my chair at the start of my last lesson with the fourth-years, and it’s gone now. I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t sure – you know that – but one of them must have taken it.’

‘Right.’ He reached for a pen and a pad of paper. Robert must be the only teacher left in Edinburgh whose desk still sported a huge blotter, as though he might set to work with a quill at any moment. ‘What does it look like?’

‘It’s a small purple messenger bag,’ I told him. He looked confused. ‘You wear it across the body.’ I mimed the strap with my hands.

He started to scribble. ‘And what was inside?’

‘The usual things. Pens, tissues, a notebook, my house-keys.’

‘Not your wallet?’

‘No.’ I tapped my hip pocket. ‘I keep it here.’

Robert’s face filled with relief. ‘So there’s nothing irreplaceable there, then. I have a spare set of keys for your flat in my kitchen drawer, unless Jeff’s tidied them away. If you give me ten minutes, I’ll drive you home and pick them up for you. The bag itself wasn’t valuable, was it?’

‘No, it’s just a canvas bag. It cost about twenty pounds. There was nothing important…’

Robert looked up as I trailed off. ‘What have you remembered?’

‘Nothing.’ I could feel the heat suffusing my face. ‘Honestly, it’s nothing.’

‘Alex, I would rather play poker against you than against an eight-year-old child. What else was in there?’

‘It’s nothing. I’m sorry.’ I could feel the tears coming. ‘It’s so stupid. My key ring. I’d just forgotten.’

Robert looked briefly baffled, then realisation dawned. He leapt up, shut the door to the outside office, came back and propped himself on the front of his desk. He shoved a box of tissues towards me, and I took a handful.

‘Luke gave you your key ring,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘I’d forgotten I had it. I left everything that was his behind. Everything. I don’t wear the necklaces he bought me, I don’t have the books he gave me, I don’t listen to the music he downloaded for me, I don’t watch the films he showed me. I left all of it behind, so that this couldn’t happen. So there wasn’t anything left to lose. And I forgot one thing and it just was a stupid little leather dog. Do you remember seeing it?’

He nodded the lie. Why would he remember seeing a key ring?

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry,’ I said. I never cried elegantly. My face was red, my nose was streaming, my eyes were puffing up. I couldn’t stop.

Robert handed me another wodge of tissues and I blew my nose. He leaned over and put his hand on my shoulder.

‘It’s alright, Alex. The only person who could possibly think this is an inappropriate reaction is you.’

‘I just want him back,’ I wept. ‘It’s the only thing I want, it’s the only thing I’m ever going to want. And I can’t have it. He’s never coming back, and even though I’ve run as far as I can from all the people and places and things that remind me of him, it doesn’t help. Because I’ve brought him with me, and every time I think there’s nothing more I can lose, I lose one more thing. It’s like some kind of horrible test.’ I couldn’t speak any more. I gulped for air.

Robert squeezed my shoulder. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ll try and get it back, honestly. I’ll interrogate every one of the little sods until they crack.’

‘I threw away my phone, did you know that?’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t stand having it with his number on it. I couldn’t bear knowing he’d never call me again. The last time anyone called me from his number, it was the man who’d called the ambulance. I’ve never told you that, have I? He called me when he realised they wouldn’t be able to save him, not even if they got there straight away. He hoped I was close by, that I’d be able to run round there to be with Luke in those last few moments. And I was nowhere fucking near. I was on the other side of London, in fucking Highbury, rehearsing some piss-poor play that never needed to be put on. It cost me my last chance to see him alive. My last chance.’

I was shrieking now, my voice cracking in the space between shouting and crying.

Robert winced.

‘Do you understand now why I won’t ever go back to that world? It betrayed me. I gave it everything I had, and when it really mattered, it fucked me over. I could have been rehearsing in fucking Richmond. They have rehearsal space at the Orange Tree. I must have been there a thousand times. But not when it mattered. When it mattered, some fucking histrionic actor couldn’t cope with using the Tube, so we all had to trek up to bloody Islington, and look where that got me. Luke used to tell me I spent my whole life bending over backwards to please these impossible people, and you know what?’

Robert shook his head.

‘It doesn’t matter that I spent my whole life doing it. What matters is that I spent his whole life doing it. I would take it all back, Robert. Every moment I spent trying to be a fucking director, trying to make people happy, trying to be good at something. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t do any of it. I’d just stand next to Luke every fucking second and when anything bad looked like it might happen to him, I’d get in the fucking way and I would keep him safe. And when people asked me what I did for a living, I’d say I loved him. That’s what I wanted to do. I thought it was the background, and it was everything. Everything.’

I had no words left. Robert left me to cry for a while. He texted Jeff, who brought the spare keys up to Rankeillor. They walked me home together.

6

DD,

It’s the holidays now. I’ve never not wanted a term to end before. But this time, I’m fucked off. No Alex for six weeks. Six weeks. Anything could happen in that time. I hate that. I asked her what she was doing over the summer, and she’s staying here, in Edinburgh. Maybe Robert will take care of her? She says she’s looking forward to the Fringe. Jono told her she can’t be a real Edinburgher if she’s looking forward to that bunch of self-indulgent southern pricks coming up here in their white-face make-up and wandering about the streets like nutters. She said she knew he was right. And she promised not to go and see a show where anyone had a painted white face. She says she’s going to see the National Theatre of Scotland at the Traverse, so doesn’t that count for something? He said maybe. I said yes.

She asked what we were doing – Carly’s going to Loch Lomond to stay with her grandparents for a bit, and to Spain. I’m stuck here with my mum. But I didn’t say that, because I didn’t want to sound like a loser, and my mum said we might go away somewhere if she can get time off. Who spends the whole summer at home? I’m probably going to go down to see my dad at some point. He’s still deciding what we’ll do.

We told Alex we’d miss her over the summer. She seemed happy. She said we’ll all be back here in August, and the holidays will disappear before we know it. I wish that was true, but I know they will drag on forever, like a nightmare. I asked her what I could read over the summer, and she said – honestly – I think you could read anything you put your mind to, Mel. I love that about her. Then she said that next year is our final year at Rankeillor, so we’ll need to be preparing for what we decide to do after we leave. I felt cold in my stomach when she said it. I don’t want it to be my final year. I don’t want to leave.

It was June. My second term at Rankeillor had sped past. It felt like a few weeks since I started at the Unit, but I’d been there for six months. Time was sliding away from me. I supposed this was the correction, when it had become so heavy and viscous after Luke died. I’d felt leaden every day for months, infected by time, as though it were the flu. But now I could get to the end of the week and every hour didn’t feel like it would drag me into the ground.

Outside my windows on New Skinner’s Close there were sheets drying all across the courtyard. And they were drying from sunlight, rather than wind-chill alone. I woke up one Saturday and decided to climb Arthur’s Seat, just because staying indoors on a day Edinburgh wasn’t under full cloud-cover seemed crazy.

I showered and changed into new jeans, a vest and a thin cotton cardigan. I put my key on a leather thong round my neck, and then I double-checked the local weather forecast, to make sure I wouldn’t suddenly get caught in a deluge on the way up. But this was Edinburgh, so I tied a thin jacket round my waist, just in case. As I came down the spiral staircase outside the flat, I stopped at the mailboxes. Just one letter, postmarked London, stamped by the Metropolitan Police. I knew what it was, of course. I had been dreading this letter for weeks. I stood still for a moment, trying to decide whether to open it or leave it behind. Then I stuffed it into my back pocket, and carried on.

I walked down the Cowgate and onto Holyrood Road. I went past the
Scotsman
office on my right, and the little BBC building on my left. I kept going until I ran out of road, and then I turned right and began to climb the stony path which would take me all the way from Holyrood to the very top of Arthur’s Seat, curving round the green crags as I looped higher and higher. The ground was dry beneath my trainers, not at all slippery. I paused for a moment to rest, and to look down at how far I’d climbed. The Scottish Parliament looked incredibly ugly from above, blocky and misshapen. The people who complained still about its incredible cost would be even crosser if they ever clambered up here and took a bird’s eye view of the place.

The crags were still quiet at this time of the morning. Even the gulls couldn’t be bothered to fly up to the desolate peaks when there were far richer pickings in town. A few keen ramblers passed me on their way back down, greeting me with the cheery, bearded hellos of regular walkers. I nodded and smiled and kept climbing. I was breathing hard by this point, but I didn’t want to stop. I needed to get to the very top and look down at the University, where I’d spent so much time so happy. I also wanted to look for Rankeillor, and see if I could pick it out from up here. And then I wanted to sit down on a convenient rock and cry for a few minutes.

It grew cooler as I climbed higher, but I didn’t mind: walking was keeping me warm. I had half a memory of reading how Kierkegaard had said that he knew of no thought so burdensome that you couldn’t walk away from it. Shows what he knew: the letter seemed to be burning my flesh through my jeans. But then, I thought, perhaps Kierkegaard had assumed you would have the sense not to bring your burdens with you.

Finally at the top of the Seat, I found a flat bit of stone to sit on. I pulled out the envelope and looked at the neat, typed address on the front. I tried to make out the date on the pinky-red postmark. I turned it over, and wondered if the nausea would stop if I just manned up and opened it. I tore along the back and pulled out the letter.

Two pages. It was a long, sorrowful explanation of sentencing procedures, and the impact that a guilty plea usually had on a maximum sentence. It was couched in the blame-free language of the police: we regret if any, CPS guidelines are such that.

The words slid away from my eyes. Remembering my secondary school drama teacher, who would begin no lesson or project without a communal breathe, such was her belief in its meditative power, I took four deep breaths. Unclenching my teeth felt like pulling magnets apart.

I read the letter again. Eighteen months. Dominic Kovar would be out in eighteen months. Luke’s whole solid, sinewy, thoughtful, beautiful, grey-eyed life was worth that. Not even a month for each of Luke’s years lived. My future, our lives together, everything was reduced to a number. And the number was tiny.

The second page was worse. The sentence was laid out in pre-emptive, don’t-shoot-the-messenger detail. Katarina had made a very convincing character witness, it explained. She had impressed the court with her regret over their fight, with her sympathy for Luke’s family, with her need for Dominic’s income, with her love for him, with her forgiveness for his behaviour. If she had been standing in front of me right then, I realised, I would have pummelled her face into the ground. I would have held her by her ugly, greasy, too-high ponytail and I would have smashed her onto the rocks beneath my feet over and over again. I took another deep breath. Luke’s parents had also spoken to the court, the letter went on. They had made an eloquent plea for their son’s killer to be given a longer sentence than the minimum. But, perhaps because of a lack of further support, the court had regretfully ignored their request.