The Half Life of Stars (7 page)

The way he transformed himself after Dad died surprised all of us. He gave up athletics completely and went from academic underdog to top of the class in under a year. He won a place at Cambridge, secured a first-class degree, then went on to finish in the top two per cent in the whole country in his law exams. I was so proud of him. We all were. In those few months before and after he left home, we never stopped telling him how well he’d done.

I pull my cardigan tightly round me, wondering if I’ll ever feel warm again. The idea of my brave, clever brother being hurt or
dead sucks the marrow out of my bones. Is that what Kay is saying? Are we waiting for a body to turn up? Are we waiting on the end of some fearful, savage story, the details of which we might never fully understand? I don’t dare contemplate it. I’m worried that if I acknowledge it openly, there’s a chance that it’ll come true.

I stand out on the balcony blowing warm air onto my frozen fingertips, staring through the telescopic lens. I imagine the viewfinder is exactly where Daniel last trained it, on this vast patch of diamond-lit cosmos. It’s a clear night and despite the London haze, the sky is pulsating with energy: radiation from planets a million light years away; faint beams of light from ancient galaxies and moons, and stars that died before our sun ever existed. I remember when Daniel told me that some of the stars we could see through this telescope weren’t really there any more. It took him a while to convince me. What we see are their echoes, their traces, he said; minute particles of their being. Posted like cosmic letters from the long-distant past and only just reaching us now. They exist as an illusion, he told me. On the surface they shine and dim and dance just as they should, but they are stars with a secret, half alive.

I stare outwards for a long time; watching the dying light from distant solar systems, turning the cardboard pill boxes over in my hands.

‘Where are you, Daniel?’ I say, to the stars. ‘Where in heaven’s name did you go?’

‘It’s a love letter.’

‘No shit, genius.’

‘OK…OK. Don’t take it out on
me
. It’s not my fault.’

It
is
his fault. He looks too good. He looks better than I do after an entire afternoon spent getting ready and I have to confess, it pisses me off. It’s not his clothes–Michael always dresses like a scruff–it’s the fact that he makes zero effort and still manages to look so content with himself. He has this savvy, worn-out, beat-up quality that he carries off like a stray alley cat. He looks like he might smell bad, but he doesn’t. He looks like he’s tired, but he’s not. In daylight he looks way older than his thirty-seven years, but in this dull pub lighting with a candle illuminating his face, he looks mischievous, cute, almost youthful. It brings out the maternal instinct in women, this wide-eyed look; they immediately want to nurture and mother him. And here’s the kick. Michael doesn’t need any looking after, he’s not the gentle, affable bloke they first think he is.

‘Who else have you shown it to?’ he says, toying with the slip of paper I’ve just given him.

‘No one,’ I say. ‘Not even my mother.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘I don’t know, Michael. I don’t know what to do. I haven’t spoken to anyone for a couple of days.’

My family have retreated to their various islands. Sylvie has taken up residence above the pastry shop with Gabe. Kay is having trouble sleeping alone in the house, so she and Julian are staying nearby with a friend. Mum and Robert have hidden away with their gin bottles and their torment, and Daniel remains
invisible, like a ghost. And me? I’ve been rattling round my flat since that awful Christmas lunch, wondering what on earth to make of this. A slip of note paper that I found by chance, buried deep inside one of the pill packets. A love letter from a woman to a ghost.

‘Wow.’

‘I know.’

‘That’s pretty stern stuff.’

‘Stern?’

‘I mean she’s sticking it to him a little, don’t you think? Saying she’s not going to debate it any more.’

‘What choice does she have? He’s made his decision. I think she’s showing incredible dignity.’

Michael shrugs.

‘Well, I’m not sure the ice-queen will see it like that. Are you even going to tell her?’

What am I meant to do? Tell Kay it looks like Daniel had been having an affair since before Julian was even born? Let her know that he was taking the antidepressants behind her back?

‘I don’t know Michael, I think…it would break her.’

He grimaces. He sees how desperate it is.

‘You’re sure the pills had all been taken?’

‘He’d opened and resealed all the packets. Every one of them was empty inside. I was fidgeting with one of the boxes that I took and the cellophane just split apart in my hand.’

‘This was the only letter you found?’

‘Yes. He’d removed the information leaflet and replaced it with this.’

Michael scratches his face. He has a rash of stubble just breaking through his chin that’s grey and tatty at the edges, and I suddenly want to reach out and touch it. How strange that I’d want to do that. We greeted each other like embarrassed cousins just now, and it felt so awkward and strange. I used to part-own his body. He used to have part-ownership of mine. Where does it go to, all that history? All the comfort, the joy, the familiarity.

‘So, who’s Annie?’ Michael says, stuffing crisps into his mouth. ‘You think she’s his secretary or something?’

‘If I knew that, I’d be talking to
her
. I wouldn’t be sat here with you, watching you stuff your beardy face full of chip-sticks.’

‘Hey, hold on a minute. I didn’t ask you to call me. It wasn’t
me
that got back in touch.’

Of course it wasn’t. Even with all this awful shit going on, Michael didn’t call me up once to find out how I was. OK, that’s not strictly true. He did call me up last week from a jazz club in Prague, but he didn’t leave a number where I could call him back.

‘I
called
you. Don’t say I never called.’

‘You left a message. You didn’t tell me where you
were
.’

‘I thought you knew.’

‘Michael, why would I know?’

‘It was in the papers. There was a review in the
Sunday Times
. It listed all my tour dates, didn’t you read it?’

I lower my head into my hands. Fear of being alone on new year’s eve has forced me to this humiliating low point. It was fear that made me dial up his number on a whim and ask him to come and meet me in this pub. There were other invites–friends
back in Oxford, some new work contacts here–but I wasn’t in the mood to get drunk or go travelling or join a party. I wanted to be with someone who understood me, who knew my family’s politics inside out. Someone who could help bear the weight of this secret I’m carrying round, welded to my back like a turtle’s shell. And I’m lonely tonight. There, I said it. It’s new year’s eve and I’m lonely as hell.

‘Hey, look. I didn’t think you’d
want
to hear from me. It all ended so…’

‘Badly, selfishly,
meanly
…?’

‘Claire, I am…so sorry.’

‘I’m still paying it off now, Michael. Do you even know that? I had to borrow money from Daniel just to get by.’

‘You know I’ll help you out when I can. I haven’t had many gigs this year, but it’s picking up now. I’m getting some recognition, better reviews. And you know what I’m like, I had to go for it. That music school set up…it was never really
me
.’

‘It was your
idea
.’

‘I know…I know. I know.’

He puts down his drink.

‘I didn’t mean to ruin everything,’ he says, touching my hand. ‘It wasn’t always so bad with us, was it?’

He’s incredible. What does he want? A pat on the arm, a bat of the eyelids, for me to tell him that he’s a lovely man really.

‘You’re a selfish fucking shit-bag,’ I say, taking away his crisps. ‘Didn’t you even care a little bit?’

‘About you…the marriage? How can you even ask, you
know
I did.’

‘No, not just me. You were part of my family for almost three years, don’t you care at all about what might have happened to my brother?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘We were on TV. Did you even see us? Did you once think to yourself…poor Claire, how fucking awful. I should maybe fucking think to give her a ring.’

‘I did ring.’

‘From
Prague
.’

Michael runs his hands through his straggly blond fringe, then pats it self-consciously back into place. His mood is fading fast; it always does when things get difficult.

‘Look, this is fucking depressing. Do you mind if we go and get something to eat?’

I nod. I’m too worn out to fight.

‘Somewhere quick, though,’ he says, edgily, pushing back his chair. ‘I have to be somewhere by midnight.’

‘Right…of course.’

‘I can’t stay, Claire. I’d like to…but there’s somewhere else I have to be.’

‘It’s fine, really,’ I say, trying not to look fussed. ‘And don’t worry, I know the perfect place.’

I’m not sure at which point it happens but somewhere in the warren of Soho’s murky streets I realise that my ex-husband is holding my hand. I don’t remember him reaching for it, I’m just suddenly conscious that it’s there.

‘Been a bad couple of weeks huh, Shorty?’

Shorty, that’s what he used to call me. Not because I’m small–that’s the joke–but because I’m almost as tall as he is.

‘It’s been hard,’ I say, wondering whether to pull my hand away or not. ‘Everyone’s taking it hard.’

‘Seeing much of your mum?’

‘As much as I can stand, she’s pretty fragile.’

‘Giving you a tough time?’

I don’t say anything; he already knows the answer to this.

‘I suppose I didn’t help,’ he says, slowing down and slipping his fingers between mine. ‘The whole investment thing, the divorce, it must have fulfilled all their expectations.’

‘Well, you know my mum…her favourite phrase is
I told you so
.’

He turns and smiles at me. And it hurts.

‘You’ve still got your fur coat?’ he says.

‘Yeah…still wearing it, it keeps me warm.’

‘That was a great trip, wasn’t it? We had a good time, the two of us.’

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We really did.’

‘Remember that rollercoaster we went on in Gorky Park? Jesus…I thought we were going to die.’

I close my eyes. It was one hell of a rollercoaster. The kind that hurls you around, lurching and tumbling and compressing your insides, and feels like it might break free of its crooked rails at any second. It puffed up the gradient like it was being drawn by a fun-fair donkey, threatening to send us plummeting back into the rusty balustrades at any second. We howled all the way down–from fear, from relief, from pure exhilaration–convinced that our time had come. The moment we’d got our breath back and stilled our shaking legs, we went hurtling into a nearby bar for shots of ice-cold lemon vodka that we couldn’t finish. The ride was wonderful but it had left us both nauseous: neither one of us wanted to go on it a second time.

I open my eyes. Michael is staring right at me.

‘Claire…I’m an arse,’ he says, putting his hands on my shoulders. ‘You know…I just sort of freaked out towards the end. I couldn’t handle it all. I panicked, I totally screwed things up.’

I don’t say anything. I’m not sure how to respond. He’s about to say something more when suddenly–like a beacon–a door opens up and the light from Jin Itchi’s basement fills the street.

‘This is it,’ I say, breaking off and pointing down the narrow flight of steps. ‘This is the place I thought we should eat.’

It’s warm inside, like it always is, and tonight it’s bustling and noisy. Yori, the waitress, nods from the other side of the room and strolls over with a pair of sticky menus.

‘You in here again?’ she says, grinning at me. ‘What’s wrong, you got no place else to go?’

‘Yeah, you know. I just can’t seem to stay away.’

‘It’s loud tonight, hey?’

‘Yeah…you’re right. It really is.’

‘You know why? Can you work it out?’

I shake my head.

‘Look,’ she says, delightedly. ‘The TV, finally fix. Just in time for new year’s, do you notice?’

‘Of course. Wow. After all this time.’

‘I can put that same video on if you like, the one I show you the other night. Quieter than these stupid cartoons.’

‘Great…sure, that’ll be nice.’

‘You remember?’ she says, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘Very thrilling and mysterious.’

Yori rushes off–taking our menus with her–before we’ve had a chance to order food. Michael calls after her, gruffly. He’s a terrible complainer in restaurants and he looks like he’s ready for an argument.

‘Relax,’ I say, trying to calm him down. ‘There’s no point in ordering, you never get what you ask for. She likes me, she’ll bring us whatever’s good.’

He’s not listening. He wants to order something different, something strange; something that he’s never tried before. As he marches over to harangue her, the video machine begins to click and whir. Michael and Yori argue over the menu but I quickly lose track of what they’re saying. I’m drawn right into the programme, like a noodle being sucked through a straw.

‘I’m getting octopus beak and raw liver,’ says Michael, triumphantly. ‘What do you think about that?’

‘I didn’t know octopuses had beaks.’

‘Shit. You think she’s winding me up?’

I don’t know. I don’t care. My eyes are still glued to the TV set.

‘Good programme?’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘The Yonigeya.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A secret agency. In Tokyo. They call themselves the fly-by-night arrangers.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘The guy in the red jacket, he’s in trouble with the Yakuza, the Japanese mafia. He’s in debt, if he can’t find what he owes them, he’ll be killed.’

‘Right. I see.’

‘And the guy in the black suit, the one with the scar, he’s going to help him run away. Give him a new identity, arrange a new job. Supply him with a brand new life, for money.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Yeah, just like that.’

‘What about the guy’s family?’

‘He’s leaving them behind. He turns up for work OK, but somewhere around noon, his colleagues begin to realise that he’s missing. No one sees him leave. Nobody knows where he went. And nobody that knows him can work it out. How can a person do that? Walk away without a trace, without a trail. Leave his family and his friends and just…disappear.’

I take a sip of green tea but find it hard to swallow. Michael is beginning to look uneasy.

‘You know who recommended this restaurant to me?’ I say, putting down my cup.

‘No,’ says Michael. ‘I don’t.’

‘Have a guess.’

‘I don’t know, Claire…are you saying it was Daniel?’

I nod.

‘Well, what makes you think he even saw this? The waitress said the TV’s been broken for months. It’s a coincidence, that’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Doesn’t it?’

I put down my cup and take a breath.

‘Yori? Can I talk to you a minute.’

‘What now? I’m busy lady, can’t you see?’