The Half Life of Stars (9 page)

Outside in the cold, in the remnants of last week’s snow, the city is singing off key. Drunks skid along the road on thin layers of ice and piles of cinnamon slush obstruct the pavements. People squeeze, bristle and churn through the streets, all in a hurry to get somewhere. The end of an old year, the beginning of the new, some still seem to think it worth celebrating.

‘Don’t you have to be somewhere by midnight?’

‘I did…yeah,’ says Michael, glancing at his watch. ‘But it’s probably too late to get there now.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to spoil your evening.’

‘It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.’

‘Thanks for coming with me. It helped.’

‘You think so?’

I shrug, I’m not sure it did.

‘She hates me, doesn’t she? I could tell?’

‘Mum? Yeah…a little bit.’

‘And you? Do you still hate me, Claire? Is that how it is?’

He’s so transparent, so easy to read; Michael can’t stand to feel rejected by anyone. He’s seeking absolution, some reassurance, like a kid waking up from a nasty dream. I can tell, right now, that he wants to sleep with me. The idea’s just popped into his head. He’s blown out his date, he’s ruined his night and he’s wondering how far he can push it. He’s testing himself, daring himself; wondering if I’ll be fool enough to bite. But that’s the comforting thing about Michael: everything about him is on the surface.

‘No, Michael, I don’t. I don’t hate you.’

‘Well, good. Good. That’s good to know.’

We walk off in the direction of his car; Michael quiet and wondering how to play it.

‘So,’ he says, fiddling with his car keys. ‘Do you want to come back to my flat?’

Do I? I’m not sure. I just know that I don’t want to go home alone.

Sometimes it’s not about love. Sometimes, not even desire. In difficult circumstances, in moments such as these, the fact that someone knows you well can be enough. It’s comfortable with us. It’s easy with us. We still know where everything fits. If it wasn’t new year’s eve, if Gabe wasn’t screwing Sylvie, if my family didn’t make me feel as lonely as a stranger sometimes, then maybe, well, who knows? But sometimes I just want someone to be nice to me: to hold me right, to touch my skin a certain way, and to not have to say too much of anything.

‘You want me to stay over with you, don’t you?’ I say.

‘Yeah, Shorty,’ Michael says. ‘Of course I do.’

And when he leans in to kiss me, it’s not special, it’s not exciting, but it’s enough.

It’s good waking up in someone else’s flat. It’s nice having them make you coffee and stale toast. It’s nice not having to ask them what they do for a living or to have to admit that you don’t remember their last (or first) name. I like it that I know this man’s habits. I like it that I know how he ticks. This man still has two sugars in his coffee. He still waits for his toast to go cold before he butters it. And he just rubbed my neck as he walked past me: he always used to rub my neck.

‘So, what does this mean?’ he says, sitting down with his food. ‘Does it mean we’re back together? Is it important? Do we even
have
to define it?’

Rhetorical questions, every one.

‘I had a great time last night, don’t get me wrong. But I think we should just see where it goes. No pressure, no expectation. That’s what killed it the first time round.’

Right.
That’s
what killed it. The pressure.

‘And I don’t know how you feel…but I was wondering. If you’d
like
to, if you think it’s OK. Maybe we should go on a couple of dates.’

Translation: he’d like to have sex with me from time to time.

‘Because you’re vulnerable at the moment, and I don’t know where I’m at…and I’d hate for you, you know, to
expect
too much.’

He narrows his eyes as he says this, he actually sticks out his lip. But I don’t expect anything. I know what this is. I smile and let him off the hook.

‘Cool…cool,’ he says. ‘That’s great.’

He leans in and squeezes my arm: pleased with himself, content with himself, relieved that he has it all worked out. There’s no emotional complexity with Michael; it’s only ever about how he feels at a given moment.

‘I’ll come over to Tom’s house with you later, if you like. Would you like me to come over there with you?’

Of course he’ll come, I remember this of old. Sex makes Michael briefly doting.

‘And here, while you’re eating, you might like to take a look at this.’

‘What is it?’

‘That
Sunday Times
review I was telling you about. I’ll fix you another coffee while you read it.’

My brother’s partner opens the door to us dressed in a pair of silk pyjamas; a little bit dozy and bleary eyed. He clearly had a time of it last night. He looks tired, sluggish, guilty.

‘Claire…happy new…I mean, come in.’

‘It’s OK. You can still wish me a happy new year.’

‘Sure, sure. I’m sorry.’

‘You remember Michael, don’t you?’

‘Michael, yes…uh, of course.’

Tom welcomes us into his home. His place is a lot like my brother’s: plush, expensive, well kept, but a little more arty and
relaxed. There’s modern art on the walls instead of landscapes and gloomy oils, and everything is brighter and warmer. The kitchen is in a bit of a state: empty champagne bottles strewn across the marble countertops and ashtrays stuffed full of cigar butts and ash.

‘Bit of a party last night,’ Tom says, apologetically. ‘Not a big one, just a couple of close friends.’

‘Really, it’s fine. Why shouldn’t you celebrate?’

‘Well…I don’t know. With everything that’s going on.’

‘Yes,’ says, Michael, earnestly. ‘It’s a tough time for us right now. Not much celebrating for
us
.’

‘No,’ says Tom, lifting his eyebrows. ‘I expect not.’

Michael helps himself to a left-over prawn canapé while Tom and I get down to business.

‘So, why the early visit? Is there news?’

‘No. No. Nothing really.’

Michael coughs. I’m not sure if this means he’s got a flake of filo pastry stuck in his throat or if this is his attempt to urge me on.

‘Tom,’ I say, quietly, ‘this is difficult. I know you’ve spoken to the police already…and that Chloe had a long talk with Kay, but was there something, anything…that you didn’t mention?’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, did Daniel seem OK to you before this happened? Did he seem distracted, unhappy, depressed?’

‘He was busy…he was working very hard.’

‘Did my brother ever talk to you about his marriage? Did he ever mention that he and Kay might be having problems?’

‘Not really, but he wasn’t the type. You know Daniel, he’s very private.’

‘What about a woman named Annie?’ says Michael, piping up. ‘Do you know anybody called Annie?’

‘Michael?’

‘Well, what’s the point in being coy? We have to ask.’

Tom shakes his head.

‘No…I don’t think so. Is she important, was something going on?’

‘We don’t know. We don’t know who this woman is. But it seems like Daniel had been having an affair.’

‘Claire, I thought I recognised your voice. How are you, is there any news?’

Chloe, Tom’s wife, has come into the kitchen; she looks like she’s just got out of bed. Her hair is messed up and there are creases in her cheeks, but she still looks effortless and pretty. She paints the murals that decorate this townhouse: splashes of pigment and startling colour, that sing out from the monochrome walls.

‘They think Daniel was having an affair,’ says Tom, crisply. ‘They want to know if we knew anything about it?’

‘Claire, is that true?’

I nod.

Chloe reaches for the coffee pot. She must have one hell of a hangover because the jug seems unsteady in her hand.

‘I found a letter among Daniel’s things,’ I say, pulling the note out of my bag. ‘It’s not much to go on. I just thought if I could find out who this Annie woman was, she might know something.’

‘Do you mind if I take a look?’

I hand the note over to Chloe. She takes an age to read through it.

‘Well,’ she says, quietly, running her eyes over the words. ‘It seems like your brother was…in love.’

‘Can I take a look?’

She hesitates. She passes the letter to Tom.

‘Right, I see…does Kay know anything about this?’

‘No, she doesn’t…and I don’t want her to. Not yet.’

‘Of course,’ says Chloe. ‘It wouldn’t do her any good. But we don’t know any Annies, do we Tom?’

‘No. I’m sorry.’

Michael studies their faces intently; he thinks he’s being subtle but he’s not.

‘Do either of you like Japanese food?’ he says, suddenly. ‘Is sushi the kind of thing you like to eat?’

‘Me, no, can’t stand the stuff. Chloe likes it though, don’t you Chloe?’

‘Well, it’s good for you. It’s healthy.’

‘She’s into all that healthy stuff. I prefer a good steak and chips myself.’

Michael strokes his chin.

‘So the pair of you have contrasting taste in food stuffs. Interesting, very, very interesting. Now, did either of you ever go to a restaurant called Jin Itchi in Soho? Did either of you ever go there with Daniel?’

What is he doing? Why does he have his thumb pressed into his cheekbone like that? Why is he narrowing his eyes at them? He thinks he’s Columbo or something, he does. I bet he’s thinking about buying himself a trench coat.

‘Not me, never heard of it. Chloe?’

‘No…no, I haven’t. Why do you ask?’

‘Well, it seems like Daniel went there a lot. Last winter, he was in there at least a couple of times a week.’

‘And this is important, because?’

I distract Michael with another filo parcel and fill them in on the waitress and the Yonigeya. Tom and Chloe politely nod along.

‘It’s an interesting story, I’ll grant you. But just a coincidence, surely?’

‘I don’t know, Tom, it’s difficult,’ I say. ‘Right now it seems coincidence is all we’ve got.’

We pick at a croissant and drink some more coffee but it’s obvious that we’ve outstayed our welcome. We chat a little longer, begin our goodbyes then Tom ushers us both to the door.

‘If I think of anything else,’ he says, ‘I’ll call you. And I’ll see what I can dig up on this Annie woman.’

‘Please. I’d appreciate it. And in the meantime…’

‘Don’t worry, we wouldn’t dream of it. We won’t breathe a word of this to Kay.’

‘Well, that was odd, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’

‘They seemed shifty the two of them, don’t you think?’

‘I think they were embarrassed. We’d probably caught them in the middle of something.’

‘You think they’d been having sex?’

‘I don’t know, possibly.’

Michael thinks about this. For quite a long time.

‘Well, I bet you a million quid that Tom knows exactly who this Annie woman is. It’s obvious, I could see it in his face.’

‘Why wouldn’t he tell us, if he knew?’

‘He’s probably seeing her friend. I’ll bet Tom was having a bit of extra curricular as well.’

‘Tom, no, I don’t think so. He doesn’t seem the type.’

‘Of course, that’s
it
. I bet they’re swingers.’

‘Who?’

‘Tom, Chloe, Daniel, Kay. I bet it’s all key parties and orgies and porn nights and basement dungeons round their house.’

‘Seriously? This is what you think?’

‘Claire, you’d be surprised what goes on,’ he says, knowledgeably. ‘Not sure about Daniel, he’s a bit too uptight, but Kay would definitely be up for it. Those glacial women, those cool, icy blondes. They’re always the most uninhibited when it comes down to it.’

And I know what this is all about with Michael. It’s purely a case of wishful thinking.

The two of us agree to meet up later for a meal–our first new ‘date’–and I head on back to my flat. I’ve left it in a bit of a mess. The floor is littered with clothes, record sleeves, damp towels and pizza boxes, all evidence that I’ve not been looking after myself properly. I’ve not been taking care of anything. Bills remain unpaid, emails remain unanswered and there’s a stack of paperwork piled up on my makeshift desk. It’s easy enough work–some museum pamphlets that need translating–maybe I should bite the bullet and get down to it.

I take off my coat, light the gasfire and get into a rhythm pretty quickly: English to German, German to French, French to Italian,
then back to English. It’s all to do with the way that the brain works. I don’t translate the words as such, I’m able to think in the language that I’m using. It feels good, actually; relaxing. It’s the same when I’m translating face to face. It’s easy for me. I can understand people this way, people that other people can’t. Some like to call this interpreting, but I don’t interpret. I
translate
. That’s the whole point. It’s already there, on the page or in the mouth of some other person, all I have to do is pull it out. It’s easy. Clear. Uncomplicated. People tend to say what they mean in these circumstances. There’s hardly any margin for error.

My work keeps me focused and occupied and it must be at least half an hour before I notice the blinking light. There’s a message waiting on my answer-phone and its discovery makes my cheeks flush and tighten. I can’t help hoping it’s good news; I can’t help thinking it might be Daniel.

‘Claire…are you home yet? It’s Tom. Look, it might not be much, but give me a call when you can, I just thought of something.’

‘I was right, wasn’t I? About the orgies. That’s what he called you up to talk about? He wants to invite us down to their secret dungeon?’

‘Yeah, Michael, that’s right. That’s exactly what it was.’

Michael smirks and fold his arms.

‘So where are we going, then, Shorty? I thought we were going out to eat.’

‘We are.’

‘Where? Out of town?’

‘The docks.’

Michael twists his head and stares out of the window, struggling for a moment to get his bearings.

‘Docklands? Are you serious? You know it’ll be way overpriced…full of bankers and city trader arseholes and…
hey
, this isn’t the way to docklands.’

‘I didn’t say dock-
lands
. I said the docks. Southampton to be precise.’

We are both of us freezing out here. Standing on the quayside beneath the cranes and the creaking derricks, with the wind sawing skin off our faces. It’s late now, gone eleven, and the whole place appears to be deserted. Ships tower over us, ten storeys high, their giant hulls scabbed with flakes of rust. In the distance metal clangs hard on metal, an eerie, otherworldly sound. Proof there is life out there somewhere. Proof that the two of us are not alone.

The man we’ve come to meet is Alexi Resel: a sailor, a Russian, a convict; a long-forgotten name that Tom plucked from an old appointment book. Daniel’s law firm is strictly legitimate. On occasion, it turns out, it’s not.

‘I don’t know about this, Claire. I don’t think this guy’s going to show. We don’t know who he is, we don’t know what he did, we’re not even sure how he knows your brother.’

We’ve been waiting here almost twenty minutes, but there’s no way I’m letting Michael make us leave. I’ll be a block of ice before he moves me. I’ll be the weeds that grow out of the asphalt blocks. Tom thinks this man has information that I need and besides, it’s already too late. I suspect that gaunt figure is him.

He approaches from the north of the ship yard: hands in deep pockets, head stuffed in hat, body stooped low against the wind. It’s hard to determine his age, difficult to say exactly where he came from. The harbour entrance is in the opposite direction, so I’m guessing he must have stepped off a boat. He is lopsided, slim and slow moving; his skin so raw and weather-beaten it looks like a strip of tree bark. He wears a polo neck, waterproofs and a heavy black coat, an outfit that swamps his narrow frame. None of this makes him look any less threatening, in some ways his weaselly shape makes things worse. It feels like he’s playing a trick on us, masking his strength with an elaborate ruse.

‘Thomas said you know Russian?’

This is the first thing he says to me. I try hard to smile; my facial muscles weak against the wind.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’

He nods. From now on we’ll speak only in Russian.

‘I’m not meant to say anything. To anyone. I don’t think I should have come.’

He says these things simply. They are facts. He doesn’t look anxious in the least.

‘Mr Resel, please, I’m his sister. I didn’t know where else to go for help. On the phone you told Tom you might help me. You said if I came in person you might help.’

Alexi sighs hard and spits. He has a pouch of tobacco lodged deep in his ravaged cheek that’s turned his saliva dark brown. He coughs and sniffs and gathers a thick glob of it between his lips. It spittoons from his mouth, high and with some speed, and lands shuddering on the dockside like the skin of a tiny chocolate custard. Michael is fascinated, disgusted, a little awed: all the more so because he can’t understand what we’re saying.

‘This is your husband? This man?’

‘No, not my husband. A friend.’

‘You trust this man? I can trust him?’

‘Yes, he’s OK. You can trust him.’

Alexi stares at Michael, so intently it makes Michael shrink.

‘I don’t think I can trust this man. I don’t think I have anything to say. I think you have journey for nothing.’

He turns up his collar and motions to leave, and against my better instincts I reach out and grab for his arm. I’m scared. I am. I don’t know where to begin with this man and it unnerves me. I have no point of understanding; no insight into his life. I try not to think too much, to
fret
too much. Translating his words will get me through it.

‘This is not something you should be involved with,’ he says, crossly, pushing my hand away. ‘This is not the place for you to be.’

Michael says ‘hey’ and steps forward; thinks better of it, and retreats.

‘I know that,’ I say. ‘But I’m lost here. I don’t know who else I can ask.’

‘If people find me talking to you, I am in trouble. Do you understand that, city girl? In your thick fur coat? Worried about your big rich brother.’

He speaks to me like I should be ashamed. I swallow hard and try again.

‘My brother helped you once, didn’t he? Tom said that he helped you in some way.’

‘Yes,’ he says, staring at me. ‘He saved my life.’

‘Maybe you could tell me about that?’ I say, gently.

‘Maybe you don’t want to know.’

It’s galling how little you can know a person. Unimaginable that my brother should know a man like this. Daniel so upright and proper and prim, friends with a man like Alexi Resel. Maybe friendship is pushing it too far. These are simply two men that came across one other. Alexi when he needed a lawyer, my brother pulled in to do a favour for a friend. Tom doesn’t even know the full story. All that he told me, all that he knows, is that Alexi was once accused of murder.

‘Tom says it wasn’t your fault…the man who died. He says that it was a shipping accident.’

‘You think so, city girl? Is that what you heard? How do you know it wasn’t my fault? When the winch flew out and cracked his skull in two, how do you know it was not on purpose? When his brains fell out onto the dock. When they shrank and puckered and cooked from the salt, perhaps I planned for this to happen to this man.’

‘Did you?’

He bristles hard and sneers at me.

‘Enough,’ he says. ‘Too many questions.’

I feel my heart thumping in the quiet. It beats hard and firm, in contrast to my breathing which seems erratic. Michael is shrinking further inside of himself. He can’t even bring himself to look at us. He wants us to go, but there’s no chance of it now. It would take one of those giant cranes to lift me. Alexi can sense this, I think. He knows he won’t shake me off easily.

‘Let’s just say your brother knew the truth,’ he says. ‘That he was a good man. That he kept me out of jail.’

‘He defended you?’

‘Not himself, no. He arranged it. And when I was free he helped get me transferred to another shipping line.’

‘You were innocent, then? You must have been. Daniel wouldn’t have helped you otherwise.’

‘Innocent?’ he shrugs. ‘What is innocence? It all depends from which side you are looking.’

I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Standing here in
this place, amid the jetties and the wharfs talking to a stranger about life and death. I feel like I’ve reached the start of some elaborate and dangerous trail. I’m wondering where on earth Daniel will take me next.

‘But the truth, since you ask,’ says Alexi, ‘this man that died, Kowlosjz, was a pig. I’m happy, in fact, that this man die. But it wasn’t my doing, and I swear this. It wasn’t my intention to kill him. Not that time.’

This last part ‘kill him’ he says in English and I sense he’s doing it just to scare Michael. It does the job. Michael jumps and lets out a small squeal.

‘Your friend is a coward.’ Alexi says.

‘No, not a coward. He’s just afraid.’

‘You’re not?’

I hesitate. I don’t feel that I can lie to this man.

‘I’m a little scared, yes.’

Alexi chews on his tobacco and makes another elaborate spit. This time the phlegm, as thick as treacle, lands menacingly close to Michael’s feet.

‘Your brother liked the stars,’ Alexi says, lifting his head skyward. ‘He liked to look at the planets.’

‘It’s a big universe out there,’ I say, looking upwards. ‘A person could easily get lost.’

‘Sometimes a person wants to stay lost. Perhaps it is better that way.’

‘Not for Daniel. He has a family. A wife and a child.’

Alexi pulls a hip flask from his pocket, unscrews the cap and takes a hit.

‘This waitress, the one Thomas mentioned. She told you people sometimes leave by ship?’

‘She said a person might be smuggled out, if they weren’t able to arrange a counterfeit passport. I thought you might know something about this. Tom said it was something…you had knowledge of.’

‘It happens, of course. But I couldn’t begin to say if this is what happened with your brother.’

He’s lying. The metre of his speech seems tight now and clipped, he’s using his words as a screen. When you work with foreign language every day of your life, you become exquisitely tuned to its rhythms.

‘Did you ever have a conversation with Daniel?’ I say, pressing him. ‘Did you ever talk about how a person might stow away?’

He shakes his head.

‘You really think it is better if he’s found?’ he says, sceptically. ‘Not for
you
, city girl, but for him?’

‘Yes, I believe that. Absolutely.’

He growls and lifts his flask to his lips again. Shuffles uneasily from side to side.

‘Then we may have talked about it once or twice,’ he says. ‘In relation to me, you understand, not to him. If a person were tempted to stow away, there is a tramp ship they call the
Grunhilde
. A person might think to try this.’

‘Where does it go to, this ship?’

‘Anywhere it’s needed. It doesn’t have a set routing, no permanent itinerary. This is what makes it useful to a person like Daniel. A tramp ship is like a scavenger, always on the move. Can pick up whatever needs relocating. Collect any cargo that is spare: loose grain, coal, mineral ores; sometimes, perhaps, even people.’

‘And where is it now, the
Grunhilde
? Could I talk to the captain? Would there be a way for me to do that?’

Alexi shrugs.

‘Who knows where she is? But you’re bright, city girl. You want it enough you’ll find out.’

He turns his head sharply and I think that’s going to be the end of it, but it seems he has one last thing to say.

‘City girl, just promise me one thing. If you should come across your brother, and he should want to stay lost, promise me now that you’ll leave him be.’

What can I do? In the circumstances, I have to say yes.