Thorn in the Flesh (6 page)

These were the items the case always contained. In addition, the days and seasons brought a selection of fresher objects, more subject to change. The cream cheese and lettuce bagel Mrs Dickinson made for him on a Monday morning when she had the time; his weekly copy of The Times Higher, often scanned but never read; a pair of blue woollen mittens and matching scarf in winter; and a small bottle of Malvern Original still water in summer. If now Kate dared to lean into the briefcase’s professorial world and breathe in its secrets, she was sure the first thing she would notice would be the smell of kindness.

‘Kate?’

Without her realising it, the professor had already started to talk.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of something else.’

‘Of course, of course. Do take a seat.’ He waved his hand at the assortment of chairs in the corner and Kate chose the one that looked the cleanest. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. As I’ve said already. We’ve missed your sense, your abilities. I’m most terribly sorry about what has happened, we all are, and I don’t have the words to try and help, and I don’t even know where to start, but please remember that if there’s anything I can do or which anyone else can help you with, you must ask me.’

Kate felt her face redden and, unable to express her thanks in words, simply nodded. For the next few minutes, he filled her in briefly on what had been happening at the department: examinations; marking; preparation; a flurry of meetings; all the usual cornucopia of the university reaching the end of its academic year. She asked about the cover arrangements for her particular students and was reassured by her colleague that all had gone well, though of course the students would be delighted to see her again before the semester ended. Kate felt herself wrapped in professional concern as if she’d slipped on a long coat for a cold night.

It was only when she’d returned to her own office, to prepare for her first seminar, that with trembling fingers she opened the letter and read its contents.

A quarter of an hour later, while she warmed her hands on the second mug of a hot, sweet tea she normally would have hated, her students began to arrive.

They drifted in like shy foxes, almost seeming to apologise for their presence, though they had every right to attend what should have been a regular weekly seminar. None of them held her gaze for long and she wondered why the attack on her should mean a barrier was built up where before there had been none. Was it on their part or hers? It was impossible to tell. And not fair on her students to expect them to deal with it either. They were too young.

It was up to her.

Asking what they’d thought about the exams brought a welcome focus to the meeting and she tried to concentrate all her thoughts on their mixed reaction of confidence and trepidation. It was strange how their words, slow at first and then more free-flowing, were drifting in and out of her consciousness and how their faces were floating near and then far away. What was happening to her? She shook her head and tried to smile and listen, but even then what she was hearing had no logic to it.

Looking round the group, trying to catch the meaning of what she was being told and knowing how important it was, she realised nobody was talking now. They were silent, expectant, as if one of them – which one? – had asked a question only she could answer.

She didn’t know what it had been. She couldn’t tell them anything. She’d let them down for the exams and now there was nothing she could give them. She was a fraud, a failure. What was she doing here?

‘Sorry? What did you say?’ she heard a voice, whispering, weak, drift out into the room’s strange emptiness and could hardly recognise it as her own. ‘I didn’t understand it.’

‘It’s just …’

Kate turned to look at whoever had spoken. The movement seemed to take a long time and the weight on her shoulders felt as if she was being pressed down into the floor beneath. The young girl – Sal, she remembered, one of her brightest students – blushed beneath her unruly dark hair.

‘Yes?’ Kate said. ‘It’s just … what?’

‘It’s just … well, we’re so sorry. We’re sorry about what’s happened, but we’re glad you’re back, you know.’

Sal trailed away, glanced at Kate and then glanced away again. Even as Kate acknowledged how much courage it must have taken her to say that, she felt her hands grow cold and an icy sweat broke out on her skin.

‘Thank you, but I must …’ she said, springing up. ‘I must … I’m sorry.’

And then she was pushing through them, aware of startled expressions, looks of concern, and the sound of her own shoes fleeing across the thin carpet away from the prison of her office and her responsibilities.

When she came to Andrew’s door, it was open and he was on the phone, his back to her. She tried to speak but no words came out. At least none that could be understood. Still she must have made a sound of some description or a sixth sense had told him she was there as he glanced round, one eyebrow raised. She gestured with her hands, for what purpose she couldn’t tell, then lifted her fingers to her face which felt wet, though she hadn’t been aware of crying.

To his credit, he said nothing. As Kate stood trembling on the threshold, he got up, dropped the phone back onto its stand, waved her towards his chair and handed her a half-empty box of tissues. When she refused his offer of a drink of any variety, he shut the door, sat down opposite her and waited.

‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ she said when she was able to. ‘I think I was wrong. I’m not ready for this. Not yet. I think I need to get away.’

He reached forward, patting her hand once before leaning back again. ‘Kate, if you feel that’s the best way, then, yes, that is what you must do. Of course, you’ll have my full support. Where will you go?’

When she opened her mouth to reply, to say:
no that’s not what I mean, I don’t want to go anywhere, I just meant get away from here
, that was when everything changed.

Why not, she thought? My house, the town I live in, even my workplace no longer make me feel at ease. Perhaps I need to go somewhere where nobody knows anything about me or what has happened. Perhaps then I will know what to do.

Her gaze drifted past the professor’s shoulder. Behind him, an old poster clung to the wall, one corner peeling away. On it was displayed a horse and carriage caught in swift movement passing a canal which gleamed in the sun. The woman in the carriage was laughing, blonde hair swept back by the breeze. She looked happy, free.

Kate smiled.

‘Bruges,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to Bruges.’

Two hours later, a leave of absence agreed and new arrangements made, Kate found herself in her bedroom, reaching to the top of her wardrobe for her case. It was only when she’d packed and the Eurostar seat had been booked that she allowed herself to remember the contents of this morning’s letter.

Don’t think you can feel safe at work
, it had read.
Wherever you are, I’ll get you.

Chapter Eight

At Waterloo, the sweat and noise of the crowds on the Eurostar concourse so overwhelmed Kate that she almost turned back. But a grim determination not to fall away from the path she wanted to take propelled her through the check-in area, down the long line of waiting passengers and at last onto the platform where uniformed officials stood ready to direct the travellers into the correct seats. She thought too that amongst the mass of people around her was a sense of anonymity she could grasp and wear like a favourite item of clothing.

The train itself – spurred on by Nicky’s encouragement, she’d taken the precaution of booking first class – was cool, quiet and relatively empty, at least in her carriage. A welcome contrast to the jagged noise of the station she was about to leave behind. For the first time, Kate felt as if she might learn to survive this, as if a part of her mind was turning away from the prison of memory and out beyond it, to somewhere she couldn’t yet see but which might one day be reachable.

Shaking her head, she smiled inwardly. Getting away like this, before the end of semester, might have been the right decision, but she couldn’t afford to succumb to sloppy thinking. Not now and not ever.

For most of the journey, she slept in a way she hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks. Neither in her house nor at Nicky’s. It was as if only here in the constant rocking movement of the train could she slip the bonds which tied her unwillingly to the memory of the attack. She wondered if the return journey would find her taking those bonds up again and forced her thoughts away from that direction; enough for the moment to take what came and give herself time out of her own life for a while. Yes, what she was doing was avoidance. Nothing more and nothing less. And why not? Only a few days from now, an important decision would have to be taken about the phone call she hadn’t yet made. But here, today, she was safe.

At Brussels, she missed the connecting train to Bruges by five minutes and drank a scalding coffee in a small café in the station. Three times she was approached by Arabic women, one of them with a child in tow, begging for money. She gave to the first but shook her head for the next two. Her supply of euros was limited. Arriving in Bruges in the late afternoon, she decided against walking to the hotel and took a taxi which sped through the cobbled streets of the old town, passing couples and families in horse-drawn carriages, and numerous bicycles carrying both old and young. It must be the best way of getting around for locals, she thought, and tourists too, if hiring was available.

Her home for the next four nights, over the Bank Holiday weekend, was the Hotel de Castillion, next door to the Cathedral. When her driver deposited her and her luggage at the entrance to the courtyard, she was met by a young, dark-haired woman who waved her hands, saying something in Flemish before smiling and switching to English.

‘English, madame? Yes? I am so sorry, I have to run over the road to see the other receptionist, our sister hotel, yes? I will be with you in only a few moments.’

In the foyer, the dark leather sofas were an elegant match for the polished wooden welcome desk, and the mirrors behind them made the area seem larger than it really was. Kate took a handful of leaflets from the brochure stand, sat down on the sofa and glanced through them as she waited. She discarded the bicycle hiring company – though it did answer her earlier question – and the Chocolate Factory advertisement, but slipped the museum and gallery information, as well as the Cathedral organ recital flyer, scheduled for Saturday, into her handbag. That might be something she would enjoy.

When the receptionist returned ten minutes later, it didn’t take long for Kate to be installed in her small ensuite room with yet another wall-length mirror giving a sheen of elegance to her surroundings. After unpacking, she decided on an early evening stroll followed by a late supper at the hotel. She needed to see if she could be alone. There would be time enough to eat out during the few days she had here.

Outside, after she’d made her way through the more tourist-orientated parts of the town with its accompanying rich smell of chocolate and horses, it was the architecture that drew her eye. The roofs of most of the tall, thin houses were castellated to a point, which gave the streets a magical air, as if in stepping out of her hotel Kate had been transported to a mysterious land somewhere out of time. Perhaps that was what she needed. To be out of time. She almost expected Rapunzel to lean out of one of the high-up windows and to let fall her long hank of hair to the water beneath.

It was strange too how subtle the canals were. Not like Venice where the difference was shouted aloud like a street vendor’s sales talk. Here in Bruges the water flowed softly, almost unnoticed through the streets, only coming alive when Kate crossed over a bridge or stood leaning on the railings to gaze at the bank on the other side. The water made her feel peaceful, as if she were being protected by silk, interwoven in the plainer cotton of the town.

On the way back to the hotel, she turned a corner of a quiet street and there in the centre of the road, a young couple were kissing. Not passionately, but with affection. The boy – for he was no more than a boy – took a half-step forward, his dark hair a contrast to the milky-coloured hair of the girl, and as he did so the bicycle he was clutching fell to the ground with a clatter. The girl sprang away, eyes dancing, and laughed before leaning down and retrieving the bicycle. As she handed it back to her beloved, now grinning and shrugging, her glance met Kate’s and she smiled before wrapping her arm round the young man and walking out of sight. To her surprise, Kate found herself smiling too, encased in the unexpected bubble of joy that had sprung into life at the incident.

It’s worth it, she thought. Whatever happens after this, it’s worth it for the small moments, wherever you can find them.

***

The next day, a Friday, was the hottest so far of the year, both here and, according to the morning’s English language news broadcast, back in the UK. Kate dressed in a skirt and thin cotton blouse and, because of the legacy from her red hair, applied her sunscreen liberally. She’d decided on a day of leisurely sightseeing. Just like a normal person, just like someone who hadn’t been attacked and nearly killed. Today, she promised herself, she would be open to the moment, as she had been yesterday evening. Going back to work had proved she was weaker than she had imagined and so, from somewhere, she had to find new strength. Nicky had suggested counselling, which was one solution, but Kate knew she had been right to reject the idea. She would have to find another way.

Sightseeing in Bruges couldn’t help but include the churches. From the moment Kate stepped into the wall of warming air outside the hotel, she was indeed summoned by bells. In tunes. She recognised Beethoven’s Ode to Joy and, later, the Toreador’s Song from Carmen, but was unable to place the others.

The first church she slipped into, St Anne’s, was an exercise in Roman splendour: golden candlesticks nearly her own height and ornately carved chandeliers. She saw genuine worshippers here also, a fact which made Kate want to turn back, but she found the determination to stride past the bevy of old women in scarves and brown skirts and sit down to admire history. Closing her eyes and breathing in the recent echo of incense, Kate found herself wondering how it would be to take part in a service here when she knew so little of the tradition. Her own forebears were Calvinist, though neither of her parents had ever been serious about their faith. Neither, in truth, was she.

At lunch, she wondered if she could perhaps become a different person, if she could open up in the warmth of the air and the wide blue skies in a way it was impossible to do at home. Or perhaps she could work towards becoming more nearly herself, whatever that might be. It was something she thought she’d left behind by choice a long time ago but, since the attack, and for whatever reason, the barrier between who she was now and who she’d been once was growing thinner, more fragile. A barrier not even Nicky was allowed to walk through. What would she do if – when – it crumbled?

Later, she wandered on through the cobbled streets, basking in the sunshine. At the Church of the Holy Blood, she hesitated and then turned through the doorway, walking up the winding stairs past a long line of colourful posters she didn’t stop to read. A notice on the table inside told her that the veneration of the holy blood would take place today at 2.30pm and she was welcome to stay if she wished. She raised her eyebrows. She’d never attended such a ceremony before. It would be something to tell Nicky.

The area she found herself in wasn’t as decorative or as large as she’d expected though she could see the requisite main altar and side altars, and the smell of incense lingered in the air. The side altar was set at right angles to the main body of the church and a series of steps led up to its long table from three sides. In front, several rows of chairs completed the impression of a small but significant theatre.

Kate sat down to wait. Her guidebook told her the church had been named after a small sample of Christ’s blood which had been saved from the cross and carried through many years and journeys, eventually arriving in Bruges, where it had remained. Apparently, on occasion, the dried blood liquefied again for no known reason, but this had not happened for many years. She smiled. How could anyone believe such a story? Still, she would stay and see what happened. There could be no hypocrisy in that.

Over the tannoy system, announcements were made about the service in a variety of languages, and people began to drift in and take their places, scattered like stones over the body of the church. At 2.30pm, the sound of a bell heralded the arrival of a priest in white robes holding a slender gold and silver tube on an embroidered cloth. He placed it onto a small cushion as if the least knock might shatter it and proceeded to pray, again in various languages. Despite herself, Kate began to pay more attention. She watched as one by one people drifted across the staging, stood for a moment in front of the priest with their hands laid across the artefact, heads bowed, before picking up a card or receiving a blessing and moving on. Even though she didn’t believe, she still found unexpected tears pricking the backs of her eyes. Perhaps it didn’t matter whether the blood on the cushion was real or not; perhaps what made it count was faith. Of which she had none, or not enough to join them, but still it moved her.

Towards the middle of the afternoon, she found herself at the Groeningen Museum. From Nicky, she knew the collection, although small, was well worth viewing and she should particularly not miss Bosch’s Last Judgement in the first room. At the time she’d said nothing to her friend, but this picture was one she didn’t want to see. To avoid the decision, she turned away from the smattering of art tourists following the requested chronology and began her viewing in the last, more modern rooms. Even this slight disobedience to a subtle instruction made her check to see if anyone had noticed, but nobody had. So, with a shake of the shoulders and a reminder to herself that she was an adult, not a child, after all, she carried on.

She enjoyed the modern art more than she’d anticipated. There was something liberating about the pieces on display, even if she didn’t understand them, something that invited her to step for a while out of her preconceptions and try another way of seeing. For the first time in many weeks she felt herself relax. The piece which made her laugh out loud was the one she’d thought she’d hate; an installation of two mirrors on opposing walls framed by dried plants and flowers. When she gazed into them, Kate could see herself on all sides surrounded by nature and the impression of a garden. Leaning closer, she was sure she could catch the hint of herbs and roses, but wondered if it was simply because she wanted to believe it. Much like the worshippers at the Church of the Holy Blood.

At last she found herself back in the first exhibition room. She’d come full circle and the Bosch painting was still waiting for her, centrally displayed on the far wall. Heart beating fast, she turned away, pretending to wander round the other exhibits, although she saw none of them.

Finally, telling herself she wasn’t going to be beaten by canvas or paint, she swung round in slow deliberation and strode over to take in what Nicky had been so rapturous about.

It didn’t make her feel the way she had expected.

She gazed at the small twisted figures going down into hell on the right, their strange shapes, the combinations of man and animal, lust and despair, the artist’s dark vision of things to come. Then she looked at the contrasting picture of heaven on the top left, its surroundings bathed in paint’s representation of light but their wild confusion somehow the same as the damned. She’d thought the expressions on the faces of the people and beasts might mimic her own confusion over the attack – no, call it what it was, the rape – and what had happened during and after it. She’d imagined, after Nicky’s enthusiastic description of the work, that she’d feel beaten, bitter or sick. Instead she felt only compassion. For herself and for people in general, with all their striving, hope, despair, for the things they could change and the things they could not. When she felt something on her face and raised her hand to brush it off, her fingers came away wet and she half-smiled at her own weakness.

She would tell Nicky how much she’d enjoyed her recommendation, but not how it had moved her. Not yet.

After supper, which Kate took at another of the main square cafés, she wandered down to a lake and sat watching the swans for a while, before making her way back to the hotel via the newly-built concert hall. It was just after 10pm and crowds of smartly-dressed concert-goers were milling in the courtyard, talking, laughing, heading to the nearby cafés. Kate regretted she hadn’t realised there had been a performance tonight. If she’d thought to ask, she might have enjoyed it. Still, it had been good to be alone; it hadn’t been as bad as she’d feared. Even now, she acknowledged the romance of the place, and how it awoke no vibes in her. Perhaps now it never would. If that was the case, it didn’t strike her as a loss to grieve over and she would have to live with the legacy. She had no choice.