Candy (23 page)

“Wondering what?”

“If Candy’s your real name.”

She didn’t answer immediately, just gave me a funny look. For a moment I thought she was annoyed with me, but then, to my relief, her eyes lit up in sudden realization. “Oh,
right,
” she said. “I see what you mean. You thought that
Candy
might be a street-name?”

“Yeah, I suppose…”

She laughed quietly. “No…that’s one thing I
didn’t
have to change. Candy’s my real name—well, Candice, actually.”

“Candice?”

She nodded. “Apparently, it means ‘pure and virtuous.’”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She smiled. “What’s the matter? You think that’s funny?”

“No,” I grinned. “Not at all.”

She stood there smiling at me for a second, tearing a hole in my heart, and then she turned around with a wave of her hand and walked off into the bedroom.

It would be a long time before she smiled like that again.

I
t’s hard to relive the rest of the story. I know what
happened
—I can remember every moment. From the first troubled hours of that cold Saturday night, and the endless days that followed, to the deadening silence of the very last second, when everything came to an end…

I remember it all: every word, every breath, every tick of the clock…everything that happened is with me forever.

I can
never
forget it.

But that doesn’t mean I can
live
it again. You can’t live what’s gone, you can only remember it, and memories have no life. They’re just pale reminders of a time that’s gone—like faded photographs, or a dried-up daisy chain at the back of a drawer. They have no substance. They can’t take you back. Nothing can take you back.

Nothing can be the same as it was.

Nothing
is.

All I can do is tell it.

Saturday night, eight o’clock: I’d stocked up on logs and got the fire going, and now I was just lounging around on the sofa, munching biscuits and flipping through Candy’s dumb magazines. They weren’t that interesting—just lots of photographs of sweating celebrities, celebrities in bad clothes, drunk celebrities…that kind of thing—but they helped to pass the time.

Candy was still in the bedroom. I’d popped in a couple of times to make sure she was all right, and on both occasions she’d been asleep. The first time I went in, she was curled up like a baby on top of the bed. I thought about covering her up with a blanket or something, but she seemed OK and I didn’t want to wake her, so I just left her as she was. An hour later, when I checked on her again, she was in the bed with the duvet pulled up over her head. I stayed for a while, just to make sure she was breathing, then I tiptoed out and left her to sleep.

Now I was just waiting.

Passing the time.

Staring at pictures of famous people, emptying my head, listening to the wind in the trees outside, hearing it grow, hearing it howl, hearing it gust down the chimney and rattle the windows…

It sounded angry.

I wondered where it went when it died.

Eight-thirty: Candy came out of the bedroom and shuffled silently to the bathroom. She was still dressed, but barefoot. I was glad to see her shuffling. Shuffling meant no hurry; no hurry meant no drugs. After a couple of minutes, the bathroom door opened and she came over to the sofa and
stood beside me. She looked tired and worn-out. Her eyes were sleepy and her face was pale, but I was pretty sure she hadn’t taken anything. She just looked drained.

“How’s it going?” I asked her.

“Not great,” she replied. “I’m cold…shivery.” She hugged herself and scratched her arms. “Itchy.”

“Do you need anything?”

“What do
you
think?” she said miserably.

“Sorry…I meant did you need a drink or anything?”

“Got any vodka?”

“Uh…no…just tea and coffee. Or there’s hot chocolate—”

“No alcohol?”

“No…sorry.”

She sniffed hard and blinked her eyes. “How about a TV?”

“Yeah, there’s a black-and-white portable somewhere. Do you want me to set it up in the bedroom for you?”

“Yeah, I suppose…” She looked at me. “Sorry…I’m feeling like crap. I’ll take some aspirin and go back to bed.”

“I’ll bring the TV in—do you want your magazines?”

She didn’t answer, just shrugged and stared at the floor. Her hand was resting on the back of the sofa. I gave it a gentle squeeze, but she didn’t respond. Her skin felt cold and clammy.

“Go on,” I said. “Go back to bed.”

She lifted her gaze from the floor, nodded blankly at me, then went back into the bedroom.

Ten-thirty: I was tired and bored and lonely. I wanted to do something, but I didn’t know what. I knew there were a few old books around, and I’d seen Dad’s chess set earlier on, and I was pretty sure there was a dusty old radio
somewhere…but none of it appealed to me. I didn’t want to read. I didn’t want to play chess. I didn’t want to listen to the radio.

I glanced over at the bedroom door. TV light was flickering in the darkness, and I could hear the sound of a late-night film drifting faintly in the air. I listened hard, trying to guess what it was, but the volume was too low to make sense of anything.

Why don’t you join her in there?
I asked myself.
She won’t mind. You wouldn’t have to talk or anything; you could just sit there together, quietly watching the film…

I got up and went over to the window.

Outside, the night was still angry. Gusts of rain were peppering the glass like showers of spiteful needles, and the wind was still raging away at the trees, stripping their branches and casting the leaves into the air. The trees didn’t look too bothered, though. They’d seen it all before.

I closed the curtain and went back to the sofa.

She’s probably sleeping,
I thought.
The volume she’s got the TV on—that’s a sleeping volume. It’s the kind of volume that says: Do not disturb; please leave me alone.

I lay down on the sofa, closed my eyes, and listened to the wind.

Ten-forty-five: I was half-asleep when I heard Candy calling my name. I was half-dreaming that I was back in my room, sitting on my bed, playing my guitar…lost in time, lost in the music, lost in another world…and I thought for a moment the voice was Gina’s. But then I heard it again, more clearly this time, and I got to my feet and headed for the bedroom.

“Joe…” Candy called out again. “Joe? Where
are
you?”

“Sorry,” I said, stepping hurriedly through the door. “I didn’t hear you. What’s the matter? Are you all right?”

She was scrunched up in bed under a tangled sheet. Her body was drenched in sweat. The portable TV was balanced on the bed beside her, its cold white light flickering silently over her face. Her skin looked puffy and swollen.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I’m too hot…what time is it?”

“About eleven.”

“Shit…when’s this wind going to stop?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t like it—it’s too loud. I can’t get to sleep.”

She groaned and rolled over onto her side. The sheet came loose, and I saw that she’d changed into her nightgown. It was damp with sweat and rucked up around her legs.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked her.

She moaned into the pillow.

I said, “Do you want some water? It might cool you down.”

“Wanna sleep,” she muttered. “I just wanna sleep…”

I felt pretty useless, just standing there, not knowing what to do. I wanted to make things better, but I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know how to deal with my ignorance.
What should I do? Should I say anything else? Should I wait for Candy to say anything else? Should I stay…or should I go?

After thinking about it for a while, I left the bedroom and went back into the front room. I checked the fire, made sure the cottage was locked up, then grabbed all the cushions off the sofa, fetched some blankets from the
airing cupboard, and went back into the bedroom. Candy had buried her head under the pillow and was moaning quietly. She kept kicking her feet, trying to untangle the knotted sheet, but all she was doing was making it worse.

I tried not to make any noise as I placed the cushions on the floor next to the open door. I wasn’t trying to
hide
my presence, I just didn’t want to advertise it. I sat down and took off my shoes, then lay down on the cushions, pulled up the blankets, and tried to get comfortable. It took me a while, but I finally got myself into a position that wasn’t too lumpy or cold but still gave me a reasonable view of the bed.

It was a good enough place to be.

I could see Candy.

I could hear the wind in the trees.

I could close my eyes and feel the movements of the night rippling through my spine. I could listen to the sound of my heart, the sound of my blood, the sound of the machine beneath my skin. I could open my eyes and stare at the TV lights strobing on the ceiling, imagining the flashes of a storm-lit sky. Or I could just lie there, perfectly still, doing absolutely nothing.

The night passes slowly when you’re awake. I think I dozed off once or twice, but most of the time I just lay there listening to Candy as she tossed and turned and whimpered and cried. She couldn’t keep still for a second. She was either too hot or too cold. She was sweating…then shivering. Sweating…shivering. Hugging herself. Bashing the pillow. Swearing…cursing…shouting…screaming…spitting…coughing…sniffing…sobbing…

Suffering.

It wasn’t pretty.

Sometime in the early morning, around four o’clock, she groaned and sat up and started getting out of bed. Every little movement seemed to fill her with pain. Her hair was all knotted and her face had aged—she looked like a crazy old woman. As she rolled out of bed and staggered toward the door, clutching her belly, I could hear her muttering under her breath.

“Shit…Christ…shit…”

“Do you need a hand?” I asked quietly.

“Uh?” she grunted, squinting down at me through her bleary eyes. “What’s that…?”

“It’s me…Joe,” I said, sitting up. “Do you need any help?”

“I need a shit,” she said blankly.

Her face was drained. There was nothing there—no recognition, no awareness, no self. Her eyes were cold and empty. She stared right through me for a moment or two, then wiped her nose with the back of her hand and stumbled off to the bathroom.

Over the next few hours she was in and out of bed like a yo-yo. She must have gone to the bathroom at least half a dozen times before she finally managed to settle down and drift off into a restless sleep. Dawn was beginning to break by then, and as the gray light of morning crept across the yawning sky, I knew that sleep was beyond me.

I slipped out of the bedroom and made some coffee, then went out onto the veranda and watched the sun rise over the woods.

Sunday morning, nine o’clock: I was in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, and Candy was crying.

“It hurts, Joe,” she sobbed. “I’m so cold…everything hurts. I can’t
stand
it…I
need
something…please…”

I gave her some aspirin. She popped them in her mouth, took a drink of water, then suddenly started retching. I didn’t know what to do. She was doubled up in pain, clutching her stomach, choking and spluttering, her eyes and nose streaming with moisture…

All I could do was sit there and watch.

“Oh God…” she cried, “oh God, oh God, oh God…”

This went on for some time—retching, crying, shivering, sobbing—and I did my best to comfort her. I gave her more blankets. I put a bowl by the bed so she wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom every time she was sick. I kept her supplied with tissues and water…

I nursed her, basically.

I’m not sure it helped her that much, but at least it gave me something to do, which was a lot better than sitting around feeling scared to death.

Midday: I was starting to feel the lack of sleep now. My chest was tight, my eyes were sticky, and I kept forgetting stupid little things. I’d fill the kettle, then forget to turn it on…or I’d open a cupboard, then forget what I was looking for. I kept drinking coffee to wake myself up, but all it did was rattle my brains.

One o’clock: I made some tea and toast and took it into the bedroom. Candy was sitting up in bed smoking a
cigarette. Her face was almost white and her eyes looked unnaturally big.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“Great,” she said. “My skin’s on fire, my head’s throbbing, my belly hurts…I can’t keep still…I can’t move…” She sucked on her cigarette and stared at me. “I feel great.”

“Do you want some toast?”

“No…I want to feel better.”

“How about some chocolate?”

She didn’t answer, just glared at me. I put the tea and toast on the bedside cabinet, then looked around for the stuff she’d bought from the petrol station. I found the plastic bag on the floor, picked it up, and placed it on the bed. Candy said nothing. Her eyes had hardened and she was staring at me with the nastiness of a vicious child. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I
couldn’t
deal with it.

“I’m going out for a breath of fresh air,” I told her. “I’ll only be out the front, so if you need me, just shout—OK?”

She still didn’t say anything, and as I turned around and left the bedroom I could feel her eyes burning into my back.

Outside, the wind had dropped and the day was bright and cold. I walked across to the edge of the clearing and sat down on the ground beside a bare oak tree. Years ago, the tree had been struck by lightning. Its trunk was scarred and black and its roots jutted up through the leaf litter like the half-buried limbs of giants. I sat back and closed my eyes. The air was thick with the smell of the woods. As I sat there, breathing deeply, I could almost taste the tang of rotting leaves and wind-freshened grass, and I only wished
it would clear the stink of confusion out of my head. But I knew it couldn’t. There wasn’t enough fresh air in the world for that.

I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, flipped it open, and thumbed the speed-dial number for home. There was no answer. I tried Gina’s cell phone, but it was switched off. I thought about ringing Mike, but for some reason I didn’t feel like talking to him, so—for want of anything better—I called home again and checked the answering machine.

There were two messages—both of them silent. The caller had waited for the beep, kept quiet for a few moments, then hung up.

I didn’t like it.

It bothered me.

Forget it,
I told myself.
It’s probably just Dad, checking up on you.

No,
I thought,
he wouldn’t ring without leaving a message.

All right, then…how about Jason? It could have been Jason
—

No chance. He’s already called twice and been blanked. He’s too vain to risk it again, isn’t he?

So it’s a mistake, then…a wrong number, that’s all. Someone rang the wrong number and didn’t know what to say…

Yeah? So how come they called twice?

I didn’t know the answer to that.