Frozen (25 page)

He was looking at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and sorrow. “Are we friends again, Harry?”

I thought about it for a beat or two. Then I nodded fuzzily. “Sort of.” I buried my face in my pint.

We sat relishing the low sunshine, the leggy women in short skirts at a neighbouring table, the distant buzz of traffic, the barges trudging up the river.

“What do I do, Harry? What can I do?” Adam said wretchedly.

“I think you should get out of there.”

Adam looked puzzled.

“She's dangerous,” I pointed out.

A barge's horn blared out across the river, and then the boat emerged from the bridge's arches, shoving a hump of foaming water ahead of it. The growl of its motor was eerily close across the flat water.

Adam gazed at it as he spoke. “Do you know what she did last Monday, Harry? She cut out the crotch of every pair of trousers in my wardrobe. She didn't even tell me. I only found out the next morning when I went to put some on. When I confronted her, she didn't say anything, she just went and got the scissors and started on my shirts. I got out, sharpish. I thought she'd stab me with the bloody things if I stayed.”

“Stay at mine,” I offered, hoping he would refuse. I wasn't remotely ready for him to do that. In fact, I was still uncertain how far we could rebuild our friendship, but Adam was in desperate circumstances. I would have made the same offer to anyone in trouble—at least, that's what I told myself.

Adam hunched helplessly, watching the shifting pattern of oily water where the barge had been. “If I leave her, it's all over. She'll change the locks, hire thugs to keep me away, take out an exclusion order. Seriously, Harry. She'll run me down in the car or something. All I can do is stay there, prove that I love her by sticking with her. Maybe she'll come round.”

“Or maybe she'll kill you.”

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Another barge. Its wake rippled outwards and licked at the grey mud at the base of the river wall.

“It wasn't Karel who broke in, Ads,” I said eventually.

“Huh?”

“Verity's flat. Karel didn't do it. He sold the key to someone.”

Adam snorted out half a mouthful of beer. “
Sold
it?”

I told him about my visit to Karel, and the man in the beige Ford.

“Any idea who?” he asked. “Doesn't sound much like a burglar, though, does it, buying a key? What's the point? They'd just break in, surely. Sounds more like one of those private-eye types. They've got a thing about brown cars. I ought to know, Sarah hired enough of the buggers.” He rolled his eyes up to the sky, and banged his head softly on the edge of the table, one, two, three. “What am I doing, Harry? She's killing me, I swear.” He slumped pathetically, his head on the table.

And while I watched him, a thought crawled slowly across my befuddled brain—something to do with hiring private eyes, and Sarah's casual pleasure when I told her of Verity's fall, and
You realise you're really angry
...

My mouth slackened, and my eyes glazed. Belatedly, because my brain and body weren't as well connected as they should have been, I jerked bolt upright. Suddenly, though, I felt very sober indeed. “Adam?”

He looked up at me, straightened himself uncertainly. “What?”

I picked my way through the words carefully. “Where was Sarah the day Verity fell?”

He stared at me. His mouth drooped slowly into an ill-concealed gape. “She—where—” He blinked hard. “She was—I don't—you're not thinking—” His eyes widened. “I have no idea where she was,” he said faintly.

I pictured Sarah as I had last seen her—eyes calm, voice tightly controlled, crushing shards of china underfoot, smears of blood across her perfect terracotta floor.

Adam, mouth open, must have been having similar visions. “Oh, fuck,” he said. “Harry, what are we going to do?”

I gazed back at him. I had no answers at all.

TIME PASSES.

Even when each second is an intolerable thud of desperation, tension, anticipation… even then, time passes.

Adam had promised he would talk with Sarah the next morning. We agreed that we couldn't gauge what to do next until we knew her reaction. Adam swore that, although he had kept in touch with Verity, the last time he had spoken to her was two weeks before she fell. That meant the calls that Verity had made to his house had to have been to Sarah—and some of them had lasted half an hour or longer. What had they said to each other? What had Sarah threatened? Where had she been that day? If Sarah frightened Adam, I didn't want to think what she might have been capable of doing to Verity.

I waited. Adam didn't call.

I saw Sam, but not often and not for long. We met, shared coffee, and then went our ways. One night, two days after seeing Adam, we made love—or tried to. I couldn't forget myself enough even to kiss her properly, let alone keep an erection. After ten agonising minutes, we flopped apart awkwardly and stared at the ceiling. Shortly after, I kissed her cheek absently, and then left.

Time passes, whether you want it to or not. And hopes and fears eat at you. You imagine things. Doubts itch at your mind. You long for something to happen.

And on the third day, something did. My mother rang and told me that, the day before, Gabriel had killed himself.

*

There was no reply from Adam. Rita thought he must be in court; his chambers thought he must be at the town hall. His mobile went unanswered. I didn't have the energy to worry about him. I was too panicked and frustrated.

Gabriel had killed himself. Shock is a confusing state. I was bewildered. Gabriel, dead. Suicide.

I rang Sam. I think I cried on the phone. I just wanted it all to stop. I wanted the world to go away, I wanted nothing to happen, I wanted peace. I also wanted someone there. Sam came over; I didn't even have to ask. She made coffee, persuaded me to sit down and stop pacing the flat. She covered my hand with hers, and said, “Tell me.”

So I told her. She said nothing, just watched me patiently.

I even told her about my half-confrontation with Gabriel, the disturbing suspicions it had left me with: childhood trauma... a pale face watching, half-hidden behind a curtain... Verity, nervous: “Why should I trust you?” And it was only then, hearing myself talk, with the thoughts and horrors tumbling out of me, and with Sam staring wisely at me over her coffee, that I began to see a new shape in the jumbled scraps of what I knew.

There would never be proof, not now. Verity could never tell. I jumped up and started pacing again, ignoring Sam. Because, proof or not, it all connected, it made sense, and to contemplate it was agony.

“I need to see someone,” I snapped. “Sorry.”

“Harry?” Sam's expression was somewhere between patience and confusion. As I left, I shook my head at her. I didn't want to explain myself. I was thinking about proof.

*

I came to my senses before I had even reached Kate Fullerton's address. I rang Sam on her mobile to apologise. There was no answer. I mumbled my apology—unconvincingly, I suspect—explained where I was going and why, and rang off.

I pressed the bell outside Kate's flat. After twenty seconds with no answer, I pressed it again, a long, sustained buzz. Her voice answered tinnily.

“It's Harry Waddell,” I called, fighting the traffic roar. “Verity Hadley's friend. I need to see you.”

There was a long pause before she answered. “Harry, I've got clients all day.”

“It's urgent.”

Another pause. Then, curtly: “Wait in the hall.” The door-release buzzed harshly, and I pushed in.

When I reached her floor, her door was locked. I waited five minutes before impatience got the better of me, and I knocked. There was no reply, so I knocked again. The door ripped open almost immediately. Kate's eyes were like razors. “Either you wait there without knocking, Harry, or I refuse to talk to you at all.
Grow up
.” She hissed the words, and then snapped the door closed again. I watched it until I was certain it wasn't going to open; then I slumped down and squatted against a wall to wait.

It was twenty minutes before a gathering buzz of conversation roused me. The door opened, and a man ushered himself out, calling, “Thanks” back into the flat in a disconcertingly cheerful tone. He winked at me as he passed. Kate favoured me with a sour glare, and led the way to the sitting room.

“You've got five minutes, Harry,” she said sternly. “My next client is due.”

I plunged straight in. “Gabriel's dead. Verity's father. Killed himself.”

Kate raised an eyebrow.

I nodded eagerly. “I saw him the other day. Told him Verity had been seeing you, about having traumas as a child. And he went so quiet. It was scary, really it was. And now he's killed himself and—”

I was aware that I was gabbling, and I didn't care. It was all so horrifying, so obviously
true
.

Gabriel had been abusing her... maybe... perhaps. Probably. It was a notion, not a certainty—talking to Kate was the only way I would ever find out. But, as I babbled on, it all seemed to gel. As I spoke, my questions were replaced by certainties. It all made such perfect sense.

“Harry,
calm
! Sit down.”

I did so, fidgeting. Kate sighed heavily. She let the silence grow, then continued in a low voice that I found rather intimidating. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous this little fantasy of yours is, Harry? And how destructive? I'm surprised that young lady you were with before let you go so far off the rails. She seemed quite sensible.”

“Sam. Didn't tell her,” I muttered sullenly. I felt like a schoolboy again, but I still thought I was right—at least, until she spoke again.

Her face was white, her jaw set tight. Belatedly, I saw that she wasn't playing the schoolmistress, she was genuinely angry. “I'm about to break one of the most cardinal rules of my profession now, Harry. I'm going to break client confidentiality. Thanks to your...” She struggled to find a word with enough venom, and then spat it at me. “...
Absurd
concoctions, I suspect that telling you more is the only way to limit the damage. So I'll tell you.”

She hunched forwards in her chair. Her eyes were like dark dewy marble, strangely mild, but her stare was piercing. “We explored the possibility that Verity was abused, Harry. We were still exploring it. Verity was a fragile soul, and her love life left a lot to be desired. As I said last time, she was self-destructive. And, yes, those can, rarely, be signs of an abusive past. We had only just started on the hypnotherapy and regression work, but it was immediately obvious that if she had been abused, her father most certainly had nothing to do with it. She trusted him absolutely. She ran to him if she needed comfort. He went to extraordinary lengths to make sure she was happy and secure after her mum died. I'm not saying he was perfect. I think he was probably over-protective, but that's understandable. He smacked her if she stepped out of line, but this was twenty years ago, and people did smack their children. There were no dominance games going on, though. There was no hint that he was getting any gratification out of it.

“Children can construct extraordinarily vicious fantasies about their parents, Harry. Verity was no exception. She certainly resented the control he exerted over her, but there was no fear or guilt in it. I never detected the slightest sign that Verity dreaded punishment particularly, or felt dirtied by him in any way. Punishment for her was the usual mixture of outrage and inconvenience.”

Kate shot me one last stare. “There's no sign that Gabriel abused Verity, Harry. And the reason that there's no sign is because he didn't.”

I bit my lip, picked at my fingers, shifted uneasily. There was no uncertainty in Kate's tone, no room for doubt.

“And before you start feeling sorry for yourself, or claiming that he killed himself because you mentioned childhood traumas,” she said tartly, “give the poor man some credit. I'm sure he was furious with you, but that wouldn't make him kill himself, not after he'd survived his wife's death and Verity's fall. He was a man with great purpose—and that purpose was Verity. I'd bet any amount that what killed Gabriel was, effectively, grief. He loved her, Harry. She was everything.”

The doorbell rang. She stood, and waited for me to do likewise. “Time's up, Harry.”

She didn't bother picking up the door-phone to find out who it was, just pressed the release button. The machine buzzed, then clicked.

She studied me, lips pursed. “I'm going to give you some advice, Harry—although I doubt you'll take it.”

She gathered her thoughts for a few moments before continuing. “You want a reason for Verity's fall that you can live with. You don't care if it's outlandish, implausible, downright impossible, as long as it doesn't involve
you
. She knew you loved her, Harry. And I think she really wanted to respond to that, but she had no idea how to. I was as surprised as you to learn that she had tried to kill herself, but it's no surprise at all to me to know that she was in pain—and I don't think that surprises you either.”

She opened the front door for me. As I passed, she put a hand on my arm. “This
does
involve you, Harry. It involves everyone she cared for and everyone she loved. So my advice is, accept it. Accept that she was who she was. Accept what you feel. Make your peace—and move on.”

Further down the corridor, I heard the lift doors open. A man shuffled past me self-consciously, muttering, “Good afternoon,” as though it was embarrassing to admit that it might be. He disappeared towards Kate's kitchen.

She gazed at me a few moments longer, a watery, bleak stare. “Move on, Harry.” Then she closed the door on me.

*

Two days later, we went to Gabriel's funeral—Sam and I. I'd rung and grovelled and assured her that, however confused I might be, she was still important to me, and that I was sorry. She was reluctant, but she came.

I tried Adam as well. No reply. Rita had no idea where he was, and sounded annoyed about it; he had already missed several important meetings. Given his various misdemeanours, I couldn't be bothered to get too worked up about this. All I felt was irritation and a faint worry.

On the way up, I told Sam about my visit to Kate—not the bit about Verity's hopes and fears, just the bits about Gabriel. Sam was miles away, though, cloud-spotting, perhaps, or hypnotised by the blur of trees and traffic. She was remote; I couldn't reach her. I wasn't sure how hard I wanted to try.

“I could've told you about Gabriel,” she said colourlessly. “Those two clung to each other like limpets. If she was down, guess where she ran?”

It was true, of course. Verity had always spent weekends with Gabriel whenever life in London was tough, and I knew it. I had known it even while I was convincing myself that Gabriel had done terrible things to her. Verity had loved and trusted Gabriel absolutely. They shared something no one else could ever have touched.

I know now what made me accuse Gabriel. I'm not proud of it, but I do at least understand. He was her protector; I was not. She trusted him, and she ran to him, not me.
She doesn't want to see you, Harry
.

I reached over and stroked Sam's leg, wanting reassurance, the comfort of a familiar touch. She didn't respond.

*

We laid earth on his grave. There were eleven of us: Mum, Sam, me, the vicar, and a handful of villagers who had turned out to make up the numbers.

It was quiet. Even the breeze moved delicately, as though it might disturb us. Between us and the road, invisible in the greenery, a blackbird sang fitfully. Otherwise there was just the priest and the crisp damp sounds of the earth.

Mum clutched a twist of handkerchief to mop her damp mascara; her legs were prim and plump below the hem of an unflattering black dress. Sam stood at a little distance until I reached for her. Cautiously, we held hands.

The earth clattered hollowly on to the coffin. I imagined how the sound of the earth falling would be from inside, echoing in the tiny space, percussive taps and scrapes pulsing through his dead ribs and fingers. There was no pain from those arthritic knuckles now. It seemed to me that he would look like a painting, perfect and expressionless and utterly remote. The black glitter would be gone from his eyes, of course, replaced by a film of ooze from the canal—he had been found face down, snagged in weeds and used condoms, the water seeping in and out of his mouth like dead breath.

Once the earth was thrown, we left. We had brought two overnight bags so we could stay with Mum but, without even discussing it, we made our apologies, clambered into the car and clattered towards home.

We didn't get far. As we circled Oxford on the ring-road, I muttered an apology to Sam, and turned inwards towards the city. Towards Verity.

*

Saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her gaze aimed blankly at the zoetrope, and at a clutch of bright daffodils beyond it on the bedside table—I had paid a fortune on my credit card to have them delivered. I crouched beside them now, squarely in her eye-line, and looked at her. She looked at nothing.