Kissing Through a Pane of Glass (21 page)

‘You’re amazing,’ I said quietly once the drinks had arrived.

‘Just doing what comes naturally,’ said Lee, in a way that aroused me more than a dozen of those looks ever could. I could almost hear my heartbeat quicken and feel my palms becoming hot and damp. This was not an acceptable reaction, I remembered thinking, and did my best to put it down to general excitement. After all, we had started the day with nothing, and we now had an address; of course I was excited. And she did look very much like her sister; it was only natural. I was only human, and just because I was profoundly in love with someone else didn’t mean I wasn’t allowed to find other women attractive, especially someone who bore such marked similarities to the woman I loved. There was nothing wrong with any of this; it was perfectly acceptable and understandable behaviour.

Which makes me wonder why I felt so dreadfully guilty as we left the pub and started walking towards Eldon Road.

I read a review in last week’s
Sunday Times
of a first novel by some young, up and coming writer, whose name, at present, escapes me. The book, entitled
Mythopoeia
and referred to as “a literary, post-modernist romance” (whatever that is), was praised for its ingenuity and the unique manner in which a particular genre (the romance, usually considered undistinguished as an art form) was given a new lease of life by the young author.

In the same breath, however, the novel was severely criticised for its poor character development. In fact, the reviewer went to great lengths, selecting various passages by way of example, to show that a number of key figures in the novel frequently behaved “out of character”. The reviewer went so far as to suggest that this inconsistency was responsible for the ultimate failure of what was otherwise “a fine first attempt”, but he was sufficiently generous (and condescending) to suggest that such failings were merely the product of the author’s extreme youth and immaturity, and that we might still look forward to a fine novel from the young whippersnapper once he had grown up.

Now then, I’m not a great reader. (I tend to go for those mindless airport novels when I’m travelling as they require no effort to read, are instantly forgettable, and are great for swatting mosquitoes and hurling at cockroaches. Besides, great novels, important novels, depress me. They’re a taunt, a constant reminder that I’m just an ordinary wordsmith, a hack.) However, I was so infuriated by this particular reviewer’s attitude that, against my usual nature (that is, acting out of character) I went out and purchased, in hardback no less, a copy of
Mythopoeia
.

It was only two hundred pages or so in length and I managed to read the entire book in two sittings. I confess it was, at times, a little too intellectual for my taste, a bit self-conscious and, perhaps, a little too clever for its own good, but there was one aspect of the book that was simply breath-taking in its execution. You’ve probably guessed it.

The characters in
Mythopoeia
were drawn with such care, such insight, such astonishing perspicacity, that they were not fictions at all; they were real. They did not act or speak or behave like characters in any other novel I had ever read. They were not rational. They were not consistent. They did not, in each case, “develop” or “progress” during the course of the novel. They were full of idiosyncrasies, capable of inexplicable behaviour and outrageous acts. They were, mostly, confused, both by their own actions and the actions of other characters. Attempts by one or other to understand instances of bizarre behaviour invariably came to nothing. Questions went unanswered, problems were left unsolved, there was no neat conclusion.

Just like reality. Just like life.

By the time I reached the final page, I was full of admiration for the author. Here was not merely a “young writer of great promise” but a great writer, period. Any reservations I had were due solely to my own personal views on what constitutes “a good read” - I suppose I’m a bit conservative in my taste - and consequently all the theorising about “who is really the author/ how much control does he-she have/what is really real” etc. left me a little cold.

But those characters... I could converse with them. I could befriend them. I could argue with them. And the attractive blonde who appeared on page twenty, well, I could fall in love with her. I really could.

Her name, by the way, was Zoë, and she looked a little like Liana, only taller.

‘I find it so hard to think of her as “Liana”; she’s Angela - always has been. To hear people refer to her by what sounds like my own name is really odd... sort of dislocating. It’s actually quite unpleasant.’

‘Unpleasant?’ We were walking along Eldon Road; by my calculations, we would be standing outside the last house on the left within live minutes. The idea that Liana might be there, that I could be standing face to face with her in just a few moments, was enough to give me palpitations. I was so nervous, I was grateful for any diversion, and was pleased that Lee was talking.

‘Well, perhaps unpleasant isn’t the right word; but it is uncomfortable. I mean, why did she change her name in the first place? Why did she take my name?’

It was a question I had asked myself many times over the weekend, and I had to concede that there was something disturbing about it. ‘I can
only
think of her as Liana,’ I said, unable to answer Lee’s questions. ‘Perhaps she just liked the name?’

Lee gave me a rather exasperated look, as if she expected better than inanities from me; it was, in retrospect, quite justifiable, but at the time I could not really concentrate on Lee’s concerns. I had my own fears to deal with. An entirely new picture had emerged that day, and I was still trying to come to terms with it.

Since returning to England I had learnt that Liana wasn’t Liana, but Angela. She had not studied Fine Art at Kent, did not have a younger brother, did not live at her given address. She had run away from home, had been in trouble at some time in the past eighteen months (that is, had been so desperate for money that she had made contact with her despised family) and had lived - was perhaps still living - in a squat in Wood Green. With a man. A man called Keith, who was not especially popular with a nice Italian Mama who ran a café on Charing Cross Road, but was much respected by a greasy yob with a scarred face who served behind the bar of the seediest pub in North London. It was fairly safe to assume that Keith was a scrounger and a drunk. The rest was still a mystery, and I was no longer sure that I wanted to find a solution. Even as we approached the end of the road, half of me wanted to discover nothing, to find that it had been a wild goose chase, that there was no Liana living at the last house on the left, no Keith, no problems

I’m not sure if Lee picked up on this - I suspect she was well aware of what was going through my mind, but said nothing. After all, we had set out to find Liana, and it was assumed, implicitly, that we might well discover something unpalatable or difficult. After all, why else hadn’t she contacted me? Something had to be wrong. I was suddenly made all the more aware of Richard’s telling comments; did I really want to get involved? What if there was something seriously wrong with her? How had Richard put it - what if she’s nuts?

‘What’s the matter? Michael?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why have you stopped? It’s not far now.’

‘Stopped?’ With some confusion I now realised that Lee was several paces ahead of me. I was, in fact, leaning against a garden wall, trying to steady myself.

‘Are you okay? You’ve gone rather pale.’

I was not, as it happens, feeling particularly well. My brow felt cold and clammy, and there was an unpleasantly hot sensation at the back of my neck. My legs did not feel strong, my stomach was loose, and there was a nauseating buzzing sound in my ears. ‘Uh, sorry Lee, I... I just... ’ I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I think I must be scared.’

Lee walked over to me, put her hands on my shoulders, stared straight into my eyes. ‘Do you want to wait here? I’ll go and find out what the story is.’

‘No, I should come with you.’

‘Michael... you really don’t look up to it. Why don’t you just sit down for a moment.’ She put her hand to my forehead; it felt soothing. I wanted her to leave her hand there, to caress me for a while, to ease away the feelings of discomfort and fear. I wanted her to save me.

‘I’m fine, really. I just need to take a couple of deep breaths.’ I took hold of her hand. ‘This is really good of you, Lee; you didn’t have to get involved. I don’t know what I would have done...’

‘We haven’t found her yet... look Michael, I don’t think... I mean...’ She stared unflinchingly at me. ‘Stay here,’ she said after a few moments. ‘Let me just find out what the situation is; as soon as I know what’s going on, I’ll come straight back. You don’t look fit enough to take a shock right now.’

‘Shock? What do you mean?’

Lee sighed. ‘Michael, neither of us knows what’s going on. I won’t be happy to find something terrible behind those doors, but whatever it is, I’ll cope with it. I’ve had to learn to live with the idea of my sister as all but dead these past three years. But you... you’re still in love with her. Just let me find out what’s going on. It may be nothing. Just wait.’

She didn’t stop long enough to allow me to argue. I waited by the wall while Lee wandered up to the last house, up the pathway to the front door. There was a shallow porch which meant that, while I could just make out the front door opening, I could not see, from this angle, who had opened it. I watched Lee mouth a few words, then fall silent. She nodded a couple of times, then pointed to me. I felt my stomach turn to liquid, and clutched hold of the wall; who was Lee speaking to? What had she said? Why had she pointed?

Lee raced back down the path and came across to me.

‘She’s not there,’ she said softly.

‘Who were you talking to?’

‘A young woman called Robyn; one of the squatters. She knows Angela... I mean Liana. I told her we were very worried and she said that we were welcome to come in and chat for a while.’

Where’s Keith?’

‘He’s not in... I didn’t ask where he was. Do you feel up to it?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’

***

‘This is Michael.’

‘Hi. I’m Robyn,’ said the girl, and beckoned us in to the hallway.

‘Hello,’ I said, rather feebly. ‘It’s good of you to see us like this.’

‘No problem.’

She pushed open a door and ushered us into the front room. When I’d thought of Liana living in a squat, my worst fears had been activated; I imagined all sorts of gruesome scenarios; filth, dirt, rats, people sleeping on floors; no water or electricity; garbage piled up in every corner; damp, musty smells emanating from peeling wallpaper; the stench of rotten cabbage wafting in from the kitchen.

The reality was very different. The front room was not only clean and tidy, but comfortable too. It was very simply furnished; two covered mattresses folded into seats, a dozen scatter cushions, a coffee table made from an offcut of chipboard and a couple of orange crates. The floor was covered in a mosaic of carpet remnants which was surprisingly attractive, and from the walls, which had been painted white, hung a couple of brightly coloured posters. A large bow window gave the room a light, airy feeling; even the curtains had a cottagey feel to them, manufactured from some bleached out hessian.

Swing doors at the back of the room led to what looked like a small kitchen. Piano music - Debussy, I think - emanated softly from an ageing cassette recorder in the corner, and altogether the atmosphere was very calm and pleasing.

We sat down on the mattresses while Robyn gathered up the mugs and cups on the table. ‘Tea or coffee?’

‘Whatever’s easiest,’ said Lee.

Robyn smiled. ‘Sure; I’ll just put the kettle on,’ she said, and wandered into the adjoining room.

‘This wasn’t what I was expecting at all,’ whispered Lee.

‘I know; it’s quite a revelation. I was expecting Dante’s
Inferno
.’

Lee nodded conspiratorially. ‘It rather puts my mind at ease; I’d had visions of my sister living in squalor all these years. I wish I’d known she was in a place like this.’

‘What exactly did you say to Robyn?’

‘I told her the truth; that I was Liana’s sister, that I hadn’t seen her for a while, that you’d met her in India, and we were worried about her.’