The Beauty of the End (6 page)

10

T
he Princess Royal is big, light, and suffocating, with chemical-laced air that sticks in my nostrils. I read the ludicrously themed ward names and look at the incongruous, contemporary prints hung on the walls, as I make my way through its maze of corridors, then through the swing doors to ICU, which is, in contrast, dark and windowless. A place where every breath is counted and heartbeat measured, where life holds on. Just.

It seems miraculous that nobody stops me. I pass one or two small rooms with slatted blinds in the windows, before I see a nurse walking toward me.

“It's a little early for visiting, sir.”

I feel myself frown. I hadn't even considered visiting hours. If someone's unconscious, what does it matter?

She looks kindly at me. “Who've you come to see?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't think. April Moon.”

The nurse looks puzzled. “We've no one by that name here, I'm afraid. You could check with reception in case she's been moved. Here, I'll show you the quickest way.”

As she walks past me toward the swing doors, I glance wildly around because I can't leave without seeing April. I catch sight of a whiteboard near the nurses' station and among the list of names scrawled on it is April Rousseau, written in uneven letters. I take a shot in the dark.

“Hey, just a minute. . . .” I catch up to her. “I got that wrong. She kept the name Rousseau after her divorce. I was forgetting. I haven't seen her in a very long time.”

I'm bluffing. I've no idea where the Rousseau comes from, but I'm counting on the nurse not knowing any more than I do.

She looks at me doubtfully. “I'm sorry, but under the circumstances, you should probably leave . . . Mr. . . .”

“Calaway,” I tell her, wondering if there's a Mr. Rousseau, and if so, is he here? Does he even know? “Noah Calaway. I know what's happened to her. Will Farrington told me. I imagine he's been here?”

“No one's been here.” The nurse shakes her head. Then she looks at me with interest. “You know Dr. Farrington?”

“Yes. And I know how this looks, just turning up like this,” I say more confidently. “But I'm an old friend. And once she comes round, I'll be acting as her lawyer.”

The nurse looks uncertain. “Do you have proof?”

I shake my head resignedly. “A driver's license with my name on it.” Knowing how lame it sounds, I add, “You can call the firm I work for, if you like.” Rummaging in my pocket for one of Jed's cards, finding there isn't one.

From the way she looks at me, I know that she's not sure. That she thinks she should ask me to leave. But then she sighs. “It's all right. I believe you. But you won't be able to go in, I'm afraid. The police have someone with her round the clock. But you'd know about that, wouldn't you? Being a lawyer.”

“Of course.” I nod, but it had completely slipped my mind. She's right, of course. With April a suspect, the police won't be leaving anything to chance.

Glancing around, the nurse lowers her voice. “Just a suggestion, but if by any chance the sister comes round, tell her you're Mrs. Rousseau's lawyer. It'll save a lot of trouble. She's along there, in bed seven.'

I nod gratefully. “Thanks.”

Guessing that it's my connection to Will that's swung her decision in my favor, I walk in the direction she's pointed me in, until I reach a door on which there's a number seven. It's another tiny room with a slatted blind, and as I peer through, for a moment I think she's mistaken. The woman in the bed is tiny, fragile looking, her skin like pale wax, her chest barely moving under the white sheet that's pulled up to under her shoulders. Laid on top of it, one of her arms is threaded with lines that are plugged into the machines beside her.

Even through the window, I'm overwhelmed with the sense that she's not just unconscious. This woman's dying. Her heart might be beating and her lungs inflating, but she's too still, too empty of life.

A dulled shade of the glossy red I remember, her hair is the most recognizable thing about her. Glancing away, shocked, I take in the robust presence of the young policeman sitting on a chair in the corner.

“It's a pity you can't go in and talk to her.” The same nurse, her voice quieter, comes from behind me. “Even when patients don't respond, sometimes they can still hear. People who've come round, some of them tell us that hearing voices is what they remember.”

“Has she opened her eyes at all?”

“Not yet.” The nurse's voice is gentle. “She nearly didn't make it, you know.”

But I know she's telling me that even now, even though she's alive, April may not make it. It's in the spaces in between; what she doesn't say, the tone of her voice. Then I feel her hand, light on my shoulder, before she quietly turns and walks away as a memory comes back, a day I haven't thought of for many years, long enough ago that life was simple and untroubled, yet the images as sharp as if it happened yesterday.

“
Do you remember that day?
” I ask her silently through the window, wondering if what the nurse said is true; if from the distant place April's gone to, if she can hear my voice, maybe she can hear my thoughts, too.

“
On top of Reynard's Hill? I slipped. Nearly went over the edge. You saved me.
”

I pause, because I can still remember how the ground crumbled, falling away under my feet. “
Remember how we ran? Ran until our legs gave way underneath us, tumbling us to the ground, where we laughed wildly, until our eyes locked and we fell into an awed kind of silence
.”

That had been the thing about April. She'd had darker moments where, for a while, I'd lose her; but there'd been an overwhelming intensity about her, a desire to live each moment, that doesn't tally with this frail woman who's taken an overdose.

As this and other thoughts race through my head, I'm still watching her, for the faintest indication that she's sensed me, but she hasn't moved. There's not a flicker.

11

A
s I walk away, I'm caught, swinging between hope and despair, faith and cynicism, telling myself other people have come out of comas, there's no reason why April won't, yet convinced that whatever the nurse might think and wherever April is, she's too far away to hear me.

But as I drive back toward my B&B, my unease grows and I find myself going full circle. The North Star was hardly her hangout. April must have been in Musgrove for a reason.

To kill Norton? Before driving the hour or so home to take an overdose?

I push the thought from my mind, because there are people who can kill and people who can't—maybe a group in the middle, who if pushed just might. I know April isn't one of them, but when I least need it, I hear Clara's voice.

You could be wrong
.

But she doesn't know April.

It's then I realize I can't leave her, and my thoughts swiftly turn to what lies ahead should I defend her. The painstaking research that's required; the in-depth scrutiny of April's life; the leaving-no-stone-unturned level of detail involved, in the pursuit of a single piece of information someone's deliberately hidden or forgotten about, that can determine guilt or innocence, prison or freedom.

And the truth isn't obvious, whatever the police think, whatever Will says—not even with her phone and her glove found in Norton's car. Until they have fingerprints, a witness, a motive, nothing is certain.

* * *

Once I'm back in my room, my mind has already turned to the people in her life. Work colleagues, her friends, neighbors if there are any. Any family—and I need to find out about Norton, too, because there could be any number of innocent reasons behind their meeting that night. Perhaps it was just a twist of bad luck that the night they met up was the same night the murderer chose to strike.

I switch on my laptop and type
April Rousseau
into the search bar. It takes seconds to find two listed on the electoral roll, one of whom I dismiss immediately, due to both her age and the fact that she lives in Manchester. I copy down the address of the other, then pause, because I'm acting for April, but without her consent and assuming that when she comes round she'll have no objection. Knowing that I could just as easily be wrong, and that if I'm caught entering her house, I'm trespassing—theoretically. I dismiss the thought just as quickly, knowing it's a chance I have to take.

* * *

That April is under police guard suggests her home may have been secured, but I at least have to check it out. After I've typed in April's postcode, my GPS takes me a mile or so out of Tonbridge, along a meandering B-road, then into a quiet lane. As I turn into it, on either side are empty fields with just the occasional large house set in its own gardens, well-spaced from its neighbours. I continue slowly along a stretch of a hundred yards or so, before coming to a sharp bend.

It's darker here, the lane narrowing to a single track under the cover of tall trees, their branches seeming to close overhead. I glimpse one or two smaller houses behind unkempt hedges before my GPS indicates I've arrived.

Pulling over beside a narrow gate, I see a sign that says Holly Cottage.

I hesitate, because this is where April lives and though at the moment it's quiet, the police will inevitably come and search here,. I continue a few yards up the lane, where I pull over on the grass verge and turn the engine off. But as I wait, not a car passes, nor is there a sign of anyone.

As I walk back down the lane and slip through the gate, I'm not sure what I'm expecting, but it's not this, a small stone cottage that looks as much a part of the landscape as the woods that surround it, its weathered, faded exterior the legacy of the elements, of time. Against the grey of the flint, the brickwork around the windows is an ugly red, the paint on the frames cracked and peeling to reveal the grain of the wood underneath. The house is softened by the mass of sprawling borders, the pale green of newly unfurled leaves, the curved paths cut into unmown grass full of wildflowers.

The entire garden is edged by trees, and I look up, my eye drawn not only to their height, but to the gnarled spread of their branches. Then I notice more trees, only they're smaller, a whole new generation, still saplings, planted at intervals here and there. But it's the sound that gets to me. Surrounding me, it's stereophonic; the wind through the leaves and birdsong.

I'm still caught in the spell of the place as I walk round to the back, checking for an unlocked door or unlatched window, when suddenly the back of my neck prickles. Slowly turning, I look around, seeing nothing, yet with an unmistakable sense I'm being watched.

12

 

A
fter April went back to London early, I was numb. I'd been prepared to give up everything for her. Even move, just to be with her. Not only had I lost her, I'd lost a future that had so briefly, brightly presented itself. I felt let down—and cheated, too. The “sweet” in her letter was patronizing. Nor did I accept her allusions to a dark secret that would ultimately keep us apart. Of course there were things we didn't know about each other. In the couple of days we'd spent together, we'd just started. Now, we'd never have the chance.

The excitement of my plans to go to London became a distant memory. Forced to push all thoughts of April from my head, I ripped up the letter I'd written to my mother. Now, I couldn't leave for Bristol soon enough.

It took days rather than the weeks or months I'd believed it would, but immersed in student life, I discovered that the teenage heart is more resilient than I'd realized. I met other girls, though no one I felt the same way about, but after four years that flew past, I left the university armed with my degree and a job in a London law firm.

To me, Flanagan's, the name of my firm, sounded more like an Irish bar. It was certainly as noisy and frenetic. I worked hard and played hard, sharing an extortionately priced and cavernous Canary Wharf flat, now and then managing to catch up with Will, still a student and currently on an obstetrics rotation. Our meetings were characteristically brief.

“Please buy me dinner, mate. I'm so bloody poor, you wouldn't believe,” he bemoaned. “Do you know how often I don't eat?”

I didn't believe a word of it. He looked far too healthy. “Yeah, well when you're a rich, privately practicing doctor, I'll expect repayment.” I turned to the waitress. “We'll have two steak and chips.”

Will's face took on an expression of bliss.

“Both rare,” I added.

“Cheers,” he said happily, downing the beer I'd bought him. “Hope the food won't be long—I've a hot date.” He winked. “Bloody stunning nurse called Karina. Mustn't be late.”

As ever, Will would eat and run. I thought nothing of it. It's how life was—fast and furious, meetings social and otherwise, crammed in wherever we could fit them.

* * *

It was a couple of months before I saw him again. Another dinner that I paid for, regaled while we ate by Will's tales about life on the ward, but when I asked about Karina, he was oddly reticent.

“Who?” He blinked at me.

“The beautiful Karina. Bloody stunning nurse, I think your words were. You were dating. Surely you remember?”

But instead of the lighthearted response I was expecting, a condescending look crossed his face. “Dating,” he mocked. “Ever the romantic, aren't you, Noah? I was fucking her. And now I'm not.”

It wasn't his choice of words that surprised me. It was the callousness with which he spoke, how cold his eyes were as he looked at me. What had I missed?

The next thing he said, however, shocked me.

“Oh, you'll never believe who I ran into. That girl from school that you were obsessed with.”

“Who do you mean?” I asked, overly casual, feeling a heat rise in me, glad of the darkness in the bar, because he could only be talking about one person.

“Remember April? She was stunning then, but now . . .”

I didn't like the look on his face, or the way he whistled. Trying to hide how I felt merely at the mention of her name, I was aware of his eyes boring into me. “Where? How was she?”

Even now, I couldn't share the truth with him, that however much I told myself otherwise I'd give my right arm to see her again.

“Some of us went into this bar in Soho. I was so rat-arsed I nearly didn't recognize her. Anyway, it was definitely her. Like I said, fucking stunning.”

“Which bar?” My heart was in my mouth as I waited for his reply.

Will threw his head back and laughed. “God. You know, I really must have been pissed. Some place beginning with
L
, I think.... Sorry, mate, I can't remember. Never mind.” He glanced at his watch. “I think I've just about got time for another beer. . . .”

That Will had run into April and until now hadn't thought to tell me should have set off warning bells, but then I'd never actually told him how I felt about her. He had no idea that it had ever been more than a crush.

* * *

It was no good. No matter how I tried to convince myself that she'd dumped me four years ago and I'd moved on, she was still the goddess—and I was the same love-struck teenager. Other girls didn't stand a chance. My obsession reignited, I couldn't get April out of my head. Far from getting over her, time had given me new hope, that maybe now, with both of us older, our lives more settled, we had a chance.

Soho was a part of the city I wasn't familiar with, though after a few weeks of exploring every street and checking out every bar I could find with a name that began with the letter
L
, I soon was. But having failed to find any sign of April, I was close to giving up when I stumbled across Lola's.

If I'd blinked, I would have missed it. I'd been walking up a side street when I saw the dark doorway into a huge old town house. There was nothing obvious about it, just
Lola's
in small neon-pink letters set to one side.

Over the traffic noise behind me, the swish of cars through the puddles, I could hear the dull base thud from inside as I opened the door to the rest of my life.

Of course, I hadn't known at the time. It was much later when I looked back and thought of that door as a defining moment, in which I unsuspectingly chose the future that came after. What followed wasn't coincidence. There was no such thing. It was inevitable.

After handing over my money, I was shown down the stairs into a basement, where the thumping got louder. At the bottom was a door into a large room crowded with bodies pressed close to each other. Dark corners were lit by vertical streams of colored light; the music was unfamiliar, a little threatening. I glanced around, out of place in my suit, but invisible to the people who stared at me, oblivious, from their vacant eyes on a chemical journey to someplace else.

I saw her almost immediately, behind the bar, pouring a tray of shots, for a few seconds able to take in the tight dress she was wearing, the way her hair was swept up so that just a few strands of it escaped. I was still staring as she looked up and saw me.

I've wondered since if you can ever truly read a face. It's too easy to see what you so desperately want to see, even if it isn't there. I knew that. But as I walked toward her, I wasn't mistaken. As her eyes met mine, they widened, before her face broke into a smile.

“Noah! What are you doing in here!” Ignoring the guy in the dress trying to order cocktails, looking at my open-necked shirt and dark suit, laughing at me.

I felt the smile stretched across my face as I shrugged. “I felt like a beer.”

She shook her head, still smiling, clearly not believing me as she reached for a glass.

“Here.” She handed me the drink. “Don't go away. I'll be right back.”

Still smiling, she turned to the cocktail guy and took his order. Taking a closer look at my surroundings, I decided that even after years at university, where I thought I'd seen it all, this was one weird place. I waited as she served more customers, then after a word with one of the other staff slipped out and joined me.

“I have ten minutes. My break. I took it early,” she explained, leading me through a door I hadn't noticed. She closed it, instantly muffling the noise, then turned to face me. “I can't believe it! What are you doing here?”

It was dark in here, too. I looked around at the black-painted walls of the small windowless room, then sat on one of the cushioned armchairs, watching her sit opposite. “Ah. You see, I had dinner with Will.”

As I said Will's name, I saw her eyes flicker. “He said he'd bumped into you—so I thought I'd come and see you. Interesting place . . .”

I didn't tell her that Will hadn't told me where; that I'd scoured all the clubs in Soho and that this was about the last one before I'd start all over again. Even I could see how stalkerish that might look.

“He came in with some friends. I know, it looks weird in here,” she said. “But it beats working in a straight bar—and the money's good. And also . . .”

The smile faded and she looked more serious. “It gives me time. You'll be pleased, Noah. I had to stop for a while, but at long last, I'm actually studying.”

As she spoke, in some distant corner of my world, I felt something slot into place. I listened as she told me about her course, which was the first stage of training to be a counselor, and suddenly I could see it clearly. Life wasn't just about opportunity; it was about timing—not only for studying, but for relationships, too. But before I could say anything, she got up again.

“I really should get back,” she said. “It gets crazy out there. Look . . . Why don't we meet for brunch? On Sunday? There's a place in the King's Road called Alberto's. Do you know it? I could be there at eleven.”

I didn't but I'd find it. I nodded. “Great.”

She paused in the doorway. “It's good to see you, Noah.”

I nodded, trying to summon the words. How to tell her that I'd only just figured it out, that our meeting up again right now was meant to be, but as she opened the door, the noise from the bar made it impossible.

“Okay. Well . . . I'll see you? On Sunday?”

I nodded again, barely able to make out what she was saying. Her eyes looked intently at me; then she was gone.

As the door swung shut, leaving me alone, a wave of euphoria washed over me. I knew this was no coincidence. Everything in my life, for as long as I could remember, had conspired to bring me to this moment. In a jubilant gesture, I punched the air.