The Bellwether Revivals (27 page)

Paulsen kept on shining the torch into his eyes. He flashed his palm across the beam, laughing, and the light spat upon Oscar’s face with a Morse code flicker.

‘Cut it out, for God’s sake!’

Startled, the old man clicked off the torch and the room went black for a moment. ‘Alright, son,’ he said, reaching for the bedside lamp, ‘out with it. You’ve been tetchy all week. And I’m a man who knows what it means to be tetchy. Come on, let’s hear it.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

The lamp wouldn’t go on at the push of Paulsen’s fingers. ‘I can’t have my best nurse going about the place with a face like Armageddon. You need to put things into perspective,’ he said. ‘Think about Herbert, everything he’s going through. If you think
you’ve
got it bad, son, you just remember what he’s dealing with. Oh, for heaven’s sake, help me with this thing, would you?’

Oscar kept quiet, fumbling with the switch until the lamp
struggled on. He perched on the bed frame, unable to look the old man in the eye. There was a tightness in his chest. It had been almost a month since he’d gone to meet Herbert Crest in London and he still hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Paulsen. It had been weighing on his conscience.

The old man’s moods had been stable of late. He’d been less withdrawn, coming down for mealtimes more often, throwing fewer of his customary tantrums. Seeing Herbert Crest so close to death had been a strange kind of tonic for Paulsen, sobering and redemptive. Even the other nurses had remarked on it. But Oscar knew that if he uttered a single word about his meetings with Crest, all of this progress would come undone.

‘What were you doing just then—with the torch?’ he asked.

The old man smiled and flicked on the Maglite again, angling it towards the Artex. ‘I was counting,’ he said. ‘It struck me yesterday that I’ve been staring up at this ceiling every night for years and I’ve never known how many grooves there are. A man can’t go to his grave without closure on a matter like that. What if there’s some sort of comprehension test at the gates of heaven, hmm? I’ll be put in the cheap seats, and all because I didn’t pay enough attention.’

Oscar could think about nothing but Herbert Crest as he left the old man’s room. He’d made only one call to him since their meeting with Eden at the cemetery, just to check in, to make sure he was doing okay, and Andrea had answered the phone with her warm caramel voice: ‘Hello. Crest residence.’ She’d sounded so pleased to hear from him, saying, ‘Oh, hey there, I was wondering if you’d call today.’ Then she’d passed the phone to Crest, who’d wasted little time in getting to the point. ‘I’ve already rewritten my introduction,’ he’d said. ‘I think you’ll like it. Might just be the best thing I’ve ever written.’

They’d talked briefly about his state of health, glossing over it: ‘Oh, you know, same old headaches, same old sputum. Any word from our friend?’ Oscar had told him there’d been radio silence,
and this had been Crest’s cue to speculate on when—more like
if
—they would hear from Eden again. ‘I’m sort of looking forward to seeing what he comes up with. I’m having visions of being stripped naked, lithe young virgins holding candles over my body, chanting mantras. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking, huh?’ Crest had said to call when there was any news. In the meantime, he was trying to keep his editor off his back, telling her what an exciting new course the book had taken, selling her the idea with ‘some fancy talking’, and doing preparatory research at the British Library. ‘Turns out Andrea’s a whiz with their Dewey system. She could find you a journal blindfolded.’

Before hanging up, Crest had lowered his voice, as if pulling Oscar to one side for a quiet word. He’d said: ‘Listen, have you mentioned any of this to Bram? It’s just, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for him to know about it. If he hears I’m going to be in Cambridge for a while, he’ll want to see me, and I really don’t need that kind of distraction right now. I have to put everything I’ve got into this book, you understand?’ Oscar had said he wouldn’t tell Dr Paulsen anything. ‘Good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love that old man, but sometimes he can be suffocating.’

That Saturday night at Cedarbrook, Oscar came downstairs from the old man’s room to find somebody waiting for him at reception. He saw a dark-haired stranger leaning on the counter, chatting with an agency nurse, and it took him a long moment to realise it was Iris. She had dyed her hair coal-black and cut it into a bob, with a straight-edged fringe that rested upon her eyebrows; it made her look distinctly foreign, like some Balkan air hostess. It was only because of the merry whisper of her voice that he recognised her at all. ‘I wasn’t sure when I was sitting in the chair, but now I’m rather pleased with it,’ she was saying.

‘Yeah, it, like, really suits your face,’ the nurse said. ‘Makes your eyes, like, sparkle and stuff.’

‘You think so?’ Iris pushed at the back of her bob. It was then
that she noticed Oscar approaching from the staircase, and she ran over to hug him. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, and stepped back dramatically to present her new hairdo. ‘What do you think? You like it?’

‘You look different.’

‘In a good way, I hope.’

She hugged him again, kissed his cheek.

‘It’ll take some getting used to.’

He caught the synthetic fragrance of her hairspray—she didn’t even smell the same any more. Her skin seemed chalkier when she kissed him, as if she was wearing more foundation than usual, and though he’d seen the clothes she was wearing many times before, there seemed to be something different about the way she was wearing them; a few more buttons undone, her skirt a little lower on her hips.

‘Well, I had to get your attention
somehow
,’ she said, looking hurt by his flippancy. ‘You don’t pick up your phone, you don’t answer your messages.’

‘I’ve been working a lot.’

‘Every hour of the day?’

‘More or less.’

‘You’re avoiding me, aren’t you? Admit it—you’ve been avoiding me for weeks.’

The agency nurse was pretending to organise the files and papers on the desk. ‘Let’s talk about this outside,’ he said, shepherding Iris out of the lobby by the taut cellist’s muscles of her arm. They breezed through the porchway, into the clement March night, where everything felt so alive, full of scents. Instinctively, she moved to light a cigarette and he stopped her. ‘You can’t smoke here.’

‘What?’

‘If you want to smoke you have to go off the grounds.’

‘Jesus, alright, fine.’ She let her pack of cloves fall back into her handbag. This tiny disappointment seemed to upset her greatly.

Tears began to show in her eyes. ‘Oscar, are we drifting apart? It feels like we are. I mean, it feels like
you
are.’

‘I don’t know,’ he told her. ‘Maybe.’

Her eyes moved slowly to the ground. She pushed her shoe into the gaps between the flagstones, digging out the moss. ‘I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong?’

‘Ask your brother.’

‘What’s
he
got to do with it? This is about you and me.’

‘No, Iris, that’s the point. It’s never just about you and me.’

‘But I thought we were together on this. Now that he’s treating Crest, I thought—’

‘Treating Crest? It’s the other way round.’

‘Yes, alright, however you want to see it.’

‘That’s how it
is
, Iris.’ He was getting exasperated. ‘This is exactly what I mean.’

‘You don’t have to shout at me,’ she said, though he was sure he’d barely raised his voice. ‘God, everything feels so different between us lately. You’ve changed so much.’

Now ‘angry’
was
the right word. ‘Oh, you’ve got to be joking.’ He tried hard to contain the feelings that were building inside him. ‘I know you tell him things, Iris.’

‘He’s my
brother
,’ she said, emphasising the word as if he was not aware of their relation. ‘Aren’t I allowed to talk to my own brother about my boyfriend?’

‘Not about private things. Not about stuff I told you in confidence.’

‘I’ve never told him anything important.’

‘There’s no point lying about it. I
know
it. I’ve seen the proof.’

‘Why are you being like this?’

‘I’m not being like anything. I’m being real.’ It was all coming out a little too quickly, in words that seemed unfair when he spoke them aloud, but he was too wounded by the sight of her to stop himself. ‘I just wish I could have you without having
him
. You’re not the same person when he’s around you.’

She looked back at him with wide, wet eyes. Her mouth quivered with a pent-up sadness that fractured her voice when she spoke: ‘Why are you being so cruel?’

‘Because I’m hurt, that’s why. You got me involved in all of this mess with Eden. I didn’t even want to be a part of it. But you asked me to help you help him, so I did. Because I loved you—and I still love you—but this situation between us, it’s just getting too much for me.’ He took a breath, considering his next words. ‘For you to go and tell him private things behind my back—I just don’t know if I can forgive you for that.’

This seemed to get through to her. A kind of humiliation registered on her face, in the slackening of her brow, in the way she drew her eyes away from him in shame. All she said to defend herself was: ‘Oscar, I—’

She began to cry. Tears rolled along her cheeks and streaked the foundation, revealing the truer skin beneath. He didn’t move to comfort her at first, but the longer she stood there sobbing, the more she seemed like a frightened child who didn’t understand what she was being scolded for. He took her by the shoulders, pulled her head towards his chest until he could feel the wetness of her tears through the cotton of his uniform. ‘Look, I don’t want to break up with you,’ he told her. ‘I just want you to be with me completely. I want what we have to be ours and nobody else’s.’

‘I’m so sorry, Oscar. I just don’t know what’s the matter with me lately. I feel so different. I just feel so
different
and I can’t explain it. I’ve been thinking maybe I’ve got post-traumatic stress or something.’

‘Maybe you do.’

‘I’ve been having such awful dreams, you know—about the accident.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’

‘I wanted to but—’

‘But you told Eden instead.’

This set her off crying even harder. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I don’t know why I always go to him. He never helps me.’ She pulled her head from his shoulder, blinking up at his face. ‘I even quit my chamber group. It seemed like the right thing at the time, but, oh, I don’t know why I do anything any more. I can’t seem to get my head straight.’ He held her tightly, smoothing his hand along the line of her neck, where a wave of blonde hair once fell. ‘I wish you would’ve called me, Oscar. I missed you so much. Just the sound of your voice. I’ve been so low this last couple of weeks.’ She leaned into his chest, her arms around him. ‘You’re so important to me—I mean that. I probably don’t say it enough. But you’re the only man I’ve been with who’s ever made me feel this way.’

‘It’s alright,’ he said, kissing her. ‘I’m here now. It’s alright.’

‘I love you,’ she said, and that was all it took. In the quickness of one moment, as she wept in the glow of passing headlights, he realised he’d forgiven her. Something had released inside him and he could feel a warmth returning to his blood. This was the closest they’d been in months.

On Sunday morning, he woke early to make her breakfast. She was still sleeping with the bedsheets twisted between her knees and a dusty bar of sunlight upon her back. He turned his computer on while he waited for the kettle to boil and found an email from Eden amid a bank of spam messages for hair tonics and hotel breaks. The subject line read: ‘On the Treatment of Our Mutual Friend’.

Crest seemed surprised at this development when they spoke on the phone. ‘Alright, but I’m going to have to bring Andrea along for the ride. She can stay in the car, go for a walk or something. I’ve got to say, I didn’t think he’d follow through with this. It’s been two weeks—we should give the guy some credit. He’s a man of his word.’ Crest coughed dryly and it took a moment for him to settle again. ‘It’s a little unusual—this flock thing.’

‘Why?’ Oscar said.

‘Phoneys don’t get their friends involved usually. It’s more exposure than they can control. Widens the zone of scrutiny.’ Crest coughed up the last of whatever was troubling his throat. ‘My bet is he hasn’t told those guys the whole story. They probably don’t know what they’re getting themselves into. We’ll just have to see how things play out. Whatever happens, we have to let things take their own course. No getouts. You hear me?’

‘I hear you.’

They decided it was best for them all to meet up at the Bellwether house. Oscar handed the phone to Iris so she could give the old man directions. When she hung up, her face was ridged with concern. ‘Did he sound worse to you?’ she said.

‘About the same, I’d say.’

‘Hope he’s strong enough to make it through all this.’

‘From what I’ve seen of that old man, he’s got willpower coming out of his ears. He’ll make it.’

They spent the afternoon in bed. It had been so long since they’d been able to do that, to relax in each other’s company, idling away the hours. Oscar lay at the foot of the mattress, and
studied the tiny scars on Iris’s thigh. She had four short streaks upon her skin like chicken-pox marks, just above the knee—from a yard or so away, they were hardly visible, but up close they were clear, fleshy as bacon. When he traced over them with the back of his hand, she smiled and sighed. He moved to kiss them, but she pulled her leg away. ‘I was thinking,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure if I want to live at Harvey Road next year. I think I’d like to live in halls.’