Waking Broken (5 page)

Tuesday, 2.55pm:

The powder blue VW Beetle roared down the slip road and swung hard left to make the turn onto the B-road. Fields flicked by on either side as the road climbed gently. Through gaps in the hedge came glimpses of sheep dotted across the hillside sloping up to the left. In the early spring sunshine, their coats looked bright white against the grass.

‘Heaven, heaven is a place. A place where nothing ever happens.’

Rebecca lifted her voice to accompany David Byrne’s deadpan delivery, tapping her hands against the steering wheel to match the song’s measured beat. As the line repeated, she glanced at the pastoral idyll outside then slung the car around another tight bend before accelerating into the straight.

‘There is a party. Everyone is there. Everyone will leave at exactly the same time.’

Approaching a belt of trees, the road kinked again and Rebecca was forced to slow. A slight dip followed as the road passed through the trees and then it started climbing again.

‘It’s hard to imagine that nothing at all could be so exciting, could be so much fun.’

Coming back into the open, she suddenly spotted the sign on her right. Rebecca braked sharply. She paused at the junction, turned off the CD and checked the road. Then she swung the car into the long drive.

Ahead, the gravelled track ran across sheep-cropped ground. A small humpbacked bridge led over a stream before the drive turned back into the same belt of trees Rebecca had just driven through on the road. On the other side, the drive reached the crest of a small hill. Rebecca slowed, taking in the view and summoning her courage.

A few hundred yards below lay her destination. Haworth Manor. All twisted chimneys and mullioned windows, venerable and very English: the sort of place for cream teas and National Trust membership. Except Haworth Manor was not owned by any heritage organisation. The self-appointed lord of the manor was Paul Cash: prolific artist, eccentric
bon viveur
and unrepentant Lothario.

Cash liked titles. He was only ever granted one: a CBE for his services to the British art world. But the painter never bothered to collect the genuine gong, preferring to create his own awards. After buying Haworth Manor, he began calling himself the ‘Lord of the Manor’ as a joke. One stuffy neighbour took it seriously and made the mistake of snubbing Cash in public. Sir James Manville was a real blue blood and proud of his ancestry. He regarded Cash as little more than a jumped-up tradesman. As a baronet, Manville was entitled to call himself ‘Sir’. Uninhibited by the restraints of convention, Cash felt free to call himself whatever he felt like.

Amused by Manville’s reaction, the new owner of Haworth Manor decided to see how far he could push things. Cash ordered cards and signs printed proclaiming himself ‘Lord’ and used the title on the publicity material for all his work. The name soon stuck and the media began forgetting to put the title into inverted commas. Manville’s protests were ignored and he could only fume as his neighbour became increasingly known as Lord Cash.

Meanwhile, Cash took a liking to life at Haworth and started throwing extravagant parties for select invitees. The events became notorious and he revelled in the scandal, denying nothing. Then came a tabloid exposé — based as much on speculation as fact — describing him as the ‘Lord of Misrule’.

Cash was delighted by the new epithet and painted a self-portrait to commemorate the occasion. This showed him in velvet tiger-striped robes and jester’s hat, sprawled across the laps of three naked girls, one holding grapes, the second with a glass of champagne and the third with what looked suspiciously like a box of dried magic mushrooms.

A year or so later, he wrote a letter to
The Times
about freedom of expression, signing himself “Secretary of State for Artistic Licence”. Other self-awarded titles included “Father of the Arts”, based not so much on his prestige as a painter but on the number of children he was reputed to have fathered. Married five times and divorced as many, Cash’s bedpost notches were legendary. Nearly all of his portraits were of women and people said he slept with everyone he had painted — some claiming that included the men as well.

Now, although approaching sixty, Paul Cash’s reputation was undulled. His fires had burnt for decades, but no one was suggesting Paul Cash was anywhere near running out of
fuel.

Rebecca parked in front of the house, took one last deep breath and marched towards the heavy front door. A wrought iron pull sent bells jangling somewhere deep inside the ancient hall.

The echoing discordance matched her nerves.

On the surface, she was fine. She knew she looked the part: cool, calm and professional, ready for her first meeting with one of the Hamilton Agency’s most prestigious, if notorious, clients. In reality, she did not feel so steady. Meeting Paul Cash was only part of what disturbed her equilibrium. All morning she had been feeling odd: out of sorts and over-reacting to any stimulus.

At lunchtime, she had sneaked half-an-hour out of the office and walked with Sarah along by the river. It was hard to explain exactly what bothered her. Things had seemed out of kilter for a day or so.

Sarah’s seemed to think Rebecca had pinned more of her hopes on last Tuesday night’s blind date than she was willing to admit. Rebecca was nowhere near so positive. It was true that it had been her first foray off the shelf in several months but she had approached the event with mixed emotions. Certainly not with any real expectations. More a case of being seen to be doing something about her single status.

A few weeks earlier, Rebecca had moaned to Sarah about never meeting any attractive men. Her last serious relationship had ended a couple of years earlier and no prospects had appeared on the horizon since. Sarah responded by challenging Rebecca to do something about it; pointing out she could hardly expect to meet the love of her life from the comfort of a sofa. Rebecca had signed up with a dating agency mostly to keep Sarah happy. The result was Rebecca’s first — and possibly last — venture into the world of the lonely hearts: the date with the eligible bachelor with the nice car and mother fixation.

But Rebecca could not quite bring herself to believe disappointment over one blind date was what had left her feeling so unsettled. She had first been conscious of a sense of something wrong in the world the same afternoon that Christine Hamilton sprang the Paul Cash job on her. Then on her way home came the uncomfortable confrontation in the High Street.

Rebecca was still unable to work out what to make of that. The man’s behaviour had seemed like that of someone on drugs. But he had seemed so sincere, so genuinely certain Rebecca should know him. The distress in his eyes could hardly have been faked; the expression on his face as she fled still haunted her.

Now, as the door to Haworth Manor swung open, Rebecca steeled herself. Time to forget her mixed emotions. This was her moment to perform, pretend not to be intimidated by the prospect of diving in the deep end with a man whose reputation as a lascivious roué was matched only by his reputation as a ruthless businessman and fearsome taskmaster for those minions entrusted with promoting his interests.

Tuesday, 3.15pm:

Harper was depressed. He sat on a bench in the park near Brendan’s flat watching a Polish nanny walking an over-fed golden retriever. As the girl dragged the reluctant animal in a circuit of the duck pond’s opaque waters, he slumped further into his jacket and deeper into despondency.

Most of the day had now gone but he was no closer to finding any kind of solution or understanding.

He had eventually forced himself to leave the safety of Brendan’s place at around eleven. It would have been easier to stay there until his friend returned but Harper knew that burying his head was a form of surrender. He had to do something and confronting the situation required information: finding out more about who he was and the life he appeared to lead.

The obvious first step was to go home, find his flat, and investigate the possessions it contained for clues.

Walking there, Harper felt determined, more in control. A sense of purpose, however minor, made the fundamental craziness of the situation less over-whelming. The walk also helped relax him, to gain a new perspective. In a way, he was not so bothered about his job or lifestyle. Careers could be remade and habits changed. What shook him to his core was Rebecca. She had become essential to his life. Taking that foundation away ripped at his sense of who he was. To reclaim it, he needed to reclaim her.

Thoughts of Rebecca had flooded Harper’s mind as he made his way across the city. Memories of her, everyday images of domestic life, flitted through his thoughts: Rebecca glancing at him over her shoulder; Rebecca ripping old wallpaper from the bedroom in their flat; Rebecca staring into space at the breakfast table; Rebecca lying on the lounge rug with a beaming smile after too many glasses of wine; Rebecca flicking paint at him; Rebecca coming home from work and kicking her shoes the length of the hall; Rebecca asleep with her head in his lap.

Until forced to think about it, Harper had not realised how many individual memories went into making up the picture of someone you love. Now he wanted to savour each one: examine every image for details disregarded when commonplace but now as precious as diamonds.

At the entrance to the building containing his flat, Harper paused and closed his eyes. He had never ached for a woman before, certainly not since his teenage years. Now he was desperate for her: to see her, touch her, speak to her and hold her hand, her hair, her body. Most of all, he wanted to give her his love, to whisper it in her ear, to shout it out in defiance. He also wanted to take her love, wrap himself in its security and shut out the words of madness.

The converted old house was silent when he reached it, all the other occupants out somewhere. At the door, Harper hesitated, hoping his key would not fit but knowing it would. As he entered the hall, where a central stairwell climbed to the upper floors, he breathed the musty air with distaste. Its sourness was not familiar; it tasted of defeat.

Still limping, the climb to the second floor took time. Once on the landing, Harper came to a halt as he studied the two panelled doors in front of him. He realised he had no idea which was his.

Confused by something so basic, he stood and stared hopelessly at the two doors. His mind denied this building was his home. But was it all a delusion, some mental disturbance brought on by a head trauma the medical experts had not spotted? He did not want that to be true but was not convinced he could dismiss the possibility.

Harper examined the doors: looking at the panels, the paintwork and the shape of the handles, struggling to find anything familiar, a little clue to jog his mind back onto another track.

But nothing stirred. He still had no idea which one was his. Brendan had only told him the flat was on the second floor. The only apparent answer to try each lock and see which opened to his key.

Harper was about to approach the door on the left when he heard the main door opening and shutting below. He stood silently and listened. Footsteps came into the hall, paused then began climbing the stairs. They reached the first floor and continued up. Harper dropped his keys back into his pocket. He waited a moment then started patting his trousers and jacket as if searching for them. He was just digging into his jeans and pulling out the keys when a woman came into view.

She was young, mid-twenties and looked tired. She had long hair pulled into a tight ponytail and her face looked pale, dark rings around darker eyes. As she approached, she slung a bag off her left shoulder and let it drop to the landing floor while she rummaged for her own keys.

‘Harper.’ She nodded without seeming particularly pleased to see him. Then looked at him with more curiosity. ‘My God! What’s happened to your face? Have you been in a fight?’

Harper smiled ruefully. ‘No, nothing like that. Not unless you count getting hit by a car.’

As she stepped closer, he realised he probably should know her name. But he was unaware of ever meeting her before. She looked concerned. ‘Wow! What happened? Are you okay?’

‘A bit shaky. My leg’s a bit stiff too. I was just getting my breath back while I was looking for my keys.’

She frowned and glanced at the door on the right. ‘You want a cup of tea or something? I don’t think I’ve got anything stronger.’

Harper shook his head. ‘That’s okay, thanks all the same. I’ve got some bits and pieces to sort out. I’m a bit sore but I’ll be fine.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Her voice was terse as she shrugged and turned abruptly away. ‘I was only offering sympathy. I wouldn’t try and cramp your style.’ She stepped over to the right-hand door and opened it without another word. She closed it behind her without looking again at Harper.

He stared at the closed door, wondering what subtext lay beneath the apparent bitterness in her voice. Or was that just her way?

Inside, the flat was nothing like Harper remembered from that one visit as a prospective tenant. It was the same rooms, the ones he looked at after first moving to the city but his memory was faulty. He had recalled the rooms as small and dingy but they were bigger than he remembered and, with sunshine coming in, felt large and airy. Superficially, they were fairly attractive.

Harper wandered from lounge to bedroom to kitchen-diner and back. It was strange seeing his possessions there. Clothing, books, CDs, even a couple of houseplants he recognised, were dotted throughout the flat. But the location was wrong and, while some things were definitely his, other items were totally unfamiliar. He was unable to work out whether he felt at home or like a stranger alone with someone else’s property.

One of the most unnerving moments came with the photos he found in the bedroom. Stuck in a big clip-frame was a collage of prints. Among them, old childhood shots and familiar pictures from his teenage years. Then there were images of parties at which he had obviously been but of which he had no memory. He recognised some faces but not others.

Fascinated, he moved closer to examine the photographs. This was evidence, real proof of a life of which he had no knowledge. The details were compelling, if frightening.

His eyes moved from a well-known snap of an early family holiday to a scene from what looked like a skiing holiday with two girls and a young man he did not recognise at all. Then, moving on, he suddenly spotted the woman from the landing. In this shot, she was with him. But this was another, laughing Harper who had his arm around her shoulders in a casual but intimate fashion. They were sitting outside a pub somewhere. There were glasses on the table in front of them and they looked like they were having a good time. She looked prettier in the picture too: relaxed and happy.

Harper stepped away from the collage. He felt like he was prying: a voyeur sniffing around someone else’s life.

He left the flat later, nothing concrete achieved except to have had another shower and changed into fresh clothes. That selection disturbed him too. It was all decidedly low-rent, the kind of outfits he wore in his younger days and now only put on for decorating or tended to laughingly dismiss as his drinking clothes.

The sight of the ashtray in his bedroom also saddened him.

One of the few useful things to come out of the visit to the flat was locating his medical card and finding out who was his GP. He had booked himself an appointment for tomorrow. Hopefully he would get himself signed off work for a week or so; he was not sure he could face going into the newspaper at the moment. Even knowing what his position in the office was supposed to be, Harper was not positive of being able to act in the way others would expect. He was sure to say or do something wrong or out of character: get people speculating about his state of mind.

Work would have to wait. He had more important things to sort out first.