The Betrayal (40 page)

J
ake was unable to sleep
.
His eyes felt hot, gritty.
He needed sleeping tablets, something powerful enough to switch off his thoughts.
Imelda had spoken to him before he visited Nadine today.
Her temperature kept spiking.
She had vomited twice during the night.
Her movements were becoming more persistent, spasmodic.
She needed an increasing supply of oxygen to help her breathe.
He could no longer ignore the truth.
She was deteriorating, the weight falling from her, the lustre gone from her hair.

Suddenly, his senses alert, he sat up and switched on the light.
He heard nothing, saw nothing, felt nothing except the taste of fear in his mouth.
Was that how panic attacks began?
He sniffed the air, convinced he could smell perfume.
Faint, tantalising, as if lightly fanned on currents of air.
He was reminded of orchids, not that he knew anything about their scent but he always imagined Karin’s perfume originating from the vulva-like centre of some exotic speckled blossom; oily, spicy, intimate.
She could not have been inside Sea Aster.
It was physically impossible.
He ran downstairs, checked the front and backs doors.
No sign of entry, not even a scratch on the paintwork.
The windows were still locked.
He returned to the bedroom and pressed the pillow to his face.
Yes, that was the source.
It cloyed his nostrils, reminded him of the musky scent he once sought in the curve behind her ear.

He slept fitfully in the spare room for the rest of the night.
The smell had vanished when he returned to his own bedroom in the morning.
Last night’s panic seemed dreamlike as he stripped off the bed linen.
Phantosmia.
He read about it once.
Olfactory hallucinations, usually brought about by an illness.
Mental or physical?
He was unable to remember.
Probably mental, he reflected gloomily as he shoved the sheets into the washing machine.

Eoin was already outside, clearing the barn.
He had organised two large rubbish skips and was slowly filling them with the burned-out remains of equipment and furniture.
When would he return to his wife?
Wry comments about the ‘ball and chain’ and overheard snatches of phone conversations when he was talking to Lilian convinced Jake it was marital problems rather than his daughter’s coma that was keeping Eoin in Ireland.
The stale smell of cigarette smoke still hung in the air from last night.
He must have been smoking indoors when Jake was at band practice and Ali was with Sara.

He was amazed at his granddaughter’s resilience, the strength of her still-tiny kicking feet.
She would soon be strong enough to come home from hospital.
The thought of her breathing smoke into her delicate lungs enraged him.

He made tea and called Eoin in from the barn.
‘You should go back to Lilian,’ he said.
‘We’ve no idea how long this will go on.’

‘It’d be cruel to leave you at this stage,’ Eoin argued.
‘I can make myself useful, you know.
That attic needs a lot of work if you’re serious about turning it into a recording studio.
The wiring is shot to hell.
I’ll make a start on it.’

‘Don’t touch anything,’ Jake held onto his temper, afraid he would go on a rampage if he lost it.
Smash… clatter… bang… it would bring a momentary relief but everything would still be the same afterwards.
‘I’ll do the attic in my own time.
Why not stay with Donal for a while?
You’ve hardly seen him since you arrived.’

‘To be honest, Jake, me and the brother were never that close.
All those frigging choo-choos would drive a man crazy.
The last time he visited me and Lilian he overstayed his welcome by four weeks.’

‘How long was he supposed to stay?’

‘A month.’
Eoin slapped his knee and guffawed.
‘Only joking.
But seriously, I’ll ring Donal soon.
There’s no rush for the moment.
I’m needed here.
Are you sure you don’t want me to rewire – ’

‘Absolutely.’

‘At least let me move that stack of floorboards from the hall.
I don’t know how many times I’ve tripped over them and nearly landed on me arse.
You don’t want me ending up in hospital with a broken leg.’

Jake shuddered at this possibility.
The floorboards for the attic were stacked behind the hall door and had been delivered to Sea Aster before the accident drove everything else from his mind.
Eoin was right.
They were a hazard.

The floorboards had been moved to the attic when he returned that night from Mount Veronica.
A note from Eoin, along with a manila envelope had been left on the kitchen table.

Gone to visit Donal.
Found this envelope behind the floorboards.
Looks like it’s been there for a while.
Be back tomorrow.

The envelope was covered in dust and smeared with spider webs.
No name or address on the front suggested it was junk mail.
He opened it, expecting to find a flyer about a supermarket offer or a special deal from a restaurant.
Five smaller envelopes were inside.
He opened the first one and removed a letter.
The page had yellowed with age and been folded so often the creases were beginning to split.
Each envelope contained a similar letter.
This was Nadine’s writing, a younger, neater hand but still instantly recognisable.

My Darling Max
, he read.
Shocked, he checked the date.
How could she have been writing to Max Moylan that summer… and using such an endearing term?
He sat down and began to read.

By the time he finished the five letters he felt like a voyeur, somewhat soiled and guilty.
His head pounded, as did his heart.
No wonder Nadine had always avoided talking about that summer.
How long had the letters been lying in the hall?
She must have dropped them by accident when she was clearing out her possessions.
By her own admission, she never wanted them to be read by anyone.
He would be unable to ask her.
The realisation that she might never speak to him again struck him anew and added to his grief.

‘What have you got there?’
Ali entered the kitchen.
Her eyes narrowed when she glanced at the pages scattered on the table.
She lifted the first sheet before he could stop her.

‘Give that back to me at once.’
He tried to snatch it from her but she moved from his reach.

‘It’s okay, Dad.
I know about them.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Those letters.
I read a copy of one of the originals.’

‘When?’

‘Before Mum’s accident.
That woman sent it to my flat.’

‘That woman… you mean… why wasn’t I told about this?’
He gathered the sheets together and shoved them back into their envelopes.

‘She stole them from Mum when they were kids on some holiday.
Mum made me promise not to say anything.
Gran was in hospital and you were feeling bad enough about everything.
Brian and the twins were sent copies, as well.
It was her way of humiliating Mum.
She obviously kept the originals for you.’
Ali took the envelope from him.
His hands, he noticed, were trembling.

‘Did you ever suspect?’
she asked.

‘No… never.’
He remembered Max Moylan on Monsheelagh Strand.
The mahogany sheen of his skin as he swam back to shore from Table Rock, Nadine alongside him.
Nadine and a man old enough to be her father was as inconceivable as Ali and Mark Brewer had once seemed to him.
Strutting Jake Saunders, the singer in the band.
An unimportant smudge on Nadine’s horizon when he believed he had filled her eyes.

‘What happened then is of no relevance to now,’ said Ali.
‘There’s only one way to deal with it.’

He made no effort to stop her when she threw the letters into the sink and struck a match.
Nadine’s paintings had burned with the same fierce speed.
What was he, Jake Saunders, in all this turbulence?
A pawn?
A stick to beat Nadine?
Why had he not tried to save their relationship, assuaged the discontent that had made her yearn for freedom… whatever it was that persuaded her to seek a new beginning without him?
They could have found another way forward if he had not chosen the dazzling road, the wild blue yonder.

A
n ultimatum
from Lilian forced Eoin Keogh to salvage what was left of his marriage.
At the airport he thumped Jake’s shoulder then bear-hugged him.
He had been crying, the pouches under his eyes more pronounced, his bombastic personality subdued.

‘I have to admit I didn’t think your marriage would last a year when I first laid eyes on you,’ he said.
‘But you’ve shown a different side to your character.
My daughter’s lucky to have you.’

‘I’m lucky to have her.
We’ll come and visit you and Lilian when she recovers.’

‘I’ll look forward to the day.’
Eoin sounded too hearty to be convincing.
‘Keep the faith, man.’

The morning post was lying in the hall when Jake returned from the airport.
The Wharf Alley Art Exhibition was opening next month.
He had been invited to attend.

T
oday was special
.
Sara Saunders was coming home.
In Mount Veronica she lay on the pillow beside Nadine.
Red hairs tangled in her tiny fist.
Ali began to cry, even though she had psyched herself against disappointment, when Nadine’s only response was an involuntary eye movement.

N
ames
.
Jake…Ali…Brian…Sara…cockatoos…Sara…tiny?
Why tiny.
Pulls my hair.
Tiny fists… Not Jessica comes…

‘Do you feel anything?
Is your mind a stone or a sponge?
When you blink are you warning me to be silent or twitching in the abyss?
I believe you blinked a few times today.
Are you listening, Nadine?
I know you can hear me.
Blink once for yes.’

Blink.

Help me… help me… tell them
!

‘Two for no.’

Blink… blink.

‘Jake is going away with me.
Brisbane.
You’ll be dead by then.
All it takes is a flick of a switch.
Like your mother.
Imagine.
A flick of a switch and all his troubles are over.
He won’t let you haunt him the way you haunted me.
Do you hear me?
Blink, bitch.
You can hear me.
You killed my father.
Can you hear me?
You killed him as surely as if your hands pressed him beneath those waves.’

‘Ah… there you are, Jessica.
Cold out there today, isn’t it.
I’ll have to ask you to leave now.
Nadine’s neurologist is dropping by to see her.’

‘Goodbye Nadine.
Don’t worry.
You’re going to be fine.
We’re all rooting for you.’

Not Jessica… not Jessica…Tell
them… tell them… help me…

W
harf Alley Gallery
, once a cavernous warehouse, was crowded when Jake arrived.
He recognised Chloe, the curator, from her profile photograph on her gallery website and made his way towards her.
Chloe’s professional smile faded when he introduced himself.
She led him through the throng to Nadine’s paintings.
They had been hung with care in a prime space with good lighting.
He had expected ices floes, a boat with streams of bunting, gnarled Alaskan faces, Northern lights above snowy mountain peaks.

No mistake, said Chloe when he asked if she had hung the wrong paintings.
She had discussed them with Nadine and these were the chosen four.
He studied each one.
Broadmeadow estuary at dawn; the rim of gold beyond the viaduct splitting night from day.
Sea Aster at twilight; swallows swooping, a soft focus painting until he noticed the split in the front wall, the old house riven.
She had painted Shard rehearsing in the barn but it was the young Shard, big hair and denim, sullen Eighties cockiness.
The final one was harsh and edgy.
An easel with a painting displayed on it.
A nondescript study of fruit diagonally slashed, a silver blade on the ground.
Jake winced, as if the blade had pressed too deeply into his own skin.

People stopped to discuss her paintings.
Jake drank tepid wine and listened to comments about texture, form and theme.

‘It’s good to see you again, Jake.’
Aurora rushed through the crowd and greeted him warmly.
‘Nadine’s paintings are splendid.
But sad, too.’

‘Sad?’

‘She is showing us the split in life that changes everything.’

He knew what she meant.
The painting of the band, he decided, was the only one where there was no sign of a sundering.
But he was wrong.
He saw the dark frame of the barn window and the motif beyond, almost indiscernible.
That fall of red hair she could never tame.
Nadine and his future, waiting.

‘How is Nadine?’
Aurora asked.

‘She’s stable.’

‘No sign of an awakening?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
Reluctant to continue this discussion he moved on to the next painting.

‘Where is Michael?’
She lifted a glass of wine from a tray and followed him.

‘Michael?’

‘Archangel Michael.’

‘On my dashboard, keeping me safe.’
What a pity his protection had not included Nadine.
He stopped the words in time, reluctant to hurt her feelings.

She held out a small gift bag with ‘Not Seeing is Believing’
emblazoned on the front.
‘This is Paschar, the angel of the veil,’ she said.
‘Our link between the conscious and unconscious.
She’s my gift to Nadine.’

For an instant Jake cast his doubts aside, banked down his scepticism.
‘Will Nadine come back to me?’
he asked.

Aurora shook her head.
The overhead spotlight revealed her sparse hair and pale pink scalp.
‘I don’t know, Jake.
The angels only bring messages from those who have passed.’

Her glib response infuriated him.
As an atheist his view of life and death was unflinching.
Death was the end.
Those who claimed otherwise were delusional or, worse, exploitative.

Oblivious to his annoyance, or undaunted by it, Aurora explained how she was a conduit for angel messages beyond the grave.
He was furious with himself for having sought comfort, in a moment of weakness, from this charlatan.
He should have followed his instincts the first time they met and dumped her tacky little angel in the rubbish where it belonged.
That was exactly what he intended on doing with the contents of her gift bag.

‘The woman says she’s not frightened anymore,’ she said.
‘She’s happy now and at peace.’

Startled, he glanced sharply at her.
Her broad forehead was puckered with concentration.

‘Her name begins with C… Carol… no… do you know someone who’s passed called Carol?’

‘No, I don’t.
I’m not into this psychic stuff.’

Aurora shook her head, as if a fly had flown too close to her face.

‘Not Carol… Cora.
She’s handing you a beautiful white feather.’

She cupped his elbow.
He was hardly aware of her grip yet he was moving back to stand before the
Dawn Above the Viaduct
painting.
She stared at the road Nadine had painted.
A squiggle leading to the jetty where he had sat one morning watching the sun rise.
Aurora pointed at a lone swan swimming away from the jetty.

‘Cora wants you to know she’s not afraid of the swan anymore.’
The pace of her speech had quickened.
Perhaps the wine was going to her head.
Jake was unnerved by her vacant stare.
How on earth did she know Cora’s name?
She must have read about the accident in a newspaper or online.

Unwilling to listen any longer to such vapid nonsense he glanced across the room in the hope that Chloe would intervene and rescue him but the curator had her back to him.
In a gallery full of interesting strangers he was stuck with this crazy charlatan.

‘She was blinded by the yellow light,’ Aurora said.
‘Summer was resting on the tide and the air was filled with musk.’

His stomach turned queasily, the tepid wine souring in his mouth.
The floor seemed to shift under his feet.
He knew the signs.
Focus… focus.
He stared at the blade in Nadine’s painting, small, sharp, deadly.
Gradually the dizziness passed, the black spots faded.
Was that how angels appeared to Aurora, quivering against the blank canvas of space.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes, terrified he was going to cry in this crowded gallery.

‘Excuse me.
I need to go outside.’
He was shaking uncontrollably when he reached the exit.
He had to sit down somewhere before his legs gave way.
He leaned against the railing until the trembling stopped.
Good guesser, that’s what psychics were.
They read faces like a map―islands of loss, mountains climbed, bewildered pathways― and exploited people’s emotions with this knowledge.

A tour boat passed, its windows glittering.
Voices drifted from the gallery.
An outburst of shrill laughter sounded unpleasantly against his ears.
He returned inside and searched for Aurora in the crowd but was unable to see her.
The Shard portrait and the sundered house had red dots on them already.
He would buy
Dawn Above the Viaduct
.
Chloe promised to send it to him as soon as the exhibition ended but he insisted on taking it with him.

On the tube to Heathrow he imagined the unlit road, two sets of headlights clashing.
He visualised a car speeding from Sea Aster.
The bend beyond the gate that always required a slowing down before taking the right hand turn onto Mallard Cove.
Either car just needed to be slightly over the wrong side of the road for an accident to happen.
Theory was not the same as fact.
Instinct had no place in a court of law, psychic proclamations even less so.

He took out his mobile and checked back over the hundreds of texts he had received since the night of the accident.
Eventually, he found the one he wanted.
Berlin Rocks.
Just two words sent from her mobile.
A warning.
She knew where he was.
He had intended on deleting it but the call from Eleanor came and everything that happened before that moment became irrelevant.

The air was filled with musk.
Intimate secretions from animals and plants; an alluring fragrance on his pillow.
Hallucinatory throwbacks to torrid nights.
Why that word?
Its echo vibrated from the tracks, screamed in the whistling tunnels… musk… musk… musk.

‘You look wrecked,’ Ali said when he arrived home.
‘How was the exhibition?’

‘Four red dots on Nadine’s paintings before the night was over,’ he said.
‘This one is my favourite.’

‘It’s beautiful.’
Ali stood back to admire the painting.
‘Where will you hang it?’

‘In Nadine’s ward.’

‘The perfect place.’

‘That woman with the angel shop.
Did you ever meet her?’

‘Once, when I was visiting Mum.’

‘What do you make of her?’

‘She scared me… no… that’s not true.
She made me scared of myself… what I was doing.
But it was too late by then.’

‘Ali, are you okay?’

‘I’m fine… fine.
Why are you asking about Aurora?’

‘I’m not sure… can you remember anything more about the accident?’

‘Like what?’
She stiffened, raised her shoulders.

‘Could another car possibly have been involved?’

‘I was asleep when the car skidded.’
Her voice shook.
‘All I remember is the wall… knowing we were going to hit it.
But I can’t talk about it, Dad.
I just can’t.’

Sara, as if sensing her mother’s distress, began to cry.
She still had the kitten cry of a very young baby but it had a lusty determination that demanded instant attention.
Ali took her from the sling and pressed her to her shoulder.

The evenings were shortening.
The grass needed cutting.
Tomorrow he would work for a while on the attic before driving to Mount Veronica.
The wall, having withstood the force of Cora’s car, still formed a solid barricade around Sea Aster.
The overhanging trees had a late autumnal glow, as if the green leaves leaching into yellow and russet knew their time was limited and bloomed all the brighter because of it.