Letters to the Lost (45 page)

Stella turned her head away as tears drove their red hot needles into her eyeballs. A mini film reel played in her head, showing Nancy pushing a pram into a bomb crater.
I never said nothing about keeping it
.

‘Stella?’

She was so tired. She just wanted Nancy to leave, and for the film in her head to finish. She nodded. ‘My coat. At the Vicarage. The key’s in the pocket.’

‘Thanks darling, I knew I could count on you.’ Nancy’s kiss struck her on the cheek, and the chair scraped back as she stood up. ‘I’ll come back and see you soon.’

‘Nancy!’

Stella stumbled out of bed. The floor was like ice beneath her feet as she ran after Nancy, who was walking briskly up the ward. She turned with an expression of alarm.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Not the violet room. I don’t want you to have that one. I don’t want you to go in there. Not at all – do you understand?
Not at all
.’

Nancy laughed, nervously. ‘All right, keep your hair on. I’ll lock the door and keep it locked until the day you move in, if it makes you feel better.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise, all right? I promise.’

Even so, as Stella watched her walk away, knotting her silk scarf and settling her handbag on her arm, she felt like she’d lost the only thing she had left.

36

2011

Hi Dan, just a quick one to say sorry I haven’t been in touch for a couple of days. I hope you’re feeling lots better than you were on Wednesday and the cold didn’t get any worse. It’s my lunch hour now so I don’t have very long, but I’ve been thinking of you a lot. Let me know that you’re OK!

Well, I made it through my first week of work. I’ve got to say, working in a dry cleaner’s wasn’t top of my list of career choices but I actually like it. The people I work with are really nice. There’s Mr Wahim, who owns it, and Samia who I work with mostly, and another lady I haven’t met yet who does Saturdays. Samia and Mr Wahim are both a lot older than me, and they boss me around but in a really kind way. It reminds me of being back home in Leeds with my Gran. I told Mr Wahim about the Lunch Club and he says I can have an extra half hour’s break on Mondays to sing for them. I thought that was pretty nice of him. He also gave me an advance on my first week’s wages to get a proper haircut and buy some make-up. Yesterday after the shop shut I went along to the hairdressers down the road where they had a trainee night. I now look almost presentable! The last time my hair was cut it was by me, with some not very sharp scissors, so it was a total state.

I waited for the postman this morning but the certificates you ordered from the National Records Office didn’t arrive. Hopefully they’ll come tomorrow. I’ll let you know.

You are all right, aren’t you? The worst bit about my new job is not being able to email every morning, but I want you to know I haven’t forgotten Stella or given up believing that we’ll find her. I’m sure these certificates will show up something and we can pick up the search again with new information.

Look after yourself – for me, and for Stella.

Jess x

She pressed ‘send’ and waited a few moments, but the clock in the corner of the computer screen said six minutes to two and she had to get back to work. She refreshed her mailbox, but nothing came through so she logged off and left.

It was almost Easter and the shop windows were dressed with yellow and purple and green. Last month’s snow had melted and you could almost feel the ground warming beneath your feet, the world waking up again. For the first time in ages Jess felt a sense of optimism, like something good was going to happen.

Which it did, as soon as she arrived back at the shop. Mr Wahim called her into the back and held aloft a white box tied with gold ribbon.

‘Is Friday afternoon – that deserves a celebration, no? You like baklava, Jess?’

She discovered she did like it, very much. Samia put the kettle on and they huddled in the little back room amongst all the plastic-shrouded garments awaiting collection, peering out for customers and licking honey from their fingers. ‘You having fun this weekend, Jess? You out on the town dancing the night away now you have your smart new hairstyle?’ Mr Wahim asked, his dark eyes twinkling. He was small and neat, with a fringe of snow-white hair at the sides of his head and a matching bristling moustache, from which he now brushed crumbs of pastry. He reminded Jess of the gnome that had stood beside the front door at Gran’s house, welcoming visitors.

She shook her head. ‘I haven’t really made any friends down here to go out with.’ There was a girl called Jazz in the hostel with whom she’d struck up a tentative friendship, but it was early days. ‘Except you two. Don’t suppose you fancy a bit of clubbing?’

Mr Wahim grinned. ‘What do you say, Samia? We show these youngsters how it is done, yes?’ In the confined space he lifted his arms and performed a sort of John Travolta tribute dance that made Jess shout with laughter and Samia roll her eyes. She was the Hardy to Mr Wahim’s Laurel, the straight man to his clown. Samia’s default setting was disapproval, but it was a poor disguise for her kindness.

‘You wouldn’t catch me in those places. All hot and crowded with intoxicated people making fools of themselves.’ She pressed her finger into the corners of the box, picking up the last sticky crumbs of honeyed pistachio and almond, then hauled herself heavily to her feet. ‘Right, are we ready to face the rush?’ She eyed the row of garments lined up for Friday collection and frowned, pushing the hangers back from a dark suit. ‘Mr Holt should have picked this up by now. I try to ring him this morning, but there is no reply. His brother’s wedding is tomorrow – see? I wrote it here, on the ticket.’

Mr Wahim glanced at the label she showed him and shrugged. ‘Maybe he has another suit?’

Samia looked sceptical. ‘Maybe he has forgotten. You know what Mr Holt is like. Forgotten ticket, forgotten loyalty card, forgotten credit card.’ She shook her head as she picked up the telephone. ‘I will try ringing him again. Otherwise he will be banging on the door again when we have locked up, you mark my words.’

As Samia dialled, Jess waited for her heart to steady after the beat it had missed.
Mr Holt
. Hastily she checked the label attached to the suit’s hanger: there was no first name or initial. Following Mr Wahim into the front she tried to sound casual.

‘Holt? That wouldn’t be Will Holt by any chance?’

‘Mr Will Holt – yes! He comes in often, bringing his suits for work. You know him?’

‘Yes. Yes, I know him. He’s . . . he’s nice,’ Jess finished in a rush. ‘He came to see me when I was in hospital with pneumonia. If he doesn’t come in this afternoon I could always drop the suit round to him when I finish, if you like. I owe him a favour.’

Samia came through from the back, her forehead pleated with concern. ‘Still no answer. I’m sure he has forgotten.’

Mr Wahim beamed. ‘Not to worry – if he does not come our excellent new colleague has offered to deliver it to him. Thank you Jess – it’s good to provide our regular customers with tip-top service. The address is in the book. You see, I knew you were going to be great asset to Team Wahim!’

The box containing the little foil blister packs of pills was on the mantelpiece. Will could see it from where he lay on the sofa and had been trying to summon the energy to get up and get it for the last four hours. Maybe longer. He had no idea what the time was.

The phone had rung again, but he hadn’t even considered answering it. The drifts of paper from last night’s research had settled around him, like week-old city snow, and the medical information leaflet that had come with the pills had fallen into it and become buried. Lost. Will stirred the lumpen porridge inside his head in search of what it had said about side effects. The list had been long and reading it had made him feel even more depressed. There was a certain black humour to be found in that, he supposed.

He stood up unsteadily, and waited for his head to stop spinning. In the glass of the picture hanging above the fireplace he could see his reflection, superimposed upon the landscape like a ghost. It was a photograph he’d taken in Venice with Milla, standing under a bridge in a sudden summer shower. He’d had it blown up and framed because it was arty and cool, but now it seemed to release its toxic memories like the fetid, sulphurous smell of the canals.
A city for lovers,
he remembered her smirking as she read from some guide book.
How ironic.

Sexual dysfunction. Of course – that was one of the side effects of antidepressants – how could he forget? At least he didn’t have to worry about that this time, since the chance would be a miracle. Oh, and weight loss too – that was another one. Hallelujah, bring it on – except who cared? The determination he’d felt when the stupid wedding invitation had arrived was a distant memory now, impossible to recapture. He’d been going to turn his life around, but instead he’d crashed it into a fucking wall.

In a sudden burst of energy he crossed the room and yanked the picture down with such force that the hook was wrenched out of the plaster. It didn’t make him feel better, but at least the pills were within reach now.
It’ll take a little while before you feel the benefits,
the doctor’s voice said again in his head. He picked up the box and stared at the label. Mr William Holt. One Tablet To Be Taken, Once A Day, Avoid Alcohol While Taking This Medicine.

Alcohol.

Now there was an idea.

He tossed the pills back where he’d found them and kicked his way through the mulch of paper to the kitchen. In the back of a cupboard he found a bottle of Southern Comfort. Christ knew where it had come from; he didn’t even like the stuff, but there it was. And here
he
was, a Southerner, very much in need of Comfort. It was a match made in heaven.

He took a glass from out of the cold water in the sink, wiping off the film of grease that rimed it like uneven margarita salt with a tea towel. Then he unscrewed the top, filled the smeared glass and began his descent into blissful anaesthesia.

Number 343 had steps up to a blue front door and three doorbells, two of them neatly labelled with names that weren’t Holt. Jess pressed the third, anonymous one and stood back, heart jumping.

I brought your suit. No, no problem – they said you’d probably just forgotten. Yes, I work there now, so . . . yes, I’ll probably see you next time you come in. Enjoy the wedding.
That would be all there was to it. Thirty seconds at most. Friendly but completely casual, like she hadn’t thought about him at least a hundred times a day for the last month. Like she hadn’t been glad when he didn’t turn up to collect the suit because it gave her a chance to go to his house, and hadn’t rehearsed what she was going to say, over and over on the bus.

The suit was surprisingly heavy and difficult to carry in its slippery polythene wrapping. Her skin was damp where it was draped over her arm. She readjusted it and moistened her lips, wondering whether she’d got the right doorbell, and if she should press again. As she did so it struck her that it was Friday evening; that the air was warm and sweet with spring and the pavements outside the pubs she’d passed had been crowded with early evening drinkers. Of course – he’d be out with friends, drinking expensive lager and deciding where to go on to eat.

Feeling stupid she turned to go down the steps again and almost collided with someone: a girl in jogging gear, her slim brown arms glistening with perspiration like an advert for something wholesome. Shit. His girlfriend?

‘Can I help?’

‘No. It’s fine. I was just—’

‘Will forgot his dry cleaning again, huh?’ The girl stopped at the top of the steps, bending one leg and catching hold of her foot to stretch out her muscles. She had an Australian accent and the kind of figure Jess had only seen in magazines before.

‘Er, yes. I’ll just—’

But the girl had already opened the front door and walked into the hallway. ‘He never answers his door,’ she called over her shoulder as she unlocked the door of the ground-floor flat. ‘He’s down there, in the basement. If he’s genuinely not in just leave it at the bottom of the stairs. It’ll be safe.’

‘Oh . . . OK. Thanks.’ Clutching her slithery burden Jess hurried past to the stairs. The upstairs hall was wide and elegant, with fancy plasterwork like the icing on a wedding cake and polished wood banisters. The staircase that led down to the basement was narrow and dark. It ended in a space the size of a broom cupboard in which there was a single door. She knocked, and was just looking around for somewhere to leave the suit when the door opened.

She almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was dishevelled and the lower half of his face shadowed with what must have been several days’ worth of growth. He was wearing a t-shirt and jeans and his feet were bare. Her first thought was that he looked ridiculously sexy. Her second, as he stood swaying slightly and squinting to bring her into focus, was that he was staggeringly drunk.

‘I – I brought your suit. From the dry cleaner’s.’ The speech she had rehearsed on the bus was meaningless in the light of this unexpected turn of events. She began to back away, worried that she’d interrupted some kind of celebration. ‘Sorry – they thought your brother’s wedding might be tomorrow.’

He slumped heavily back against the wall, and then his knees buckled and he slid slowly down it until he was sitting on the floor with his head in his hands.

‘Oh fuck,’ he said.

37

He wasn’t sure what had happened – a machete attack perhaps? All he knew was that it was OK as long as he didn’t move his head. His mouth felt like it was filled with wallpaper paste.

A shard of memory drove itself into his throbbing brain: Jess Moran emptying the remains of a bottle of Southern Comfort down the sink. He gave a low moan, which ricocheted off the inside of his skull and made him clutch his head in agony. More fragments of the evening impaled his consciousness. Jess helping him to take off his t-shirt as he sat on the bed. Jess bringing him a glass of water and pulling the curtains closed. In a moment of dazzling optimism it occurred to him that he must have dreamed it, because why the hell would Jess Moran be in his flat? But then he heard the bedroom door open and a soft voice saying,