Limestone and Clay (20 page)

Nadia breathes out. A long controlled exhalation. Yoga breathing, Celia realises. Nadia is controlling herself with the rhythm of her breath. She is unwillingly impressed at Nadia's strength. There is the long looping liquid song of a skylark somewhere far above them. Celia breathes deeply too, and realises she needs to pee.

There is a sudden burst of activity below them. Dan raises his arm to Celia in some sort of signal and the ambulance crew begin moving towards the cave, their yellow tunics flashing in the sun. There is the glinting of binoculars from the onlookers. Celia looks at Nadia, at the startled hugeness of the pupils of her eyes. ‘Come on,' she says, and tries to take her arm. But Nadia stays put. She is like someone in a dream. Her lips move but she makes no sound. ‘You can't stay here,' Celia says. ‘Come on, Nadia, please. Si will want …'

But Nadia will not move or respond. So Celia, unable to bear the not-knowing any longer, runs bumpily down the hill, twists her ankle on a tussock, stumbles down to the mouth of the cave, to Dan, who puts an arm around her shoulder. Two of the rescue team emerge first.

‘Move back, please,' cries the telephone man. The photographer begins to work, darting around to get different angles. Then Miles emerges, and a stranger, and between them a stretcher on which lies Simon. His hair is wet and he is smeared with blood. His face is the colour of rock. One hand trails down, strangely soft and heavy, the loose fingers grazing the ground.

Dan holds her tight. The faces are grim, exhausted, depressed. Miles does not appear to recognise her. The ambulance crew take over. There is oxygen, blankets, bright optimistic movement. It is only minutes before the ambulance has driven away, lights flashing, siren intermittently wailing.

Celia looks for Nadia. She has walked down in her dream towards the place where the ambulance was parked. Her face is ashen and her mouth is open, as if she has got stuck in a gasp, and wisps of hair cling to her lips. She moves like a sleepwalker.

‘Christ,' Dan says, ‘we ought to take the poor kid home.'

But Miles approaches her. He is wearing a wetsuit, which, Nadia notices, is ripped on the back as if he's been savaged by terrible teeth, and there is blood.

‘Miles needs help,' Celia says, stepping forward, but Miles reaches Nadia first and puts his arms around her and Nadia sags. All the stony strength leaves her and she is small and shuddering and soft. Miles holds her against him.

‘Shock,' Celia says. ‘She should have gone in the ambulance – Miles too.'

‘We're driving them in,' the telephone man says. ‘Ironic that it wasn't the water,' he adds. ‘Lucky bastard was high and dry.'

‘He knew what he was doing,' Celia says, and the man looks at her as if she's mad.

People have surrounded Nadia and Miles and there are blankets and thermos flasks. ‘Be seeing you,' the man says and he goes over to take charge, to bundle Miles and Nadia into the Land Rover and drive them away.

Celia and Dan stand looking after it for a moment. The onlookers disperse. ‘Thank Christ he's alive, at least,' Dan says.

‘Yes,' Celia agrees doubtfully, remembering the awful blue-greyness of Si's unconscious face. She has no confidence.

‘Now it's you that needs looking after,' Dan says. ‘Let's get you home.'

‘We could follow them to the hospital and see how Si …'

‘We'll phone,' says Dan firmly. He takes her hand and leads her back to the car.

‘I'm dying for a pee,' Celia says.

‘Can you wait?'

‘Well I'm not doing it here.' The road is full of traffic now. It is an ordinary sunny Saturday. People are streaming out of the city to enjoy the air, the change of weather after weeks of greyness and rain. Celia has no idea how much time has passed. Her ankle begins to throb. ‘I'll wait till we get home.'

Light

Simon opens his eyes and is blinded by the bright, ridiculous, blaring light. It is like the shriek of angels. Even inside his lids the dark is diluted. There is no mineral tick and no roar. But there is sound. He concentrates on it, his brow furrowed in stiff ridges. Through all his memories of sound he searches until he finds it. It is the stuffy bustle of a woman's legs inside her skirt. That is it. He opens his eyes a slit and this time the light retreats, shrinks back through the square window until it is appropriately daylight. A sunny morning in a hospital ward. The woman is a nurse. She holds his wrist between her fingers; he feels the pads of them against his skin, perfect little cushions of flesh. ‘Simon?' she says. ‘Back with us at last.' The flesh of her face seems to fall forward away from her bones as she leans over him. Under her eyes are shiny grey hollows. There is orange powder clogged in the fluff on her upper lip. She is technicolour and warm and beautiful. She smiles at him. He smiles back but there is a time lag between his thought smile and the stretching of his muscles. He shifts slightly and there is pain in his back as if seams are splitting. There is a tight wiry stinging in his arm.

‘Mind your drip,' the nurse says. He tries to speak but his lips are as stiff as parchment and he is afraid that they will rip. His tongue is a loose parched thing, a curled leaf in the dry cavern of his mouth. He closes his eyes.

When he wakes he is somewhere else. The light is coming from another direction. There is no single square window as surely there was before. Was there? He opens his eyes gradually, letting in the ward by degrees – the squares on the ceiling, which are a white-painted corky stuff, the frosted-glass light set into the ceiling asymmetrically, annoyingly not in the centre of the squares. There are long windows with blinds pulled up, fat radiators. He can see, in the bed opposite, a man with a shiny bald head and closed eyes. Floral curtains are drawn around the other beds.

‘Simon?' says a voice. ‘I'm Doctor Rani.' She has black hair pulled back from her face. ‘Can you remember what happened, Simon?' This time he dares to smile and runs the dry tip of his tongue around his lips, feeling the flakiness, the sharp spikes of skin. ‘Water,' the doctor says, ‘just a sip.' She helps him. The water has the taste and temperature of the ward. She speaks in an exquisite, doctorly way, with exact measured doses of words. He could easily love her.

‘I remember,' he croaks.

‘Good. Good. Now, we have stitched your back. Very nasty lacerations. Dehydration. Hypothermia. You were in a bad way. You're lucky.' She starts to move away. Her hair is long, a loose plait down to the small of her back, a flat bluish shine.

She looks over her shoulder. ‘I'll return later. Nurse will freshen you up. Maybe a cup of tea later, eh?' She leaves him and her walk is silent almost, just a faint cottony rustle and the peeling sounds of her soles lifting off the floor. His heart rises and flutters, a loose light thing in the enormous freedom of his chest.

Nadia holds his fingers in her hand. She looks at his closed face, closed like a bud, his eyes, his lips sealed as if with wax. A terrible dread and tenderness and anger battle within her.

‘Simon,' she tries again. She has been watching him sleep and willing and fearing his awakening. Now he stirs. Opens his eyes. She starts, seeing how bloodshot they are, the grey irises standing out shockingly against the red.

‘Nadia?' he whispers.

‘Fool,' she says, smoothing his hair back from his eyes.

‘Don't say … I told you so,' he says with difficulty, his dry lips stretching into a sort of smile.

‘Hmmm.' Nadia plays with his fingers. They are limp and warm. The nails are broken as if he has been clawing at the rock. So, he is alive. She is glad. She loves him. If only it was as simple as that. She is the only one with him inside the flowered cubicle, but inside her head she is not the only one. Celia flickers there like a pale film between them. She has told herself she must wait until he is strong before she tackles him. But how can she wait? She needs Simon to know that she knows what he is, what he has done. If he doesn't know, then he will be operating in a different place from Nadia, a place with different premises and different rules. And how can they communicate then?

‘Simon. I saw Celia,' she begins, watching his face for the slightest sign. He gives none. ‘Celia told me …' she says experimentally, and from the little electric twitch of his muscles, the flinching of his eyes, she knows that it is all true. He does not ask, What?, and she does not tell him. The minute hope she had that it was a lie or Celia's fantasy falls away. He does not reply. His fingers splay uselessly open.

Nadia grasps his fingers and twists them in her own. ‘What can I do?' she says and her voice is thick with despair. ‘Simon. How am I supposed to bear it?'

‘Sorry,' he mumbles, and the insulting inadequacy of this word makes her snort. But what other words are there? Oh yes. ‘I love you,' he adds.

Nadia drops his hand. It lies crumpled on the white sheet like a dead flower. She stands up, walks around, pours herself a glass of tepid water from his jug.

Simon gives a weak cough and groans with the pain of it. A nurse sweeps the curtain aside. ‘All right?' she says. ‘Shall I help you turn?' She lumps Simon, groaning, onto his side. She smells of cigarettes. She puts a hand on Simon's forehead and frowns. Nadia notices a tattoo on her wrist, half hidden by her cuff. Despite her despair she finds herself grinning at this incongruity. ‘I'll get Doctor to pop in …' the nurse says. She frowns again, feeling his pulse and squinting at her watch. ‘Five minutes,' she says to Nadia.

Nadia nods and the nurse leaves, whisking the curtain shut again.

‘Oh Christ, Nadia, I hurt,' Simon groans. ‘It hurts in my chest.'

‘Bruising,' Nadia snaps. She will not feel sorry for him. Easy for him to evade the problem now, to retreat into pain. Oh, there is real pain. He is not putting it on, it isn't that she thinks that. His cheeks have suddenly paled. The tenderness rises again, flickering through her anger like weak sun through gathering clouds. She strokes his forehead. It is hot. ‘Simon,' she sighs. ‘You know I love you too. But how can I stand this?' She puts her knuckle in her mouth and bites, the hard pain preventing her tears. It is not fair to do this to Simon now. He is in
real
pain, real
physical
pain. Which after all may be easier to bear.

‘I'd better go,' she says. ‘I'll be back.'

‘Don't go,' Simon says. He grips her hand, but his is slippery with sweat, easy to pull away from. ‘Oh my head aches,' he mutters. ‘Nadia, why am I hurting more and more?'

‘I don't know. I'll tell the nurse you've got a headache on my way out.' Nadia kisses him on his mouth and feels a shock of angry desire. She picks up her bag. ‘Bye-bye. Try and sleep.' Her own head is swimming. She has lost track of time. She has not eaten or slept. Her head throbs still and her nipples sting. She frowns, remembering Sophie's voracious sucking. It is like a dream now, that, the greedy lips, the garish roses, the sticky drink, the game, the horrible sour milky mess and the terrible fright when at last she got home, of finding the flat empty, of finding Simon's note. Miles had answered the phone and organised everything. She cannot remember much more than the blackness thinning over the edges of the hills, the pale lemon of the dawn discovering the dewy huddles of sheep, the gnawing of anxiety. People had spoken to her one after another, urged her to do this or that, eat this, drink that, go home. But she had stood frozen while the dawn turned to day, while under the earth people risked their own lives to prise out her lover.

‘Wait,' Simon says. His eyes are closed now.

‘What?'

‘It should be yours,' he whispers. His voice has lost its colour, it is a paper voice.

Nadia cannot answer. She presses her lips together hard until she can feel the edges of her teeth against them. She squeezes his hand, and then she leaves.

Simon opens his eyes. There is the flowered material. What are the flowers supposed to be? They are very bright. Orange and brown. Are there brown flowers? The word ‘nasturtiums' comes from somewhere. Nadia has gone. When did she go? He can feel her finger stroking his palm, potter's fingers stroking as if he is clay, as if she is smoothing him out. He frowns and feels the rising furrows like the ridges on the wall of a cave, flow lines. Or like, more like, the lines on a clay mask, just made, soft glistening furrows. Wet corduroy. His father had lines that arched like a rainbow on his brow when he was surprised. There is a sound above the rustling clanging hospital sounds, a constant sound, high-pitched. Is it the light? His mother had soft arms. If you pinched the skin above her elbows it held the mark like dough. Made her laugh crossly, slap him away. Yes, it is the light that is high-pitched. What? Buzz. This is discovery. He should tell someone. He is in the world and he can hear the light. Humming. And Nadia's thighs are like silk. Her buttocks are coarse-skinned but the insides of her thighs … Sound and light are one. They are part of the same continuum. Is this not known? Has he not demonstrated it on the blackboard? It is so plainly true. Sound is low, from a mumble to a hum, light high, from a song to a whine to a scream which becomes … phosphorescence, moon shimmer, the scream of the sun which is pain too. What was it his mother said? The sun is heat and it is light and it is pain. There is the smell of heat and the taste of sun-baked stone. Surely he has tasted sun-baked stone? Or is it just the orange curtain. Marigolds? Chrysanthemums? He never paid attention. And his mother would always say … something … something about light, was it? He wants to shout. Why is it so bloody cold and why is he shuddering? What was it in the cave that he cannot remember? Something seen. Surely there is limestone in his eyes. ‘Nadia,' he says, and his voice is a real thing, a clear thing that rises from him, separate like a balloon. It will float out and somebody will see it, nudging between the curtains. Nadia.