The Betrayal (25 page)

H
e was loading
the last amplifier into his van outside The Bare Pit when his phone bleeped.
A text from Karin.
She was waiting for him in Sea Aster.
He sat into the driver seat and read her text again.
How had she entered his apartment?
The windows and door were securely locked.
There was only one answer.
She must have taken a spare key from the drawer in the kitchen and had her own copy cut.

Scented candles blazed on the dressing table.
A bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice sat on the bedside locker.
Karin was sitting up in his bed, pillows plumped behind her, the duvet pulled to her chin.
She looked pale in the candlelight, defenceless as he closed the bedroom door.
Her expression reminded him of a naughty child who expected to be punished yet the air was musky, vibrating with expectation.
He had a sudden urge to shake her and demand his key back.
What right had she to break into his apartment and assume everything would be okay with candlelight and champagne?

‘What a face.’
She shuddered in mock apprehension.
The duvet slid from one shoulder as she uncurled her hand and revealed the key.
‘You’re mad at me again.
But I knew Eleanor wouldn’t mind if I had my own key cut.’

‘But
I
mind – ’

‘Why?
You claim to love me yet you lock your door on me.
Are you angry because I took the initiative?’

‘Yes.
This should be my decision.’
The sense of unseen strings pulling on him intensified.
He had to keep thinking ahead, to try and anticipate what she would say or do next.
Her moods veered from fun-loving and sexy to hurt and petulant.
He never knew when an inadvertent remark would cause her eyes to harden, her lip to swell.

‘I want to celebrate our relationship, not hide it.’
She grasped both his hands and pulled him towards her.
‘It’s time you took the commitment we made to each other as seriously as I do.’

He filled their glasses with champagne but the feeling that he was participating in a ritual over which he had lost control persisted.
She untied the ribbons at the front of her bustier.
She stroked her breast, her fingers trailing from the nipple downwards.
He responded, as always, a rush of blood, a hardening.
Was she like an addiction, he wondered; the longing to consume greater than the satisfaction of consuming?
Her lingerie was becoming more provocative.
Ribbons strategically placed, heart shaped buttons straining to be opened, alluring slits within folds of lace or brazenly apparent.
They drank champagne and made love slowly.
Her eyes were pooled in blue but nothing he saw there related to the heat of her body, the promise in her seductive voice.
The realisation that she was faking came and went, blunted by the force of his passion.

She fell asleep immediately afterwards.
The room was stuffy, the bed too hot.
His head ached from the champagne.
It had fuelled their lovemaking.
What alarmed him more than her possessiveness was the effect it was having on him.
He felt as if he was ravaging her with the force of his desire, yet every moan and breathless gasp told him otherwise.
He had seen her eyelids flutter and stopped, afraid he was hurting her but she had urged him on.
Had the passion he believed they shared been an illusion?
He must have misread that unnerving awareness in her eyes.
The feeling that he was being observed.
Circus tricks.
The clown in the ring.
No, he refused to believe their relationship was based on such a dangerous lie.

I
awaken during the night
, my senses alert.
Stuart is rigid with pain.
I administer morphine but it makes no appreciable difference.
He is still coherent when he asks me to contact his oncologist in London.
He hands the phone to me and I answer the oncologist’s questions.
Stuart believes this is a glitch but I know by the oncologist’s voice that it’s the end game.
I call an ambulance and fight back panic as I await its arrival.
I knew this time would come but I’d hoped he would have another Christmas with me and sometime… way way down the line… I would deal with what’s happening now.

Stuart is hospitalised, hooked to tubes and monitors.
The ward bleeps, pings and rings with sound: voices, footsteps, flickering television screens.
Still resolute, he holds up his mobile and calls out the phone numbers of people I must ring to inform them of his death.

Jake snaps from sleep when I ring him.
Over four thousand miles separate us but I can tell he’s alone.

‘I’ll catch a flight,’ he says.

‘You’ll be too late.
I’m okay… really.
I just wanted you to know.
Will you prepare the children?’

‘Of course I will.
Nadine… is there anyone there to support you?’

‘Daveth’s on his way.
He and Stuart became good friends.
He’s helped us a lot.’

The pause that follows lengthens.
These days they punctuate our brief conversations.

‘I’m glad he’s there,’ Jake finally says and we bid each other a formal goodbye.

Stuart’s eyes are closed when Daveth arrives.
I’m not sure if he’s in a coma or in a morphine induced sleep.
Our breathing seems unnaturally loud, an affront to his ragged inhalations.

Three days pass before he releases a final shuddering sigh.
The relief of tears, of letting go, is overwhelming.
Outside the window seagulls lift into the frozen air and scatter into a drift of snow.

Little evidence of Stuart’s presence remains when Daveth drives me back to the lodge.
He had arranged for a charity organisation to collect his clothes.
Only his medicine gives any indication of the struggle he endured.
I feel both grief and relief at his passing, freed from the responsibility of normalising an abnormal situation yet bereft.
The space he left behind is too vast to fold over.

I find a letter on the dressing table.

M
y dear Nadine
,

The last fight is the longest but now I’m at peace with myself.
We’ve shared much together these last few months and I’ll always be grateful to you for bringing me such comfort.
Thank you for all the Christmases we’ve shared and for making me part of your lovely family.
Do you remember what the chaplain said to us when Sara’s life support machine was switched off?
Her soul was free to fly to God.
I’m about to take that flight and am comforted in the belief that she’s waiting for me.

I’ve left you a token of my gratitude.
My solicitor will be in touch with you to discuss the details.
I hope it makes a difference to the new life you’ve chosen.

Goodbye my beloved niece.

Stuart

T
he day is
clear but cold when we sail down the Gastineau Channel and scatter Stuart’s ashes over the side of
Eyebright
.
Daveth reads a passage from the bible and I recite a poem by Emily Dickinson.
Because I could not stop for death.
He kindly stopped for me…’

Unlike Jake, I lack the courage of the atheist or Eleanor’s self-assured convictions.
I’m an agnostic, clutching at straws, and, so, I imagine Stuart’s spirit freed from all earthly yearnings as he floats towards my mother’s welcoming arms.

Afterwards, I enter the cabin where I slept alone during those weeks when we were immersed in ice.
Daveth comes to me, as I knew he would.
I’ve no sense of guilt that our passion should exist alongside the grey immobility of death.
I don’t think of Jake or Karin.
Nor do I sense Stuart’s presence.
Nothing dents our pleasure and when it is over we rest in my narrow bunk, which should cause us some discomfort but manages to mould itself effortlessly around us.

H
e was dreaming about snow
, chasing Nadine through mountainous drifts that slowed his footsteps while she ran on ahead.
He had no idea why she was in danger but he had to catch her before it was too late.
The snow cracked and they fell together into a white crevasse.
He moaned her name as they reached for each other but the snow heaved and she slid from his arms.
He awoke with a start, unaware of where he was until he realised Karin was shaking his shoulder.

She lay on her side, her chin propped on her hand.

‘What’s wrong?’
He was filled with the relief of being released from a nightmare, aroused, also, he realised, but that desire was already fading.

‘You were talking in your sleep,’ she said.

‘I never talk in my sleep,’ he protested.

‘How do you know?’

‘Nadine would have told me…’ He stopped, pulled back too late.
He had upset her again.

‘You were dreaming of her.’
The bedside lamp, angled directly at him, reminded him of an interrogative spotlight.
‘You called me Nadine and then you tried to kiss me.
How do you think that makes me feel?’

Did she have a sixth sense?
Were her fingers capable of probing his unconscious?
They probed everywhere else.
He touched her shoulder.
Her flesh was warm but unyielding.

‘This is ridiculous, Karin.
You can’t hold me responsible – ’

‘Can’t I?’
A surly, almost childish expression crossed her face.
Her bottom lip swelled.
It’s just blubber, he thought.
A muscle containing too much fat.
The image was vaguely unpleasant.
She flung back the duvet and flounced from the bed.
‘It’s time you realised I’m not a surrogate for Nadine.
You’re always talking about her.
And now you’re doing it in your sleep.’

‘That’s a lie.’
He readjusted the lamp and rubbed his eyes, too tired for an argument.
‘Do you want me to apologise?
Okay, I apologise because my wife’s name inadvertently passed my lips when I was in an unconscious state.’

‘Were you fucking her in your unconscious state?’
She sat in front of the dressing table and brushed her hair with fast, furious strokes.
Strands of hair bristled, charged by her anger.

He hated her casual use of the word and its application to Nadine.
‘What if I was?
Am I to be punished for my dreams now?’

The hairbrush struck his forehead before he could duck.
His shock was so great he hardly noticed the pain.
She lifted a bottle of perfume, raised her arm to fling it at him.
He sprang from the bed and forced it from her fingers.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
he shouted.
‘You wake me up with some crazy accusation than start attacking me.
Are you trying to wreck this relationship?
If so, full marks.
I’m out of here.’

She grabbed his clothes, flung them at him.
‘Then go, right now.’

He dressed quickly.
His forehead throbbed.
He touched it gingerly.
A lump was already rising on his temple.
He needed to calm down.
This was a game and it had been played before.
Rows that erupted out of nowhere, tantrums followed by passion on the edge of violence.

He reached the bedroom door and stopped, alerted by her cry.
She was slumped at the dressing table, her face buried in her arms.

‘Karin… what is it?’
He stood behind her and drew her upright until their eyes met in the mirror.
The rush of blood to her face had subsided and she was pale, almost ashen.

‘Hearing her name like that… all those memories you have.
I’m jealous of them.’

‘Are they also part of my punishment?’
He pressed his fingers into her shoulders, his knuckles braced against her supple flesh.
‘I’m with you, not Nadine.
How often must I convince you of that?’

‘You think I’m a possessive bitch who’s demanding far more than you’re willing to give,’ she continued as if he had not spoken.
‘Even when you’re fucking me you’re thinking of her.’

‘Stop saying that.’
His fingers pressed harder, kneaded the knobbles of tension under her smooth skin.

‘Isn’t that why you want to hurt me?’

‘I said
stop –
’

‘You try to hide it but I know it’s there.’

She was waiting for him to overwhelm her, he thought.
To drag her back to bed and make love until they were both exhausted.
He released the pressure on her shoulders and rubbed his hands together, shocked by the ferocity of his thoughts.
The room felt airless.
He opened the window.
The city was on the move, a slow snail of traffic along the quays but the early morning noises could not reach them.
He inhaled and exhaled deeply before turning around.

She had taken a facecloth from the ensuite and soaked it in cold water.

‘I’m sorry I lost my temper, Jake.’
She stretched upwards and pressed the cloth to his forehead.
He winced against its coldness.
Her anger seemed to have abated but he was unable to gauge her mood.

‘I always seem to be apologising to you.’
She smiled, wryly.
‘Let me make it up to you tonight.
I’ll pick up something in the supermarket and call over to Sea Aster after work.
What would you like?
Fish would be nice for a change.’
She glanced at the clock.
‘Gosh!
Is that the time?
I’d better shower.
I’ve an appointment in an hour with a client.’

‘I can’t see you tonight,’ he said.
‘You know I always have band practice on Wednesdays.’

‘Can’t you cancel?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Okay.
I’ll drive over around ten.
You should be finished by then.’

Her resentment of Shard had been growing in recent weeks.
They were now gigging two nights a week and on Sunday afternoons in Julia’s Tavern, a pub fronting the Liffey boardwalk.
Then there was band practice on Wednesday nights and Saturday afternoons.
All too much, she said.

He listened to the gush of the power shower from the ensuite.
Was she waiting for him to join her, as he usually did, the two of them slip-sliding together in the soapy wash?
This possibility increased his lethargy.
He had sought oblivion in her arms but she no longer deadened his sense of loss.
The sounds from the ensuite grew brisker.
The clink of jars and bottles, potions and lotions, familiar yet always mysterious.
She emerged, wrapped in a white towel, her head turbaned in a smaller one.
She dressed swiftly, each move deliberately choreographed to be noticed.

‘I’ll ring you later,’ she said.
‘Make sure to set the burglar alarm before you leave.
Don’t use
all
your energy at rehearsal.’
She fluttered her eyelashes, a teasing promise as she opened the door.
‘You’ll need some for later.’

After she left, he entered the bathroom, still steamy and scented.
He rasped his hand over dark stubble and looked closer.
Was there grey among the black, a faint frosting?
The longing to hear Nadine’s voice rushed over him.
Marital tics, phantom pains, he no longer cared.

She would not be returning to Sea Aster.
She intended settling in London in the New Year but, until then, she was staying on in Alaska to see the aurora borealis.
Stuart was dead.
Ashes to ashes, scattered from the deck of Eyebright.
Jake imagined her and Daveth Carew, the two of them freed from the spectre of death and all alone in the icy reaches.
There was only one place they would go to keep warm and rejoice at being alive.

He turned on the shower.
The pressure of the water needled against his skin.
The bathroom filled with steam.
He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the marble tiles.
The urge to scream came and went.
Finally, unable any longer to endure the pressure of the water he stumbled from the shower.
Pain shot through his foot when he stubbed his big toe against the edge of the tray.
Blood spurted from the gash.
He limped on his heel towards the medicine cabinet.
Nothing there except pill bottles, lined neatly in a row.
He grabbed toilet tissue and twisted it around the wound then hobbled into the kitchen to search in the presses for bandages.
The tissue was soaked with blood by the time he found a box with a red cross on one of the high shelves.
After bandaging his foot he stretched upwards to replace the medicine chest.
It jammed against something inside the press and he was unable to close the door.
He shoved a serving dish to one side and noticed a ceramic box.
He drew it forward into the light.
The lid curved in two sections.
A heart split in two, the Willow Passion glaze unmistakable.
He carried it to the breakfast counter and stared at the pale green willow fronds, the hidden lovers.

He laid the two sections of the lid carefully on the counter.
The first thing he lifted out was a menu from Lucientes, the tapas bar where Ali worked.
Last week Karin had been in London for two days on business.
That must be when she dined there.
His chest tightened as he imagined his daughter serving patatas bravas or tortilla, unaware, as she must have been, that she was speaking to the woman who spent most nights in her father’s bed.
He removed a publicity brochure from Silver Ridge University, newspaper features about First Affiliation, a flyer from Brian’s pottery.
Inside a small plastic bag he found shoelaces from a discarded pair of runners, a lock of his hair, a button from his shirt and a comb that he recognised as his own.
At the bottom of the box he found the photographs.
The first one had been cut from a magazine called
Families Matter
.
The magazine had published an interview with Eleanor prior to her conference.
She had allowed the editor to use a family photograph that had been taken shortly before Rosanna’s death.
Rosanna was in her wheelchair, flanked by himself and Nadine, her four great-grandchildren seated on the floor in front of her.
Eleanor stood behind the wheelchair, her hands resting on her mother’s thin shoulders.
Eight people formed the configuration but it was Eleanor with her imperious sweep of blonde hair and autocratic eyebrows who dominated the group.
Nadine was faceless, recognisable only by her clothes, her long hands and red hair.
Karin had used a cutting knife with skill and the circle that once featured Nadine’s face was as exact as a bullet hole.
The photographs underneath had been taken from Sea Aster.
Six photographs, all celebrating different family occasions.
Nadine had been defaced with the same precision in each one.

Chilled and sickened by his discovery Jake shoved everything back into the box and replaced it.
In the bathroom he removed the sodden tissue from around his foot and flushed it down the toilet.
He poured a glass of water and gulped it down, swallowed hard.
The pressure in his chest intensified, as if Karin was drawing her nails gently yet insistently over the membrane of his heart.
He had to end this relationship before it destroyed him.
He left his key to her apartment on the kitchen table and set the alarm code.
He took the elevator to the car park and drove away.