Later I learnt of the correspondence between them; of Dr Peacock’s repeated attempts to make contact; of Daddy’s refusal to answer him. Why did Dr Peacock care? Perhaps it was from a feeling of guilt; or loyalty to an old friend; or pity for the little girl caught up in the tragedy.
In any case, he paid our bills, watched over us from afar, while the house still stood empty, unused and unloved, boxed-up like an unwanted gift, packed to the rafters with memories.
I turned eighteen. I found my own place. There in the centre of Malbry: a tiny cube on a fourth floor, with a living-room-slash-bedroom, a kitchenette and a half-tiled bathroom that smelt of damp. I visited Daddy every week — sometimes he even knew who I was. And though for a while I was sure I’d be recognized, finally I understood. No one cared about Emily White. No one even remembered her.
But nothing ever disappears. Nothing ever really ends. For all the safety and love that Nigel gave me, I realize now — if a little late — that all I had done in following him was to substitute one golden cage for a different set of bars.
But now, at last, I am free of them all. Free of my parents, free of the doctor, free of Nigel. So who am I now? Where do I go? And how many others have to die before I am free of Emily?
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blueeyedboy: Very moving, Albertine. I sometimes ask myself the same thing —
Part Four
smoke
1
You are viewing the webjournal of blueeyedboy.
Posted at: 15:06 on Wednesday, February 13
Status: restricted
Mood: mellow
Listening to: Voltaire: ‘Blue-eyed Matador’
I slept till long after midday today. Told Ma I’d taken some time off work. I don’t sleep much at the best of times. But recently I’ve been averaging only two or three hours a night, and the latest quid pro quo with Albertine must have taken more out of me than I’d thought. Still, it was worth it, don’t you think? After twenty silent years, suddenly she wants to talk.
Can’t say I really blame her. Traditionally, raising the dead has always had serious consequences. In her case, inevitably, the tabloids will come out in droves. Money, murder and madness always make for excellent Press. Can she survive the exposure? Or will she remain in hiding here; in tacit, furtive acceptance of a past that never happened?
When I’d showered and changed my clothes I went to look for Albertine. The Pink Zebra café on Mill Road; it’s where she goes when she feels the need to be someone else. It was six o’clock. She was sitting alone at the counter, with a cup of hot chocolate and a cinnamon bun. Underneath her red coat, I saw, she was wearing a sky-blue dress.
Albertine in blue, I thought. This may just be my lucky day.
‘May I join you?’
She gave a start at the sound of my voice.
‘If you’d rather not socialize, I promise I won’t say a word. But that hot chocolate looks wonderful, and—’
‘No. Please. I’d like you to stay.’
Grief always gives her face a kind of emotional nakedness. She held out her hand. I took it. A thrill ran through me; a tremor that moved from the soles of my feet right up into the roots of my hair.
I wonder if she felt it too; her fingertips were slightly cold, her small hand not quite steady in mine. There’s something almost childlike about her, a kind of passive acceptance that Nigel must have taken for vulnerability. I, of course, know better; but, as she must know, I’m a special case.
‘Thank you.’ I took a seat next to her. Ordered Earl Grey and whichever pastry was highest in calories. I hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours, and I was suddenly ravenous.
‘Lemon meringue pie?’ She smiled. ‘That seems to be your favourite.’
I ate the pie, and she drank her hot chocolate, leaving the cinnamon bun untouched. The process of eating makes a man look strangely inoffensive, somehow; all weapons laid down in a common purpose.
‘How are you coming to terms with it?’ I said, when the pie was finished.
‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ she said.
At least she didn’t pretend she didn’t know what I was talking about. A few days more and she won’t have the choice any more. All it will take is a word to the Press, and the story will be out, whether she likes it or not.
‘I’m sorry, Albertine,’ I said.
‘It’s over, B.B. I’ve moved on.’
Well, that was a lie. No one moves on. The wheel just keeps on turning, that’s all, creating the illusion of momentum. Inside it, we are all rats; running in growing desperation towards a painted blue horizon that never gets any closer.
‘Lucky you, moving on. At least being dead gives closure.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said.
‘Well, everyone sides with the victim, of course. Deserving or not, everyone mourns as soon as the mark is safely dead. But what about the rest of us? The ones with problems of our own? Being dead is pretty straightforward. Even my brothers managed that. But living with guilt is something else. It’s not easy being the bad guy—’
‘Is that what you are?’ she said mildly.
‘I think we’ve both established that.’
The ghost of a smile crossed her face, like a wisp of cloud on a summer’s day. ‘What happened between you and Nigel?’ she said. ‘He never talked about you much.’
Didn’t he? Good. ‘Does it matter now?’
‘I just want to understand. What was it between you two?’
I shrugged. ‘We had issues.’
‘Don’t we all?’
I laughed at that. ‘Our issues were different. The whole of our family was different.’
Her eyes skittered for a moment. She has remarkably beautiful eyes; blue as a fairy tale, flecked with gold. Mine are grey in comparison; chilly, they tell me; changeable.
‘Nigel didn’t tell me much about any of his family,’ she said, locating her cup of hot chocolate and bringing it carefully to her lips.
‘As I mentioned, we weren’t close.’
‘It wasn’t that. I know families. He couldn’t stay away, somehow. As if there were something keeping him here—’
‘That would be Ma,’ I told her.
‘But Nigel hated his mother—’ She stopped. ‘I’m sorry. I know you’re devoted to her.’
‘Is that what he told you?’ My voice was dry.
‘I just assumed — well, you live with her.’
‘Some people live with cancer,’ I said.
Albertine hardly ever smiles. I think she finds it difficult to understand those tiny facial variables, the difference between a smile and a frown, a grimace of pain. Not that her face is expressionless. But social conventions are not for her, and she does not express what she does not feel.
‘So why do you stay?’ she said at last. ‘Why don’t you get away, like Nigel?’
‘Get away?’ I gave a sharp laugh. ‘Nigel didn’t get away. He ended up half a mile from home. And with the girl next door, no less. You think that counts as getting away? But then, you’re hardly an expert. You both ended up in the same gutter, but at least Nigel was looking up at the stars.’
She was silent for such a long time that I wondered if I’d gone too far. But she is tougher than she looks.