I looked down, more affected than I wanted to admit. ‘I know. Thanks.’
She shifted in her seat and winced, putting her hand to her stomach.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
She gave a pained smile. ‘He’s a little restless.’
‘He?’
‘He,’ she said firmly, stealing a look across at Paul. ‘Definitely he.’
The plates were cleared away, desserts and more drinks ordered. I had coffee, knowing if I had another beer I’d regret it in the morning. I leaned back in my chair, savouring the slight buzz of well-being.
And then my good mood crashed around me.
From nowhere I caught a waft of musk, lightly spiced and unmistakable. A second later it had vanished, lost amongst the stronger odours of food and beer, but I knew I hadn’t imagined it. Recognition ran through me like an electric shock. For an instant I was back on the tiled floor of my hallway, the metallic stink of blood blending with a more delicate, sensual scent.
Grace Strachan’s perfume.
She’s here. I bolted upright in my seat, frantically looking around. The restaurant was a confusion of sound and colour. I scanned the faces, desperately searching for a telltale feature, some flaw in a disguise. She must be here somewhere. Where is she?
‘Coffee?’
I stared blankly up at the waitress who’d appeared next to me.
She was in her late teens, a little overweight. Her perfume cut through the cooking and bar-room smells: a cheap musk, heavy and cloying. Up close, it was nothing like the subtle perfume that Grace Strachan used.
Just similar enough to fool me for a second.
‘You order coffee?’ the waitress prompted, giving me a wary look.
‘Sorry. Yes, thank you.’
She set it down and moved on. My arms and legs prickled, shivery with the aftermath of adrenaline. I realized my hand was clenched so tightly around its scar that it hurt. Idiot. As if Grace could have followed you… Awareness of how brittle my nerves were, even here, left a sour taste in my mouth. I tried to force myself to relax but my heart was still racing. All at once there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. The noise and smells were unbearable.
‘David?’ Sam was looking at me with concern. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet.’
‘I’m just a little tired. I’m going to head on back.’ I had to get outside. I started fumbling notes from my wallet, not seeing what they were.
‘Wait, we’ll drive you.’
‘No!’ I put my hand on her arm before she could turn to Paul. ‘Please. I’ll be fine, really.’
‘You sure?’
I made myself smile. ‘Certain.’
She wasn’t convinced, but I was already pushing my chair back, dropping a handful of notes on to the table without knowing if it was enough or not. Paul and the others were still busy talking, but I didn’t stop to see if anyone else noticed me leave. It was all I could do not to break into a run as I barged through the door into the street. I sucked in deep breaths of the cool spring air, but didn’t stop even then. I kept walking, not knowing or caring where I was heading, wanting only to keep moving.
I stepped off the kerb and jumped back as a horn blared deafeningly to my left. I stumbled back on to the pavement as a trolley car rattled past inches in front of me, its windows bright splashes of light in the darkness. As soon as it had passed I hurried across the road, taking turnings at random. It had been years since I’d been to Knoxville, and I had no idea of where I was and even less of where I was going.
I didn’t care.
It was only when I saw the stretch of blackness beyond the streetlights ahead of me that I finally slowed. I could feel the river even before I saw it, a moistness in the air that finally brought me back to myself. I was drenched in sweat as I leaned on the railings. The bridges that spanned the tree-lined banks were skeletal arches in the darkness, dotted with lights. Below them, the Tennessee River sedately idled past, just as it had for thousands of years. And probably would for thousands more.
What the hell’s wrong with you? Running scared just because of a cheap perfume. But I felt too wrung out to be ashamed. Feeling as alone as I ever had in my life, I took my phone out and scrolled through my contacts. Jenny’s name and number were highlighted on the illuminated display. I held my thumb poised over the dial key, badly wanting to talk to her again, to hear her voice. But it was the early hours of the morning back in the UK, and even if I called her, what would I say?
It had all been said already.
‘Got the time?’
I gave a start as the voice came from beside me. I was in an area of darkness between streetlights, and all I could make out of the man was the red glow of his cigarette. Belatedly, I realized that the street was deserted. Stupid. All this way just to get mugged.
‘Half past ten,’ I told him, tensing for the attack that would come next.
But he only gave a nod of thanks and walked on, disappearing into the dark beyond the next streetlight. I shivered, and not only because of the damp chill coming from the river.
The welcoming yellow lights of a taxi were approaching on the lonely street. Flagging it down, I went back to my hotel.
The cat is your earliest memory.
There must be others before it, you know that. But none so vivid. None that you take out and replay time after time. So real that even now you can still feel the sun on the back of your head, see your shadow on the ground in front of you as you bend over.
The soil is soft and easy to turn. You use a piece of wood broken off the fence, a piece of white picket starting to soften and rot. It threatens to break again, but you don’t have far to dig.
It isn’t deep.
You smell it first. A cloying, sweet stink that’s both familiar and like nothing you’ve smelled before. You stop for a while, sniffing the damp soil, nervous but more excited. You know you shouldn’t be doing this, but the curiosity is too great. Even then you had questions; so many questions. But no answers.
The wood hits something almost as soon as you continue digging. A different texture in the soil. You begin to scrape away the final covering of earth, noticing that the smell has grown stronger. Finally, you can see it: a cardboard shoebox, its sides soaked and rotting.
The box starts to disintegrate when you try to lift it, wet and sagging from the weight inside. You quickly set it down again. Your fingers feel clumsy and strange as you take hold of the lid, your chest tight. You’re scared, but excitement easily outweighs your fear.
Slowly, you remove the shoebox lid.
The cat is a dirty mound of ginger. Its half-closed eyes are pale and dull, like deflated balloons after a party. Insects are crawling in its fur, beetles scuttling from the daylight. You stare, rapt, as a fat worm coils and contracts, dripping from its ear. Taking the stick, you prod the cat. Nothing happens. You prod again, harder. Again, nothing. A word forms in your mind, one you’ve heard before, but never really comprehended until now.
Dead.
You remember the cat as it was. A fat, bad-tempered torn, a thing of spite and claws. Now it’s… nothing. How can the living animal you remember have become this rotting clump of fur? The question fills your head, too huge for you to hold. You lean closer, as though if you look hard enough you’ll find the answer…
…and suddenly you’re jerked away. The neighbour’s face is contorted with anger, but there’s also something there you don’t recognize. It’s only years later that you identify it as disgust.
‘What in God’s name are you…? Oh, you sick little bastard!’
There is more shouting, then and later, back at the house. You don’t try to explain what you did, because you don’t understand yourself. But neither the angry words nor the punishment wipe away the memory of what you saw. Or what you felt, and still feel even now, nestling in the pit of your stomach. An overwhelming sense of wonder, and of burning, insatiable curiosity.