“Like a picture?”
“No,” Ronny spoke gently, but very seriously, “not like a picture, like a table.”
Jim sensed something contract. His face. His mouth. His chest. He felt a dart of panic. Was it a sickness? Then he realized that he was not in pain. It was not uncomfortable. It was simply a smile. A smile. He was smiling. It was nothing to worry about.
It was a real smile and it had started off from somewhere deep down inside him, somewhere numb next to his breastbone. He tentatively touched the spot where the smile came from with his index finger as he shifted forward, clumsily, to clear a patch on the beach. It was all very sudden and rather peculiar. He looked around him, squinting, like he was all at sea in familiar territory.
Ten
Nathan had received three letters and he hadn’t responded to any of them. The first came from the authorities, the second from a lawyer, and the third was from a young woman whose name he did not recognize. Connie. An old-fashioned name. It made him think of lavender and starch and thimbles. But her writing was bold, and her demands — which she clearly thought reasonable — struck Nathan as entirely unfeasible. So that was that.
Each time Nathan received one of these letters, he took it to work and secreted it into a special file, a private file that nobody else ever accessed. He didn’t stop and think about why he had done this. Why did he take something so personal from his own private arena and carry it, so brazenly, into such a public one?
Possibly he did it to avoid a confrontation with Margery. In some respects, where information was concerned, where the past was concerned, she was his enemy, she was his inquisitor, his conscience. He had allowed her to enter his home, his life, his bed. But he would not offer her a window into his past. His past was a graveyard that he did not visit. His past was a cemetery full of dirt. Nothing lived there.
The letters found a home in Nathan’s Lost Property Kingdom. In his quiet folder they found an appropriate, a gentle and unobtrusive resting place. They snuggled comfortably up against pictures and scraps and other fragments. They had been opened, digested, closed again. They had offered up their information. They had made requests — unfulfilled — but that was not their responsibility. Like butterflies, they had spread their wings — all gaudy glory — and then they had softly closed them. That had to be enough.
The letters referred to a lost friend, a lost soul. They concerned a stranger whom Nathan had once known. But they had no bearing, now, on anything. That part of his life was gone, was lost. It was so private that it was not even private any more. And that should have been an end to it. But like a child with a scab Nathan felt compelled to pick, to poke, to ponder. He nudged at the scab but he refused to contemplate the wound just under. He came back to the file; once, twice, many times. He couldn’t drop it.
And then he did drop it. He was discovered, one night, after hours, paging through this private document. It had slipped, it had fallen. Its contents were exhumed. They looked curious in bright light. The letters, the photographs; polaroids, mainly.
“Isn’t it funny,” Laura had said, squatting down to help Nathan gather up his past, scooping up his secrets, his life, “the things people leave behind?”
Nathan had nodded. He’d muttered something. But he’d been flustered. He had given himself away. He sensed it. And he simply hadn’t felt right with Laura after that. In fact he felt wide open. A moth with its wings pinned, under the microscope. A girl with her legs spread, no knickers.
And Margery would have said, “Has it ever occurred to you that you might actually have wanted to be discovered? Have you even considered that possibility, Nathan?”
Margery would have said that. So he didn’t mention it to Margery. He didn’t mention the letters. And when the girl arrived, out of the blue, he didn’t mention her either. She called herself Connie.
“You know what Connie’s short for?” she’d asked, following him upstairs, and then not waiting for his reply. “It’s short for Constance. But I’m not in the slightest bit constant by nature.”
“Except in this matter, it seems,” Nathan said, prickling with resentment.
“Yes,” she took a deep breath and then looked around her at Nathan’s living room, “but I didn’t really feel like I had much choice.”
Nathan was relieved that Margery had gone after breakfast.
Sometimes, on Saturdays, they spent the morning in bed together.
“Have a seat.”
He pointed at the sofa.
“Thank you.”
She sat down. He saw her eyes take in every detail. She looked like an angel, literally, with short, strawberry blonde, kinky hair and a child’s face. Skin like a macaroon. She was tiny. Barely five foot. Little hands, little feet. Breasts you could fit into an egg-cup.
But Nathan had no interest in angels. And he mistrusted small people. Especially women. They were usually aggressive, like terriers, yapping for attention. Yet when Connie spoke she did not yap. She leaned forward and slipped her two hands between her knees. “So you got my letter after all?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t answer it.”
“I had nothing to answer for.”
Connie frowned at this. “Answer for? Why do you say that?”
Nathan sat down, stiffly.
“Look,” he said, after an edgy silence, “Ronny was my brother. But I haven’t spoken to him in a long while. Ten years or more. I just can’t help you.”
Connie didn’t blink. In a flash she said, “Well, I suppose if you did know where he was then you’d be breaking the law. You’d be concealing a felon.”
“Exactly.”
Nathan paused. “And the only reason I knew he’d run away from prison was because the police contacted me. Just after. But it’s not even as if I could conceal him. He’s dead to me. It’s as though he’s dead,” Nathan smiled grimly, “and how could I conceal a dead person?”
Connie’s head jilted. “People have managed it. In the past.”
Nathan thought this comment throwaway — which it was — but also morbid and inappropriate. He grimaced. Connie digested his expression. She was feeding off him, he could tell. He hated that sensation. He resented it, sorely. Without thinking, he covered his mouth with his fingers so that she could not see it. Then he realized what he was doing and uncovered it again. He had nothing to hide.
Connie wanted to get to grips with Nathan. She needed a handle. There was something so tender about him, something gentle, and yet he behaved so abrasively. Eventually she said, “I don’t know what Ronny did. I only have his letters.”
Nathan cleared his throat. “I have no interest in any letters. I have no interest in Ronny. Or in this.”
Connie sighed, then said softly, “He must have done something so terrible…”
Nathan scratched his neck. Connie noticed a heat rash near his collar.
“Water under the bridge,” he said.
After an interval Connie said brightly, “I’m an optician, incidentally.”
Nathan stopped scratching. “What was that?”
“I said I’m an optician.”
Nathan smiled thinly. “How does that relate to anything?”
She was a crazy angel. A crazy angel-optician.
Connie laughed. “You don’t know anything about me. Why the fuck should you want to help a complete stranger?”
Nathan stared at her intently. He hadn’t expected her to swear. She’d surprised him.
“But you think I might consider helping an optician?”
In a flash he was flirting. It was out of character.
“I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s been hell for me, too,” she said, apropos of nothing, not smiling any more, but suddenly tragic. Nathan was taken aback. Tragedy, at this juncture, was the last thing he’d expected. His spine straightened. She was slick.