Untouchable Things

  TARA GUHA

  UNTOUCHABLE

  THINGS

  Legend Press Ltd, The Old Fire Station,

  140 Tabernacle Street, London, EC2A 4SD

  info@legend-paperbooks.co.uk | www.legendpress.co.uk

  Contents © Tara Guha 2015

  The right of the above author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available.

  Print ISBN 978-1-7850799-4-8

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-7850799-5-5

  Set in Times. Printed in the United Kingdom by Clays Ltd.

  Cover design by Simon Levy www.simonlevyassociates.co.uk

  Lyrics used on pages 220-221 “Consider Yourself” written by Lionel Bart.

  Excerpts from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, “The Waste Land” and “Rhapsody on a Windy Night” from Collected Poems 1909-1962 by T.S. Eliot. Copyright 1936 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  Copyright renewed 1964 by Thomas Stearns Eliot. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

  Extract taken from “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”, “The Waste Land” and “Rhapsody on a Windy Night” from Collected Poems 1909-1962 Estate of T.S. Eliot and reprinted by permission of Faber and Faber Ltd.

  All characters, other than those clearly in the public domain, and place names, other than those well-established such as towns and cities, are fictitious and any resemblance is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Tara Guha was born to an Indian father and English mother and spent her childhood in the Ribble Valley, passing many a wet day writing poetry and music. After studying English at Cambridge she embarked on a career in the classical music industry in London, promoting artists including Placido Domingo, Paul McCartney and Dudley Moore.

  Over the years she has also been a freelance journalist, charity worker and has trained as a counsellor. Tara is a keen amateur pianist, singer and songwriter and lives in the hills of West Yorkshire with her partner and two daughters.

  Untouchable Things is Tara’s first novel.

  Follow Tara @taraguha

  For my family, who believed.

  And for my younger self, who didn’t.

  Prologue

  For the third time this week he is watching her scream.

  Watching, not listening.

  After the first time he tunes out of the less interesting part, the sound. The vibrato is uneven, the pitch wavering, the timbre too harsh. But the face is mesmeric, eyes contracted to penny slots while the mouth gapes to spew its cheap auditory prize. Munch, of course, is behind some of the distortion, stamping The Scream all over anyone who expresses horror. Even the pretty ones.

  But the scream is hers too, and his by default. Not that she knows he is here, not as such. The invitation is tacit, a door left ajar. A paying peephole where he ogles with the others.

  She has it down to a fine art, that slight shake of her head, almost a nervous tic, sending a ripple effect down the length of her hair until marigold tresses swing around her like the arms of twirling children. People approach at their peril. She likes it that way: look but don’t touch. All her power wound into her hair, like Samson.

  Her body holds no fear as it ripples through a series of postures designed to tantalise. Virgin, whore, mother, lover, a sequence choreographed especially for him. And it works. It works as she knows it will and she thrills in his powerlessness to do anything but watch.

  His hand twitches and he stretches it slowly so the knuckles crack. Quick glances of disapproval: the watchers must stay silent. They must abide by the protocols of the genre, contain themselves until a glorious ovational climax.

  It costs him nothing to wait.

  For the fourth time this week he is watching her scream. Watching, not listening. Watching with the mute button on, pressing pause here and there to savour a particular expression, a line of her body. She moves like a dancer. Her hair is a responsive partner but a limelight stealer, forever trying to pirouette off but dragged back, like a recalcitrant Siamese twin. It shimmers in a weightless red-gold haze but he knows its truth, how it slumps into his hands hot and heavy and sticky.

  You’re staring at my hair.

  Who goes here? Witch, spirit, dream? Curls converge to make a veil, darkened to rust and hiding her face.

  You remind me of someone.

  Do I?

  Perhaps there is no face. Perhaps it’s just bones under there, freckled skin peeled away to leave the gasp of eye sockets and a toothless grin. He hears rustling, the squirming of caged limbs and realises it’s him, writhing, palpitating so that people are craning their heads to look. His neighbour shuffles away a little, crosses her leg with some difficulty so that her booted foot points passive-aggressively, Britishly, in the other direction. He thinks about crossing his own leg and sending one pristine Italian shoe in to remonstrate. He laughs, possibly aloud, and refocuses his gaze.

  She has a face, he can see that now, but he can’t tell which one. Her hair has fallen back into rank, a mutinous army ready to surge, jostling on her back, a teaming mass, a plural. Flickering memories project onto the exposed visage: Abigail. Ophelia. Julia. Rebecca. He can channel surf, one jab of his thumb to flick between them. But he can’t be sure they’re not in cahoots to confuse him, the mouth of one with the eyes of another, a high stakes game of Guess Who? He narrows his eyes to focus but the effect is to separate them, to see double, quadruple, until they have claimed the stage and evaded his remote control. His head throbs and his vision pixelates, spilling them – her – into patterns of dancing dots. Flies crawl down from his hairline and when he dashes them, his hand comes away wet. The sucked taste is salt, and it soothes him.

  For the fifth time this week he is watching her scream.

  Act 1 - Scene 1

  When she bows she lets the roar of the audience fall on her like a wave.

  Tonight it’s a tidal wave, pressing down on her head, booming in her ears until she wonders if she’ll ever fight her way up again. She must. She has something left to deliver.

  She raises her head, stands tall, stares out at them. She feels the ripples of shock spreading up from the ground to the gallery to the upper circle and back through her body. She is dripping and shivering, her hair matted into dark soaked tresses trickling a thin stream across the stage. The director’s idea, reminding the room that Ophelia is dead, drowned, done. Blurring the line between art and life. The clapping shudders and stills, people horrified to find themselves applauding a suicide. She forces herself to stay with it, letting them feast on the sight of her, her nakedness skimmed with sopping white cotton, medusa coils of thick red hair slapped to her breasts. The classic male fantasy of Ophelia as neurotic virgin, laid out to arouse and shame the paying voyeurs. She shudders and it’s not for effect. She is being sacrificed for a higher purpose.

  The silence is louder than the applause, pulsating like a giant heart in her ears as she stands. But she is not done. She is in the round, heated by the gaze of those behind her waiting for their turn. Slowly she pivots, rotating like a ballerina impaled in a musical box. Swathes of gasps follow her round as she is revealed to each section of the house. She turns again into blinding lights. Squinting would spoil the effect so she suffers the white b
eams that will imprint purple circles on her vision for the next half-hour. She turns and lets them gawp, crane their heads, clench their fists. Then one voice cries out from the front of the stalls and the floodgates reopen, the audience bellows and she is felled once more.

  Goodnight, ladies; goodnight, sweet ladies; goodnight, goodnight.

  Thank you, Miss Laurence. To clarify, you met Seth Gardner on September 27th 1996 after a performance of Hamlet?

  Yes, in the pub.

  Which pub would that be?

  The usual.

  The Red Lion off Hanover Street. It was a favourite. She knew the landlord, Des. That night her hair was still damp, glowing like embers as Seth would tell her later. She was first in, first to the bar, looking to numb the places where so many eyes had burned.

  Clunk. Eyes slotted into the gaze of another, a jigsaw completed, freeze frame of a shutter coming down. A dark-haired man sitting at a table is watching her. A moment stretched.

  Then, turning back, her friends, the post-mortem, the babbled deconstruction and congratulations. A quick glance over her shoulder, the table now empty. A casting director? The usual chit-chat. My agent isn’t returning my calls. Is yours any good? Have you got anything lined up afterwards? The older contingent banging on about the demise of rep.

  She doesn’t want to do this, not tonight. Instead she plies people with drinks, makes them laugh, reminds them it’s a day off tomorrow. But by pint number three people are making their excuses. Drastic tactics are needed. She sways to the bar and orders three tequila slammers.

  How now, fair Ophelia? The voice pours deep into her ear like warm water. She turns and he is right there, next to her, the dark-haired man from across the room. Close up she sees that his eyes are the wrong shade of green and she can’t look away from them. They drip amusement.

  “It looks as though Rosencrantz has just exited pub left. So might I avail myself of one of these?” She’s vaguely surprised at his cut-glass English accent. The hair, the eyes, suggest something other. She sees the curve of his mouth, plush as a woman’s. Then a hand reaching, she’s transfixed for a second before her ears pop and she grasps both his drift and the glass.

  “No, you may not. I don’t generally buy drinks for strange men.” If he is a casting director she’s blown it now.

  “Not even a strange man who loves Shakespeare? You were amazing tonight.”

  A laugh, her laugh. Too far gone for self-deprecation. “Thank you. I was, wasn’t I?”

  His laugh, louder, more sonorous. “And modest too. It gets better.” He stretches a serious hand out to her hair. “You must have been cold though. Look at you. You’re still wet.”

  She is wet, suddenly, but not in the places he means. He has her hair in his fingers. If she tried to leave now, would he stop her?

  There’s a commotion to her right and an inebriated Hamlet, risen from the dead, lurches forwards.

  “Becs, I gotta go. Lucy’ll kill me if I’m late again. Oh… hello.” He smiles at the man, tries to stand upright.

  He thinks it’s a casting director.

  “Jez, meet…”

  The man’s lips stretch and curve. “Seth.”

  “Seth thought we were wonderful tonight. Isn’t that right?” She giggles, her grip a little too tight on Jez’s arm.

  “Indeed I did. An electrifying performance.”

  Jez shoots a quizzical glance at Rebecca and she shakes her head. Then he grins and slaps the man on the back. “Cheers, mate, glad you enjoyed it. Here, have my drink. I’ve really got to go, Becs – will you be all right?”

  “Maybe I should come with you.” The pub chatter is swelling, filling her head, and the faintly stubbled cleft on the man’s chin is an unknown quantity. Jez winks and bends to kiss her cheeks.

  “Nah, stay, you look like you’re having fun. Be a good girl, eh? Call you tomorrow, darling.”

  You left the pub with him?

  Yes. Yes, it was stupid and the only thing I could have done. I don’t expect you to understand.

  You had a boyfriend, Miss Laurence?

  Rebecca, please. Yes, I did. What difference does that make? Nothing happened.

  Could I take your boyfriend’s details?

  Is this relevant? We’re not together now. And why all the sudden questions? Has something else happened? Is there something you’re not telling me?

  Your ex-boyfriend’s details?

  I’ll fetch my address book. Here. (Jason Fletcher, 116a Reynolds Road, perfect boyfriend material.) We’d been together two years I think at that point.

  Thank you, Miss Laurence. Was there anything else about the earlier part of that evening that stands out in your mind? Before you went on your way with Mr Gardner?

  Not that I can remember. It was the third night of the run, we knew what we were doing. Oh yes – I’d forgotten. Backstage before the show. Some flowers…

  It was impossible not to smile at her own reflection. Each red-gold tendril coiled softly and separately over her shoulders like a pre-Raphaelite painting. Her face, pale at the best of times, bleached translucent under the lights, but tonight it didn’t matter. For the first time she felt perfectly physically matched to a character.

  She stepped back in case anyone was watching but couldn’t resist another furtive primp. People were milling about chatting, adjusting each other’s costumes; comfortable background noise like a distant radio. In general her unusual – some said startling – look gave directors a headache casting her. Blondes and Mediterranean types always did better. On too many occasions she’d been told that her appearance would distract from the part, that she wasn’t how they imagined a character to look. She wore more wigs than a drag queen, and of course there was stage make-up, but this time – she was Ophelia, simple as that.

  Unsettling, given that Ophelia’s life consisted of being screwed around by men and then going mad. Not quite the script Rebecca had in mind for herself. But she had to acknowledge some kind of affinity that went beyond looks. Getting into the role was no more challenging than slipping on a favourite dress.

  What did that say about her? She wanted to follow the thought but that feeling ambushed her, the one that buckled her legs like being kicked in the back of the knees. She leant on a chair for a second. Here she was, twenty-eight years old and playing Ophelia. Her whole intestine seemed to straighten and re-coil at the thought. On Tuesday, her parents would be in the audience, holding each other’s hands as they watched her take the stage. They hadn’t always been sure about her choice of career, but they had supported her through it all, the big parts in student productions, the bit parts in fringe productions, the tears and the nearly giving up and the lack of anything approaching an income.

  “Ten minutes, boys and girls.”

  The scene around her exploded into action. She had to jump back to avoid the sharp lip of a passing shovel; the gravediggers meant business. Intonations of lines started up around her like a sudden burst of prayer. She closed her eyes, waiting for her body’s response.

  Here it was, the surge of giddiness on the in-breath, held… held some more, then rushing out like tiny waves to her fingertips. Eyes blinked open like a doll. In front of her was Ophelia’s fragile face, attempting, but not quite pulling off a smile. And then a beep from the table, making them both jump. She frowned. Ophelia would not be answering a mobile phone. But she couldn’t help herself, moist fingers sliding over still unfamiliar keys.

  BREAK A LEG, DARLING. I LOVE YOU. J XXX

  Jason. Her frown deepened before smoothing into the wisp of a smile. Ever since she’d jumped on the mobile phone bandwagon he’d sent her the same message before every performance, capitals bellowing at her. It had become part of her pre-performance ritual; not as extreme as many – she liked to think she was pretty rational, for an actor – but it soothed her as it irritated her, the sameness of the message, night after night.

  The rustle of plastic and Leah appears from nowhere, face almost hidden by a huge bouq
uet of flowers. She doesn’t want to talk to Leah now, she needs to focus.

  “For you-hoo!”

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to say ‘For me?’ Look. Aren’t they amazing?”

  She half takes the flowers from Leah but she’s not ready for their weight one-handed and they nearly fall between them. Leah makes a grab.

  “Hey. Be careful. These are mega bucks.”

  Rebecca puts down her mobile, takes them properly this time and sees a blur of colours bleeding into each other. The smell is like a punch in the face. “Who are they from?”

  “Dunno. There’s no note.” Of course Leah would have already checked. “Not exactly Jason’s style, innit?”

  Not exactly. And now Rebecca is irritated with the flowers, wants them to go away, and she knows it’s just nerves but she actually wants to shout fuck the flowers and throw them across the room, but there’s Leah to appease so she smiles, says “I wonder,” and places them with exaggerated care on her bag. “Sorry, I need to…”

  “I know, babe. See you in the pub.”

  She closes her eyes against the waves of lily sweetness, wonders if she might fall asleep like Dorothy in the poppy field. Breathe. She shuffles away a bit and a boom rushes up from her stomach, like she’s falling upwards. She clutches the back of a chair and her eyes open on Anthony Lambury doing Tai Chi across the room, left leg wobbling precariously under purple robes, arms flailing like a puppet and it breaks the fall and she can smile, and then start over. When she looks back towards the mirror she is relieved to see Ophelia gazing at her through glassy eyes.

  There was magic on stage. She always loved acting with Jez but the connection between them was like a power line tonight, fizzing and sparking. Ophelia barely spoke in the first two acts but Rebecca knew how to reel the audience in, draw every eye to her so that each person was implicated in what was to follow.

  It’s only now she thinks, I never found out who sent the flowers.

  Scene 2