Untouchable Things Read online

  Like a mime artist Michael stretches out his right hand until it is splayed in front of him. He expects the boy to look round but for once the detention exercise is absorbing. He watches his hand, as though it belongs to someone else. What would happen if he placed it on the boy’s back, just beneath the shoulder blades, making a greasy handprint on the grey polyester?

  Little by little he extends his right arm. He sees his fingers tremble like an alcoholic’s. Strands of sandy hair graze the edge of the boy’s collar, just beyond his reach. If the boy turns round now he will be caught with a face as frightened as Mr Fleming’s.

  The boy shifts his weight and looks up, sees the teacher’s empty desk in front of him. As his head turns, Michael’s hand is safe in his pocket and he is looking at a wall display of geometric drawings. He meets the boy’s glance and nods at him to carry on with his work.

  Scene 18

  Jake pops another piece of gum in his mouth and looks at his watch. He likes to look at it as often as possible. He presses the tiny light switch with his huge finger pad: 1.30am. No sign of her. It’s getting pretty uncomfortable hanging out by this tree. About the only tree in sight of her flat. It’ll probably flourish with all the pisses he’s taken on it.

  At last, the faint clip of heels from a side street. He sticks his head out but sees at once it’s not Rebecca: short legs, flared hips. Nice for a change, though. A few yards away she spots him and immediately crosses the road, starts to run. Her arse bustles fetchingly from side to side. Now and then she throws a worried face back at him. He shakes his head and smiles, leaning back on his tree, and pulls out the silver cigarette case. He lights up and is just about to take a drag when he hears more footsteps, uneven and stumbling. He stubs out the ciggie and peers out. This time it’s her. She looks drunk, vulnerable. Easy pickings. She takes a good minute to open her front door. He lights another cigarette and smokes it slowly. She’s getting more and more reckless and it’s not good. Luckily he’s decided to take matters into his own hands.

  ACT 5

  Part 1 - Scene 1

  Rebecca blew a kiss to her flatmate when she saw the pot of fresh coffee on the worktop. It was a relief to have Shazia around again, especially now No Exit was finished. She’d forgotten what it was like to hear someone else’s voice first thing in the morning, someone who wasn’t Chris Tarrant. Shaz took a little of the emptiness away just by being there.

  She sat down at the table with coffee and a bowl of Special K, batting the crumbs from last night’s pizza to one side. Her ripped-out reviews were still stacked unwisely next to the ketchup. Extraordinary power. An Estelle whose cruelty comes from inner desolation. Seems it was her best thing to date, even better than Hamlet. And at the Orange Tree again, in the round. What better demonstration of the catch phrase of the play: L’enfer, c’est les autres. Hell is other people.

  Some days that’s exactly what she thinks. Other people leave you when you need them. They keep secrets from you. They follow you at night. Several times in the last few weeks she’s had the feeling of being watched. Could it be Seth? Paranoia? God knows she doesn’t trust her own mind anymore. She’s feeling paranoid about the group as well, wondering if she’s only being told half a story. But she needs them. Just like the characters in No Exit, they torture and depend on each other in equal measure.

  She still thinks about him first thing every morning. His voicemail is still full. Nothing has changed.

  But then there’s the pot of fresh coffee and Shaz coming in, grinning at her in Minnie Mouse pyjamas, and small things like that might just keep her sane.

  Shaz nods at the cafetiere and smiles. “I hope you’ve left me a bit of that.”

  “A bit is probably the word. I’ll make some more in a tick.”

  “Okay, I’m off to see if the shower fancies heating up this morning.” Shaz bangs the radio on and leaves the room.

  Rebecca reads the back of the cereal packet, looking at lithe women in red swimsuits cartwheeling across the words. Then she stops, mid-mouthful, and stares at the radio.

  “Shaz, come here!”

  A distant response from the bathroom. Rebecca swallows her cereal and shouts louder. Her flatmate appears, tying a peach satin dressing gown round her waist.

  “What…”

  “Shhh!” Rebecca waves at the radio. “I think Princess Di’s dead.”

  “What?”

  Scene 2

  It was ridiculous what was happening. Anna found herself unable to catch her normal district line train to work because it was packed with foreigners clutching bouquets. The whole world was suddenly in mourning. People kept saying Can you believe it? and Where were you? She wanted to say Having a shit, as it happens but the hushed reverence of these conversations inhibited her normal bluntness.

  It was a distraction of sorts, she could give it that, a break from the mundane reality of wondering where Seth was and trying to get on with life without him. No more questions from the police, no more visits from Jake; the trail seemed to have gone cold. Even the Evening Standard had toned down the coverage. And now it had this, of course.

  It was Saturday morning, The Day of the Funeral. God knows what she would do all day. She should have arranged to get out of London, although all exits had probably been sealed. It was pointless to go into town, nothing else was being shown on TV and apparently music was banned on some radio stations. Luckily she had a week’s supply of chocolate and liquid refreshment that should last her until the evening. If she was under siege, she was damn well going to find the silver lining. And with that she broke open her first Kit Kat.

  At ten thirty she gave in and flicked on the television. Rows and rows of people and a constipated royal correspondent whispering as the hearse approached. She boiled the kettle again. Could she ring anyone? No, that’s all they would talk about. She wished Seth were here. He probably would have hosted an alcoholic parody of the occasion. At the very least she and he would have sat and laughed and wondered at the stupidity of it all.

  José had some friend over from Spain who’d hopped on a plane to catch some of the atmosphere or something. Unbelievable. She gurned at the telly. Was that Westminster Abbey, lurking modestly behind ten thousand people? The camera panned in on the coffin being borne aloft towards the doors, and a single white envelope on top of it. Mummy.

  Delete. Her index finger jabbed around for a second until the image disappeared and she stood up, started putting newspapers away until the room looked like an Ikea brochure again. How much longer till this farce was over? She broke open a Yorkie bar at the table. Raisin and biscuit – not bad. Surely it was reasonable to open a bottle of Chardonnay now.

  The pop of the cork was the best sound she’d heard all day, puncturing the swelling silence of her flat. Music – of course, that was what she needed. Something subversively upbeat. Graceland would do it: lots of smiling African faces instead of miserable white ones. She whirled her glass of wine round as a dance partner, singing her own approximation of Paul Simon’s kooky lyrics.

  She was half a glass down by the second song, the one about losing love. So much for upbeat. She’d never liked this track much so she flicked it forward. And forward again. Come to think of it she just wanted a quiet drink without Paul Simon babbling on in her face.

  She found herself in front of the television again. The service had started. Prince Charles looked like he had a holly bush shoved up his arse. The princes – her boys as everyone referred to them – sat in suits and brave faces too old for them.

  The sob started as a gagging cough at the back of her throat. She was too surprised to stop it, too slow to switch off the television. Tears rained over her vision but the boys’ faces loomed in front of her and tore up chunks from her gullet. She bawled through the whole service, even to the revolting Elton John song.

  Just three chocolate bars, half a bottle of wine, a state funeral and the tears of a nation for her to say a proper goodbye to her ma.

  Scene 3

>   The newspaper images should have prepared her but they didn’t come close. The smell hit first, a thick fragrant sweetness that gave her goosebumps. Rebecca stopped still at the first glimpse of white, upsetting the steady procession behind her. People in front were staring rapt as if a host of angels had settled on the grounds of Kensington Palace. As she shuffled forwards the same Oh my God dropped from her open mouth as everyone else’s. This wasn’t a few bunches of flowers but a glistening ivory ocean that swelled and rose before her like the taffeta skirts of a giant bride. She thought of an inflated, goddess-sized Diana on her wedding day. As the waxy horizon continued shifting and expanding she gasped and her eyes watered. It was the feeling of tininess in the presence of something extraordinary. But this was also a fixed moment in time. She would never see anything like this again.

  She spent a little time moving amongst the bouquets, where she could. Sometimes they were thigh-high. She was silent, lost not just for words but for thoughts, a way of processing what she was seeing. She laid her own modest clutch of freesias next to an old-fashioned teddy bear with a note round its neck. Sleep well in heaven.

  It was easy to cry because everyone else was. The British upper lip was down and drooping. They were crying for Diana, they were grieving their mothers, spouses, old lives, lost dreams. Finding comfort under this shared blanket of sadness. Standing shoulder to shoulder, just for this moment, to better bear the weight of death and debris grinding them down.

  I’ve lost him she said, to her surprise. The woman next to her nodded and took her hand. For a second there was peace and acceptance. Everyone here had lost someone. Then the certainty came. He’s here. As soon as she said it she knew it was true. He’d followed her again. The woman stared as Rebecca broke away and tried to back up, knocking into mounds of plastic-wrapped lilies. He was here and she had to find him.

  She was making a stir now, pushing forwards then stopping suddenly to stand on her tiptoes. People tutted as she disturbed their reveries. She didn’t care. He was here, she could feel it.

  “Sorry, sorry, excuse me…” She fought her way along a floral corridor, struggling for breath. Bloody bouquets everywhere like the last night of a performance. She wanted to hurl them out of her way.

  “Have you lost someone, madam?”

  She looked at the hand on her arm with its navy cuff and up into the spectacled eyes of a policeman. Relief flooded her.

  “Yes, a friend of mine. I have to find him, it’s urgent.”

  “Okay, madam, let’s just move this way.” He was guiding her, his hand firm on her elbow. “When did you last see this friend?”

  “Oh, er…” She couldn’t exactly say two months ago. And he was moving her too fast. She pulled back, twisting her head around.

  “Sorry, I know he’s here, I just have to find him.” She looked at her escort. “You couldn’t make an announcement or something, could you?”

  The officer regarded her evenly. “Perhaps it might be easier if you called his mobile phone, if he has one?”

  “Oh – no, it’s switched off. I have to find him. Please can you help me?” She wanted to clutch his sleeve, drop to her knees and beg the kindly policeman to make everything right.

  “Let’s get you out of these crowds and we can talk about what to do.”

  She submitted for a couple of minutes until a jet head of hair jumped out from the blurry hush.

  “That’s him!” She pulled away from the hand on her elbow and lunged forwards, shoving a middle-aged woman so hard that she toppled over. “Sorry.” Gasps around her, the woman spluttering. She was vaguely aware of the policeman stopping to help the woman up and pushed harder through the crowd: there he was, twenty people ahead of her. The policeman would catch her any second. She had one option left.

  His name circled once, twice, three times around the arena of flowers before her scream was sucked silent into the waiting foliage. Everything seemed to stop. A magpie called overhead. The distant rumble of a bus from the road. And then the black head turned.

  It was a woman.

  “No.” She said it aloud, backing up now, bumping more people, more flowers, more teddy bears. “It was him. It was him.” Someone grabbed hold of her upper arm, hard, until the policeman forced his way through. She pulled free of the new hand but the policeman took her by both shoulders.

  “Forwards please.” His voice was harder now. “People are trying to pay their respects. Please restrain yourself.”

  Tears rushed to her eyes as he propelled her along. “You don’t understand. Please slow down. Please slow down or we’ll miss him.”

  The hands on her shoulder were implacable. She twisted her head frantically from side to side, trying to pick out a face. Her nose sought for oxygen in the thick, sweet air. The tips of her fingers started to tingle and gratefully she closed her eyes.

  There was movement around her when she opened them again. And voices, perhaps in the next room, talking about her.

  “Up you sit.” She was pulled up under her arms like a child.

  “Put your head between your knees.”

  She did as she was told, breathing rapidly. Then a woman’s voice and a hand on her back.

  “Are you feeling better, love?”

  The kind words kick-started the tears.

  “Come on now, lift your head and have a bit of water.” A bottle was pressed into her hand. She sat up straighter and took a sip, letting the tears slide into her sticky mask of hair.

  “Is there anyone you want us to call?”

  She cried harder, put her head back on her knees. The voices were talking about her again.

  “Look love, we’ve got your mobile phone here and we’re going to call someone. How about Anna? Or Catherine?”

  “No no.” She sniffed up into a thudding headache. “Call Shaz, my flatmate. Shazia.” She parted her hair and saw a short-haired policewoman crouching by her side. She was at the edge of the gardens and the sight of the ghostly tableau in front of her reminded her.

  “I have to go.” She clambered to her feet, wiping her face.

  “Not so fast.” The policewoman had also stood up. “You’re in no fit state to do anything. We’ll go across the road and wait for your flatmate to come.”

  * * * * *

  “He was there, Shaz, I know he was.” They were drinking musty herbal tea at home that Shaz had found at the back of the cupboard. “You don’t believe me either, do you?”

  Shazia looked down at her chipped Birmingham City mug.

  “He was there and I missed him. And I don’t… I don’t know if I’ll ever find him now.”

  Scene 4

  Catherine finds herself at Seth’s flat more and more. She’s always ready with an excuse, leaves the Jif on the worktop in case someone else turns up, but she’s never disturbed. Seems like everyone’s lost interest in him, including the police. It’s just Diana, Diana, Diana at the moment. The person she really fears meeting is Jake. That phoney smile – and now, knowing what he’s capable of – makes her jumpy as she sips camomile tea. But even he isn’t a big enough deterrent. This is the place where she’s closest to Seth, and it pulls her back over and over again.

  She was always happy here, practising her scales, waiting for him to get home. For some reason she can’t play anymore. Some people pour their heartbreak into music or writing but she can’t begin to start. She feels guilty seeing the piano lying there dormant, its closed lid reproaching her. She dusts it regularly, though, runs fingers along its back. She doesn’t play but she does wait for him to return, telling herself that today he’ll be back at five after visiting his accountant and stopping by Selfridge’s food hall. She makes up outings and errands for him, realising that she never really knew what he did when he left the house.

  She’s at her own flat at the moment, on her tightly sprung little sofa, slipping into her other world. She takes his face in her hands and he clings to her and tells her why he had to go, how he couldn’t handle his growing feelings fo
r her, how he’s terrified of trusting but realises he can’t manage without her. They are kissing now and the savagery of his need overwhelms her. Tears scorch his eyes when he looks at her, seeing into her as no one has before.

  The shrill ring of the phone shatters their moment together. Her mother’s voice on the machine, again. Wondering if she’s alright, why she isn’t calling, saying her sister Suzanne’s worried too. Catherine nearly laughs at the reversal. She isn’t trying to worry anyone but there are more important things to think about at the moment. She doesn’t want to be disturbed when she’s feeling so close to him. Now it will take a moment to get back to where she was.

  A thought leaps up, licking her like a stray flame. She could go to his flat and stay overnight, go straight into work in the morning. She could be with him all night, in his bed, surrounded by his things and his smells. For one whole night she can leave her life and inhabit this other world, the real one.

  Her heart dances as she packs her bag: best underwear, body spray, clothes for tomorrow. She thinks of sliding into his bed, nestling the pillow that has cradled his face. She can have him all to herself for one night.

  Scene 5

  Not a single taxi – and there were many, sailing gaily along Ladbroke Grove – had its light on. Charles waved anyway but wasn’t even treated to a glance by passing cabbies. Bloody London. If public transport was going to shut down at midnight the least you could do was have a decent supply of taxis.

  He carried on walking, repeatedly craning his head backwards in search of a yellow light. Nothing. Autumn had leapt in suddenly like a matador with a chilly swish of its cape. A suit jacket was no longer adequate at one in the morning. He stopped and pulled out his blue inhaler, turning out of the wind. It was the first time he’d let his hair down since the photo arrived and now look at him. Smashed and stranded with work tomorrow. Just for one night he’d wanted to forget, down pints like a twenty-year-old, flirt with some of the sassy girls in dark blue jeans and maybe even take a telephone number home. But who was he kidding? Charles Maslowe didn’t get to be a selfish ass. Charles Maslowe didn’t get the girl. Charles Maslowe was not allowed to forget.