Grace’s husband nodded. ‘She was. Fucking annoying, too.’
‘Yeah. Boring. Primrose liked her, though. She seems very happy.’
Grace’s husband paused at a roundabout to give way. ‘She does,’ he drove on, taking first left. ‘Ric has made a big difference.’
Art smiled appreciatively. It was good to know Primrose was content at last. ‘Funny bloke though, don’t you think?’
‘Ric? Yeah. Not my first choice. But she likes him; Grace does too. Do you want something on? Music maybe?’
‘Sure.’ Art reached out and switched on the radio. ‘Quiet on the road, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
Art growled, fingers suddenly clutching at his legs. He jabbed the radio off again.
‘Christ! You okay? What is it?’
Art scowled, and shook his head. ‘I was thinking about last year. Look at me. Pissed in the morning again. There’s a celebration for you, mate, toasted with vomit.’ He pressed his fingertips against closed eyes, and then rubbed hard, trying to shake the unsettling shroud that seemed to be covering him. He felt trapped. ‘It just goes on; on and on and on.’ He again roared with frustration, ‘Fuck!’
‘Hey.’
‘No. I’m an asshole. That woman should be alive.’
‘She should. It’s true.’
‘And I should be dead.’
‘Now you are being an asshole. It was an accident. She meant for you to hit her, you poor bastard. You can’t keep torturing yourself forever. No one blames you, Art.’
Art felt too weary to reply. Suggesting he was blameless stretched the truth. While the inquest had, in some sense, cleared him, he knew he would never be free of the regret, or the shame. Because Art knew he’d been trying to get his phone. He knew his foot was not touching the accelerator, but pressing it; pressing when he had not meant to. He’d known he was over the limit, yet set out that morning anyway. Sober, the mistakes of the day may not have happened. Sober, she may not have got her wish and today would be alive, and maybe, by now, the longing to die would have been replaced with a desire for the future. Art had seen how low it was possible to go without genuinely looking to death for a solution. It broke his heart to think she had looked past this point, straight into the chasm.
As he picked over the events of that time, working through all he could remember, his silence revealed all.
Grace’s husband reached out and patted his arm. ‘It’s done, mate. The only way now is forward. You have to stop torturing yourself.’
Art nodded, and then stared out of the window at the passing countryside. Then he turned straight back to face his friend. ‘Shit!’
‘What now?’
‘Ric!’
‘What about him?’
‘Turn around.’
‘What?’
‘Turn around!’
‘Why?’
‘Just do it!’ Art yelled, the car already hurtling into a u-turn.
‘Art! For Christ’s sake, what is it?’
‘Oh Jesus.’
‘Art!’
Art stopped shouting, speaking quietly now, eyes becoming glassy with tears. ‘We have to go back.’
‘What? Art? Where? Where are we going?’
‘Back to yours. He was there every day. Every day, watching.’
‘Who? For fuck’s sake Art!’
‘Ric.’
‘Where was he every day? What are you talking about?’
‘It’s too weird. I mean why would he? He would say. Anyone would say?’
‘Say what. Art!’
‘I’ve just realised where I’ve seen him before.’
Chapter 16
GRACE
Grace returned to the comfortable warmth of the kitchen and found Primrose waiting.
‘Damn, I missed him! I wanted to say goodbye properly.’
‘You were sound asleep the last time I checked. And if you mean Ric, he’s still outside.’
‘Is he?’ Primrose made for the door. ‘I woke up and felt so bad about switching off the alarm that I couldn’t get back to sleep. He’s never been cross with me before. Not like that.’
Grace looked out through the window, ‘He’s coming back inside.’
As if on cue, Ric burst in.
‘Steady,’ warned Grace, with a smile, ‘you’ll have it off the hinges, or break the glass.’
Closing the door behind him, Ric carefully placed his helmet on the kitchen table before speaking. He ignored Primrose, but stared at Grace with a long look of despair. ‘I left something,’ he said, eventually, ‘I have everything else I want in the world, but that. Everything but the one thing I need. The one thing I want.’
‘Are you feeling unwell again?’ Grace asked.
‘No.’
‘Good. Perhaps we could have a cup of tea then?’
‘You know why I am here, Grace, just as you know why I have to leave. I will get my bag … my things … our things … and be on my way. I have money and everything else I need.’
‘I’m not sure you should be going anywhere. You aren’t yourself. You seem a little confused, to be honest.’
‘I am not confused, but very clear. It’s been a long time, and I didn’t mind that, Grace. I really didn’t. I was glad of it; it’s better that way. Stronger. But now? Now we can’t have it.’
‘You’re plainly not yourself, Ric. And you’re not making sense. Can I help in some way?’ Grace stepped closer to him, studying his face.
He stiffened, head raised so he was forced to look down his nose at her. ‘I just want what I came for.’
‘So you have forgotten something, is that it?’
A tiny choked laugh ended inside Ric’s mouth. ‘No Grace, you can’t help and there is nothing I have forgotten. Leaving and forgetting are not the same. Sometimes I wish I could forget, but how can I? How can you? You know that nothing can now be as it should be … as was intended … was meant …’
Grace’s dark eyebrows pulled together a little as she shook her head, ‘I am not sure I understand.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Primrose, clearly confused as her mother. She’d rushed to Ric when he came in, but now stepped back a little.
Ric continued, ‘Nothing can be the way it was meant to be. How can what you and I wanted happen for us now, in its truest and purest form? It can’t, Grace. It’s all gone.’ He stood without moving, pale faced and sorrowful, his stiff manner softening. ‘I need my bag.’
‘Let me help you, Ric. And I am sure I can,’ Grace ventured. ‘Whatever it is.’
Unyielding, Ric again asked for his bag.
‘Is it work? Is that the problem? If it is then I am sure we can …’
‘It’s not work,’ Ric interrupted, ‘I need to collect my bag, that’s all.’
‘Your bag?’ she questioned, ‘surely a bag isn’t worth becoming this upset about … you’re still not making sense … perhaps you should sit down and …’
‘What? Have a cup of tea? Dear, sweet Grace, always so gentle and kind, but so naive. You can’t solve everything with a cup of tea. You don’t understand do you? You still think we can make it,’ he paused briefly, before continuing, ‘they won’t let us, Grace!’ Ric raised his face upwards, holding his breath mid sigh before jadedly releasing the frustration. He looked at her once more, and ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, allowing a moment of reflection. The hint of a small smile appeared. ‘Perhaps you are right. I just can’t seem to clear my head today.’
‘Please sit down, Ric. Let me get you something.’ Grace pulled a chair away from the table and offered it, ‘I know you think tea doesn’t help, but …’
‘No. I just want my bag. Can I go up and get it?’ he stood stock still as if frozen, not moving towards the stairs as he might.
‘You don’t need it,’ Primrose pointed out, ‘you’re coming back. Aren’t you? How will I get home if you don’t come back? What about lunch?’
Grace snapped Primrose a rebuke with the flash of an eye,
before returning her attention to the problem at hand. ‘Ric, you are making no sense at all … you’re … you’re gabbling is probably the best way to describe it. And you told me earlier that you were feeling unwell. You look as pale as a ghost. Please sit down. I can call the club and explain why you aren’t coming in, and you can rest here until you feel brighter. If you don’t feel any better by the middle of the afternoon, then I’ll run you to the doctor or hospital or wherever is open today. You seem very …’ Grace’s concerned expression softened into pity. ‘Put simply, I think you might be rather unwell.’
‘You have no car and I don’t need a doctor. I need my bag.’
‘Have you taken something?’ asked Primrose, accusingly.
‘Of course not. I just want my bag.’
‘Why do you need it?’ asked Grace.
‘I need it because I need it,’ he said, coolly, ‘and I need it very much.’ He continued to look at Grace as he spoke, never turning to Primrose. ‘Can I get it?’
‘But why on earth do you need it?’ Primrose insisted, ‘Why would you need an overnight bag at work?’ She looked to her mother for back-up.
‘Oh, Ric, of course you can get it,’ conceded Grace, with a sigh, ignoring her daughter’s anguish. ‘You don’t need to ask. You know that.’
Ric’s face flushed. ‘Then you won’t mind me giving you this.’ He pulled from his pocket the love token.
‘Why have you got that?’ Primrose asked.
Grace stared, as Ric reached out and fitted it around her neck.
‘Mum?’
Face rigid, Grace shook her head. ‘Just be quiet, Primrose. Shush now.’
‘I’ll get my bag.’
Chapter Seventeen
RIC
Bag packed and in hand, Ric could hear the women talking in low tones as he ambled about upstairs. Grace, he thought, had no idea that everything between them was at an end, at least for the foreseeable future, certain she was stalling him with talk of illness, trying to stop him from taking his bag, trying to keep him in the house with her in the hope that everything would come right. And her face when he gave her the token, said it all. Pure anguish.
He had meant it when he’d called her naïve, for only a sweet-tempered Angel of this calibre would think they could survive the onslaught that would follow the shrine’s discovery. She did not know of the shrine, he remembered then, through the fog that had been descending over his mind all morning. She might be cross that he had not let her share in it. He felt the devil’s breath brush his ear, and shook it away.
After slipping her hairbrush into his bag along with her pillowcase and nightdress, Ric stopped for a moment. Staring at the big bed, he mourned for all that might now never be, so far enjoyed only through the conduit of Primrose, a pretty little vessel of love. He sighed at the thought of this appealing daughter of a Goddess, and all her complications. Primrose was living proof that some Angels were born vulnerable, even rather lowly ones. He had hoped to always protect her, but that now seemed unlikely. Would she be safe stalking the world for another lover, as she surely would if Ted did not step up and claim her? If he did not make a stand against protective parents, more precisely an overprotective father? Grace could surely see the best place for Primrose was with Ted, for she wished happiness upon others. But her husband’s view would always be swallowed up by the man’s innate ignorance.
More important than all of this was the question of peace. Would Primrose – could Primrose – ever find it without Ric? In his efforts to secure a place in Grace’s life, Ric had taken responsibility for Primrose too. It was difficult to see a way forward, he decided.
Ric looked to the window and the fine, white, silk curtains tied back with sleek grey cord. Lifting one cord free from its hooks he pushed it into his jacket pocket, wishing he had worn a proper coat, for the linen jacket had been too thin against the cool air thrusting over him while riding there the day before. He had been cold. So was Primrose.
Ric heard his name. He had lingered long enough. Inhaling as much of Grace’s bedroom air as he could, he turned with bursting lungs and walked away, heading down the stairs with purpose.
As he entered the kitchen the two women stood back. Primrose held a phone by her side. He noticed Grace look at his bag and decided he saw a smile. She knew what he had collected, he thought, and was glad he was taking part of her with him. He placed the bag on the table next to his helmet and pulled the cord from his pocket, along with the multi-tool, flicking open a blade. Grace attempted to speak but stopped mid word, stepping back and placing a protective arm around Primrose, who was stock still with a look of utter disbelief.
Oblivious to the horror creeping over the women’s faces, Ric stretched out the cord and cut a length. He looked up silently at Grace, before turning to address Primrose properly for the first time since returning to the house. ‘Primrose, could you come here?’
Primrose did not move from her mother’s side.
Ric slipped an arm through one long handle of his bag, shifting it up his arm towards his shoulder with little jerks. As he did this, he grappled behind, reaching for the other handle. ‘Would you mind helping?’
White faced, this time Primrose stepped forwards and slid the second handle up his arm. The overnight bag had become a rucksack.
‘No one to hold it for me on the bike,’ he said, before tying the two handles together across his chest with the cord.
Slipping the folded multi-tool back inside his pocket, Ric moved towards Grace. He leaned forwards and gently took her face in his hands. Primrose, meanwhile, clutched at her mouth with gripping fingers, wide-eyed. Ric held Grace’s warm face and gazed at her. All he wanted at that moment was to kiss her beautiful lips. Closing his eyes he leaned in, but she stepped back.
‘Goodbye Ric,’ she said.
Immediately Ric understood that she did not want a display of such intimacy in front of her daughter. Admiration for this True Angel drew out his broad gleaming smile; this one was so pure it was almost unbelievable.
Grace moved away, and picking up his helmet, passed it to him. Again, she said goodbye. His smile faded with the word. This was the end of a dream. Ric pushed the helmet onto his head, eyes locked on Grace as if Primrose never existed. He turned and slowly walked away.
Leaving the drive at full throttle, Ric could see the BMW in the distance, speeding along a lane. But he did not question why the men were returning so soon. Riding away from the Angels and the house without another word, the only sign of his splintered heart were the rolling fat tears of bitterness. Grace was his future, and he could no longer see her.
Epilogue
ENDING WITH MICHELE MANCINI
Michele Mancini maintained that by eighteen years of age he had achieved remarkable academic achievement and an excellent physique. He said by twenty-five he’d made great strides in the world, maintaining both his success and his build. Now, approaching forty, he was thicker set but still with sandy brown hair free from grey, with the broad freckles that firmly concealed his origins in the way they always had. Or at least, beneath the dark brown dye, his hair was unchanged. And the freckles, well, these days they joined up.
He was charming with a pleasant voice and many considered him good-looking. And he was. But in a way so unremarkable that a hopeful girlfriend might think she had spotted him walking across the street, or driving a passing car, when in fact it was someone else she had seen. A stranger. In reality, his was a plain sort of face, an inoffensive blank canvas. Where most men blossom as passing years sketch character and confidence over their broadening form, most of Mic’s appeal lay in his boyishness: in the hint of youth still playing in his eyes. Not only this, but his smile revealed enamel of perfect colour and proportion, and the idle flash of these classically beautiful teeth dissolved most women into useless puddles, and one or two men besides. But they didn’t know that this mouth with its charming smile was, and always had been, his most useful feature. And they didn’t know what s
ort of man he was.
Michele told people – those women who liked to hear his stories – that he had been born twelve days late, long and fat with hair as black as the night that greeted him. When the soft fine threads of new baby eventually transformed into silky blonde curls, the family had ruffled his head in puzzlement. In later years, when it darkened to a mute shade of brown, straight and unexceptional, the elderly in the family proclaimed it would soon be as dark as theirs had been before age had ruthlessly sucked out the colour; the peculiarity of his earlier hue no more than the will of God. But the fairness of his pale golden skin and propensity for freckles in a family uniformly olive, foretold of the future. Michele remained different. Like any self-fulfilling prophecy his nature adapted accordingly; he lost touch with those who could not accept difference without inventing a saga. This is what he would tell those who would listen. They would reply that they couldn’t see the problem. Wasn’t Mic dark enough?
But he would also talk of other things. Mic had discovered that distance meant freedom, a sensation not felt in decades. Where the man he once was made him feel that necessarily family and past must be private, this new place unshackled a different side. Distance allowed room to breathe and creativity to flow, because here there was no one to contradict his version of things. So, he would tell tales of an old girlfriend who ran off with the window cleaner, or speak reverentially of his sister-in-law who threw herself from a bridge whilst consumed with depression. Sometimes, he would reveal that his beautiful sister, a catwalk model, was murdered by a drunk. Commonly, he would share the secret of his ex-wife’s paranoia. She was a sick woman, he would say, who relentlessly followed him everywhere, and from whom he remained in hiding. This is what Mic would tell his Angels as they lay in his bed, the sun sliding through the shuttered window, beyond the slats the rolling hills of Provence speaking of wealth and happiness and peace.
Occasionally, for certain Angels, he shared stories of his little brother, a boy who died before he had the chance to become a man. He never said when, or how, because when Mic stopped talking his Angels knew not to ask for more. There was always a silence, anticipation suspended between them, before his face would brighten and he’d flash his smile, and tell some happy tale from when he and his brother were very young. His favourite was true. He’d gone into his brother’s room without him knowing, to sit amongst his things. His brother always received a lot of attention, Mic would say, much more than him, which sometimes made it quite hard to be the other son. Feeling quite jealous that day, Mic was sitting on the bed wanting to upset his superior brother. So he picked up a pen and tried to write on the full-length mirror – yes, he usually had to confirm, his brother had a full-length mirror – but the ink would not take on the glass. For reasons forgotten, Ric had a red lipstick in his pocket, his mother’s, and so he’d used this instead, to scrawl I wish you were dead. The moment it was done, he’d regretted it. Wiping off the word dead with the side of his hand, he’d replaced it with not my brother. In spite of envy, he loved his brother as dearly as his parents, and felt horrible. So he wiped the lot, until no more than a smear remained, his hand blood red. Sitting once again on his brother’s bed, he was hit from behind with a flying tackle, and the sound of laughter. His brother hadn’t seen, and thought Mic had come to play. This is how Mic remembered it. This was the story that often saw his Angels sighing affectionately. This was the story that sometimes caused Mic’s tears to dampen the pillow.