Greenwich Park by Katherine Faulkner (read book txt) 📗

front rooms have become dance floors. Ironically, as parties go, Helen’s has been something of a triumph. People are starting to trail away now, though. Just a few strange characters are still wandering around, slumped in her armchairs, smoking in the bushes.

I comb Helen’s hair with my fingers, tuck a loose strand behind her ear, like one might do to a child. She seems hardly to notice. She is still staring out at her garden.

‘My dead babies are down there, Serena,’ she murmurs. ‘Did I ever tell you that?’

She didn’t. But Daniel did. The little funerals they held, alone in the rain, clinging to one other. The four tiny packets of ashes they had scattered with their trembling hands among the flower beds. And the four climbing roses they had planted there. One for every missing heartbeat.

I don’t say anything. Instead, I run my hand up and down her back, from her shoulder blades to the base of her spine.

‘I had the most terrible row earlier,’ she blurts. ‘With Rachel. I told her to leave.’

I glance up at the kitchen clock. It is past one.

‘Don’t worry about it now, Helen,’ I tell her. ‘It’s late. Let’s have a drink.’

She sniffs. ‘Not for me,’ she mumbles automatically.

Poor Helen. She has been through so much. I turn so that I am standing square on to face her, take her hand.

‘Helen,’ I whisper. ‘You are very strong, stronger than you think. Your baby is strong, too. And he is going to be fine. You are not going to hurt him now. Even if you have this glass of wine with me.’

Helen smiles at me, weakly. But she is surprisingly firm.

‘Really,’ she says, looking me in the eye. ‘I’d rather just have a tea. I think I’ll just have a cup of tea and take it up to bed.’

So, the tea it is.

KATIE

When I head back inside the house, it is later than I thought. The music seems to have stopped. The gauntlet of builders’ waste, still-hot embers and broken glass sobers me up. Poor Helen. She was right. It does look like things got a bit out of hand. Perhaps it was thoughtless of me to encourage her to have a party when she is so pregnant. And Charlie should never have invited so many people.

Serena is the only one in the kitchen. To my surprise, she appears to be cleaning. She has washed up all the glasses, and is wiping the kitchen surfaces down, scrubbing out purple rings of wine. She has piled her long hair onto the top of her head in a scruffy bun and stuck a pair of Helen’s Marigolds on. They look comically large on the ends of her long, skinny arms. She has collected cans and bottles into a green recycling sack. Maybe I’ve misjudged her.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ she says, seeing me. ‘I’ve just made Helen one.’

‘Thanks, I’m fine.’

I notice a bottle of what look like headache tablets next to the kettle. I could do with one of those, I think.

‘Where’s Helen?’

‘Gone to bed.’ Serena smiles, motions at the chaos. ‘Just thought I’d make a start.’

I nod. ‘Let me help.’

GREENWICH PARK

He tells her he will keep watch a while, just to make sure. They don’t want any more surprises. When she leaves him, he hears her moving around in the house, like a ghost. The floorboards creak underfoot. The house straining to keep its secrets.

When he can’t sit there any more, he turns the light out, and goes and sits outside. He takes the bottle of Scotch. He drinks and waits and drinks until his throat is raw. He is waiting for the morning, as if the morning might bring with it an answer. But the morning does not come when it is supposed to. And it is dark, so dark.

In the embers of the bonfire, something moves. At first, he thinks it is a fox, or a rat. But then he sees the smooth sheen of feather, black that shines blue in the light, like a velvet dress. Not velvet. Feathers. A raven, come to bury the dead.

The raven perches on the hedgerow, folds its wings and cocks its head at him against the moon. There is silence. Its eyes are ink black, its feet red raw. A hunchback. Its head moves all the way round. In the background, four roses stare at him, their faces blank and pure.

He looks at the raven and lifts his glass in salute.

Nevermore, he says to the raven.

And the raven speaks back.

Nevermore, the raven says.

Nevermore. Nevermore. Cellar Door.

TEN YEARS EARLIER

I wonder when the music stopped, and where I can get some water. I need to get up, but I can’t get up. That’s when bits of my body start to come back. Arms first. My wrists are heavy. I imagine them weighed down by bracelets. Gold and diamonds.

No, not bracelets. Something warm. Something that is squeezing tight.

I force my eyes to focus. The sky has gone too. It is different now, wood and a rippled metal, the underside of corrugated iron. And either side of me are boats, but we’re not on the water. The boats are piled on top of each other, their edges long and shiny, painted numbers on the side. I wonder if the person who paints the names is the same. What names? I can’t remember. Can’t remember.

Then on the walls. Long spoons, giant ones. Not spoons. Paddles? Oars. They are oars.

It’s so quiet, so cold in here. Yet there is a hot feeling, pressing into me. And only now do I notice the pain, like a red flag in the distance. But as soon as I notice, I can’t not notice. And then it is everywhere, spilling out like ink in water. Starting down, moving all over. It hurts, it hurts. And now, I see his face.

The face I saw before. The dark fringe, the hooded eyes, watching