The Secret Life of Luke Livingstone Page 34

  Kate’s mind was reeling from this conversation, but it was time to think of other things. Lucia was already hurrying across to the car, and Kate leaped out to throw her arms around her.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ she cried. ‘So sorry. Poor Chloe, oh my God. Twenty-two years old. I can’t believe it. The frigging bastard.’

  Lucia looked as though she’d thrown her clothes on. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes red-rimmed. A string of bottle-green beads had somehow become caught up in her hair, but she seemed too distressed to notice.

  ‘The coroner’s released the body,’ she said.

  ‘So there’ll be a funeral?’

  ‘Yes, but—Kate, it’s so awful. They’re going to make her be Callum. They’ll dress her in a suit, they’ll cut her hair. A private cremation in her home town. Family flowers only; I can’t even send her flowers. I can’t say goodbye. I can’t do anything for her. I’m letting her down!’

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘I looked online. There was a notice in the family’s local paper. In the death column. Callum Robertson, beloved son and brother.’

  A cold breeze had sprung up, and Eilish shepherded them indoors.

  ‘Why would her family do this?’ asked Kate, as she stamped her feet on the mat. ‘After all she’s been through, why deny her now? I just don’t get it. Is it to punish her?’

  ‘I think it is,’ said Lucia. ‘And to control her.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Eilish. ‘Maybe they just want their son back? They lost him once, probably never understood what it was all about, and now they can have him back in some way.’

  It was warm in the kitchen, and there was a lovely smell from something in the oven. It felt like home again. Her mum was looking after Lucia. She made suggestions and cups of tea, and constantly touched her arm or her back. They were physically close—like sisters, perhaps? No, that wasn’t quite right. In the end, Kate gave up on trying to understand. Other people’s relationships often seemed baffling.

  Later, when Eilish was drawing the curtains, she paused to peer out into the darkening garden. ‘We should plant a tree for Chloe.’

  Lucia came to join her. ‘We’re going to end up with a vast rainforest out there, at this rate.’

  ‘I think there’s room for Chloe in our forest,’ said Eilish.

  Forty-eight

  Simon

  Their things were all around: Nico’s favourite cereal, Rosa’s baby gym, books Carmela had been reading; even her scent followed him everywhere. That was why he spent more time at the surgery than at home. He didn’t stop by the pub anymore. It didn’t bring any comfort. Carmela had sent short texts each day, and twice he’d spoken to Nico on the phone. They were having a lovely time, apparently, and from the Visa bills it looked as though they’d been eating in a lot of cafes.

  ‘Carmela’s in Suffolk,’ he told Eilish when she phoned for advice about Baffy’s diet. ‘Bit of a holiday with the children. I’ll join them if I get the time.’

  She didn’t notice he was lying. The only person who seemed to have rumbled him was Sven.

  ‘Simon,’ he said one lunchtime, after Carmela and the kids had been gone about ten days. ‘This holiday in Suffolk. How long’s it meant to be?’

  ‘Couple of weeks.’

  ‘Then they’re back?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Simon picked up the phone. He had a list of owners to call with progress reports on their animals. ‘Absolutely.’

  Sven’s expression was cynical. ‘Okay. And where are they, exactly?’

  ‘On the coast . . . Hello, Catherine? Simon Livingstone here; yes, the vet. I’ve got good news about Gandalf’s results.’

  Fortunately, Sven had been called away to an emergency appointment before he could ask more questions. Simon made several home calls, which took up the rest of the afternoon. The last one was to euthanise a labrador with heart failure. She was a beautiful creature and had grown up with the family’s children, two of whom had come home to say goodbye. The whole family was in tears. Simon wasn’t confident in the pastoral side of his job, but he did his best to say the Right Thing.

  The mother saw him to his car. She was clutching a tissue. ‘Sorry we got so emotional. It’s the end of an era, you see. She arrived as a puppy when George was four, and she’s been such a friend ever . . . oh dear. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise,’ said Simon. ‘She was part of the family.’

  ‘That’s so true. She was. It won’t feel like home anymore.’

  He remembered her words later, as he walked along his own street. He longed for his empty house to be full again—of noise, of chaos, of getting ready for swimming lessons and cheering when Rosa managed to sit up by herself. He even longed for a good old tantrum from Nico.

  He was almost at his front door when he noticed a familiar car jammed into a very small space on the street outside. It looked like Carmela’s. He shouldn’t get his hopes up; lots of people owned dark blue Passats. He walked closer, not taking his eyes off it. Yes—surely that was Nico’s car seat? And there was Rosa’s mobile!

  He broke into a run, wrestled with the key in the lock and burst through the front door. He heard childish shouts, and the next moment Nico had galloped out of the sitting room and been swung into his father’s arms.

  ‘Hi there, big fella!’ cried Simon. ‘You’ve grown!’

  Carmela appeared at the kitchen door. She’d lost weight—surely she couldn’t have lost so much in ten days? She was wearing her pre-baby jeans, he noticed, and her hair was clipped up in a messy bun. She seemed wary of him.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  Relief made Simon euphoric. Still carrying Nico, he strode across the hall, threw his free arm around her, and kissed her.

  ‘You’re home,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming home.’

  Meanwhile, Nico hadn’t stopped talking. He wanted Simon to know about the little house they’d had, and the beach, and the noisy seagulls, and how he slept in a top bunk but sometimes he went and found Mummy in the night, in case she was scared of the dark. Then he remembered he was starting a museum, and had collected a whole box of sea glass.

  After climbing down, he trotted off to fetch this treasure. Simon left his arm around Carmela’s shoulder as they walked into the kitchen. To his shame he hadn’t been looking after the place, and she’d obviously decided to air it. All the windows were open. Simon looked into the garden and noticed that the sun was shining, despite a fresh wind. The neighbour’s apple trees were all decked out in pink blossom. When did that happen? Winter was over, and he hadn’t even noticed.

  ‘I’d have tidied up, if I’d known you were coming,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know we were. We made the decision this morning. Just like that. Nico said it’s been a very nice holiday, but is it nearly time to go home and see Daddy? And I agreed with him.’ She put one of Rosa’s bottles into the microwave and pressed the buttons. Beep . . . beep.

  ‘Where’s Rosa?’

  ‘Asleep. She was tired and grumpy. But she should wake up now, or there will be hell to pay tonight.’

  ‘I’ll get her,’ said Simon eagerly. He set off with the bottle in his hand, but turned back at the door.

  ‘Please don’t go away again,’ he said.

  She didn’t answer him.

  It was a happy evening, despite the anxiety of it all. Simon and Nico went to collect a takeaway pizza, and the family ate together around the breakfast bar. Rosa seemed delighted to be home, banging her cup and crowing with laughter when her dad—who was folding the washing—put a sock on top of his head. At bedtime, Simon read to Nico while Carmela pottered about downstairs. The house phone rang while he was reading, and he heard Carmela’s voice. She was having a very long conversation with someone.

  He found her in the kitchen, checking her emails.

  ‘Tea,’ she said, pushing a mug in his direction.

  ‘Did I hear the phone earlier?’

  ‘You did. It was Eili
sh.’

  He leaned over her with his arms linked around her neck. Mum was probably still worrying about that silly little dog of Kate’s. No need to call her back tonight. He didn’t want to think about his parents. He wanted to forget them, just for a while.

  ‘Your father’s had a terrible thing happen,’ said Carmela. ‘Terrible.’

  He felt a lurch of fear. ‘He’s been attacked? Shit, I’ve been expecting this. How bad?’

  ‘No, no. He’s not hurt. This thing happened to a good friend of his. D’you want to know about it?’

  Simon straightened up. He really didn’t want to know.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Carmela.

  He really did want to know. ‘Tell me. What’s happened?’

  ‘You promise not to interrupt?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Right. Sit down.’ She patted the stool next to her. ‘It’s a horrible story. Your father had a friend called Chloe. A good friend. She was a great support to him.’

  ‘A friend? Was she a—’

  ‘Yes, she was also a transgender woman. Now, shush!’ Carmela pouted, touching her finger to his lips. ‘You promised not to interrupt.’

  She seemed to know all sorts of details about this Chloe, who—Simon had to admit—sounded like a nice person. He kept his promise and listened to the story without a word, until she came to the ghastly part at the end.

  ‘Stabbed to death?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Stabbed? In her own bedsit?’

  ‘It was even worse! He continued after she was gone. He cut her private parts. He mutilated her.’

  Simon remembered the smashing of a bottle, in the car park of the White Hart.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s . . . What a screwball.’

  ‘Yes, a screwball. Apparently, Chloe was so happy about her date. She thought somebody valued her for herself, at last. Isn’t it sad?’

  Jessica was standing in the botanical gardens, clutching his hands, smiling and crying. You mean it? You really mean it?

  I surrender, thought Simon. He felt the relief, the freedom of it. I’m coming out. My hands are up.

  ‘Poor Dad,’ he said. ‘Must be gutted. Is he all right?’

  The words were a white flag, and they both knew it. For a moment—just a moment—he saw a smile of triumph on Carmela’s lips. She got to her feet.

  ‘Shall we have another cup of tea in the sitting room? I’ve put the heater on in there. I have to name all Nico’s school clothes. Can you believe it? We had a bossy email from the school while I was away. Rules, rules, rules. All so that they can turn him into a totally up-himself middle-class Englishman. Over-privileged and smug. A yawn a minute.’

  ‘Like his father,’ said Simon. He heard her laughing as she walked away.

  He made more tea, and found some chocolate in a drawer. When he joined Carmela, she had Elgar playing on the stereo. The Enigma Variations. She’d arranged herself gracefully, cross-legged on the floor. Nico’s school uniform lay folded in a pile beside her, and she was wielding a marker pen.

  ‘We must label our son,’ she said, shaking her head in disgust. ‘He must know who he is!’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘With your handwriting? When Nico loses his gym shorts they will be given to somebody called Joe Bloggs. But you could just rub my shoulder, here. Can you feel it? I’ve strained something. Nico kept climbing into my bed in the night, and jamming me into one tiny corner. Every day I woke up with a crick in my neck.’

  She began to label one garment after another: Nico Livingstone. Nico Livingstone. Simon sat behind her, on the edge of the armchair, digging his thumbs into the muscles of her upper back. She wriggled and said, ‘Down a bit . . . left a bit . . . there; ooh, that’s lovely.’ Neither of them mentioned the fact that she’d almost left him.

  Elgar’s melody was immaculate. For some reason, it was bringing tears to Simon’s eyes.

  ‘Why Enigma?’ he whispered. ‘Puzzle, paradox . . . What did Elgar have in mind?’

  Carmela chuckled. ‘I don’t know.’ She picked up a grey school jersey, looking for somewhere to write Nico’s name. ‘Some puzzles aren’t meant to be solved,’ she said. ‘They are a work of art in themselves.’

  A work of art.

  ‘I knew a transsexual once,’ he said. ‘When I was nineteen. She was . . . a work of art. I fell in love with her.’

  He saw the marker pen stop moving, halfway through the word Livingstone. Carmela swivelled around to stare at him in astonishment. ‘I have known you more than six years, and you’ve never mentioned this before.’

  ‘Even up-themselves, over-privileged, smug English males have skeletons in their closets.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  He told her. He talked about the nightclub, and the river, and the botanical gardens. He only faltered when it came to describing what happened outside the White Hart, in the darkness and rain. That part sounded barbaric, especially after the news of Chloe’s murder.

  ‘I don’t feel good about it,’ he said. ‘I discovered a vicious side to myself. I didn’t even know it was in me.’

  Carmela had put aside Nico’s clothes as he spoke, and was resting her elbow on Simon’s thigh. ‘You were touchy about your sexuality. I’ve got four brothers, remember? I know how they think. You were afraid of the feelings you had for her. Did you wonder if it meant you were gay?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘And, after all,’ reasoned Carmela, ‘you didn’t actually hurt this Jessica.’

  ‘Not physically.’

  ‘Have you ever seen her again?’

  ‘Nope. Never again. After that one text, I blocked her number. A couple of years later I heard a rumour that she’d gone for surgery. Might be true, might not. You never know with student gossip.’

  ‘You must have wondered.’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Simon!’ she said, slapping his knee. ‘Of course you wondered.’

  ‘I just wanted to forget it. I wanted to forget that I was the one who fell for a lady boy. That whole event buggered up university life for me. I’ve never made friends easily, Carmela. I’m not like you. I didn’t trust anyone after that, didn’t even trust myself. I didn’t really like myself again until . . . well, until I met you.’

  She was resting her chin on his knee, smiling at him. Her hair had come loose from its clip, and her eyes seemed very dark.

  ‘You didn’t like yourself?’

  He felt her fingers untying the laces of his shoes and pulling them off, one by one. It was just a light touch, but it was glorious. The next moment she’d kneeled up in front of him and was deftly unbuttoning his shirt.

  ‘I like you,’ she said. ‘Shall I prove it to you?’

  Forty-nine

  Lucia

  I’d done all I could for Chloe. Her mother never got in touch. I called the police again, and this time was put through to the family liaison officer assigned to the case. I asked for the family’s permission for myself and some of Chloe’s other friends to attend her funeral. The liaison chap was more helpful than D.I. Dave, and agreed to ask them.

  My hopes weren’t high. He came back to me with a curt message, which he’d written down and read out verbatim:

  Please respect our grief. We have no wish to know about Callum’s other life. Leave us in peace with memories of our son and brother.

  They were cremating her on Wednesday. The service began at twelve.

  It was one of those calm, almost-sunny March days. Sparrows and swallows were nesting under the eaves of the house, flitting in and out, diving across the lawn with straw in their beaks. Eilish had a full day at the school; I had a vast backlog of work, so I got up at six, tackled the most urgent tasks and made several phone calls.

  Just before midday, I pulled on my gumboots (Eilish had fetched them from the loft, where she’d thrown them) and took Baffy for a walk across Gareth’s fields. At the footbridge I stopped and played solitary Pooh sticks for a while. There wasn’t a breath of win
d. The sticks floated sedately beneath the bridge before bobbing out the other side, around the corner and away on their journeys. Chloe, too, was going on a journey. Safe travels, I murmured as I watched the sticks disappear. There will be a place for you, on the other side.

  At twelve-thirty, I said goodbye and thank you.

  By one o’clock I knew it would all be over.

  I dropped Baffy back at the house but I didn’t want to go in. Instead, I crossed the lawn and let myself into the shed. As soon as I stepped through the door, I was overpowered by the scent of wood shavings. Eilish kept her gardening equipment in here, but my things were all exactly as I’d left them: the power tools, the circular saw, the router and an old lathe. They were my heritage.

  My father’s woodworking shed was legendary. As soon as I was tall enough to reach the bench, he showed me how to use all his tools—even the circular saw, which looked so fearsome. I grew up with the resinous scents of wood and linseed oil in my nostrils. By the time I was ten, I could identify a timber by its smell, which came into the house on Dad’s clothes. His socks reeked of resin as they dried on the Aga; when he shook out his jerseys, sawdust rose in a cloud. Dad and wood resin went together. He made me my first ever blocks, and my first ride-on truck. One wonderful day, he and I worked together and a little biplane emerged from the timber. That was why I’d made one with Simon, years later. I’d promised to do the same for Nico.

  When Dad died, they made his coffin out of timber from his farm. It was newly milled. I breathed in the living scent of pine as I carried him out of the church.

  Now I stood in the shed, inhaling that familiar smell and thinking about my father. He gave me most of his tools. Even when he knew he was dying, he and I would come in here and make things. It used to calm him, and me too.

  I pictured him climbing a ladder to rescue me from a tree. I heard him calling to me from his tractor, inviting me to ride beside him in the cab. I sat under the table while he played poker with his friends, and felt his calloused hand ruffling my hair. I saw him sitting beside me in the car park at East Yalton hill, a blanket over his knees, shrunken and ready to meet death. Then I looked down at myself. I was wearing a pleated skirt and a mauve cowl-necked sweater. My hair grew in heavy waves. I had a definite bust now, even if it was only a size AA. My pierced earlobes ached slightly under their gold studs.