The Half Life Of Stars Part 3

I greeted Julio coolly. He asked how I was, and I tried hard not to seem smitten.

'I'm fine,' I said, in Spanish. 'How are you?'

'My family are crazy, my twin sisters do my head in.'

'I know how you feel,' I said. 'Sometimes it's good to get out on your own.'

He smiled at me. He understood. That was the instant I fell in love.

'Your Spanish is getting better.'

'Really, is it?'

'Yeah, it is. You learn fast.'

What a delightful thing this was. Simply by concentrating, by paying attention, by bending and furrowing your tongue a certain way, it seemed you could understand the entire world.

I suggested we went to get pizza, but Julio turned up his nose. This was the kind of boy who liked to do things; he wasn't the kind of boy to sit around. In no time at all he was pulling off his s.h.i.+rt and insisting we went for a swim. Our skinny bodies s.h.i.+vering like whippets, we ran across the beach towards the sea. Julio told me that we had to dive deep under the waves, that once we were past our shoulders it would be warm. It was true. The sea temperature hadn't had time to drop yet, and the contrast to the bite of the cold winter air made it feel like we'd jumped into a bathtub.

The pair of us swam about like seals that afternoon, jumping in and out of the seaweed until we were exhausted and out of breath. At some point our naked legs rubbed up against one another and a look of acknowledgement pa.s.sed between us. Julio swam up beside me and without asking if he could, began to tug away at my thin underwear. We began to kiss, awkwardly, roughly, and I felt his fingers rub up inside my pants. It felt nice. He moved slowly and calmly, not frantically like a boyat least he did to begin with. And some minutes later, I don't recall how many, I realised that he must be entering me. I felt the ache, the stretch, the thin shot of pain, but I needed tangible proof. Something to take away, a souvenir of some kind, something to mark the occasion. Suddenly, there it was: a tiny puff of blood, reddening the foam at the top of the waves and spreading out through the warm salty water.

Daniel had blood spots on his bandages. He lay completely still on that hospital bed, his eyes fixed unsteadily on the ceiling. His mouth was bolted shut. No matter what we said, no matter how tight we clung to him, his lips refused to ease apart. I couldn't stand the way he looked: so fragile and scared and wired and f.u.c.ked up, his feet all broken and swollen.

The facts of the matter were brutal. Even after they'd managed to reach my father's car, the traffic hadn't moved again for another hour. They couldn't carry his body away through the stranded vehicles, so he'd had to stay exactly where he was: slumped in the front seat with his arms folded over his exploded chest, a blanket pulled up over his face. Daniel had sat on that embankment the whole time: utterly alone, knowing what he knew, giving up on words, giving up on language, giving up on childish explanations.

We tried for a good long time to get him to talk but eventually he closed his eyes and went to sleep. It was amazing how he managed to do this; with us hugging him and hara.s.sing him and telling him that we loved him and promising him that he'd done his very best. Somehow he managed to shut us out. For the whole of that day and for four days after that, he managed to shut out the entire world.

They took Mum to identify my father's body while Sylvie and I waited outside in the corridor. The stink of disinfectant made me want to throw up but Sylvie didn't seem to mind it all that much. I wondered if she knew what was going on, if she could sense the heartbreak that was all around her. I didn't know what to say when my mother came out. She hadn't spoken to me the whole way up in the police car, she'd just sat there and stared out of the window, plaiting and replaiting Sylvie's hair.

'Where have you been?'

That was the last thing she said to me. When I turned up from the beach with my clothes in a knot and the last of Julio's s.e.m.e.n spilling out into my sea-soaked underwear. I looked almost as frightened as Daniel. I'd seen the police car parked outside the apartment block and though I knew it wasn't true, I half suspected that they'd come to arrest me. Mum was crying. A policewoman had her arms round her shoulders and a policemen tried to take hold of my hand.

'I didn't do anything wrong,' I said, backing away. 'It wasn't my fault, it was Julio's.'

'It's not important now,' said the officer, bending down. 'Claire, something very bad has happened.'

'I know,' I said. 'I heard it on the radio. I already know about that.'

'No, sweetheart. It's about your dad. He had a heart attack.'

'Is he...OK?'

'No. I'm sorry. He's not.'

I didn't feel anything. I didn't feel anything at all. Tears ran down my cheeks and stung my wind-chapped lips, but I couldn't begin to take it in. And Mum just stared at me. In one searing glance she saw right through me, determined just exactly where I'd been and what I'd done.

'What about my brother? What's happened to Daniel?'

'He's gonna be fine. He's a hero as a matter of fact.'

This was a strange turn of events. My father stone cold dead and Daniel at the same time a hero. There was something in the police officer's voice that suggested there was something to be happy about in all this. I didn't feel it. I didn't feel anything at all. I thought about Julio's mouth pressing hard onto mine, and about our bodies wrapped up tight in the salty waves. I thought about the tiny rush of pain as he'd entered my body for the very first time and tried to remember exactly how it had felt. I thought about it all the way up to Cocoa Beach. All the way along the coast, past the cities and the swamps, to the hospital where they'd taken my father and brother.

She walked out of that morgue like she was made of cardboard. The tears had rubbed her make-up to distant corners of her face and a crust of salt and orange coloured lipstick had settled heavily into the lines around her mouth. It looked to me like her face was rusting, like my mother had begun to corrode. I wanted to go up and hug herI desperately wanted her to hug mebut Sylvie got to her first. She marched straight towards her, put her arms around Mum's legs and sweetly, dutifully, began to cry.

'Hush Sylvie,' she said, gathering her up in her arms. 'Don't cry now, it'll all be all right. You were there when Mummy needed you, you're a wonderful girl. You were always there for your Mummy.'

Born Free

It's gone 3:00 a.m., Daniel still isn't home, and we've run out of logical excuses. No one has called, his mobile remains unanswered, no one has knocked on the door. We've tried all the hospitals, woken all his friends, dragged his boss and his colleagues from their beds. n.o.body has any more suggestions. n.o.body has anything more to say. Kay decides that she's going to call the police, and the pastry chef seizes on the momentary distraction to make his overdue escape and bolt for the door.

I might be mistaken but I think I see him raise his hands to the sky and offer a silent prayer as he sprints down the path towards his car. What a story to tell his friends. How he got invited back to some crazy woman's flat for a quickie s.h.a.g and ended up in the centre of a family crisis. How he was goosed by the semi-drunk mother, seduced by the s.e.xy sister and confronted with the mystery of the missing brother by the immaculately groomed wife. I stand in the porch and watch him drive away (make a mental note to avoid walking home past the Cafe Vasco for the rest of my life) and head back inside. Another one down. Another vision of awkwardness and embarra.s.sment, drifts away into the night.

Back in the house, Kay is just off the phone and my mother is giving her the third degree.

'What good is tomorrow tomorrow? Why can't they send someone now?'

'It's too early. They said we'd have to wait...at least until morning.'

'Well, what are we meant to do? We can't just sit here. Give me the phone, I'll call them back.'

Kay shakes her head, she looks pale. The mere act of dialling 999 has visibly dented her.

'If he was younger, or vulnerable...they could do something now. But a grown man staying out late...we'll have to sit tight. They said a missing adult usually turns up within twenty-four hours.'

'Well, that's good then,' says Sylvie, weakly. 'I mean, in a way...he's probably just...' She fades out.

'Did you tell them it wasn't like him? Did you tell them it's completely out of character?'

'Of course course I did. You just heard me.' I did. You just heard me.'

'Well, what about his phone? Did you say he wasn't answering his phone?'

My sister-in-law checks herself. I sense her battling to stay calm.

'They said we should try not to panic. That he's probably held up somewhere. If he's not back by tomorrow...we can fill in a missing person's report.'

Kay lifts her hands to her ears, partly to compose herself, partly to shut out my mother. She's wondering if the police might be right; if she's missed something; if there's some small chance she might be overreacting.

'They asked if he could be staying at a hotel,' she says, quietly. 'They wanted to know if we'd had a fight.'

'Did you?'

She shakes her head, no.

'Maybe he crashed out at a friend's house,' says Robert. 'Perhaps he just flaked out after too much wine.'

'We've tried them all, Robert. I've tried everyone everyone I can think of. I don't know who else I can call.' I can think of. I don't know who else I can call.'

'Perhaps he's with someone you don't know.' says Robert, trying to be helpful. 'Could that be possible...do you think?'

'What are you suggesting?'

Robert shrugs his shoulders. He's not suggesting anything.

'Might he have met someone? Could he have run into someone and gone home with them?'

'A woman woman?'

'No...G.o.d, no. I meant someone from school...an old schoolfriend, something like that.'

We s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably in our seats. He didn't mean to imply it, but this would make some kind of sense. Kay and Daniel have had a row of some kind. He went to spend the night in a hotel. Could he be cheating on her? Could Could he? She picks up on our betrayal immediately, feels us all slipping away. he? She picks up on our betrayal immediately, feels us all slipping away.

'Daniel and I are fine,' she says, turning to my mother. 'There've been no arguments. None None.'

My mother stares hard at her drink. Kay sits down next to the phone.

'They said I should call again later,' she says, dejectedly. 'I'm supposed to let them know...if he turns up.'

'He will,' I say. 'Don't worry, Kay. He will.'

The Snow Queen

What a stark week it's been. It snowed yesterday. Great grey clouds of the stuff came swirling through the air, like a ton of duck down shaken from some giant wintry pillow. People were so excited to see a heavy snowfall in central London that they came tearing out of their houses just to watch it. They were laughing. They seemed to like it. They immediately began scooping up frozen clumps from the ground and stuffing it down one another's jumpers. I gave them a disapproving look as I walked by, like I was an old person or something.

Snow makes me a little uneasy, always has. I hate the way everything goes so deathly quiet after a snowstorm. You can't hear the comforting hiss of the traffic any more and your feet make no rea.s.suring echo when they hit the ground. Everything's m.u.f.fled and silent and cloaked, like the world's been shut up in a freaky padded cell. I want the world to be noisy, vibrant, active and alert. Especially today. Especially now.

'Where are you? Where the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k are you, Daniel? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you'd better come home.' are you, Daniel? You b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you'd better come home.'

I say this to no one in particular. Stood in the road outside my mother's house, ankle deep in the snow.

'This isn't funny any more, do you hear hear me? You can't leave me alone with them, we had a pact. Whatever you've done, whatever went wrong. No one b.l.o.o.d.y cares about it. me? You can't leave me alone with them, we had a pact. Whatever you've done, whatever went wrong. No one b.l.o.o.d.y cares about it. No No one!' one!'

Daniel never made it home that Friday night. He isn't home still, he's disappeared. There's a manila file sitting on a desk at our local police station with his name written on it in bold black letters. My brother is officially missing. He's been gone for over a week.

We've barely slept since the night he disappeared, we look like ghouls, the lot of us. Every hour we can muster has been spent glued to the phone or out pacing the streets, desperately trying to find some living trace of him. In the past seven days I've spoken to relatives I didn't even know I had: great-aunts, great-uncles, fourth cousins twice removed, people from the phone book that just happen to share the same surname. Between us we've probably spoken to everyone Daniel's had more than a fleeting relations.h.i.+p with in his entire life: long-forgotten friends from college, kids he went on outward-bound courses with when he was a teenager, kids from his junior running club that haven't heard from him since he was seven years old. And still there's nothing. No leads, no evidence, no doc.u.ments, no sight nor sound of him of any kind.

Actually, that's not strictly true. There is some footage of him leaving his office building last Friday night that was caught on his firm's security camera. I've watched that footage maybe a hundred or so times in the last week and every time I look at it I try to pick out something new. Something in the way that he turns his head or swings his arms; something, anything anything, in the 10 short paces he takes to cross the screen that indicates an intention of some kind. Is he walking too quickly, is he anxious? No, it doesn't appear so. Does he have his head bowed, is he depressed or forlorn? No, he's looking straight ahead. Purposefully? It's hard to tell. It lasts exactly 8.79 seconds this piece of film, just long enough for him to pa.s.s through the marble foyer of his building and make his way out onto the forecourt. How does he move? Not determinedly, not casually, not carefully, just, well, normally normally, I suppose. Which is an exceptional thing to say, because after he left the building at 7:00 p.m., no one has the least idea where he went.

And so it went on. The next day and the day after that. Not a call, not a text, not a sighting, not a conclusive piece of information that we could use. He never got into his car, he didn't visit a cash point, his pa.s.sport is still safely tucked away in his drawer at home. He didn't rent a car. He didn't turn up at any hospitals or police stations or homeless hostels, he didn't answer or make a call on his mobile phone. He wasn't there when I spent ten hours pounding the streets last Tuesday night clutching his picture in my hand. He wasn't at the soup kitchens or the train stations or the bus shelters, or camped out in the woods near his home. No one has seen him. No one. Which is odd, because somebody clearly must have.

Somebody hears me shouting in the snow. My voice builds fiercely through the static and the gloom, and hits them with a suddenness that makes them start. It's a woman, weighed down against the cold in her winter armour: a coat and a heavy poncho, and a brightly coloured hat with a fluffy bobble. I take particular exception to that bobble. If I had a pair of scissors on me now, I'd go directly over there and snip it off.

The woman gives me an indecipherable look as she pa.s.ses by. Does she think I'm crazy? Probably. Does she wish I'd keep my voice down, learn to respect the claustrophobia of this miserable weather? Maybe. More likely it's because she recognises me. I can tell by the way she turns her head away so fast, even though it's obvious that she wants to keep on staring. This has happened to me a lot in the last three dayspeople averting their eyes when I get off the bus; grown adults whispering about me behind my back when I stop off to buy a pack of chewing gum from the local shop. I'm famous now, so I suppose I should expect it. I'm a celebrity. I've been on TV.

Four days after Daniel failed to return home from work, the police persuaded us to make a TV appeal. We were ushered into a tiny interview room, sat down at a worn trestle table and directed towards a bank of cameras and microphones. The fact that we were even doing it, the singular absurdity of it, seemed to bring it all home to us: how desperate it was, how serious it was, how bleak it was turning out to be. The recording was delayed a few minutes while my mother went to fetch a picture of Julian, Daniel's baby son; the police thought it would be a good idea for Kay to hold his photo up to the camera while she was talking.

You know what I was thinking while they went to look for that picture? I was thinking that Julian's a pretty odd name for a toddler to have. That when you look at him in his cotall sleepy and angelic or yowling like a cathe always seems a tad perplexed. Maybe he thinks he ought to have been given a better name. Maybe he's p.i.s.sed off that he has a moniker better suited to an estate agent than an eighteen-month-old. Daniel sometimes calls him 'Stinky Jools' which I think is cute, but Kay always insists on using his given name.

This is the kind of stupid thing I think about. That this babythis gorgeous, rosy childmight have to grow up with a mother who doesn't believe in nicknames. That he might never know the gentleness or the sweet irreverence of his own father. He won't experience it, so he won't inherit it. He'll grow up officious and a little pedantic, like Kay, and I won't like him quite as much as I would have.

This is the direction my head was going in while I waited to talk to the British public. To ask them, as kindly as I could, if they'd mind keeping an eye out for my older brother. Maybe they'd spotted him already: walking through a shopping centre, hiding out in a cheap hotel, or wandering through the streets like a bewildered amnesiac asking pa.s.sers-by if they knew the way to Stinky Jools.

I didn't have to say much of anything, in the end. I just stood there while the police officer who was running the investigation read out a statement and introduced Kay to the world. Sylvie stared at the floor the whole time, while Mum and Robert clung tightly to her hand, and Kayquite reasonablycried her eyes out. She tried so hard to get the words out without faltering but you could see exactly how crushed she was to be doing it. It meant we got upgraded from local bulletin to the national news and that her face was splashed all over the next morning's tabloids. 'Blonde mother, 36, weeps in anguish over missing husband this Christmas.' Mystery of the pretty blonde and her vanished love. It made her physically ill. The indignity of it made her throw up.

My picture didn't appear in the papers but people always recognise me from the TV broadcast. That's because I spent the whole time staring directly into the camera like I was some kind of a demented person. I was trying my hardest to communicate with my brother. I was trying to tell him that I understood; that if he wanted to escape the flack or had something to confess, it was me that he should come to first. I wouldn't judge him, I'd cover him. I'd make any kind of arrangements that were necessary. I was letting him know that I was there for him, no matter what. Under any kind of circ.u.mstances, whatsoever. All this I was trying to communicate with a single gnawing look. It stayed with people, I suppose; it's always me that they recognise first.

'Hey...excuse me. I just wanted to say how sorry I am...about your brother. I hope they find him. I hope he's OK.'

I nod at the bobble-hat woman and say a muted thanks, and head along the driveway to my mother's house. d.a.m.n this snow; it makes people think they can stop and talk to one another.

My mother is wobbly from alcohol. Her head bobs about on the end of her neck as clumsy and rootless as a helium balloon. I have to be careful of her now. Her skin is as thin as a sheet of clingfilm when she's in this state and a single misplaced word or ill-judged look is liable to provoke a sudden tear in its surface, releasing a bitter stream of effluent.

'What kind of a coat is that?' she says, slurring her words together. 'A fur fur?'

'Mum, you know it is. I've had it ages.'

'You don't care that animals died to keep you warm...you don't care about the suffering you cause?'

'It's second hand, it's old. The killing was already done.'

This is not a fair argument, I know it, but I love this coat. My ex-husband bought it for me at a winter market when we took a trip to Moscow a couple of years ago and it's the warmest thing I've ever owned.

'I don't want you to wear it to Kay's lunch, do you hear me? I don't want you to upset me on Christmas day. I want you to make an effort, I want you to look decent for a change.'

I had all but forgotten about Christmas; it seems like such an odd thing to care about. Is she really expecting us to keep up with the winter rituals under these circ.u.mstances? Is she really expecting that we all go out and buy presents and pull crackers round a tree in two days' time? My eyes wander off course for a moment and I make the elementary mistake of glancing too long at her hands. And there it is. The steady rip in my mother's fragile mood. A small but significant puncture.

'What are you looking at?' she says, goading me.