woman dies in childbirth? That means somewhere out there five women have died giving birth just while we’ve been sitting here.’
So that was what was upsetting her. I smiled reassuringly. ‘The mortality rate is much lower for developed countries, Casey. And birth complications are less likely with younger women. I’m sure it’s natural to feel anxious about it, but even if one woman dies in childbirth every minute, think about how many more give birth perfectly safely without any problems at all in that time. The death rate must be extremely low nowadays, especially if you’re healthy to begin with.’
Casey nodded. ‘You’re right. But I’m… I don’t know, I’m probably just being stupid. But I can’t shake this feeling that… something… something will happen…’
Without thinking about it, I put my arm round her shoulders for a brief moment, quite touched by her naive fears. ‘The doctors know what they’re doing,’ I said kindly. ‘They deliver babies all the time. You’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about.’
The soft, golden light from the floodlit monument gleamed off the many hoops in her right ear, and when she smiled at me I noticed for the first time that there was a little golden heart stuck to one of her upper teeth. Tooth jewellery, I realised, unconsciously raising my eyebrows.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, what do the tattoos mean?’ I asked, to draw her onto another subject. ‘What made you get all those piercings and things?’
Casey smiled and ran a hand through her dyed hair. ‘Well, it must have been to rebel against my parents, right?’
‘Er…’ I hesitated, aware of the odd tone in her voice. ‘Was it?’
She smiled and I caught another flash of the gold heart on her upper tooth again. ‘Believe it or not, some of us have piercings and tattoos and dye our hair because we think it looks pretty, not for any deep sociological reason. This isn’t an act of protest against cultural or social repression. It’s not a grand, deliberately defiant gesture against capitalists or feminists or any other social group. It’s not even the fashion equivalent to sticking two fingers up at the world. The boring truth of it, Gabriel, is that I don’t dress like this to hurt my parents or draw attention to myself or make a statement. I just do it because I think it looks nice. Disappointed?’
I shrugged, realising I had inadvertently touched a nerve. ‘No, I agree with you. Sometimes an earring is just an earring, right?’
‘Ha! Right. I have no interest in looking like any of those cold-hearted, Barbie-like celebrities who prance around wearing real animal fur and posing moodily for front covers of magazines… Anyway, it’s late. I guess I should head back.’
‘I’ll walk you home,’ I said, standing up with her. The top of her head barely came up to my shoulder.
‘Thanks,’ she said, smiling up at me. ‘You’re not really an angel in disguise or something, are you, Gabriel?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Just share a name with one.’
‘Are you sure?’ She laughed.
We made our way back to our apartment block in companionable silence. It was almost one o’clock in the morning by this time, and I could see that Casey was tired. On the metro, she actually dozed off, her head resting against my shoulder. She apologised profusely when the train stopped at our station. ‘I didn’t drool on you or anything, did I?’ she asked with an embarrassed smile.
I shook my head. ‘No, but you do snore quite loudly.’
She rolled her eyes at me good-naturedly. I didn’t mind looking after her. That was what God wanted me to do. In fact, to all intents and purposes, I am like an angel to Casey. Sent by God to watch over her and protect her from any danger. We said goodnight outside our apartments.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ Casey said before disappearing into her kitchen. ‘My tatts stand for tolerance, pluralism and broadmindedness. ’
27th November
I know at last who’s been putting notes under my door. And the identity of this person appals me. In fact, the sender is the one person I thought I could be absolutely and completely, one hundred percent sure was innocent.
These last few weeks seem to have passed so quickly. The temperature has dropped sharply, the leaves have all fallen, leaving the trees skeletal and naked, and it now truly feels like winter here. I have continued to meet up with Stephomi regularly and there have been no more distressing or disturbing revelations; and, much to my pleasure, I’ve found myself very much enjoying his company once again. I’ve also seen Casey several times and she’s always greeted me warmly. We are real neighbours at last. A familiar face right next door to me.
That’s why I’ve neglected the journal these past few weeks — because I’ve been happy. Looking back through these pages, I realise that I tend to write in here when I’m unhappy. But lately I have been too involved with actually living to spend all my time whining about life in this book.
It’s strange but the pages and pages of my writing in this journal really do comfort me. The paper has a different feel to it once it has been written on. The pages curl a little and do not stick together any more. And the paper becomes heavy with ink, taking on an uneven, crackly kind of texture. A book full of my words, my thoughts, my life. Perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of this journal — even now, I’m scared that I might forget everything again and this book is a safety net against that, for everything is here and written down and permanent, not to be lost again.
But something upsetting happened last week. I’d been dining late in the city and was walking from the metro station back to my apartment block. I was almost at the entrance when I stopped short in amazement. A woman had just walked out the doors of my building. The street outside was not very well lit so I couldn’t see her clearly. All I could make out was that she was wearing a dark evening dress with black gloves that reached up to her elbows. I couldn’t help but notice that she wore no coat, and it occurred to me how cold she must be, this late at night. Her long black hair was piled up on her head, and what looked like diamonds glittered at her throat and on her wrist. The stiletto heels of her strappy evening shoes clicked smartly on the sidewalk as she walked towards me.
She should surely know better than to come out on such a night with no protection from the cold, I thought. It was past midnight and no time for an attractive woman to be wandering around on her own. Streets that would be safe during the day could become dangerous at night. But there was something about the way she walked and held herself that suggested she was not afraid of the dark or what might be waiting in it for her. I drew breath anyway to ask if she had far to go, with the vague idea of offering to accompany her if her destination was very far. But as she passed me, she looked up, and weak light from a nearby streetlamp fell across part of her face, and the words died on my lips as she smiled slightly and carried on walking past me. For I was sure that this woman had been the Lilith of my dreams. Even as I turned and watched her striding away, I told myself I must have been mistaken. Stephomi had said that Lilith haunted places by the sea. Legend said that she flew though the night in search of her infant-victims. She would not have emerged from my shabby apartment block, dressed in all her evening finery, to walk the streets of Budapest.
But I had to know. I had to be sure that it wasn’t her. So I turned back with the idea of catching up with her, but a frightened female cry from within the apartment block stopped me. I stood rooted with indecision for only a moment, watching the woman walk off into the darkness, listening to the click click of her heels, before I turned and ran into my apartment building, stopping short in the doorway in horror.
Casey was stood in the dimly lit lobby surrounded by three young men pressed in around her. One of them had hold of her bag and was trying to prise it from her grip but she was hanging on to the straps with both hands, pleading with her attackers while they laughed at her, delighted that she was making this so much fun for them.
Just give them the bag, I thought. What does it matter?
But the month’s worth of rent she had in her purse meant that she wouldn’t willingly be giving it to anyone. Was she really so naive that she didn’t think they’d hurt her if they had to? What good was a grotty old apartment if you were dead? Or if your baby was dead? What good would it be to you then? I could see tears running down her
