Killing Me Softly

anything for him. It’s like a spell.’

‘And you call yourself a scientist.’

‘I am a scientist.’

‘Why do you look as if you’re about to cry?’

I smiled. ‘I’m happy.’

‘You’re not happy,’ he said. ‘You’re unbalanced.’

And I had arranged to meet Lily, although I didn’t know why. A note had been left for me at the office, addressed only to ‘Alice’. Perhaps she didn’t know my full name.

‘I need to talk to you about the man you stole from me,’ it read, which should have made me throw it away at once. ‘It is urgent and must remain secret. Do not tell him.’ She had given a phone number.

I thought of the note that had been pushed through our door. The paper was different, the writing was small and neat, like a schoolgirl’s. Completely different, but what did that mean? Anyone could disguise their handwriting. I realized that I wanted it to be Lily, and not Jake. I should have shown it at once to Adam, but I didn’t. I persuaded myself that he already had too much to worry about. Klaus’s book was coming out soon. Already two journalists had rung Adam, wanting to interview him ‘about being a hero’, and asking questions about Greg and his moral responsibility for the death of the amateur climbers whom he had led up the mountain and left to die. He was contemptuous of the word ‘hero’, and simply refused to comment on Greg’s behaviour. But I often heard him and Klaus talking about it. Klaus kept going on about the fixed line, and how he didn’t want to be judgemental, but how could Greg have been so careless? Adam repeated, over and over, that above eight thousand metres people cannot be held responsible for their acts.

‘There, but for the grace of God, go all of us,’ he said.

‘But you didn’t,’ I interjected, so that the two men turned to me, benign and patronizing.

‘That was my luck,’ he replied, very soberly. ‘And Greg’s bad luck.’

I didn’t believe him. And I still thought something had happened up in the mountains that he wasn’t disclosing to me. I would watch him at night, sometimes, as he lay asleep, one arm on my thigh and one flung above his head, his mouth slightly open and puffing with each exhaled breath. What dreams sucked him under to where I could not follow?

Anyway, I decided to meet Lily without telling Adam. Maybe I just wanted to see what she was like; maybe I wanted to compare myself to her, or to get a glimpse into Adam’s past. I phoned her, and she told me, talking quickly in a low hoarse voice, to meet her at her flat in Shepherd’s Bush on Thursday morning. The day before the wedding.

She was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful. She had silvery hair, which looked natural and a bit greasy, and the tall leggy look of a model. Her grey eyes were huge and wide apart in her pale triangle of a face. She wore a faded pair of jeans and, in spite of the inclement weather, a tiny grubby T-shirt that showed her perfect midriff. Her feet were bare and slender.

I gazed at her and wished I hadn’t come. We didn’t shake hands or anything. She led me down into her basement flat, and when she opened the door I recoiled in horror. The tiny, muggy flat was a tip. Clothes were flung everywhere: bowls were heaped up in the sink or stood in dirty piles on the kitchen table; a stinking cat-litter tray stood in the middle of the floor. There were magazines, or bits of magazines, strewn about. The large bed, which was in the corner of the living room, was a mess of stained sheets and old newspapers. There was a plate with half a piece of toast on the pillow, and a half-empty bottle of whisky nearby. On the wall – and this nearly made me flee – there was a huge black-and-white photograph of Adam, very serious. And as soon as I saw that, I started to notice other signs of Adam. Several photographs, which had obviously been ripped out of books about climbing, were propped up on the mantelpiece, and he was in each of them. A yellowing newspaper article was Blu-tacked to the wall with Adam’s picture gazing out of it. By the bed was a picture of Lily and Adam together. He had his arm around her and she was gazing up at him, rapt. I closed my eyes briefly and wished there was somewhere to sit down.

‘I haven’t cleaned for a bit,’ said Lily.

‘No.’

We both stayed standing.

‘That was our bed,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said, looking at it. I wanted to vomit.

‘I haven’t changed the sheets since he left. I can still smell him.’

‘Look,’ I said, with an effort, for I felt that I had walked into a terrible dream, and was trapped in it, ‘you said you had something urgent to tell me.’

‘You stole him from me,’ she continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘He was mine and you came along and stole him from under my nose.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No. He chose me. We chose each other. I’m sorry, Lily. I didn’t know about you, but anyway…’

‘You just smashed up my life without thinking of me,’ she looked around her disastrous flat. ‘You didn’t care about me.’ Her voice sank. ‘Now what?’ she said, in a kind of listless horror. ‘Now what am I supposed to do?’

‘Listen, I think I ought to just go,’ I said. ‘This doesn’t help either of us.’

‘Look,’ she said, and took off her T-shirt. She stood there, pale and slim. Her breasts were small, with large brownish nipples. I couldn’t make myself look away. Then she turned around. Livid weals striped her back. ‘He did that,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Now what do you say?’

‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, rooted to the spot.

‘To show how much he loved me. He branded me his. Has he done that to you? No? But he’s done it to me because I belong to him. He can’t just throw me off.’

I walked to the door.

‘That’s not all,’ she said.

‘We are marrying tomorrow.’ I opened the door.

‘That’s not all that he…’

A thought occurred to me. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

She looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Goodbye.’

I shut the door on her and ran back up the steps to the pavement. Even the exhaust fumes smelt clean after Lily’s flat.

We had a bath together, and washed each other meticulously. I shampooed his hair and he mine. Warm lather floated on the surface of the water and the air was steamy and fragrant. I shaved his face very carefully. He combed out my hair, holding it with one hand while he teased out little knots so as not to hurt me.

We dried each other. The mirror had fogged over, but he told me I did not need to look at my reflection this morning, except in his eyes. He wouldn’t let me put on any makeup. I put my dress on over my naked body and slipped on shoes. He pulled on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved black T-shirt.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Ready,’ I said.

‘You’re my wife now.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is this all right? Don’t flinch.’

‘Yes.’

‘And this?’

‘No – yes. Yes.’

‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Always?’

‘Always.’