‘The German guy?’ Klaus was frowning, as if trying to remember, then he smiled. ‘Kaplan must have got it right. I wasn’t exactly
‘And you didn’t mention Laura Tipler sharing Adam’s tent.’
He looked at me strangely, without breaking his stride. ‘It seemed like a violation of privacy.’
‘What was she like?’
Klaus’s expression became faintly disapproving, as if I were breaking some kind of unspoken rule. Then he said, ‘It was before he met you, Alice.’
‘I know. So I’m not allowed to know anything about her?’ He didn’t reply. ‘Or about Francoise? Or any of them?’ I stopped myself. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to go on about it like this.’
‘Debbie said you were dwelling on things a bit.’
‘Did she? She had a fling with him once, too.’ My voice sounded unnaturally high-pitched. I was beginning to alarm myself.
‘God, Alice.’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t walk. Maybe I’ll get a taxi home. I feel a bit tired.’
Without a word, Klaus stepped out into the road and hailed a passing black cab. He handed me in, then stepped in after me in spite of my protestations.
‘Sorry,’ I said again.
We sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, as the cab edged its way through the evening traffic.
‘You have no reason to be jealous,’ he said at last.
‘I’m not jealous. I’m sick and tired of secrets and mysteries, and finding out about Adam from articles I read in papers, or from little things people let slip when they’re not thinking. It’s like being ambushed all the time. I never know which direction the surprise is going to come from.’
‘From what I hear,’ said Klaus, ‘the surprises aren’t exactly springing out at you. It’s more like you are rooting around trying to find them.’ He laid a warm, callused hand over mine. ‘Trust him,’ he said. ‘Stop tormenting yourself.’
I laughed, and then the laugh turned into a hiccuping sob. ‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘I’m not usually like this.’
‘Perhaps you should get some help,’ said Klaus.
I was aghast. ‘You think I’m going mad? Is that what you think?’
‘No, Alice, just that it might help to talk to an outsider about all of this. Look. Adam’s a buddy, but I know what a stubborn bastard he can be. If you’re having problems, get help to sort them out.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’ I sat back in the taxi and closed my stinging eyes. I felt bone-tired and horribly dreary. ‘Maybe I’ve been a fool.’
‘We’re all fools sometimes,’ he said. He looked relieved at my sudden acquiescence.
When the taxi stopped, I didn’t ask him in for the cup of tea he had promised himself, and I don’t think he minded at all. He hugged me at the front door and strode rapidly down the road, coat flapping. I trudged up the stairs, dispirited and somewhat ashamed of myself. I went to the bathroom, stared into the mirror and didn’t like what I saw there. Then I gazed around the flat, which was as I had left it that morning. There were dishes that had been in the sink for several days, drawers left open, jars of honey and jam with their lids off, bread going stale on the cutting board, a couple of filled bin-bags stacked by the door, crumbs and dirt on the linoleum floor. In the living room, there were old mugs everywhere, newspapers and magazines on the floor together with emptied bottles of whisky and wine. A bunch of daffodils were shrivelled and brown in a jam jar. The carpet looked as if it had not been vacuumed for weeks. Come to think of it, we hadn’t changed the sheets or done the laundry for weeks either.
‘Shit,’ I said in disgust. ‘I look like shit and this place looks like shit. Right.’
I rolled up my sleeves and started in the kitchen. I was going to get my life under control. With every surface I cleaned, I felt better. I washed the dishes, threw away all the stale or rotting food, all the candle stubs, all the junk mail, and I scrubbed the floor with hot soapy water. I gathered all the bottles and the old papers and threw them away, not even stopping to read last week’s news. I threw away Sherpa’s bowl, trying not to remember the last sight I had had of him. I stripped the bed and put the sheets in the corner of the room, ready to go to the laundry. I put shoes into pairs, books into neat piles. I cleaned the tidemark from the bath and the limescale from the shower. I added the towels to the laundry pile.
Then I made myself a cup of tea and started on the cardboard boxes under our high bed, where Adam and I had got into the habit of tossing anything we weren’t actually going to deal with but didn’t want to throw away just yet. For a second, I considered simply putting them outside by the dustbins without even going through them. But then I saw a scrap of paper with Pauline’s work number scribbled on it. I mustn’t throw that away. I started to plough through the old bills, the new bills, the postcards, the scientific journals I hadn’t yet read, the photostats of Drakloop material, the scraps of paper with messages I had left for Adam, or Adam had left for me. ‘Back at midnight; don’t go to sleep,’ I read, and tears pricked my eyelids again. Empty envelopes. Unopened envelopes addressed to the owner of the flat. I took them over to the writing desk in the corner of the bedroom and began to sort them into three piles. One to discard, one to deal with at once, and one to put back in the box. One of the piles slipped over and several of the papers fell down behind the desk. I tried to reach down after them but the gap was too narrow. I was tempted to leave them there but, no, I was going to clear up everything in the flat. Even the invisible bits. So, with an immense effort, I pulled the desk out from the wall. I retrieved the papers and, of course, there was the other stuff that gets stuck behind desks: a shrivelled apple-core, a paper clip, a pen top, an old scrap of envelope. I looked at the envelope to see if it could just be thrown away. It was addressed to Adam. Then I turned it round and all at once I felt I had been punched so hard in the stomach that I could only breathe with difficulty.
‘Had a bad day?’ I read. It was Adam’s scrawl, in thick black ink. Then, again, on the next line down, ‘Had a hard day, Adam?’ Then: ‘Hard day, Adam? Take a bath.’ Finally, underneath was written in familiar capital letters:
HARD DAY.
The words were written repeatedly like an infant’s writing exercise: HARD DAY HARD DAY HARD DAY HARD DAY HARD DAY
Then: ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM ADAM
And then, finally: HARD DAY ADAM? TAKE A BATH.
I mustn’t be mad. I mustn’t be obsessive. I tried and tried to think of the sensible, reassuring explanation. Adam might have been doodling, thinking about the note, writing its words over and over. But that wasn’t what was on the paper. This wasn’t doodling. It was Adam imitating the handwriting of the previous notes – of Tara’s notes – until he got it right, so that the link between Tara and the harassment would be broken. Now I knew. I knew about Sherpa and I knew about everything. I knew what I had known for a long time. The one truth I couldn’t stand.
I picked up the envelope. My hands were steady. I hid it in my knicker drawer, with the letter from Adele, and then went back to the bedside and put everything I had taken out and sorted back into the boxes. I pushed the boxes back under the bed, and even rubbed away the depressions they had made on the carpet.
I heard the footsteps coming up the stairs and went, unhurriedly, into the kitchen. He came in and stood over me. I kissed him on the lips and put my arms tightly around him. ‘I’ve spring-cleaned,’ I said, and my voice sounded perfectly ordinary.
He kissed me back and looked into my eyes and I didn’t flinch or turn away.
Thirty-five
Adam knew. Or he knew something. Because he was always around, always had his eye on me. A detached
