Never Tell. Claire Seeber

I stuttered. I gathered my wits. ‘Hello.’

      ‘Praying for redemption?’ He arched an eyebrow. Wearing a long black Astrakhan coat, the collar turned up to frame his pale face, he looked otherworldly. ‘Are you the religious type then?’ He regarded me coolly. ‘You don’t really look it.’

      ‘No. I – it was my grandmother. She died – just, a few years – well, I – I just came to remember her, I suppose.’

      ‘Well, All Souls’ Eve is past.’ He flicked his blond hair back.

      ‘So?’ I didn’t know what he meant.

      ‘When, my dear, the boundary is open between the dead and the living. But perhaps she’ll rise again tonight.’

      ‘Oh.’ I thought of how very sick and slight my elegant grandmother had been at the end. ‘God, I kind of hope not. I think she might be happier where she is.’

      ‘Really?’ Dalziel looked amused. ‘Remind me of your name.’ He took a step towards me. ‘Something floral, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Rose. Rose Langton.’

      ‘Ah yes. Rose. “Of sweetest odours made.” Well, perhaps you can help me, now you’re here.’

      I blushed hotly. ‘Help you?’

      ‘Yes. Number Four.’

      ‘You’ve lost me,’ I mumbled. He was so beautiful, close up. Ethereal, almost.

      ‘Never mind. No time to explain. Got to defile Sabbath’s day before the protectors get here.’ Dalziel picked up the bag at his feet. A bright pink feather boa protruded from one end. ‘Jesus needs a little help with his outfit. He’s been feeling a bit chilly.’

      As I watched in amazement, Dalziel produced full suspenders and stockings, crotchless knickers and nipple tassels in red satin, a push-up bra in black lace and a bottle of champagne, still cold, all from his bag.

      ‘You open the Krug.’ He pressed the bottle on me. ‘I’ll dress him. And get a move on. This place is never empty for long.’

      I didn’t dare admit I’d no idea how to open a bottle of champagne. Like a lost puppy, I followed him as he carried the underwear over to the six-foot Jesus, who gazed sadly down at the floor near our feet.

      ‘See.’ Dalziel ran his hand lovingly down Jesus’s torso. ‘He’s freezing, poor bastard. Where’s Mary when you need her, eh?’

      Our eyes met and I felt a strange heat suffuse me, somewhere in the very core of me. Quickly I looked away again, struggled with the champagne’s foil, untwisting the metal. For some reason my hand was shaking.

      ‘Tassels or bra?’

      The cork popped suddenly, nearly taking my eye out. It hit the pillar and ricocheted beneath a pew.

      ‘Oh, you bugger,’ Dalziel was murmuring to himself as champagne sputum poured over my leg, the froth spraying Jesus’s new outfit.

      ‘The tassels won’t stay on. His chest’s too slippery. So that decides it.’ Dalziel clipped the bra round the back of Jesus. ‘There we go.’ He took the bottle from my hand and toasted Jesus. ‘Genius.’

      ‘But …’ I looked at the incongruous idol before me. The suspenders flapped in a slight breeze coming from somewhere. ‘I don’t understand. Why …’

      Voices were audible from the back of the cathedral. Dalziel took a quick slug and then shoved the champagne at me as he gathered up his bag. ‘Come on.’

      ‘You forgot the boa,’ I whispered.

      ‘Too late.’ Dalziel grabbed my other hand, and we ran for it, giggling up the side aisle, dribbling champagne and pink feathers as we went.

      Outside we kept running, expecting to hear angry voices behind us, through the grounds, past the porter in his bowler hat and Crombie, towards the Meadow, ending panting beneath a huge tree as it began to drizzle. Dalziel took the bottle and drank, long and hard. He looked at me.

      ‘You know, you’re more fun than I expected,’ he said, and I felt my heart turn over. ‘Little Rose.’

      ‘I’m not so little,’ I protested. ‘I’m eighteen.’

      ‘Are you?’ He passed me the bottle. ‘Very grown up. What’s the time?’

      I checked my watch. ‘Six thirty.’

      ‘Gotta go.’ He leaned down and kissed my cheek. He smelled a little of something sweet; later I learned it was patchouli oil. ‘Gotta meet a man about a dog.’ He winked at me. ‘See you around. Keep the Krug.’

      He melted into the night. I stood for a moment under the tree in the Meadow, the city bright before me, the night dark behind me. In a window of Christ Church halls, a grinning pumpkin flickered.

      I was more than a little light-headed. I was utterly intoxicated – and not just from the champagne.

      GLOUCESTERSHIRE, MARCH 2008

      James was shouting desperately in his sleep. As I came to, I could hear him moaning that he was being crushed.

      ‘It’s so dark,’ he kept repeating. ‘Let the light in, please.’

      Befuddled with sleep, I pulled the curtains back although it was still night, and gently tried to wake him. He hadn’t had one of the really bad nightmares for a while. Now he was sweating and gurning, his face pallid in the moonlight, thrashing across the bed like a fish in a net. I tried to hold his arms still but it was impossible, his desperation making him strong as Samson. As he flailed he caught me hard across the face – but it was only the next day I realised he’d cut my cheek.

      In the morning he said he didn’t remember the dream, but he looked unkempt and exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept at all, huge circles beneath his Labrador-brown eyes.

      ‘You’re up early,’ I said, plonking some toast in front of him that he pushed away. ‘Are you all right?’

      He didn’t speak. He just sat at the breakfast table drinking black coffee and reading the Financial Times in sullen silence whilst the children ate cereal and bickered, and the Today programme murmured in the background. Liam and Star were still in bed; I didn’t expect to see them before noon.

      I was plaiting Alicia’s hair when James ordered me to turn the radio up.

      ‘News just in this morning: as feared, the Nomad Banking Conglomerate has gone down with the most devastating effect,’ John Humphrys announced. ‘A huge shock to all involved. What exactly is it going to mean for the investors?’

      ‘Turn it off, for fuck’s sake.’ James stood up, his face horribly taut, a muscle jumping in his cheek. ‘Christ, all this fucking doom and gloom. I thought this was meant to be boom-time.’

      I realised it wasn’t the time to reprimand the swearing.

      ‘Mummy,’ said Effie, ‘can I have a cross hot bun, please?’

      ‘I’m not sure how much more I can take actually.’ James rammed his chair into the table. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re not out on the street soon.’

      He was prone to exaggeration, but I wondered now if the warning signs of his former depression were rearing their head again. I thought rather nervously of the troubles he’d mentioned the other day.

      ‘James, please,’ I beseeched as Alicia looked at him curiously. ‘Let’s talk about it in a minute, OK?’

      ‘Cross hot buns, cross hot buns,’ the twins began to chant, oblivious.

      James threw the paper on the table and slammed out of the room. It was obviously not the time to tell him I wanted to go back to work, although if the money worries were real, he might welcome it. I slathered my toast with marmalade and glanced at the front page.