Memory of Bones Page 4

  ‘I know loads.’

  ‘Smart-arse.’ He dropped his tone. ‘You’re making a fool of me.’

  ‘Don’t give me all the credit – you did that yourself.’

  He laughed, then became gentle. ‘Every time I leave you I leave a part of myself behind …’

  She rested her head against the phone, closing her eyes as she listened. For an attractive man, who could have manipulated women easily, his honesty was tender. And seductive.

  ‘… you know how much I love you, don’t you? Or do you?’ He hesitated momentarily. ‘I keep thinking that I know, but then I go away from you and realise that it increases, that what I felt before was nothing in comparison … How d’you do that?’ he asked gently. ‘How do you keep refilling my heart?’

  How? she wondered. How could she not? After the accident Abigail had seen herself destroyed, her confidence as bloodied as her face. In the first weeks the shock had obliterated all feeling, but then, finally, she realised that the beauty she had taken for granted was no longer hers. Reassurance did nothing to help her, and when Ben Golding had taken over her case Abigail didn’t believe his encouragement either. He said he would remake her face. She doubted it. He said he would give her back her looks. She didn’t believe him.

  Throughout the painful months which followed, throughout operations, swellings and pain, Abigail kept mistrusting him. When the first procedure succeeded in recreating her left cheekbone, she did – for an instant – catch a vague glimpse of the self she had once been. But it faded fast. The operations went on. More injections. More stitches. More bandages were used, became bloodied, were changed. Drains were inserted into her face, then removed. Every time the procedures varied. Every time Ben told her she was making progress. She was sick with the anaesthetics; she cried in the side ward at night, on her own, because she had no family, only a father in France, too weak to travel. In the grim Whitechapel Hospital Abigail Harrop lost herself and turned to the nurses for support. Only gradually, slowly, did she begin to believe. Some little triumph of healing had restored her eye socket almost to its original. And for the first time in over a year, Abigail saw herself and began to climb back.

  She had had only one moment of doubt after that. Overhearing two nurses talking, Abigail had heard one refer to her as Ben Golding’s personal masterpiece. His creation. Jealousy had sparked the remark, but instead of being unnerved Abigail had felt unexpectedly pleased. Whatever his motives, what Ben Golding had promised her, he would deliver. This man – and only this man – would give her back what she had lost.

  But she never counted on loving him. Grateful, in his debt, yes. But to love him? That had never entered her mind, even though it would have been an obvious response. What people didn’t realise was that Abigail didn’t expect anyone – least of all Ben Golding – to find her attractive. So when, long after she had ceased to be under his care, Ben told her how he felt, Abigail’s shock was genuine. She withdrew, confusing him. She rejected him, making him all the more certain of his feelings. And in the end she accused him of wanting her only because she was his guinea pig.

  And he’d burst out laughing.

  Her thoughts came back to the present. ‘Get back home, will you? As soon as you can, hey?’

  He felt the pull over the line, the jerk of sensuality. ‘Tomorrow—’

  ‘Can’t come soon enough.’

  An hour later, as Ben left the hotel, the sky suddenly darkened to indigo, lightning following within minutes as a hot wind blew across Madrid. Looking out of the window of his hired car, he fought the temptation to return to London immediately. Having once been passionate about Spain, he now found the country oppressive. But he had promised he would visit Leon, and so, reluctantly, he turned in the direction of his childhood home.

  A moment later he was crossing the familiar river, freckled with birds and drowning reeds, a heat haze making the road shimmer before him. It had been urbanised when they were children, but now the area was even more built up, unremarkable, almost down at heel. His childhood tap-dancing before his eyes, Ben neared his old home, the site of the Quinta del Sordo close by. Parking in the driveway, he stared at the weather-beaten whitewashed rectangular house.

  Maintained intermittently for over two hundred years, the place was mottled with patches of repair, like a face freckled with sun damage. The gable where summer birds had once roosted was now closed off with netting, the bay window on the first floor barred with ornate ironwork. Ben’s gaze moved upwards to his childhood bedroom, separated from his brother’s by a shared bathroom. Without even trying, he could remember the sound of faulty pipework banging at night, and the paper kites Leon and he had exchanged through the open bedroom doors, many landing in the chipped bathtub between. But more than anything Ben remembered the underlying disquiet of the house. The muted but ever-present melancholia.

  ‘You came,’ Leon said warmly, walking over to him.

  Smiling, Ben got out of the car to find his brother accompanied by an athletic, deeply tanned woman in a white linen dress. Shielding her eyes from the sun, she smiled as Ben approached.

  ‘I’m Gina. And I’m so glad to meet you.’ Smoothly, she then moved between the two brothers as the three of them walked into the cool interior of the house. It smelt to Ben of memory, poignant and unexpectedly hostile. ‘You’ll stay for lunch with us?’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Nothing fancy, but your brother likes my cooking. Still, what would Leon know about food? He’s an academic,’ Gina replied, changing the subject deftly, her American accent barely perceptible. ‘Apparently you don’t think much of our other house guest. Leon said you thought it was unlikely to be Goya’s skull.’

  ‘Well, it’s a long shot,’ Ben admitted. ‘Turning up like that, out of blue, when people have been looking for it for decades.’

  She tilted her head to one side. ‘But it could be proved for certain one way or another?’

  ‘There are tests which would authenticate it,’ Ben agreed, ‘or not.’

  ‘Leon knows everyone in the art world, and he’s so well thought of in Madrid that the authorities have let him have free rein. Anyway,’ Gina went on lightly, ‘I’m going to get lunch ready and leave you two to have a talk. But no longer than half an hour, OK?’

  Watching her walk away, Ben felt a sudden sharp tug on his arm, Leon hustling him towards the staircase. He was nervous, edgy, his unease obvious in the erratic movements of his hands.

  ‘Before I show you the skull, there are some other things I thought you might want to see,’ he explained, hurrying his brother up the stairs to the shady narrow landing which led to the servants’ quarters.

  Fiddling with his shirt collar, Leon walked on quickly, finally opening the door which led to Detita’s apartment. As though still children, both men hesitated for an instant before walking in, Leon immediately moving over to the window, his back turned to the room.

  ‘I was going to sort out her things, but I couldn’t get round to it. Gina said she would, but I thought you might like to have a look first. You know – see if there’s anything of Detita’s you want to take. To remember her by.’

  Slowly, Ben looked around the room. A heavy wrought iron chandelier suspended from the high ceiling, wooden shutters open to let in some air, a carved bed draped with white muslin and a quilt the colour of water reeds. Pulling open the wardrobe door, he found himself face to face with the print dresses and jackets he remembered so well, a row of shoes lined up like piano keys. And the scent of something, somebody, well known.

  ‘She had papers too,’ Leon said, and Ben turned and walked over to a side table where his brother had laid out several notebooks.

  Apparently Detita had left behind parts of missives, parts of photographs, parts of cards. Nothing whole – just portions, incomplete and unreadable. And in among the meticulous chaos were images of Goya, his self-portraits and a fragment of the painting of the lunatic asylum. Beside those was a drawing of the Quinta del So
rdo and one other: a disturbing image of a skeleton, half alive, half dead, writing the one word on black earth: Nada. Nothing.

  ‘Look at this,’ Leon said, picking up a hairbrush from Detita’s dressing table. Her scent bottles were still sitting in the shade, lying beside a copy of The Manuscript Found in Saragossa and a History of the Occult.

  ‘She had strange tastes.’

  ‘Never tried to convert us, did she?’

  Ben looked up. ‘To what?’

  ‘Catholicism.’

  ‘She tried damn near everything else,’ Ben replied. ‘All those bloody stories she used to tell us! When I was little I was always waiting for those horses coming over the bridge to get me.’

  To his relief, Leon laughed. ‘Remember when you came back from school when you were fifteen and you went out at midnight and clicked your fingers over and over again just to prove that nothing would happen? Detita went crazy, said you would bring the Devil.’ He shrugged. ‘I admired you for that. I’d never have dared.’

  ‘It was just a story.’

  ‘Maybe …’ Leon said finally. ‘So, what d’you want to take?’

  Ben glanced round the room and shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  Together they walked back downstairs into Leon’s study. It was conspicuously tidy but overheated, the windows bolted shut, flies buzzing against the glass. Frowning, Leon opened the nearest window as Ben stared at a small cardboard box on the desk. Carefully he opened it. Inside was an old skull, lying among some shredded newspaper. It was discoloured, with several holes in the cranium.

  ‘So …’ Leon paused, trying to hide his excitement as his brother picked up the skull. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘He’s dead, I can tell you that,’ Ben said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. ‘Can I take it back to London with me? I’d like Francis Asturias to have a look at it.’

  ‘I thought he was dead.’

  ‘His wife lives in hope. No, Francis is still working. Still the best facial reconstructor there is.’ Ben studied the skull, turning it in his hands. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me taking it? I might need to keep it for a while.’

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ Leon said, adding hurriedly, ‘to be honest, I don’t like it around … Don’t tell Gina though. She doesn’t have to know you’ve got it. Keep that between us, will you?’

  Nodding, Ben put the skull back in the box as Leon moved over to the window. ‘So, what d’you think of her?’

  ‘She seems nice.’

  ‘Nice,’ Leon repeated dully.

  ‘And very proud of you,’ Ben added, trying to avoid a semantical skirmish. ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Leon, if she makes you happy—’

  A flutter of malice entered his brother’s voice. ‘How’s Abigail?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  Leon had always found Abigail difficult. Not as a person, but as someone faulted. Her facial scars, although faint, seemed to evoke some peculiar resentment on his part. Almost as though his mental instability should have been as obvious to an onlooker – and provoke as much sympathy.

  ‘Is she still having treatment?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Ben replied. ‘She agreed to leave it for a while—’

  ‘She agreed? Or you talked her into it?’

  Ben refused the bait. ‘We agreed.’

  ‘Poor Abigail could hardly argue with you even if she did want more treatment, could she?’

  ‘She doesn’t want—’

  ‘You being her lover and her doctor. You being Ben Golding.’

  ‘I’m not her doctor any more.’

  ‘Whatever …’ Leon’s jumpiness was gathering speed, his brother the nearest target. ‘You were never influenced by anyone, were you? I was. First with our parents, then Detita, now Gina. And always you. But not this time.’ Leon paused. Then suddenly, unexpectedly, he embraced his brother, releasing him just as quickly. His pique had taken a sidestep, balance coming back sweet and sure. ‘Stop worrying about me. I know you do – you always have. But this is the start of something important. This is my big chance.’

  ‘Just take it steady, hey? And if you need me, phone.’ Ben tapped the box holding the skull. ‘As for this, I’ll keep you posted.’

  ‘Goya’s skull will make my name.’

  ‘You’ve already made your name, Leon. You’re a respected historian.’

  ‘Respected, but not famous.’

  Ben wondered fleetingly how his brother would cope with notoriety. How press attention and any prying would affect him. All his life Leon had longed for attention – but on his terms. Attention which could be corralled, fenced in. But fame wasn’t like that. Renown flicked its victim like a bagatelle ball from one pitfall to another. It could test a strong man, a weak one it could destroy.

  ‘For your sake I want it to be Goya’s skull …’

  ‘It is,’ Leon insisted. ‘It is. I can feel it.’

  ‘… I want it to be genuine because you want it so much. Because you think it’ll bring so much. But if it isn’t—’

  ‘It will be,’ Leon insisted quietly. ‘It has to be.’

  6

  London

  As it had done for centuries, the Whitechapel Hospital crouched disconsolately among the warren of East End streets. Slivers of alleyways dating back centuries snaked between the modern concrete smack of office blocks. Overhead, the bridge joined the separate wings of the hospital and straddled the road like a birthing stool. The oldest part of the building had been standing when Jack the Ripper was active, the Whitechapel streets housing some of the poorest of London. In among slums, the overcrowded hovels had paid court to prostitution, thievery and gambling.

  It was a part of London overhung with its own grim allure, where part-time enthusiasts held murder tours and overseas visitors thrilled to the knowledge that the skeleton of the Elephant Man was housed in the hospital across the road. Time and progress had smartened up some of the area, but a few hidden warrens and alleyways still lurked. The names of the places where Jack the Ripper killed his victims had been changed too. There was no Miller Court, no Buck’s Row any more, but the stubborn, unremitting atmosphere of gloom remained. And over this thick knotting of streets and memory glowered the edifice of the Whitechapel Hospital.

  Pounding towards his consulting room in the oldest part of the building, Professor Francis Asturias paused at a door marked EXIT, then hurried on to the fire escape outside. Lighting a cigar, he drew in the smoke hungrily, pushing the half-empty packet back into his pocket. Smoking was forbidden in every area of the hospital, but Francis always managed to find somewhere to take his intermittent nicotine breaks. Well into his seventies, he cut an eccentric figure, straight, greying hair reaching his shoulders, his eyes slyly amused. Beneath his white coat he wore faded corduroy trousers and suede loafers, bending up at the toes with age.

  For ten years various Principals had tried to fire Francis Asturias, but he wasn’t going anywhere. His father had donated a large amount of money to the Whitechapel Hospital and Francis took care to remind everyone of the next legacy which would follow – after his own death. So they let him stay on, long after anyone else would have been retired, working in the Forensic Department on archaeological remains or reconstructions of the victims of murder cases.

  ‘You shouldn’t smoke,’ a voice said suddenly as the Fire Exit door opened and Ben walked out.

  Francis shrugged. ‘Fuck you. I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow.’

  ‘I came back early,’ Ben replied, helping himself to one of his colleague’s cigars and putting it into the top pocket of his white coat. ‘I’ve brought something for you.’

  ‘Not one of those straw donkeys with a sun hat?’

  ‘I thought it would go nicely with your plastic bull-fighter.’

  ‘You spoil me,’ Francis replied, amused. ‘So what it is?’

  ‘Something special. Well, it could be. I want you to reconstruct a face for me.’

  Stubbing out his cigar, Francis rai
sed his eyebrows. ‘One of your patients?’

  ‘No. This is a very old skull – possibly of world importance.’

  ‘They burnt Hitler.’

  ‘They didn’t burn Goya.’

  Francis blew out his cheeks. ‘Where’s the rest of the body?’

  ‘Still in his tomb. The head went missing a long time ago, apparently stolen by the French. Look, to be frank, it’s unlikely to be genuine, but I want to check it out for my brother. He’s an art historian and it would mean a lot to him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hinder his career much either,’ Francis remarked mischievously.

  ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘Sure, I can date it for you too. What about DNA?’

  ‘No point. Goya has no living relatives. No points of comparison.’

  ‘So you’re relying on the dating and the reconstruction of the skull?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Your facial reconstruction’s important because we can see if it matches the known images of Goya.’

  ‘I could cheat, mug up on his self-portraits,’ Francis suggested archly.

  ‘You won’t do that, because if the skull is genuine, just think how much it would do for your career when we release the news,’ Ben replied. ‘Keep you here for at least another fifty years, however many Principals come and go.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Keep it quiet.’

  ‘Don’t tell me your brother stole it?’

  ‘No, but news travels fast. I don’t want people to start asking questions, leaking it to the press. If it got out, everyone would be after the bloody thing—’

  Francis looked over, his expression dubious. ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘It’s a relic. An artistic object of worship—’

  ‘It’s a lump of bone.’

  ‘It’s a lump of famous bone,’ Ben corrected him. ‘Because it’s Goya’s skull it would be worth a fortune on the open market. Or the not-so-open market. There’s a big trade in art relics.’

  ‘In that case, someone should find Van Gogh’s ear.’

  ‘Actually, they said they had found it only a few years ago. Said it had come down the family from the prostitute Van Gogh gave it to originally.’