The Swan Lake Page 2

  The post arrives, mostly junk mail. Astarte goes to throw it away and then pauses as some Estate Agents’ leaflets catch her eye. She sets those aside. Finally Astarte opens her herb drawer. She takes out a small glass jar, and fills it with dried rose petals and blue malva flowers, copal crystals, broken pieces of cinnamon bark. Into this she stirs drops of vanilla and rose oil, mixing the blend with a tiny spoon until the individual components stick together. She takes a block of charcoal and lights it carefully, setting it down in a shallow fireproof dish as the saltpetre sparkles, turning the block gradually to a fiery red. When this cools to grey, she fills the central hollow with the incense mixture. Clouds of scented smoke billow upwards in spirals, blown through the house by the breeze that creeps in through the open windows. Astarte inhales deeply. ‘That’ll get rid of you,’ she murmurs.

  After a cup of coffee, Astarte gathers up her bag and keys and drives into Southsea, following the line of traffic that snakes its way past the seafront towards the shopping precinct. The Estate Agents are very helpful, and before long she has a sheaf of papers rolled up under her arm. She arranges to have her house valued later that day, then walks down to the beach to have an ice cream and read through the house details.

  It’s windy by the sea. The sun bobs in and out of ragged clouds, playing peek-a-boo with holiday-makers intent on having a good time. She sits on the pebbles with her knees pointing towards the sky. Her hair is repeatedly whipped into contact with the gigantic whorl of non-milk fat that balances precariously on top of the cone, but she just unsticks the strands, runs her tongue around the edges, and watches the sea, feeling as if she’s somehow reverted to a childhood that never existed. White peaks dance in the sunlight, sending brilliant sparks into the air. The shouts and cries of children and gulls blend into a cacophony of sound against the background roar of the sea as it repeatedly slaps the shore. Surrounded by families, her ears assaulted by merriment, Astarte has never felt so alone. She finishes her ice cream and picks up a pebble, running her fingertips over its smooth surface. This stone has travelled across oceans, has been worn down over millennia into a smooth egg shape, delicately veined beneath the surface. Somehow its presence is comforting, and she slips it into her bag.

  The estate agents’ details are wedged beneath her knees. She unrolls them, holding tight to stop the wind from dancing away with them, and reads each page carefully. They give her an idea of the market value of her house. An hour later she strolls towards her car, not noticing the admiring looks directed at her by the man in the ice cream booth when she drops the papers into the waste bin close by. Once home, she goes online, bookmarks some websites and makes some phone calls while she waits for the estate agent to arrive.

  Back at work, although Astarte avoids the rest room, keeps to herself and refuses to answer questions, everyone guesses that something is wrong. Although she has a reputation for feistiness, and has no qualms about dragging doctors from their beds or harassing them when she feels a patient needs different care, she is known to be fair and generally cheerful. But this Astarte is a stranger to her colleagues. She snaps when asked a question. She argues over minor issues. She carries such an air of sheer fury that even the sickest patients dare not die on her. She closes her ears to the gossip that is circulating fast, and leaves as soon as each shift ends.

  By the end of the following week the house is up for sale. It saddens Mrs Hargreaves, who will miss her neighbour. Astarte can always be relied upon to check that her milk has been taken inside each day, and to bring shopping when she feels too frail to go out. But Astarte’s mind is made up. She has booked a three-day return ticket to Ireland to coincide with her next off-duties, and has given in her notice at work. Astarte has never been a woman to make snap decisions, but the momentum gathers and takes over as inexorably as thunderclouds at the end of a heat-wave. As she has given no reason for her resignation at the hospital, though rumours travel fast in these places, there is no-one to question the viability, sanity, or sheer impetuosity of her decision. Astarte Weaver is recreating her life.

  Chapter Three

  Eden McDonagh has been lying awake all night, certain that he’s dying. He’s in a city somewhere, though he’s not sure which one. It could be Amsterdam, or London, or New York. They all sound the same after months on the road. The days have blurred into each other, and he lost track of them a while back. He can hear the traffic even though the expensive hotel he’s in has double-glazed windows. There’s a Jacuzzi in the en-suite bathroom and chandeliers hang from the ornate high ceiling. He’s never become used to the hedonism of the lifestyle he’s being swept along with. The rushing of cars sounds like a river running swiftly past, headed for some unknown destination, and that reminds him too closely of his own life for comfort.

  According to most people, Eden has everything. He’s a lucky man. But he was towards the end of the line when confidence was being dished out, and he avoids the flocks of girls who hang around the stage doors like bright birds, flaunting their leather and lace plumage. He doesn’t read the letters that are folded into wisps of underwear and passed on to his manager after certain favours have been performed. The person they’re after isn’t him. The man they want is an illusion, born briefly each night under spotlights; he disappears once the lights go down.

  Fame scares Eden. He’s well aware that the people who are howling his name, screaming their adoration, could just as easily turn against him, and that the change could come in an instant, without warning. Eden has always had a relaxed attitude, until recently. He entered the big-time with the same equanimity that he has used, with only one exception, to approach challenges in life: with hopes, but no expectations. His feeling has always been that you do your best and hope that others will treat you as you treat them – kindly. But it’s a shock to be followed everywhere you go. It’s hard to adjust to flash bulbs blinding you when all you’re doing is buying a gift for your mother or sisters. And although at first it’s a buzz to hear thousands of people chanting your name, after a while it gets plain terrifying. It makes him want to run and run and not stop until he finds a safe place where he can hide.

  The sun shines through the window, hitting the chandelier and splitting into sparks of brilliant light that dance around the walls. The muted roar of cars grows louder as the streets outside get more frantic with the revving up of the morning rat race. Eden’s breath won’t enter and leave his lungs properly. He’s suffocating under the weight of all those people inhaling and exhaling the same air, and he’s terrified that it’s about to run out completely, leaving him gasping like a fish hooked out of its element.

  He pulls the pristine white sheet up to his chin and lies very still, concentrating on his breathing, hoping that normality will return if he can only remain calm. The phone rings and he jumps, his heart racing, then leans across to the bedside locker and picks up the receiver.

  ‘All set?’ Jack Decker’s cockney accent sounds chirpy this morning. ‘Susan Anderson is here.’

  ‘Who?’ asks Eden shakily. He’s feeling worse. Each movement seems to be occurring in slow motion, underwater, and his voice sounds far away, as if someone else is speaking. ‘Breathe,’ he keeps telling himself.

  ‘Susan Anderson, Eden,’ drawls Jack. ‘She’s writing your biography, remember? The rise and rise of Eden McDonagh, gorgeous rock icon worshipped by the masses.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ mutters Eden. He breathes as deeply as he can; in through his nose, out through his mouth. No oxygen seems to be filtering into his lungs. He needs air.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ he whispers. ‘I have to get out of here.’

  There’s a momentary silence at the other end of the phone, then a deep sigh. ‘I’m coming up,’ the voice says tersely.

  Eden carefully replaces the receiver. The room around him is shifting in and out of focus. He lies back down and closes his eyes. Tiny pinpoints of light flash on and off, so he quickly snaps his eyes open and stares at the door. A card key is swiped through t
he lock, and the door swings open to reveal the burly, hirsute form of his manager. He looks furious as he stalks into the room, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he barks, sitting heavily on the bed.

  ‘I can’t do it,’ whispers Eden. Each word has to be forced out, taking precious air away with it. Jack looks at him, hard, and picks up the phone.

  ‘I need a doctor,’ he snarls. ‘Eden McDonagh’s room, as soon as possible. Oh, and keep this quiet, please. I don’t want the press on my back.’ He slams the receiver down, and stares at Eden. The man looks rough, and Jack gnaws at a fingernail, thinking about the mess they’ll all be in if Eden’s having a heart attack. Eden’s face is sunken and almost grey, and his breathing is laboured. The black locks that countless women fantasise about running their fingers through are stuck to his head, and beads of sweat glisten at his temples. Jack has a horror of anything happening to prevent Eden from performing. The man’s a walking goldmine. He’s got more talent than the Queen has money and, surprisingly for a man in his position, an ego the size of an ant. Eden has made Jack a very wealthy man, and Jack intends to get richer and richer. If the goose that lays the golden eggs, or rather, platinum discs, goes and dies on him, there’s no-one else around with Eden’s potential. The tour is almost over, and Jack will use any possible means to ensure that Eden completes it.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ Jack tells him. ‘I’ll tell Susan we’ll arrange another meeting later.’ He strides out of the door, and Eden keeps his mind on breathing in and out, unaware that Susan Anderson has waited a year for this meeting. She has seen it in her dreams, both asleep and awake. She has fantasised about it. This morning she laid out the new lace underwear she bought especially for the occasion. She stood under the shower for a whole hour, trying to cool herself down, then slicked a green tinted moisturiser under her make-up, knowing that the moment she’s in his presence she will turn scarlet with longing. He’s the most beautiful man she has ever seen, and she has been counting the minutes for the past month, rushing out every day to buy clothes that are discarded as not flattering enough as soon as she gets them home. She has brushed her hair a hundred and one times for good luck, finally settled on a simple silk dress that shows her cleavage to its best advantage, and has sprayed Obsession into the air before walking through its fine mist. When Jack comes down to tell her that Eden is unwell, she breaks down and cries with disappointment in front of the receptionist and the waiters, not caring who sees her. Jack pats her arm, and swears that he will set another meeting up soon, then asks the doorman to put her in a cab. He’s sure that if he gets any angrier, steam will come out of every orifice in his body. Eden has messed up a big coup, and Jack paces up and down the corridor, cursing under his breath, until the doctor arrives.

  If Eden knew of Susan’s reaction, he would have been upset on her behalf, but relieved not to have to meet her. He can’t cope with people who think they’re in love with him before they’ve even met him. He knows they’ll be disappointed with the real person. As it is, he lies quietly, watching the door. After a while Jack returns with a tall, distinguished looking man who introduces himself as James. His manner is calm and detached as he takes Eden’s pulse and blood pressure, listens to his heart and lungs, and shines a small torch in his eyes. He questions Eden about drugs, and Eden shakes his head and almost smiles for the first time that morning.

  ‘I don’t do them,’ he says. ‘I’m having a bad enough trip as it is.’

  The doctor stands and scribbles a prescription, then hands it to Jack. Eden begins to feel calmer, and the pressure on his chest eases. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he asks. Dr James smiles down at him.

  ‘Nothing that rest won’t cure’, he says. ‘You’re exhausted, and in an acute anxious state. This is a panic attack; not dangerous in itself, but very unpleasant. I’ve prescribed some pills to relieve anxiety, but you need a break more than anything, or you’ll end up being admitted.’

  Jack sits heavily on the bed, squashing Eden’s foot, and looks from Eden to the doctor. ‘Admitted where?’ He’s almost shouting, and his face has gone the deep puce colour that signals a blow-up. ‘The funny farm? For Christ’s sake, he has a tour to finish. We’ll get sued.’

  Eden closes his eyes. The thought of standing on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans sends shudders up his spine. He has a vision of himself opening his mouth and no sound coming out, and the fans tearing him to pieces. His breathing speeds up, grows shallow, and sweat springs up on his forehead and trickles in rivulets down his face. The doctor tells him to slow down, then opens his case, takes out a paper bag, and gives it to Eden, signalling him to put it over his face. He hands a tablet to Eden, who removes the bag for long enough to swallow the pill. Then he stares coolly at Jack.

  ‘This man needs rest,’ he states baldly. ‘Cancel the rest of the tour, and find him somewhere quiet to recover. If not …’ he shrugs as the words trail off.

  ‘But there’s only one more gig. Come on, Eden, you can do this,’ pleads Jack, turning to stare into Eden eyes. ‘They’ll crucify us. It’ll be all over the papers that you’ve lost it.’

  Eden takes the bag off his face and looks between his manager and the doctor. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but I want to go back to Clare,’ he says quietly.

  The doctor smiles sympathetically at him. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’

  ‘No,’ Eden tells him. ‘County Clare in Ireland. I want to go home.’

  Chapter Four

  Astarte steps from the plane onto the Shannon Airport tarmac, and collects the keys to her hired car. She feels a prickling along her spine and a strange sense of homecoming. The last time she came to Ireland, she was twelve years old, and she’s surprised at how her body reacts even before her mind adjusts to the change of scene. It’s as if an extra piece has shifted into place in the jigsaw puzzle of her life, making the other segments move to fit more closely.

  On previous visits with her parents and their tribe, Astarte loudly proclaimed her boredom throughout the gatherings of mystics and crystal healers that formed the framework for their way of life. But late at night she escaped to wander alone in the lush countryside that always smelled of rain, overcome by a sensation that she only recognised years later as awe. Lying on damp grass, watching the sky as it stretched over her like a bright blanket, she would reach her hands up towards the fiery stars, sure that if she stretched just a little higher she would be able to grasp one and keep it for herself.

  Her pockets were always full in those days. Shells, odd stones that had caught her eye, twigs shaped like a man; it seemed that all she needed was a sprinkling of stardust to make magic happen. She would screw her eyes tightly shut, take deep breaths, count to twenty and wish to find herself transported to another life; to a place in a normal, conventional family where meals were cooked, bedtimes set, school attended; a real home with a roof and walls, where she would never have to smell the sweet fumes of another joint, or bring someone down from a bad trip with vitamin C and soft words.

  Somehow all that wishing did bear fruit and now here she is, back in the place that she associates with all her childhood yearnings. And, in this moment, she smiles to herself as she rests her hands on the steering wheel and feasts her eyes on her surroundings.

  Back in those days she was fuelled by anger and resentment, hating being dragged from one place to another; longing for roots, for a home to call her own. And now, when she has what she craved for, she can’t wait to leave it behind. Bricks and mortar, something other people took for granted, spelled security to Astarte. But lately she has realised that walls soak up memories, hold imprints that are best left behind unless you want to surround yourself in the past.

  As she drives along narrow winding roads that the Romans patently never managed to conquer, she revels in the scenery and tries to guess how many shades of green there are. This game, along with the car, comes to an abrupt halt when she has a close encounter with a t
ractor that swings out unexpectedly from a concealed farm entrance. Her heart flutters wildly, and she takes a few deep breaths before restarting the engine and continuing on her journey. After that, she focuses on her driving, and absorbs the landscape by a form of peripheral osmosis.

  Fields slide by, dotted with cows. The hedgerows are so bright that the leaves look as if they are painted on. Each bend in the road brings a fresh view of rolling hills, and even the cloudy day cannot dull the emerald glow that seeps up like a mist into everything that her eyes touch on. With each passing mile she feels a lightening of spirits.

  When she nears Ennis she glances periodically at the directions that the estate agent sent her, checking the information against the signposts that seem designed for maximum confusion. The sign-writers couldn’t seem to decide between miles and kilometres, and the distances stated hardly change regardless of how far she travels. Astarte finds the quirkiness entertaining, though she does wonder whether she is travelling nowhere at an average speed of thirty miles an hour.

  Dwellings are scattered, and this impresses her after the crush of buildings in Portsmouth. It seems as though the occasional farmhouses have been thrown from the sky by a giant hand, to land where they will. Cottages nestle within large fields that might be gardens. Occasionally she spies a tractor, and pulls in close to a hedgerow to make space for a passing car travelling at breakneck speed towards her.