Hilary Mantel - Beyond Black

Alison tumbled to the sofa, moaning and holding her chest.

“No use waiting around,” she said, breaking off, and speaking in a surprisingly normal voice. “We won’t hear from her again for a while.”

“What can I do?” Colette said.

“You can make me some hot milk, and give me two paracetamol.”

Colette went into the kitchen. The fridge breathed out at her a wet cold breath. She spilled the milk as she poured it in the pan, and the gas ring’s flame sputtered and licked. She carried it through to Al. “Oh, the pills, I forgot the pills!”

“Never mind,” Al said.

“No, wait, sit still, I’ll get them.”

Al looked at her, faintly reproachful. “We’re now waiting for the emergency services. We’re slightly beyond the paracetomol stage.”

Things happen fast, in the lawless country between life and death. Colette wandered up the stairs. She felt de trop. Her feet were everywhere: weaving, bony, aimless. What shall I do? Back in her bedroom, she tugged the cover back over her bed, for tidiness. She pulled a sweatshirt on; she sat down on the bed and pinched her thin white legs, looking for cellulite. There was a muffled cry from below, but she didn’t think she ought to interfere. I suppose this is where people smoke a cigarette, she thought; but she’d been trying to give up. By and by she stabbed her new PC into life. She had it in mind to prepare a series of invoices that would take advantage of the event. Whatever it was.

Only later, when she thought it over, did she realize that she had never doubted Alison’s word. It was true that from Al the news arrived piecemeal, but it was more exciting that way. In time the radio, placed beside her, brought the confirming details. The event, in the real world, had actually taken place; she stopped typing and sat listening: lights, a tunnel, impact, lights, a tunnel, black, and then something beyond it—a hiatus, and one final, blinding light . By dawn, her mood was one of shock and unholy exhilaration, combined with a bubbling self-righteousness. What did she expect, a girl like Diana? There was something so right about it, so meant . It had turned out so beautifully badly.

She dived downstairs to check on Alison, who was now rocking herself and groaning. She asked if she wanted the radio, but Al shook her head without speaking. She ran back to catch the latest details. The computer was humming and whirring, making from time to time its little sighs, as if deep within its operating system the princess was gurgling out her story. Colette laid her palm on it, anxious; she was afraid it was overheating. I’ll do a shut-down, she thought. When she went downstairs Al seemed entranced, her eyes on some unfolding scene Colette could only imagine. Her milk was untouched, standing beside her with a skin on it. It was a mild night, but her bare feet were blue.

“Why don’t you go back to bed, Al? It’s Sunday. Nobody’s going to call yet.”

“Where’s Morris? Still out from last night? Thank God for that.”

You can just imagine the sort of inappropriate joke Morris would be making, at this solemn time. Colette sniggered to herself. She got Alison wrapped up in her dressing gown, and draped over her bulk the raspberry mohair throw. She made a hot-water bottle; she piled a duvet on top of her, but she couldn’t stop Al shivering. Over the next hour her face drained of colour. Her eyes seemed to shrink back in her skull. She pitched and tossed and threatened to roll off the sofa. She seemed to be talking, under her breath, to people Colette couldn’t see.

Colette’s exhilaration turned to fright. She had only known Al a matter of weeks, and now this crisis was thrust upon them. Colette imagined herself trying to heave Al up from the floor, hands under her armpits. It wouldn’t work. She’d have to call for an ambulance. What if she had to resuscitate her? Would they get there in time? “You’d be better off in bed,” she pleaded.

From cold, Al passed into a fever. She pushed off the duvet. The hot-water bottle fell to the carpet with a fat plop . Inside her nightgown, Al shook like a blancmange.

By eight o’clock the phone was ringing. It was the first of Al’s regulars, wanting messages. Eyes still half closed, Al levered herself up off the sofa and took the receiver from Colette’s hand. Colette hissed at her “special rate, special rate.”

No, Al said, no direct communication yet from the princess, not since the event—but I would expect her to make every effort to come through, once she gathers her wits. If you want an appointment next week I can try to squeeze you in. Fine. Will do. She put the phone down, and at once it rang again. “Mandy?” She mouthed at Colette, Mandy Coughlan from Hove. You know: Natasha. Yes, she said, and oh, terrible. Mandy spoke.

Al said, “Well, I think in transition, don’t you? I shouldn’t think at this stage she does, no. Probably not.”

Al paused: Mandy talked. Al talked again, her hand absently smoothing her creased nightdress.

“You know how it is when they go over suddenly, they don’t know what’s happening till somebody puts them right—yes, don’t they, hanging around for days. You think Kensington Palace?” She giggled. “Harvey Nichols, more likely … . No. Okay, so if you hear anything about the funeral, whatever … . A bit sick, you know. Not actually vomiting. Hot and cold. Quite a shock for Colette, I can tell you … . She’s my, you know, my whatsit, my new personal assistant … . Yes, it is good timing, We’ll all have quite a week of it, won’t we? Need all the help I can get. Okay, Mand. Take care. Kiss-kiss. Bye for now.”

She put the phone down. She was sweating. “Oh, sorry, Colette, I said assistant, I should have said partner. I didn’t mean to be—you know—patronizing to you. Mandy reckons she’ll be returning to Kensington Palace, wandering around, you know, confused.” She tried to laugh, but it emerged as a little snarl. She put her fingers to her forehead, and they came away dripping.

Colette whispered, “Al, you smell terrible.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “I’ll get in the bath.”

As Al ran the taps, she heard a whistle through the intercom. It was shrill, like a bird call, like a code. Next thing, Morris crashed in. Usually on a Sunday morning he was tetchy from a hangover, but the news seemed to have bucked him up. He banged on the door, shouting tasteless jokes. “What’s the difference between Princess Di and a roll of carpet? Go on, go on, bet you don’t know, do you? What’s the difference between—”

She slammed the bolt on. She lowered herself into the bath: lavender oil. She wiped away the stench of death, exfoliating herself for good measure. Morris slipped under the door. He stood leering at her. His yellow face mingled with the steam. When she came out of the bathroom she was scored all over with faint pink lines, but the cuts on her thighs flared darkest, as if she had been whipped with wire.

In the following week Colette learned things about sudden death that she’d never suspected. Al said, what you should understand is this: when people go over, they don’t always know they’ve gone. They have a pain, or the memory of one, and there are people in white, and strange faces that loom up and there’s a noise in the background, metal things banging together—as if there were a train wreck going on, but in another country.

Colette said, “And what are they? These noises.”

“Mrs. Etchells says it’s the gates of hell clattering.”

“And do you believe that?”

“There ought to be hell. But I don’t know.”

There are the lights, she said, the noises, the waiting, the loneliness. Everything slips out of focus. They suppose they’re in a queue for attention but nobody attends. Sometimes they think they’re in a room, sometimes they sense air and space and they think they’ve been abandoned in a car park. Sometimes they think they’re in a corridor, lying on a trolley, and nobody comes. They start to cry, but still nobody comes. You see, she said, they’ve actually gone over, but they think it’s just the National Health.