by Maria Goodin
“I felt at the time,” says Tom, leaning in, “that you somehow felt responsible for what happened that evening.”
I fold my arms across my chest and look away from him, but all I see surrounding me is Libby’s mural: the canal and all its seasonal charms. Where’s the darkness, the people telling me to run like I was their only hope, the point on the towpath where I made the wrong choice? Where’s the boy with the blood on his hands, the smashed light, the girl with a bleeding face?
I close my eyes for the briefest moment, my head starting to swim.
“Look, I don’t know what other stresses and strains you might have had in your life since I last saw you,” says Tom, “but you do at least know that nothing that evening was your fault, don’t you?”
I clench my jaw, pain shooting through my back teeth. I have an overwhelming urge to flee, but my bones feel locked in place.
“I thought…” I say falteringly, “…I mean, I had a feeling you blamed me—”
“Me?” he asks, incredulous. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you were so angry afterwards, and because you kept your distance—”
“We were both angry. And I kept my distance because…” he shakes his head, sadly, “because I just wanted to forget it ever happened.”
“I had a baby, for God’s sake.”
“I know,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut, the regret evident on his face, “and I never even came to see you, and I’m sorry. I’ve felt so bad about that, about the way I withdrew. But I never blamed you for anything, you have to know that.”
“I was the one who made us late that night,” I hear myself say. “I was the one who suggested taking the shortcut—”
“What are you talking about? I was the one who made us late, and Max was the one who suggested taking the shortcut.”
“No,” I shake my head adamantly. “I was trying to win Libby a soft toy by shooting one of those stupid air rifle things. I couldn’t let it go. I just kept trying until I finally won that polar bear.”
“Oh no,” he laughs, “you don’t get to take the credit for that!”
I frown at him.
“You and I were in competition mode all evening, both trying to be the first one to hit that damn target. We kept going back until you finally hit the edge and won a can of lemonade. I remember because you celebrated by shaking it up and spraying it over me, and then I got stung on my neck by a bloody wasp. Anyway, after that I had to hit the target, too. I was like a dog with a bone. There was no way I was letting you win. I would have stayed there all night if I’d had to.”
“But that polar bear… it was mine. I won it for Libby.”
“It was mine and I suggested you give it to Libby.”
I gaze at the clouds, tying to recall.
Give the polar bear to your girlfriend. Tell her I won it for her because her boyfriend’s a crap shot.
Only after twenty goes!
Doesn’t matter. I still hit the bull’s-eye. Mind you, Libby probably already knows that you fire too soon and shoot all over the place.
Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny…
“I was the one who held us up,” says Tom. “You three wanted to leave.”
“But I was the one who said we should cut through the fields—”
“Max said we should cut through the fields and across the allotments. He said he knew a route. Some family member used to grow vegetables there, or something.”
I rack my brain, something coming back to me, a conversation I had with Max that night.
My gramps used to have an allotment here. The council have let it go to waste now, but it used to be really nice. He used to grow carrots and lettuces and potatoes…
Hadn’t he heard of Tesco?
Nah, it’s good, growing your own stuff. More fun than you’d think.
That’s ’cause I’d think it would be no fun whatsoever…
“I was the one who said we should run,” I say, already seeking the next reason why it must have been my fault, “it was my idea to run—”
“Because we were being threatened!” exclaims Tom in exasperation. “The guy had a knife! Look, you can lay the blame at your own doorstep all you like, but the fact is Michael was the reason we needed to get home quickly, Max was the one who came up with the shortcut, I was the one who thought it was a great idea to go investigate a fire that was none of our business… It was just a series of events. It was no one’s fault.”
“But I was the one who was meant to get help! I was the one who didn’t get there on time. I was a fucking sprinter and I didn’t get there because I…”
I trail off, shaking my head.
“Because you what?”
I rub my eyes with trembling hands.
“Because you what?” repeats Tom.
“I stopped!”
Tom frowns. “Stopped? What for?”
“Because I couldn’t decide which way to go, all right?!” I snap, hearing an accusation in his tone. “I just froze! I couldn’t figure out which was nearer, the Kingfisher or—”
“Hey! Stop,” hisses Tom, reaching out and gripping my forearm. “Stop.”
I realise I’ve shouted, that a couple of blokes sipping pints at a nearby table are staring. I feel my chest constricting, sweat beading on my brow.
“I wasted time,” I say, staring deep into Tom’s eyes, needing him to acknowledge my mistake, needing him to blame me.
“You tried your best,” says Tom firmly, “and that was all you could do. Listen, what happened was shit. But it wasn’t any of our faults. I’ve never blamed myself, and I’ve certainly never blamed you.”
His words penetrate me, like narrow beams of light piercing through the calloused outer layer of my heart. I want the layer to crack open and shift apart like the earth’s crust, allowing something warm and healing to seep through. But it won’t. I just can’t accept it wasn’t me who made this terrible thing happen.
“So if I was no more at fault than you, then why don’t you blame yourself like I do?” I ask. On some level, this makes sense to me; that my guilt is evidence I was to blame, and Tom’s clear conscious is a sign of his innocence.
“Because I’m me, and you’re you,” says Tom. “We’re different people, and we process things differently.”
He stares into his tea and sighs.
“I think one thing I learned as a child was to draw a line between myself and other people’s pain,” he says. “I had to. Watching my dad rocking back and forth in his chair crying… I couldn’t have coped if I hadn’t built a force field around myself. I know you were shocked when you found out I’d gone into psychiatry, but it’s not about tea and sympathy. I deal with some fucking horror stories, stuff that would make you lose your faith in humanity. I need that ability to fence myself off, otherwise I’d lose my mind. Whereas you, you were always a bit more sensitive. Plus, you were always a bit more… I don’t know… self-doubting. And harsher on yourself.”
I think about what he’s said. I’d always thought Tom and I were similar, but it’s probably true that he had a tougher edge to him. He was certainly more self-confident, more sure of himself. I think maybe that’s what I liked about Michael when he came along; that I could see his vulnerability. He was a respite from all bravado and toughness.
“Tell me,” says Tom, leaning in, “what it would take for you to let go of this?”
I gaze up at the sky, chew my lower lip and shake my head.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do,” says Tom. “Come on. Libby, me… Who do you need to see next?”
I scratch at my neck.
“Max,” I tell him. “I want to talk to Max.”
Tom nods as if this was the exact answer he was expecting.
“So let’s do it then,” he says decisively, “let’s go talk to Max.”
Chapter 22
Revelations
In the light of the fire, I could see the Leader’s face; gaunt, hollow-eyed, grey stub
ble flecking his angular jaws. His long, skinny arm was draped over Tom’s shoulder, the knife dangling.
“What’s going to happen now?” he asked in his thick accent, looking directly at me, the firelight reflected in his eyes. “It’s all up to you.”
I shook my head, not knowing what to say, not understanding what he wanted from me.
He started to count slowly backwards from sixty. I watched him, confused.
“…fifty-one, fifty, forty-nine…”
“I don’t know what I’m meant to do,” I said, my voice cracking under the pressure.
“…thirty-three, thirty-two, thirty-one…”
“What… what do you want me to say?” I asked in a panic.
“…twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…”
I glanced around, but everyone else – Tom, Michael, Max, the other members of the Leader’s gang – was just watching me, waiting for me to act.
“…thirteen, twelve, eleven…”
“What?!” I yelled. “I don’t know! I don’t know what I’m meant to do!”
“…five, four, three…”
“Stop! I don’t know what you want from me! I can’t decide—”
“Too late,” said the Leader, coolly, slicing the blade across Tom’s throat.
Blood gushed from the wound.
And as I glanced down, I saw with horror that my own hands were bleeding profusely, blood dripping onto the hard, dried earth, seeping between the cracks.
“Dad?”
I sit bolt upright, my heart pounding, my chest tight. In the darkness, I can just make out Josh’s silhouette in my bedroom doorway.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly. “You were making weird noises.”
I rub my face.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “Bad dream, that’s all. Go back to bed.”
“That’s the seventy-millimetre bolt, right? So that should go—”
“It’s an error in the instructions, Stu,” I tell him again, holding a part of the cot in each hand. I feel exhausted and I’m running out of patience. I wish he’d just leave me to get on with putting the damn thing together.
“Jay knows what he’s talking about, Stu,” says Irena, grumpily, snatching the instructions from his hand. “Just listen to him.”
“I don’t think the instructions would be wrong.”
“Then why does it say one thing in English and a different thing in Polish?!”
“Calm down, babe,” says Stu slowly, “you said you weren’t feeling that great, you should be resting—”
“Don’t you babe me! Why you ask Jay to have a look if you know what you doing, huh, clever boy? This baby will be sleeping on floor before you are sure! Go to cash and carry and let him do it!” she shouts, thrusting the instruction sheet at me.
Stu offers me a look of resignation before sloping out the door, turning at the last minute and making as if to strangle Irena from behind.
“What you doing?” she snaps, turning quickly.
“Nothing, honey,” he mutters, disappearing down the hallway.
“Silly man,” she tuts, rubbing her back and letting out a little groan. She lowers herself into the new rocking chair and strokes her round belly, grimacing with discomfort. God, I’d forgotten how rough pregnancy looks.
I discard the instructions, pick up a screwdriver and crouch down to get to work.
“Nice cot,” I comment, knowing it must have cost a packet. “You know, you can get really good second-hand kids’ stuff on eBay—”
“Why I want to get second-hand things for my baby?” Irena interrupts. “I work long hours. What I come to this country for if I can’t afford my own things?”
Firmly put in my place, I get to work in silence. I know Irena’s spending is a source of stress for Stu. It was initially her idea to get the mural painted, her idea to rebrand the Canal House last year with a new sign, menus, website… But, as Stu admits, the investment pays off in the long run. She’s a shrewd businesswoman.
“So, I got text message from Libby last night,” says Irena.
My heart sinks. I really don’t want to talk about Libby. She’s gone. I just want to put her out of my head.
“You’re not going to ask how is she?”
“She only left last week, Irena,” I tell her, lining up a screw.
“Well, she is split from her boyfriend.”
I pause for a second, the screwdriver in mid-air, before composing myself and continuing.
“Split?”
“Yes, split. Finished. Over.”
I knew she wasn’t happy! I knew it all along. No matter what she said to the contrary, I knew something wasn’t right.
“You are not going to ask why?” says Irena.
I shrug, trying to look as disinterested as possible.
“It’s not really any of my business, is it?”
“You know he cheat on her?”
The screwdriver clatters onto the wooden floor and I scramble to pick it up. That fucker. That fucking arsing shitty bastard fucker.
“No. I didn’t know.”
“With his personal assistant.” She tuts and mumbles something about all men being pig dicks.
My grip tightens on the screwdriver and I clench my back teeth. I try to imagine what it would be like to bang his head against a brick wall and drive my fist into his face, but having never done such a thing, I have no idea how it would feel. I’m guessing incredible.
“I thought maybe she tell you he did this,” says Irena. “It was months ago. Before she even came here.”
I pause what I’m doing.
“Before she came here?”
“Yes. So this explains why she is happy to move out of his flat. She wants space from him.”
I look over my shoulder and frown at Irena. “But she seemed… I mean, when she was talking about the wedding and their plans…”
“Maybe she want you to think that she is happy.”
I think of her playing with her engagement ring when we first met for coffee, flashing it so clearly for my attention. The ring I never saw her wearing again.
“And maybe she try to tell herself she is happy, too,” continues Irena. “But very quickly the truth come out with me. He made her very sad. And she was not sure what to do.”
I shake my head despairingly and go back to working the screwdriver, trying to make sense of things. She’d never given any indication that her wedding plans weren’t going ahead. If I’d ever doubted the strength of their relationship, it was only through a vague sense that things weren’t quite right.
“And so… what? She decided she couldn’t forgive him?” I ask.
“At first she try. But once she came here, she decided that whether he cheats on her or not is not the main problem. The main problem is that she realise she doesn’t feel for him what she should.”
The screw tightly in, I stare at it long and hard.
“What do you think made her realise that?” asks Irena.
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t know.”
Behind me, I hear a loud sigh of exasperation.
“For clever man, how you be so stupid?” she asks, bluntly.
I look over my shoulder at her.
“Excuse me?”
“She is in love with you, you stupid man! Like you are with her!”
I stare at her, shocked, feeling colour rise in my face.
“You think I don’t know? You think we don’t all know? For weeks and weeks, it is painful watching you two!”
I shake my head and frown.
“I don’t think…”
“She tell me this! She tell me how she feels for you! And I promise to say nothing, but how can I? That you are not together is silly! You are silly man!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say standing up, knowing how Irena is prone to misinterpretation. “What exactly did she say to you?”
Irena rubs her hand over her tummy and shifts in her chair, trying to get comfortable. “I can’t tell you that.
Exactly what she has said is between us girls.”
“Irena,” I say firmly, pointing the screwdriver at her, “you can’t just make assumptions—”
“She tell me she always struggle to get over you! That she thought if she come back here she can get over you for good, but instead she fall in love with you all over again! And then she knows for sure she cannot spend her life with Will because she does not have those same feelings for him. She has been trying to make it work because she wants marriage and a family, but now she knows what she has with him is not good enough, is… what do you call… compromise! And she prefer be alone than compromise like that. I say I want her to stay, to carry on working in the bar, but she say she can’t, is too hard to keep seeing you—”
“Stop!” I snap. “Just stop!”
She puts her hand over her mouth and gazes up at me with wide eyes. If it wasn’t for her pregnant belly, she’d look like a naughty girl snuggled in her oversized chair.
“Okay, I say too much,” she concedes meekly, “I won’t say another word.”
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing to keep up. I can’t believe this. Can it even be true? But then I think of the moments when something seemed to pass between us, when the air felt thick with tension like an electric storm was brewing. And the things she said that made me wonder what was happening between us.
You could have given us a chance…
Is she really in love with me?
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, feeling shaken.
“Because you make me mad! Because I can see you feel same way and is silly that you two—”
“We want different things! She wants a family and stability—”
“And why you not? You have already raised lovely boy! Why no more—?”
“Because I don’t want more! I’ve done it! And because my life is chaos!”
“But you love her, yes?”
I stare at her, my lips tightly pursed.
“Yes?!” she snaps.
I shake my head slowly and look at the ceiling.
“Irena, it’s not that simple—”
“Okay, fine, is not that simple. You be sad and lonely and she be sad and lonely. That much more simple. Except she not be sad and lonely for long, you watch! She is lovely, pretty, kind girl who will find nice man—”