by S K Sharp
My phone rings. I silence it.
‘I want to stay with you tonight,’ I say.
My phone beeps. Someone leaving a message. I don’t care. Everything I want is right here. We stagger into the bedroom, locked together, and fall onto the bed and cling to each other, holding each other as though we’re afraid to let go.
An hour later, the phone in the lounge rings. We wait for it to stop but a minute later it rings again. This time, Dec puts on a robe and goes out to answer it. The conversation is short and muffled. I hear him, exasperated: ‘What? So no one’s even talked to them? But what if he was there?’
I can’t make out the rest. I don’t care. I’m wrapped in my own glow. When he comes back, he has our abandoned glasses and the half-empty bottle of wine.
‘My solicitor,’ he says. ‘About tomorrow.’
I sit up. He’s trying hard but he can’t quite hide how shaken he is. ‘Has something happened? Should I …?’
He kisses me. ‘She wants to meet before we go to court, that’s all. Maybe we can take those photographs of yours. See if you’re right.’ He sighs. ‘Remember I told you how Mum says that Uncle Dan was at the party that night? I don’t see how that can possibly be right. I mean, he’d been gone for fifteen years, so it would have been a big deal, and I don’t remember anything at all. But still … You’d think someone would follow it up, right?’
I think of the photographs. ‘Would you recognise him?’
He shakes his head. None of us would. Except maybe Kat’s mum.
We drink a little more. Dec asks about America. I tell him about the tests I did, and the people I met who were like me. When I see he’s only half listening, I kiss him again, and he kisses me back, and it turns out to be one of those evenings where kissing is better than talking. We make love for a second time and afterwards Dec falls asleep, like he always did, while I lie awake in the gloom, looking at his sleeping face. He’s changed so much, but all it takes is a flicker of thought and I can see him as he was when he was twenty, or twenty-five, or eighteen, lying beside me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been watching him – I’m not tired and I’m in no hurry to stop – when I hear a noise outside in the hall. I almost wake him up, thinking burglar, then remember that his mum is staying here, too. I’d almost forgotten; or rather, I’d put her presence out of my mind, too focused on Dec – but now it seems an opportunity. I put on his robe and creep to the door to look, and there she is, shuffling down the corridor.
She stops when she sees me. This time there’s no doubt: she knows who I am. She watches me, and I watch her back.
‘Can I get you something?’ I ask.
‘Some water,’ she says. Her voice crackles with hostility.
I go to the kitchen and pour a glass of water. Anne Robbins settles in the lounge. I give her the glass and turn away, but she catches my wrist, her bony fingers trembling.
‘Why are you here?’ she asks. Her grip tightens and then she lets go in disgust.
‘I was with him on the night his father disappeared.’ Her knuckles clench white. ‘I’m trying to help him. I’m his alibi. At least … until he went back to the Shelley.’
She looks away, then looks back. ‘Declan says his father hit him and that you were there. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘You Walkers. Arthur loved that boy. What on earth did your mother say for him to be like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, which is true, but the way she looks at me – all full of suspicion and disgust – makes me go on. ‘She knew what he was doing. I think she threatened to call the police if he didn’t stop.’
Anne Robbins almost spits at me, ‘And what business was it of any of the rest of you, what happened in our house?’
Why is she defending him when she was the biggest victim of all? I don’t understand. ‘He was having sex with a schoolgirl,’ I say. ‘Someone I knew. She was underage. Mum found out.’
‘Liar!’ The look Anne Robbins gives me has such venom that I take a step back.
‘Do you want me to help you back to your room?’
She shakes her head. ‘Get me my blanket.’
I fetch the blanket from her bed and bring it back. I give it to her and she waves me away.
‘A proper nerve, your mother, spreading filth about my Arthur while she was carrying on with David Crane.’
I flinch.
‘Oh yes. Those evenings working in the Shelley? Everyone knew.’
I bite my lip. I want to say something mean and spiteful, like how at least Dave wasn’t fifteen. ‘I’m sorry Arty used to hit you,’ I say instead. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t see it sooner.’
‘People talk such nonsense.’ She doesn’t look at me. ‘Marjory simply made up what she wanted to hear. Spiteful little liar, just like your mother.’
‘I remember the bruises, Mrs Robbins.’
She ignores me.
‘Mrs Robbins … was Declan with you that night?’
Now, at last, her eyes fix on mine. She leans forward and catches my arm again. ‘Yes, and that’s what I told them. And don’t think for one moment that he’s going to take you back, after what you did to him.’
The way she looks at me is like she wants me to know she’s lying, like she’s daring me to call her out on it. I think of the curtains in Declan’s bedroom, closed at midnight when I saw him leave, open the next morning.
‘Did you go back home that night?’ I ask.
‘All of them so worried about your precious mother – as if she hadn’t brought it on herself. It was Arty’s birthday!’
‘Was Declan’s uncle there that night?’
Anne Robbins turns away as though I’m not there, pulls the blanket around herself and settles into the armchair, and doesn’t answer when I ask again. I don’t know what to think. How much does she really remember?
I slide back into bed and find Dec only pretending to be asleep. I kiss him and then I close my eyes and drift, exhausted and content. My alarm will go off in a few hours and I’ll have to get up. I’ll take the day off work. I’ll have breakfast with Declan and then we’ll go to see his solicitor, and I’ll wait outside; and then I’ll talk to this Angela Watson myself and tell her about my memory and everything I know. I’ll ask her what she needs me to do. I’ll go with Dec to court, bleary and rumpled in yesterday’s clothes, hair a mess, bags under my eyes …
But happy.
It’s light when I open my eyes. I look round, dazed for a moment by waking in an unfamiliar room. There’s no clock beside the bed. I reach for Dec but he’s already up. I feel for my phone under the pillow. It’s not there.
Sod it!
I lie still, luxuriating in feelings of warmth and happiness. The flat is quiet. Dec’s robe hangs on the back of the bedroom door so he must already be dressed. Maybe he’s gone out to bring warm croissants and pastries fresh from some nearby bakery. I bask in the idea, until the need to pee drives me to the bathroom. The light streaming through the curtains there reminds me that I should call the library to say I’m not going to be in. I go to the kitchen for a glass of water, and I suppose I should really get dressed so that when Dec comes back, we can go home and find out whether there’s anything in Chloe Clarke’s photographs …
Shit! I can’t take the day off. I’ve got that stupid appointment with bloody Emily from HR.
Shit! What time is it?
I go back to the bedroom. My phone isn’t in the pocket of my jeans, which is odd, because I know it was there last night and I swear I never took it out. I feel stupid, poking at my scattered clothes in case it fell out while we were undressing each other, but I think I would have noticed. When I search the bedroom and still can’t find it, I go back to the lounge and use Dec’s house-phone to call myself. My phone rings from the lounge table, which makes no sense because I know I had it in my pocket when we went to the bedroom; and yes, it might have fallen out, but not into a different room.
I’m late. I need to
get home and get changed in order to go back out. I need to go right now.
A string of notifications lights up. The latest is a missed call, the one I just made. Behind that is a text from Kat, a couple of missed calls from Mum, a waiting voicemail and some more missed calls. I flick them away and dial Dec but the call doesn’t connect, so I pick up the voicemail.
Nicky, it’s Kat. I’ve been calling all night! Where are you? I’m with Mum and those photos you got done are here. No Dec, but they reminded me of something: I think I saw him that night. Late, outside the Shelley. If you talk to him, tell him good luck for tomorrow. Tell him we’ve got all our fingers crossed.
I go to the text that I flicked away. Kat again.
Mum’s photos arrived. No Dec :-(
Dec went to the Shelley less than ten minutes after I got home. I saw him leave. It’s what he told me the next day. It’s what he always told me …
I scramble into my clothes and try his phone a second time. Still straight to voicemail. Has he got it turned off? I leave a message: Dec, it’s me. Answer your phone. I need to go. I have to get to work. See you later?
I pause at the door on my way out. A part of me wants to go back to Anne Robbins and shake her awake and not let her go until she tells me what she really remembers, but what if it’s nothing? Do I really want to know?
On the hallway floor, I see a shape half covered by a fallen scarf. It looks like an old mobile phone, but then I see it has a strap …
Dec’s police tracker. He’s cut it off.
Oh God. Why?
I run back to Dec’s bedroom, poking his number into my phone yet again. Still no answer. I rush out of the flat, determined to find him before he makes this worse than it already is … but as soon as I get outside, I realise I don’t have the first idea where to go. I run along the High Street, looking into coffee shops and cafés, but he’s not there. I call again and again but his phone doesn’t even ring. He’s turned it off.
I check my in-box. Nothing from Declan, only an email telling me my photographs have been delivered.
I don’t know what else to do. I need to get home so that I can get changed so I can go to work. I’ll be late, but I should squeak in for half-nine. And what else can I do, except wait to see who calls first: Dec or Detective Scott, wanting to know what I was doing at Dec’s flat last night, and do I know where he is, and not believing a word I say when I tell him I have no idea, and it’s all so stupid. It doesn’t matter if Dec’s not in the photographs! He was probably upstairs with his mum, or asleep. What matters is that someone must remember him coming back to the Shelley with a bloody lip and a black eye …
I wave down a taxi and jump inside almost before it stops. In the back seat, I call Kat.
‘Nicky? Jesus, what time … Oh, right.’ I hear her yawn.
‘What do you mean you saw Dec outside the Shelley?’
‘What?’
‘Your message. Last night.’
‘You didn’t pick up your phone. Hot date?’
‘Kat!’
‘Right. Dec. Yes. It’s no biggy, but …’ I hear a languid stretch to her voice, a tone I know, and then the rustle of sheets.
‘Why aren’t you at work?’ It’s already twenty to nine. I know why I’m not at work, but why …?
‘Sweetheart! Self-care day.’ I almost hear the shrug. ‘So yesterday I had the afternoon off and went to see Mum. I thought, maybe … Oh God, promise you won’t say anything about – you know.’
If she’s taking a day off work, could Gary be there too, lying next to her? I have to be careful not to say anything about her and Arty. It’s hard. Even thinking about it makes me angry.
‘I don’t see why—’
‘Promise me!’
‘OK, I promise.’
‘Anyway, I went to see Mum, and your mum and dick-face Dave were there, too; and just after I showed up, this delivery guy comes to the door with a package that turned out to be your photos. Mum opened them up and we all looked through them. I tried to call you in case you wanted to come over, too. Anyway, you’ve probably looked at them already by now, so—’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Oh.’ Kat sounds surprised. ‘Well, there are some pictures from after midnight. They’re not very good, and I have no idea who anyone is. Dec isn’t in any of them but it was late, right? Anyway, we got talking about that night and I remembered that I did see him. I remember thinking it was really important that Mum didn’t see me and Gary together, so I made him stay outside when we got back while I checked to see if the coast was clear, which it bloody well wasn’t because everyone was looking for us, and Mum had a complete meltdown at me and then put me to work collecting empties and washing glasses. I don’t know for how long, but I think I saw Dec come in – I remember that because I wanted him to find Gary … Anyway, I didn’t get to talk to him, but then Mum said I could go home, so I got my stuff and went. And that was when I saw Dec again. Outside the Shelley – can’t have been more than ten, fifteen minutes later. He didn’t see me, and I wanted to go to bed, so I didn’t say anything, but—’
‘You saw him there? Outside the Shelley?’
Kat sighs, long and loud. ‘Maybe he went out for five minutes to clear his head, I don’t know. Anyway, I’m sure it was him, so that’s good, right? He was there, like you said. Gary reckons the two of them hung around outside for a while, too, but I’m not sure he really remembers it.’ Her tone turns curious. ‘You sound different. Are you at home?’
‘I’m in the back of a taxi and I’m in a bit of a rush. I was with him, OK? Last night. At his place. I stayed over. Now he’s gone missing. He’s supposed to be in court this afternoon.’
Silence stretches out between us. I check my watch. A quarter to nine, but I’m almost home.
‘Jesus!’ says Kat at last.
My head is spinning. The curtains. The curtains in Declan’s room. I closed them before we started kissing, before his dad came back. They were closed when I saw Dec leave the house later, when he turned and looked up and saw me and waved. I never thought much of it, but when I looked the next morning, they were open … Which means someone was back in his room during the night. And I asked Dec so many times about that night, and he always said that he went to the Shelley and stayed there with his mum, and why would he lie about something like that?
I have his mum’s words in my head: Yes, and that’s what I told them.
What does she really remember?
On the other end of the line, Kat takes a deep breath. ‘Nicky …’
‘What?’
‘I was thinking—’
‘Kat, I’m in a real rush. I’m late. I’m going to have to hang up in a minute.’
‘Nicky, hear me out. Arty Robbins was a violent, abusive, manipulative piece of shit who hurt everyone around him. Me, Dec, his wife, your mum. Whoever pushed him in that hole, they did the world a favour. I know you want to help Dec, but …’
‘But?’
‘I remember seeing him outside the Shelley. That’s it. I don’t think he was heading anywhere. I think he was just sort of standing there. I really don’t know, but I was thinking I could say something else. You know – if that would help – I could say I saw him go upstairs. I don’t know, maybe I really did? Maybe that’s what really happened. I could say I was there until two or three in the morning, with him. No one would know.’
Straight-up lie to the police? ‘Do you … do you think he did it?’ The taxi slows to a stop, waiting to turn right across the traffic and into my street.
‘No, I don’t, although we both know I’m a shit judge of character, right? But I’ve been thinking: maybe whoever did this to Arty Robbins doesn’t deserve to go to prison. And if you and Dec are back together, and he makes you happy—’
‘You do think he did it!’ The words crack between us like a whip, out fast and harsh and too quick to take back.
‘No! I don’t know what I—’
‘I have to go.’ We’re m
oving again.
‘Nicky—’
‘I’m sorry.’ I hang up. I can’t take this.
The curtains. The curtains in Dec’s room were open the next morning, which means someone went back. I always thought it was his mum or maybe his dad. It didn’t seem to matter. But if his dad was dead and his mum stayed all night in the Shelley …
‘Miss?’
We’ve stopped. The taxi driver has turned to look at me.
‘Can you wait here? I need to get changed and then I need to get to the British Library.’ I look at my watch. Ten to nine. Five minutes to get changed, fifteen minutes to get to the library, another ten minutes to get to HR and I’ve still got ten minutes to spare. ‘I’ll only be a few minutes.’
I dash out, not waiting for an answer. Christ! Dec always said he never went back home that night. Why would he lie about something like that? Because he had to change his clothes? Because they were covered in mud?
No. No, no, no …
I try his number again, and again it goes to voicemail. I don’t understand where he’s gone.
My phone. He must have taken it. I mean, it doesn’t have legs or wheels of its own, so someone carried it from the bedroom into the lounge, and I know that someone wasn’t me …
He saw the message from Kat: Mum’s photos arrived. No Dec :-(
He must have woken in the night and seen it. Maybe the phone fell out of my pocket and it was lying on the floor; maybe he trod on it or something. He must have picked it up and taken it into the lounge. He saw the message from Kat. And there was that call last night from his solicitor …
Oh, Dec, what have you done?
I stand at the door, feeling stupid as I search my jacket for my keys, and suddenly I’m in 1994, just before Christmas, sitting at home on my own, crying because Mum’s been on the phone and told me that Dad’s got cancer and it’s not looking good, and maybe he has three months or six, if he’s lucky; and all she can think of to say after she tells me is what a shame he won’t ever get to be a grandfather, because he would have loved that; and she’s right, and he would have been great, but I can’t shake away the accusation that lies in her words – that I’ve left it too late, that I should have got on with it, that somehow it’s my fault. Declan isn’t home and Kat isn’t answering her phone, and so I have a drink or two to steady my nerves, and maybe I have one too many, because the first thing Declan says when he rolls in at nearly ten at night is: Christ, are you drunk? We argue and I can’t bring myself to tell him about Dad because it’s all too horrible, so I run to the guest room and lock the door and climb into bed and I don’t come out until morning; and Dec only knocks on the door once and asks to come in and then tells me, when I don’t answer, that I’m not being very grown-up.