The Blame Game

by C. J. Cooke

‘I had to drive to Newcastle this morning to get it,’ she says, beaming. ‘When I found it online I rang the shop first thing to check they definitely had it. I couldn’t help myself. I should say, it’s not a Degas like you thought. Édouard Sylvester, one of Degas’ pupils. Still gorgeous, though.’ She turns to Shane, glowing with pride. ‘See? I knew she’d love it.’

  She clasps her hands together and beams at her handiwork. When I don’t stop crying she puts a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘What’s wrong? Has something happened? Helen?’

  With a terrific burst of energy I reach for the print, lift it above my head and bringing it crashing to the floor. The glass sprays outward, skittering under the table and on top of my feet. Jeannie gives a loud noise of horror, a choking sound. I bend down and pick up the frame, shaking the remaining pieces of glass loose. Then I tear out the print and scrunch it up into a tight ball.

  ‘You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?’ I say, throwing the scrunched-up print in her face.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she cries.

  I look at Shane, at his boots. Both of them knew our location. They knew exactly where we were staying in Belize. He said he was never in Mexico, but he was. He was there all the time, watching us. Making sure the job was done. And now they’re here, in my home.

  ‘I’m going to call the police,’ I say in a low voice, heading towards the handset on the console table. ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell them what you were doing at the scene of the crash, Shane.’

  He looks up sharply. ‘What?’

  ‘You watched us,’ I tell him, my vision blurred by tears of anger. I smash my fist down on the table. ‘How could you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You lied to Reuben! You said you’d never been to Mexico and yet Jeannie said you were there right when the crash happened!’

  He trips over his words. ‘I … I haven’t been to Mexico …’

  ‘Just stop it!’ I shout. ‘I know it was you! You had those boots on … I woke up and saw you there. And you did nothing!’

  ‘New Mexico,’ Shane says after a moment. ‘I was at a conference in Albuquerque giving a plenary on totalitarian enmity. I’ve never been to Mexico. You can check my passport, if you like.’

  He pulls out his phone and starts showing me photographs he took out there. There’s one of him with a group of men standing outside a sign that reads ‘The Fifteenth Association of Political Thought Conference 27-31st Aug, Albuquerque, NM’.

  ‘My paper was on the thirtieth,’ he says, scrolling through more photographs. ‘That was the day of the crash, I think. You can ask the other two hundred and fifty delegates whether I was there or not.’ He gives a short smile, infuriatingly polite. ‘I don’t hold the accusation against you. I lost my father in a car accident when I was ten. I’m well acquainted with the impulse to assign blame.’

  I’m halfway between wanting to punch his smug, plenary-on-totalitarian-enmity face and collapsing to my knees and begging for forgiveness. I opt for a seat by the dining table to gather my senses. Jeannie follows suit, pulling out the chair opposite, and Shane copies her.

  ‘Helen, I need to be really honest with you,’ Jeannie says, laying her hands flat on the table. She turns to Shane. ‘And I’m glad you’re here, because if we’re going to move in together and make a deeper commitment then I think you need to understand a few things about me.’

  She takes a breath, the famous Jeannie-dramatic-pause. I bite back a noise of irritation.

  ‘OK, I have a little speech prepared,’ she says, taking a yogic breath, hands sweeping air into her nostrils. ‘I know that I have been a petulant, selfish, and ungrateful diva,’ she says. ‘I knew how to guilt you into giving me things and I did it over and over. I thought I was being clever, that you owed me, somehow. In the back of my mind I thought I was getting compensation for not having a proper Mum.’ Her voice is slower, her Northern accent more pronounced. Tears roll down her face but she doesn’t make a show of dabbing at them. She seems … genuine.

  ‘When I told the police about the painting, I wasn’t doing it to spite you,’ she says. ‘I was wracking my brains, trying to think of anything I could that would help you. They asked so many questions. I remembered what you’d told me about Michael destroying the painting he bought you. It really shocked me because he seems like such a good person.’

  ‘Alright, Jeanne,’ I say, leaning back in my chair. ‘I know you always hated Michael. You don’t have to over-egg the cake …’

  Her eyes widen in feigned innocence. ‘No! I don’t hate Michael … Alright, so I was jealous of him. Happy? He came along and took you away from me.’ She folds her arms, bites her lip, her mask slipping at last. ‘I was only thirteen, remember?’

  I hesitate. I was twenty-three when Michael and I got together so yes, Jeannie was only thirteen. Can that be right? She seemed so much older … In any case, it wasn’t like I kicked her out. She was living with a foster family. I fought to act as her legal guardian once I reached eighteen but the courts rejected it. The family we were with then – John and Amanda Carney – were decent people, an older working class couple from Grimsby with a smallholding: Shetland ponies, rescue hens, an irritable ram called Rodger, infinite vegetable patches. Jeannie loved the animals, loved the vast outdoor space. I thought it was in Jeannie’s interests to stay there until she turned eighteen.

  ‘I thought you were happy at the Carneys,’ I say, faltering.

  She lowers her head. ‘I missed you. I mean, it was a long time ago but … Anyway, it’s all in the past.’

  As I watch her eyes moisten I’m suddenly sifted by remorse. When she moved out, I paid her rent for almost a decade. She rang me up, told me she wanted to go to drama school but couldn’t afford the fees. I told her I’d pay. I’m still paying off those damn fees. Guilt money. Deep down I knew she was miserable when I left the Carneys’ home, but I’d been accepted at dance academy and nothing was going to stop me.

  ‘And you’re completely right,’ she says, wiping her nose on her sleeve, as though she’s nine years old again. ‘In hindsight it was a poor choice on my part to tell the police about the painting. It was ages ago. Yes, fine, we all know I have a tendency to exaggerate and dramatise a bit. It’s been something I’ve been trying to work on for a while. I think I worry that people won’t find me worth being around if I’m not extra-special or exciting …’

  Shane says nothing but takes her hand, watching her with interest.

  ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ I ask her.

  She nods, then lifts her eyes to mine. ‘I swear on Mum’s life.’

  I double-take. It’s a phrase we used as children whilst in foster care. Our mother was a mythic being, at once a construct that we created of a loving maternal figure who wanted nothing more than to rescue us from a steady stream of uninterested foster families, and a fragile, disintegrating woman who we never knew, snatched up by the claws of addiction. Jeannie might say many things, but swearing on our mother’s life is not something she did lightly.

  ‘If you’re not convinced by that,’ Shane says. ‘I can tell you that Jean paid for the Medevac trip back to the UK.’

  ‘Shane …’ Jeannie says, disappointed.

  I straighten. ‘You said the Medevac was crowdfunded.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Fifty grand. She knew it would be unlikely that we’d raise the money in time and she needed to get you home.’

  ‘You really paid for us to get home?’ I say, astonished.

  She gives a small nod and bites her lip. ‘You put me through RADA. It meant everything to me, absolutely everything. I always promised myself that I’d pay you back.’

  I am so moved by this that I don’t know what to say. I’m suddenly flooded with remorse for ripping up the print and for everything I’ve just accused them of.

  ‘Jeannie, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m already plundering through my coping overdraft and …’ She reaches across the table and takes my hand,
giving it a squeeze.

  ‘Please don’t say sorry, Helen. I think the time to stop apologising for yourself is long overdue.’

  31

  Reuben

  6th September 2017

  Roo: Malfoy are you there?

  Malfoy: Yes. Are you OK?

  Roo: Yeah I’m here but I’m worryed bout wot u said

  Malfoy: What are you worried about?

  Roo: U said u wantd 2 tell me somethin that woz dangerous??

  Malfoy: Did I?

  Roo: YES

  Malfoy: I think it was a code I had for unlocking a Minecraft secret

  Roo: I don’t believe u

  Malfoy: ur right, it was something else. But it is a dangerous secret and I’m not sure I can trust you with it

  Roo: You can trust me

  Roo: Malfoy?

  Malfoy: Tell me what’s going on in your life. How are you feeling?

  Roo: Mum is ☹ a lot. Sask still in coma. Idk if she will ever wake up again. Miss my dad.

  Malfoy: You miss your dad? Does anyone know where he is yet?

  Roo: No but I think he left because of me.

  Malfoy: That’s not true.

  Roo: How do you know?

  Malfoy: Trust me, I know things. The footage you sent of your mum and aunt shows a happy family.

  Roo: Maybe on the surface.

  Malfoy: ?

  Roo: My dad worked all the time even tho he didn’t need to.

  Malfoy: Did that make u sad?

  Roo: ☹

  Roo: Did you know that ketchup used to be used as a medicine?

  Malfoy: You’ll see ur dad again.

  Roo: U don’t know that! U shouldn’t say things like that if u don’t know

  Malfoy: I DO know

  Roo: u no where my dad is?

  Malfoy: Yes.

  Roo: No way

  Malfoy: Yes way.

  Roo: You have to tell me where he is!

  Roo: And yo have to tell me how u know wher he is !!!!

  Malfoy: I will, I promise. But first you have to do something for me, ok?

  Roo: yes

  Malfoy: I want you to record more footage of your family.

  Roo: y?

  Malfoy: It makes me happy. Try not to make anyone aware that you’re recording because it’ll only make them upset.

  Roo: -.-

  Malfoy: What is that?

  Roo: Morse code for the letter ‘k’ which also means ‘OK’.

  Malfoy: -.-

  Roo: ☺

  32

  Michael

  21st June 1995

  A large campfire blazes about thirty feet away and the other walkers soon leave their tents to gather round. Darkness shrouds the Alps, the sky is alive with galaxies and shooting stars, and a strange pink glow zigzags and kinks like an eel in dark water, just above the horizon.

  I watch as Helen sits on a rock near the fire. Luke takes the spot next to her, wrapping his arm across her shoulders. I look down, freshly stung as he whispers something into her ear that makes her giggle.

  Music starts up – yes, someone has actually brought a frigging ukulele up the frigging Alps – and some people begin to clap, but shortly after the music falls silent and a commotion rises up. A German-speaking group have arrived at the camp with one of their members on a makeshift stretcher.

  ‘What is it?’ Helen asks, getting to her feet. It was difficult to see but someone was shouting for a medic.

  ‘Looks like a girl,’ Luke says. ‘You got a flashlight, Theo?’

  Theo hands him one and he turns it on. About twenty feet ahead I make out a girl, about our age, with a badly damaged leg, her shoes and the stretcher soaked in blood. Another flashlight reveals a piece of bone sticking out of her ankle.

  The guy next to me throws up.

  ‘Nice,’ Luke says. Then, glancing around: ‘Isn’t anyone going to call the rescue guys?’

  When no one moves he stubs out his tab angrily and races inside the refuge to use the emergency telephone. The girl moans and cries on the stretcher. Helen approaches her, takes her hand. Theo debates with someone whether to give her some weed to help her deal with the pain. In the end, he decides not to risk getting into trouble. The French police can be funny about drug-taking in the Alps, apparently.

  Twenty minutes later a helicopter arrives, the wind whipped up by the blades blowing dust all over the campfire. The fire goes out. A scramble to get the girl onboard. I notice that she’s no longer crying but motionless, her eyes closed.

  ‘Do you think she’s dead?’ Helen asks with a gasp.

  ‘Nah,’ I say, coolly. ‘She’ll be worn out from the pain. She’ll be fine.’

  But secretly, I wonder if she is dead. My stomach flips.

  The helicopter drifts into the night. The music is gone, the mood subdued. I notice Luke doesn’t light up again. The girl’s group look tearful. Even Luke seems moved by the girl’s plight. One of the guys mentions an avalanche.

  ‘An avalanche?’ Helen says, throwing a scared look at Theo. ‘I thought that was only when there was heavy snow.’

  Tiresias gives a laugh. ‘It snows pretty much all year round at the top of the mountains, so avalanche is a constant threat. As long as you have awareness of the signs, you should be OK. But even then, people get caught out.’ He nods at the remaining members of the German team who’d had to deliver one of their climbers to the helicopter.

  ‘That girl was lucky. They’d taken the Cosmique route, which is a little more dangerous this time of year. Definitely not for amateurs. We’ve had heavy rains over the last week, some big winds. My advice to anyone attempting the summit is to wait out the rains. Hang back ’til they’ve passed. Don’t try and climb when bad weather hits.’

  ‘I think we’re taking the Cosmique route,’ I say, glancing at Luke. ‘Aren’t we?’

  ‘Which is the safest route?’ Helen asks Tiresias.

  He scratches his beard. ‘I would have thought you’d already have your route planned by this stage.’

  ‘We’re taking the Goûter route,’ Theo says.

  ‘And where are you acclimatising? The Goûter hut?’

  Theo slides his eyes to Luke. We’d never discussed acclimatising, but now that he said it, it made sense. The old guy gave a laugh and shook his head in disapproval.

  ‘You will get altitude sickness,’ he declares. ‘If you don’t give your body a chance to adjust to the lack of oxygen in the air you’ll get so ill up there that you’ll fall into a state of delirium and lead the rest into peril. A climber who is not acclimatised is a liability.’

  ‘That’s just an old wives’ tale,’ Luke says, and Tiresias turns to him archly, his eyebrows raised.

  ‘An old wives’ tale?’ he says. ‘Mon Dieu. Do not underestimate the ability of the mountain to kick your ass. She will throw rocks as big as houses at you, pour snowfields down on you, and if she really doesn’t like you she’ll have your babymaker drop off from frostbite.’

  Luke gives a big belly laugh with his arms folded as if the whole thing is a big joke, but the man is deeply serious.

  ‘Any fool who doesn’t give her the respect of waiting a few days before attempting the summit is almost certain to get the sickness.’ He glances at Helen. ‘He is your boyfriend, miss?’

  She nods. ‘He is.’

  ‘He is foolish, this one,’ he says. He sweeps his eyes across the crowd. ‘I think you should forget this foolish boy. I think you should try someone else. Maybe this one.’ He fixes his eyes on me. I give a nervous chuckle when I see Luke’s expression darken. He rises to his feet, and for one awful moment I think Luke is going to attack the old man, but he stalks off. Helen gets up and goes after him.

  ‘I only speak the truth,’ Tiresias mutters, lighting a tab. Someone passes me a bottle of beer and I move closer to the fire, which has grown strong and beautifully warm again. A few moments later she returns and sits next to me.

  ‘Luke’s just getting a drink,’ she says, though
when I glance over at the refuge I spy him chatting to the group of hippies we met the other day. It doesn’t take an Oxford education to work out that he is blagging weed. As we watch, he hands something to one of the guys and a few moments later is lighting up, sending that familiar sickly-sweet cloud of smoke in our direction.

  ‘Funny looking drink,’ I say. ‘Do you smoke?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t usually drink, either. I dance with a ballet company and we have a fairly brutal rehearsal schedule.’

  ‘Luke did tell me you’re a ballerina’

  ‘I prefer “dancer”.’

  ‘You any good?’

  She shrugs. ‘I was the lead in La Sylphide last year at the London Coliseum.’

  I’m genuinely impressed. ‘Wow. How did you ever end up with someone like Luke?’

  ‘You mean other than his magnetic personality and stunning good looks?’

  I take a swig of my beer, then offer her some. She refuses. ‘You know what I mean,’ I said. ‘You seem so … level-headed. And clearly talented. Luke’s a bit of an eejit.’

  She laughs uneasily. ‘Not exactly. He’s an Oxford student.’

  ‘OK. He’s an academically brilliant, emotionally thick-headed numbskull.’

  ‘I thought you were friends,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘We are,’ I say. ‘But you’re not his usual sort. Let’s just say that.’

  She looks away, turning her face to the fire. ‘I know Luke is fickle. And he likes attention. Particularly from other girls.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I say, half-tempted to correct ‘thick-headed’ with ‘obnoxious, egotistical asshole’ and to point out that he’d been with dozens of girls while she was away dancing for the good people of London.

  She draws her knees up to her chest. ‘He makes you feel like the sun is shining on you.’ She rubs the spot on her forearm that I remember is bruised. ‘But then sometimes it’s like a switch flips in his head and he …’ She doesn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Luke’s my best mate,’ I say. ‘Love the guy. But if I had a little sister, I’d probably not want her anywhere near him.’ Then, in case I’d gone too far: ‘But I mean, he must really like you if he insisted that you come along on this trip.’