‘I’ll get them.’ He jumps up and takes my glass before I can say anything. I watch him as he bounces across to the bar. He does that thing again, letting other people get served before him, and I can’t help smiling even though it sort of drives me mad. He doesn’t have to be so thoughtful all the time!
‘How’s it going?’ Roxanne asks as she passes.
‘Fine.’ I shrug, pretending it’s no big deal that I’m sitting here with a guy.
‘He’s a good-looking fella,’ she says. ‘A girl could lose herself in those blue eyes of his. You going to tell your dad about him any time soon?’
‘It’s not like that,’ I say, my face burning. The last thing I need is for Roxanne to tell Dad about Shane. There’s no way he’ll let me see someone without insisting on meeting him and asking all sorts of embarrassing questions and basically being a complete nightmare.
‘You shouldn’t keep secrets from him, Katie,’ Roxanne says. ‘He’s your dad.’
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say.
I can see she doesn’t believe me and I think she’s about to say something else. But before she can, there’s a huge crash from the bar, making me and everyone else jump.
‘What the heck?’ Roxanne swings around. ‘Ella? Are you okay?’
Roxanne’s a big woman – not fat like me, but tall and big-boned – and she’s blocking my view. I stand up, slide around the table and see Shane. Liquid dripping from his hair and nose and a dark stain across the front of his yellow sweatshirt. An expression on his face that I’ve never seen before – anger mixed with something else. He looks more alive than any time I’ve been with him.
Behind him, her face white apart from two patches of pink on her cheeks, Ella looks as if someone’s just told her the world’s most shocking secret.
‘Shane?’ I step past Roxanne and go over to him. He’s looking right at me but it’s like I’m invisible. When I put my hand on his arm, he doesn’t move or seem to notice I’ve touched him. I step back, not knowing what I should do.
‘You need to leave.’
Roxanne pushes herself between us, putting her face close to his. He sees her all right.
‘I’ll leave when I’m ready,’ he says.
‘You’ll leave now.’ She grabs his arm and shoves him towards the door. When she lets him go, he swings around, his fist out, and for one awful moment I think he’s going to punch her.
‘No!’
I don’t even realise I’ve shouted it until his fist drops and he turns to look at me. There’s something awful in his face, a darkness I’ve never seen before. I want him to smile, like he did earlier, tell me it’s all okay, but he doesn’t.
I try to go to him, but Roxanne puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. I expect her to be angry, but she seems sad, which seems worse somehow although I don’t know why. And when she speaks, her voice is soft and gentle, the way she spoke to me in the weeks after my mum died.
‘Katie, love, I need you to go upstairs now, okay?’
It’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay. I look at Shane again and I know the expression on my face must be pathetically pleading, but I can’t help it.
He uses the sleeve of his sweatshirt to wipe his face. When he’s finished, I think maybe he’ll say something, but he doesn’t even look at me. He’s looking at her.
‘See you around, Ella.’
He stares at her for a second that drags into two seconds and might drag on forever except Roxanne steps towards him and tells him again to leave.
‘Keep your knickers on,’ he says. ‘I’m going.’
He straightens his sweatshirt, gives Ella a final once-over, and then he’s gone, without a goodbye or a see-you-tomorrow or anything.
I look at Ella, pale-faced and pink-cheeked, her eyes like two big holes in her face. My fingers twitch and something hot and dark flickers deep inside me. I want to grab her by the hair, drag her across the bar, slap her and punch her and kick her and push her to the ground until she knows what it feels like to hurt this bad.
Twelve
Dee
Monday morning, Dee was on a train to London by 8.30. She had a busy day planned. A trip to the software company in Shoreditch where Katie had worked, followed by a catch-up in Soho with an ex-colleague.
Her train was full of commuters, men in suits and smartly dressed women who probably made this journey five days a week, forty-seven weeks of the year. Dee sat amongst them feeling like an imposter.
As a concession to the sort of people she imagined she’d be meeting at the software company, she was wearing a new pair of jeans with a black linen shirt, one of the few things from her previous life that still fitted her. She’d brought a book, but she couldn’t concentrate on it. Her brain was buzzing, ideas forming, making connections all the time. Her mind was brighter, sharper, more focused than it had been at any time since her mother had died. She was going to find Katie and Jake.
Occasionally, moments of doubt crept in. A nagging voice whispering that all of this was a waste of time. She was a washed-up, past-it has-been. What made her think she could solve the mystery of the dead woman before the police or Billy or any of the many journalists chasing the same story? But each time her thoughts started going in that direction, she would picture the dead woman and knew with absolute certainty that she had to do this. She might not be a journalist any more, but she was every bit as good as all those hacks trying to turn this tragedy into a story they could sell. And that included her deadbeat drunk of an ex-husband.
* * *
Hexagon Consultancy occupied the ground floor of a converted warehouse on the corner of a quiet square near Old Street station. Using the map on her phone, Dee found it easily and was ten minutes early for her appointment.
Inside, the office was a single open-plan space with exposed brick walls. Men and women who didn’t look old enough to be working sat in groups or alone, all facing a computer screen. The sound of fingers tapping on keyboards seemed to permeate every corner of the room, digging into Dee’s head like the persistent buzzing of a dying insect.
A row of oversized Apple computers stood in a line along one wall. More boys and girls, all wearing white headphones, sat at these. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, making Dee’s mouth water as she approached the reception desk.
‘Hello.’ A girl with cropped black hair and a nose ring greeted her with a smile.
‘Hi,’ Dee said, returning the smile. ‘I’ve got an appointment with Crispin Marsden? Dee Doran.’
‘Sure.’ The girl checked a screen on the desk in front of her, then pointed to the spiral iron staircase situated in the middle of the room.
‘Up there,’ she said. ‘I’ll let Cris know you’re on your way.’
She tapped something onto the keyboard, presumably a message to ‘Cris’, while Dee thanked her and headed across to the staircase. Her feet echoed loudly off the metal steps as she made her way up. When she reached the top, she was met by a tall, skinny guy with a ginger beard, heavy-rimmed glasses and a completely bald head.
‘Cris Marsden,’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m Dee Doran. You spoke with my colleague, Louise, on Saturday.’
‘Dee?’ Cris frowned. ‘Oh yeah, of course. Hi.’
‘Louise did email and tell you she couldn’t make today’s meeting?’ Dee said.
‘Sure. Yeah, it’s cool. Hey, how about we grab a coffee before you begin your interrogation?’
He gave her a wolfish grin that set Dee’s teeth on edge. She hoped she would get the information she needed from him as quickly as possible so she could get out of there.
She followed him across another open-plan space to a kitchen area with a blue Smeg fridge and the most complicated-looking coffee machine she’d ever seen.
‘Take a seat.’ Cris gestured at a selection of brightly coloured low sofas and armchairs scattered around the place. ‘How do you like your coffee?’
‘Black, no sugar,’ Dee said.
Assuming that ‘banging’ was a good thing, Dee smiled politely and settled into an orange armchair that turned out to be far more comfortable than it looked. While Cris prepared the coffee, she looked around. This floor was obviously the meeting area. The chairs and sofas were grouped round a selection of Scandi-style coffee tables. A few people were sitting on some of them, speaking in low voices. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it was clear from their ages and the way they were dressed that they weren’t all employees of Hexagon Consultancy.
‘Clients,’ Cris said when he saw her looking. ‘We’ve got some big projects in the pipeline.’ He placed a cup of delicious-smelling coffee on the table.
‘Thanks.’ Dee lifted it, holding it with both hands while she breathed in the rich, smooth aroma.
‘What is it you do exactly?’ she said. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit of a Luddite, so you’ll have to give me the dummies’ version.’
‘We design lots of different things,’ Cris said. ‘But our speciality is the internet of things. Basically, this involves taking advantage of the unused sections of the radio spectrum to get household devices communicating with each other.’
‘So my fridge could talk to my cooker?’
‘Or send a message to your mobile phone telling you to order more milk. That sort of thing.’
‘Fascinating,’ Dee said, because Crispin – Cris – was looking at her as if he clearly expected her to say something.
She took a sip of the coffee.
‘You were right,’ she said. ‘This is good.’
‘It never disappoints,’ Cris said. ‘So then, Dee.’ He put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. ‘What’s your story?’
‘What do you mean?’ Dee said.
‘I don’t like journalists generally. But I made an exception for Louise. She was so passionate when we spoke, telling me all about the paper she runs and how hard it is for local press like hers to stay afloat these days. She made me want to help her. Sunday’s my digital detox day – no internet, no email, I don’t even switch my phone on – so I didn’t get her email until this morning, telling me she couldn’t make it and was sending you instead. Such a pity she had to change her plans. I was so curious to meet her. But then I looked you up and realised maybe you’d be just as interesting.’
‘Ah.’ Dee wasn’t sure what else to say.
‘I read some of the pieces you wrote for the Daily Post,’ he said. ‘You’re a good journalist.’
‘Um,’ Dee managed. ‘Thanks, I guess. The thing is, Cris, this is more than a story for me. Katie’s my friend. I’m worried about her.’
‘Sure.’ He nodded his head and looked very serious. ‘I can understand that. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s much I can tell you. If I’d known Louise wasn’t able to make it, I’d have cancelled this meeting and saved us both some time. I hadn’t heard of Katie before she called. I’ve read up on the story since, of course, but I’m not sure how I can help, to be honest.’
‘You hadn’t heard of her?’ Dee was confused. ‘I thought she used to work here?’
‘In theory, yes,’ Cris said. ‘But the truth is, I never actually met her. A lot of our developers work remotely. Katie was one of those.’
‘But someone here must have known her,’ Dee said. ‘I mean, wouldn’t she have had to do a job interview and stuff?’
‘I checked her HR file,’ Cris said. ‘Her interview was done over Skype. She came highly recommended from an agency in Bristol, which is where she lived when she worked for us. The interview was little more than a formality, really. The person who interviewed her left the company soon afterwards. Katie was a freelancer. A lot of our programmers work with us on a freelance basis. They like the freedom. Katie started in April 2014 and quit a year later. During her time with us, no one ever met her.’
‘Even if you didn’t meet her,’ Dee said, ‘you must have had some idea of the sort of person she was.’
‘Not really,’ Cris said. ‘I asked around this morning. She did her job well enough, apparently, but she wasn’t friends with anyone. We organise regular team-building nights. They’re a chance for our freelancers to meet the team here and feel part of the Hexagon family. Katie was always invited, but she never came to any of them.’
It was like trying to hold water in the palm of her hand. Just when Dee felt she was getting close to understanding who Katie was, the image faded and changed, trickling through the gaps in her fingers until there was nothing left.
‘There must be something else you can tell me,’ she said.
‘There really isn’t.’ Cris made a point of looking at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got another appointment in a few minutes.’
Dee took the hint and stood up.
‘Thanks for your time,’ she said.
Cris pulled a slim leather wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, took out a business card and handed it to Dee.
‘Would you pass this on to Louise?’ he said. ‘It’s got my personal email and phone number on it. If she’s ever in London, she might like to get in touch. I checked her profile online. She’s every bit as pretty as I imagined. I’d love to take her for a drink sometime.’
‘She’s married,’ Dee said. ‘And even if she wasn’t, she’d never date someone with a beard as ridiculous as that.’
She left before he could say anything else, her footsteps clattering loudly off the iron, bouncing off the brick walls. The noise stayed in her head as she stepped outside into the bright heat of another scorching summer’s day, the clanging echo of her footsteps taunting her as she crossed the dusty yellowed grass square back to Old Street Underground station.
Thirteen
Katie
Eleven years earlier
It’s horrible. Roxanne’s made it clear that Shane’s not allowed back in the pub. If he steps inside the door, she says she’ll speak to Dad about it. I’ve tried reasoning with her because it’s so unfair, but she refuses to listen.
‘He’s bad news,’ she said when I pleaded with her. ‘Seriously, you’re better off without someone like that.’
‘Someone like what?’ I asked.
‘Ella’s told me about him,’ she said. ‘He’s not a good bloke, Katie. You deserve someone who’ll treat you right and wants to be with you because he likes you, not because…’
She trailed off then and refused to say any more. Even though we both knew what she meant. He’s using me to get close to Ella, but I know it’s what Roxanne thinks. Because she’s like everyone else and she can’t imagine that someone like Shane would ever want to be with someone like me.
Roxanne and I haven’t spoken since then, even though she’s tried a few times. The problem is that she doesn’t seem to realise she’s not my mum. She’s always sticking her nose into my business. She says she’s got my best interests at heart, but that’s bullshit. If she really cared about me, she’d believe my version of what happened that night, not Ella’s.
‘She poured me a Coke instead of a Diet Coke like you wanted,’ Shane tells me when I ask him what happened. ‘I asked her to change it and she lost it. Picked up the glass and threw the drink into my face. She’s not right up here, Katie.’ He taps his head when he says this, hate twisting his face into something horrible.
We’re in the park. It’s where we mostly go these days. Shane has a bottle of cider that I sneaked from the pub earlier. He keeps trying to get me to drink some, but I’m scared.
‘I don’t want to end up like my mum,’ I tell him.
‘You never talk about her,’ Shane says. ‘What was she like?’
I don’t answer, because what is there to say? She was an alcoholic who went on a drinking spree one afternoon and has never been seen since.
I take the bottle to avoid speaking, and drink some of the cider. I don’t like it very much. It’s too sweet, and the fizziness bloats m
y stomach. When I take a second sip, I swear I can feel the waistband of my jeans growing tighter.
Shane says something else, but I can’t hear him. My head is too full of the noises and images. Mum’s voice, high-pitched, the way it got when she’d had too much to drink. Shouting and calling my dad all sorts of names. Then the sound of the front door slamming, the click-clack of her heels running along the pavement, and my dad, shouting now too, telling her to come back and not be stupid. Telling her she was too pissed to be behind the wheel of a car.
‘Doesn’t it make you angry?’ Shane says.
‘What?’
‘The way your dad and everyone else makes such a fuss of her?’
I think he’s talking about Mum and I don’t know how to explain to him what happens when someone disappears like that. The way it leaves this big vacuum in your life that’s worse than the worst sort of hunger because nothing you ever do can fix it.
‘But you’re the one who’s lost your mother,’ he says. ‘Not her. It’s not fair, Katie. Makes me angry on your behalf. Like, why does she get to work behind the bar but you’re not allowed?’ He’s almost shouting now. Cider and anger making his voice too loud and his words stumble over each other. ‘Why should you have to sit upstairs on your own every night while she’s downstairs getting all his attention. We should do something about it.’
‘What?’ I say, angry now too. Why does he have to bring Ella into everything? I wish he’d shut up about her and talk about something or someone else. Me, for instance. Why can’t we talk about me for once? ‘You don’t know my dad. He’s not going to suddenly let me start working in the bar. He’ll never do that. My mum was a drunk and he’s going to do everything he can to stop the same thing happening to me.’
‘Hey.’ He nudges the bottle, still in my hand. ‘Have another drink. Go on.’
I Could Be You Page 8