A Version of the Truth

by B P Walter

  ‘You in the mood?’ said a voice, which I took to be Ernest’s. James gave out another barely audible murmur. Ernest’s visible arm was drawn back under the sheets and I could see it travelling under the covers around James’s body. It began to move rhythmically. My legs had become part of the wood of the wardrobe and I couldn’t move. I watched them get further entwined, with Ernest’s chin pressed up hard against James’s shoulder. He moved his leg over him and the covers were pulled back. Ernest stopped what he was doing and pulled his hand back closer to himself to pull down his underwear, his skin glowing a strangely bright white in the light from the window. I only vaguely realised what he was doing when James let out a loud moan – the most definite and true noise he’d made since he entered the room; a strong, almost animalistic, noise that at once suggested pain and a deep, deep pleasure. Ernest was now gripping his shoulders and James’s body seemed to have gone long and tense, his feet, still partially hidden by the folds of the duvet towards the end of the bed, pointed sharply outwards. As he relaxed, and allowed himself to be taken without any evidence of tension or pain, their bodies seemed to go through a kind of merging. It was as if they weren’t people any more, just shifting, swirling shapes. The moonlight, the streetlamps, their otherworldly, glowing figures: it was all strangely cinematic and, in spite of my shock at what I was witnessing, there was something beautiful about it all that kept me hypnotised. It shook me, shocked me and, in an odd way, moved me. James’s moans were starting to build and Ernest’s heavy breaths and grunts to grow shorter, more staccato. Eventually he appeared to tip over, his full weight pressing against James, his arms gathering him up, holding him tightly. James didn’t resist, but let out a low sound, a half-cry, half-gasp, that sent a rush down my arms, and then another noise – a slow, satisfied sigh.

  They stayed there, still, for almost a minute, motionless apart from their steadily slowing breathing. Then James turned, extricating himself from Ernest’s arms, and rolled over to face him. He reached out and held his face in his hands, gently running his fingers along his jawline.

  ‘Is this where you get all sentimental?’ Ernest whispered.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ James said, with a quiet laugh.

  ‘You always do after you’ve finished.’ Ernest embraced him and James followed his lead, allowing their faces to meet. He kissed Ernest gently on the lips, taking his time, his hand reaching around the boy’s neck, pulling him into him. Ernest didn’t resist and kissed him back. The tender nature of it made me want to cry although I wasn’t sure why; then I realised I was, the tears dropping lightly onto my hand. They carried on, holding each other, their mouths connected, and I knew why I was crying. Nobody had ever kissed me like that. Deep, hard, honest, unflinching, with an intimate understanding that comes from a long-term familiarity between the participants.

  When the boys finally drew apart, slowly, still looking at each other, Ernest said quietly, ‘It’s not enough any more, is it?’

  ‘It’s still good, though,’ James replied, staring at him intently. ‘Better than nothing. But we’ll have some more fun soon. Something new.’

  ‘If you don’t lose your nerve again,’ Ernest said, letting his hand glide over James’s face.

  ‘I won’t. I promise,’ he said.

  Ernest seemed to be studying James, though his face was in too much darkness to see his expression fully; then he drew him in closer so James’s head was resting in between his shoulder and neck, just like men had done to women in countless films. They fell asleep like that, woven tightly together, their naked bodies half-covered by the sheets, their legs like tangled roots, poking out at the ends. I don’t know how much time passed. An hour, maybe two. But eventually I couldn’t stand still any longer. I gently pushed open the door of the cupboard, thanking God it didn’t creak, and tiptoed to the door, taking it off the latch as quietly as I could. I kept glancing back at them, but their eyes were tight shut and their breathing steady. Once I was in the corridor, I pulled the door to, afraid I’d wake them by closing it. I hoped they would just think they’d forgotten to close it properly in the morning. I walked back to my room, across the courtyard, up the steps, down the hallway, through the door, into bed. Still fully dressed, but I didn’t care. The tears came soon enough and I didn’t try to stop them, partly confused as to why they were there, partly not wanting to admit the truth. I just let them fall onto the pillow. Slowly, as I cried, the words of the two boys floated in and out of my consciousness: ‘We’ll have more fun soon … something new.’ What more could they do, I thought dully. What was it they were looking for? These questions rose and fell, gently pricking at my mind, until eventually the numbing anaesthetic of sleep took me away.

  Chapter 15

  Julianne

  Knightsbridge, 2019

  Cassie’s vacuuming the hall carpet when I arrive back home. As I step through the door and start unwinding my scarf, looking down so she won’t see how red my eyes are, she shuts off the Hoover and starts talking about a plate she’s broken.

  ‘I’m so sorry, it just slipped off the counter. As if a poltergeist had pushed it.’

  I attempt a weak smile. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘Oh, and you had a visitor. A woman. A couple of hours ago now, just after you’d left.’

  I freeze on my way to the stairs. ‘What? Who?’

  Cassie shrugs. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. She wouldn’t leave a name. She just asked if Julianne lived here and I said “Can I help you?” and she just kept saying “I need to talk to Julianne”. She looked a bit manic towards the end, saying she’d hoped to catch you. I said you’d nipped out to John Lewis and didn’t know how long you’d be. She went off after that.’

  She’d followed me. The realisation makes me shiver slightly, although in the back of my mind I’d already known it to be true; we hadn’t just bumped into each other on Oxford Street by coincidence.

  No doubt noticing the look of worry on my face, Cassie starts to garble. ‘I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have said where …’

  ‘It’s all fine, Cassie. Thank you.’ I walk up the stairs without meeting her eye and carry on until I’ve reached the bedroom.

  After a moment sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into space, I go back out onto the landing and tread quietly towards Stephen’s room. I can hear talking coming from inside. I try to make out the words but they’re too muffled, so I knock gently. ‘Darling? You in there?’

  ‘I’m just on Skype to Will,’ he replies.

  ‘Right, okay,’ I say through the door. ‘Are you … Is everything … Do you need anything?’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’

  I nod, even though he can’t see me. I give it a few seconds and hear him carry on talking, so I return to the bedroom. James is still at work, then he’s got a Christmas gathering with former colleagues. Alone with my thoughts, I know I can’t just sit here, feeling powerless. I’m in the dark and, as my mother always used to say, when you’re in the dark, make sure it’s you ruling the darkness, not it ruling you. As a twelve-year-old girl, I used to find these bleak nuggets of wisdom from my mom disturbing. Now, for the first time, I’m truly glad of something she taught me. At least she didn’t sugarcoat things. That’s always been James’s problem, throughout our marriage. If it was something he wanted to make a point about, he’d say it, like with our clashes over Stephen going to Oxford. But so many times he’d put a happy gloss on a subject, as if he were afraid of inspecting it more closely. His swerve away from politics and into his job in data services, my decision to leave my job in publishing, our inability to have any more children and the choice not to pursue treatment, the discussions about relocating to the US and possibly bringing our then-tiny son up as an American child … he’d charmed his way through all these points in our lives, smiling and comforting but never really offering any answers, quick to extinguish any upset or discontent before it could properly develop. Without me realising, he’d become eva
sive. Elusive. Private. As if he were frightened of me looking too closely at the fabric of our existence. Now I am looking at it. And I’m not sure I like what I see.

  I don’t think I’ve ever used the lock on the bedroom door – not even when James and I are making love, confident in the knowledge Stephen wouldn’t just barge in at night. But I use it now. It slides into place, barricading out the world downstairs, giving me space to think and time to do what I need to do. First, I need my iPad, currently on charge on the bedside table, on top of an Agatha Christie novel I’ve been leisurely making my way through.

  Settling back amidst the pillows, I take out the charger and unlock the iPad, the bright screen making me blink in the dim room. I navigate once again to Dropbox, and then to James’s folder. It’s empty. There is no trace of the files Stephen and I looked through. No long list of numbers. Just a clear, white column of nothing.

  This shouldn’t really bother me, I tell myself. If it’s true the files were meant for someone in the security services, James would be foolish to leave them in there now. He’d already made a preposterous mistake leaving them so unprotected to start with, let alone once his wife and son had stumbled across them.

  I instead go back to the home screen and launch the Chrome app. I locate the private browsing mode and find my way back to the search engine. In the box I type the name of James’s company, Varvello Analytics, and wait. The animated front page blossoms into view, showing loads of numbers and letters flickering across the screen, flashing and changing until they finally settle into the company logo. I then have the option of choosing which area of the site I want to look at – commercial or political. What is it I’m looking for, I think to myself. There isn’t likely to be anything useful to me on his company webpage. What am I trying to find?

  Reassurance. The word falls into my mind as soon as I’ve asked myself the question. And then something arrives just as quickly: Clover Shore Construction.

  Why would a data analytics company – even one of the kind James had mentioned, one that didn’t really abide by the ethical standards of UK law – have ‘construction’ in their name? Perhaps this is some kind of tech language I’m just not aware of. I try googling the company name but nothing obvious comes up on the first page of results. There are other companies with similar names, most of them building firms, from skyscraper construction to conservatory design. I’m almost about to give up, but then, many pages into the search results, I do hit upon something. A local newspaper in Dagenham had used the words in an online piece nine years ago. And the title of the article makes me feel instantly sick: Young woman, twenty-one, raped by four unknown men on Dagenham building site.

  I click on the piece, even though I’m terrified what I’m going to read. My eyes dart across it quickly. The woman, Anna Svoboda, a Czech immigrant, claimed she couldn’t remember how she had arrived at the building site, but alleged she had been sexually assaulted multiple times by a group of men. She hadn’t been able to see their faces, since they had kept a bag over her head for the duration of the assault. My eyes then fall on the words I have been looking for: The site, located near Dagenham marshes, is registered to the company Clover Shore Construction, which is no longer believed to be in operation. It was used as a storage facility for building equipment, but has remained abandoned in recent years.

  It can’t be a coincidence. In a desperate rush, I copy the name of the young woman and paste it into Google. There are many Anna Svobodas listed on Facebook and LinkedIn and Twitter, but there’s no way of telling which is the right one. Most don’t list their ages, and there is no photograph of the woman with the news article. I try searching the name of the police inspector who has given a statement about ‘bringing the perpetrators to justice’ at the end of the piece. This time, the results are even weirder: there’s nothing. Not a single thing. No results at all. It’s as if he doesn’t exist.

  A knock on the bedroom door sends a jolt through my bones so forceful it’s as if someone’s shaken me. ‘Julianne?’

  It’s Cassie. I hide the device under the pillows and run to the door. ‘I’m here, I’m here.’ My flustered appearance doesn’t go unnoticed.

  ‘Oh, are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  The fact Cassie has felt the need to apologise to me twice in one day – a first for her – probably says a lot about the way I’m behaving. ‘No, not at all. I was … I was resting.’

  Cassie nods, looking both puzzled and unconvinced, but presses on. ‘Well, a package has arrived. It looks like it’s from Apple. It’s quite weighty, but light enough to carry. I’ve left it on the kitchen table, but I can bring it upstairs?’

  ‘From Apple?’ I’m not sure what she’s talking about.

  ‘Yes. I presumed it was a Christmas present or something. You haven’t ordered anything?’

  ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Maybe Stephen has, or …’ A lump appears in my throat. Or my husband, I think. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Just … leave it there. I’ll talk to James about it later. Maybe I’m getting a new iMac for Christmas.’ I let out a short laugh, but Cassie looks concerned again.

  ‘Goodness, I hope I haven’t spoiled a surprise.’

  It takes another bout of reassuring words to convince Cassie everything’s fine and she can return to whatever she was doing downstairs. Once she’s gone, I sit on my bed and think. A new laptop has just arrived. Surely, if this were anything suspicious, he would have bought it in secret. It must, therefore, be a purchase he was going to make anyway?

  Unsure what else to do, I close the private browsing tab and, in a rather pointless act, but just to be on the safe side, delete all browsing and search history. After that, I turn the device off and replace it on top of the book next to the bed. I’m trying not to panic, to rein my mind in, stop it jumping to terrible conclusions, each more outlandish, more strange, more terrifying than the last.

  I eat alone in the kitchen – a gluten-free Carbonara with chicken Cassie’s prepared – but I hardly taste it. Stephen gets a Deliveroo in; he just hops down the stairs, collects the package (Nando’s, from the smell of it) and disappears back to his room. I’m slightly hurt he didn’t ask me if I wanted to get a takeaway.

  After eating, I get up and take hold of the box I’ve been staring at for twenty minutes. It is indeed from Apple; the branding is obvious and, through a slight slit in the side, I can see the words MacBook Pro written in their iconic font. Should I confront James again? Or just wait and see what he says about it when he comes back?

  Eventually I leave the box where it is on the table, go into the lounge and try to focus on an old episode of Inspector Morse on ITV3. I give up after the fourth commercial break and head back upstairs. I should be getting things ready for tomorrow, with everyone coming for our Christmas gathering, but the place already looks showroom-clean thanks to Cassie, and I can’t bear the thought of writing Christmas cards and sorting out presents right now. Why do we even give presents to our friends still, I think, as I undress and get into bed. We’re adults in our forties. We all have everything we want. We don’t need any more things. Everything is perfect. Isn’t it?

  I fall asleep quickly, probably a symptom of my insomnia the night before. James wakes me when he comes in, even though I can tell he’s trying to be quiet. He’s not drunk, as far as I can make out. He always drops either his toothbrush or watch if he’s drunk. Today, he cleans his teeth quietly and calmly, then takes his watch off and lays it gently on the table on his side of the bed. I turn round to face him, opening my eyes slowly.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, giving me a sweet smile. I just look at him.

  ‘Are things okay?’ From the light in the bathroom I can see his eyes glinting in the darkness, a look of worry still lingering there. He knows I’m having doubts. He knows there’s still something to be afraid of.

  I just keep staring at him. I’m not in a position to reassure him. And I don’t want to talk about this now. ‘Get some sleep,�
� I say, turning away from him. ‘We’ve got all your friends coming tomorrow.’

  I know the ‘your’ will sting him. He’s always wanted me to think of the Kelmans as my friends, too, and it’s true Ally and I have been close for almost twenty years now, but I’m not in the mood to be kind. And the thought of spending hours with them, attempting to be polite and having a jolly Christmas, makes panic spread through my body. He doesn’t say anything now, just slips into bed next to me, the brush of his legs grazing mine, his flesh still cool from the December air outside.

  ‘You had a delivery today,’ I say, still facing away from him. I listen hard to hear if I can detect any reaction, but he’s silent. Then he just says, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I think it’s a computer.’ I don’t say it as a question, but it is one really. And I think he knows what I’m asking. In the quiet darkness, I hear the brush of him moving against the duvet. His hand settles on my shoulder and rubs it. Firmly.