by Simon Lelic
“What’s that up there? In the corner?” He uses the screwdriver to direct my gaze and once again I look as a reflex. He’s pointing at the burglar-alarm sensor, I think. The alarm itself was broken when we moved in and the sensor is covered in dust. Clearly no one’s touched the thing in years.
“Jack, stop. Please.”
He turns and looks at me sharply. “What?” he says. “Why?”
“I just think . . . I think you’re wasting your time. That’s all.”
“He had a key, Syd. He was in the house. It stands to reason he might have put up some kind of camera or something somewhere. Or a microphone.” The mention of a microphone gets him looking in different directions, at crannies in the kitchen he hasn’t so far considered. “Maybe that’s how he found out all the things he did,” he goes on, talking as much to himself now. “It would have been easier than following us around. He could simply have been listening in. Watching us.” He looks again at the dusty alarm sensor. “Who’s to say he isn’t watching us right now?”
I shiver, shake it off.
“I still think you’re wasting your time.”
Jack rounds on me. “Wasting my time?” He laughs and for the first time ever it’s a sound that frightens me. “I tell you what was a waste of my time. Writing that fucking manuscript, that’s what.”
He’s waiting for me to say I told you so. I know he is. He wants me to, so that he can launch into me the way he’s obviously longing to. I don’t, though. I wouldn’t anyway because I don’t agree, regardless of what I might have said when Jack first suggested it. I still think it will help, in the end.
“You saw her reaction, you were there,” Jack goes on, turning his frustration on Inspector Leigh now. “Fucking elaborate,” he mimics. “Fucking unique. Fucking smug fucking bitch.”
This isn’t Jack. Hearing him swear like this, sounding so vicious. This, it’s like listening to me.
I want to reassure him but I don’t know how. And he senses that, I think. I felt it when we were talking to the policewoman: the distance that’s opening up between us. And I know it’s my fault. I know it’s inevitable, necessary even—but it breaks my heart even so.
I roll my lips and look down at the floor. Jack sets off toward the alarm sensor, dragging the chair with him as he goes.
—
“HOW DID YOU know?”
We’re on the landing. There are still ghosts of those pictures that until last week we’d left hanging on the wall, little blanks of wallpaper a slightly deeper shade of cerise than the space around them. I’m sitting on the floor, the balustrade needling my back. The discomfort is like a penance and I don’t shift. Jack’s slumped forward on the dining chair, heedless of the plaster dust that coats it now as well as him. There’s a hole above him where he’s ripped out the last of our smoke alarms and a pair of wires that until recently were hidden beneath the light fitting. There’s no evidence anywhere of any cameras.
“How did you know?” he says again. “How could you be so sure we wouldn’t find anything?”
I’ve been thinking about how to answer this question, obviously.
“Because it’s not the type of thing my father would do,” I say. “He’d view it as . . . cheating, somehow.”
“Cheating?” Jack looks at me in disgust. As though they’re my rules.
I nod, shrug. I’ve been following Jack around like a gormless puppy, watching him drag that chair from room to room and jab holes in all our fixtures and fittings. I thought that was painful to watch but this, the way he is now, it’s worse. He’d clearly managed to convince himself he was onto something—one shattered smoke alarm away from finding the evidence the inspector said we needed. But now he’s floundering, I guess. Desperate. Which, given the circumstances, is hardly surprising. I’d be floundering if I were in his position too. I’m floundering in mine.
“So bribing an estate agent with a wedge of cash is OK,” Jack is saying, “but installing a camera that costs—what? A hundred quid?—isn’t allowed?”
I sigh. Not at Jack. At the ridiculous logic of it. “Bribing Evan was all right because it’s . . .” I hesitate to use the word, use it anyway. “Clever,” I say. “It’s sly, part of setting his trap. But cameras . . .” I shrug again. “Cameras are easy. Cheap. And I’m not talking about how much they cost.”
Jack sits straighter and some plaster dust sprinkles from his shoulders.
“What about that photo he took of me and Amira?” he says. “I mean, he must have hired someone to follow me. Don’t you think? Ali said they saw someone, but we don’t know for sure they saw your father. So wouldn’t hiring a private detective or whatever count as cheating, too?”
“Probably,” I say.
Jack frowns like I’m the one not playing fairly. “Meaning what? That you don’t think he did hire anyone? That he followed me and took that photograph himself?”
“If he could have, he would have, yes. My father was never exactly one to delegate. He always did like to get his hands dirty.” I shiver again. It’s not the temperature. What I mean is, if it were hotter, I’d still be shaking. “Besides,” I go on, “it’s like with the cameras: hiring someone would have meant leaving a trail and he’s smart enough not to do that.”
Jack’s angry again because that’s another path to securing evidence gone. And I think that in spite of everything, he’s still struggling to comprehend it: the effort to which my father would have had to go.
“What about hacking my e-mail?” he says after a pause. “Could he have done that, maybe somehow left a trace? I mean, it’s possible that’s how he found out about Sabeen. Except . . .” His shoulders drop and he’s slumping once again in his chair. “We never communicated by e-mail,” he says. “It was always by phone or by text.” He ponders for a moment, then drops his gaze. “I suppose he could have checked my phone if he saw it lying around when he was in the house. Like, on my bedside table.”
He looks toward our bedroom and this time Jack is the one to shiver. It’s catching, like yawns.
I get up then. I start to head back downstairs, to get on with . . . what? With waiting, I guess. Which makes me wonder whether Jack didn’t have the right idea after all. Punching holes in all the plasterwork with a blunt screwdriver. It wasn’t efficient. It wasn’t productive. But at least it was something.
“Shit,” Jack spits suddenly from behind me. As I turn he tosses the screwdriver and it gouges out another small piece of wall. “We can’t just bloody sit here, Syd. We can’t just sit back and let him win!”
It’s an echo of what the inspector said. This is how he wins. I want to offer Jack some reassurance but there’s not a thing I can say. If there were, I would have said it already.
“We could . . . find Evan,” Jack goes on. “Couldn’t we? Because he has to have seen your father. He must have, if only to collect his money.”
I’ve been wondering about Evan myself. It’s occurred to me that if it’s true they’ve spoken to my father, the police might already have found the estate agent too. But if they had, they would have done something. Surely. And I don’t doubt that whatever bribe my father offered Evan, it would have come with some inducement to disappear.
“How much do you think your father paid him? Like . . . thousands, right? Five grand, would you say? Ten?”
“I doubt it was that much. If there’s one thing I learned from watching my father, it’s that people generally cost less than you might think.”
It makes no difference either way now what Evan’s conscience was worth but my response only seems to dishearten Jack further. “But we could find him,” he insists. “Don’t you think? And the police could get him to talk. Couldn’t they?”
I try to nod but it comes out sideways. “We could try.”
“Jesus, Syd!” All of a sudden Jack is on his feet. “Why are you so . . .” He rattles his head. �
�So bloody calm? At the police station you were about ready to throw a chair!”
And you’ve gone the other way, I don’t point out.
“I’m not calm, Jack. I’m just . . .” I close my eyes and it’s a struggle to open them again. “I’m tired. That’s all. Just . . . tired.”
It’s an understatement. Jack’s right; at the police station I was a mass of furious energy but it’s taken it out of me. The morning we’ve had. The fucking year. And I know I’m going to have to recover my strength quickly but right now I can’t see how that’s going to happen. I imagine this is how footballers feel when they trudge off the field three goals down at halftime. Or actors, spent after the opening scenes and resting themselves in the intermission before the grand finale.
Jack’s got that look again, the one I noticed before. Suspicious, resentful, like he’s on the brink of saying something hurtful and isn’t even trying this time to haul himself back.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“What are you talking about?” I say. But that’s done it. So much for feeling tired. The accusation is like a shot of adrenaline.
“When we were talking to Inspector Leigh. There was something you were holding back.”
“You said it yourself, Jack. I wasn’t holding back at all. If anything I was doing the opposite.”
“That’s not what I mean. What I mean is you were hiding something. You know this isn’t over. What happens next, Syd? What’s your father planning from here?”
“How should I know what my father’s planning? Jesus, Jack.”
“This doesn’t end with me, Syd. It can’t. There’s something else your father wants. You know there is.”
“It doesn’t matter what he wants,” I say. “He can’t get it. Not now.”
“Why not? Nothing’s changed. The police aren’t going to stop him. You didn’t even ask them for help.”
“Weren’t you listening, Jack? That’s all I was doing!”
“For protection, is what I mean! You’re in danger, Syd. Why won’t you just admit it? Why won’t you even admit it to me?”
“Because I genuinely don’t think I am!” I say and even to my ear I sound half-convincing.
Jack responds with a disgusted little snort. “Fine,” he says. “Have it your way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t trust me. Clearly.”
“I do, Jack! I trust you more than anyone I’ve ever known!”
“The way you trusted me about Amira?”
I stall, my mouth dangling uselessly. It is: this, what’s been happening to us, it’s becoming real. It’s what I was afraid would happen, the thing I was terrified we wouldn’t be able to stop.
“I do trust you, Jack,” I say again. “What I need is for you to trust me.”
I think for a moment I’m getting through to him. But then Jack scoffs, evades my eye. “Yeah, well,” he says. “I’m finding it pretty bloody hard to trust anyone right now.”
I take a step toward him. “Jack, please . . .”
He shakes me off when I try to touch him. “And that’s the other thing,” he says. “How could you not know your father was out on parole?”
I recoil from the non sequitur. “What?”
“Didn’t you think to check?”
For a second or two I’m standing open-mouthed. “No, I didn’t bloody check. I left my father, Jack. I ran away. I didn’t give a shit where my father was after that, just so long as he was nowhere near me.”
It’s an opening and Jack can’t resist. “And look how that’s turned out for you.”
I feel a searing beneath my skin. You fucking prick, I want to say. Even now, in spite of everything. It takes every ounce of my self-control to hold it in.
Jack, to his credit, flushes with shame. Less creditable, he tries to hide it.
“I’m thinking of calling my parents,” he announces. He says it like he’s daring me to object. I would, of course, ordinarily. Jack’s relationship with his parents is a source of tension between us we do our best to pretend isn’t there. He thinks I think he should treat them with the same indifference with which they treat him; that he should disown them, effectively; detach himself. I don’t. I just want him to care less what they think of him. To not see every slight and subtle put-down they inflict on him as something he’s brought upon himself.
Jack’s watching for my reaction. “That’s a good idea,” I answer. “I think you should.”
“What?”
“I think you should. You heard the inspector. We can’t afford a solicitor, Jack. Not a good one.”
The implication is unmistakable. It’s as close as either one of us has got to stating openly that Jack is likely to go to jail.
Jack is too stunned for an instant to respond. Again, I want to hold him. Again, I know I can’t.
“Maybe . . . maybe it would be better if you went and saw them,” I say. “Sit down and talk to them properly. Tell them it’s my fault, obviously.” I try a smile.
Jack, instead of smiling back, opts to take affront. “Go to Dorset, you mean? Now?”
“Better that than asking them up.” What I mean is they’ll respond better if Jack is the one to make the pilgrimage. They don’t like coming to London at the best of times. And now that Jack and I have moved in together, they’ve turned not visiting into a point of principle.
“No way, Syd. There’s no way I’m leaving you alone.”
It’s what I knew he’d say. It’s the old Jack—my Jack—shining through, at a time each of us needs him to the least.
“Jack, listen.” This time I forcibly take his hands. “This isn’t about me anymore. This, what happens next, it’s all about you. And you need to protect yourself. Your parents can help, Jack. In a way I can’t.”
He’s frowning again. Thinking, churning. He frees his hands from mine.
“It sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me,” he says.
I shut my eyes again, open my mouth to respond. But I don’t speak.
“Syd? Did you hear me? Forget about your father. It’s like you don’t want me here. Like you want me out of the way.”
“I heard you, Jack. I . . .”
But it’s all I can say. Partly it’s that tiredness creeping back. At the pretending, I realize. The misdirection. Also, I’ve lied to Jack so much already. I can’t bring myself to lie to him again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
SYDNEY
IN THE END it doesn’t matter anyway. They come for Jack that very evening.
“Jack Laurence Walsh? I’m arresting you on suspicion of murdering Sean Payne. You don’t have to say anything but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
It’s like in those TV dramas, word for word. Inspector Leigh delivers the little speech in a monotone, not sounding her usual self at all. This should be her moment of triumph but instead she looks like someone beaten. I suspect she likes Jack and that because of that this has become one of those cases that does nothing to boost her professional pride.
“Syd?” Jack says as they put him in handcuffs. Just that, just my name. It’s not a plea, though, not to my ears. To me it sounds like an accusation.
I reach for him but I don’t get to touch him before they’re leading him from our doorway and out onto the street. I’m crying, I realize. I can’t help it. With my sleeve drawn over my palm I cover my mouth. Neither Inspector Leigh nor her colleague—a man roughly the size of a wardrobe—makes eye contact with me. They behave as though I’m not there. I follow them out, barefooted, and it feels like I’m wading against a current.
“Jack? Oh Jack, I’m so sorry.”
I don’t think he hears me. Inspector Leigh has her
hand on Jack’s crown and she’s maneuvering him into the backseat of the police car. The glass is tinted and when the door slams Jack is stolen from my view.
And that’s when, for the first time, I look around.
It’s still light outside so I can see the neighbors who are watching. One or two are outside on their steps, even more peering out from behind glass. But it’s not the neighbors who catch my attention. It’s the man across the street, seated on the bonnet of his car. He wears a suit. His shoes are buffed. And though his face is partly in shadow I can tell his lips caress a smile. But my father also has an odd little tell, one he’s never been very good at hiding. It’s just a gesture: his index finger on his right hand rubbing circles around the tip of his thumb. It means he wants something. That he’s growing impatient. And I know when I see it that he’s angry and that this game of ours is coming to a head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
SYDNEY
I’M FOUR. MAYBE slightly older. It’s not the start of it but it’s the start of my remembering. I’m lying in bed, my feet pointing toward the door. It’s dark in my bedroom or it would be but for the light reaching in from the landing. I’ve had a nightmare and I’ve been crying, shouting out for my mother. She’s there at the threshold but standing in front of her—blocking her entrance—is my father. He’s in his pajamas, my mother beside him in her nightie, and it’s clear I’ve roused them both from sleep.
My mother has her hand on my father’s forearm. It slides up, down, like she’s comforting him, like the way sometimes she comforts me when I’m feeling ill. From his forearm it moves over to his chest and here it rests for a moment, presses itself flat. All the time my mother’s whispering in my father’s ear, her eyes darting occasionally—anxiously—toward me. One of her knees is bent, her foot poised like a ballerina’s. She looks so pretty and I can’t understand why my father, instead of looking at her, is staring so intently at me. In his hands he’s holding one of his belts. It’s black, made of leather, and the buckle winks at me when it catches the light.