He lifted his chin. ‘No visitors today?’
‘Mark will be in later,’ I said.
‘Ah.’ Stephen looked away. ‘I guess I shouldn’t be here.’
‘It’s all right with me,’ I said. ‘And Mark is just a bit overprotective. I’m sorry about the way he was with you.’
‘You’ve got nothing to apologise for,’ Stephen said. His cheeks were quite pink and I wanted to reach out and squeeze his hand, show him that we were okay.
‘How are things?’ I said, trying to ease the tension. I was surprised by how badly I wanted to do that.
Stephen had folded his frame into a chair and was looking too intently at my face, as if trying to diagnose me.
‘I heard you had a visit from the police. Did they have anything new to say?’
So many things were coming back to me now, and I remembered that I had kept everything in my life strictly separate. It felt strange to have every part of it laid open. I reminded myself that Stephen was a friend and that it wasn’t a secret the police officer had visited me. ‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
Stephen smiled. ‘Parveen told me.’
‘You two talk? About me?’
‘A bit,’ he said. ‘We bump into each other in the corridor sometimes and you’re really all we have in common.’
‘Oh,’ I said. The thought of Parveen and Stephen talking about me, about my progress or health or whatever, wasn’t as awful as I’d expected. The me from before the accident would have hated it so much she would have wanted to punch something. The post-coma me felt a glow of comfort, with just the tiniest touch of anxious nausea. Interesting.
‘Nothing new,’ I said. ‘They’ve appealed for witnesses but no one has come forward and it wasn’t on camera. I don’t think it’s high priority, and hopefully my insurance will cough up for any damage.’ I swallowed, trying not to think about the wreckage, the things that could’ve happened. ‘Thank God the road was empty.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Stephen said.
I didn’t want to talk about the accident. The stuff that was coming back to me – stuff about my life and my family – was overwhelming enough. ‘I’m remembering lots more,’ I said. ‘I remember you from before.’
He tilted his head. ‘Had we met?’
‘No,’ I said, smiling at the memory. ‘But I checked you out at the Black Dove.’
‘At the Christmas drinks thing?’ He smiled as if remembering a private joke. ‘I love that bar.’
‘Me, too,’ I said, delighted by both the clear memory and the connection. ‘I was going to introduce myself.’
‘I wish you had,’ Stephen said with feeling.
That was the night I’d got so drunk I’d ended up in bed with Mark. The one-night stand which hadn’t ended the morning after, the way it was supposed to. ‘Anyway, I wanted to thank you for keeping me company in here.’
The crease came back but Stephen’s tone was light: ‘That sounds suspiciously like a goodbye speech.’
‘Things are going to be different when I get out. I’ll be living in this place for starters.’ I indicated the estate agent’s details, which were resting on the bedside cabinet.
‘Here?’ He picked them up and whistled. ‘Very nice.’
‘Mark’s organised it all. I’m lucky.’
Stephen picked up my mobile and began tapping. ‘Just putting my number in. Home and mobile.’ He paused and looked me straight in the eye. ‘You’re not alone, you know.’
I laughed to try and diffuse the seriousness of his tone. ‘I know. I’m going to be with Mark and Pat’s coming to look after me for a few days.’ I pulled a face, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in my chest. ‘I tried to put her off, but she’s determined.’
‘That’s nice, though. Right?’
‘You don’t know Pat. She’ll organise me until I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’
‘She loves you, that’s all.’ I marvelled at the easy way he used the word. I knew he was right, though. I had thought that Pat was angry, disappointed in me for fucking up again, but her expression when she had visited had been one of relief. I had seen the worry etched on her face, and felt the force of her care in a way I’d never acknowledged before. ‘Give me your phone,’ I said. ‘Fair’s fair.’
I navigated to his contacts and put in my number and the address of Mark’s house. My new house. I felt sick but I told myself I would just have to get used to it. I needed help and I was lucky to have Mark. We chatted a bit longer, but Stephen kept glancing at the door.
‘Do you have somewhere to be?’ I finally asked.
He looked away. ‘I don’t particularly want another scene.’
I felt irrationally disappointed. It was completely understandable, of course. We hardly knew each other. Our friendship was new, and it would probably wither and die as soon as real life intervened. Stephen had probably felt some kind of obligation to me as he knew I worked in the hospital and that he might see me around after I recovered. That responsibility didn’t extend to dealing with a grumpy, suspicious boyfriend. And why should it? ‘Fair enough,’ I said, forcing a small smile.
‘I don’t mind,’ Stephen said, ‘but I don’t want to make things worse for you.’
My old fire came back. ‘What do you mean “worse”? You don’t have to worry about me.’
‘I know his type,’ Stephen said calmly. ‘And I don’t particularly like it.’
I welcomed the old flames as they burned through the fear that Stephen’s words brought. ‘You don’t know anything about him. About us,’ I said.
He stood up. ‘I’d better go.’
Stephen held out a hand and I shook it, quickly. Not fast enough, though. I still had time to enjoy the sensation of his skin on mine, time to notice that his hand felt as nice as it looked.
‘Stay in touch,’ he said. ‘Call me if you need anything at all.’
And the fire burned out, just like that. I felt tears prickling my eyes and I blinked hard.
I was in the middle of my finals when I got the call. I saw the number on the screen and answered, ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ expecting to hear Pat but, for once, it was Dylan. He never called me and I was so surprised to hear his voice that it took me a moment to realise that it was my turn to say something. ‘Okay,’ I managed, but the line was already dead.
‘Please,’ Dylan had said. ‘Go and see your brother. Pat’s worried but she won’t ask you to do it, she doesn’t want to bother you.’
I lived in a shared student house then – a big old Victorian terrace with over ten bedrooms – and I stumbled down the multiple staircases, calling out to see who was home. I went from room to room until I found someone with a car who was willing to do me a favour. Sam didn’t even live with us, he was the boyfriend of Lisa, who lived in the third room I’d tried.
I don’t remember anything about the journey there, what we talked about or even if we talked. In that respect he was the perfect taxi driver. I didn’t know Lisa well and had only ever exchanged small talk with Sam. It was perfect because I wasn’t up to a conversation, all I could wonder was what had made Dylan call me. What had Pat said or done that had prompted him to pick up the phone? I had my phone in my lap and I kept hitting redial and Geraint kept on not picking up.
When we got to Cheltenham I directed Sam to Geraint’s house. Once he found a space on the road outside, Sam unfolded himself from the car but in that time I was at the front entrance, finger pressed to the button marked ‘G. Morgan’. The front garden was paved with slabs, weeds growing up between. I pressed the buzzer again and tilted my head, waiting to hear Geraint’s voice fuzzy over the intercom, the click of the door unlocking. Without warning, it swung open and a woman appeared. She was middle-aged and tired-looking. She wore a navy polyester tabard over her clothes and an across-the-body handbag with a thin red strap. I was standing in her way and she looked none too pleased about that fact. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m visiting Geraint M
organ. Upstairs.’
The woman stood aside to let me pass.
‘I’m his sister,’ I added, unnecessarily.
The woman didn’t look back and the door swung shut behind her. Geraint’s flat was on the top floor and I was just about to start up the stairs when there was a pounding on the door. Sam. I had forgotten about Sam.
I opened the door, trying to work out whether it was better to go upstairs and have a near-stranger witness whatever . . . whatever I was about to witness. Or whether it was better for me to climb those stairs and bash down Geraint’s door on my own. I didn’t much like either scenario, but Sam decided it for me by starting on the stairs. ‘You don’t have to . . .’ I began but he just shrugged his wide shoulders and carried on climbing.
At the top of the stairs there were two doors. I hadn’t been here so wasn’t sure which flat was Geraint’s. I settled for banging on both doors and crossing my fingers he opened up first. The left-hand door opened a crack and a blast of warm fetid air wafted into the hall.
‘Ger?’
The door opened a little further, revealing a slice of my brother, wearing a red hoodie. An arm shot out and pulled me in. Slamming the door behind me.
‘Wait . . .’ I stopped trying to talk. All thoughts of explaining that my ride home was grinding his teeth on the other side of the door fled from my mind as I took in the room. It was a standard bedsit, small and oddly proportioned, the ceilings too high, the bay window too big. What had once been a no-doubt stunning living room was now an oddly carved up living space with an unmade sofa bed taking up most of the floor space. There was a tiny kitchen area with a sink and about a foot and a half of grey counter top, and an orange curtain was half pulled open, revealing a diminutive handwash basin, toilet and beige-tiled shower cubicle.
What had me stopped in my tracks wasn’t the bedsit chic or even the piles of dirty crockery, old takeaway cartons and the pervasive smell of unwashed man. What held one hundred per cent of my attention was the assortment of holes in the wall. The plasterboard was ripped in several places and bundles of wire had been pulled through.
‘What happened?’
There was thumping on the door and Geraint flinched.
I moved to let Sam in and Ger stepped across to stand in my way. He put a hand on the door and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and a wild look. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘It’s just Sam,’ I said. ‘He’s a friend. He gave me a lift here.’ I put my hand on Ger’s arm. ‘It’s okay.’
Geraint didn’t move immediately, but let me reach around his body to open the door.
‘What the fuck?’ Sam squeezed through the gap left by Geraint. He looked around and I watched compassion chase the annoyance from his face. When he spoke next, his voice was neutral. ‘All right, mate?’
Geraint was locking the door. There was the standard Yale, a newly fitted deadbolt and sliding bolts top and bottom.
I started to bundle up the bedding so that I could re-fold the sofa bed. I was moving on automatic pilot. I needed to be moving, to be doing something. A cold dread had settled in my stomach and it was as if by keeping busy – the word ‘bustling’ came to mind – I could somehow outrun it.
Once we had somewhere to sit down I moved to the kitchen and filled the kettle. ‘Tea?’
‘No milk,’ Geraint said. ‘I haven’t been out.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Sam made to open the window.
‘No!’ Geraint jumped up from the sofa.
‘Jesus. Calm down.’ Sam had his hands in the air, was shaking his head and looking at Ger like he’d lost his mind.
Geraint made for the window and tweaked the curtains to close the tiny remaining gap. He turned to face us, his whole body shaking. Rushing with lack of sleep and caffeine or maybe something stronger. ‘I’m being watched.’
I had moved dishes out of the tiny sink and was blasting hot water so I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. I finished rinsing the sink, filled it with soapy water and washed up three mugs.
‘Sit down. I’ll make drinks and we can talk.’ I sounded calm and in control. If I didn’t look directly at the holes in the walls, I could feel my pulse returning to normal. I took the coffee (strong for me, weak for Geraint, medium for Sam as I had no idea if he even drank coffee) to the sofa and it hit me; I was acting like Pat. She never sat still in a crisis either and I suddenly understood why. She couldn’t.
Sam had been talking in a low voice – a gentle tone that sounded professionally calm. I wondered if he was studying psychology or social work and thought that, if not, he ought to consider it – but now he and Geraint were sitting in silence. As I made to give Ger his drink, he jumped up. He took the mug of coffee but immediately put it down on the nearest available surface, where it merged with the general detritus. He paced up and down, running his hands over his scalp. His hair was all gone, shaved close to his head, and every bump and lump of his vulnerable scalp showed. He said something very quietly.
‘What?’ I leaned in.
‘I’m in trouble.’ He stopped pacing and hunkered down in front of the sofa, fixing me with a look so naked I felt my insides contract.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘I’m being watched.’
‘Who is watching you?’ I said.
‘Them. The same ones as always.’
‘Who are they?’ I was hanging on to my patience with a vice-like grip, but it was still slipping.
‘Rival company. Maybe.’ He shook his head. ‘Defence people. I don’t know.’
‘Defence?’ Sam said.
I took a sip of my coffee and burned my tongue. ‘Have you been working on a military contract?’ Geraint’s work often had an eventual military or defence application. He solved problems, worked on software issues and logic problems. To him, they were like high-level, super-charged Sudoku puzzles. If I’d asked him a year earlier if his job could lead to his being watched, he’d have found the idea inconceivable. He’d have laughed in my face. Now, he’d apparently decided that he was a combination of John Dillinger and James Bond.
While most of me found the thought ludicrous, there was a small murmur of dissent. It whispered: MOD. Official Secrets Act. A half-remembered news story flashed through my mind. The computer coder who was found zipped inside a duffel bag in his bath.
‘You work at GCHQ?’ Sam said, but Geraint wasn’t listening.
I took his hands. ‘Your work is top secret, right?’
Geraint winced, then nodded.
‘And you work in teams? You’re not the only person who knows about any given aspect of the work?’ I was talking myself out of paranoia as much as Ger, at this point.
Geraint shrugged but it turned into a shake of the head, which set off a fresh bout of jitters. I reached out and grabbed hold of his hand. ‘Come and sit down.’ He sank to the floor in front of me, sitting cross-legged as if we were in the story corner at primary school and I was Miss Webb about to wow him with a picture book.
‘Why do you think you’re being followed?’ Sam asked the sensible question I had been dancing around and I realised something: I didn’t want Geraint to say anything that sounded mad. I couldn’t bear it.
‘There was this thing. I did something—’ Geraint broke off, looking around in sudden fright. ‘Did you hear that?’
I pretended to listen, humouring him. ‘Nope.’
‘I don’t want to say too much.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘They might be listening.’
‘When did you last go out?’ Sam was all practicality, he really was coping with this weirdness very well.
‘Not sure. Thursday maybe.’
‘You’ve been inside for a week?’
‘Maybe.’ Geraint looked truculent at being asked questions by a complete stranger. ‘Not sure.’
‘Are you eating?’ Sam said, which was exactly the question I wanted to ask.
‘Some. Look. It’s not important.’ Geraint shot Sam a pissed off look that was so entir
ely normal I felt my heart swell slightly in my chest. ‘I have to figure this out.’
‘Let me help,’ I said. ‘When did this start? The feeling that you were being watched?’
Geraint lifted his finger to his lips. A moment later he said loudly: ‘It’s been lovely to see you. Do come again.’ He got up from his position on the floor and, still making the international gesture for ‘shut up’, he went and opened and closed the door to the flat, calling a cheery ‘’Bye’ as he did so. Next, he turned on the iPod in its sleek white docking station and dialled the volume up. The Super Furry Animals’ ‘Bad Behaviour’ filled the room, so loud it made me wince.
Ger crossed back and took my hands, leading me closer to the speakers. It was deafening so when he began whispering into my ear, I only got about half of what he was saying and I wasn’t too sure I’d heard that correctly.
‘I’ve been working on a big contract—’ I got that, along with an earful of spit. I tilted my head and frowned. I mimed turning the music down but Ger shook his head and mouthed: ‘They might be listening.’
He leaned in again and said a load more stuff that I barely caught. Something about a project for MI5. And ‘hush-hush’.
I pushed him away. I indicated that we should leave the room, but he shook his head violently. He got up and went to the bathroom, so quickly that I thought he might be going to be sick.
While he was gone, Sam turned the music down to a more acceptable level.
Ger walked back in and Sam said, perhaps to pre-empt any argument: ‘This will be fine. It’ll be enough to cover our voices.’
Geraint didn’t seem to be listening to him, though. He sat down on the sofa, his leg jiggling up and down. His pupils had gone very large and I wondered what he’d taken.
‘It’s more than usually secret. Got to lock up documents every time I leave my desk, only deal with the company on-site. No email, no post, no telephone. That kind of deal.’
In the Light of What We See Page 22