The Third Person (New Blood)

by Steve Mosby

  Once upon a time, I would have done the same for her. I mean, I used to drop everything, even though it felt like a twist inside me, because I knew that the twist would be smoothed out quickly and, probably within the hour, I wouldn’t even remember it had been there. But things change. You give stuff up for someone you love because you don’t mind; and then you stop doing that when you do.

  Maybe that’s why she kept asking me to.

  That morning, I felt annoyed with her. Deep down, I understand that it was more than that. I was angry with what had happened to her and how it had impacted upon our relationship, and I was pissed off at myself for a betrayal I’d rationalised, but not nearly enough. It’s just that she was there.

  ‘How the fuck am I supposed to cancel,’ I said, looping on a tie I knew I’d take off after I left the house. ‘When they’re expecting me to be there?’

  I think that part of it was me staying up late the night before, talking to Claire on Liberty and discussing what we were going to do when we met. She was the only thing on my mind. In my head, I was already on that train. The conversation Amy wanted to have was making me think: this isn’t fair, this always happens to me, why can’t something go right for me just once? And lots of other stupid things.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Amy said, falling back and turning away. ‘Just go.’

  I remember feeling relieved. Everything was okay – she’d told me to go. But I also felt like a child. I remembered nonspecific examples of my mother caving in to some tantrum I’d thrown, and that was how I felt, standing at the foot of the bed and looking at Amy. She had hidden herself behind a ridge of duvet. I’d got what I wanted, and it felt sour.

  ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘No. Just fucking go.’

  I hesitated. I really did.

  But not for long.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  And left.

  There was a party. It was a New Year’s Eve party, and everybody was very drunk. For the last few years, since most of their friends had come together as couples, they’d celebrated New Year together, in one of their houses, drinking and playing games, and then forming a circle and singing and hugging when midnight came.

  This year, the party had been held at Jason and Amy’s, but there was something different about the atmosphere. Graham and Helen arrived and Graham knew immediately that something was wrong. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  ‘Hi guys.’

  They had been there before any of the other guests. Jason and Amy took their coats and hung them up in the small hallway by the front door and it was clearly an awkward operation. Graham and Helen stood up straight, pressed to the walls, while the two of them manoeuvred around each other, not acknowledging each other beyond being careful not to touch. A silence had fallen amongst them like snow.

  ‘Come on in,’ Amy said to Helen, leading her into the living room.

  Jason had taken Graham into the kitchen instead.

  ‘Let’s get you a drink, mate.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Their kitchen was big and bright, edged by work surfaces covered with unopened bottles and cans, a chopping board balancing a lemon and a lime, and pre-prepared bowls of crisps and nuts and biscuits. Amy had baked some mini sausage rolls and pizzas, as well, and they were resting on plates on top of the cooker. In the oven, Graham could smell potato wedges.

  ‘Here.’

  Graham took the beer Jason was offering. His feet stuck to the tiles a little and gave little clicks as he walked over.

  They went through to the living room, and it was nicer in there. There was a coffee table in the centre of the room covered with night lights; a lamp on a table in one corner; some larger candles on the dresser. It gave the room a subdued mood. Amy and Helen were conferring over the stereo. Graham and Jason sat down, and when music was finally chosen, Amy sat down on a different settee to Jason, and Graham thought: strange.

  Other people arrived and the tension got diluted a little. But it was still there the whole evening.

  The closest Graham could come was to think it was like when you turned up at someone’s house just after an argument, and they were still banging around separately. Pretending each other didn’t exist, except for scoring awkward potshots with comments too subtle to have any real meaning for you, and competing for your attention like you were some kind of prize. God knew it had been like that enough times at his house. And it was like that here. There didn’t seem to have been an argument, but it felt like there had. Perhaps Jason and Amy had been quarrelling without realising it, because neither of them seemed comfortable looking at the other. They didn’t seem right standing next to each other, either, and every time they spoke the things they said got taken slightly off-angle, or questioned, or ignored, as though they were either wanting a fight or expecting one.

  It got to midnight and they sang in a circle – a kind of group hug, but with kicks and laughter – and then Connor took charge of the stereo and played songs they’d grown up to at the kind of volume you only get away with on New Year’s Eve. But despite the surface cheer, things still weren’t right. Some time after one o’clock, Graham realised Amy wasn’t around and went looking for her. He found her outside, sitting on the front step. She’d been crying.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’

  She didn’t want to tell him – she said ‘nothing’ a few times – but he sat with her for a bit and eventually she said:

  ‘It’s just Jason. He’s being really horrible to me and I don’t know why.’

  ‘What do you mean? What’s he done?’

  ‘It’s nothing he’s done. He’s just . . . I don’t know. He said something in a really nasty tone of voice. I can’t remember what it was.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She was very drunk, and so was Jason, and so was he. Graham didn’t know whether Jason had really said something bad or if Amy was just being that special kind of over-sensitive that only comes with being so pissed.

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’

  Amy said, ‘He doesn’t want me around anymore.’

  ‘He’s just drunk.’

  She ignored him and started crying again.

  He didn’t know what to say, and he knew that he could, if he wasn’t careful, say the wrong thing, or at least a very stupid and unhelpful thing. There was still a pinprick of common sense shining through the alcoholic haze, so he didn’t say anything. After a second, he reached out and touched her shoulder, and then gave it a tentative, friendly rub. Reassuring her. Her hair was in her face, so he tucked a few strands back behind her ear.

  The intimacy of it immediately felt like a betrayal. Even though she hadn’t said anything, and hadn’t seemed at all bothered, he took his hand away. And then wished he hadn’t. And then was glad he did.

  ‘If you ever need a shoulder to cry on,’ he said. ‘I’m not good for much, but I can always do that.’

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate it. I’m sorry about this.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I don’t mind.’ He stood up. ‘But it’s cold out here. You should come back inside.’

  ‘I’ll be okay. Just give me a couple of minutes.’

  ‘You should go and see Amy,’ Graham told Jason, who was swaying in the centre of the lounge and didn’t seem able to focus. ‘She’s outside. She’s a bit upset.’

  ‘Okay.’

  But he didn’t move, and Graham wanted to punch him. Instead, he sat down. He’s just drunk, he thought, but then realised that it wasn’t enough. He was drunk too, and he would have gone out immediately if Amy was his girlfriend and he’d known she was upset.

  ‘Jason, mate,’ he said after a moment. ‘I really think you should go out and see Amy.’

  And Jason looked at him for a second, not seeing and not understanding, and maybe Graham really would have punched him then. But before he could get up, Jason lurched off in the direction of the front door.

  ‘F
ucking sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry,’ Claire said, and then she looked at me with that expression – the one that said she liked me but was slightly disappointed at the same time. She touched my shoulder gently, and then gave it a squeeze. ‘You’re a nice guy, Jason. And I’m not into ruining lives.’

  ‘Maybe I should go,’ I said.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Why? Come on – let’s have another coffee. We can talk.’ She gave me a nice smile. ‘You can tell me about your girlfriend. Okay?’

  I thought about it. As weird an idea as it should have seemed, suddenly it didn’t. In fact, I realised that I really did want to talk to Claire about Amy – that it seemed right. The feeling of relief was getting stronger and brighter. I figured that I had a lot I needed to say.

  ‘Okay,’ I told her, nodding. I even managed a smile. ‘That’d be really nice.’

  That all happened, too.

  What I didn’t know was that Amy had a lot to say at that point as well. In fact, she was telling Graham a story about a girl.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ‘She told me about what happened to her that time,’ the man said. ‘She told me about how she was raped, and she told me how difficult it had been for her. I mean, she didn’t fucking need to tell me that, Jason, but she told me anyway.’

  He kept looking at me, and it was making everything worse. If he’d just been telling the story, sat there with the gun, it would still be frightening, but it would also be a little easier. As it was, he was involving me. It felt as though I needed to do and say everything exactly right, or else he might involve me in more painful ways. But at the same time, I realised that he wasn’t actually looking at me at all; he was looking through me and past me, at this Jason, and so it didn’t really matter what I did. Whether I got out of here alive seemed to depend on how badly a memory pissed him off.

  ‘I was so angry with you,’ he said, as if reading my mind. ‘Where the fuck were you that day? Do you have any idea what she was going through? She needed you, and you were off wherever you were, doing whatever you wanted. You didn’t care about her at all, and it fucking killed me.’

  He looked away, shaking his head.

  ‘I could never understand how you could be so . . .’ He screwed up his face in disgust. ‘ Ambivalent to her. You didn’t understand what you had. I would have killed to have what you had, and you didn’t even care. I wanted her, and I wanted to slap her, but most of all I just wanted to slap you.’

  I was growing colder by the second. He was talking to Jason, and this was all for his benefit, and that meant that he was intending to give the document I was writing to Jason. So why wasn’t he explaining it all in person?

  He’s going to kill me.

  I noticed the blood on his jacket then. There was a little on his shirt, and quite a bit more had dried on the backs of his hands. How had I ever missed it?

  He was going to kill me.

  ‘We had some drinks,’ the man said. ‘We had some drinks, and then we had some more. You were at work, Amy said. She said you wouldn’t be back all day. I didn’t believe that’s where you were at all, though, and you know why? Because she didn’t believe it. I could tell. She was so fucking sad, Jason. So unhappy. So I suggested we have some drinks. And it was the middle of the day, but we figured to hell with it, and so we had some drinks. I mean – why not?’

  He shook his head again and then looked up at me. There were so many emotions on his face now, beside the anger, that I found it impossible to know what he was thinking or planning to do.

  ‘And what happened,’ he said, ‘happened.’

  You’re a nice guy, Jason. And I’m not into ruining lives.

  After I met Claire, I went home, arriving back quite late. Amy was already in bed by then: three-quarters asleep and only vaguely aware of me slipping in beside her. She was naked. She was facing away from me, and I moved up against her, pressing my chest to her thin back, putting my arm around her and cupping my hand on her slight stomach. All I could smell was her hair. I’d come so close to making the worst mistake of my life, and I’d never been more relieved than I was right then.

  ‘I love you,’ I told her, kissing the side of her neck.

  She didn’t say anything, but she moved slightly and took hold of my hand where it rested on her stomach and she gave it a squeeze. And she pressed back against me, giving a noise that might have been contentment.

  And I never knew that anything had happened between Amy and Graham that afternoon. Maybe it was because I was so tangled up in my own guilt that it never occurred to me she might have some of her own, or that the issues that affected our relationship would cause her to make the same mistake that I almost had. I mean, why would that be the case? You see, it was all about me by then. The way I’d left her that morning was indicative of everything about our relationship. Once upon a time, I’d been there for her, and now I was only there for me. I’d offered comfort and sacrifice to ease what I knew was difficult for her, and now I only offered questions. Where was my comfort? Who was there to ease things for me when I found it hard?

  I should have known it was over by the way I was thinking. Instead, I lay there against her, feeling my own guilt, holding her belly, thinking that it might all be okay after all. It was stupid and fucking delusional. You can put the feelings aside but you can’t throw them, and so they’re always within reach. They find their way into your hands again. Sometimes, people do everything except push them at you. It was never really about her being raped. I can blame that, and I do blame it, but it’s not the whole story. That event cast a shadow, all right, but for a while I cast a light. It wasn’t something impossible and insurmountable. We had a good life, and we loved each other very much, and for a while there it had been just about as perfect as anything Graham had ever dreamed of.

  You can’t blame the rape.

  But you can, if you choose to, blame me.

  ‘We had sex three times,’ the man said. ‘And each time, she felt guilty afterwards, but we kept falling back into it. And at the end, she couldn’t believe what she’d done. She started crying. You will never have any idea how much that woman loved you, Jason, and you just . . . you just fucking . . . pushed her away.’

  He glared at me, and it became too much. I looked down at the paper in front of me and watched myself writing instead. He was going to kill me. In fact, he sounded like he was talking himself up to it.

  ‘Look at me.’

  Despite myself, I did. Slowly and reluctantly, but I looked up at him.

  ‘You want to write all this fucking shit down,’ he said, pointing at me – me, this time – with the gun. ‘You didn’t bat an eyelid while your friend was killing a girl I loved. So you fucking pay attention, now, and you look at me. Okay?’

  I remembered. I’d wanted to smile at her and tell her that it would be okay, but I’d known that it wouldn’t, and I hadn’t been there to make her feel comfortable or to help her. So instead, I’d just picked up my pen and, without taking my eyes off her, I’d begun to write.

  I remembered exactly what had happened.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Yes. Anything’s okay. Absolutely anything.

  Just please don’t kill me.

  There was a pause, and then:

  ‘You pushed her away,’ he said. ‘You treated her badly. You weren’t there for her when she needed you. How could you not be, after she’d gone through something like that? All I could think of was that I would have been. I would have fucking . . . I would have fucking sat there with her. I would have talked to her. Held her. I would have had some respect for her. I mean, I would have acted like she had some . . . some kind of fucking value to me. But you couldn’t even do that.’

  He looked down, gathering his thoughts. His voice was quieter when he started speaking again.

  ‘I asked her to leave you for me,’ he said. ‘And she told me no. She said she couldn’t. She loved you. She wanted it to work. She actuall
y – and I could have killed you when she said this – but she actually thought that it was her fault. Can you believe that? She blamed herself for what happened. You made her blame herself. And she wanted to sort herself out and have you back, and because of that, she said no to me. Told me it was a mistake, and she was sorry to have done this to me, and even more sorry to have done it to you.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘And I cried. I cried – of all things! I was so upset. And you know what she did?’ He looked up at me. Through me, at Jason. ‘She held me. She comforted me. After everything she’d been through she did that. That’s how special she was, and you weren’t even there for this girl. She went off to try to understand what happened to her, and she thought she was doing it for you, and she wasn’t at all. She was doing it because of you.’

  For a second, the anger seemed to be gone, and he seemed almost deflated by the conclusion he’d come to. All I could see in his face was sadness. The anger was lost. But then I realised that, no, it wasn’t. It was just pacing in the background: working itself back and forth; taking an emotional run up for whatever was coming next.

  ‘I killed Marley,’ he said. ‘If you’re hearing this then you probably know that already.’

  Fuck.

  If he’d killed Marley then he was going to kill me too.

  But there was something else in addition to that – something I couldn’t quite put my finger on but that felt as though, when I did, it would be the final nail in this whole, sorry coffin. My mind was circling it, threatening to alight: a hand chasing a feather of memory.

  ‘I killed him for her, not for you,’ he was saying. ‘I opened up the account I set up for you, and I saw the videos that were there. I didn’t know where they came from but I knew what they meant. She was dead. I guess I’d always known that she would be. I mean, even before I read that file I downloaded for you from Liberty. What else could she be?’