With a sigh, Simon leaned back. ‘I agree. I’ve driven four hours to get here and I have another four hours back to look forward to.’
He waited out the exchange of looks, the silent reassurances and confirmations, and then Murray got to his feet.
‘To start, I want to be clear that no one here is a murderer. The fire at the trailer was an accident. That’s fact. Either Gerry Eaton or his brother left a cigarette burning in an ashtray on the edge of the sofa. It rolled off and set the carpet on fire. The blaze spread quickly because of the booze spilled on the floor, and the whole thing went up. Once it reached the propane tank, it blew the trailer apart.’
Simon looked to Sophie. ‘Then what were you doing there?’
‘She wasn’t,’ Eaton said, his tone warning Simon against speaking directly to Sophie again.
It was Sophie who spoke next, shaking her head. ‘I was there, but I didn’t start the fire.’ She met Simon’s gaze. ‘I was driving home from work and I saw the light, so I pulled down the driveway to have a look. I saw the fire, and I didn’t call the fire department. I just got in my car and drove home.’
‘And you and your husband celebrated by fucking loudly?’
‘Wasn’t her,’ Eaton mumbled, tugging on the rim of his trucker hat. ‘I wasn’t with her that night.’
Simon absorbed that last statement and the tone in which it was delivered, as well as the look that passed between the men. ‘So you did know one another in high school.’
‘I knew Matt,’ Sophie said. ‘We had History together. We hung out after school sometimes. Once I started dating Chris, things changed. I was seventeen and I didn’t know whether I wanted one or the other.’
‘And so you took the uncomplicated route.’
‘Not to over-share too much,’ Murray said, ‘but there was a lot of teenaged angst involved and even more sexual tension.’
‘So you’re in a threesome. Why identify yourself as gay?’
‘Because it’s the uncomplicated route,’ Murray said, and leaned against the head of the picnic table, ‘because if I’m a straight man found being affectionate with another man, it’s a scandal. If I’m a gay man found being affectionate with a woman, it can easily be dismissed. “Oh, you know those people,” they’ll say.’
Simon had to admit that Murray’s justification made sense. Having dabbled in bisexuality himself on a number of occasions, he was aware that that having a preference for both men and women was less respectable than a single sexual preference.
‘I’m still not getting it,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Roe says you’re sleeping with a married man, you can just whip up some excuse. Roe says your lover killed his family, you can trot out your facts. Where’s the need for this meeting? Why is it so important for me to see Sophie?’
‘Because we don’t want Sophie hounded by any journalists,’ Eaton said.
Murray finished. ‘She’s been through enough.’
The men seemed uncomfortable, but Sophie looked at Simon with an eerie honesty on her face. It was to her he spoke softly.
‘What are they dancing around?’
She took a quiet breath. ‘I wasn’t at the trailer that night, but I was at the trailer earlier in the day. Chris had a storage shed behind the trailer with some of his stuff in it. Every time he went out to get it in the evening after work, it ended up in a big fist fight with his father or uncle. I told him I’d drop in on my way to work that afternoon and get it while they were out cashing their welfare cheques. I got one load in my car and had an armful of –’
‘Stop,’ Eaton hissed through his teeth. His shoulders had bunched and his grimace made him look like the Hulk, about to explode from his clothes. ‘You don’t have to tell him anything.’
‘Isn’t that why I’m here?’ she asked bitterly without taking her eyes off Simon. She raised her brows as if she expected him to provide the answer, but he said nothing, and so she went on. ‘I had an armful of stereo equipment when Gerry came to the shed. Apparently his brother had gone to the liquor store on his own. Oh, he was so nice and friendly when he caught me, and he even made chit-chat, but then he shut the door to the shed behind him.’
Simon held up his hand. ‘Stop. I don’t need to hear any more to get the hint.’
‘Tell me you’ll back off and I’ll stop talking.’
He shook his head, but he couldn’t say outright the words ‘It’s my job.’
Instead; ‘If I back off, Roe will hire someone else, and even if he doesn’t, how do you expect to keep your acquaintance secret through an election? Through four years as leader of this country?’
‘Denial,’ Murray said simply, ‘and distance. I go to Ottawa, and Mr and Mrs Eaton stay in Sussex. If anyone suggests that Mr Eaton and I are more than just friends, all I have to do is deny it.’
Simon couldn’t help but sneer. ‘Christ, you’re as two-faced as the rest of them. At least Roe isn’t hiding who he is.’
‘He’s doing so with our blessing,’ Sophie said. ‘This is his dream, and he’d be a good –’
‘Yes, I’ve heard this song before. A good man and a good leader, yet openly gay but still deep in the closet.’
Simon pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He was oddly disappointed. Even while taking Roe’s money to find a scandal. Simon had hoped he wouldn’t uncover one.
He narrowed his eyes at Murray. ‘Give me something else I can give Roe, and I’ll back off the Eatons.’
‘There is nothing else.’
‘There’s always something else.’
Murray held up his hands in front of him. ‘I swear it.’
‘Then you leave me with –’
‘Well, here’s the thing, Simon,’ Murray interjected. ‘I’m going to give you a choice. You can sell me out to Roe, or you can save your own skin and do me a service in return.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the fact that Roe could care less about whether you actually find anything on me.’
Simon grinned and adjusted the glasses over his head. ‘Is that right? You don’t know your opponent very well. He’s frothing at the mouth for something juicy.’
‘Oh, I have no doubt he’d use anything you brought him, but he also knows it will come down to popularity. I’m winning that contest, so he’s got something else up his sleeve, something that will reflect very well on him while exploiting your missteps in the past to make himself look like a champion.’
Murray stood and gave his partners a knowing look, then gestured for Simon to follow him.
Follow he did, strolling side by side with Matthew Murray.
‘Here’s what I know,’ Murray said as they headed towards the SUV. ‘I know that before Connell Davis destroyed his father’s career, Martin Davis was giving some thought to federal politics. He knew he couldn’t win the province, but if he only had to consider his riding, brimming with people who adore him, he’d have his seat. Those close to him, including his old friend, the current Minister of Foreign Affairs, told him to stay out of the race. The party was concerned about the many ways Martin would stick his foot in his mouth on the campaign trail and embarrass the entire party. They wanted a safe, vanilla candidate for the riding, so Martin was promised a seat on the senate if he’d back off and run for mayor one last time.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘People talk, especially backbenchers who hate being told to shut their mouths and toe the party line,’ Murray retorted. At the SUV, he led Simon to the trunk and opened it. ‘When the scandal hit, Martin saw his political ambitions go into the toilet. It’s not like the kid was popped for driving drunk. You can apologise your way out of that sort of mess. No, the kid was a pimp, and he was good at it because he catered to his father’s cronies. There were a lot of men, and women, wondering if they were about to be outed as perverts and deviants. It wasn’t enough to point at Martin Davis and call him a bad apple, and no amount of damage control was going to make something
like this go away.
‘The police weren’t interested in who Connell Davis’s client list was. They had bigger worries trying to figure out where all of these girls came from and who was bringing them into the country, but the press was ready for a meaty scandal. It was decided to deliver one to them on a silver platter, Dominic Taureau’s many affairs and misdeeds. Yes, he was an honoured member of the party, but he was a dead member of the party who didn’t have a career to save.’
‘You’re telling me this like I didn’t already work most of this out myself,’ Simon told him.
‘I don’t think you did,’ Murray challenged him as he tossed the contents of the trunk aside to reveal a white banker box. ‘I think you had to have Taureau the younger chase the trail, but you only got as far as Melanie Desroche’s exposé and her confidential source. Anyway, I’m not here to name names at party headquarters. I’m here to tell you why you should get the hell out of Roe’s employ as soon as you can.’
From within the file box, Murray pulled out a manila envelope, the kind that went from department to department and required a signature. There were no names on it, just the name REEVE written across it in chunky blue marker.
Murray held it up. ‘Did you wonder why Roe hired you when I’m sure no one else would?’
‘Because he knew I wouldn’t say no to getting my hands dirty.’
‘That’s partially true, but it’s not your skills that he wanted. He wanted your reputation, so that when he dropped his dirty bomb he’d have someone to point the finger at.’
Murray held out the envelope, and Simon snatched it impatiently. He ignored the string-and-button and tore open the top with his thumb.
Inside were printouts of emails, most of which came from Roe’s personal email – the same one he communicated with Simon from. As Murray looked on, Simon read through the pages, and his fingers turned numb.
‘How did you get these?’
‘Does it matter? He really should take better security precautions and change his password.’ Murray covered Simon’s wrist with his hand and gave a squeeze that Simon wanted to shake off but couldn’t move. ‘If you leave us alone, I’ll make sure this gets into the right hands.’
Simon took a step back. He tightened his fingers and crumpled the papers in his hands, and took a deep breath. He might as well have been expelling fire, his throat had gone so dry.
He needed … something. He needed something to bring him back from inside his own head.
‘Tell me something,’ Simon muttered, meeting Murray’s gaze but scarcely seeing him. ‘When … after Sophie … what did you do?’
Murray didn’t seem surprised by the question. He looked towards those left at the picnic table. ‘Nothing. We didn’t do anything. Sophie cleaned herself up and went to work afterwards. She probably never would have told us, ever, because she knew Chris would kill them with his bare hands. She only told us so we could keep our stories straight.’
‘And now it’s your turn,’ Simon replied, and turned away from Murray. ‘Would you give up the race, if they asked you?’
‘I never would have considered entering the race if they hadn’t asked me.’ Murray stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the vehicle. ‘They believe in me more than I do.’
Simon opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Clutching the envelope detailing yet another downfall, he thought of Miranda and wondered if he could say the same about her when he finally hit the ground.
* * *
‘My randa! Onions!’
Miranda wished there was someone there to laugh along with. Eddie was in front of the television, pointing at the gallery of movie posters as she scrolled for his favourite movie.
‘Eddie, it’s minions, not onions. Min-yons,’ she told him.
He was so cute it was hard to correct him at times, but at the same time she didn’t want him to grow up to be some sort of imbecile.
‘There, the minions will be here soon,’ she told him, and dropped him in his playpen. ‘Do you want milk or juice?’
He ignored her completely, standing at the edge of the playpen with his chin propped against the edge.
‘Juice it is,’ she muttered, and she shot a dirty look up the stairs as she passed. She had to be at the bus stop in twenty minutes, and she’d probably spend fifteen of those screaming at Juliet to get the hell out of bed. Depending on what shape her sister was in, she might have to spend her commute calling around to see if she could get someone to pop in. Arch would probably be at his day job and, for all Miranda knew, everyone else would finally tell her to frig off and find someone else.
She poured apple juice into Eddie’s tumbler and twisted the top, then reached for her phone. No texts from Simon in the fifteen minutes since she’d checked last. He’d sent her one from the rest stop when he’d crossed the border and included a picture of the highway where Nova Scotia turned into New Brunswick.
It had been a relief to get that picture and text with the smiley face, but in the two or so hours since he’d sent it she worried that she’d never see him again. She’d been afraid the next text she’d get from him would be ‘Thanks for the sex, sorry your sister’s an addict.’
He’ll come back, she told herself now as the worry crept back in. He’ll be back and his arms would be around her and she could take a deep breath again.
Mesmerised by the minion mayhem on the television, Eddie didn’t acknowledge her as she placed the sippy cup in his hands. She hoped Juliet would take him for a walk when she got sorted. It had started raining while they were in the museum and the plan for fresh air had gone out the window. Now the sun was out and it would be a waste for him to be stuck in front of the television until bedtime.
Her bare feet slapping against the stairs, Miranda stomped towards Juliet’s room. She threw open the door and glared at the lump in the centre of the bed.
‘I have to be out the door in fifteen minutes. I’m giving you five before I come back and haul you by the foot down the stairs.’
Leaving the door agape, Miranda went to her bedroom and grabbed her purse from the end of the vanity chair. She looked at her unmade bed and longed to crawl underneath the covers where she knew there was warmth and shelter and the lingering scent of Simon.
She did an inventory of her mobile life – bus pass, lip gloss and debit cards – and realised that tonight would be the first night she wouldn’t have the house to herself. Probably. Juliet wasn’t one for staying home and sulking, but there was a good chance she’d have a hate-on for everyone in her social circle as a result of being dumped out of her own dream. Miranda supposed it would come down to what Juliet craved more: chemical release or self-pity.
As she passed by Juliet’s door again, she banged her fist against the wall. ‘Get the fuck up now!’
She sent a text to Simon – Off to work. Let me know if you’ll be back in tonight. Will wait up and make you g. tea myself – then went back to Juliet’s room
She growled as she grasped the edge of the comforter and pulled it onto the floor. She bounced over the mattress and crawled over Juliet’s body, furious enough to tear her sister apart, and grasped her shoulder to give her a shake.
‘Juliet, I swear to God, if you don’t get up …’ she began, then stopped.
By now, her sister should be trying to shove Miranda off her. There should be cursing. There should be shoving. There should be a fight.
‘Juliet?’
Miranda rolled over dead weight, then scuttled back as she saw her sister’s face.
* * *
The motel was what some would call retro, L-shaped with two rows of rooms joined by a main building. It was the sort of place where elderly tourists pulled up in cars bearing licence plates from Arizona or New Mexico or somewhere landlocked. June was still the shoulder season, the time between low and high season, and so there were few cars parked out front.
There were no cars parked on either side of room 16, and the curtains were still ope
n. With a paper bag, warm from the hamburger and fries inside, under one arm, Simon looked around at his peaceful surroundings and felt nothing much at all.
He unlocked the door to his room and set the food on the melamine-topped table by the window. He drew the curtains and turned on the television, and he watched The Simpsons as he ate. When he had finished he took a shower, dressed again, then went to the car.
The envelope Murray had given him was tossed on the bed. The bottle of Crown Royal was placed on the nightstand.
He hadn’t made up his mind completely whether he would take the drink. He’d talked to himself as he sat in his car outside the liquor store. The greasy smell of French fries from the McDonalds on the other side of the plaza turned his stomach. Everything turned his stomach, but the pressure in his head demanded that the vilest poison be taken to cure it.
As he stood before the glorious wall of spirits, he tucked his hand in his pocket and stroked the phone he hadn’t looked at since he’d put it there after sending Miranda a picture at the border. He didn’t take it out. If he took it out, he’d change his mind, and he didn’t want to change his mind.
Without looking at the face for any notifications, he took the phone out of his pocket now and laid it face-down next to the bottle. He’d give himself one last chance to change his mind, to choose between cracking the top and pouring the contents into his throat or calling someone.
He sat on the edge of the bed and shook out the contents of the envelope. He’d read these again, alone and without the scrutiny of Murray, and then he’d decide.
The strategy outlined in the emails was simple. Political Munchausen by proxy. Roe planned to uncover proof that Simon was up to old tricks, or at least the old tricks the public had been led to believe he’d been up to during the Connell Davis debacle. Drug use. Prostitution. Ties to organised crime. All fictional, but that didn’t matter. Simon, along with two other members of Roe’s staff, would be ‘discovered’ to be polluting Roe’s campaign, and Roe would act swiftly, and publicly, to condemn them all. He’d put his money where his mouth is when it came to the accountability with which he promised to run his party.
Breaking Through Page 22