by Steve Howell
Graeme squinted at the image from the doorway. “That was when we first moved to Caerleon. Matt was eight… Yes, eight I think. Must have been. And that’s you, with the fireman’s hat on. You always wanted to be one of the boys.”
Megan turned the picture round to look at it again herself. “Oh my God,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “Oh my God.”
Graeme came in with a tray crammed with a white bone china cups and saucers, a matching tea pot and a plate of cakes that looked like flattened scones. He slid the tray carefully onto the coffee table, placing it right in the middle with each side parallel to the corresponding edge of the table. Graeme was a man of precision - checked shirt immaculately ironed, the crease of his brown canvas trousers looking hazardously sharp.
Tray in place, he moved closer to Megan to look over her shoulder, their faces only inches apart. “You must remember that,” he said.
“Of course I do. We stuffed our faces with chocolate cake, and all felt sick. Actually, I think Will was sick.”
“Julie could make a great cake – fair play to her.” Graeme was nodding slowly like he was shaking a memory of her out from the back of his mind.
“I’m so sorry about, you know…” Megan started.
Graeme touched her arm. “Meg, it’s just one of those things; we probably would have split up anyway.” He spoke softly but firmly as if signalling he didn’t want to talk about it.
Megan slotted the photograph back into its place on the mantelpiece and picked up another one.
“These cakes are nice,” I said to break the awkward silence, and still not sure what they were.
“Lovely, Welsh cakes,” Megan said, turning away from the mantelpiece and taking one from the plate.
Graeme sat down in the other armchair, facing me across the coffee table and pouring milk and tea into each cup without a drop going astray.
It struck me there were no sports pictures on display. I may not be the world’s greatest father but my own flat has a photograph of almost every team Danny’s been in. There must be a dozen or more for football, cross country and cricket. But here, there were none – unless you counted Matt as a small boy standing alongside his father proudly holding a fish he’d caught. It looked like Terry was right: Matt’s steroid use wasn’t about winning medals. You definitely didn’t need them to catch fish.
Graeme handed cups of tea to Megan and me and sat back down in the armchair stirring his tea, staring through the French doors, lost in thought. “Do you remember that time you and Matt bunked off school?” he said, still looking beyond the balcony.
“Yeah, just me and Matt.”
“And no one knew where you were.”
“And the Head went mad. We were only about nine!”
“What was his name…? He phoned me.”
“Adams. Mr Adams.”
“That’s it. He was in meltdown. You’d disappeared, last seen in the playground at lunchtime.”
“Gone into town, like we were grown-ups. We thought we were dead daring, going in and out of the shops!”
“That was it. You went down town. But at the time we thought you’d been abducted or something. And I had to tell Julie. My God she was tamping. Worried sick, of course, but furious too, really furious. Blaming Adams for being incompetent. Blaming you…”
“And no mobiles in those days. Well, kids didn’t have them anyway.”
“No. You phoned our house from a call-box. You didn’t have enough money for the bus. Lucky I was there, because I was going to go to the school with Julie. But she told me to wait at the house.”
“You came to pick us up. Thank God. We were dead relieved it was you, not Julie.
“And I dropped you off at yours. I don’t think your parents knew about the panic.”
“Not until later. Mr Adams phoned them. And then Julie as well. She told them it was all my idea.”
“Ha. She did. That’s right. Of course she did.”
Megan went out onto the balcony and looked across the river towards the centre of Newport. I stirred my tea and wriggled a little just for something to do. I was in the line of vision between Graeme in his armchair and Megan with her back to us on the balcony. I had so many questions. I wanted them to fast-forward ten years or so. I wanted to ask how Matt got into steroids and what part Will played in it. I wanted to know how the boy in these photographs had ended up dead after a party. But I couldn’t think of anything to say that would edge the conversation in that direction without sounding crass. I am often accused of insensitivity – putting my foot in it is rarely a problem – but the rawness of this man’s loss was palpable even to me. I kept my mouth shut and sipped my tea.
Megan eventually swivelled round, looking at us almost as if she was surprised we were there.
“So how are you doing, Grae?” she asked.
I turned my head to Graeme like I was watching a very slow tennis match. He looked slightly bemused. I think we all knew Megan wasn’t making polite conversation. But for some reason Graeme chose to take it that way.
He wasn’t doing badly, he said. He’d given up his job as a deputy Head Teacher. It was all too stressful, too much management, too many targets and tables. A looming inspection was the final straw. He took redundancy and now he was doing some supply teaching. He was back in the classroom, doing what he loved: teaching English – even finding that some of the kids were actually interested. I joined in on that point, and we had some teacher talk, swapping stories and empathising with each other, even though we were in different parts of the system.
Graeme wanted to know all about Rio. Was Megan excited? When would she be going out there? Who was the biggest threat? How did she rate her chances?
Her replies were robotic. She reeled off the answers she’d given so many times to similar questions over the last few months.
“I am so proud of you, Meg,” he said.
I looked at her. She seemed shocked, incredulous he might say something like that. She gave a half-nod to acknowledge the remark.
If I wasn’t an atheist, I’d say there was someone else in the room. This was as close as I’ve ever come to believing in ghosts. Whatever it was, whatever Matt meant to her, whatever was swirling round in her head, Megan wasn’t going to let it go. It was obvious – even to someone as thick-skinned as me – that she had come here for more than small talk and reminiscing.
“Grae, I’m so sorry about Matt. I can’t tell you…” The sentence disappeared into an intake of air. She held her breath for a few seconds, composing herself. Graeme sat motionless; his face braced for whatever was coming next. “I know how much he meant to you. But if I’d have seen you, on our own – you know – not at the funeral, but face to face, I just wouldn’t have known what to say.”
“It’s alright, Meg.” Graeme’s lips hardly moved. It was as if he was talking to himself.
“But it’s not. I should have contacted you. I should have written… Done something.” Megan sat down on the chair on the balcony and looked at her hands as if they held some great fascination. “But I was just so shocked. I couldn’t believe it – I can’t believe it – that he’s gone, just like that. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be, Meg. There’s no point. We have to move on. There was nothing you could have done.”
“But I ran away. I couldn’t face it.”
“You had to, Meg. You couldn’t let yourself be dragged down by Matt’s troubles. You had to get away. It was for the best.”
Megan was staring at her feet. I expected her to cry but she seemed controlled like she had more to say and was composing herself for the next part. Graeme got up and shuffled past me to stand over Megan.
“Let it go now,” he said.
Megan looked up at him, her lips parted like she was about to say something. But no words came out. For some reason the will seemed to have left her.
***
After leaving Graeme’s flat, we stopped on the footbridge. The tide was on its way out now sucking all
manner of debris out to sea. Nature’s waste, human waste, the river made no distinction. It did its job with relentless power and efficiency. We leaned on the handrail and watched a raft of branches and leaves make its way towards us until it disappeared under the bridge. Megan was so subdued I was beginning to feel uncomfortable.
“Nice man, Graeme,” I said, truthfully but mostly to make conversation, in a breaking-the-silence sort of way.
“The best,” she said, throwing her head back as if the heavens were where he belonged.
I decided it was time to be practical. It was Wednesday; there was a degree ceremony in the morning, and the small matter of a race against the top Americans on Friday evening at Crystal Palace. The week had not exactly been textbook preparation for her last appearance before Rio, but I was hoping the distractions in Newport might at least take her mind off the Olympics and help calm her nerves. Clutching at straws is one of the less scientific aspects of coaching.
“So, what about Friday?” I said with my firmest enough-of-all-this tone.
“What about it?”
“We need a plan. When are you going to go back to London? I’d prefer you to go back tomorrow after the degree ceremony, so you aren’t travelling on the day.”
Megan was looking at me as if my mind had been washed down river with the tide.
“Are you serious?” she said. “I haven’t seen the police yet. I don’t know what’s going to happen with them.”
That threw me. “What d’you mean? What could happen? They want to speak to you. You speak to them. That should be the end of it – shouldn’t it?”
Megan turned away. My words seemed to have hit a nerve. I pushed up from the handrail into a more upright position. A pain shot through my chest, one of my ribs protesting. I had been beaten up – I had no idea why – and Megan wasn’t giving me any clues. I had been tiptoeing around her, not wanting to provoke another explosion or disappearing act. I wanted to be on her side, to believe in her, but she was giving me nothing to go on.
“So who’s Gary?” I said, struggling not to sound irritable.
Megan looked at my forehead as if she’d forgotten about it and was noticing it for the first time – or maybe it was a convenient diversion.
“So what did happen to you?”
I touched the sore spot. “It was probably a warning,” I said. “Two thugs jumped me last night, said it was for snooping. I think it was to do with me going to the gym.”
“Going to the gym?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You went to the fucking gym?”
I hesitated, not sure if I wanted to turn the screw, but wondering if I had much choice. “Yes,” I said. “And Gary was there, and he knew you.”
“Everyone round here knows me, Liam.”
“I don’t mean knows you because you’re famous.” I said, hearing my own voice and surprised how agitated I sounded. “I mean he actually knows you. In fact, he said to say ‘hello’, like you were friends.”
Megan shrugged, her face morphing into the truculent expression she’d had at the hotel on Sunday.
I pressed on. “He had ginger hair, and he’s a cop, and he also stopped us on Monday evening – me and Mimi. We had to pull over. Mimi was breathalysed.”
I couldn’t tell if Megan was surprised.
“What are you trying to say Liam?”
“I’m saying it’s odd. All these coincidences. So many coincidences.”
“And I’m saying: Liam, mind your own fucking business. I’ve already told you not to meddle, and then you go off to the gym. Who do you think you are?”
“Look,” I said, doing my best to sound calmer. “I’m just trying to help.”
“No you’re not. You’re meddling. If I say I’m going to see the police, that’s all you need to know. I’ll see them, and I’ll answer their questions. And I don’t need an inquisition from you.”
“But you’re putting everything at risk…”
“My God! Don’t you think I know that? I’m not stupid. But I’m telling you, I’ve got no choice – simple as. There’s stuff to deal with here, and it’s got to be done.”
“But, Meg, we’ve worked so hard – you’ve worked so hard – all those years of training to get into this position. You’re on the verge of what could be the biggest moment of your career, maybe of your life. Don’t you think you owe it to yourself, and to me, not to…”
“I owe you nothing Liam. You’re my coach. That’s it. If you go poking your nose into stuff that’s none of your business, don’t blame me if things go wrong. You get what you deserve.”
“And I deserve this…?” I started to lift my T-shirt. But it was pointless. Megan had flounced off. She was already several metres away and moving fast, and I wasn’t going to shout after her with other people passing who’d obviously clocked who she was.
I turned back to look at the river, resting my arms on the handrail again. The tide was nearly out now, leaving the river basin as grey and empty as I felt.
I texted Mimi:
Bad row with Meg. Mentioned gym. But she didn’t ask which one. Back soon. Xxx
13
Partners In Crime?
Back at the hotel, I knocked on Mimi’s door. I was tempted to go right in and grab hold of her – the one pillar of sanity in this circus. But we weren’t on barging-in terms yet.
Mimi opened the door, flicking her hair back with one hand and looking up at me with an amused smile.
“Liam, every time you turn up, you look worse!” she said, taking my hand and tugging me towards her.
We stood there silently locked in a hug for a few seconds until Mimi pulled back and placed her hands softly on either side of my face, touching my cheeks so lightly they tingled.
“You look really wiped out.”
I felt really wiped out. I think my body was using so much energy fixing my wounds, it didn’t leave anything in the tank for all the other dramas going on. I slumped onto the bed, stretching out on my back, my eyes closed.
“Hey, no sleep until you tell me what that text was all about.”
“Right, yes – ginger and the gym,” I mumbled.
I looked up at Mimi standing over me, her eyebrows raised expectantly. I noticed for the first time that she was wearing shorts, revealing more of her slim, copper-skinned legs than I’d seen before. My eyes drifted down them in a bleary sort of way.
“Concentrate,” she said with a smile.
“The thing was…” I said, trying to muster my thoughts. “The thing was, when I mentioned the gym, she didn’t ask which one.”
“You mean…”
“Well, it could have been any gym, right? There’s loads. So she makes out she doesn’t know this Gary guy. She blanks me on that, but then she gets annoyed about me going to the gym. But she didn’t ask which one.”
“You’re not making sense. You told her you’d seen Gary at the gym?”
“Yep.”
“And she pretended she had no idea who Gary was?”
“Yeah, she said everyone knows her.”
“But she took it for granted which gym you meant, and why would she if she didn’t who he was?”
“Exactly, Sherlock.”
“So what does that mean?”
I laughed out loud. Mimi looked annoyed, her hands on her hips now. But I wasn’t laughing at her. I was venting a manic sense of helplessness, a get-me-out-of-here frustration.
“What does that mean?” I said slowly. “I’ve no fucking idea, not a clue.” I closed my eyes again. “It all revolves around one gym. Whatever ‘it’ is. But I don’t get how this Gary fits in.”
Mimi sat down on the edge of the bed. “Don’t go to sleep. You haven’t told me about Matt’s father yet.”
“Okay, but I can’t do that on an empty stomach.” I looked at my watch. It was nearly three. If I wasn’t going to be allowed to sleep, I needed food and strong coffee.
***
“Let’s explore,” Mimi said, and my heart sank because I knew i
t meant dragging my bruised body further and could delay satisfying my hunger. But it wasn’t up for debate, and I followed her through the hotel to the exit that led directly onto the village high street.
The centre of Caerleon was a triangular space at a T junction called The Square where a Dickensian-looking post office faced an Indian takeaway and a half-timbered pub advertising all day sport. It all looked unpromising, and I contemplated suggesting we turn back, but Mimi was already heading down the street towards a place called the Fwrrwm, which I guessed – fairly quickly for a Londoner – was the way Welsh does Forum.
It was, we were told by a sign at the entrance, the site of Porta Praetoria, the main gate of the Roman city. But what really caught my eye was a sandwich board advertising an eatery called The Snug. My hunger was borderline desperate now.
The Fwrrwm turned out to be an eccentric enclave of craft shops facing a garden randomly littered with wood and stone carvings of mythical beasts, Roman legionnaires and Arthurian knights. We found The Snug in a stone building alongside the shops and chose a table near doors opening on to the garden.
“Odd place,” Mimi said, nodding in the general direction of a large, surprisingly erotic carving of a naked woman with an animal of some sort on her lap.
“Yes, not exactly Frankie & Bennie’s,” I said.
We ordered extravagantly. Correction, I ordered excessively: steak pie and chips, ice cream, chocolate fudge cake, several coffees and a slice of what the menu called Bara Brith to go. Mimi was uncharacteristically restrained, choosing only a salad and mineral water.
In between shovelling food down myself, I told her about Graeme: what a pleasant guy he was; how little bitterness he’d shown; how his flat was something of a shrine; photographs of Matt everywhere; and, above all, how fond he obviously was of Megan and how she’d apologised for running off to London and not staying in touch after Matt died.
“And I met Will,” I said.
“You met Will? He went with you to see Matt’s father?”
“No, he was there, on the bridge, with Megan.”
“Well?”
***