by Steve Howell
“A beating?” she said. “What is it about that place? You went to the gym and got beaten-up?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “The beating was later in the evening, on a dark footpath, but they said something about me going to the gym.”
Jackie took a moment to digest this. “Good God, what are we getting into?”
I didn’t answer that.
Mimi gave me a look. I’m not sure what it meant, but she said: “And Jackie, we haven’t talked about this blood sample.”
“Blood sample?” Jackie said.
“You know, the police mentioned a blood sample as a reason for exhuming the body.”
“What about it?”
“I wish I knew,” Mimi said.
***
By the time Megan came back to Mimi’s room, we had ordered supper from the restaurant. The receptionist had protested the hotel didn’t do room service, but the owner – once I’d tracked him down – made an exception. His knowing look when I told him we still needed two rooms after all and one would be taken by a new female guest, whose name I couldn’t give him, suggested either he had a pretty good idea what was going on – or he thought I was a pimp. I was past caring what anyone thought as long as they didn’t tell the press where we were.
I’d chosen bream and salad for Megan – diet is still the coach’s prerogative, even in a crisis – and steaks for me and Mimi, who’d rediscovered her appetite.
Megan looked anaemic. I’d seen her in a bad way after gruelling training sessions with all the blood drained from her face, spent on the track – but this was worse, a deathly greyness. She settled on the bed, rearranging the pillows Mimi had used earlier. Mimi and I were still slumped in the armchairs.
“What?” Megan said, conscious I’d been watching her.
“How were your parents?” I said.
She looked confused. “I’ve been asleep,” she said.
“But you rang them, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, waving the issue away. “They’ll get over it.”
“And what about Tom?” Mimi said.
Megan wriggled, irritated. “What about him?”
“It’s finished, is it, definitely?” Mimi persisted.
“Yep, he’s useless,” Megan said, laughing now. “Pretty, but completely self-absorbed. It wasn’t going anywhere. I think I was kidding myself it might do.”
“I’ve ordered you fish for supper,” I said, thinking that it was time lighten things up. “Bream – your favourite.”
That earned a smile. Meg could smile in a charming and heart-warming way, glowing like she was really pleased you had shown her a kindness or paid her a compliment.
The room fell silent. Mimi was back on her phone, flicking through messages and emails and occasionally typing a reply. Megan was resting her head against the wall with her eyes closed. I was staring at a pile of newspapers on the bed, unsettled by a feeling I’d forgotten something.
The food arrived, and we ate in an atmosphere of morbid calm. None of us wanted to speak about ‘it’. None of us had the energy to speak about anything much else.
Then what I’d forgotten came to me.
“The car!” I said.
Mimi leapt to her feet. “Shit, yes – I’ll go now,” she said, starting to fumble for her keys in the pocket of a jacket draped over the armchair.
“Leave it,” Megan said. “I’ll take you in the morning.”
Mimi didn’t need any persuading. She slumped back into the chair and looked across at me.
“My father was a lawyer,” she said.
I wasn’t sure what to say. Was she making small talk, or suggesting he could help? Megan looked equally bewildered.
“Just thinking about him,” Mimi continued. “He’d be good in a situation like this, but he’s retired now – and he’s in South Africa, so that’s not much use!” She turned to Megan and then back to me. “And where the hell did you get a name like McCarthy anyway?” she said.
Megan laughed.
“That’s a bit random, isn’t it?” I said.
“Come on,” Mimi said. “You must be Irish or something, are you?”
I had to think about that one. I was a Kilburn boy with an Irish father, but I’d never felt much of a connection. He’d gone back to Cork when I was about seven, leaving me with my Londoner mother and Essex stepfather.
“My father was Irish,” I said, “but I don’t even know if he’s still alive. He went back to Ireland when I was a kid. I only saw him a couple of times after that.”
“Still, that makes you half-Irish,” Mimi said. “What about you?”
Megan looked blank. “I’m not Irish at all!” We all laughed and it eased any remaining tension in the room, but she knew what Mimi meant. “Mine are West Walians to the bone,” she added.
“And Welsh-speaking?” Mimi said.
“Oh, yes. Welsh-teaching in fact.”
“I knew they’d been teachers in Newport but I didn’t realise they taught Welsh. No wonder you sounded so authentic today.”
Megan laughed. “Not really. I’m very rusty. Don’t forget, I was brought up in Newport, and hardly anyone speaks Welsh here. I’m a big disappointment to my Mum. She’s passionate about it – Cymdeithas through and through.”
Mimi gave her a quizzical look.
“The Welsh Language Society,” Megan said, sounding more Welsh than ever. “That was her big thing. She was a bit of a troublemaker in her day.”
“So what about Jacobs then?” I asked Mimi. “Where does that come from?”
Mimi laughed. “The Bible you idiot,” she said.
“Okay, okay, but in your case?”
She took a moment to think about that. “I’m not sure how far back it goes. It’s one of those names Jewish people adopt when they’re ditching something that sounds too German or east European. It goes back a few generations, as long as my family’s been in South Africa.”
“South Africa?” Megan said.
“Yes, it looks like you’re the only pure Brit in the room,” Mimi said with an exaggerated South African lilt. “But actually I was born in London. My parents were exiles.”
Megan looked puzzled.
“From Apartheid,” Mimi added, and turned to me, laughing. “Maybe that’s why I find it hard to trust the police.”
“So tell us about your parents, then?” Megan said.
Mimi looked at me as if to check I didn’t have a problem with the way this was going – but why would I? It seemed to be distracting Megan from her own worries, and, besides, I was interested – Mimi and I hadn’t had the time or energy to talk much about personal stuff. I shrugged with a ‘why-not’ look.
She turned back to Megan. “They came here in the sixties, after Rivonia… You know, when Mandela, Sisulu and the others were sent to prison? My father was a young defence lawyer and had to get out in a hurry. My mother joined him later, and they settled in Golders Green.” She seemed to find that funny. “There were loads of other exiles around that part of London. My father worked as a solicitor, but I think he spent most of his time on politics – or ‘the struggle’, as he liked to call it. When I was kid, people from ‘down South’ would come and go all the time. We always seemed to have someone staying with us, mainly Africans who’d been in prison or who’d left the country to join the… well, you know, to work ‘underground’.”
Mimi stopped, possibly wondering if this was getting too heavy, and I think she was going to leave it at that. But Megan seemed fascinated. “Go on,” she said.
“That’s it, really. I haven’t got any brothers or sisters, and it was exciting for me as a child having all this going on: the coming and going...” She dwelt on that, watching herself run an index finger along the arm of the chair, creating a dark trail in the green upholstery. “But sometimes I also resented it,” she continued. “Sometimes it felt like my father knew more about what was happening in Soweto than in his own frigging daughter’s school – but, you know, I under
stand it now. Someone had to do what they did.”
I was struck by how calmly she said that, leaving no room for doubt that she meant it.
“So they went back to South Africa?” Megan asked.
“Yep, after Mandela was released. My dad went first again, to Jo’burg to work on the release of other prisoners, and my mother stayed with me for a few years, until I went to university. And then she went out to join him, and they settled in Cape Town.”
“Didn’t you ever think about going there yourself?” I said.
“Not to live, not really,” she said. “I went there after uni for a few months, but I couldn’t settle. I’m a Londoner really, and this is where my career is.”
Her career. The word made her pause, and, as if on cue, Megan’s phone started vibrating. She picked it up off the bed with a frown, read whatever the message was and tossed it back down.
“It’s only Will,” she said, “ranting about what’s on the news. It’s on now.”
Mimi reached for the remote lying on the bed, but Megan was quicker, lurching forward to grab it.
“No,” she said. “I don’t want to watch it.” She sat back down on the bed, leaning against the wall, one hand holding the remote, the other tapping her thigh. Her phone started ringing. She answered it with a brusque, “Hello,” and Will’s voice could be heard across the room. Some of the words were clear: “The body, the blood sample, the bastard,” – but it was hard to make much sense of it.
Megan told him to calm down, but Will continued, still sounding agitated.
“I know he’s a bastard,” Megan said, “but don’t do anything stupid.”
Will went silent.
“Listen,” Meg said firmly. “Turn the telly off and go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She tapped the phone off without waiting for an answer.
I was on my feet now, feeling agitated myself. Mimi didn’t seem to know whether to sit or stand, but there wasn’t enough room for both of us to pace around.
“Calm down about what?” I asked.
Megan shook her head. “Oh, just the whole thing. What’s on the news – it’s wound him up. That’s all.”
“And which ‘bastard’ is he talking about?”
“Forget it, Liam,” Megan said. “It’s nothing.”
But it didn’t sound like nothing to me.
“Who was he talking about?” I repeated, and Megan knew I wasn’t going to let it go.
“It’s just Gary, that’s all. He thinks Gary’s been stirring trouble for us.”
I nodded. I could imagine Gary sidling up to Richards, whispering in his ear, deflecting attention from his own activities.
Megan stretched and moved to the edge of the bed, dropping her feet on the floor. She was facing towards Mimi, who was still sitting in the armchair. They were as close to each other as they had been a few hours ago, except they’d reversed places. Megan touched Mimi’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thanks for tonight,” she said. Mimi kissed her back on the opposite cheek.
“So about your training schedule tomorrow?” I asked awkwardly, not wanting to let her go without finding out where we were on the small matter of her athletics career.
“Ha!” she said. “Not much chance of that.”
“But seriously, what about Rio?” I said.
“Not now, Li. I can’t think straight. Let’s talk about it again.” And she smiled that charming, disarming smile, leaned forward, gave me a peck on the cheek and left us with a mischievous, “Sleep well”.
18
Truth Is Truth
The news wasn’t getting any better. BBC Breakfast led with the story of Matt’s body being exhumed.
‘Police investigating a suspicious death in Newport say they expect to be interviewing Olympic medal prospect Megan Tomos later today’, the male newsreader told us.
Mimi groaned. “Isn’t there a war or something they should be reporting?”
She was already up and about, not wearing a thing, checking and replying to messages and emails on her phone. I was still in bed, my paunch discreetly covered by the duvet.
A few days into our relationship, and she was much less inhibited than me, but then the paradox was she could easily pass for an athlete, whereas these days my pecs were in danger of becoming man-boobs. I didn’t have much to flaunt, and made a mental note: Liam, sort it out.
The news reader had finished the bulletin and handed back to a presenter perched on a couch in the studio, who said: “Now we’re going live to Newport for an update on the Megan Tomos situation.”
“Oh my God, we’re a frigging ‘situation’ now,” Mimi said, glaring at the screen, hands on naked hips.
I felt numb, beyond anger, as if my immune system had hardened me against further shocks.
The screen switched to a male reporter standing on the lawn in front of the university with a dark haired, over-generously made-up young woman by his side: “Thanks Sian. Now, I’m here,” he said, gesturing towards the redbrick building behind him, “at the University of South Wales, where yesterday Megan Tomos was heckled as she received an honorary fellowship in front of hundreds of students and parents. There were no cameras allowed at the event, but we understand the heckler called the Olympic medal prospect a ‘hypocrite’ after she dedicated her fellowship to a friend – Matt Davies – whose death is being investigated by the police.”
The reporter turned to the woman, holding a microphone that looked like a dead kitten between them. “Now, Hannah, you were there yesterday, receiving your degree. Tell us what happened.”
“Oh fuck, here we go,” Mimi said.
The girl hesitated, then looked straight at the camera like she was about to jump through the screen. “It was disgusting,” she said. “Really bad. She had the cheek to talk about Matt like they were bosom buddies, when everyone knows… everyone knows she hated him.”
“Now Hannah, we have to be careful, of course,” the reporter said, “but you knew Matt and you felt it was inappropriate?”
“Yes, I was at school with Matt and Megan – and she was dead out of order.” She looked back at the reporter, checking herself. “Sorry, I mean she had no right to bring up his name. It was wrong, and I’m glad someone… someone said so. She deserved it.”
The reporter seemed to be trying to interrupt, but the interviewee was in full flow now.
“Everyone knows there’s been a cover-up,” she said. “Just because of who she...”
“Thanks, thank you, Hannah,” the reporter said abruptly, pulling the microphone back and turning towards the camera. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave it there, and just to be clear, before we go back to the studio – there is no suggestion of any wrongdoing by Tomos. Her spokesperson has issued a statement saying she has pulled out of tonight’s athletics Grand Prix at Crystal Palace so that she can help the police with their inquiries. Sian, back to you.”
The thud on our bedroom door was so violent it nearly burst from its hinges. Mimi darted for the bathroom, leaving me scrabbling for some clothes as Megan burst in wearing a crumpled T shirt and track suit bottoms, her hair dishevelled like she’d just jumped out of bed. She probably had.
“That fucking cow,” she said, loudly enough to wake the whole hotel. “That bitch has always hated me. I’m going to...”
“Calm the fuck down,” Mimi said, having reappeared with a towel around her.
Megan was pacing and shaking with rage. “She’s the cow who heckled.”
Mimi grabbed her, a hand holding each forearm. “Calm down,” she said again, firmly but more softly.
I had managed to put some shorts on and went over to the pair of them and took over from Mimi in holding on to Megan, who was shaking now in a slower, shuddering way, her head bowed, looking at the floor. I couldn’t see her eyes, but rivulets of tears had reached her chin and were forming into watery pearls ready to drop onto her T-shirt. She was sobbing so hard I thought she might collapse if I let go of her.
&n
bsp; Mimi started to stroke her hair with one hand, holding her towel in place with the other. She looked at me as if to say ‘talk to her’.
“Meg,” I said hesitantly. “Listen to me. I’m not just your coach, I’m a friend – and you need to listen to me on this. You listen to me on other things. Listen on this.”
I paused, struggling to find the right words but feeling Megan had now finally accepted we could help her.
“Meg, you can handle this like you handle everything else – stay strong, stay focused,” I said, resorting to the language of coaching. “Concentrate on what you have to do. Execute your plan. You know what you have to do today. We’ll go to see Matt’s father and you can tell him what you need to tell him. And then we’ll go to the police. Who cares what that girl thinks? Who cares what anyone thinks? All that matters is what you know in your own heart to be the right thing to do.”
Megan looked up at me now, and I let go of her arms. Mimi handed her a tissue, and she wiped her cheeks and chin.
“I know,” she whispered, nodding, as if convincing herself. “I know… but I’m telling you, it’s just so hard, hearing that bitch like that.”
“But who is she anyway?” Mimi said.
Megan looked past her like she was struggling to remember. “Just someone who used to hang-out with Matt sometimes. Not a girlfriend though. She was at the party, but she wasn’t really one of us, if you know what I mean. And she never liked me – she told everyone I was, you know, a big-head.”
“And now she’s jumping on the bandwagon, seizing her chance to give you a kicking,” Mimi said, and reached out to pull Megan towards her.
It was odd watching them hug: the mismatch of Megan’s height and broad shoulders and Mimi’s delicate frame, the reverse of their strength in other ways.
I left them to it and sidled quietly into the bathroom to shave.
***
By the time I came out, Megan had gone back to her room, and Mimi was dressed and busy packing. I’d forgotten she was going back to London today, and now I felt a sudden pang of disappointment.
We had been in this together all week, like we were under siege and our lives depended on each other. I couldn’t imagine her not being there.