The Girlfriend

by Sarah Naughton

  I smile at the thought of them getting wasted, then maybe dancing together to some music hall tune.

  “He’s not going to wake up, is he?”

  My smile fades. I shake my head.

  “I could tell when I saw him, that night. All that blood. I didn’t want to look, but you can’t help yourself.”

  “Did you see what happened?”

  “I heard footsteps on the stairs and then that poor girl screaming. By the time I got outside, she was kneeling by his side, all covered in blood like the one in that Stephen King film…Carrie.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “If there’s anything I can do, then please—” I bite my tongue immediately. I don’t want to be spending my Monday nights down here eating smoked haddock and discussing Lula’s past glories.

  “He was your brother, darling,” she says gently. “I’m sorry for you.”

  “And Jody,” I say. “She’s the one really suffering. Abe and I barely knew one another.”

  There’s a beat of surprised silence.

  “Jody?”

  I can’t read her expression. My heart pounds faster. Did Abe tell her something about their relationship? Some secret? But she called Jody that poor girl, so she can’t think Jody had anything to do with his fall.

  “He wasn’t…violent toward her, was he?”

  She raises her drawn-on eyebrows. “Your brother didn’t have a violent bone in his body. Though I wouldn’t have blamed him.”

  I put the tumbler down, half-finished. “Why do you say that?”

  “Ah, she just wouldn’t leave him alone.” She rolls her eyes, and a flake of crusted mascara drifts down onto her blouse. “Whenever he turned around, there she was, like a bad smell.”

  Sounds like the old lady’s jealous. Perhaps she was hoping those drunken Monday nights might turn into something else. A friendly fuck now and again, to remind her of the beauty she used to be.

  She’s watching me, and there’s something about that heavy-lidded gaze that makes goose bumps spring up on my arms. I’m not sure I like her or the dismissive way she talks about Jody. I find myself bristling on Jody’s behalf.

  “She was his fiancée. It’s not abnormal to want to spend time with the person you’re about to marry.”

  Lula laughs then, loud and ringing, like the crowing of a cockerel. “Fiancée? Abe didn’t have a fiancée! He didn’t have a girlfriend at all, my love.”

  The way she’s staring at me, with an expression of pitiful disbelief, makes me feel like slapping her.

  Abe didn’t have a girlfriend, so what was Jody? A casual shag who got the wrong idea? No, no, it’s more than that; it has to be. What about the ring? The photograph? He didn’t tell Lula because he thought she’d be jealous.

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

  My heart is pounding now, with anger and with something else. I’m beginning to understand. Oh, God.

  The sequins on her sleeves shimmer, making me dizzy. Her red lips open, a string of saliva stretching and breaking. “Abe was queer as a three-dollar bill!”

  “No,” I say stupidly. “No, he…she…” But even as my brain struggles to process the information, I know it’s true.

  I’m looking into his eyes on the parapet of Eilean Donan castle, and I know he’s different. The girls’ cooing means nothing to him, but his hidden heart yearns to open up to someone the same way mine does. Was he trying to tell me then? I could have guessed, if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in myself. I could have helped him, taken him with me. I could have stopped him from having to pretend to be something he’s not.

  But he’s in London now, with a million other men just like him. There’s no reason for shame or fear. Our parents are five hundred miles away. What possible reason would he have to pretend?

  “Then why…” I begin, and my voice is thread-thin. “Then why was he stringing Jody along? Why didn’t he just tell her?”

  “He wasn’t stringing her along. She knew perfectly well, just pretended it wasn’t happening. She’s mad, of course. You’re not going, are you? You haven’t finished your drink.”

  But I’m already up, hopping and stumbling over urns and Ali Baba baskets in my rush for the door.

  I take the stairs two at a time, thumping the light switches as I go. Bursting out onto the fourth floor, I hammer on Jody’s door, hard enough for the splintered lock to crunch and give a little more.

  “Jody! Jody! Open the damn door now!”

  23.

  Mira

  I have got what I wanted. I have made the sister think it is Jody that killed Abe.

  Bang, bang, bang on the door.

  She is shouting and swearing and threatening. I crouch in the hallway, praying for Jody not to open up. The sister is so angry, she will hurt her, I am sure. And it will be my fault. I should have thought. I was trying to protect you, Loran, and now that poor mad girl will suffer for it.

  There is a louder bang, and the wall I am leaning on shudders. She has broken the door in.

  I hear her footsteps pound up the hall and another bang as she kicks open the inner door.

  I know I should keep away, look after the baby and you, but how could I live with myself if Jody was hurt because of what I did?

  I open the door of the flat, just a crack, to listen.

  There are no sounds of an argument. Perhaps Jody is out. Has the sister already gone away, or is she waiting inside the flat for her? Should I call the police and say there has been a break-in? Perhaps the sirens will frighten her off, and I will have a chance to warn Jody.

  But when I return from getting my phone, I hear something that makes my heart squeeze up in fear.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  I pray that I will hear them stop and one of the other flat doors open, but they continue on, up and up and up.

  And then her face comes into view, behind the bars of the banisters.

  She is pale and sad, like always. She has no idea what has happened. What is waiting for her.

  She comes out on the landing. And still, I am too much of a coward to open the door and stop her. I tell myself I am thinking of the baby, of my blood pressure, but it is just fear. Fear to admit what I have done. Fear of what will happen to you if I do.

  Then there is no more time. As she passes in front of my door, the breeze from her skirt wafts against my face, and then she is gone, into the flat.

  There was a time when the difference between right and wrong seemed so simple—before I met you. I was brave then. I was brave because I was surrounded by people who loved me. Now, they are very far away, and all I have is you, and you do not love me.

  I stand up.

  I may have changed much from the girl I used to be. I may have become afraid, shameful, unlovable. But I will not let this happen. I will face whatever harm may come to me—and yes, the baby too—because I cannot live with the woman I have become. A woman who will allow others to suffer because of her own lies and cowardice.

  I go out on the landing.

  I hear voices.

  They are speaking too fast for me to understand. But I can clearly make out the harsh anger in the sister’s voice and Jody’s trembling, high-pitched responses, like the fluting of a tiny kaval. She is afraid. I have passed my fear onto her because I could not stand the burden of it. I must have the courage to take it back.

  Jody’s latch lies on the floor, the wood splintered where it was torn out. She must be strong, this woman, though she is as slight as her brother. Perhaps she would not be so easily hurt.

  I creep over the threshold, cupping my belly as if a comforting hand will somehow make up for the pounding of my heart and the rushing of my blood. The baby will feel my fear and be afraid too. I am unworthy of him.

  As I pass up the landing, the shouting goes on.

  I reach the open doo
r.

  I have never seen inside this flat before. It is as shabby and poor as ours, but the walls are covered in pictures. They are, I think, supposed to be drawings of Abe. In the middle of the room is a table. A pair of scissors lie open.

  The sister stands at the table, her face as white as sultjash as she snatches up scraps of paper and hurls them to the floor, shouting all the while. Jody is pressed against the wall, sobbing.

  It does not seem that the sister plans to hurt her. I could go. They haven’t seen me.

  The sudden silence when the shouting ends is almost shocking. My ears ring with it, and my pulse pounds in my head. The baby is so still inside me. Have I frightened him to death?

  Abe’s mild eyes look down at us from the pencil drawings.

  The sister picks up the last piece of paper—or two pieces taped together. I cannot make out the image, and I think she is going to toss it to the floor with the rest, but she doesn’t. The next words she says are so cold and clear that I understand them perfectly.

  “You were never his fiancée. You were his stalker.”

  Now, with a curl of her lip, she brings both hands up to the top of the paper and starts to twist her thumbs. She is going to tear it in two.

  Jody screams then. “No, no, no!”

  And before I can do anything, she lunges for the scissors.

  _____________________

  She sits quietly, her homework on her lap, pencil poised, head bent as if she is reading it. But she isn’t. She can’t concentrate. Her brain is throwing off pulses of warmth that fizzle through her blood, making her fingertips and the ends of her toes tingle.

  Her brother sits beside her. It’s a double bed so there’s plenty of room, but still they sit close—well, she sits close to him, close enough to feel his chest rise and fall at every sigh and every impatient jerk of his pencil, as if the movements were made by her own body.

  The duvet is soft under her bare thighs. And so clean! They change the sheets every single week and pour a thick blue liquid into the tray of the machine that makes them smell like flowers. The carpets are a sort of fudgy beige, and most of the furniture is white. Their father drinks lots of coffee from an expensive stainless steel machine, and so, from breakfast onward, the house is filled with its rich musk. Their mother bakes. From scratch. Using free-range organic eggs with bright-orange yolks. She has promised to teach her how to make a lemon drizzle cake. Which is easy, apparently.

  Her brother huffs and drops his head back onto the headboard.

  “Bloody hell.”

  She smiles. She would like to be able to help him, but though they are the same age, he is working at a far higher level. She is dyslexic. Not thick and useless and a waste of space, but dyslexic. Her new parents suspected it, and the teachers tested her. That is why she’s so creative, they have told her. Dyslexic people are more imaginative than other people. They call it “having an imagination,” not lying, and she doesn’t feel the need to lie anymore. There is nothing to hide. Nothing to be ashamed of, they have told her. Nothing.

  “Wanna play Grand Theft Auto?”

  She screws up her nose. She promised their mother that she wouldn’t let him distract her. She has been making good progress. She can read Harry Potter now. She is on a special program at school called Soundbites, and that has helped her with her spelling.

  “Come on. I can’t be bothered with this.”

  He slides off the bed, scratching his lower back, making the T-shirt ride up. The skin on his back is completely smooth and blemish-free. His deodorant has a pleasant minty smell, and sometimes after a match, he smells of sweat. But not the stale, fetid reek of poor hygiene: a fresh, young smell that you could bottle and sell as a perfume. She can feel love creeping up on her, warming her up from deep inside all the way to her fingertips. But she’s not afraid. This is not a love born of desperation but one she can rely on forever. Her brother will always be there for her. They will grow old together. He will be a doting uncle to her children. She will have children. They’ve told her that she still can, despite everything.

  He swigs from the liter bottle of Coke on the bedside table, the muscles in his throat rippling as the liquid passes through. When he has finished, he hurls the empty bottle at the wastepaper basket and misses, then wipes his arm across his mouth.

  “Come on, dopey. What are you staring at?”

  “What if Mum comes up?”

  He snorts. “Mother wouldn’t dare come in here without asking. I might be jerking off!”

  He gives a barking laugh, and she smiles.

  They play the game for more than an hour, and she is glad when he announces that he is hungry and tosses the controller onto the carpet. He stands and stretches. His stomach is muscly, and a line of dark hair runs from his belly button into the low waistband of his sweatpants. Suddenly, for no reason at all, her throat tightens.

  “I’ll go and make you a sandwich,” she says quickly. “What would you like?”

  “Bacon. Loads of ketchup. Microwave the bread first so the butter melts. Oh, and a cup of tea, please, Sisterella.”

  “Coming right up!” She smiles and tries to haul herself out of the beanbag, but it’s too low, and she stumbles back. He sniggers and grasps her arm, yanking her up so forcefully, she stumbles into his chest. It is rock-hard from all the exercise he does. She can feel his blue eyes on her face, but she doesn’t meet his gaze.

  “What do you fancy?” he asks. His breath is sour from all the Coke.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You should eat more. Look at you. Flat as a pancake.”

  “I will.”

  “Good girl.” He smacks her bum as she goes out of the room.

  24.

  Mags

  I sit alone in a squalid little interview room. The table is pocked with cigarette burns, little black scoops I can just fit my fingertips into. I’ve been doing this for three quarters of an hour, waiting for Constable Derbyshire to come and take my statement, all the time resisting calling Daniel, who is probably on date night with Donna.

  Jody’s attempt to murder me was laughable. The hand holding the scissors shook so much, the light bounced off the blades like a disco ball. I leaped at her and snatched them from her hands, and I might very well have used them on her if weren’t for the sudden entrance of Mira. She thrust herself between the two of us, waving her hands and crying, “Ndal! Ndal!”

  It was the sheer melodrama of the scene as much as anything else that chastened me, and I sat down at the table while Mira called the police and Jody wailed like a child and tried to gather up her papers.

  There were several letters from Abe, asking her to stop, warning her that he’d speak to Peter Selby, letters she had cut words out of to make new ones that said what she wanted them to. My Jody…I love you…I will be yours always…

  The walls of her flat were covered in awful pencil drawings of Abe. Abe smiling. Abe sleeping. Abe gazing into the distance, a Pierrot tear on his cheek. Laughable if they weren’t so pathetic.

  There were a few photographs too, which I assume she stole from his flat after the accident. One had been enlarged on a copier and clumsily spliced together with a picture of her. Full-size, it was obvious, but she had managed to shrink it down—perhaps at the internet café—to create something vaguely convincing, if you didn’t look too hard. I’d been convinced. It had been sitting there on the bedside table all that time, and I hadn’t given it a thought.

  My cruel impulse to tear it to pieces in front of her eyes was what triggered her pitiful attack, but I’m glad it stopped me. This was evidence after all. Evidence that she was a psychopath who had stalked my brother and pushed him to his death when he rejected her advances.

  How could I have been so stupid to believe all her stories? They might as well have been about fairies and unicorns.

  The door finally opens,
and Constable Derbyshire enters. “Miss Mackenzie.” Her voice is clipped and professional. Hopefully, she’s feeling rather foolish for all that not every tragedy is a crime stuff.

  “I’ve written out my statement,” I say, pushing the paper across to her.

  It takes her a long time to read it. Finally, she looks up at me. “You seem convinced Miss Currie attempted to murder your brother.”

  “Of course she did. And it won’t be attempted murder when I have to switch his machine off.”

  She shifts in her seat, making the swivel mechanism squeal, then places both hands palm down on the table. I wonder if this is in the police handbook under placating gestures.

  “Miss Currie denies having anything to do with your brother’s accident.”

  “Oh, so it’s an accident, now? You do know she’s a notorious liar? You told me she wasn’t known to you in a criminal capacity. That’s bullshit, though, isn’t it? Eight years ago, she was arrested for crying rape.”

  “Charges were never brought, and I didn’t feel it was relevant to this case.”

  “Not relevant that she’s a liar? You believed her story without making any attempt to investigate.”

  Derbyshire inhales and exhales before she speaks again. “The unfortunate fact is that there were no witnesses to your brother’s fall, and the evidence is circumstantial at best. Aside from the caution over the rape claim, Miss Currie has never been in trouble before, she never threatened your brother with violence, and your brother never complained to us that he felt in danger. Plus, I don’t think she’d have the physical strength to overpower him.”

  I fold my arms. “Don’t they call stalking ‘murder in slow motion’?”

  She blinks her porcine eyes, the lashes clogged with brown mascara. “Your brother never reported a stalking incident to us. It seems to me that Miss Currie just had a very strong, unrequited attachment to him—and she does have a history of forming these powerful crushes.”