Best Eaten Cold: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down.

by Tony Salter

  'That's also very creepy,' said Rupert. 'What is it with these people?'

  'What can I say? They were an unusual bunch. I know it sounds crazy, but when I first started to have my problems, a part of me was afraid that Jax was somehow behind them.'

  Rupert frowned. 'That's probably not a healthy way of thinking. You said the counsellor was helpful, didn't you?'

  'Yes, I was surprised at how much better she made me feel.' I put my hand on Rupert's arm feeling his muscles tense against the cotton of his shirt. 'Don't worry. I don't actually believe anyone else was involved. I was only telling you what I thought at the time.'

  'Good.' I suspected Rupert had decided to file away my 'Jax vision' in the same drawer as all my other visions. 'But that wasn't the main revelation was it? What else do I need to know?'

  I gave him a potted summary of my meeting with Daz and what he'd told me about the police. I also told him what had really happened that night.

  'The thing is,' I said. 'If the police do come around, what do I tell them?'

  Rupert stared at me wide-eyed. 'You tell them the bloody truth, for Christ's sake. I can't believe you're even asking that question.'

  'But I promised her that I'd say she was with me. I gave her my word.'

  'And so what? Haven't you seen and heard enough now to realise she's a crazy vindictive bitch? She might have done something terrible that night for all you know.' He held both hands out in front of him, palms upwards as though in supplication. 'Why would you consider, even for a nanosecond, making yourself an accessory? You need to stop and think about this. Think of me, think of Sam.'

  I reached over the table and took his hands in mine. 'You're completely right, darling. I just needed to hear someone say that. If they come, I'll tell them the truth. Of course I will.'

  Love and Protests

  I love Fabiola. I always have. I know it's pathetic and I don't have a chance, but I don't mind. I call her Fabiolous, because that's what she is, and all I care about is that she's all right.

  When Fabiola was going to Paris for her third year at university, the idea almost did me in. I couldn't imagine going a whole year without seeing her, but I'd just started work after college and it wasn't as though I could zap over to Paris every week. I did manage to get there three times but the distance between us tore me apart.

  I think she always liked me too – not in that way – but I reckon we're friends. I never wanted to push things too far, so I got in the habit of hanging around out of sight even when we weren't supposed to be doing something together. That way, she could see lots of other people and not feel I was in her face the whole time.

  She got what she wanted and I got what I needed – which was to be close to her all of the time, to watch her smile, walk, read a book or whatever.

  It sounds creepy and I probably come across as a bit of a sad stalker, but it's not like that. I've needed to sneak about a lot to keep an eye on her, but I would never cross the line. Even though our relationship is never going anywhere, I've always been happy enough to simply be near her and to see her as often as I could.

  I would do anything for her. Literally, anything. I know it sounds sad, but I don't care. We're all made differently and Fabiola is my thing. She's my dream girl.

  The days we spent together at the G8 in Germany were probably the best of my life, even with that bitch Jax ruining everything. It was the first time I'd ever done anything like that. The summer of 2007, I'd just turned twenty-one and I'd never been abroad before.

  I'd started going to meetings of the BAF, the Bristol Anarchist Federation, a few months before the summit and knew I'd found my place.

  I was in the last year of my mental health nursing degree at UWE, which used to be Bristol Poly, and I was spending a lot of time working shifts at the hospital.

  Getting involved and seeing the true situation from inside made me more and more angry every day; funding had been slashed, the system was systematically failing the weak and the vulnerable and, as for 'care in the community', it was clearly a load of bollocks dreamt up by the accountants. I knew, even then, that things were going to get worse, rather than better. So much for progress.

  It's not like I grew up in a political household, my dad might have talked politics, but not at home. He was either at work or down the club every night and we never saw him. My mum was a floating shadow, a church mouse with the volume cranked right down, and this amazing ability to silently materialise next to you, or behind you, wherever you were and whatever you were doing. Maybe she had her own thoughts and opinions but she'd never dare express them.

  As I got my hands dirtier at work, literally and metaphorically, I realised I needed, and still need, to stand up, to take part and to do something to try to make a difference, rather than simply lounge around and watch society go down the tube. The BAF gave me a way to do that. The members weren't exactly normal, but there were plenty of people like me who only wanted a place where they could try to make their voices heard, to speak up for all of those people who couldn't speak up for themselves.

  We were a mixed bunch, and at the other end of the spectrum were the hard-core anarchists who, to be honest, could probably have been soldiers or mercenaries if the wind had been blowing in a different direction when they were making their life choices. They had plenty of self-righteous passion but you could see in their eyes that it was violence and destruction they craved. The politics was an excuse, a circular, cast-iron justification for any extreme behaviour. Some of them were very scary and would have fitted in well at some of the more secure hospitals I was starting to work in.

  When I heard that the BAF was organising a protest trip to the G8 summit in Heiligendamm, I was one of the first to sign up. The idea of the leaders of these eight – or seven, depending on whether Russia was behaving itself – countries sitting together in a posh hotel and deciding what should happen to the whole world was plain wrong. I mean, it was like we were still in the Dark Ages. Going to the G8 summit to remind them that not everyone saw things the same way was exactly what I needed.

  I signed up for the trip to Germany before Fabiola joined the BAF, but Jax had already been a member for a year or so. I knew I didn't like her from the start – she was always such a smart-arse alpha bitch and seemed to enjoy putting people down – but there were about fifty of us going, in two battered coaches and I didn't expect to see too much of her.

  Fabiola appeared on a rainy Wednesday evening in early May, less than a month before we were due to leave. A couple of mates from her course at uni were already members and had persuaded her to come along. We were mostly a dull, drab bunch and then Fabiola walked in and lit up the room.

  It was like the girl in the red coat in that Spielberg Holocaust film, everything else is shades of grey and black, and there is this one bright figure moving through the scene, standing out in sharp contrast. Although, come to think of it, it's a rubbish comparison because that girl was there as a symbol of horror and tragedy and there was nothing of that in the way Fabiola shone as she came in.

  It's always the same for me when I talk to her, talk about her or even think about her. I wish I was a poet or writer, someone who could dip a hand into their mind, take out a handful of golden corn and, flicking their wrist like an old farmer, spread it evenly onto the page. I manage to get tongue-tied and stammer even in my own head and am guaranteed to say the wrong, clumsy thing when I'm speaking out loud.

  Another thing I love about Fabiola is that, in spite of my consistent, fumbling oafishness when we're together, she's always been nice to me. She sat next to me at that first meeting and, out of everyone there, she decided to speak to me first.

  'Hi, I'm Fabiola. Sorry about the name. It's Italian.'

  'Hi, I'm Darren. Most people call me Daz though. Like the soap powder.'

  She laughed, a rich, deep laugh. 'Cleans whiter than white then? Nice to meet you Daz. Have you been coming here for a while?'

  'Not so long,' I said. 'Only for a co
uple of months. It's a great group.'

  We stepped quickly through the repetitive dance of where we came from, who studied what and where and how come we'd ended up where we were. By luck, my mouth was on autopilot as the rest of me was being consumed from inside out by Odin's lightning strike, or had I been cracked on the skull by Thor's hammer. Whichever one, it certainly wasn't a little arrow prick from some poncy Greek cherub. I suspect that, when I wasn't speaking, my mouth was hanging open like a village idiot. Luckily the first speaker rescued me.

  I expect the guest presenters were talking passionately about important and interesting topics but I only heard white noise as I stared fixedly ahead, every part of my body tingling with the sense of her presence, scant inches away. God, I had it bad. What an idiot.

  When the talk was over, the club president reminded everyone about the trip to Germany and I felt the electric touch of Fabiola's fingers on my shoulder.

  'Are you going, Daz?' she said. 'What do you think about it?'

  I turned to her, fighting to keep my voice under control. 'Yeah, I'm going. I signed up straight away. I think it'll be brilliant and everyone says there'll be loads of us there from all over the world. You've got to do something, haven't you?'

  'I guess so, but it's all quite new to me, even though I am studying politics. Have you been on lots of protests then?'

  'No,' I replied. 'This will be my first. It's all pretty new to me too and I can't really afford it, but I knew straight away that I needed to go.'

  'I'm very tempted,' she said. 'Maybe we could meet for a coffee in town tomorrow, or on Friday, and you can tell me a bit more. Would that be OK?'

  Of course it would be fucking OK. I mean, how OK does OK need to be for fuck's sake?

  'Yeah, sure,' I replied as calmly as possible. 'Tell me when and where.'

  We agreed to meet at the Boston Tea Party on Park Street at eleven the next day and she stood up and put on her coat. Not even slightly red as it turned out.

  'I have to run,' she said. 'Thanks for your company, Daz. It's been so nice to meet you. See you tomorrow.'

  'You too, Fabiola. See you at eleven.'

  And then she turned and walked through the door. I could swear that the room dimmed as she left.

  After that first meeting and our coffee date, Fabiola decided to come to Germany and she signed up at the next BAF meeting. I introduced her to a few of the other more-sensible comrades who were going and she seemed to get on well enough with them. I can remember spending those weeks wandering around with such a fixed grin on my face that my cheeks actually started to ache.

  We left from outside the university union in two knackered, old, white buses which had clearly had a former life doing school runs until they were considered too worn and manky even for that. I guess there is a natural evolutionary cycle in the life of a bus but it goes in reverse, starting with the higher strata of civilised coach tours and conference transfers, descending through club coach trips to daily school runs and eventually finding its way back to the primordial ooze of student trips like ours.

  As it turned out, the thirty-six hour bus journey was a lot more comfortable than the five days we spent in the protest camp at Rostock where eighty thousand others were waiting for us. We arrived late in the afternoon, having walked the last four miles with our tents, packs and food and the atmosphere was incredible.

  The camp was surprisingly well organised, considering this was all put together by a bunch of volunteer enthusiasts. There was a reception tent and even street names; the main street was Via Carlo Giuliani, after the young antiglobalist killed in Genoa by carabinieri in 2001 and Rosa Luxemburg Avenue was where the Marxists were hanging out. We were in Durruti Boulevard, together with all of the other anarchists.

  All incredibly well organised, considering ... The consequences of tens of thousands of protesters, mostly young and broke, living in the same space for several days were totally predictable: mud, rubbish, food waste, disgusting portaloos, even more disgusting makeshift latrines. It was a miracle we didn't all get dysentery.

  It didn't seem to matter though as we were all fired up with the righteousness of what we were there for and a bit of discomfort was a small price to pay. It's amazing what a bit of quasi-religious fervour can achieve.

  For the first couple of days of the protests Fabiola stuck to me like a limpet. I didn't mind the crowds or the growing stink and squalor – not so different from Reading festival and I'd been there every year since I was fourteen – but it was different for her.

  It wasn't because she was posh, at least not by Bristol University standards, but she was classy and I got the impression that she'd led a pretty sheltered life until then. Whatever it was, she was definitely finding life in the camp hard, especially the way a large group of people can take on a life of its own, like it's a separate creature and we are just individual cells.

  Mobs always have something exciting about them, you can see it at a footie match or a big stadium gig, but a major protest has something different, especially when there is a violent side and a lot of police. A network of invisible electric wires links everyone in the crowd and guides them to move backwards or forwards, left or right like a shapeless, but still intelligent, jellyfish, or one of those amazing black clouds of twilight starlings that you see on the wildlife programmes.

  Once you're a part of the mob, you're hardwired into the larger being and you hand over the freedom to act on your own. You're forced to ebb and flow with the crowd.

  Definitely exciting, but a bit terrifying, as people have become more and more independently minded and expect to have control over their lives. I was a bit different; I loved the feeling because I wasn't so desperately happy with myself as an individual and got a kick out of being part of something bigger, something which accepted me as me, with no criticism or snide put-downs. Anyone who's always been the last one picked for a team – any, and every, team – would understand how I felt.

  Fabiola was different. She would always have been popular and loved. It showed in that easy smile and her gentle graceful movements. You could see how she would have grown up as a little, golden princess surrounded by admiring courtiers. Not so easy to give that over to the mob, to let that huge, gelatinous thing take control and lead you where it chose. Good news for me though, as I fell happily into the role of knight protector and spent more time with her than I could ever have hoped for. I like to think that was when we became real friends.

  Rostock was definitely violent though, and I've never agreed with that. Some people said there were over four thousand in the 'black bloc', the mask-wearing, black-clad chaotics who seemed to enjoy violence as an end in itself and came armed with stones, Molotov cocktails and worse.

  This time there was a much bigger problem to deal with than the few hundred who'd caused so much damage at previous summits in Prague and Seattle, and the police struggled from the start, despite all their armoured vehicles, tear gas and water cannons.

  Those first two days passed in dream-like euphoria. I was doing something positive to help the world and this amazing, beautiful girl had picked me as her defender and companion against all of the odds. I suppose, if I'm honest, I did begin to allow myself to imagine our relationship could become something more, something bigger than just friends. What a moron!

  Us Bristolians had a small area to ourselves in the camp with a bunch of girls' tents on one side and the boys on the other. Lady Luck had it in for me big time; she'd arranged it so that Fabiola was sharing a small two-man tent with Jax. I'd already decided Jax was not a nice person and the only saving grace was that she and Fabiola didn't seem to be hitting it off so well. They shared a tent but, apart from that, Jax was hanging out with her crowd and Fabiola with hers. And that was me.

  It was on the morning of the third day when it all changed and it didn't take long for me to realise what an idiot I obviously was. Fabiola strolled up, gorgeous as ever, but now Jax was walking beside her, laughing and joking.

&
nbsp; 'Hi Daz,' said Fabiola. 'You know Jax don't you?'

  'Morning. Yeah, I know Jax. Hi, how's it going?'

  'I'm great thanks, Daz,' said Jax, smiling at me. 'Mind if I tag along with you guys today? My crew are up to something heavy and I don't think they want a newbie around.' It must have been the first time she'd ever looked at me, let alone smiled. Manipulative bitch!

  'Sure, no problem,' I said. 'The more the merrier.'

  And that was that. Our twosome became a threesome and, day-by-day, it became clearer that I was the spare – and redundant – prick at the wedding. Fabiola was blind to all of Jax's little tricks: the way she'd manage to find a way to stand between us, slick little twists in conversations to move me out of my comfort zone, a little touch here, a whisper there. It was nothing I could compete with.

  I could see that Fabiola was hero-worshipping Jax from the start. I have no idea how Jax did it but was smart enough to know that trying to mess with people's heroes always ends badly, so I did what I've always done – kept quiet and made the best of it.

  Looking back and thinking about that time, there was always something frightening about Jax. She had a magical power over people. Even though I'd never liked her, and was cursing her every minute of every day for coming between me and Fabiola, she could always turn that around with a look or a smile.

  If she wanted to, she could make anybody feel like they were the most important person in the world, and get them to follow along with whatever she wanted. It wasn't a good experience. Jax could charm you against your will with her devil's charisma but, when she switched it off, she left you confused and blinking in a world of greyness.

  Of course, I was only in that spotlight a few times, when I was needed for something. Once Jax had Fabiola in her sights, she kept her there all of the time and I could almost smell the smoke rising from the intensity of her charm offensive. Fabiola didn't stand a chance and there was nothing I could do.