Guilty Parties

by Martin Edwards

  ‘Mum’s out.’

  ‘I know. It’s not your mum I’ve come to see.’

  Her room was at the top of the house; a view out through dormer windows towards the common. Kiley lifted a bundle of clothing off the one comfortable-looking chair and set it carefully down; other clothes were scattered haphazardly across the floor. Alicia was sitting cross-legged on her bed, chewing on a length of hair. The computer was on a table against the far wall.

  ‘Why?’ Kiley asked.

  A small shrug of the shoulders, avoiding his eyes.

  ‘Tell me,’ Kiley said.

  ‘So you can tell her.’

  ‘No. So you can tell her yourself.’

  ‘As if.’

  He let it pass. Watched. Waited. She hated being stared at, he could see that, hated the silence, the expectation.

  It didn’t last.

  ‘She was really stupid, right. Thinking just ’cause she’d deleted all that stuff it wouldn’t still be there, on the hard drive, somewhere. And, besides, she’s got this Time Machine, right, backs up everything. Automatic. I mean, what did she think?’

  ‘She might have thought you’d respect her privacy.’

  ‘Joking, right? Respect. She’s spreading her legs for some bloke on camera an’ I’m s’posed to show her respect.’

  ‘She is your mum.’

  ‘An’ that’s s’posed to make it better?’

  ‘No. No, it’s not.’

  ‘I hate her.’

  ‘You don’t.’

  ‘I do. I fuckin’ hate her. Makin’ me come an’ live down here and go to this crappy school, ’stead of being with my mates. Just ’cause she’s decided, after all this time, she wants to play fuckin’ mum. Wanted to do that, she should’ve done it when I was born, instead of givin’ me away.’

  There were tears in her eyes, the words choking from her throat.

  Kiley wanted to go across and give her a hug, but stayed where he was.

  Waited.

  ‘You need to talk to her about it,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, yeah, right.’

  ‘No, really, you should. Maybe get someone else to help.’

  ‘What, like some counsellor?’

  ‘If that’s what it needs.’

  Alicia sniffed, wiped a hand across her face. Twelve going on fifteen. Twelve going on seven.

  Slowly, Kiley got to his feet. ‘No more emails, eh? No more threats.’

  Alicia followed him downstairs.

  ‘Your mum would have made me a cup of tea,’ he said in the hall.

  ‘Yeah, well, I’m not my mum, am I?’

  Not yet, Kiley thought. ‘You’ll tell her I called,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Alicia said. ‘’Less I forget.’

  She was grinning as she closed the door.

  ALL YESTERDAY’S PARTIES

  Paul Johnston

  Paul Johnston, whose father Ronald was a successful thriller writer, was born in Scotland, educated at Oxford and now lives in Greece. He has published three distinct crime series, featuring Quint Dalrymple, Alex Mavros and Matt Wells. At present he is working on the next Mavros novel.

  21st

  Nick and his college friend Michael took a room above a pub. There had been a rash of twenty-firsts that year and they wanted to do something original. So they hired Napoleonic dragoon costumes with thigh boots and tall hats. People saluted them as they marched in step to the venue. The theme was ‘Foot and Mouth’ and guests were supposed to come appropriately attired. Which didn’t stop one guy showing up with a red plastic fish on his head. There was a prize for the best effort. It was won by Rick, a friend from another college, who managed to keep a candle alight on each of his boots all evening. He was presented with a decrepit copy of The Veterinarian’s Guide to Diseases Afflicting Cloven-Hoofed Animals, published in 1899. It was fitting. He ended up as a successful writer of Victorian era crime stories. There was further merriment when an unlikely lothario managed to get off with a woman to Led Zeppelin’s ‘Rock’n’Roll’. At the end of the party Nick and Michael were informed by a knowledgeable gatecrasher that they were actually wearing hussar uniforms. They managed to contain their disappointment.

  Things only got out of hand later. Pete, who had a reputation for losing his grip when he’d had more than a few, was in a group heading back to college. He was belting out Derek and Clive’s Cancer, emphasising every profanity, when a pair of cops walked up. One of them said, ‘I don’t like your noise.’ Pete stopped immediately, his head down. He didn’t like authority but, having been at public school, was conditioned to respond to it. They were allowed to proceed after the others said they’d calm him down. But, as soon as they were out of range, Pete started muttering furiously as if he’d been mortally offended. They got past the porter, but then Pete ran ahead and tore into a bed of daffodils in the main quad, ripping them up and shredding the flowers. Nick, who’d seen this kind of behaviour before – and, to be fair, had participated in it – pinned his arms to his sides and hauled him away. Again, that seemed to knock the fight out of Pete, who wandered after the others on the way to the four-storey block where most of them had rooms. He followed them up to the top floor, where Michael, a scholarship-winner, had a flash attic suite. No one had any booze, so cups of coffee were handed out.

  ‘Make his black,’ Nick said to Michael, looking around. ‘Where is the arsehole?’

  One of the windows had been opened and only Pete’s bottom half was visible.

  ‘Ha!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll get you next time!’

  Nick pulled him away. A post-graduate he didn’t know was lying on the grass, staring at the metal object that lay next to him.

  ‘What did you do?’

  Pete looked at him and then laughed. ‘The Keep off the Grass sign.’

  Nick stared at him. ‘You dropped it out the window?’

  ‘Hurled it, more like,’ said the expert on Napoleonic uniforms.

  The only girl in the company was crouching under Michael’s desk, quivering like a cornered mouse.

  Results: Pete had to pay a large sum for the daffodils. He was also given a serious warning by the dean, following a complaint from the post-grad he’d targeted. He lost the residual interest he had in his classical studies and ended up with a third-class degree.

  30th

  Nick was the only one of the college friends to have a party: the others were either too horrified by the end of their youth or too skint to bother. Michael was off in the Far East being a ludicrously well paid banker. He sent six bottles of Dom Perignon, which provoked a tirade from Pete, ending, ‘I always knew he’d end up a capitalist running dog.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Nick said. ‘And what exactly are you?’

  ‘A free spirit.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Ever since you got fired by the British Library, you’ve been bumming around like an eighteen-year-old.’

  Pete grinned, having already necked three glasses of champagne. ‘I have an artistic vision.’

  Nick avoided answering by going to greet some new arrivals. He’d fallen in love with Daisy, a colleague from work, and she had introduced him to a different crowd of friends. Predictably, Pete looked down on them because they’d either been to redbrick universities or had gone straight to work after school. They’d met him a few times and nodded at him cautiously as they headed for the drinks table.

  ‘All right?’ one of them said.

  ‘On the night,’ Pete replied, looking away. He disliked Steve even more than the rest of Nick’s new friends. He ran an import-export business and drove a BMW.

  ‘Lovely jubbly,’ Steve said, turning away.

  Pete shook his head and went over to his two remaining friends.

  ‘Where’s your other half?’ Al asked.

  ‘Probably asleep under the coats by now. You know how little stamina she has for this kind of thing.’

  Al and Luke exchanged glances. Pete’s girlfriend, Silke, was German and didn’t like them or Nick. She thought th
ey wound Pete up more than was either necessary or sensible. Tonight he had a glint in his eyes that worried them.

  They drank, did what they could to control the quality of the music and then got stuck into Nick’s present from Daisy’s notoriously lively friend, Lindsey: there were pot, pills and a bag of coke. The night got lively. At one point Pete disappeared.

  ‘Where is he?’ Nick asked, between host duties.

  Al and Luke, their pupils dilated, didn’t have a clue. They had just put on ‘Kashmir’ and were playing air violin-guitar.

  With a bad feeling, Nick checked the other rooms. The flat was small, only two bedrooms. Both had piles of coats on the beds. The first, his and Daisy’s, was empty. The door to the guestroom was a couple of inches ajar. Nick heard a gasp of pleasure and stayed where he was. The lucky bastard. Then he heard a muffled shriek.

  He went in. Silke had risen from beneath the coats, her hair wild. Her eyes were on Pete, who was leaning against the wall. Lindsey was on her knees, blouse open, one hand on Pete’s erect member.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Nick said.

  Silke looked at him and then turned back to the couple. She started to laugh, at first lightly but soon as if she’d been told the funniest joke in the world.

  ‘I need a drink,’ Lindsey said, getting to her feet and doing up her buttons.

  ‘A few more seconds and I’d have given you one,’ Pete said, having to shout above his girlfriend’s laughter. Then he zipped himself up and ran to the bed. In a second he was sitting on Silke’s chest. Then his hands went round her throat. Eyes bulging, she tried to gasp for breath but the grip was too tight.

  Nick, a former rugby player, lowered his shoulder and drove into Pete’s side, sending him flying off the bed. ‘You arsehole, what the fuck are you doing?’ he shouted, helping Silke to sit up.

  ‘Murder …’ Pete said, from the floor. ‘It’s a fine art, you know.’

  Results: Nick called a minicab for Silke and promised he’d make sure Pete didn’t come home that night. Pete got thoroughly drunk-stoned with Al and Luke, and they ended the party competing to do the highest Pete Townshend-style leap. Pete and Silke stayed together, leaving the UK a month later to do a modern Grand Tour, ending up in a draughty farmhouse in the Abruzzi. Nick and Daisy got married a year later. Pete and Silke weren’t invited to the wedding.

  40th

  Nick’s PR firm was doing well. He and Daisy had two kids, a boy and a girl, and they moved to a detached house in Dulwich. He didn’t fancy a party as forty really wasn’t an age he’d come to terms with. Instead he hired a private leisure centre and let his male friends loose on the facilities. Several of them were too unfit to do anything other than sit in the sauna or wallow in the pool. Luke and Al flirted unsuccessfully with the lithe waitresses and drank far too many cocktails. After a couple of hours, Nick thought he’d got away with it. Although he’d invited Pete, he doubted he would turn up. Silke and he were living in Antwerp, where he was only just surviving by selling drawings of the city’s buildings to tourists. It wasn’t clear what Silke did. Nick felt a twinge of guilt about not offering to buy him a ticket. After all, they had been best mates once.

  And then Pete appeared, wearing a stained denim jacket and clutching a duty-free bag of Belgian beer. He had lost a lot of hair and was trying to compensate with a Frank Zappa moustache and goatee. They embraced awkwardly.

  ‘Surprised?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t RSVP.’

  ‘As if I bother with bollocks like that. I’m a bohemian, me.’

  ‘Is that where Antwerp is?’

  Pete laughed, only just on the right side of rationality.

  ‘What have you been taking?’

  ‘Oh, a little cocktail of substances. They’re very easy to obtain over there.’

  Nick nodded to Al and Luke. ‘The boys are back in, er, the pool.’

  Pete gave them a glassy look. ‘I don’t suppose Lindsey’s around.’

  ‘No wives or girlfriends. Besides, she’s married to Steve now.’

  ‘That prick? What a waste.’

  ‘He’s a friend, Pete.’

  ‘Well, choose some better ones.’

  Nick walked away. Most of the group were bowling, their shouts echoing around the venue. He joined in, cleaning up several times. He’d always had a good eye for a ball, but not when it was thrown from behind.

  ‘Shit,’ he gasped, clutching the back of his head.

  He located Pete only after another squash ball came at him. His college friend had climbed on to a joist that ran across the bowling area and was naked apart from a bag tied round his waist. Balls were aimed at the rest of the group, some of whom returned them with interest.

  ‘Wankers!’ Pete shouted. ‘Lackeys of the Man!’ He screamed with laughter as he managed to hit Steve on the nose. Then he threw up over him and several other guests.

  Results: Nick and his friends were summarily thrown out of the club. Pete disappeared into the night, while Al and Luke were found passed out in the sauna an hour later. Pete rang Nick a month later, not to apologise but to ask for a loan, which Nick reluctantly provided.

  50th

  For Daisy, this was the big one. Not only was her husband reaching that significant age – she was a few years younger, so could be objective about it – but their son Ben had turned eighteen. The double celebration was to take place at home, a manor house in a Surrey village with enough lawn for a cricket match to be played. Nick, now boss of the firm, was overworked and ground down, so he concentrated on drawing up the teams for the game. At first he thought he’d have the young play the old, women included if they fancied it. Then he realised that Ben had some seriously handy players among his friends, so he split them up among the old crocks. The wives preferred to have their own tennis competition on the grass court.

  ‘Will Pete come?’ Al asked Nick.

  ‘Who knows? He’s an art teacher now rather than a bohemian, but he still hasn’t bothered with an RSVP.’

  ‘Up north somewhere, isn’t he?’ Luke put in. Although they’d all been at college together, only Nick kept in touch with Pete irregularly.

  ‘Huddersfield. And they’ve got a kid – a girl.’

  ‘I’m amazed Silk Cut’s still with him.’

  ‘From what he says, she’s going through the men of the north hand over fist.’

  There was an influx of people, young and old, and Nick went to meet them. Caterers had been hired to provide a long table of food in the garden and there was another table covered in bottles, some in ice-buckets.

  ‘Time to fuel up,’ Luke said.

  ‘I think …’ Al broke off when he saw Pete walk in, Silke behind him carrying a small child. ‘Oh-oh.’

  ‘What’s happened to his hair?’

  ‘Must be a wig. He hardly had any ten years back.’

  ‘Maybe the witch rubs his head with eye of toad and claw of bat.’

  They went to the drinks, laughing.

  ‘Pete,’ Nick said. ‘And Silke. What a surprise.’ He bent over the child. ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘Christina,’ her mother replied. ‘How are you, Nick? You’re looking well.’

  Pete was already on his way to the drinks.

  ‘Am I? I still manage the gym three times a week.’ He caught her gaze. ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’s all right when I’m around,’ Silke said. There were strands of white in her hair and she wasn’t wearing any make-up, but she still had something. ‘And I behave when I’m with Christina.’ Her crooked smile confirmed what Pete had told him about her love life.

  The noise level rose steadily as the full complement arrived, ate and drank. Nick was apprehensive about the cricket as he knew Pete would want to play.

  Fortunately one of Ben’s friends had already had too much, so there was a slot for him in the batting order, lower than he would have wanted, but too bad. Then Nick realised that Steve, a fast if wayward bowler, and Pete were on opposite sides. It was too late to do a
nything about that.

  The game passed without incident, the young frequently showing the old up, especially when it came to run-outs. Then Pete came in to bat. Nick couldn’t stop Steve taking the ball. Even more bull-chested than he used to be, the bowler ran up faster than he had done previously. Just before he reached the umpire – Nick’s father – Pete raised his hand, pointing to the trees beyond the lawn.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ he called. ‘Bird flew up.’

  Steve glared at him and went back to his mark. Nick shook a finger at Pete to make sure he didn’t play any more games. The ball was launched, fast and on a length, and to everyone’s astonishment Pete smashed it over the bowler’s head and far beyond the deepest fielder. His team mates whooped and clapped. Steve, red-faced and sweating, came again and this time was hit through the covers for four. And so it continued for another two overs, until Nick took him off. Pete was asked to retire on forty to give someone else a chance. He agreed happily enough.

  ‘Shit, man,’ Luke said, as Pete passed him in the outfield. ‘Have you been practising?’

  ‘It’s a question of emotion, my friend. I’ve always hated that fat tosser.’

  Luke watched as Pete went to take off his pads, accepting a beer from an openly admiring woman. Silke and Christina were nowhere to be seen.

  The match was declared a draw, Pete having only bowled after Steve was out.

  ‘Right,’ said Nick. ‘More food and drink now.’

  The cricketers followed him to the tables.

  A DJ had been hired and initially he struggled to cater for the different age groups.

  ‘I suppose a bit of Led Zep’s out of the question,’ Pete said, after night had fallen. The garden was draped with lights. The DJ feigned deafness. ‘Jesus, what a load of shite. Come on, you two, let’s go to that statue over there. At least we can smoke.’ Daisy had made it clear that she didn’t want any ash or butts near the food.

  They lit up, then Pete took out a bag of pills.

  ‘Go on, they won’t hurt you.’

  ‘What are they?’ Al asked.

  ‘Live dangerously. I promise you’ll still be here tomorrow.’