Best Man

by Matt Dunn

  ‘What on earth would he be doing down at Beachy Head at that time of the morning?’ she says through her tears, but I’m glad she’s phrased it rhetorically; we all know that it’s the UK’s most popular suicide spot. As she talks, Nick’s father sits quietly with my dad in the corner. I can tell he’s struggling to stay calm, and I’m feeling so guilty I can’t meet his gaze.

  Nick’s mum has the name and phone number of the police officer at the scene, and her hand shakes as she passes it to me. I call him straight away and tell him I’m on my way down.

  ‘When did you last see Mr Morgan?’ he asks, and I tell him it had been the previous night, but again decide not to elaborate. Need to know basis, and all that.

  I run round the house gathering my stuff together, but can’t find my car keys. After enlisting everyone’s help in a frantic search, they eventually turn up in the fruit bowl in the hallway.

  ‘Where were they?’ asks my father.

  ‘Fruit bowl,’ I reply.

  ‘They’re always in the last place you look,’ says my mum, shaking her head resignedly.

  ‘Mum – you always say that. Of course they’re always in the last place you look. Why on earth would you keep looking for something after you’ve found it?’ I’m a little terse, but there are times that her silly comments fail to amuse.

  I leave her taking care of Nick’s mum and dad, promising that I’ll phone as soon as I have any news. Screeching out of the drive, and causing a few bedroom lights to come on in my parents’ normally peaceful street, I gun the Impresser towards Brighton. Within minutes I’m passing the ‘Thanks for visiting the Isle of Thanet’ sign on my way out, and it suddenly occurs to me that I should call Sandra. She answers the phone at Nick’s flat on the second ring, so I assume she’s awake and aware of what’s going on, although she doesn’t seem to be particularly upset. She tells me that she hasn’t seen Nick since Friday evening.

  ‘If anything’s happened to him, I’ll never forgive . . .’

  I think for a moment she’s going to say myself . . .

  ‘. . . you!’ she shouts, and puts the phone down.

  My next call, and I dial with unsteady fingers, is to Nick’s mobile, but ominously all I get is a ‘dead’ tone. Throwing my phone on to the passenger seat, I swallow hard and put my foot down.

  I make the journey with no music playing, as I want to be able to concentrate on driving fast or, more accurately, making sure I don’t crash, and several times I have reason to be thankful for the Impresser’s four-wheel drive as I navigate the road as if I’m playing a computer game. I manage to break my Margate to Brighton record without encountering a single police car on the way, and I’m slightly disappointed at this as for once I have a legitimate reason to be driving like a maniac.

  Reaching Beachy Head just as dawn is breaking, it’s easy to spot the cluster of emergency vehicles, lights flashing in the morning glow. I remember bitterly how Nick and I used to laugh when we read reports in the local paper of all those ‘accidental’ jumpers: dog walkers whose exuberant pets would pull them over when chasing rabbits, only for the dog to be found alive and well at the bottom guarding the mangled corpse of its owner, or intrepid kite flyers dragged over the edge by an unexpected gust. All those balmy summer evenings, Nick, Mark and me sitting up here, daring each other to get closer to the edge. And then I remember my weekend with Charlie, how I’d held on to her so tightly as we’d looked down at the three hundred foot drop, hearing the waves crashing on the rocks far below. What a way to go, I used to think, marvelling at the imagined thrill of such an action. Not so marvellous or thrilling now.

  I drive past an ambulance, its back doors open, and force myself to look inside, but it’s empty. Parking on the grass verge, with shaking hands I switch off the engine and get out. The Impresser is ticking in that over-hot way, the burning smell from the brake discs heavy in the air as I struggle to catch my breath. It seems to take a huge effort, as if I’m moving through water, for me to get out of the car and walk over to the cordoned-off cliff edge, where the winches are pulling the battered Ferrari up and on to the grass.

  Nobody’s stopping me, and I join the massed ranks of Sussex’s emergency services as we all peer over the cliff – obviously it’s not that common an event down here, a hundred grand’s worth of Italian engineering ending up at the bottom of Sussex’s top beauty spot, hence the good turnout. I’m still hoping that it’s not his, that the police have made a mistake with the registration number, and that it’s somebody else who’s driven their car over the edge in a vain attempt to get a supercar to fly.

  As the remains of the Ferrari swing into view I can’t bring myself to look into the driver’s seat. All kinds of thoughts are running through my mind, and I find myself wondering whether when someone you know, or, dare I say, love, dies, and they ask you to identify the body, do you agree? Would you honestly want years of happy memories to be overshadowed by one image of this person stretched out on a mortuary slab, devoid of any of the life you knew and shared? Will you forever be unable to think of anything you ever did, any time you ever shared with this person without this grotesque image leaping into your mind? Particularly if it’s your fault.

  I wish I’d thought about this beforehand, but then could I honestly ever have refused? Surely the ‘big’ thing to do is to spare Nick’s parents the ordeal of having the same final, but oh so false memory of their son. And what if he’s burnt? Will I recognize him? Don’t cars always explode when they go over cliffs, or is that only in the movies?

  As the winches grind to a halt, I suddenly catch sight of the number plate, now hanging off the distorted back bumper, and half smile as I remember how Mark and I took the piss when Nick bought the personalized registration. An instant later, I realize this proves that it is actually his car, and my smile fades abruptly. My chest tightens, and I half sit, half fall on to the soft, dewy grass, causing the waiting ambulance men to move towards me.

  It’s at this point I notice that there seem to be rather a large number of paramedics standing round, drinking tea from Styrofoam cups, generally not engaged in the sort of frantic action you see whenever this sort of accident is portrayed on Casualty. It doesn’t occur to me that this might be because Nick is dead.

  ‘Are you okay, pal?’ A voice from a jump-suited figure snaps me back to reality.

  ‘Was there . . . is he . . . did you . . . ?’ I can’t put a sentence together.

  The paramedic shakes his head. ‘Didn’t find a body, mate. Convertible, you see. Great in the hot weather, but not so good if you happen to drive off a cliff. Might have been swept out to sea or something. They normally don’t find them until weeks afterwards, if at all. Friend of yours, was he?’ he adds. Was he?

  I don’t answer, but get up and stagger back towards the cliff edge, past the scorched and twisted metal. Fighting waves of nausea, I look down to where I can just about make out where the car has hit the rocks below. I picture the Ferrari arcing out into thin air, wheels spinning, exhaust roaring, heading down towards the sea, then exploding in a flash bright enough to light up the whole coastline, maybe even visible from France. I stare at the edge where the car has gone over, searching for tyre tracks in the grass, any evidence that he might have tried to put his brakes on before he went over, but I can’t see any traces in the lush green growth. I look back towards the water, where the tide seems to be a long way out, and I find myself remembering how my dad taught me to tell whether it’s going out or coming in. Strangely, it looks to me like it’s just started to come back in.

  Then a thought occurs to me. Nick always hated the water. He’d never learnt to swim, reasoning that at his height most rivers or swimming pools were easily crossed with his feet still touching the bottom. I don’t think he’d ever purposely have aimed to drop himself slap bang in the middle of the English Channel if he could help it, particularly given what we’d seen floating in the sea off Brighton in our years here. Then again, given the tides, and the time I’m g
uessing he got here, he’d have struggled to go fast enough to make the water. Even in a Ferrari.

  I jump as my mobile rings. It’s my mother, anxious to know what’s going on, not in the least because she’s been drip feeding tea to Nick’s mum for the last few hours. My voice is slightly shaky and I don’t quite know what to say, so I just tell her what I’ve seen: that, yes, it is Nick’s car but, no, there’s no sign of Nick, which I suppose is good news. Leaving her with the difficult job of relaying this information to Nick’s mum and dad, I give my details to the policeman at the scene, then go and sit in my car and just stare at the sunrise, oblivious to the glorious day dawning in front of me.

  For the second time in almost as many days I don’t know what to do. It’s too early to call Mark, and, besides, he’d only worry, so instead I start the Impresser and head back to London. As I drive, I can’t help thinking about Charlie, and realize, rather surprisingly, how much I miss her, and even need her, particularly now, given what’s just happened. Although I’m still angry about what I saw at her flat the other night, at the very least she deserves a chance to explain.

  By the time I reach the West End, I’m almost on autopilot, and find myself driving past the end of my street and heading straight for her flat. It’s still early, and I have to ring the bell several times before I hear Charlie’s sleepy voice on the intercom. When she realizes it’s me her tone quickly changes, but not for the better.

  ‘Do you know what time it is?’ she snaps.

  I look at my watch. ‘Er, yes. Hold on. It’s—’

  She interrupts me sharply. ‘Adam! That was a rhetorical question. What do you want?’

  Good point. What do I want? I don’t know where to start. ‘Er . . .’

  ‘Adam, it’s . . .’ She sighs loudly. ‘What is the time?’

  ‘Quarter past seven,’ I say, sheepishly.

  ‘Quarter past seven on Sunday morning, and I’ve got to work today. What are you doing here?’

  I’ve had a few seconds to think about it now. ‘I thought we could have a talk, you know, about the other night. So I could tell you how I feel.’

  Charlie’s voice changes from cold to steely. ‘I think you made that perfectly clear when you didn’t turn up yesterday, and then refused to take my calls.’

  Ah. It suddenly occurs to me that, despite all my feelings of injustice, Charlie may actually be mad at me for my no-show. I get a sudden feeling of déjà-vu, as if I’m standing on a cliff edge for the second time this morning.

  ‘Charlie, about last night. Something important came up.’

  I can hear the exasperation in her voice, even through the crackly loudspeaker. ‘Adam, I’m having a baby. Your baby. What could possibly be more important?’

  Despite the early hour, quite a few people are walking along the street now, and I’m starting to feel a little self-conscious, especially as Charlie’s voice, amplified as it is by the intercom, seems rather loud in the morning stillness.

  ‘Nick . . . Nick’s car . . .’ I try and explain, but the words stick in my throat, the image of the mangled Ferrari still painfully fresh in my mind.

  ‘Gnaargh!’ says Charlie, or something very much like that, and I’m suddenly glad that I’m not standing within striking distance. ‘Nick’s car? I’m waiting for you so we can talk about our future and instead you’re off . . .’ She’s sounding so angry now she can’t even complete the sentence, and I’m sure she’s on the verge of tears. What’s more, she’s not the only one.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. Just give me a chance to explain,’ I plead, my voice thick with emotion. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Charlie shouts her answer at me, and I’m almost knocked backwards off the doorstep by its ferocity. I stand there stunned for a few moments, and then turn and trudge wearily towards the Impresser and drive back home.

  I don’t know what I’d been expecting her to say, but ‘Get lost, Adam’ certainly wasn’t on my list of preferred responses. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, and when I reach my flat it’s all I can do to make it to the couch, where I immediately drop off into a deep sleep.

  That is, until my intercom buzzes.

  Chapter 19

  I sit up with a start and check my watch. It’s ten o’clock, I’ve only been asleep for a couple of hours, and my heart leaps, hoping that it’s Charlie. I hurry into the hallway, thinking that maybe I should have given her that spare set of keys after all, and nervously press the ‘talk’ button. But instead of Charlie’s dulcet tones, what I actually hear makes me jump.

  ‘Sorry about the punch!’ says a metallic voice.

  I buzz Nick in and fling open my front door in time to see him bounding up the stairs, holdall in hand. I’m so pleased to see him that not for the first time in the last thirty-six hours I have an insane urge to start crying.

  ‘Nick! Thank God! Where the . . . what hap . . . are you okay?’ I stammer.

  ‘Calm down, mate, I’ve said sorry. No need to be so agitated. Where the fuck have you been, anyway?’ he replies, as Mark comes puffing up the stairs behind him.

  I usher them both in, and close the door behind them. ‘But you . . . the Ferrari?’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he says. ‘Some bastard’s nicked it – and with my mobile. I didn’t want to go anywhere near the flat while Sandra was there, and I’ve only just realized it’s gone. I’ve had to rough it at bloody Mark’s, seeing as you weren’t around.’

  Mark makes a face behind Nick’s back. ‘You’re welcome,’ he says, huffily.

  I shake my head in disbelief. ‘Why didn’t you call?’

  ‘We tried,’ says Mark. ‘But seeing as you weren’t answering your phone . . .’

  ‘. . . or doorbell,’ adds Nick. ‘And besides, we figured you could probably do with some space, what with Charlie and all.’ He jabs a thumb in Mark’s direction. ‘Mark filled me in.’

  Mark looks at me guiltily, and then a confused look crosses his face. ‘Hold on. Adam, how do you know about the car being stolen?’

  Nick frowns. ‘Yeah. I’ve only just called the police; they’re checking now to see whether it’s been spotted. Organized gangs from Europe, they reckon. Come into town to nick a flash car, and it’s across the Channel and out of the country before you even know it’s gone.’

  ‘Well for some reason they forgot to use a boat this time. You were insured, I take it?’ I say, and explain the events of the previous evening.

  Nick goes white when I describe in great detail the scene at Beachy Head, and then uses my phone to ring his mum, who we hear crying on the other end of the line. He calls the police, who tell him that the thieves were probably heading for the Newhaven ferry when something must have gone wrong – ‘Probably broke down again, knowing your car,’ suggests Mark – and they must have decided to dump it to cover their tracks. And then he does something he’s never done before in the twenty-something years I’ve known him – comes over and gives me a hug. I don’t know how to react to this and just stand there stupidly with my arms straight down by my sides until he’s finished. He steps away, suddenly embarrassed, and punches me playfully on the shoulder.

  ‘Bloody hell, pal – no wonder you look so bad. You must have been through it.’

  ‘But what about Sandra, the kiss . . .’ I say.

  Nick grins awkwardly. ‘Mate, I came in long before any of that started. I saw your car outside and decided I’d sneak in and see what you were up to. Thought you might be planning something for the stag night.’

  ‘But you still hit me?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, giving me a sheepish look. ‘Sorry about that. I overheard the whole conversation, about her only wanting my money, not loving me and so on. And then when she tried to kiss you, I thought no way can I marry someone with such bad taste . . .’ He tries to make a joke of it, but his eyes are giving away the fact that he’s obviously still pretty upset, although it occurs to me that it might be more about the Ferrari than Sandra. ‘I was so angry I had to
hit something, and I’d never hit a girl, so it was either you or the wall, and, quite frankly, punching the wall would have hurt.’

  ‘Oh. Thanks,’ I say. ‘So the wedding?’

  Nick shrugs. ‘Off.’

  ‘Sandra?’

  ‘Gone off.’

  ‘You?’

  He grimaces. ‘Pissed off, but okay, I suppose. Lucky I found out in time, really.’

  Luck had nothing to do with it, I think, rubbing my bruised jaw.

  I retrieve a bottle of Jack Daniel’s from the kitchen and pour us all a drink. Downing his in one, Nick turns to me.

  ‘Pretty dramatic turn of events, though,’ he says. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me what you thought about her?’

  I look at him incredulously, but he just smiles.

  ‘Didn’t you have any idea?’ Mark asks.

  Nick refills his glass and swills the golden liquid round, considering his answer.

  ‘Sometimes you can be on the verge of getting what you think you want, and then you wake up one morning and realize it might not be as great as you thought it was going to be. And then what do you do? It’s like standing on the deck of one of those supertankers and seeing that you’re heading towards the rocks, but knowing that there’s no way you’re going to be able to turn round in time.’ He takes a sip of whisky and continues. ‘The only thing you can do is stay on board, brace yourself for the impact and try and convince yourself that it won’t be so bad afterwards.’

  ‘Or hope there’s a rescue chopper on the way?’ I suggest.

  ‘Mate, it’s always a “chopper” that gets us into these situations in the first place,’ says Mark, ruefully, and I can’t help thinking how right he is.

  Nick stares into his glass. ‘I’m not saying it was all Sandra’s fault . . .’

  I scratch my head. ‘Well, was it your fault?’

  Nick mulls this over for a moment. ‘No. Actually, it was her fault. She was so transparent. I should have seen her coming.’