The Friend

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘She was bludgeoned with a large rock that came from a set from the beach hut she visited earlier in the evening. There were no sets of fingerprints on the rock – not even the victim’s – suggesting it was wiped clean but none of them could explain what the rock was doing at the school and not at the beach hut. Well, they could explain, but none of them said the same thing so we could only conclude they were lying. We found very little foreign DNA evidence on Yvonne, and what we did find pointed to one or all of the women we think did it. Coupled with the fact all their stories vary a little in some places and then wildly in other places, it’s clear they’re all lying. Even the bits that they corroborated – like the fact they all left together – sound so rehearsed we’re sure they’re lying.’

  He stops talking and when he starts again, he’s lost that robotic, formal tone he told me that information in, and he speaks much softer, more naturally.

  ‘Which brings me to what I know about them.’ He places a hand on the table and I look down at it. Wrinkled, the skin a slightly baggy dark pink around his knuckles, his nails neatly clipped. ‘If you know the background on these women, you’ll see why we think it was one of them.’

  ‘But from what you said, you don’t know it was one of them. People lie all the time when they’re scared, especially when the police are on their case. You know that.’

  ‘Cece, you need to listen to what I know.’

  ‘I don’t, you know. It’s going to be hard enough facing them with this agenda, but knowing stuff that I shouldn’t about them will make it even more difficult.’

  ‘You used to do it all the time,’ he says. ‘That was your job for years remember?’

  ‘Those people weren’t my friends. I respect my friends’ privacy. The people who I used to investigate had signed something saying I – well, the company – was allowed to monitor their activity. I’m not saying it was morally right, but it was legal and above board. This is underhand and sneaky. And I’m only doing it to get rid of you. I don’t need to know stuff about them before I find out what happened that night.’

  He says nothing for a while, probably because he knows I’m right. Maybe waiting for me to look at him again. I can’t, of course. Look at him, that is. It’s too difficult. I thought all of that would be long gone, eternally erased. I was disgusted by what he was saying in the street the other day, but it’s not gone, of course it’s not. We never finished properly; I still hate him for what he did, but I kind of—

  ‘All right, compromise,’ he says when I don’t look at him. ‘I’ll give you the short version, a precis of all the things you should absolutely know. Right, well, one of them has a caution on record for assault; one is being investigated for possible fraud and one, I don’t know, one of them there’s something about her. There are lots of little things that don’t add up. We were focusing on her first of all because she admits following the victim to continue their argument, but then says she went back to leave the beach hut with the others.’

  Bloody hell. Am I really going to do this, to make him go away? This is stuff I don’t want to know. This is stuff that I’d rather be able to say, REALLY? I had no idea, she was capable of that about, than sit there knowing. Because what do I do with this knowledge once it’s in my head? How do I behave with them after I have looked into all their secrets? Some friend I am.

  I push my chair out hard and stand up. I move towards the sink and lean on the worktop beside it. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. I can do this. I’m sure I can. I have to, but what sort of person does this make me? Will I really ever be able to call any of them my friend if I do this? If I find out that one of them is a potential murderer what will happen with the other two if they find out what I did to help the police? Who would trust me again? I wouldn’t trust me. No way. And what if they all did it? ‘Are you absolutely sure it was one of them?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. As I said, they’ve all admitted they were with her not long before the attack; theirs is the only DNA found on the victim; we know they’re lying to us but we can’t seem to break them and—’

  I hold my hand up to stop him talking. I don’t need to hear any more. I don’t need to listen to this at all. This is a different kind of nightmare. The only way to rid my life of the ex who betrayed our friendship is to betray my friends.

  I stand very still while Gareth gets up and slowly crosses the kitchen towards me. I hear his footsteps approaching and I focus on the way the bevelled edges of the white tiles above the sink disappear into the grey grouting. I concentrate on the way light from the patio doors falls on the stainless steel tap and drainage rack. I focus on the tiny speckles of black mould I’ll need to remove from the clear glue-like sealant between the wall and sink. I should move, I should stop this, but I don’t. I stand very still and concentrate on my sink until Gareth is close enough for me to feel the heat that was always between us, until he stands behind me, slightly off-centre so the right half of his body presses ever so slightly against the left half of mine. I should stop this, but instead I concentrate on the sink, on biting my lower lip as he places his hands on my shoulders. I should stop this, but instead I close my eyes and inhale his scent, the essence of him – musk, sandalwood, peat – as he lowers his head and presses his face against my hair.

  ‘Cece,’ he eventually sighs. ‘Do you ever think about us? About what it would have been like if we’d stayed together?’

  I should stop this. Despite the heat, despite the way my body is responding to him: unfurling, unclenching, unwinding because I’m desired in a way Sol seems to have forgotten, I should stop this. Despite remembering how physically and mentally hedonistic it was to fuck Gareth, I should stop this. ‘I think you’d better leave,’ I say to him. I am stopping this. I am stopping this.

  ‘Cece,’ he breathes again. ‘I think about you all the time. I think about us all the time.’

  ‘That was fifteen years ago. We’ve been apart sixty times longer than we were together.’

  ‘It was sixteen years ago, but that hasn’t changed anything. I’ve slept around, yes, I’ve had relationships, and I’ve tried to settle down but—’

  ‘You need to leave now, Gareth,’ I interrupt. I do not need to hear any more.

  ‘I want you so much,’ he whispers and presses his body closer to me. ‘So much.’

  My treacherous body responds by pushing back, moulding itself to him. I want him so much I can taste it in my mouth, the scent of him is filling my mind. I want him. I want him to press his lips against my neck and cover it in kisses; I want him to slide his hands under my clothes and caress my skin; I want him to unbutton my jeans and tug them down over my hips; I want him to unbutton his trousers …

  ‘Gareth, I’m married. Even if I wasn’t married … we can’t go back in time. We can’t go back to before what you did … Just go.’

  ‘I meant what I said last time,’ he says. ‘I loved you … I think I still—’

  It’d be so easy for me to do it. The way Sol and I are breaking apart right now, the way I know my husband is hiding something from me, most likely doing the dirty on me, the way he makes me feel when I am around him, it would be so good to do it with Gareth. To stick two fingers up at Sol, at my failing marriage, and exact a quiet but powerful revenge. It’d be so easy to do it, too, especially when my body, each neglected part of it, wants me to. But wanting to screw someone and doing it are two very different things. There are a lot of steps you have to take in between those two things and you can stop at any time. I am stopping it right now.

  ‘Sex isn’t love,’ I tell Gareth, my tone harsh but necessary. ‘No matter how good it was, sex isn’t love. You really need to leave now.’

  Finally. He steps away and I can at last breathe. I can at last mentally shake myself and tell myself to stop being so stupid.

  ‘Cece …’ he says.

  ‘Yep?’

  He says nothing, does nothing, until I’m forced to look at him.

  ‘I know you said sex isn’t love bu
t did you ever, you know, feel …? Did you ever, even a little?’

  We are talking about a past history, but it still feels like a current betrayal of Sol. Of the life we’ve built.

  ‘You know the answer to that,’ I say to him. He may have not been able to read me all the time, but he did back then. I was an open book to him back then.

  He grins at me. ‘Really?’

  I nod.

  ‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘For your help with all this, I mean.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything yet,’ I state.

  ‘You will. I know you will.’

  I know I will too. And that thought makes me want to retch.

  2 p.m. I need to find out what they are hiding so I can work out why they are lying to the police. Because even though I am doing this thing, I don’t believe any of them has done it.

  The strongest link in the pattern that is ‘Anaya, Hazel and Maxie’ is actually Hazel. She is the one I will have to do more labour-intensive stuff with because so much of her story is known. She is very open about 95 per cent of her life. The 5 per cent she keeps hidden has been squirrelled away for specific, devastating reasons and it will take something big to get her to reveal it.

  From what I know of them, what I know about human nature in general, people like Anaya, Hazel and Maxie do not lie for personal gain, they lie to protect other people. Which is why I am baffled why Hazel is being investigated for fraud. Unless she has debts that are astronomical, but she told me she had managed to secure enough in her settlement to buy her new house outright, so why would she? Fraud, the type that requires a long investigation, is not small stuff. I am assuming the fraud investigation is of Hazel because she works for a building society. Which, again, is odd, because why would she? Why would she risk it all when she has three children to bring up essentially on her own? It must be the link to her boyfriend, Ciaran, that has caused her to be investigated. It must be. He is the one I have to do a deep investigation on.

  Maxie and Anaya.

  Anaya is the weakest link. She wants to talk. She wants to tell the truth to someone. Not only about that night, but also about what led to her accepting a caution for assault. I know it’s her because out of all of them, she has the calmest disposition. It stands to reason that if any of the others were to get into a fight, like me, they would argue the toss, they would see it through to the end. Anaya would accept a caution to have it over with. Anaya. She wants to open up to someone, so I need to focus on her, first. Find out why she is lying to the police. Who she is trying to protect. Why someone of her temperament would lie about being involved in Yvonne’s attempted murder. That’s the thing as well. Someone who has taken a caution for assault will most likely do it again if threatened. Was Yvonne threatening her?

  Which leaves Maxie. The enigma. It could go any way with her. I like her so much though. Out of the three, she is the friend that is most like me – she speaks her mind, she can be volatile, but she cares.

  Maybe I’m fooling myself, but I’m doing this for them as well. They are all, in their own ways, cracking up. I see them at the gates, trying to be normal, pretending they aren’t carrying this heavy burden, when it’s clear none of them has had a good night’s sleep in months. If you do not have psychopathic tendencies, things like this will slowly tear you apart. So, a tiny, tiny part of this is for them. The truth will set them free. I know it will.

  I have to tackle them in different ways.

  My chest tightens when I pick up my mobile. I have to do yoga breathing – deep breath in, long breath out – several times before I can type. Shame shakes my fingers, and I have to delete the rouge letters that come up. Finally I press send and I almost fling my mobile across the room at the thought of what I’ve started.

  Part 10

  MONDAY

  Anaya

  6:45 p.m.

  Hey Anaya. How’s it going? Love Cece x

  She’s not technically been in my life long enough for me to call her a friend. But I’m relieved every time I see her name on my phone. She’s been sending me ‘How’s it going?’ texts for the past week, and even if I don’t reply, they make me feel better. I don’t have that clench I get whenever I see Hazel’s or Maxie’s name come up. She’s simple, uncomplicated. Maybe she’s the person to practise on before I set off that bomb in my life.

  TUESDAY

  Cece

  7 p.m. Anaya is at the door. I’ve been sending her ‘How’s it going?’ texts for the past week, hating myself every time I press send, but today it’s paid off.

  ‘Hi?’ I say. ‘Are you all right? Is there a problem with the children?’

  ‘No, no, they’re fine. They’re with their dad. Although, what they’re up to I don’t want to think about, so maybe I was being a bit optimistic when I said they were fine.’

  I grin at her, remembering how endearingly crazy she sounded the first time we met.

  ‘I sound crazy, don’t I?’ she says.

  ‘Only a little.’

  ‘Can we go somewhere for a chat?’ she asks. I watch her dry the palms of her hands on her tight black trousers and I know she’s ready to talk. She’s wanted to for a while but now she’s ready.

  I glance over my shoulder. ‘Give me a minute.’ I step back in, take off my apron and hook it in place of a small black fleece, which I shrug on before I put on my teal-green leather jacket, swap my fluffy slippers for ankle boots, wind one of my many scarves around my neck. I go to the bottom of the stairs and shout: ‘Just nipping out for a bit. The kids have had their dinner, just homework, reading, teeth and bed to do. Don’t worry if you don’t get around to the washing-up.’

  ‘What?’ I can hear from upstairs. ‘Where are you going? When will you be back?’

  ‘You’re glad you’ve got my back? Ah, thanks, love. Don’t wait up.’

  ‘No, no, Cece, I’m meant to be going out. I said I’d meet a few—’

  ‘What was that? “Have a nice time, Cece”? Oh, thanks, I will.’ I can hear movement upstairs so I go quickly to Anaya. ‘See you later, kids. Be good for Daddy.’ I then usher Anaya out, slamming the door behind me. I take her hand and drag her down the road at a fast run/walk.

  ‘Oh, no, your husband said he was going out. I don’t want to cause any trouble. This chat can wait till another time.’

  ‘No, for you to have come here, I really don’t think this chat can wait, can it?’ I say. ‘If you back out now, you won’t ever do it. And I suspect this is something you really need to talk about.’

  ‘You’re right, but I feel bad, though. What about your family?’ Once we reach the street that leads up to the main road, I slow down and let go of her hand.

  ‘They’ll be fine … well, the kids will be. Sol will be narked for a bit about it, but he does need last-minute reminding that they’re also his children and just because he earns the cash, he doesn’t get to opt out of all the drudgery bits of parenting.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great. Do you mind if we walk and talk? I need a cigarette, and bad.’

  Anaya

  7:15 p.m. We walk over the road, towards St Ann’s Ricks Park. I don’t light a cigarette because I don’t really want to smoke. I want to talk. I need to talk. The park is quite threatening in the dark, large looming shapes of trees, bushes, hills and children’s climbing structures all sit like cut-outs against the inky-blue sky.

  ‘You know how I knew Yvonne Whidmore, the woman who was attacked at the school?’ I say to Cece.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, I was with her the night she was attacked.’

  She nods.

  ‘And I have to tell you why I was there. And to do that, I have to tell you about a certain time in my life. Look, let me just start at the beginning. Well, as far at the beginning as I can get.

  October, 1993

  ‘Kalani! Kalani!’ My tatta sat in his office, looking at me like I’d sworn at him, and shouting for my mother. A
mma came running, thinking something terrible had happened.

  When she arrived and found that neither of us were bleeding, or unconscious, she stopped panicking and glared at my father.

  ‘Tell your mother what you just told me,’ Tatta said, still with the look of horror on his face.

  It was small in Tatta’s office. The walls were lined with not-quite-level shelves, stacked with books and journals and papers. He was an intellectual and liked to collect books and papers and other things to expand his mind. He worked for the government, was quite high up in the civil service, and he got the train from Wimbledon station every morning to Victoria and then came home every night the same way. After dinner he would retreat to his office to read, to continue to pen the philosophical articles he was always submitting to journals.

  After what I had asked, the office seemed smaller, claustrophobic and confined. My parents were more laid-back than most of the non-white parents whose children went to my school: they didn’t force any of us to be vegetarians; they allowed us to follow any faith we chose as long as we chose one; they let us go out like our white friends. But there were limits, boundaries, and I had just crossed one.

  Amma smiled at me as she waited to hear what I had just told my tatta to make him call her like he was on fire.

  ‘A man gave me his card today and said he thought I could be a model. He’s looking for models for a magazine shoot and thinks I would be perfect for it.’

  Tatta nodded his head, confirming that I had sworn at him, and looked at my mother to see what she would say about it.

  I’d known they’d be like this. Always, always, always we had been taught to value our brains, our capacity to learn, the chance to intellectually stretch ourselves above all things. Going for something that valued physical beauty above all else was, I suppose, the equivalent of swearing at my tatta.