by Karen Botha
‘What are these?’ I ask.
‘These are the people involved in the financial transactions against your company with a K. These were taken off the cameras at some of the banks. Some are in the UK, others are abroad. I thought, after your brush the other day, it would be worth you taking a look.’
‘Sure, no problem.’ I stretch over the table and pull the pile towards me. ‘Are you expecting me to recognise anyone?’
‘Patience, Adam.’
Leafing through, I don’t find anyone of immediate recognition, until, ‘that’s Baldy, the one who broke into my place.’
‘Great, we thought it would be, but it’s always best to check.’ He pulls the image to one side and has me sign the back for clarification.
I continue, scooting from one to the next with increased speed as I gather confidence. And then I back track and take another look at the one I just passed, running my index finger over the face. Fragments of this broken puzzle click into place further shattering my trust.
Paula
OK, I get it. I’m being selfish. There’s some big shit hitting the fan right now but much as I’d like for the pause button on my life to remain firmly depressed whilst we deal with crazy people, it doesn’t. I need to talk and so I propose a drink with Lucy.
‘Sure, come over. Adam is at work anyway. He left me a note.’
‘Oh, so you’re at that stage already?’ I’m teasing. Adam has a lot on his plate. It’s not to be unexpected that if Lucy wants to sleep late, he shouldn’t use the time to prevent the landslide that is his business from slipping away.
‘There’s a pub down the road from here that seems quirky, shall we give it a try?’ she suggests.
Half an hour later, I’m manoeuvring my considerable 4x4 around a dinky car park, trying to leave it in such a place that the wing will remain in situ. This is no easy feat considering I only have one and a half functioning eyes! My sides are crippled from my burns, and although I drive an automatic, fitting my leg under the steering column without it interfering with my accelerator pedal is rough.
The pub is not easy to spot. It’s an old stone row of terraces, knocked through with a sign on the outside, stating, ‘the Village Pub.’ Talk about understated.
Inside, it’s brilliant. All it’s missing is the stag on the wall; pretty much every other element of the old English gentry is part of the decor. Comfortable high-arm couches, plaid armchairs, and panelled walls displaying grotesque paintings of fox hunting add to the quirkiness Lucy described on the phone. My favourite detail, particularly on a day where not only the weather is cold, but so too is my heart, is the oversized fireplace with the obligatory log burning stove.
‘You couldn’t have made a better choice,’ I say to Lucy as she waits for me to limp through the door she’s holding open for me and my crutches.
‘I know, look at this place. It’s a spectacle of all that is English.’ She pauses, taking in the space. ‘You go sit over there by the fire!’ Then, she heads over to the bar.
I nod, relaxing into the British racing green velour of the sofa, this is a place to stay for an afternoon. I hope my car will survive the night rather than previously allotted afternoon.
I’m not there long before Lucy reappears juggling a bottle which jiggles precariously around in an ice cooler, and two glasses. Some moreish looking packets hang out of her mouth.
‘I got a Riesling, thought it’d be a bit more substantial with the cold weather.’
‘Good choice, and not so toxic when we’re a little vulnerable.’
She snaps her head up, studies me, but says nothing until she’s seated and has our supplies organised where I can reach with minimal effort.
‘So, what’s going on?’ she asks.
I could list any number of issues, as could she, but she's really asking ‘why the emergency call out?’
‘Steve.’
She closes her eyes and sighs, but makes no comment.
‘He wants me back,’ I continue.
‘What did you say?’ she pronounces her words perfectly, guarding against her natural response.
‘I made light of it. Well, said no, actually.’
‘Well done, I’m proud of you.’ She squeezes my forearm. My ribs pinch as my arm grazes the tender skin. I wince.
‘Sorry,’ she says snatching her hand back. ‘But you did well. He’s no good for you.’
‘He promised to leave his wife, that he’ll spend time with his kids on days off.’
‘That’s all well and good, but he strung you along before and you had no idea. And you worked with him. He’s a master at cover-up. How would you ever be able to trust a word that comes out of his mouth? What if he messes up your career again?’
Her tone is pitchy, like someone over singing in the X Factor auditions. I get a sense of how important this is to her.
‘Plus, you’re with Andy now,’ she continues.
‘Exactly!’
‘What?’
‘You did precisely the same as me. Andy was an afterthought. He wasn’t the main reason for me saying no to Steve. Surely if he was 'the one,' he’d have been my first reason?’
‘Ahhh, now I see...’ she purses her lips and nods slowly. If it was anyone else, I’d feel uncomfortable with them understanding me at such a base level. But with Lucy, I need her to get this so we can talk it through.
‘So, are you unhappy with Andy?’ she asks after a few beats.
‘No, not at all. Before all of this, we were getting along fine.’
‘Define fine.’
I stumble, ‘Well. I enjoy his company. And we do laugh. We knock along together nicely.’
‘But he doesn’t rock your world?’
‘No, he doesn’t. I like him, respect him even, but I don’t miss him. I want to yearn for someone.’
‘Did you miss him when you were kidnapped?’
‘Sure, of course I did. But was that because I wanted to live? Or because I missed his presence?’ I pick up a salty nut, inspect it, and pop it in my mouth. It sticks between my teeth. I rub my tongue over it and wash it down with a glug of wine.
‘But you pretty much lived together right away. There wasn’t much time to miss him. If you’re yearning for someone it’s because you’re not with them physically. You yearned for Steve because he was with his family over you.’
‘But he wouldn’t be this time,’ I say.
‘OK, let's choose to believe he is true to his word, which I’m skeptical about, but let’s say for a second that Steve does everything he’s promised. You’ll live together, I assume? How will that be different to you and Andy, except that Andy doesn’t have the complication of an ex and a kid hanging around? You won’t be craving him then because you’ll be sharing your daily lives. Reality isn’t a fairy story, it’s paying bills.’
I’m starting to wish I’d not bothered with this, gone to the pub on my own. Sitting with the drunk at the bar would be preferable.
I want her to tell me that Steve will change and for her to believe that. For her to say it’s a good idea for me to start my life over with someone who I can’t be cleansed of. But she doesn’t, and I fidget, steel ramrodding through my core. People don’t know him like I do. They’re not with him when he’s contemplating the animal rights in Hong Kong whilst we watch documentaries.
They don’t get to be with the Steve who speaks softly, the one who trails his tongue over my flesh, tasting the eroticism of his touch. Nor are they with the one who ties me up and induces writhing orgasms, his power and our connection impelling me to buck and weave.
They’re not privy to the intensity of those feelings, and instead advise on prioritising the unremarkable over the unique.
I do understand why.
I wouldn’t be here downloading my confusion if I didn’t. But, how can anyone else truly comprehend that if necessary, I’m willing to trade my heart for another chance at living?
Having a near death experience may have made me more reckless. I�
��m not sure. I was pretty out there already. But if you’ve entered into your last hour of breathing before being given a reprieve, actually, before you’ve snatched a reprieve from the grip of death then how can you go on being content with the ordinary? Shouldn’t I be making more effort to be fulfilled? Otherwise, what was the point of the reprieve in the first place?
‘You’ll never like him,’ I say instead of getting into all that.
‘No, I won’t. How can I when he made a fool of you, then tormented you only when you moved on? He’s not interested in you, he just wants what he can’t have. If he’s your choice, I will accept that, but don’t expect me to trust him.’
‘Hey, he backed off for the last few years…’
‘Yes, because you left the force and he wasn't bothered about pursuing you when you weren’t on his doorstep every day. Have you forgotten what he did Paula?’
‘No…’
‘You have, haven’t you? He left his wife only when you found out, or so he said, came to you, and continued to be with her behind your back. He’s a man that will never be truly committed to you because he doesn’t have the self-confidence to be satisfied in himself with one person. He needs admiration, and you’re part of that. To hell with what you need.’
She’s ranting now, her volume raised along with the speed at which she spits out her exasperated tirade. When she stops, I let the silence hang, giving her time to collect herself again.
‘It doesn’t mean Andy is the right one for you. But Steve is wrong.’ She leans back and sips her drink.
I leave her a few more seconds. In for a penny, in for a pound! ‘So, do you think Andy is wrong?’
She tilts her head. ‘I don’t know. From an outsider’s perspective, you could do much worse. He treats you well. But, if you don’t feel it with him, he might not be right. But, don’t decide yet. Look at you!’ She waves her arm up and down the thin air between us. ‘You’ve been through a lot, and this isn’t the perfect timing for making radical decisions about your life. Go home and enjoy being with Andy. Put as much effort into him as you would if he were Steve and see where you end up.’
Now that is a good suggestion. Maybe this garden needs a little more water before we see what starts to grow.
Graham
Haha-haha-haha. Haha-haha-haha. Bloody idiots. They released me!
OK, so they’ve only done it because they couldn’t charge me with anything within ninety-six hours. But the idiots let me go. They knew I’d done it. I could tell. Their questioning got ever more intense, especially about finding my skin under Emma’s nails, but any married couple can argue, it doesn’t mean you bumped her off, right? Especially with a good lawyer on your side and a brain trained to recall the most intricate details, here I am.
My brogues clack on the sandstone steps as I exit the station in the centre of London. I take a second to stand on the top step, breathe in the filthy air, and identify an available black cab. Of course, nothing! At least it’s not freezing cold if I’m going to have to wait. I see plenty of positives connected to global warming.
I walk the remaining two steps take a few more lungfuls of air. I fancy a cigar now, a toast to the legal system. There’s a tobacconist across the busy road, one of those with the open store fronts targeted at tourists. Cars are parked on either side, and before I’ve even made the decision to cross, I find myself edging between two bumpers.
‘Graham!’ I turn. It’s the Asian copper. He’s careering down the steps, shouting at me to stop.
I’m not having this! I’m a free man now. I’ll be getting that cigar and enjoying the rest of my day without further delay. I wonder what state the house is in, whether they’ve had a clean-up team come round or if I’ll be left to sort it out. It would be rough if it were a genuine accident and I had to go face a blood-soaked carpet.
Spotting a break in the traffic, I edge to the front of the parked cars. I make a run for it but then catch movement in my peripheral vision. It’s a shadow speeding towards me. In that instant I know with absolute clarity that this car will hit me. There’s no doubt in my mind. But I’m unable to stop the inevitable. Time has slowed, but not enough. I swing around, jump, but I’m too late.
There’s no squeal of brakes, just a dull thud as my legs crunch, flipping my body upwards. I’m aware of my raincoat sailing up behind me as I spin free from the ground. I witness the windscreen before my elbow slams it, smashing every tiny bone in my wrist as it levers into the glass. The screen cracks, and the face behind the wheel turns into crazy paving as my heart shatters into more pieces than my bones ever will. I skid across the tarmac as the car drives off, no, speeds off, tyres squealing.
I’m dumped like old trash on the tarmac.
I don’t move, but my eyes witness crazy panic, whilst running a slide show of my life. I see myself on a school trip to France - one our parents saved hard to send me on because languages were important for our careers. I’m jumping off the diving board in the local swimming baths - that one replays several times. And I’m eating dinner at my favourite restaurant. This instant replays none of the crap from my life. Just the happy memories, when I felt special to my core.
All this plays in my near vision, whilst peripherally I watch the copper racing down the steps, waving his arms, shouting instructions to the uniformed police in force behind him.
I gaze on as a crowd circles around me, staring like I’m some bloody character in a movie.
My ear is warm, everything sounds like I’m in a swimming pool, underwater.
‘Graham, stay with me,’ The copper says.
I’m tired, cold, and craving the numbness of sleep. Why did this have to happen in winter? I’ll close my eyes, and wake up when the paramedics have arrived to put me back together.
Someone shakes my shoulder, ‘Graham wake up.’ It’s that fucking policeman again. I swear he’s got it in for me. Well sod you mate, I’m having a nap.
Lucy
‘I just took a call informing me my brother is dead,’ Adam says as he pads out of his office, into the kitchen where I’m stirring a curry slow cooking on the hob.
It’s the first meal I’ve cooked for us with all the drama that has unfolded around us. Being unfamiliar with Adam’s kitchen, it’s been a bit of a drama pulling it together. I’m now well acquainted with his corner shop from whom I’ve bought several spices.
I turn the hob off. It’ll save.
He continues. ‘A hit and run with my car when they released him from the station.’
‘Oh no, Adam, I’m sorry.’ I pass around the island and hug him close, making sure to keep the wooden spoon away from his clothing. ‘Are you OK, is there anything I can do?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. He’s always been complex, but this whole situation with Emma has got me asking questions that cloud how I feel right now.’
‘Where is he? Would you like to go say your goodbyes?’ I ask.
‘I can’t. Because it was my car that hit him. Well, the same model and number plate. But because they can’t get a clear image of the driver, Steve wants me to go in and be interviewed. He says it’s only a formality, but the grainy cameras show someone with short hair, not dissimilar to mine, so it has to be covered off.’
I rest my head on his chest, squeezing him tighter. ‘Why would they think you’ve killed him?’
‘I don’t think they do, but imagine if it got out that I’d not been interviewed.’
‘Can Paula get the picture enhanced? Can’t Jerome do that, actually?’ I ask.
‘Good idea, let’s get him on it.’
‘When was it, anyway?’ I ask as I search my phone for Jerome’s number.
‘Earlier today. After I met with Mo.’
‘Before we got together?’
‘I think so, I guess I’ll understand more when I see Steve at the station.’
Jerome answers and I pass on the info he needs. Once I finish briefing him, I turn back to Adam. ‘I’ll come with you. We’ll take your car, wh
ich should clearly demonstrate it’s not been in a collision of any kind. Surely an impact like this should leave blood, or a dent or some hair, it should leave something hanging around. Yours clearly doesn’t have any damage. When was the last time you had it cleaned?’
‘Today on the way home. I called in at that hand wash place on the main road.’
I groan. ‘We’d better go and get this over with, before they have a chance to manufacture any elaborate theories.’
I call Paula from the car and ask her to meet us at the station, and hopefully to pull some strings in speeding up this awful process. She meets us in that dreadful reception lobby, and I can’t believe we are here again.
‘I spoke to Mo. He’s going to interview you, Lucy, and Steve will take your statement, Adam,’ Paula whispers.
‘Cool,’ I say.
We’re buzzed through, no need to be met or for codes this time. Mo stands at the top of the staircase waiting for us. ‘You’re doing well without your chair,’ he comments to Paula.
‘I can’t let a few cuts and grazes beat me, can I?’
He smiles. ‘Come on, let’s do this.’
We split up, Adam filtering into one room down the corridor, me into the closest one, and Paula continuing her schlep up the stairs to sit with the team.
‘I have to say, this freaks me out a bit. I’ve not been in one of these rooms since the whole thing before…’
‘Oh, yes of course, I hadn’t appreciated that. I’ll be as quick as possible.’ Mo’s beard crinkles as his mouth curves upwards.
‘Thanks.’ I resist the urge to hug him. Totally not appropriate.
He stresses, ‘Lucy, you’re not under arrest, you’re just here to make a statement as to your whereabouts today and that of Adam Rutherford.’
It turns out I was at home alone, as suspected, when Graham got himself mowed down, which also means Adam doesn’t have me as his alibi. This is so frustrating. If the selfish pig had waited another hour, Adam would be in the clear and we could get back to our curry with minimal disruption. It may sound callous, but this has gone on long enough now, and Graham doesn’t deserve any sympathy whatsoever. Seems to me he’s one blot the landscape of life no longer needs to worry about.