Bad Friends

by Seeber, Claire

  ‘You’re lying, I know you are.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Maggie.’ He met my eye, standing upright for once, not slouched as he usually was. ‘I can’t believe you’d think I could stoop so low.’

  I laughed – but there was less mirth in this room than in a morgue. ‘I’ve seen you lower, Alex, remember?’

  His eyes flared with something unfathomable. ‘That’s not fair, Maggie,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve been a bit fucked-up maybe – but nothing like this.’

  He turned away, leaning his head against the glass, and stared out at the dying garden. The rigid borders of flowers were a little pathetic, just a few Michaelmas daisies and rows of fat-headed chrysanthemums whose number had recently been culled, judging by the bare stalks.

  ‘Yes, well, life’s not fair, Alex, is it? You spent a lot of time telling me that, I seem to remember.’ I watched a scrawny pigeon attacking the empty husks beneath the bird-feeder in desperation, pecking frantically like they were live things. ‘If it’s not you, who is it?’ I felt increasingly desperate, and I tried to push the panic down. ‘Someone’s got it in for me – and I can’t think of anyone apart from you.’

  Although that wasn’t entirely true any more. Suspicion seemed to suddenly fit everyone I knew like a snug glove. Perhaps everybody hated me. Scrabbling in my bag for my fags, I looked out at the garden again – at those chrysanthemums.

  By the time I had tracked down Alex at Malcolm’s house, my pendulum had swung between fear and fury infinite times, and being here now was only compounding my confusion. It felt utterly odd, to get straight out of bed with Seb to find myself threatened so unpleasantly, immediately into this bizarre confrontation with my ex. I stared at Alex and he stared back, his face a mask of indifference.

  ‘What do you want me to say? I can’t admit to something I didn’t do.’ There was a small arrow-shaped bruise on his forearm. He was always in the wars, Alex; usually alcohol-invoked. ‘It’s probably some nutter that saw you on TV. You shouldn’t smoke, you know, Maggie.’ He turned away again, biting his nail fervently.

  ‘Yes, well, needs must.’ I lit a cigarette defiantly, the smoke curling between banana plants and sweet-smelling jasmine towards the glass ceiling. It was warm in here, humid even, but the sky above was dead, utterly devoid of any kind of colour.

  I stared at the smoke, at Alex’s long, broad back, and realised I simply didn’t know whether to believe him. He’d always had a strained relationship with the truth, and ultimately I’d stopped trusting him some time ago. He’d told one too many stories, and so now…

  Piano music drifted suddenly into the room; a familiar haunting melody whose notes wrapped themselves around me and squeezed painfully. Mendelssohn’s Song Without Words. I felt a huge wave of sadness engulf me, infinite misery that this was our reality; that the sum total of my relationship with Alex was being here, now, snarled up in this mess.

  ‘Turn it off, Alex, please,’ I whispered.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ He turned from the window.

  ‘For God’s sake.’ I sat clumsily on a bamboo chair. ‘Do you really not remember?’ It felt like someone had just poured concrete into my veins. ‘Did nothing we ever did together, Alex, did nothing ever really matter to you?’

  ‘Of course it bloody did. But why should I remember it?’ He looked unworried still. ‘You know I’m crap with music.’

  I thought miserably of Santana and the Kaiser Chiefs and Led Zeppelin, of all the lost iPods that I’d given him as presents that he then left in taxis and buses (‘I’ll get another one, Mag, and I’ll get you one too this time,’ he’d cajole, and he’d tickle my feet, and I’d sigh and forgive him yet again). I remembered the new stereo we’d bought that he’d kicked to bits one night when he was hideously drunk, during a row about Iraq. Ostensibly about Iraq, anyway. Always believed in things a little too fervently, Alex; always took things too personally when drunk.

  I didn’t trust myself to speak now, grinding out my cigarette in an ashtray so ornamental it couldn’t be meant for use.

  ‘Is it, this music –’ he looked contemplative, ‘is it the one that – when we went down to Pendarlin that first Christmas and –’

  ‘You’re really cruel sometimes, you know.’ I stood. At the door I turned to gaze at him for a moment, at his familiar craggy face, trying desperately to tune into the Alex I’d first known, the one who hadn’t succumbed to all his demons.

  ‘If it is you, Alex, doing these weird things, please stop. You’ve made your point and you’re really scaring me now.’

  ‘Maggie, I swear it isn’t.’ Alex walked towards me now. ‘But it all sounds horrible. A bit mad. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘That makes a first.’

  ‘I mean, if someone is after you, like you say –’

  I flinched. ‘I didn’t say after me, did I?’ I hauled my bag onto my shoulder. ‘And that reminds me – please don’t send people like Costana round when I’m not expecting them, okay? I nearly had a heart-attack yesterday morning.’

  ‘I thought you’d be at work. And you’d better get used to it.’ He refused to look contrite. ‘Estate agents need access. I did tell you.’

  ‘You didn’t. And I just don’t want anyone I don’t know prowling around the flat, okay? Not at the moment.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll make sure they warn you next time.’

  Serena stuck her head round the door. ‘We’re about to eat, Allie darling,’ she purred. She was so thin I doubted a morsel ever passed her lips – unless it came back up again.

  ‘I’m just coming, beautiful.’

  ‘The croissants smell divine,’ she leered at him, all teeth and eyes. She was quite obviously starving.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ For a second they locked eyes. Serena surrendered first.

  ‘Don’t be long, darling.’ She blew him a kiss, entirely for my benefit, I was sure. As the door shut behind her, I couldn’t help myself.

  ‘God!’ I expostulated.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How can you, Alex? She’s so – so –’ Words failed me. ‘So very – not you.’

  He looked at me steadily. ‘Needs must, Maggie, as you say.’

  ‘And what needs are those?’ I felt queasy again. Fingers on the door-handle, I said, ‘You know, I really thought you hated the idea of marriage.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘So why, then –’

  ‘He was winding you up. You know what Dad’s like.’ Alex ran his hand back and forth through his short hair, back and forth it went. ‘I’ve got no intention of getting hitched any time soon.’

  I felt a fresh rush of anger. ‘God! You bloody Baileys and your mind games.’

  Rushing out of the room, I went flying over an overnight bag and a pair of workboots so big and dirty they could only belong to Alex. He followed me into the hall, tried to help me up from where I’d crumpled inelegantly. Malcolm wandered out, hands deep in his pockets.

  ‘Easy there, girl. Good trip?’

  I smiled wanly as I clambered up.

  ‘You always was a klutz, I seem to remember. Nice to see you, anyway, Mag. Drop in any time.’

  To stir up some sport? ‘Thanks, Malcolm,’ I muttered, my hand on the latch now, desperate to get away.

  ‘We’ll send you an invite, won’t we, Alexander?’

  I frowned. ‘To what?’

  ‘To the wedding.’

  I looked at Alex, confused.

  ‘Jealous?’ Malcolm winked at me. I bit my lip. ‘I mean to Tom’s wedding, of course. To little Clarissa. Her of the child-bearing hips.’

  Luckily Clarissa was out of earshot.

  ‘Pa!’ Alex snarled. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  ‘Language, Alexander.’

  ‘You know what, Malcolm –’ I had the door open by now, freedom beckoning me into the freezing November morning. He looked so bloody pleased with himself, swollen and pigeon-chested with pride, the Englishman in his self-made castle. ‘I
t’s no wonder your family have such terrible problems. You’re such a complete shit.’

  It wasn’t until I was sitting on the tube to work, sandwiched between a large group of hijabed Ethopian women who squawked across me uproariously, that the worm crawled back into my brain. I stared at the greasy youth opposite, who was listening to such loud thrash-metal I was surprised he didn’t have a nosebleed; I stared at his spray-painted boots.

  Despite all his protestations, those other boots – Alex’s filthy Timberlands that I’d tripped over in Malcolm’s hall – had been splashed with something bright, something that in my haste to leave I hadn’t registered properly. Something suspiciously like red paint.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Bacon, egg, chips.’ In the café on The Cut, the skin around the waitress’s vermilion-painted mouth was crepey, the bright colour seeping vertically into the fan of fine lines above her top lip as she leaned over Sally to bang my plate down. I gazed miserably at the insipid-looking bacon that curled wetly up at me.

  ‘On second thoughts, I’m not that hungry. I might go and have a fag.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’ Sally pinched a soggy chip. ‘You need to eat. It’s good for shock.’

  ‘I thought that was sweet tea? That’s what they always have in soap operas.’ I poked the rubbery egg with my fork; the yolk surprised me by exploding. ‘Oh, bollocks. I was saving that bit.’

  ‘Maggie.’

  I actually jumped. Joseph slid into the seat opposite us, slightly out of breath. ‘The police are here, Maggie. They’re asking for you.’

  ‘Police?’ I scrunched my brow at him. ‘Here?’ I glanced around. The tattooed builder on the next table bit lustily into his egg sandwich and gave me a wink. ‘Where?’

  ‘At the office, I mean.’ Joseph was flustered.

  I stared at him. ‘I didn’t call the police.’

  ‘No, but you should have done,’ Sally said tartly, pinching another chip. ‘Not very crispy, these.’

  ‘You didn’t, did you, Sal?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ring them.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. But I think it’s a bloody good idea you talk to them. Unless –’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘Unless you’re – well –’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re, you know. Imagining it.’ Sally couldn’t quite meet my eye.

  ‘Er – imagining foot-high letters on my door? Hardly.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She looked relieved.

  But I wanted to deal with things my way. I wanted to pretend it wasn’t happening today. Or any day, actually.

  ‘Maggie.’ Joseph’s colour was high. ‘I think you should come back.’

  ‘But I’m having lunch,’ I said forlornly, and ate a chip to prove it.

  ‘Maggie!’ Sally pushed me out of the booth. ‘Go on. I’ll get a doggie bag for you.’

  Muttering, I scrabbled for my cigarettes and, dodging cyclists, followed Joseph across the busy road to work.

  The small, wiry policeman waiting in my office stood politely as I came through the door. ‘Maggie Warren? DI Fox.’

  ‘Hello.’ I took his proffered hand. Then I looked at him again. ‘I – have we met before?’ I asked anxiously.

  ‘We have met, yes.’

  My stomach clenched as I peered at his sandy face. ‘Really?’

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  Oh God. Not again. I bit my lip.

  ‘At the studio.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ It suddenly fell into place. The trauma show. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your foot better now, then?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. Much better.’ I was so relieved I felt almost cheerful as I sat down at my desk. ‘So, how can I help you?’

  ‘That was my question actually.’ He took out a small pad and perused it briefly. I noticed the cuffs of his shirt were rather threadbare. ‘We had a call from a – a Sebastian Rae.’

  I flushed, wishing my office were a little bigger, that I wasn’t so very near DI Fox. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Mr Rae seems to think you received some sort of threat this morning.’

  ‘Right.’ I supposed I was pleased Seb was so worried about me.

  ‘So?’

  ‘What?’

  He was infinitely patient. ‘Tell me about it, please.’

  ‘Honestly, I’m sure it’s nothing. Just kids. You know. Graffiti.’ Or my jealous ex-boyfriend. I’d rung Alex as soon as I’d got off the tube, but I was still waiting to hear back about the paint on his boots. He was probably busy, sharing some divine croissants with Serena. I sniffed and adjusted the photo of Digby the girls had framed for me last Christmas.

  ‘And you’re sure that’s all it is?’ The policeman had very orange hair that he’d slicked back; it gleamed in lucozade-coloured pools under the nasty strip lighting. ‘No other incidents that have worried you or alerted you?’

  ‘Alerted me?’

  ‘Well, those words: Meddling whore …’ He was watching me very intently. I blanched. ‘They’re very specific, aren’t they?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Often in these kinds of cases – you know, vandalism on private property – often they’re caused by a dispute with neighbours. Have you had any sort of problems like that? No late-night parties or anything anyone’s objected to?’

  ‘Not that I know about.’ I shook my head. ‘We don’t really have many neighbours. I don’t really have many, I should say. It’s mainly shops where I live, and businesses. I’ve never fallen out with anyone there.’

  I swear his ears literally pricked up.

  ‘Who’s “we”?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I was losing the thread.

  ‘Who is the “we” you just referred to?’

  ‘I used to share the flat with my ex-boyfriend, Alex Bailey. We – we’re not together any more. And, actually, I’ve only just moved back. I was at my dad’s for a couple of months.’ I considered my neighbours for a moment. ‘There’s the Forlanis – they own the flat above the shop next door, but they’re in Verona most of the time. And there’s Melvin who runs the Fresca Deli, God knows what goes on in his place. He, er – he has a lot of boyfriends who come and go.’

  ‘So there’s no one you’ve had a row with at any time?’

  ‘God no. Everyone’s pretty friendly round us. You have to be, to cope with the crowds. The tourists, you know.’

  ‘And your ex, is it amicable?’

  I tried to keep my face inscrutable. ‘Kind of.’ I could feel the heat suffusing my cheeks. ‘As amicable as I guess most splits are.’

  ‘Which, quite often, is not very.’

  ‘No. But it’s fine, really.’

  We looked at one another steadily. Inside I didn’t feel very steady, though. DI Fox’s eyelashes were tipped with sand, I noticed.

  ‘Right.’ DI Fox stood up. ‘I should probably tell you, Maggie,’ he closed his pad, ‘I looked you up after Mr Rae rang. I wanted to see if you’d reported any other incidents. Which you haven’t, have you? But it means,’ he tucked the pad away neatly in an inner pocket, ‘it means I’ve read your file, love.’

  My face turned to stone. ‘I see.’

  ‘I know you weren’t charged in the end. But you’re – everything okay now, is it, after the summer? You’re all right?’

  It was almost dark outside though it was barely four o’clock. I turned away from his gentle scrutiny, ostensibly to switch the overhead lights off and the desk-lamp on. ‘Absolutely fine, thank you.’ My voice was just about even. Please go now, I prayed.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Well, listen, here are my numbers.’ He pressed his card into my hand. ‘Please, don’t be scared to ring me if you have any need to. If you have any more – problems.’

  Turning the card over in my fingers, I wondered which problems Fox meant; apparently I had a lot of them right now. ‘Okay. Thank you again.’

  ‘I mean it, Maggie.’

  To my horror, tears spran
g to my eyes for the second time that day. I forced myself to meet his eye. ‘I will, if I’m worried. But I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘Good. Well, I’ll see myself out.’

  For about half an hour after the policeman left I sat in the dim light of the desk-lamp and stared at the small painting of the cottage in Cornwall. Something really bad was brewing, I felt it in my belly. ‘Something wicked this way comes’ – Macbeth’s three witches stamped round the midnight cauldron that held my life, and for some reason they were summoning evil against me. Something wicked that threatened to suffocate me. I had to escape.

  Bel was leaving on Friday, so I had to stick around till I’d dropped her at Heathrow. But if I could get to Pendarlin, I was sure I would be safe.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was raining hard. The rain had started the very moment I’d left work, and of course I had no umbrella, and then outside the tube I’d slipped off the pavement into the river running through the gutter so my trainers were completely sodden, and then my phone rang as I opened Bel’s front gate and I dropped it as I fumbled to answer it. When I bent to retrieve it, water cascaded down my neck, then down my back, so by the time Bel opened her front door I was thoroughly soaked and equally irritated.

  ‘You left me a message.’ The voice on the phone was curt. ‘What now?’

  My eyes stung as my waterproof mascara slid down my face. ‘Alex.’ I was curter. ‘About time.’

  Bel pulled a face. ‘I’ll be in the bedroom,’ she whispered.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, sounding less than contrite. ‘I’m pretty busy.’

  I waited for him to qualify his busyness until I realised he wasn’t going to.

  ‘You had red paint all over your boots this morning.’ I rubbed at my panda eyes in the mirror. ‘Why?’

  ‘What? What boots?’

  ‘In the hall. At your dad’s.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Maggie.’

  A girl laughed in the background and it was like a knife in my belly. ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ I said sharply.

  ‘I’m getting really bored of this,’ Alex sighed wearily. ‘We’ve been through it a million bloody times. I’ve told you, it’s nothing to do with me.’