by Ruth Ware
‘About that,’ Clare agreed.
Nina caught my eye and went cross-eyed. I tried to keep my face expressionless, but my heart was with her. Six hundred pounds for a coffee machine? I like coffee, but six hundred pounds? And on a gift list too. I knew she meant nothing by it, but there was something unintentionally offensive about Clare’s casual assumption that people could spend that much on her. Or would want to.
Or maybe it was James’s assumption.
The thought left a bad taste in my mouth.
‘Right,’ Greg called as the trees thinned out into a large grassy clearing. There was a little breeze-block wall over the far side. ‘Everybody hold up here. Now the kind of cartridge that we’ll be using today,’ Greg said, with the air of someone reciting a well-worn spiel, ‘is 7.5. This is a good mid-range type of shot, suitable for pretty much all types of clay shooting, whether that’s sport, skeet or trap. This,’ he held up a cartridge, ‘is a live 7.5 round, with the shot itself packed into the tip—’ he tapped the rounded end, ‘—the wad in the centre, and the gunpowder and primer at this metal end here. Now, before we get going, I’m gonna show you the effects of a cartridge full of 7.5 on a human body.’
‘Don’t be asking for volunteers next!’ Flo hooted.
Greg turned a deadpan face onto her. ‘Very kind of you to step forward, young lady.’
Flo gave a nervous laugh. She looked taken aback, but at the same time slightly thrilled. ‘It should be the hen, really!’ she protested, as Greg beckoned, but she went and stood beside him anyway, blushing and covering her face in pantomime fear.
‘Right. So Flo here has kindly volunteered to help demonstrate the effects of a barrel full of shot at close quarters.’ He paused for a beat and then winked. ‘But don’t worry, she’s not gonna be on the business end. What I have here,’ he held up a large sheet of paper with a black outline on it, ‘is a paper target, more usually used for handgun target practice.’
He fished in his pocket, pulled out some tacks and pinned the target sheet to a nearby tree. The bark was blistered and pock-marked with wounds, and it wasn’t hard to guess what was about to happen next.
‘Everybody stand back please. Ear defenders on, Flo.’
‘I feel like a DJ!’ Flo said, grinning as she pulled the neon headphones over her ears.
‘Now, I’m loading the cartridge into the gun,’ he slid it into place, ‘and shutting the barrel as we demonstrated back at the centre. Flo, come up here, stand in front of me. Right, bring the gun up to your shoulder.’ He held it against her, steadying it in place. Flo gave a slightly hysterical titter.
‘Our Greg’s quite dishy, isn’t he?’ Tom whispered into my ear. ‘I wouldn’t mind having him correct my stance. Flo certainly looks like she’s not about to object.’
‘Hold it firm,’ Greg said. ‘Now, finger on the trigger.’ He held Flo’s hand, bracing the stock and barrel against her. ‘And gently squeeeeze the trigger. No sharp movements …’
There was a deafening crack, Flo gave a little squeak and staggered back against Greg’s chest, and the paper in front of us exploded into pieces.
‘Jesus!’ Tom said.
I’d seen target-shooting on American films – nice neat little holes, close to the bull’s-eye of the outlined figure. But this was something else. The shot had hit the paper full in the chest, and the whole middle section of the piece was virtually destroyed. As we watched, the legs fluttered free and drifted gently to the leafy ground.
‘Quite.’ Greg took the gun off Flo and walked across to stand close to us. Flo’s face, as she trotted beside him, was a mixture of alarm and excitement, her cheeks pink. I wasn’t sure if it was the thrill of the explosion or whether, as Tom had suggested, she had enjoyed Greg’s one-to-one attention.
‘As you can see,’ Greg continued, ‘this single shot at close quarters has done quite a bit of damage. If that was a person, it’s doubtful they’d make it as far as the reception centre, let alone the local hospital. So the moral of this is, ladies and gentlemen, respect your weapon. OK. Any questions?’
We all shook our heads, mutely. Only Flo was beaming. Nina looked distinctly grim. I remembered the gunshot wounds she’d treated with MSF, and wondered what she was thinking.
Greg nodded, once, as if satisfied, and we all trooped silently after him to face the trap.
18
‘THAT WAS SO much fun!’ Flo collapsed backwards onto the sofa and kicked off her boots. Her socks were pink and fluffy. She shook the snow out of her hair – it had started again on the drive back. ‘That was ace! Tom, you were a crack shot!’
Tom grinned and slumped back into an armchair. ‘I used to do a lot of archery as a teen. I guess the skills are similar.’
‘Archery?’ Nina eyed him disbelievingly. ‘As in, Robin Hood and his Merry Men? Did you have to wear tights?’
‘As in, the stuff they do at the Olympics,’ Tom said. He was obviously well used to teasing and it barely registered. ‘No tights involved. I used to do competitive fencing too. It’s very good for you. Very physical. I’m out of shape now.’
He flexed one biceps and looked at it with what was supposed to be a rueful expression, but the undertone of slight self-satisfaction rather showed through.
Nina made a sympathetic face. ‘God, yeah, it must be awful having pecs the size of a teen girl’s boobs and a six-pack to match. I don’t know how Bruce puts up with it.’
‘Stop it, you two!’ Flo scolded.
Clare watched them from the far sofa, and I found myself watching her, remembering how she loved to observe, how she used to throw a remark out, like a pebble into a pond, and then back quietly away to watch the ripples as people scrapped it out. It was not an endearing habit, but it was one I could not condemn. I understood it too well. I, too, am happier watching than being watched.
Clare turned her head and caught me watching her watching Tom and Nina squabbling, and she smiled a small conspiratorial smile that said, I see you.
I looked away.
What had she hoped to accomplish by inviting me here? Nina saw it as an attempt to salve her conscience at my expense – the equivalent of an adulterous husband confessing to his wife.
I did not. I don’t think Clare lost any sleep over hooking up with James. And in any case she didn’t deserve my condemnation. She owed me nothing. James and I broke up long ago.
No. I thought that perhaps … perhaps she had merely wanted to watch. To see how I took it. Perhaps that was the same reason she outed Nina. Like a child who sees a teeming anthill and simply can’t not poke it.
And then they step back … and watch.
‘How about you, Lee?’ Flo said suddenly, and I looked away from Clare, jerked out of my thoughts.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘Ish.’ I rubbed my shoulder, where I could feel a bruise already forming. ‘My shoulder hurts though.’
‘You got a right jolt from the recoil on that first shot, didn’t you?’
The kick of the gun had surprised me, whacking back against my shoulder bone with a whump that knocked the breath out of me.
‘You have to hold it firm in the first place,’ Tom said. ‘You were like this, look.’ He reached up and took down the shotgun over the mantelpiece and braced it against his shoulder, showing me the loose stance that had cost me a bruise.
The muzzle of the gun was pointing directly at me. I froze.
‘Hey!’ Nina said sharply.
‘Tom!’ Clare struggled up straighter against the sofa cushions, looking from me to Tom and then back again. ‘Put that down!’
Tom just grinned. I knew he was joking, but in spite of myself I felt every muscle in my body tense.
‘God, I feel like Jason Bourne,’ he said. ‘I can literally feel the power going to my head as I speak. Hmm … let’s interrogate a few people. How about this for starters: Nora, why in all the years I’ve known Clare has she never mentioned your name?’
I tried to s
peak – but my throat was suddenly so dry I could barely swallow.
‘Tom!’ Clare said more sharply. ‘Call me paranoid but should you be waving that thing around after all Grig’s wise words about guns fucking you up?’
‘It’s not loaded,’ Flo said, and yawned. ‘My aunt uses it for scaring rabbits.’
‘Still,’ Clare said.
‘Just kidding around,’ Tom said. He gave another wolfish grin, showing those unnaturally white teeth, and then lowered the muzzle and hooked the shotgun back on its pegs.
I slumped back against the sofa feeling the wave of adrenaline recede, and my fingers uncurl from their rigid fists. My hands were shaking.
‘Ha fucking ha,’ Clare said. She was frowning like someone totally failing to see any funny side at all. ‘Next time you want to wave that thing around, can you make sure it’s not one of my friends on the sharp end?’
I shot her a grateful look and she rolled her eyes at me as if to say, ‘Dick’.
‘Sorry,’ Tom said mildly. ‘Like I said, just kidding, but I apologise if any offence was caused.’ He gave a mock bow in my direction.
‘Right, scuse I,’ Flo said with another yawn. ‘I’d better make a start on supper.’
‘Want a hand?’ Clare said, and Flo’s face lit up. Her smile was extraordinary – it transformed her whole face.
‘Really? I feel like you should be acting like the queen of the day.’
‘Nah, come on. I’ll chop or something.’
She heaved herself up off the sofa and they left the room, Clare’s arm slung companionably round Flo’s shoulders. Tom looked after them, as they left.
‘Funny couple, aren’t they?’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
‘I can’t quite fit the Clare I know together with Flo. They’re so … different.’
The remark shouldn’t have made sense, given that they were so physically similar, and both dressed in an almost identical uniform of grey stonewash jeans and stripey top. But I knew what he meant.
Nina stretched. ‘They’ve got one really important interest in common though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘They both think Clare’s the centre of the fucking universe.’
Tom snorted, and I tried not to laugh. Nina only looked sideways out of her glinting dark eyes, a little wry smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. Then she stretched, and shrugged, all in one fluid movement.
‘Right. I might phone the old trouble and strife.’ She pulled out her mobile and then made a face. ‘No reception. How’s yours, Lee?’
Nora. But there were only so many times I could correct people without seeming obsessively controlling.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, and felt in my pockets. ‘That’s odd. It’s not here. I’m sure I had it at the shooting range – I remember checking Twitter. Maybe I left it in the car. I don’t think I’d have any reception either, though – I haven’t had a bar since I got here. You got a bit of reception from our room earlier, didn’t you?’
‘Yeah.’ Nina had picked up the phone receiver and was jiggling the cradle. ‘This one’s still out. OK. I’m going upstairs to hang off the balcony and try to get a bar or two. Maybe I can send a text.’
‘What’s so urgent?’ Tom asked.
Nina shook her head. ‘Nothing. Just … you know. I miss her.’
‘Fair play.’
We both watched as she disappeared upstairs, long legs eating up the stairs two at a time. Tom sighed and stretched out on the couch.
‘Are you not phoning Bruce?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘To tell the truth we had a bit of a … disagreement, let’s call it. Before I left.’
‘Oh right.’ I kept my voice neutral.
I never know what to say in these situations. I hate people prying into my business, so I assume others will feel the same way. But sometimes they want to spill, it seems, and then you look cold and odd, backing away from their confidences. I try to be completely non-judgemental – not pushing for secrets, not repelling confessions. And in truth, although part of me really doesn’t want to hear their petty jealousies and weird obsessions, there’s another part of me that wants to egg them on. It’s that part of me that stands there nodding, taking notes, filing it all away. It’s like opening up the back of the machine to see the crude workings grinding away inside. There’s a disappointment in the banality of what makes people tick, but at the same time, there’s a kind of fascination at seeing the inner coils and cogs.
The trouble is that the next day they almost invariably resent you for having seen them naked and unguarded. So I’m deliberately reserved and non-committal, trying not to lead them on. But somehow it doesn’t seem to work. All too often I end up pinned to the wall at parties, listening to a long tale of how so-and-so fucked them over, and then he said this, and then she got off with him, and then his ex did that …
You’d think people would be wary of spilling to a writer. You’d think they’d know that we’re essentially birds of carrion, picking over the corpses of dead affairs and forgotten arguments to recycle them in our work – zombie reincarnations of their former selves, stitched into a macabre new patchwork of our own devising.
Tom, if anyone, should have known that. But it didn’t stop him. He was speaking now, his voice a bored drawl that didn’t disguise the fact that he was clearly still angry with his husband. ‘… What you’ve got to understand is that Bruce gave James his first big chance, he directed him in Black Ties, White Lies back in … God, what, we must be talking seven, eight years ago? And maybe – I mean, I don’t know – I never asked what went on, but Bruce wasn’t exactly renowned for his professional chastity. We weren’t together then of course. But naturally Bruce feels that James owes him a certain amount, and maybe equally naturally James feels that he doesn’t. I know that Bruce was pretty angry over the business with Coriolanus and the fact that Eamonn sided with James … And then when those rumours got round about him and Richard, well, there was only one place those could have come from. Bruce swore he never sent that text to Clive.’
He carried on, a stream of names and places that meant nothing to me, and plays that had left only the sketchiest impression in my own cultural landscape. The politics flowed over me, but the point was clear: Bruce was angry with James and had a past with him – of whatever kind. Bruce had not wanted Tom to come to this hen night. Tom had come.
‘So anyway, fuck him,’ Tom said at last, dismissively. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Bruce or James. He walked across to the sideboard where a cluster of bottles stood: gin, vodka, the pathetic remnants of last night’s tequila. ‘Want a drink? G&T?’
‘No thanks. Well, maybe just a tonic water.’
Tom nodded, went out for ice and limes, and then came back with two glasses.
‘Bottoms up,’ he said, his face set in lines that made him look a good ten years older. I took a sip and coughed. Tonic there was, but also gin. I could have made a fuss, but Tom raised one eyebrow with such perfect comic timing that I could only laugh, and swallow.
‘So tell me,’ he said, as he drained his own glass and went back for a refill, ‘what happened with you and James? What was last night about?’
I didn’t answer at first. I took another long sip of my drink, swallowing it slowly, thinking about what to say. My instinct was to shrug it off with a laugh, but he would get it out of Clare or Nina later. Better to be honest.
‘James is … was …’ I swirled the drink in my glass, the ice cubes chinking as I tried to think how to phrase it. ‘My ex,’ I said at last. It was true – but so far from the whole truth that it felt almost like a lie. ‘We were together at school.’
‘At school?’ Tom raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Good lord. Dark ages. Childhood sweethearts?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘But you’re friends now?’
What could I say? No, I haven’t seen him since the day he texted me.
No, I
’ve never forgiven him for what he said, what he did.
No.
‘I … not exactly. We sort of lost touch.’
There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sounds of Clare and Flo chatting next door, and the hiss of a shower upstairs. Nina must have given up on trying to phone Jess.
‘So you met at school?’ Tom asked.
‘Sort of. We were in a play together …’ I said slowly. It was strange to be talking about this. You don’t bring it up much as an adult: how you got your heart broken for the first time. But Tom was the next best thing to an anonymous stranger. I was highly unlikely to meet him again after this weekend, and somehow telling him felt like a release. ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I was Maggie and James was Brick. Ironic, really.’
‘Why ironic?’ Tom said, puzzled. But I couldn’t answer. I was thinking of Maggie’s words in the last act of the play, about making the lie true. But I knew that, of all people, Tom would know what that meant if I quoted the line, he would know what Maggie was referring to.
Instead I swallowed and said, ‘Just … ironic.’
‘Come on,’ he said and smiled, his tanned cheek crinkling. ‘You must have meant something.’
I sighed. I wasn’t going to tell him the truth. Or not the truth I’d been thinking of. A different truth then.
‘Well, I was supposed to be the understudy. Clare was cast as Maggie – she was the lead in almost every play we ever did, right from primary school onwards.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She got glandular fever. Missed a whole term of school. And I got pushed on stage.’ I was always the understudy. I had a good verbal memory and I was conscientious. I felt Tom looking at me, puzzled about where the irony in that lay.
‘Ironic that she should have been the one to get together with him, and now she is? Is that what you mean?’
‘No, not exactly … It’s more just ironic given that I hate being looked at, being watched. And there I was in the main role. Maybe all writers prefer being behind the page to being on stage. What do you think?’
Tom didn’t answer. He only turned to look out of the great glass window, out into the forest, and I knew he was thinking of his remark the night before: of the stage. The audience. The watchers in the night.