My Best Friend's Murder

by Polly Phillips

  The whisky doesn’t taste so bad when you get used to it. It’s the smell more than anything – like dirt and horses. Maybe that’s this brand. I squint at the label. It looks cheap. I feel a creep of self-pity. I take another glug to neutralize it. I’m sitting at the wonky kitchen table of a flat I’ll probably have to sell because I can’t hang onto the man I bought it with. Drinking whisky that could strip paint with no one but my dog for company. I think of the set-up at Izzy’s: her Diptyque candles, her chilled white wine and her roaring fire. Rich on his way home to tend to her every whim. Oh crap. Rich.

  I fumble for my phone, nearly knocking the whisky over. It goes to voicemail. He must be on the tube. I’m about to send him a message when I remember what Izzy said about how they’ve been laughing at me for years. I stop. I know Rich wouldn’t laugh at me. She must be lying. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I throw my shoulders back so sharply I feel a crick in my neck. Who is Izzy anyway? She might tell everyone how successful she is, combining her high-flying job with her perfect marriage, but she works in insurance. Even Ed admits it’s dull. And if her marriage is so perfect, why was Rich kissing me? Who’s the loser now? I grab my handbag off the chair opposite. I’m going back.

  When I open the front door, I see the 37 bus pulling away from the stop. I jam my hands in my pockets and start walking to the next stop. The walk might sober me up. The streets are deserted but I hear chanting as I pass the local pub. There must be a football match keeping everyone inside. That and the wind – this morning’s spring promise has hardened back into winter. Not that I can even feel it. My rage is keeping me warm. Perhaps I’ll walk the whole way. It’s peaceful out here. It gives me time to think things over. After about ten minutes, my left foot starts to hurt. I’m trudging by the time I pass the Hootananny pub on the corner. It was called the Hobgoblin when we were at school. It’s changed names about a hundred times since. It’s always stunk of weed. If I keep walking I can get the bus from outside the Town Hall. Most of them go on to Clapham. I can see the Ritzy cinema on my right and the yellow ‘M’ of the McDonald’s glowing like a beacon on the corner. Not much further. There was a shooting in that McDonald’s when we were at school. It’s one of the reasons Izzy won’t bring Tilly to my house. She’d have to drive through Brixton to get to me. The area’s been totally gentrified since then but she says it makes her uncomfortable. Unless she’s eating at the Franca Manca with her mummy friends.

  I feel a pang of sadness as I get on the bus, thinking of Tilly. I’ll miss that little heart-shaped face and the feel of her arms clasped tight around my waist. After tonight, I might not see her again. It’s a price I’ll have to pay if I’m going to get Izzy out of my life. I pull an old Bobbi Brown compact out of my bag. I look terrible, as expected. My pupils are darting around like I’m on something and there’s a nasty scratch on my cheek from where Izzy caught me with her nail. I pick at it with my thumb. I know it’ll make it look worse but there’s something comforting about gouging into my own flesh. I can barely feel it.

  9.01 p.m.

  The bus gives an enormous lurch as it turns off Battersea Rise onto Northcote Road and I smack my head against the metal bar. That pain takes me out of myself and I wonder what on earth I’m doing. I’ve already seen Izzy tonight. Why am I coming back? I glance out of the window as the bus pulls into the stop. I could just go home. But the bus stop on the other side of the road is empty. I must have just missed one. A familiar set of shoulders huddled behind the glass catches my eye. His fringe might be hanging across his face but I’d recognize that stance anywhere. I ding the bell, jump to my feet and hurry down the stairs. The doors are already sliding shut. I hurl myself through them just in time and weave across the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a Deliveroo driver swerving to overtake the bus.

  ‘Rich?’ He’s in a world of his own. He jumps like a startled cat.

  ‘Bec?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ I peer at him. I know I’m not looking my best, but Rich looks awful. Under his hair, his face is drawn and he’s shaking despite his winter coat.

  ‘It’s Izzy—’

  The whisky starts churning in my stomach.

  ‘She was all over the place. Told me she wants a divorce. She said she called my mum and told her she’s going to make sure I never see Tilly again.’ He bends over, hands on his knees. He looks like he might be sick. ‘Somehow she must know what happ—’

  I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘Rich, it’s my fault. I’m so sorry, I told Izzy that we kissed.’

  ‘What?’ He looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. ‘But why?’

  ‘There’s no time to explain it. You need to go and see her. She can’t take Tilly from you. You haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘She said she told my mum everything.’

  ‘What does your mum say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I turned my phone off. I knew if I kept it on I’d say something I’d regret.’

  ‘You’ve turned your… okay, that doesn’t matter either. You need to go and talk to Izzy. She’s only lashing out.’ I bite my lip. ‘She loves you. She won’t want a divorce. You just need to go home and sort it out.’

  ‘I can’t face it.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve been sitting on the common for the last ninety minutes since I spoke to her. You have no idea how angry she sounded.’

  ‘I have some idea.’ I think of Izzy’s face when she tried to throw me out. Anger sparks again. She’s never deserved him. ‘It will all be fine. I’m so sorry I got you into this. You must hate me.’

  ‘I don’t hate you. Obviously I’m not thrilled it’s come out like this but…’ He looks at me, like he’s weighing something up. ‘There is one thing you can do for me.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Come back there with me now.’

  Anything but that. I shake my head. ‘You and me going back there together is not a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Er, are you mad? Last time I saw Izzy she threw me out of your house. She told me if I came near her family again, she’d kill me. Me being there will just make things a thousand times worse. I’ll write her a letter or something, telling her that we only kissed, that nothing else happened. I’ll say whatever you want me to say. But I can’t come back with you—’

  ‘Please.’ His voice catches. ‘I need you. And you owe me.’

  There’s nothing I can say to that. And he’s already started walking. I fidget with the strap of my bag. Then I pick up my feet and go after him. I can’t match his long strides so I end up trailing him all the way up Northcote Road to the turn off for their street. He waits at the garden gate for me to catch up. If I didn’t know him better, I’d say it was a delaying tactic. His face is creviced in the streetlights. He looks a decade older than he did last time I saw him, and I’ve done this to him. He’s right. I do owe him. Even if I’m only here as cannon fodder.

  ‘After you.’

  He stops on each step like a man going to his execution. I don’t blame him. This isn’t going to be pretty. About halfway up, we see an Amazon delivery guy on the doorstep of the house next door. Rich stops. ‘Nobody’s in, mate,’ he says. ‘They’ve got a chalet in the Alps. They’re away until the snow melts.’

  The delivery guy grunts and punches something into his keypad.

  ‘How the other half live, eh?’ Rich continues, oblivious to the fact the delivery guy clearly wants to be on his way. The own-brand trainers he’s wearing and the scrappy goatee scratching at his chin indicate very little in the way of a natural affiliation with Rich. ‘The ones on the other side winter in Florida. Keep hoping they’ll extend the invitation but so far nothing doing.’

  He barks out a laugh that sounds more like a cough. The delivery guy’s halfway down the front steps now, eyes on his van. Zero interest in prolonging the exchange. I feel sorry for Rich. He’s got more to lose than me. But he can’t delay the moment any longer.

  He hesitates again, checkin
g his watch at the top of the steps. He’s got one of those complicated athletic ones and he fiddles with the screen. He’s playing for more time. Izzy’s drawn the curtains since I left so we can’t see what’s going on inside. I wonder if he’s going to bottle it. But he grits his teeth and puts his key in the lock.

  ‘I’m glad I’m not coming back alone.’ He turns his head back to meet my eyes. ‘I couldn’t have faced this without you.’ He pulls open the door and flicks on the hall light.

  That’s when I start screaming.

  Twenty-Six

  9.15 p.m.

  There’s so much blood around Izzy’s head it’s seeping into the cracks in the floorboards. The rest of the house looks exactly the same as it did a few hours ago. Stuffed animals and cushions; the remnants of the teddy bear’s tea party still strewn across the floor. It makes the sight of Izzy lying crumpled like a rag doll at the bottom of the stairs even more surreal. For a moment, I feel as though my feet are welded to the floor. I couldn’t move even if I wanted to. All I can do is stand there and take in the scene, my mind processing tiny details – the angle of her neck, the way her arms are spread angel-wide.

  ‘Is she breathing?’ I cross to where she’s lying, careful to avoid the blood, and start circling her. I’m trying to see it from every angle. I keep waiting to feel something but I’m on autopilot. I feel jittery, wired, like I’ve had too much caffeine. Perhaps I’m in shock.

  Images of Izzy at various points of our friendship crowd my mind. They’re so vivid I have to blink them away. I lean over her, trying to be useful, looking for signs of life. Rich carries on standing there, his back against the front door. I wait for him to move. I would have thought he’d be better with blood. He played rugby for ten years. But this is Izzy. The thought twists my stomach.

  ‘You need to call an ambulance,’ I urge. He looks at me like he can’t understand what I’m saying. ‘Call an ambulance.’ I enunciate each word.

  ‘But she’s, she’s already—’ He covers his face with his hands and his shoulders start to shake. ‘She must have been lying there for hours,’ he keeps repeating, like it’s some kind of mantra. He looks like he’s going to collapse.

  I look down at Izzy. The bits of her face that aren’t covered are the colour of concrete. I get up and cross the hall.

  ‘Everything’s going to be okay.’ I put my arm around Rich. I’m being so calm. When my mum died, I went to pieces. Perhaps when you’ve already lost the only person that really matters to you, everything else pales. And I know I need to be strong for Rich.

  ‘Think of Tilly,’ I say. ‘She’s going to need you. So what we need to do is call an ambulance—’

  I’ve said the wrong thing.

  ‘My god, Tilly.’ Rich looks stricken. ‘What if she saw—’

  ‘Tilly’s fast asleep.’ I cross my fingers and pray it’s true. ‘Izzy put her to bed hours ago. Now let’s—’

  ‘She might have woken up…’ Rich’s face is now paler than Izzy’s. ‘My god, what if she’s come down and seen—’

  ‘You know what a deep sleeper she is. I’m sure she hasn’t—’

  ‘How do you know?’ He practically shouts. ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘The monitor.’ My eyes focus on the white receiver on the side table. ‘There. See.’ I’ve always secretly mocked Izzy for persisting with Tilly’s baby monitor when she’s due to start school in September. Today I couldn’t be more grateful. I point to the screen, glowing like a beacon. Rich snatches it up.

  ‘If Tilly was awake you’d hear it,’ I say. Rich is scouring the screen. ‘Or see her moving. She’s fast asleep. But we need to check if Izzy’s—’

  I can’t bring myself to finish my sentence. I’ve just noticed the socks Izzy’s wearing. Everything else in her wardrobe is tasteful. Camels and greys: soft, muted shades. These socks are bright purple with unicorn faces on the toes. Their nylon flies in the face of the cashmere or silk she prefers. I helped Tilly choose them for Mother’s Day last year. Izzy loved them. I have to look away. Someone needs to stay in control.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Rich calls, and for one heart-stopping moment I think he’s talking about Izzy. Then I see him put down the monitor. The sight of Tilly sleeping peacefully seems to have helped Rich get back in control. He taps 999 into his mobile and starts talking. ‘I need an ambulance. Straightaway. My wife’s fallen down the stairs. You’ve got to hurry.’

  I can’t hear what the dispatcher is saying though I can guess from Rich’s responses.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ Rich shakes his head. ‘I just came back and found her. She’s on the floor.’ He gulps. ‘No. I don’t think she’s breathing.’

  I go back over to Izzy. I’m not squeamish like Rich but the sight of the blood clumped and matted in her hair turns my stomach. I breathe back the nausea and put a finger forward, scooping a hunk of it out of the way so I can get to her face. Her eyes are closed. I put my hand above her mouth the way they do in CSI, testing to see if there’s an answering breath. There isn’t. I lean in. Nothing. I look back up the stairs. It’s a long way down.

  ‘I don’t know how to do CPR.’ Rich comes up behind me. His voice is panicky again. ‘I don’t know if I can.’

  He’s close enough now that I can hear the response.

  ‘Yes, you can. We’ll do it together. I’m with you every step of the way.’

  Despite everything, I wish I’d thought to say that.

  It’s as I’m moving to let him get closer that I see her lips move. I see her take a breath. For one crazy moment, I hesitate. Then I’m pushing back Izzy’s hair, digging like a dog in sand to uncover the rest of her face. She exhales again and it’s like a dam has burst. Having not felt anything, now a tangle of emotions threatens to overwhelm me. One of them being guilt.

  ‘She’s still breathing.’ Tears sting my cheeks.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s breathing. Look.’ I point to her mouth. Rich is there so fast, I barely see him move. He dips his head low over her face then jerks back.

  ‘My god. She’s breathing.’ He almost shouts into the receiver. ‘Okay, tell me what to do?’

  But the sound of a siren wailing cuts through the air.

  ‘They’re here.’ Rich’s head is so close to Izzy it looks like he’s praying. There’s an intimacy to the gesture that makes me feel like I’m intruding.

  ‘I’ll open the door for the stretcher.’ I feel dizzy as I run over to the front door and pull it open. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears. Outside, the ambulance is navigating its way into the space between Izzy’s Porsche Cayenne and a random Beemer. I wait until the paramedics have stepped out of the ambulance.

  ‘She’s in here,’ I shout, and I can hear the relief in my own voice. ‘And she’s breathing.’

  9.35 p.m.

  I can see Izzy’s breath misting up the oxygen mask. She’s wearing a neck brace and a wad of gauze covers the cut on her head. There are wires snaking up her arm, doing God knows what. Although her face has regained some of its colour, she looks about a hundred. Her hair seems thinner and the bones of her chest stick out where they’ve pulled down her top to get the brace on. I can’t help thinking of the jolly paramedic at the race, winking as he told Izzy to put her feet up. These paramedics aren’t smiling.

  ‘Is she going to be okay?’ It’s a variation of the same question I’ve been asking since they came in the door. I have to know. ‘Her head—’

  The paramedic who patched up her head looks up from unfurling the straps of a backboard.

  ‘We’ve stemmed the bleeding but they’ll need to do a CT scan when she gets to St George’s. The team are prepping for her already.’

  ‘So she’s going to be okay?’

  ‘She’ll be in good hands. With hematomas—’

  ‘We’re taking her now,’ his crewmate interrupts. ‘To me.’

  They scoop Izzy onto the backboard and raise it in a single movement. They take her towards the front
door, Rich at their heels, his hip jostling the stretcher as he tries to get close enough to take Izzy’s hand.

  ‘I’ll stay with Tilly,’ I call. But nobody’s listening.

  They’ve barely been gone five minutes when Jenny sweeps through the doorway. She’s not wearing any make-up and her pyjamas are peeping out from under her coat. But there’s a strange energy coming off her and her eyes dart around the room, not meeting mine.

  ‘Oh my dear lord, what’s gone on here? Richard called me from the ambulance and asked me to come and see to Matilda,’ she continues when I don’t say anything. ‘I’ll stay here and you can go on to the hospital.’

  ‘I can’t.’ I gouge my feet into the floor. After having to watch the life leech out of my mum in a cubicle barely bigger than a shop changing room I swore I’d never set foot in another hospital. Izzy begged me to come when Tilly was born but I wouldn’t. How can I go now?

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Jenny’s trying to be soothing but, like me, she can’t seem to take her eyes off the bloody smears where Izzy’s body lay.

  ‘She was right there.’ I grope through the air to point at the stairs again. ‘Just lying there.’

  ‘What a horrid shock it must have been for you.’ Jenny sweeps across the room to scoop me into a hug. I let myself go floppy in the firmness of her grip. ‘A mercy you found her when you did. She must have slipped. Poor thing wasn’t in her right mind tonight.’

  In a flash I remember what Rich said at the bus stop about Izzy calling Jenny. About how she said she was going to take Tilly and make him pay for what he did. What we did. A fist of guilt socks me in the stomach. That’s why Jenny won’t look at me. This is all my fault.

  ‘What did she say when you spoke to her?’ I ask. But still, Jenny won’t meet my eye.

  ‘Oh this and that. She’s been under a lot of pressure with going back to work and minding Matilda. I don’t think we realized how much she’d taken on. Now, speaking of Mat—’

  ‘She’s asleep. She slept through the whole thing. Did Izzy tell—’