by Martyn Ford
And off they went. They crunched along salted pavements, past huge white pillows shaped like parked cars, and then trudged through fresh snow, cutting across the park just down from his apartment.
‘Anna, by the way,’ she said, holding out her hand, now covered with a red mitten.
‘Francis.’
At first, he’d assumed she didn’t remember him. However, following their late introduction under an iron street lamp, as gold-leaf snowflakes landed on her woollen hat, she said, ‘I was going to speak to you at the party but, I don’t know, I guess I bottled it.’
‘Bottled it?’
‘It means I was scared.’
‘You were scared? God, why?’
‘You’re tall and handsome and I bet you speak French.’
‘Juste un peu.’
She replied fluently.
Confused, Francis laughed and shrugged. ‘Clearly not as much as you,’ he said. His accent sounded so sloppy next to hers.
When they arrived at his apartment, keen to seem a gentleman he said they would continue on to her destination together. He wouldn’t have her walking out here alone at this hour. Anna hesitated, then said she would be fine – although she appreciated the offer.
But Francis insisted. ‘No, no, it’s OK, really.’
Anna, mittens and jeans, bobble hat and lips, leaned forwards and gave him a hug. ‘I’m sorry, the truth is, the place I’m staying . . .’ She looked around the street behind her. ‘It’s nowhere near here.’
Francis was flattered – she’d walked two unnecessary kilometres, in the wrong direction, in the freezing cold, just to be with him. It was the seed of their relationship. It was a conscious decision she’d made to keep them closer than fate had intended. A choice that meant there was no other option than to invite her inside and extend the offer of an inflatable mattress, which, with her sweet smile, she declined.
In the midst of that dark, gentle snow, the night of crashes and bruises, cold noses and warm tongues, Francis hadn’t stopped to think about what she’d done. It was too exciting. Too incredible. One of those beautiful off-limit girls had taken an inexplicable interest in him. Why would he question it?
And yet, the reality of the gesture remained. What Anna had said on the pavement, next to the bus – that she was heading in the same direction – it was charming, it was cool, it was intensely alluring. But it was also, as well as all these things, a lie.
Nevertheless, they were officially a couple within the month.
It transpired that Anna was spending her gap year in Montreal, working as a barmaid to fund short breaks around the country – something that was, she said, far more idyllic in her imagination than it turned out to be in real life. Until, of course, she met him.
They danced together, and spent long evenings with take-out and garbage TV – her calves on his lap, her voice at his neck. Her company made all bad things good and all good things great. The best of life’s offerings became fleeting glimpses of heaven. She wrote him letters, poems and showed him kindness he had never known. She said his eyes were blue pools, a tropical sea she could swim in all day, and his physique was perfect just the way it was. To say he’d loved her would be an understatement – but language was yet to develop an adequate word for how he felt about beautiful Anna Radisson.
Far too soon she was due to return to the UK, to study medicine – that’s right, smart too, he’d thought, nodding at his mother when her eyebrows shot up in surprise. They promised they’d make a long-distance relationship work. But he feared she would drift away – of course, with all their splendour, angels can fly.
So, Francis went to a jeweller in town, bought a silver engagement ring and, on her final evening, took her out to her favourite Chinese restaurant. When they’d finished, he insisted they got the night bus back to his apartment. For old times’ sake.
The driver took some convincing, but was noble enough to turn down the money Francis had offered. He remembered the night of the crash and said the idea was ‘actually quite romantic’.
As Francis had hoped, they were the only passengers on the bus. Anna standing, holding on to the vertical yellow pole, just as she had done almost a year before. Francis opposite her, his hand around one of the hanging plastic loops above, the other buried in his pocket. The bus pulled slowly into the middle of that open junction and, with a hiss, came to a stop. The driver played his part perfectly. Anna frowned, pursed her lips, then turned to look out of the dark window.
And then the lights went off.
‘Uh, OK. What’s going on?’ she asked. And when she turned back, she found Francis kneeling on the dirty floor, his trousers in damp footprints, his hands cupped around the velvet box. That baby face, looking down at him, fingers on her mouth, tears in her eyes. Saying yes.
Saying yes of course.
Beautiful Anna, looking down at him, saying wake up, wake up, Francis, wake up, Ethan’s gone, Robin’s gone. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.
It’s nowhere near here. I just said it was.
I just wanted to walk with you.
I just wanted to—
A sound made Francis’s legs jerk straight. He rose from the brink of sleep, looking up at his prison cell ceiling. Everywhere was warm. The snow was melting. His cheek felt swollen, stretched and hot. He sat up and leaned over to the radiator, convinced it was on, but touched cold metal.
A thought kept coming to him. One he did not like to think.
Someone had hurt Robin, they had taken blood from her and planted it in locations that would have fingers pointed squarely at him. All while he slept. He didn’t spend long wondering who might want to do such a thing. Instead, he wondered who could. There was really only one suspect. There she was, in his mind, leaning over him, looking down with that sweet face he’d loved so much.
Anna. Beautiful, natural, effortless, deceitful Anna.
His tooth ached enough to make his left eyelid twitch. Winter had ended. His body was wet greys and greens, streets lined with packed ice stained black by filth and shrinking. And even that turned to water when a voice came through his cell door.
‘People like you don’t fare well in places like this,’ the man whispered. Whoever it was, Francis could tell he was smiling. ‘They keep you separate. They keep you safe. Most of the time . . .’ There was a clink, clink, clink. ‘Know what that is?’ Clink, clink, clink. ‘That’s metal.’ Clink, clink, clink. ‘A blind eye is cheap to buy, if you know what I mean . . .’
And then the voice was gone.
That afternoon, Francis demanded to see Jeremy. In their defence, the guards were generally obliging. They treated him with courtesy – he was allowed certain privileges. Although they didn’t always act like it, he was innocent until proven otherwise. Still, to his horror, this was already starting to feel like home.
He met his lawyer in a small room with low foam chairs and a square wooden table. Handsome Jeremy had his briefcase on his lap. He placed it on the floor, then stood to greet him.
‘You feeling OK?’ he asked, his hand on Francis’s upper arm.
After making sure the door was properly closed, he whispered, ‘Someone came to my cell – threatened me. I’m meant to be segregated.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘No, he spoke through the door.’
‘All right, wait here.’ Jeremy left the room.
Francis sat down and rubbed his fingers – earlier they’d felt like silk from his moisturiser. Now they were clammy. He blew on them to get rid of the sweat. But the heat was in his core now; his clothes were damp. When Jeremy returned, he shut the door behind him and perched on the table.
‘They say that’s not possible.’ He pushed his designer glasses up his nose. ‘You a hundred per cent sure?’
‘I didn’t imagine it – Jesus.’
‘No. It’s just, they told me the only people who can access that gangway are guards.’
Turning his head to the ceiling, Francis breathed and felt his
throat strain. ‘Then I am truly fucked.’
All that stood between him and that clinking shank was this slick man, today wearing a navy waistcoat and pinstriped trousers – all slim fit, making him seem even younger. It felt slightly backwards to place all his faith in someone at least fifteen years his junior. Francis hoped Jeremy was still worth the money.
‘Listen, I have something for you.’ Jeremy stood, slid a laptop from his leather briefcase and placed it on the table. He tilted the screen open.
A video was ready to play. In the centre of the frame, Francis saw his wife, beautiful Anna, sitting on her hotel bed. The hidden camera he’d had planted in her room, despite Jeremy’s disapproval, was bearing fruit. However, from his expression, Francis could tell it was rotten.
‘You know how I feel about it,’ Jeremy said. ‘I didn’t even want to look . . . but, it might be significant . . . You sure you want to see this?’
Francis glared at him, bit away the pain and clicked the white triangle in the bottom left-hand corner. And what he saw hurt him like nothing else ever could.
Chapter 23
Watching from a camera on the side table, deep within the plastic casing of an alarm clock, we see room twenty-one. We see Anna. Her suitcase on the floor. The closed curtains. The neat bed. She’s sitting on a chair in the corner, still wearing the same clothes, still unable to settle. Frowning, she looks down into her mobile. As she reads from the screen, she pulls on the blonde curls hanging at the side of her face – three short tugs. Then she rubs her leg, which bounces up and down as though she’s repeatedly pumping a pedal with her heel. Alone, these twitches are at their most severe.
There’s a gentle tapping sound and she composes herself, wipes her face with her hand, then stands. She steps past, disappearing from view. We hear the door.
She returns with a man carrying a black rucksack – he places it on the bed and hugs her. His lower half fills the frame as they hold one another in silence for almost a minute.
Sniffing, gasping as she releases him, Anna descends back into her seat. The man then sits on the edge of the mattress, to her left, our right. When he glances around the room, and we see his face, we recognise him as Daniel Aiden. We see his tanned skin, his thin metal glasses, his dark hair, well-groomed – grey above the ears. He’s wearing a loose, informal blue shirt and beige chinos. Although no stranger to the screen, usually he knows he’s being filmed. Today, he’s not presenting anything beyond his private self.
‘I got a message from Paula, at the foundation,’ Anna says. ‘She’s resigning.’
Daniel shakes his head. ‘Why?’
‘Apparently someone who’s about to be charged with murder isn’t the best president.’
‘No, I mean, why is she contacting you about it?’
‘Courtesy I guess – she’d been considering it for a while, the issue of the missing funds and so on.’ Anna shrugs. ‘She thought I should know before they go public.’
‘So that’s it, the Clarke Foundation is dead?’
‘There are other charities waiting in the wings – the kids we’re helping will be fine. Change of branding more than anything else.’
‘Are you OK about that?’
‘Why the fuck would I care?’
‘No, yeah, of course.’ Daniel touches her knee. ‘Have you seen Francis, since . . . ?’
‘I spoke to him on the phone.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not well.’ She tugs on her hair three times, then rubs her jeans.
‘Have you . . . have you thought more about . . .?’
Anna presses her fingertips into her forehead. ‘He is many things . . . but he’s not a murderer.’
Francis watched the video in silence. The clock in the prison’s meeting room ticked, but after a while he stopped noticing. And, although Jeremy pretended not to look, he wasn’t exactly subtle. His eyes kept passing over the floor, then towards Francis – a strange pride and excitement in providing this footage. He’d certainly changed his tune.
It was not surprising to see Daniel offer Anna support. A familiar shoulder was better than none at all, right? As for the foundation – it was only a matter of time before it folded. Every part of his life was coming unravelled. There were plenty of reasons he’d prefer to keep the charity up and running, but a triviality like Paula’s resignation was hardly high on his list of concerns.
They’d known Daniel Aiden for decades, long before he found his fame. Following Francis’s proposal on the bus, Anna returned to the UK and, while he tied up loose ends in Canada, she got herself settled in a new place. The plan was, once her loan had come through, Francis would drop everything and move to England. Their student accommodation was cheap, and he managed to find work quite fast. Finally, his computer-science degree was paying for itself with a job he actually liked – creating websites for a toy manufacturer. Again, he found himself earning significantly more than his peers.
At first, Francis and Anna shared their narrow terraced house with another couple. But when one of them dropped out of university, the second followed suit. And, while searching for a new lodger, they crossed paths with Daniel – a journalism student looking for a place to call home.
The trio grew to be the best of friends and, although his relationships were turbulent, whenever Daniel had a partner, they would double-date. Which is not to say he was a third wheel. Francis had regarded him as an equal shareholder – as much his friend as Anna’s, often more so.
His first impression was admiration. Francis considered Daniel to be, above all else, incredibly intelligent. Sharp in ways that at times made him feel inadequate. He was a prominent member of the university’s debating society, took great pleasure in his intellectualism and eventually edited the campus newspaper. A second-generation immigrant with a thirst for knowledge and a bright future ahead of him. His Malaysian father worked in finance and his Welsh mother was an aerospace engineer. He was literally raised by a millionaire and a rocket scientist – hence his predisposition for academic success. Clever Daniel.
Francis remembered the three of them in a bar, clinking glasses the night before Anna’s graduation and declaring that, come hell or high water, they would remain friends as they passed into adulthood. The three amigos.
However, geography and lifestyle soon eradicate such naive pledges. When Anna graduated, with a first, and took up a junior-doctor position, Daniel slipped away and into his fledgling media career. Different circles. They’d see him once, maybe twice a year. If there was an irony to Ethan’s disappearance, it was the rekindling of their friendship. As though only loss could make it possible again.
It had been Anna’s idea to push hard on the campaign and generate as much media coverage as possible. Even Sam agreed it would do more good than harm to let the story run. Francis was less sure, fearing it might achieve fame and little else. Although ultimately proved right on that front, he had eventually conceded.
Of all the people in their address book, Daniel Aiden – by then a well-regarded writer and documentary filmmaker – leaped out. And, of course, he was happy to oblige. Francis invited him back into their life, into baby Robin’s life. Sweet Robin. Sweet Robin loved Daniel. Uncle Daniel. Clever Uncle Daniel with his funny stories.
We see room twenty-one. ‘Last year, after the fight . . . you told me he can be controlling,’ Daniel says. ‘You said sometimes you feel like you don’t even know him.’
Anna looks at the floor. ‘But . . . but he wouldn’t . . .’ Hiding her face in her hands, both legs pump away on invisible pedals. ‘He wouldn’t.’
‘Even before Ethan was born, before everything . . . you had your doubts. You mentioned that in Thailand, for goodness’ sake.’
Francis tensed his jaw – he felt sweat prickle up his spine and the throb pound through his skull. They went to Thailand almost twenty years ago. Twenty fucking years. Eight weeks travelling, island to island. It was the four of them. Francis and Anna, Daniel and his then-girlfriend Za
ra. They conceived Ethan on that trip. Had this been a fork in the road? Had her pregnancy closed one of these possible routes?
His memories of that day were as vivid as their first encounter – he recalled her face in high definition. She was lying on the beach, by his side. They were both flat on their backs, on packed white sand, the shallow waves drifting up and across their skin. He was holding her hand.
‘The sea is so warm,’ he whispered. ‘If you close your eyes, it feels like it’s not even there.’
The ocean crept slowly, only about an inch or two deep, up his legs, his sides, over the back of his head. Then it fell away again. They lay there for hours – Daniel and Zara were at the hostel, probably arguing about something or other.
Anna had turned on to her shoulder and faced him. He mirrored her.
‘Those eyes,’ she whispered, cupping his cheek in her slender fingers. Her nails were painted with pale, glossy rose varnish – chipped on her thumb. He could see it. He could see her black bikini. Beautiful Anna. Beautiful Anna who would turn heads on the beach and not even notice.
‘Can you feel the water?’ he asked.
‘If I concentrate.’
‘It’s like I’m numb. I’m the same temperature. Reckon it’s thirty-seven degrees?’
‘Francis,’ she said, her hand on his neck now, her thumb stroking his face. ‘I love you.’
He smiled. ‘I love you more.’
Anna rested her head on her outstretched arm. He could see the sand stuck to her bronzed skin – tiny flat flakes of stone. The water came up between them and washed away. As warm as blood, almost not there.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘You’ll just have to trust me.’
He closed his eyes and felt the sun on his vision – hot and red. Then her lips on his – he smelled her perfume, her tanning lotion. When he looked again, the sand was blinding for a second, then dark as his retinas readjusted.
‘I have something to tell you.’ Warm sea. Warm sea you can hardly feel. Warm sea and beautiful Anna. ‘I’m pregnant.’