by Neal Bircher
And then it was all over. Lights were on, the shouted conversations of the remaining drunken partly-deafened throng no longer played second fiddle to the music, which was turned down to virtually zero volume, and twos and threes of people began scurrying around, picking up coats and possessions, flailing down the stairs, and then spilling out into the soberingly cold 2 a.m. December night.
Gail and Nick’s walk to the station was half a mile long. They covered it briskly, if a little erratically, and got there five minutes before a train in their direction was due to arrive. There were a few people around on the platform, but nobody that either of them knew. Gail leaned against Nick, sheltering from the cold. Nick wrapped his arms around her, and she looked up to him with the now-customary big smile on her face. They started to kiss, and their kissing lasted until the train arrived.
Despite the late hour, the train was near to full with others returning from London nightlife. Gail and Nick had to stay standing near the door for their short journey. Gail leant her head on Nick’s shoulder, and he gently cradled her in his arm. They didn’t exchange a word among the hubbub of drink-fuelled noise, but time passed quickly until they were spilling out onto the cold and deserted long concrete platform of Norling station.
The route to Gail’s house by road was straightforward enough, and about a mile long. Alternatively there would probably have been a taxi available from the minicab office that was just a matter of yards away from the station. But without needing to speak, the two of them made a joint decision to choose neither of those routes, and instead take a more roundabout option that took them first along the slightly treacherous unlit towpath of the Grand Union canal for half a mile or so, then up onto the road by the Haystack pub, along that road for a short while, and then across it into a fielded area known locally, and rather flatteringly, as “Meadow Park”.
This “park” was a featureless area of common land whose vegetation consisted of long coarse grass, odd scattered bushes, and some haphazard clumps of mainly ungainly trees. It was popular with dog walkers and of course the occasional “courting” couple. It covered a large area, but at a sub-zero temperature in the early hours of a Friday morning, Gail and Nick had it all to themselves.
They walked hand-in-hand. At somewhere around the middle of the park Nick grabbed Gail’s arm and pulled her gently against him. They started kissing once more, and Nick unbuttoned Gail’s overcoat. He placed his hands on her hips, and then moved them around onto “the best bum in the office”. Gail had her arms around his neck; she kissed him with a passion that he hadn’t been kissed with in years. Then Nick pulled back from Gail in order to speak. A flash of disappointment showed across her face.
“I’ve got an idea,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t we take off all of our clothes?”
Gail’s disappointment was very quickly dispelled. “I think that’d be anexcellent idea!”
And so, with his jacket as a groundsheet and her coat keeping the frosty air at bay, warmed by the spirit of alcohol and the passion of the moment, Gail and Nick saw their illicit relationship properly “become physical” for the first time.
Police Station
Nick had been sitting on a cheap plastic chair for what seemed like an age. He had for company a desk sergeant who was absorbed in his work at a computer, and a range of dog-eared posters urging him to do such things as fit locks to his windows and hide valuables away in the boot of his car. It was a soulless place. The sergeant hid away behind his huge slab-sided counter, and a solid door to an office – locked remotely, and free of even a handle on the outside – protected those at work within from riff-raff, terrorists, or indeed law-abiding tax payers with a genuine grievance.
A round 1980s wall clock clicked one more minute by. It was twenty-three minutes to nine, in the morning. Nick put down the limp two-week-old copy of a local free newspaper that someone had left lying on one of the chairs. There was nothing in it to read the first time, let alone on his third attempt. A uniformed police constable came in from the street and headed for the inner door. The desk sergeant pressed something underneath his desk and, with a buzzing sound and a click, the office door opened ajar. The constable acknowledged the desk sergeant’s part in making that happen, and passed through the door, closing it firmly behind him. He was the third person to have done this, and two others had come out of the office as well. Each time Nick looked up to glimpse what was visible beyond. Each time it was the same: a grey filing cabinet and half of an Arsenal poster, but no sign of life. There were people in there somewhere because phones rang from time to time, and didn’t ring for long.
He looked at his watch for the hundredth time, and didn’t take in what the time was, for the hundredth time.
Then the door opened noisily once more. And this time it was at last DI Wilson who held it open, and more than that, he held it open to let Gail out. Gail saw Nick straight away and smiled at him shyly before following Wilson over to the desk. She looked drained and ill-at-ease. This was the first time Nick had seen her for more than two weeks … the first time since the night of Barry Timson’s murder.
He felt strangely nervous. It was the first time that Gail’s presence had had that effect since that first illicit date, almost two years earlier. Gail signed out and walked over to Nick. They hugged tentatively for a few seconds before Wilson interrupted.
“We’d better go out the back way.” He gestured to the glass front door with his head. There were two men on the steps outside, one with a large camera and tripod. They were chatting, and had their backs to the police station. “Journalists,” Wilson explained.
Neither Nick nor Gail fully appreciated the implication of that information yet. But they soon would.
Wilson ushered them out through a series of doors and corridors that led to a car park and his blue Ford Mondeo. Before a security guard opened a vast sliding iron gate to let them out Wilson suggested that Gail keep her head down. She obliged, resting her head in Nick’s lap, reminding him of back-of-taxi experiences under rather different circumstances.
Wilson sped from the gate, and as he passed the front of the station he was recognised by the journalists. Nick watched their expressions first turn to alarm, and then to concentration as one pulled out his mobile phone and the other stared intently after the departing Mondeo, mouthing some words to himself.
Nick’s Home
DI Wilson dropped off Nick first, but before doing so reminded him and Gail that they each had a bail condition not to contact the other. Nick squeezed Gail’s hand, got out of the car, and then watched it pull quickly away. Then he turned to face his house. Nothing looked untoward, and there was nobody about. Nick was pleased to observe that Alyson’s Volkswagen Golf was not in the drive, but he still felt apprehensive as he approached his own front door. The nerves had come partly from his unease at having to confront Alyson. But if he’d thought any deeper he would have realised that it was also much due to the awareness that life as he knew it, represented by this average semi-detached home in front of him, was a past chapter, giving way to a new one that was sure to be different from average.
There was a small amount of uninteresting post on the floor of the porch, some addressed to him, some to Alyson.
Nick switched on the water heater in order to be able to have a bath, and immediately decided to bite the bullet and call Alyson at work. Alyson’s colleague and friend Nita – Alysonwould have a friend called Nita – answered the phone, and was more than a little off-hand. Nick had never really liked Nita. He’d never liked any of Alyson’s colleagues. She curtly informed him that Alyson was off work, and staying with her parents. “… And quite honestly, Nick, I cannot imagine that she would have any interest in talking to you.”
Nick got on OK with Alyson’s parents. Her mother could be a little stuck-up at times, but was harmless enough, and her hen-pecked dad kept himself to himself, but had a dry sense of humour when it was allowed to surface. He got on OK with
them, but he wanted to speak to them now even less than he wanted to speak to Alyson.
He was therefore relatively pleased that when he dialled the number it was quickly answered by Alyson. She was businesslike and composed, if a little aggressive. She would give him £30,000 for his share of the equity that they had in the house. “… And don’t try to get any more out of me, because that’s all I can afford on top of the mortgage. Just drop me a note to let me know that you accept.” It was a command, not an offer. There then followed a brief pause while both considered if they had anything else to say, before their receivers were replaced simultaneously.
Nick sat back on the sofa. He felt a tinge of annoyance that Alyson, like Nita, had been too judgmental to consider whether he might have a side of the story, but mostly he just felt sad. It could have been a time to think back to the happy days when he and Alyson had first met and to wonder where it had all gone so wrong, but he had too much else going on in his mind to get dragged into that one just yet.
He switched on the TV to look at the news on the digital text, but was then interrupted by the phone ringing.
He was surprised to hear Gail’s, voice – quiet and apprehensive, as she always was on the phone – as she’d never before called his home land line. She had no choice this time if she wanted to speak to him as both of their mobiles were sealed in evidence bags at Hanforth police station. In his third stilted telephone conversation with a woman in a matter of minutes Nick told Gail that all was well and Alyson was away at her parents’ house. Gail apologetically asked if, contrary to their bail conditions, she could come around and see him, but said little more.
Nick sat back once more; he was looking forward to seeing Gail. The TV was still on, with the sound down. He flicked through the terrestrial channels, as was his habit, starting with five, and going through to BBC1. Advert; flick; advert; flick. But channel three made his jaw drop. Some local news footage showed a hubbub of reporters bustling around Gail as she made her way hurriedly to her front door. Stunned, and with his heart pounding, Nick switched off the mute button in time just to be informed that “… Mr Hale has also been released this morning on police bail.”
Nick’s Plan
The deep rattle of a diesel engine told Nick that Gail’s cab had arrived. He went to his front door and was on one hand pleased, but on the other a little disappointed, to see her stepping along the driveway with no cameramen in tow.
Gail looked even more flustered and edgy than she had earlier. On top of everything else she was probably uncomfortable coming into the home that Nick shared with Alyson. Nick put the kettle on and Gail explained what had happened when she had got home.
After running the gauntlet of the gaggle of journalists – who had presumably made their way from outside the police station – Gail had found an empty house waiting for her, and a scribbled note by the phone asking her to call her mother. She’d called her mother straight away to be given something of a frosty reception, but was relieved to find that Catherine was staying with her. Fed up with being harassed by journalists, Catherine had turned up in a taxi the previous evening, along with a large and very full suitcase, Ben, and the cat. Gail’s mother suggested that she shouldn’t visit them in case the journalists followed her. “Thanks, mum, for your support,” Gail thought, but would never have said in a million years. Stephen was apparently staying at his girlfriend’s parents’ house. Gail had tried phoning him, but there was no reply.
Then the doorbell went, and Nick opened the front door. A bearded man in his early thirties with mousey hair and a slightly scruffy short leather coat asked Nick if he was Nicholas Hale. Briefly Nick thought that this was a policeman, until the man’s younger side-kick appeared with a large camera, and started taking photos. Nick gently closed the door without opening his mouth. Then he removed the batteries from the door bell and went back into his front room.
Things were getting ever more interesting. Nick handed Gail a mug of tea and then sat down with his own, on the other sofa to her.
Nick had not yet completely come to terms with the enormity of what was happening to and around him, but once it did sink in it would probably still not greatly concern him. Gail on the other hand had been through too much turmoil already over the previous couple of weeks, and the prospect of facing a murder charge was visibly weighing heavily upon her.
Nick took a sip of his tea. “Is your bail requirement the same as mine: go back to Hanforth in two weeks?”
Gail nodded.
Nick sat back deep in thought. Gail leaned forward staring into her tea. There was a very long silence.
Then Nick spoke. “OK, I’ve got a plan. See what you think.”
Gail listened attentively as Nick explained his plan, and she nodded in agreement with every bit of it. The plan even made her smile properly for the first time in since … well, since her last evening out with Nick. She came over and kissed him on his forehead. The two of them then held a gaze for a moment, each sensing a new optimism and thrill of adventure in the other.
When Gail left she strode confidently up to her cab and quickly got into the back seat. There were no photographers lurking, and, as far as she could tell, not even any twitching of neighbourhood net curtains. She sat back, closed her eyes, and contemplated her life’s latest new and unexpected turn … and hopefully for once it would prove to be a turn for the better.
Special Occasion
Much as Gail enjoyed all of her nights out with Nick, when eating was part of the itinerary it made the occasion something to really savour. It made the evening that much more than a drink between colleagues; that much more intimate, more … “coupley”. And as the two of them sat mulling their menus in the Raj – a small Indian restaurant near Paddington station that they had been to twice before – she felt better still about sharing a romantic meal than she usually did. At least she thought she did; it rather depended on whether Nick had chosen to eat this time for the reason that she had been hoping that he would.
Gail knew what food she was going to order, and she allowed her mind to drift. She knew where they would be going after the meal: They would be walking hand in hand to nearby Hyde Park where they would make love on a bench or, more likely, against one of its magnificent willow trees. She pictured them heading away from the busy Bayswater Road and into the darkness of the park’s faux countryside, the noise and traffic smells of London fading surprisingly quickly behind them. Then she imagined where they would go: this time to a bench beside the Serpentine, to kiss and cuddle whilst moonlight shimmered on the lake’s surface, tethered rowing boats bobbed in the gentle breeze, and the few ducks that weren’t yet asleep chattered among themselves, quacking half-heartedly. She pictured walking hand-in-hand with Nick to a willow tree. It wasn’t difficult to imagine; it had happened plenty of times already. Every thought that she had was good, whether a memory of a past event, or anticipation of what was to come. The park had become her favourite place in London. She loved the way that she and Nick could melt into its darkness and quietness. She loved the lake, the trees, the ducks, the privacy … but also, if she was honest about it, she loved the risk of being seen, which added a thrill of its own. All the same, she chose not to think too deeply about the prospect of being caught. She felt that her husband, Barry, was wary of her nights out “with colleagues”, and she knew that he had friends and colleagues all over London, and …
“So, what are you having, then?”
Nick’s question snapped Gail back to the here and now, and she told him her order. Next he would be asking about drinks. Nick already had a lager, and she a gin and tonic. He would probably order another lager, in which case she would have a half of the same. However, it would take the meal experience to another level if he ordered a bottle of wine – another step further from a colleagues’ drink, another step up the romance ladder. Did he realise that? She suspected so, but couldn’t be sure. She looked into his eyes, willing him to suggest it, willing him to let on that he knew what the
date was … willing him to care.
“Are you ready to order?” asked the oh-so-polite Indian waiter, who had materialised at their table.
The politeness of each of its three waiters was to Gail one of the endearing things about the Raj. That, along with its other stereotypical features – the velvety wallpaper that was clean, but that had seen better days (many years before), the glitzy pictures of waterfalls, the piped Indian music, and the same menu as every other such curry house in the whole of the country – made it welcoming, comfortingly familiar, and somewhere that she could feel at ease. But this time the waiter’s arrival was something of an intrusion. All the same, she smiled politely and placed her order. Nick then did the same.
“Thank you. Will that be all?” asked the waiter.
Gail nodded.
Nick said “No, we might as well top up our drinks, please.”
Then he looked Gail in the eye. “How about getting a bottle of wine, as it’s a special occasion?”
He had a cheeky grin on his face, and Gail couldn’t help but to return one of her big smiles. It was exactly six months since Jemma Reynolds’ leaving do … and the start of their relationship. So he did know, and he did care. And he did know how to, at least briefly, make her the happiest person on Earth.