The Sound

by Sarah Alderson

  ‘No,’ I say, pissed off at the accusation he’s flung at me out of nowhere. I lean back against the bench. ‘What?’

  ‘Did Tyler or Sophie or one of the others put you up to this?’ he demands, his eyes flashing. ‘Ask you to tell me to leave him alone?’

  I can feel the anger boiling in my veins. ‘What?’ I snap back.

  He leans back to take stock of me. ‘You’re friends with them. And Tyler’s the kind of guy who’d use a girl to do his dirty work for him.’

  ‘Firstly,’ I say, the anger making my voice shake, ‘I’m not the kind of girl who’d let a guy use me to do his dirty work for him. Secondly, I’m not friends with Tyler Reed. He’s—’

  Jesse raises his eyebrows, clearly wanting me to finish my sentence. I break off with a loud huff.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Jesse says quietly, looking out at the ocean again, ‘I know you’re not that kind of person. I just – you’re friends with them . . .’ He shrugs at me in apology.

  ‘Look, I am friends with them,’ I say, thinking of Jeremy and Sophie, trying to ignore the voice in my head that is pointing out I’m more than just friends with Jeremy. ‘But does that mean we can’t be friends?’ I say to Jesse, and even as I say it I wonder at my sanity. Why am I trying so hard to be Jesse’s friend? All logic tells me I should try to avoid him and put him out of my mind but the simple truth is I cannot. I cannot get up from this bench and walk away. Despite everything I know about him and despite the fact I have made it past second base with Jeremy. And I am well aware that all this clearly indicates I need psychological help.

  Jesse leans forward, his arm now resting along the back of the bench behind me. ‘Friends, huh?’ he says, his gaze most definitely lingering on my lips. ‘What’s your definition of friend?’ he asks in a voice that raises goosebumps all along my arms, then sends them shooting down my legs and to all sorts of X-rated places.

  I force myself to remember Niki, the singer Jesse had his arm thrown around last night, and that other blonde drunk girl at the gig who he had clearly hooked up with, as well as Tara’s words to me last night about not getting close to him and blurry lines.

  And Jeremy. I force myself to remember Jeremy.

  ‘I mean friends,’ I say firmly, ‘as in people that you hang out with, drink coffee with, have fun with.’

  ‘Fun?’ he asks, grinning.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Fun that doesn’t involve taking off your clothes.’

  He shoots me a glance that I’m sure is designed to make every woman instantly shed her clothes and throw herself on top of him because that’s what it’s making me want to do. ‘Sure about that?’ he murmurs. ‘I find that’s when most of the fun is to be had.’

  I have to remind myself to breathe. ‘Do you flirt with everyone that has a pulse?’ I ask, trying to hold his gaze and not stare at his lips (and not strip off right there and throw myself on top of him).

  ‘Only if they have the right parts,’ he answers back.

  ‘You really know how to flatter a girl.’

  ‘Oh, this isn’t flattery,’ he answers seriously. ‘When I do flattery, you’ll know it.’

  ‘I have a boyfriend,’ I murmur, feeling the heat of a blush sweep across my cheeks.

  He nods and leans even closer and it takes a superhuman effort not to move either towards or away from him. ‘So you keep saying,’ he says quietly, ‘but where is this mysterious boyfriend? I never see you with him.’

  He is holding me with a gaze so smouldering I think I feel my extremities start to singe. I am obsessively aware of his lips, how they are lightly parted, the edge turned up in a small smirk; of the smooth tanned skin beneath the collar of his T-shirt which I am glancing down. ‘He’s um . . .’ I start to say, my eyes back on his lips.

  ‘Is he in England?’

  I am not sure how to answer this one so I just mumble something that sounds like – ‘Mmmmbbbbaaa.’

  He pulls away and it’s as if he’s cut a string and I’m shooting off into the stratosphere while he stays firmly put on earth, out of reach. ‘I’m just kidding with you, Ren,’ he says, taking a loud slurp of his coffee. ‘I can do friends.’ He puts inverted commas around the word. ‘No problem. Despite what you might think or what Tara might have told you I don’t feel the need to sleep with every girl I come into contact with.’

  He could have just flayed me alive. It might have hurt less. I sink back against the back of the bench, pressing a hand to my stomach.

  ‘So now we’ve established that we can be just friends, who can have fun without any x-rated content in the relationship,’ Jesse says, ‘what do you suggest we do on our first “date” that isn’t a date?’

  ‘Well,’ I say, still kind of stumbling through the roadblocks in my mind, ‘I was hoping you could show me how to play guitar.’ This is true. This is not some Megan-style ruse to hook up with a hot guy by pretending to act interested in something he’s interested in. I had been thinking about it ever since I saw Jesse playing at the gig. I’ve always wanted to learn how to play guitar.

  Jesse leans back and stares at me smiling – no, almost grinning. ‘Seriously?’ he asks.

  I nod.

  ‘OK,’ he finally agrees. ‘How about Thursday? Meet me at the store.’

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  After a while we walk back to my car. He leans through the window as I start the engine.

  ‘See you Thursday,’ he says and then he pauses, his fingers tight on the window. ‘And Ren, stay out of trouble OK?’

  I nod. He looks genuinely worried. ‘I’ll be OK,’ I reassure him. I know he’s talking about the serial nanny attacker and even though I am worried myself I don’t want to let on to him.

  ‘Bye,’ I say and start reversing, thanking God that I chose the end space and there’s no risk of making a total tool of myself again.

  28

  Mike is in his study when I get back. He is on a phone call but hangs up swiftly when I walk in. Carrie is standing beside his desk and as soon as he’s off the call she asks him, ‘Well?’

  ‘That was the news desk,’ he says to me over her shoulder. ‘They’ve heard from a police source – they say it’s the same MO.’

  I must look blank because he then adds, ‘They think it’s the same guy that killed the girl last year – because of the way he attacked her and how she was found. The only reason she isn’t dead is because they think he was disturbed before he could finish the job – there was a police call-out apparently for something else – they think he got scared off by the sirens.’

  I freeze, my stomach squeezing tight. They must have been responding to Sophie’s phone call. If she hadn’t called 911 what might have happened? I feel the need to sit down and put my head between my legs.

  Mike shakes his head. ‘Whatever happened it saved this girl’s life. They’re waiting for her to wake up so they can interview her and hopefully get a description of the guy. But they’re also calling for witnesses who were on the beach last night. Ren, you should give a statement . . .’

  ‘I didn’t see anything,’ I say, a little too quickly.

  ‘You might have seen something without realising. It’s important they take as many witness statements as possible. I’ll let the police know you were there.’

  Carrie lets out a loud sigh behind me. ‘Oh my goodness, the poor girl. She’s so lucky.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Mike asks, his head jerking up.

  ‘She’s still alive, isn’t she?’

  Mike puts his glasses on and sits down at his desk. He starts tapping away at his laptop. ‘I need to email a few reporters, see if we can track down the parents or if we can get an exclusive interview with the people she was nannying for.’

  ‘Do we know them?’ Carrie asks.

  He glances up. ‘No, I don’t think so. I think they might know the Reeds though. They know everyone.’ He picks up his phone. ‘I’ll call Richard now.’

  I help Carrie make lunch, then I change the beds, do the laundry a
nd tidy away all the kids’ toys because I’m still trying to win back the brownie points that Jesse’s early morning visit cost me. When I’m done I slope upstairs. I write a blog post and upload some new playlists and then Megan logs on and sends me an instant message.

  Hey slapper!

  Hey, I type back, my fingers blurring on the keyboard.

  What’s happening? What’s the score with Jeremy?

  It’s good. I saw him last night. I stop typing as I remember the small print details of last night – I had forgotten our make-out session in all the drama of the last twelve hours.

  But?????

  But what? I type back.

  I can hear the but. It’s screaming its way across the Atlantic.

  No buts. He’s a hottie.

  Does he make you quiver down there?

  I roll my eyes. Only Megan would be so direct. Kind of, I answer.

  Kind of????

  Yeah.

  I think of Jesse. He totally makes me quiver down there and everywhere else. But Jesse is so off-limits that if he were a place he’d be a nuclear testing site. And Jeremy doesn’t make me not quiver. He kind of does. Is that enough? I’m so confused right now and it’s too hard to explain it to Megan who will just tell me to sleep with him anyway and get it over with because a maybe quiver is enough and I don’t want to go to university still a virgin (as if there could be no greater tragedy), so instead I change the subject.

  A girl got attacked last night on the beach I was at.

  OMG. Who did it?

  The police don’t know.

  Shit. Is it the same person who killed the other girl?

  I don’t know. I’m not the police.

  I think you should come home.

  No. I like it here. It’s amazing.

  Sounds it.

  No, really, it is.

  Guess what? Bex dumped Will.

  I barely have the energy to type, Really?

  Rumour has it he was rubbish in bed so maybe you made the right decision not to sleep with him.

  I knew that already (that I made the right decision, not that he was rubbish in bed) but I do feel slightly vindicated to hear this news, though it doesn’t exactly raise a smile.

  I sign off with Megan and see that Jeremy has sent me a message, so I quickly open it.

  The police want to interview all the people who were on the beach last night. Did you tell anyone you were there?

  Hello to you too, I mutter.

  Yeah, Mike and Carrie, I type.

  There’s a pause. Jeremy doesn’t type anything.

  What should I do? I ask.

  Don’t tell the police about the fight with Tyler and Miller.

  I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t want to get Jesse into trouble. I was the reason he was there in the first place after all, but the word perjury keeps screaming through my brain. I choose to ignore it.

  It will only cause more trouble, Jeremy types, We shouldn’t have been drinking a keg and we called the police and then left. Sophie doesn’t want to get into trouble.

  OK, I type.

  Want to come sailing at the weekend with Parker?

  Who’s going to be there? I write. I mean, I do want to go sailing but I do not want to be trapped in a confined space on open water with either Eliza or Tyler.

  Just you, me, Sophie, Matt and Parker.

  No Tyler? I ask.

  Tyler’s had to go back to Boston. He went early this morning with his father. Doctor’s appointment.

  OK, I write.

  29

  Thursday seems to take forever to come around. On Tuesday I had to give a statement to the police. Mike stood behind me the entire time as I mumbled and perjured myself in a way that would have made Bill Clinton proud.

  What was I doing on the beach?

  True answer: Making out.

  Answer to police: Hanging out.

  Who was I with?

  True answer: Jeremy.

  Answer to police: Friends.

  Did I see anyone on the beach that caught my eye, or that I was surprised to see there?

  True answer: Hell yes, Jesse Miller.

  Answer to police: No.

  Did you hear anyone fighting? Any shouts or screams?

  True answer: Yes.

  Answer to police: Um, no.

  Do you know who put in that call to the police or why?

  True answer: Yes.

  Answer to police: No, sorry.

  By the end of the interview, the policeman was staring at me over the top of his notebook with eyes reduced to slits and an expression of such scepticism it felt like I was wearing thumbscrews. I thought he might be about to arrest me on suspicion of being the attacker or at the very least drag me in to the police station and hook me up to a lie detector machine. I was a lying, stumbling mess. I would not make a good spy. Even Mike seemed to grow impatient with me, telling me that I should try harder to remember anything at all that might help them. But truthfully the only thing I could remember was Jesse’s face and his fist flying through the air. I wished I could remember more. If I had seen or heard anything else I would have told them.

  On Wednesday I had lunch with Jeremy which was nice (a word my English teacher forbade us to ever use but which I find underrated). He paid for my chowder and we talked about school and how much money he is going to earn as a doctor when he qualifies. I kept quiet on how much money I was expecting to earn as a music journalist because I thought he’d laugh.

  And finally it is Thursday and the day of my guitar lesson. I jump out of bed as though it’s Christmas morning and I am six years old and a child of the Brangelina. I am in front of the mirror fixing my make-up when Brodie waltzes in and plonks herself on my bed.

  ‘Why do you look pretty?’ she asks.

  ‘Thanks, Brodie,’ I say, making a note to self to abstain from ever having children.

  ‘Are you seeing Jeremy today?’ she asks, a sneaky smile on her face.

  ‘No,’ I say, putting on some lipgloss.

  I catch Brodie’s reflection in the mirror. She is tilting her head as she studies me. She’s obviously inherited her mother’s knack for scrutiny.

  ‘How are things going with Noelle?’ I ask.

  Her face lights up. ‘Good! I showed her the Megan look.’ She demonstrates.

  ‘And?’ I ask, turning to face her. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘She doesn’t want to play with me anymore,’ Brodie grins.

  ‘Awesome!’ I high-five her.

  I get Brodie ready for camp and then drop her and Braiden off before speeding over to Miller’s bike shop. I am a little early so I sit in the car listening to some music and waiting.

  Finally I stroll past the bikes and oars and push the door, which I notice has been fixed. The broken glass that had been taped over before has been replaced. The shop is empty of customers and from the back room I can hear music. This time though it’s someone playing the guitar. I smile and get a horse kick of nerves in my stomach. I’m getting used to that feeling whenever I’m near Jesse. Even though I keep wishing that I wouldn’t feel it, it’s kind of addictive too. I’m not quite ready to wish it away.

  I tiptoe around the counter, wondering if I can sneak up on him a second time and wondering (OK, actually hoping) if like last time he will have his shirt off. I smile a little as I remember how I startled him that first day and how he leapt to his feet clutching the spanner. It makes sense now I think about it – he probably thought I was Tyler coming to pick a fight.

  Just as I get near to the door – the one with the sign on saying ‘Private – Employees Only’ – I hear Jesse start to sing and I pause to listen. He sounds like James Blake, only even better, and the butterflies in my stomach start jangling. His voice is so haunting and melancholy and expressive that listening to him sing is like being given a glimpse of a shadowy corner of his soul. It makes me ache to see the whole of it.

  And then he stops suddenly and I hear the murmur of voices – another voice. A
girl’s voice. It’s Niki – no mistaking that husky drawl. She’s talking softly, sultrily, and I freeze. I am hidden behind the door just a few feet away from them. I could take a step, make a noise, let them know I am there but I don’t, instead I lean my body backwards until I can see through the strip between the door’s hinges.

  Jesse’s sitting on an overturned cylinder drum, unfortunately wearing a T-shirt, but perhaps fortunately I decide when I see that Niki is sitting next to him on another drum and resting her head on his shoulder.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks Jesse.

  He turns his head so his lips are buried in her hair and he kisses the top of her head. ‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. His fingers twang the guitar strings, summoning notes that seem to gather and rumble like rain clouds above them.

  ‘I wish you’d join the band again,’ Niki says over his playing. ‘You could come with us to Boston . . .’ she says, ‘. . . at least when we record the demo. ‘Her voice becomes more cajoling, ‘We could really use you, Jess.’

  Jesse’s face is bent, he’s staring at the strings, at his hands, and he’s frowning as he contemplates her words. But then he strums a loud, off chord that seems to be his answer because Niki gets up and walks to the bench and picks up her bag. She turns and stares at the back of Jesse’s lowered head and I see the sadness in her expression, and the longing too, and I look away because I feel guilty for bearing witness to it.

  ‘Hannah’s in Boston, Jesse,’ she says gently. ‘Don’t you want to see her?’

  Jesse’s fingers stop picking and flatten against the strings. He stands up, walks to the corner of the room and leans the guitar against the workbench. ‘Nik, I told you already,’ he says, ‘there’s no point in me coming to Boston or recording the demo or playing in the band. I’m not going to be around for much longer. So stop asking.’

  She stands opposite him, her lips pressed together so tightly they bleach beneath the red of her lipstick, and her eyes well up with tears.

  ‘Jess—’ she says but he cuts her off.

  ‘Don’t try to get me to change my mind.’ He says it gently but his tone carries a warning.

  ‘Fine,’ Niki says and she lays a hand on his arm and then kisses him softly on the cheek which I take as a good sign, because if they were dating surely she’d go for the mouth . . . I know I would. She pauses to wipe the lipstick mark off with her thumb and I realise that any second she’s going to walk through the door and see me hiding here, spying on them.