Under a Dark Cloud

by Louisa Scarr

  They walk down the road to the Sloop Inn. Robin has always preferred the Lord Nelson but there’s a strong chance he’ll be recognised by a local, even after all these years, and he’s not in the mood to chat.

  The Sloop is a generic chain, bland but functional, and they carry their drinks to the far side. Freya’s taken advantage of Robin’s hangover and has a large glass of white in front of her. Robin has a lager shandy. He sips it grimly.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Freya asks.

  ‘Christ knows. Probably nothing.’ Robin picks up his phone and puts it down again. He wants to call Josie, demand to know what happened, but he needs to approach the topic gently. What he and Freya have been doing is essentially illegal, although Robin’s pretty sure that Josie wouldn’t press charges. ‘What difference does it make?’ he asks her. ‘Even if Finn was affected by this boy’s death, what’s it got to do with Simon Sharp? The only assumption Craig will make is that he had some sort of mental-health incident, linked to something that happened when he was a kid. It only strengthens her case.’

  ‘The coroner ruled Jacob’s death as accidental. It wasn’t anyone’s fault,’ Freya says gently.

  ‘True.’ Robin takes a large gulp of his shandy. ‘So why would Finn say it was? And why bring it up now?’

  ‘He’s ill, Robin,’ Freya replies. ‘Who knows what’s going on in his head.’

  Robin pulls the menu out of the stand on the table. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks, desperate to change the subject.

  ‘Starving,’ Freya says. ‘That sandwich barely touched the sides.’

  They choose food: Freya going for fish and chips, Robin for a burger. Freya goes up to the bar to order and comes back with more drinks.

  ‘I saw Steph on Wednesday,’ Freya remarks, when she’s back at the table. ‘She asked about you.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘Good,’ Freya replies. Robin feels her staring at him. ‘What happened between you and her? Why did you split up?’

  ‘Wow.’ Robin shakes his head wearily. ‘You know how to kick a man when he’s down.’

  ‘Thought it might distract you. Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’

  ‘First Sandra last night, now you. No. What makes you think that?’

  She shrugs. ‘Just wondered what brought on your new lust for life. All this running and stuff.’

  ‘I go for a jog now and then. It’s hardly triathlons, like Steph. And where would I meet this mythical woman? The only place I go to is work.’

  ‘Exactly why Steph was so right for you.’

  He looks at her, quizzically. ‘Why?’

  ‘Shared interest. Mutual ambitions. Same awful working hours.’

  ‘Turns out our ambitions weren’t so mutual,’ Robin says to his pint. ‘Steph wants kids. And soon. That’s why we broke up.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘I… well, probably. But after the twins died…’ He leaves the sentence unfinished. He knows Freya will understand what he’s saying. That after his two-year-old nephews were killed, he couldn’t bring himself to be that open, emotionally, again.

  ‘And what about Olivia Cross?’

  ‘I went to see her.’

  He can see Freya’s surprised. ‘And?’

  ‘Neither confirmed nor denied. Jury’s still out. It’s probably not mine.’

  ‘And if it is?’

  ‘Christ, Freya. What’s with the inquisition?’ She shrugs and he feels bad for snapping. ‘I don’t know,’ he replies, quieter this time. ‘I’ll deal with that problem when it comes to it. And yes, I know,’ he adds quickly. ‘She’s due any day.’

  Their conversation dissolves into silence, and Robin’s glad when their food arrives. They dig in ravenously, Robin covering his burger with a generous dousing of ketchup. Quiet music plays in the pub; people start to arrive as the weekend comes to a close.

  ‘You want to hear something funny?’ Freya says, through a mouthful of battered cod.

  ‘Please. Yes.’

  ‘Josh asked me out.’

  Robin’s head snaps up. ‘Josh who? Not Josh Smith?’

  Freya nods, mouth full.

  ‘And?’

  She swallows. ‘By text. I haven’t replied.’

  ‘What? You left him hanging?’ Robin laughs. ‘Savage. What are you going to say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I mean, I can’t stay like this forever. Jonathan’s dead. I have to move on.’

  ‘Move on when you’re ready, Freya,’ Robin says softly.

  ‘I know.’ She takes a bite of a chip. ‘But he is fit.’

  ‘Sure. If you like your men tall and boring.’

  ‘With piercing blue eyes.’

  Robin turns his gaze skywards. ‘Jeez. Just shag him already!’ he exclaims, and Freya laughs.

  They finish eating in silence. Robin considers Freya’s news. So, she might go out with Josh Smith. The thought of this makes him uneasy. But why? He feels unsteady, caught off balance.

  But before he can analyse this further, he hears his name bellowed across the pub.

  ‘Robin Matthew Butler!’

  The room hushes. Robin recognises the tone. Harsh, angry. Heard far too many times throughout his teenage years. His body recoils with familiar shame.

  He turns slowly. Josie is standing in the middle of the pub, hands on hips, face like thunder. Sandra is behind her.

  ‘Robin Butler,’ Josie repeats. ‘What the hell have you been doing?’

  40

  Robin feels like he’s twelve again. Except this is much worse. There are no chores as punishment, no withdrawal of the television or permission to go to football. Only Josie and Sandra’s furious stares, and a pointed finger directing both of them out of the pub. Robin and Freya get up, leaving half-finished drinks.

  Out in the car park, Josie lets loose.

  ‘What are you doing, Robin? Going to the library, digging around in things that don’t concern you?’ Robin stays mute in the face of Josie’s fury. ‘Ann called me. Ann French?’ Robin glances to Freya as if to say, I told you so. ‘She says you’re digging into Jacob Fraser’s death. When I said not to! Why would you do that, Robin?’

  ‘I thought it would help Finn,’ he tries meekly.

  ‘I told you to stay out of it. Why didn’t you listen to me? And Sandra says you’ve been in my house!’

  He opens his mouth and closes it again. He looks at the disappointed faces of the two women who thought of him as family. Nothing is going to make this better.

  ‘We’re not going to tell anyone,’ Freya says next to him. ‘That Finn was depressed.’

  Josie turns to Freya. ‘Bloody right, you’re not. It all happened when Finn was a kid. It doesn’t matter.’

  Robin doesn’t like them taking out their anger on her. ‘So why is Finn saying what happened to Jacob was his fault?’ he directs back at them.

  ‘Because he’s ill, Robin! He’s sick,’ Josie covers her face with her hands, and Sandra puts a protective arm round her.

  ‘It was nothing to do with you, Robin,’ Sandra says, as she encourages Josie away. ‘Go home. Leave it be.’

  He watches them walk slowly to their car, heads bent, Josie’s shoulders shaking with emotion.

  ‘Shit,’ Robin mutters.

  Things couldn’t be worse.

  41

  They drive to the Premier Inn in complete silence. Freya glances Robin’s way a few times as they go – his face is hardened, his jaw tight. She can only imagine what he’s thinking, and it can’t be good.

  They park up and walk in through the main doors. In the lift, Freya can’t stay quiet any longer.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Robin’s head drops. He looks like a chastised schoolboy, cowed and miserable.

  ‘We’ll leave first thing,’ he replies. The lift tings and the doors open. ‘Be ready for nine a.m.’

  He walks out ahead of her, towards their rooms, but then outside his door he pauses. Staring at the key in his han
d, he says, ‘I’m sorry, Freya. This wasn’t what you needed.’

  Without waiting for a response, he puts the card in his door and goes in.

  She watches it close behind him, still standing in the corridor. She’s not sure what to do. This mess, it was absolutely Robin’s fault, but if it had been her, she wouldn’t have acted any differently. Something happened with Finn when he was a teenager, whether it was linked to Sharp’s murder or not.

  Freya wants to say something to Robin, to make him feel better, but she doesn’t know what that is. And he’s made it clear that tonight he doesn’t want her company.

  She takes the key out of her pocket and goes into her room. The two glasses of wine from the pub swill in her system and she boils the kettle, making a cup of tea. Even though it’s only just past eight o’clock, she gets changed into her pyjamas – a T-shirt and pair of shorts – and sits under the duvet, propping herself up on her pillow. She picks up the TV remote, but for a moment stops and listens. Last night she could hear Robin next door – the noise from the TV, a plug being pushed into a socket – but tonight there’s nothing.

  She sighs and puts the television on, selecting a film she’s watched a hundred times before.

  As she drinks her tea, she flicks through her phone, one eye on the TV. She looks at Instagram. She has a new notification: joshsmudge started following you, it says. She clicks on it and Josh’s profile loads, his face smiling out from the grid of photos. Some of him with his mates, a few sunsets. Nothing related to work, same with any copper. Follow back, the big button entices her, and she clicks it.

  Why hasn’t she replied to his text? The simple answer is that she doesn’t know what to say. She looks at his photos. She enjoyed his company on Wednesday night. It was fun, uncomplicated. Easy. All the things she needs at the moment. But the idea of going on a date with someone – someone who isn’t Jonathan – seems alien and strange. So she leaves it unanswered, although she knows that when she goes back to work, it will be the elephant in the room.

  The film is predictable, and she debates flicking channels when there’s a knock on the door. Barely perceptible, but there. She mutes the television and listens. She hears it again.

  She gets up and opens the door.

  It’s Robin. And he has a big cardboard box in his hand.

  Without asking permission, he walks past her into the room and plonks it on the bed. She stares at him, feeling awkward in her pyjamaed state, with no bra and bare legs. Like her, he’s got changed – tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt, bare feet – but he doesn’t seem to register the inappropriateness of their attire.

  ‘I found this,’ he announces, pointing to the box. ‘I went to my storage locker this morning. These are our old photo albums.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘Some baby shots, you know. The usual stuff. But I found this.’

  He holds out a blue leather-bound album.

  ‘From 1992.’

  Robin perches on the edge of her bed and opens the album as Freya sits beside him. The only light in the room comes from the lamp by her bedside and the television, a flickering glow on their faces. Actors talk to each other on the screen, mute but persistent.

  ‘Look, here…’ He points to one photo. She leans closer to see what he’s indicating.

  It’s an old photo, showing boys in green jumpers, and Freya recognises the Scout uniform.

  ‘See, there’s me,’ Robin says, pointing to a small figure on one side. ‘In Owl Patrol.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘There’s Jacob Fraser. And there’s Finn.’ He points again. ‘They were in the same patrol. He did know him. They would have done everything together at that Scout camp. Slept in the same tent. Eaten at the same table. And here—’ He holds out the school report from earlier. ‘I borrowed this, had a read. All the teachers say that Finn was quiet that first term. More withdrawn than usual.’

  Freya looks from the photo back to Robin. ‘So?’ she asks, slowly. ‘This fits with what we said before, that he was depressed. Why does it matter?’

  ‘Because Josie lied! I know what Finn was like, as a teenager,’ Robin says. ‘He so wanted to be liked. I didn’t care what the other kids said about me, but Finn? He was desperate to fit in.’ He looks at her, his face dark. ‘What if… what if he was feeling like that again? With Simon Sharp.’

  Freya stares at him. ‘So, what?’ she says, quietly. ‘Finn killed him out of jealousy?’ She pauses. ‘But this only adds weight to Craig’s case.’

  Robin sits up, running his hands down his face. ‘Oh, fuck, I know. But what happened in that van, Freya? Who else could have killed Simon?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Freya replies, exasperated. They’re just going round in circles. She sighs. ‘Do you want tea?’ she asks after a pause.

  He nods, quieter now, detecting her tone. ‘Yeah, please,’ he replies.

  She gets up, again aware of how she’s dressed. To put clothes on feels like she would only be drawing attention to the fact, but before she decides what to do, it seems he notices.

  ‘Shit, Freya. I’m sorry.’ His cheeks flush slightly, and his gaze averts decisively to the floor. ‘This is so wrong. I shouldn’t have knocked on your door.’

  But his awkwardness only amuses her now. She grabs a hoodie from her chair and puts it on. ‘It’s fine,’ she laughs. ‘What’s a late-night hotel visit between friends?’

  He smiles. ‘Fuck, still.’

  She puts the kettle on, and his gaze turns to the television screen.

  ‘I used to watch this film when I was little,’ Robin comments.

  ‘Me too.’ Freya sits next to him, perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Listen,’ she says. ‘Whatever happened when Finn was fourteen doesn’t matter. Depressed or not, Finn did not murder Simon Sharp. You know that.’ She smiles and he looks at her for a second. ‘There’s nothing more you can do. Leave this alone. And leave Finn’s case to Craig’s team.’

  He doesn’t answer, so deep in thought, and Freya wonders if he’s even listening.

  ‘Robin? Please? Leave it be.’

  At last, he nods. She makes the tea, takes the school report out of his hands and swaps it for the mug. She puts the album back in the box, then takes her own tea and sits cross-legged on the bed.

  She flicks the sound back on on the television, and both sets of eyes go to the screen. The film has moved on, but she knows the story from repeated viewings, almost able to repeat the lines back to herself.

  She scoots back in the bed, leaning up against the headboard. After a moment, he does the same. They watch the film, and the clock ticks round. They share a joke, reminisce about a particular scene, but never touch, never make eye contact.

  And when the credits roll and she reaches over to turn the TV off, she notices he’s fallen asleep, slumped where he’s sat. She can barely hear him breathing, but his eyes are closed, his face relaxed. He’s dozed off maybe half a dozen times on her sofa, but here, on a bed, it feels strange.

  He moves slightly in his sleep. She debates waking him – she should, she knows – then decides against it. It’s kind of nice with him there. She’s missed the company; the feeling of a body next to her as long dark nights close in. She knows Robin is the wrong person, but any ship in a storm, she thinks, as she gently climbs under the duvet.

  Robin’s still lying on top of the covers, his weight strange next to her. Then, as tiredness overtakes any awkwardness, she falls asleep next to him.

  * * *

  When she wakes, light is trickling in through the gaps in the curtains. For a moment she wonders where she is, then remembers and looks at Robin. He’s rolled over in the night and is now on his front, his face mashed into the pillow. His features are relaxed. His cheeks have a malleable look to them, his mouth open slightly.

  It’s a face she’s come to know well over the last nine months, but never in such an intimate way. His face has a worn quality to it, crinkles around his eyes, frown lines between, even when he’s as
leep. He looks better with a bit of stubble, she thinks. Wonky ears, bump in the middle of his nose, not obviously attractive in the same way that Josh is, but handsome, yes. He stirs and she looks away quickly.

  She picks up her phone: it’s early, only just five a.m. She’s still tired, but desperate for the toilet.

  She sits up, trying not to disturb him, and swings her legs out of the bed. She walks quietly to the bathroom. But as she goes to close the door, she can’t help one last look back. His feet are bare, the soft underside visible. And before she knows what she is doing, she gently runs her finger down it.

  He flinches, and she takes an intake of breath, jumping away and into the bathroom.

  But that tiny bit of soft skin. She couldn’t resist.

  Part 3

  42

  Monday

  Robin wakes with a jolt, then sits up slowly, scratching the underside of his foot. He looks around. It’s not his room, and he realises with a flash of embarrassment that he’s in Freya’s bed. Quickly, before she comes out of the bathroom, he grabs the box of photo albums and scurries back next door.

  Even though it’s far too early, he can’t get back to sleep. After about an hour, he gives up and makes himself a coffee. BBC Breakfast has started and he watches, eyes half-open, liking the distraction of the usual depressing news. Government ineffective, businesses incompetent. Death, destruction, murder. So, it’s not just him then.

  Josie’s disapproval is seared into his mind. He wishes he could do something to put it right, but he knows things have gone way past that. And still, the undesirable fact is that he wants to know what happened. Why would Finn say that anything to do with Jacob was his fault if it isn’t true? Is Josie protecting Finn? And what does it have to do with Simon bloody Sharp?

  He rubs his eyes, gets up and makes another coffee, then has a shower. When he’s dressed, he sends a quick text to Freya – Are you up? – but gets no response. He puts his shoes on and leaves the hotel.