by Mark Ayre
Her eyes told the story before she spoke.
“No. I was still persona non-grata, but it was okay. Things had changed.” She looked at him, and he felt a lurch in his stomach. “I had you.”
They turned a corner and ahead of them, glistening in the morning sun, was the river.
A smile touched Nina’s lips, but it was a sad one. James glanced at the blue depths and saw the place was beautiful. It was hard to believe they had been attacked here the previous night. Nina’s bag robbed, and James dumped in the water. He closed his eyes, tried not to think about it.
“You’re the only one who gets me,” Nina said. “For so long Harris was all I had, because there was no one out there I could show myself too. Then you came along, and it was like —“
Unable to find the words, she came to him, sliding her arms around his neck. He didn’t put his own on her waist, but nor did he try to slip away. Paralysis had shot through his body, leaving only his mind spinning.
Bafflement. That was the key feeling. He’d known he was using Nina. That he might mean more to her than she to him. But they had barely had a conversation—a few dates, a lot of sex, not much more. The whole time she had been looking at him and—
“Whatever happened with Harris,” she went on. “I loved him, with all my heart. Losing him is the toughest thing that’s ever happened to me, but I have you—that’s how I know I’ll get through.”
She stared intently into James’ eyes, and he saw it. A girl’s closest friend for twenty years returns from university changed. She is a reminder of the mother who has let him down, so he turns from her, cutting their friendship cold, leaving her so full of despair she thinks she will be lonely forever. Then—
James. He wanders into her life desperate, needing his own distraction, and she clings to him the way he clings to her. Transposing her desperate need for salvation onto him.
And he had missed it completely.
He didn’t know what to do.
Forcing himself to look over the river he felt the pain of his past. He always made life difficult. Pushed himself into situations that would end badly. This Harris situation might have been similar, but there was a difference.
Megan.
Before her, he had no idea what it might be like to be with the right person. He’d spent his life chasing love and had settled for pale imitations time and again, convincing himself the wrong girls were right. Nina wasn’t quite that but a situation like the death of Harris could have easily led him into wanting to protect her, which would have led to an unhealthy attachment in which he once again persuaded himself he was in love and held onto that belief against all signs to the contrary as yet another relationship veered towards disaster.
Then along came Megan, and everything changed. They were drawn together, no matter what was going on in their lives. No matter how much was chucked between them, they always clambered over it, crawling over broken glass and flames to be together again.
He couldn’t risk screwing up his chance with her, no matter what.
“James, are you okay?”
Still, the river had him, but for once he wasn’t seeing that dark, cruel night under heavy rain. For once the sun’s sparkles off the water weren’t blinding him to the present and sending him to the past. They were shooting him the other way. Into the future.
A future, with Megan.
“James?”
He looked at her, and she was so far away. Somewhere else entirely. She stared at him with a mix of sadness and need in her eyes, and leaned towards him.
“James, I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Her lips came within a millimetre of his.
A step back. She wasn’t ready and stumbled, almost going to ground. He caught and steadied her. Received angry eyes, steeped in confusion.
“What the hell?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I say I’m falling in love with you and you try to throw me to the ground.”
James almost argued. Stopped himself.
Still she stared, hard-eyed, looking for answers.
“Well?” she snapped.
“You’re not falling in love with me.”
“I—what?” she looked as though she had been slapped, then as though she might slap him. “How the fuck can you say that to me?”
“Grief can do—“
“Fuck grief.”
Nearby, an elderly couple gasped in unison, as though they had never heard anyone swear. Nina looked like she might go for them, then focused on the prize.
“My nephew is dead, and it hurts like hell. It was never meant to be this way. I cried for ten hours straight when I found out, but this has nothing to do with that. I’ve been thinking it a while. Shit, I’ve been thinking it since the first date, and that might make me sound crazy but so fucking what? I’m falling in love with you.”
He wanted to say something reasoned, and persuasive. He wanted to make her see this wasn’t right, that even if it hadn’t been for Megan, they couldn’t go on. But when he opened his mouth nothing came, articulate or otherwise. She gave him about three seconds then was back on the attack.
“What is this? What are you doing? You’re saying you don’t feel it too?”
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
Her face began to redden, the anger climbing to a peak that threatened explosion then—
It broke, the grief returning. Tears came, and she grabbed him in a hug so tight he wondered if she might be trying to break his back as punishment for hurting her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s Harris, not me thinking I’m falling in love with you. I shouldn’t have said it. It’s not the right time.”
She pulled away. Clasped his face with both hands. Seeing where this was going, he tried to speak, but she cut him off.
“I’ll wait until you’re ready. I know you’ve been unsure. I’ve sensed it, and I’ve tried to help. Tried to prove I’m right for you, that I can know you and look after you no matter what. I shouldn’t have said the L word so fast so we’ll wait, I’ll wait.”
She had known. That much was obvious not because of what she said, but because of her desperate gabbling when, so far, he hadn’t said he wanted to break up. She had felt he wasn’t there. Had known it couldn’t last. She’d let denial rule her. James knew what that was like and hated himself for what he was doing. He didn’t want to hurt her, but he couldn’t stay. Not now.
“Nina,” he said, taking her hands. “I’m sorry. I was in a difficult place when we met, and you made things better. But I was a bastard. I knew from the beginning it wasn’t right and I shouldn’t have—“
“No,” she tore her hands away, tears in full flow now but anger back in the eyes. “Don’t you dare, don’t you fucking dare do this to me.”
He had not expected this to go well, but she was on the edge of madness, and that was a surprise. He tried not to look at all the couples and families and friends, out for a pleasant day in the sun, now watching James and Nina as though they were a Punch and Judy show. He tried to pretend it was only them, pushing on.
“I care about you. I don’t want to abandon you, especially after what happened to Harris but this isn’t right. I can’t be with you. We need to break up.”
The tears stopped. The anger dimmed. There was a moment of serene calm then she slapped him with almighty force. He staggered and could feel the cheek burning, from pain and embarrassment. Someone laughed, and someone else cheered. They were a pantomime.
“This is that slut, Melanie,” Nina hissed. She was bouncing between emotions so fast it was making him dizzy.
He shook his head.
“It’s not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“You don’t have to.”
A silence passed between them. Nina stepped forward ready to attack again, and he didn’t try to stop her. She did it herself, looking from side to side, seeing everyone watching. She took a step cl
oser, and the mood shifted again.
“Please don’t do this.”
There was such pain in her eyes he almost promised he wouldn’t. He almost stayed in spite of Megan because what did his happiness matter? He couldn’t stand to hurt anyone.
But not this time.
“I’m sorry.”
Stepping back she held up her hands and shrugged. She was trying to play it off, but it was too late. They’d all seen what she felt. She tried to ignore that.
“Okay,” she said. “If that’s what you want. If you’d like to pretend we’re nothing then go on, whatever, I don’t care. You fuck off and leave me. I’m only grieving. I can cope.”
“If you want to talk I’ll be there, anytime. You need to—“
“Don’t fucking patronise me,” she hissed.
Perhaps she was right. She was. He nodded, and hovered a few seconds longer, unsure what to do. But there was nothing else, was there?
“I’m sorry,” he said, one more time. Then started away.
“You talk in your sleep.”
The words became ice cold even as they travelled along the warm breeze. Slipping under his shirt and making him shudder as they travelled up his spine, neck, and into his ears. He closed his eyes and fought for calm, then faced her.
“What?”
“You talk in your sleep,” she repeated. “You know, when you’re having nightmares.”
She didn’t elaborate. She didn’t have to. James knew what nightmares she meant. Always the same. Always snippets from his past. And what could he say? How much could he have given away? Enough that even as he tried to look confident he knew it wasn’t working.
“Nina—“ he wanted to ask if she was threatening him but wasn’t that so movie cliche? In the end, he did the last thing she was expecting.
He told her he was sorry, and walked away.
9
It was not until James pulled up outside the six-bedroom home of notorious crook Davis Chappell that he wondered if his breakup timing had been wise. He thought of Michael Fisher. Vanished for the slight of sending one daughter to prison. What punishment would Davis devise for one so callous as to break the other’s heart hours after she learned of her uncle’s murder?
Unexpectedly, James found himself a little glad Nina had been mugged. Unlikely she had visited her father since seeing James and her lack of a phone meant he probably wouldn’t know. Not that this made the prospect of visiting him any more appealing.
As though sensing his apprehension, Jane chose that moment to phone.
“Are you at my father’s?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He hates when people are late.”
“I won’t be late.”
“Early too.”
“That’s fine,” James said. “I can wait in the car until two.”
“You won’t be on time if you arrive at two.”
“But—“
“You’re only on time if he likes you and, considering you’re dating his favourite daughter…”
Not any more.
But he said: “right.”
“I’m sending you Kaye Fisher’s address.”
Something unpleasant crawled up James’ spine.
“Michael’s wife?”
“Sister. They lived together.”
“She won’t want to talk to me,” James said. “Her brother’s been missing six weeks. She’ll be grieving for his death and praying he’s alive at the same time.”
There were short, hollow breaths down the phone. When Jane spoke again, it was with a forced, quiet calm that gave James the impression she was fighting to keep her temper.
“My son died yesterday.”
The implication was clear. In the game of grief, recency was the trump card, though James was not sure Kaye Fisher would see it that way.
Didn’t matter. It was a lead.
“I’ll go there next,” he said, looking to the house. “What am I telling your father? Anything I should be, um, holding back.”
“Tell him what you have to. Lies, truth, I don’t care. Same with Kaye Fisher and anyone else—just find my son’s killer.”
James approached a beautiful green lawn, leading to a grand oak door framed in white stone. Chateau Chappell was impressive, no doubt about that, but it did nothing for James. For him, the dream had always been a family home nestled between other family homes. Not too small, but not too large, either. Enough room for James, the wife, two or three kids, maybe a dog. Never a cat. Somewhere that felt like a home. Places like this left him cold.
His phone showed 14:00 when he knocked and the same when Davis answered.
“You’re early.”
James felt a jab from the urge to argue but fought it. Gave a conciliatory smile.
“I’m sorry.”
Looking perturbed at the lack of argument, Davis led James through a living room offering sofas padded with huge cushions, designed to facilitate the kind of conversation James wanted to have, and into an expansive kitchen with gleaming appliances, a rounded glass topped table and surfaces covered in various types of veg on multiple chopping boards.
Davis gestured for James to take a seat and picked up an enormous knife.
“I’ve been preparing dinner,” Davis said, gesturing to the veg. “You don’t mind if I continue, do you? I hate leaving a job half done.”
Davis would have to turn his back on James to continue chopping, further reducing the effectiveness of any conversation. More power plays, designed to unsettle and unbalance James. As ever, the key was not to rise to the bait.
“Not at all.”
With a polite smile, Davis turned to his veg, surveying the pieces as an emperor might survey his army ahead of a rousing speech. James addressed the back of his host’s head as though it were front.
“I’m very sorry about your loss.”
“I’m sure you are.”
Still, James kept his expression pleasant, calm, feeling more able to martial his thoughts and speak rationally if his face looked the part.
“It must be a tough time and—“
Davis began chopping. Rapid fire, as though from a machine gun. Blade and board seemed to have been designed to achieve maximum volume as they greeted, splitting whatever unfortunate piece of veg came between them.
“Please, go on,” he said. “I can hear.”
“I was just saying—“
“Although—“ the chopping stopped. “Could we dispense with the condolences and small talk? You’re here for a reason; I see no need to beat around the bush.”
James realised his fists were clenched on the table and could feel the strain in his face as he tried to keep it tranquil.
“No worries,” he said, the lightness in his voice manufactured. “I was hoping to talk about Michael Fisher.”
“Well ask away, young man. I will help any way I can.”
“Thank you.”
“Only, before I do. I’d like to understand your position in all this.”
“My position?”
“Yes.” Davis turned, knife in hand, face blank. “I don’t get this situation. Last night my daughter called me in floods of tears. Tells me someone has murdered Harris and she has no idea what to do. That might not surprise you, but if you knew my Jane, you would understand. She is strong, resilient. A true fighter. She has never, ever, not known what to do.”
James tried to maintain eye contact with Davis but found it tough with the knife’s point glinting in his peripheral.
“It gets worse,” Davis went on. “Not only does she call me in tears but, when it comes to finding her son’s killer, she turns to you, a nobody, rather than sorting the problem herself. Odd, no?”
“Perhaps she feels,” James said, his voice tight with anger, “she could use some time to grieve.”
Davis considered then dismissed this.
“Grief is one thing, but it’s how you deal with it.” He returned to chopping veg. This time when blade met board the sound seemed m
uted, and Davis had no trouble making himself heard. “When I was seven or eight I was bullied at school. This shit from the year above named Dean was picking on me. Calling me names. Pushing me down. All the usual bullying crap. Do you know what I did?”
“Did it involve rational debate?”
Davis chuckled.
“I cried. I cried on the way home from school. I cried in my bedroom. Sometimes, I even cried in the toilets between classes. I used every second available to cry my little eyes out, until, one day, my mother found me bawling at the bottom of the garden and demanded to know what was wrong.”
Davis stopped chopping, placed the knife on the side as a father might lay a sleeping toddler in bed, and started scooping the chopped veg into a pan.
“I tried to lie. To pretend all was well, but you know how mothers are.”
James said nothing. He had heard stories, but could not relate.
“She extracted the truth. All of it. Once she had, she gave me the best piece of advice I would ever get.”
The pan went onto the hob. Davis set the kettle to boil, watching as it began to bubble.
“‘Davis’, she says. ‘People are going to be mean to you. Life is going to be mean to you, and, when that happens, sure you can cry. Crying is easy. It might even make you feel better. But crying is the recourse of the weak. Of people who are never going to make anything of themselves. People who’ll end up leading unremarkable lives.
“‘People like you and me, Davis. We’re not criers. We’re fighters. We come out on top because when someone pushes us to ground, we get right back up, and stab them in the eye.’”
Davis spread his arms as though he had delivered a sermon straight from the lips of God. James tried to get his head around it.
“Your mother,” he said, “sounds like a real role model.”
“You mock,” said Davis. “But everything I learned about life I learned that day. It has shaped me, and I used it to shape my daughter. You will look at Harris’ death and say it is the worst thing that can happen to a person, and that’s true, but that doesn’t change the rules. When we get pushed down, we don’t cry or run away. We get up, and stab in the eye whoever pushed us.”