by West Camel
Sam let his arms drop, leaving Derek’s hands empty and open. Derek brought them to his face as he sat back in his chair. ‘It’s the same story as before, I’m afraid. Only now it’s even more of a mess.’
Sam’s stomach tightened. He had managed to acknowledge the shadow in the corner and ignore it at the same time. Now it was about to step out and demand attention.
‘It’s an old mate of mine, Mel.’ Derek said flatly. ‘He’s leaning on me.’
‘About what?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Nigel? But you’ve just told me you don’t care about him anymore.’
‘I don’t. But something else has happened. Mel’s sister – Kathleen her name is – she’s had some kind of bad cancer; I don’t know the details. Anyhow, she topped herself last night.’
Sam frowned. This still might not be such a big problem. This still wasn’t about them.
‘I didn’t know her that well,’ Derek went on. ‘She was just one of the crowd when I was younger. It’s sad, I know, but if she wanted to end things, that’s up to her, isn’t it? Problem is,’ Derek looked at Sam with a taut mouth, ‘she did it by taking an overdose of something she bought from Nigel. So now Mel’s got it in for him.’
Sam sat back again, flicking open his dressing gown to let some cool air onto his skin. ‘You don’t have to be involved though. Just let Mel get on with it, surely?’
‘I wish it was so easy. But Mel’s not like that. He’s the man around here, and he’s decided we’re in this together.’
‘But he can’t expect you to do it if you don’t want to.’
‘You don’t know Mel. He’s a nutter. Locked his ex-missus in her flat for days once. There’s rumours he’s had people done in. Makes me look like a saint.’ Derek grinned ruefully, wanting another kiss, another caress.
But Sam had stopped wanting to touch him. He chewed at the inside of his mouth. ‘So what does he want you to do exactly?’
‘He’s not said yet. All he does is rant about Nigel. But I’m worried it’ll be something I’ve never been involved in.’
‘You think…’ Sam had to pause before saying the words. ‘You think he wants you to help him kill Nigel?’
Derek stood and leaned against the parapet. ‘I hope not, Sam. You might think I’m rough, but I’ve never done that. Been in a few fights, had a few blokes beaten up, yeah. But not that far.’
Sam pulled his dressing gown around him; too hot, now too cold. He shouldn’t have decided to come back. They had just remade something – something smooth and right, and now it was ripped and ruined. Derek turned around, and was on his knees in front of Sam again.
‘I’ll get out of it, Sam. I have to.’ He ran his hand down Sam’s leg and kissed his foot.
Sam pulled it away. ‘I still don’t understand. What’s stopping you just saying no?’
Derek slumped a little. His eyes flicked about, as if he were searching the twilight for the right words. ‘Mel and me, we’re close; we go back years. We’re almost brothers. But it’s not, like, an equal relationship. He’s got the upper hand. I do my bit of business around here, and people respect me, but it’s only with Mel’s say-so. If I refuse him on something like this – if I say I want nothing to do with it – he’ll take that as … as a declaration of war. And it’ll be over for me. You know?’
Sam didn’t reply. What Derek was saying seemed as artificial to him as Deborah’s stories. But wasn’t a lot of what she said true?
‘I’d have to leave everything,’ Derek said after a moment. ‘I’d have to leave here. If I didn’t, well, I don’t even want to think what Mel would do to me. And it’s not just me: all my guys, they’d be in trouble too.’ He moved his face closer to Sam’s. ‘I don’t have a choice Sam. I’ve got to find a way to sort it out. There’ll be a solution. There has to be, because…’ And then Derek beamed – a ridiculous, happy grin. ‘Because you’re here!’ And he attacked Sam. His hands and lips were strong, warm and confident; his hairs were soft; his smell was full and sweet. Sam made no attempt to fend Derek off, just let himself sink. They kissed long and deep and then had to take in huge gulps of air, like swimmers.
Derek stood up and leaned backwards, pulling on Sam’s arms so that, with a little strain, he stood up too. ‘I know I’m not an easy bloke to know. But, like I say, I’ve got a reason to sort out all this shit with Mel. And I will – I promise.’
He promised.
Sam leaned against Derek – he was solid and sturdy. Sam would have to trust him. Or leave. He tightened their hug, putting his head on Derek’s shoulder and looking out at the river. He was both in the circle of this man’s arms, and floating out there – part of the display of lights, on the party boat that crept down the centre of the stream, the distant thud of the music onboard slightly out of time with itself.
They stood close and silent for several minutes, until at last Derek shook himself. ‘Come on you, let’s go inside; it’s freezing out here now. Not really summer yet, is it?’
They had left the blinds up and when the new sun woke Sam, he spent a long time staring at the pale bedclothes, rumpled into various shades. He and Derek, motionless among the creamy sheets, were just another set of milky shapes, but for Derek’s warm blue eyes, which blinked in the sunlit air.
After a few moments Derek’s eyebrows twitched into a thoughtful frown; he let out a sigh and carefully stroked a hair from Sam’s face, then jolted his head back to look at the ceiling. He pressed his teeth into his bottom lip and straightened his leg, pushing the duvet off their bodies.
‘What was the number of the house in Albury Street you broke into with that old headcase?’
Sam closed his eyes again, warm and comfortable. ‘Thirty-six, I think.’ He curled into Derek’s body, hiding his eyes from the light. Derek’s arm coiled around him, his strong, tender fingers swirling across the sensitive trough between his shoulder blades.
‘I think I know how to sort this out.’
Sam could feel himself slipping away. He could rub his face and start to speak about all this again, or he could slide back into a blissful sleep. ‘Good,’ he hummed as he descended.
He felt Derek rise, arrange the sheets over his almost-sleeping body and press his lips to the hand and shoulder that were still exposed. Then, as Derek closed the door, Sam could just hear the soft beeping of phone keys being pressed.
Chapter 22: Anne
Anne went to see Deborah as usual on Tuesday afternoon. The creek was at its lowest, but the mud bed was still wet and glossy, just a stream carving a clear, curling path through the very bottom.
Deborah opened the door with a big smile, but Anne wondered whether she hadn’t lost a little weight; the skin on her neck looked loose, and there was, perhaps, a stoop to her posture. She welcomed Anne in and they performed the usual rituals of tea and chat. Upstairs, Deborah busied herself with her white sheet, making miniature, virtually invisible patterns, while Anne sat in the sun, watching her, and watching the tide slowly slip in. Since Sunday, she had wondered how – or even whether – she would tell Deborah about Kathleen’s suicide. But now she knew it was her own discomfort she was avoiding, and somehow, she felt Deborah had a right to know. Yet she hesitated still, the silence between them, broken only by the ticks and pops of Deborah’s needle.
‘You know Kathleen, Deborah?’
Deborah stopped her work. ‘Your friend – the one who’s dying?’ Her mouth hung a little open, showing a section of her tiny teeth, and her chin bobbed, making the loose skin of her neck quiver. It was as if she knew what Anne was going to say.
‘I’m afraid she’s dead already. She managed to get the drugs from someone else. She did herself in on Saturday.’
Deborah sat back in her chair with a sigh. Anne almost thought it was of satisfaction. ‘On Saturday. The same day as the christening?’
‘Yes, I saw her at the party. I suppose it was a good way to say goodbye. She saw all her family, lots of friends. Not that I
wanted her to do it at all; but at least she gave everyone the opportunity to see her before she made an end of it.’
Deborah went on briskly with her work; she seemed to be animated by the news. ‘She made her own decision. And to be honest with you, Anne, I’m sure that the christening decided her. She seemed very, well, thoughtful in the church.’
‘She was at the church?’
‘Yes, she came in late; the service had already started. She sat near me, at the back.’
Saturday seemed so long ago. Anne tried to remember herself, wrapped up in the dress; oblivious to the fact that Kathleen had slipped in quietly and sat down with Deborah, apart from the rest of the congregation. Had she really made her decision then? Had she looked at all the broad, healthy backs and glossy hair in front of her and seen Anne among them, up at the front, almost touching the skirts of the priest? Anne – who had made Kathleen’s request all about herself, who had refused to make sure that her oldest, dearest friend was comfortable and peaceful at her end?
Deborah spoke again. ‘It certainly made me think a lot; she looked very unwell. I wished her a quick and easy death.’
It was as if Deborah had leaped up and stabbed Anne in the cheek with the needle. Her eyes smarted; she blinked quickly to stop the tears forming.
‘Yes, whatever she got, I hope it worked the way she wanted it to.’
Deborah inhaled as if to speak, but let the air out in a sigh, returning to her work for a few stitches. Then she stopped, and smoothed out the sheet over her lap, arranging and re-arranging its folds, letting her fingers skim over the texture she had created.
Anne saw the question forming in Deborah’s mind, in the air between them, before Deborah actually spoke it. She began to prepare herself.
Deborah pulled the section of the sheet that was smooth – that she was yet to work on – onto the middle of her lap and, laying her hands flat upon it, fixed her eyes on Anne’s. ‘So if I were to ask you to help me, would you refuse again?’
The words were out; and it felt easier than Anne had suspected. It wasn’t another layer of hurt and complication on top of Kathleen, Mel, Rita, Julie; it twisted in with them. But she still wanted Deborah to ask her clearly – to hear the reality of her request. ‘You’re not sick like Kathleen was, though, are you?’ she pushed.
‘Not like her, no.’ Deborah clutched at the sheet. ‘But this eternity is like a disease. And I lived with it for so long, I didn’t even realise I was suffering.’
Anne relaxed; she knew now exactly what Deborah was asking of her. No drugs or violent acts were required. ‘You want me to try to undo that motif thing don’t you?’
Deborah’s back buckled. ‘Yes, yes I do.’ And in a sudden, strong movement, she threw out her hand and grabbed Anne’s, the sheet spreading onto Anne’s lap, the white thread forming a loop in the air. ‘Will you do it?’
The strain and hope were the same as Anne had seen on Kathleen’s face. Saying yes to Kathleen had seemed like running into a net – which would bind her all the more tightly if she struggled. But agreeing to Deborah’s request was simple, like playing along with a child’s game.
‘Course I’ll try for you. Where is it? I’m sure I can get it undone.’ Anne closed her fingers around Deborah’s in a firm, kind grip.
Deborah pulled away and began rearranging the sheet. ‘Oh I don’t keep it here. No one comes here, but you never know.’
Of course, no child’s play was straightforward; there were always secret rules.
‘Well, when you get it, let me know. I’ll have a go at it for you. Although I don’t know if I’ll have any more luck than you – you’re the expert with sewing and stitching.’
Deborah straightened again. ‘I’ll fetch it for you and you’ll see. It might look easy, but it’s not, you know. That’s its power – it fools you. You think the pattern is basic; you think you’ve seen it everywhere a hundred, a thousand times; it’s something completely natural and normal, anyone could make it and undo it. And that’s when it has you – right there. And you can’t get out.’
The distrust Anne had felt when she first knew Deborah – when she had been in her boat, when she had first come to this house – shivered through her again. She picked up her cup, but there was no tea left.
‘I’ll take these cups down, shall I? And I need to go to the loo.’
Deborah was sewing again, her face serene once more. As Anne negotiated the steep ladder of stairs down to the kitchen, Deborah called out, ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way to undo it, though. I’ve only known you a little while, but there’s a reason for everything. Mrs Clyffe used to say that.’
As Anne was coming out of Deborah’s toilet – the tiny room at the back of the kitchen with a zinc bucket that Deborah emptied into the creek – she heard her phone. It had never rung while she was with Deborah and, in her surprise, she couldn’t match the tone with the communication – call, message, alarm? She burst out into the kitchen and saw Deborah holding her jacket, which she had thrown over a chair when she arrived, the phone held to her ear.
‘Hello, good afternoon; hello? Good afternoon?’ she repeated as the phone continued to ring. Then, handing it to Anne: ‘There’s no cord and there’s no one there. I’ve never had a telephone.’ She was distressed.
‘You have to press a button.’ Anne did it. And brought the outside world in.
It was Rita. Her voice was high and flustered. ‘Oh Anne, finally. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for hours.’
Anne felt a surge of irritation. Her T-shirt was untucked and she was conscious of her unwashed hands. ‘I’m at a friend’s place – I didn’t get any calls—’
Rita cut across her. ‘Never mind. Look, Mel’s been arrested.’
Anne didn’t know what to say. For a moment she was immobile, then she walked to the kitchen window. There was a boat moored on the opposite bank – a narrow boat, used for canals. A man was standing on the bow, winding a rope. Anne had never seen anyone but Deborah on the creek. The surprise made her forget to answer Rita.
‘You there, Anne?’
Anne turned around to see how Deborah was reacting to someone else outside her house. The man would only have to glance up and he would see straight through the window.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I’m just shocked: Mel never gets caught. What’s he done?’ But she thought she knew the answer.
‘Burglary.’
‘Burglary?’ it came out as a shout that rang around the kitchen. ‘What’s Mel doing burglary for?’
‘We’ve no idea. Julie’s beside herself.’ Rita’s voice softened to a plea. ‘You couldn’t come up here, could you? What with Kathleen and now this. And Julie just can’t cope with the baby at the moment. We need an extra pair of hands.’
Anne didn’t reply instantly. Deborah was moving around near the stove, looking like she was beginning to prepare a meal. It would be OK to leave her, Anne thought.
She tried to sound clear and positive. ‘OK, I can come now.’ The words tasted fresh and strong in her mouth.
Rita was relieved. ‘Oh good. It’ll be a real help to have you here, love.’ And then, typically, she had to add some more colour. ‘But, Anne, what’s weird is that Derek was with him.’
There was a bang and a shout from the boat outside – someone came out of the cabin at the back.
‘Derek?’
‘Yeah, you know Derek.’
‘Of course, I was chatting to him at the christening.’ The name ‘Nigel’ began to form in Anne’s mouth – her tongue tip pressed against the roof, but she caught herself. Rita clearly didn’t know about this connection. Did anyone else?
‘Look, I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Alright, love. I’m at a loss here, you know.’
Anne got Rita off the phone. The conversation would run on as soon as she got to her mother’s; her mind needed a little time to race on on its own. She picked up her jacket.
‘That was my mum, Deborah. I�
�ve got to go. More drama with my lot, I’m afraid.’
She left Deborah frying a fish she had caught that morning before the tide had dropped. The man on the boat opposite had disappeared into the cabin, so she thought she went unnoticed as she climbed the ladder back into the alley.
Chapter 23: Sam
When Sam’s phone rang on Tuesday morning, he was so sure it was Derek he pulled it from his pocket and answered without even looking at the screen. They hadn’t spoken since the previous day and Derek hadn’t replied to his text the night before. About time, he was going to say.
‘Hello, is that Sam?’
The voice was not Derek’s.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Richard Patterson, Derek French’s solicitor. He asked me to call you.’ He paused an instant, as if a word he was reading had been scratched out. ‘I’m afraid he’s been arrested.’
Sam had to make him repeat the message, even though he understood it. A warmth spread across his chest and his heart drummed faster. ‘What for? What’s he done?’
‘I’m afraid he only asked me to tell you that he’s been arrested and that he’ll be in touch as soon as he can. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
This was what Sam had bargained for; he almost said, ‘This is the price, isn’t it?’
‘Will he be released soon? Can you tell me that?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m optimistic. He’s being questioned today. I can’t tell you anything else until I speak to Derek.’ He was careful but warm, this Richard Patterson. Perhaps he was the type Sam should have become involved with.
‘Thank you. Thanks for calling. Tell him I’m thinking about him.’
The dog-eared little phrase must have sketched a quick picture for Richard Patterson, because his manner relaxed. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll be in touch again if he has any other messages.’
The tension pulled on Sam all day, like a hook in his skin. He mechanically lifted the bolts of cloth, rolled and folded them, stood, walked and sat. His lunch went down with difficulty.