What You Did

by Claire McGowan

  I met his dark eyes, just for a second. Bill. Then I darted forward, wiping at some drops of red wine on the side. ‘I – would you tell the others goodnight? If I come out I’ll be another hour. And someone has to cook breakfast!’ I dropped the cloth and went upstairs, telling myself it was the sensible choice. Go to bed, before anything went wrong.

  I didn’t know it, but it was already too late for that.

  Afterwards, I could never remember what had woken me. A noise of some kind, or a feeling, deep down in my bones, that something had happened. Already I was dry-mouthed and hungover. The bedside clock, the one Mike had bought to wake him up with a fake sunrise, showed 3.30 a.m. I made him turn the display off when he set the alarm function, so that meant he hadn’t come to bed yet. His pyjamas were still neatly folded under his pillow. I got out of bed, the old floorboards I was so proud of creaking under my bare feet, and went to fetch a glass of water.

  The door to Benji’s room was shut, and how strange it was to think that Bill was sleeping in there, just a wall away. Bill, not seen for so many years. Again, the twinge of annoyance that Mike had messed with my room plan, not listening as usual. I hoped Karen wouldn’t be offended at being stuck over the garage. Cassie’s door was ajar, and I could see in the slice of dark Benji’s pale face on the camp bed pillow, fast asleep. The spare room door was open, the bed empty. No Jodi, no Callum.

  The light was on in the kitchen, and the living room, and the hall. Either people were still up or they had no regard for our electricity bill. Jodi was in the kitchen in her pyjamas, holding the cafetière. I saw she’d emptied it straight into the sink, and the grounds sat in little brown clumps, like a swarm of ants. Didn’t she know it would clog? ‘Hope you don’t mind? Callum’s a bit worse for wear.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She lifted the kettle, and I noticed how careful her gestures were, as if she was carrying a clutch of fresh eggs in her hands. ‘Passed out on your sofa, I’m afraid. I found him there when I came down for water.’

  I should have left her a carafe and glass. I usually did. I’d forgotten, what with Julie and everything. ‘Maybe we should let him sleep, if he’s out?’

  I don’t know what she would have replied, because that was the moment I heard the kitchen door – the groan and creak of it – and the sound of Karen’s staggering footsteps. She had bare feet, and there was grass in her hair and pressed into her face, leaving small indentations in her skin. Her eyes were wide and a smear of blood was red across her cheek. And then, of course, she said what she said, and nothing was ever the same again. ‘He raped me. He raped me.’

  And Jodi, asking what I did not dare: ‘Who, Karen? What do you mean?’

  And Karen saying, ‘Mike. It was Mike,’ before she fell to her knees, utterly broken.

  Bill

  He was glad he’d come, on the whole. He hadn’t been at all sure when biking down, marinating in sweat under his leathers. He hated this kind of town, with its boutique shops for the left-at-home wives, its unspoken snobberies. Even the countryside looked different. More compact somehow, rounded and soft and green. In Sweden, everything looked like it had been smashed into chunks, jagged, proud. He’d forgotten how squashed-up southern England was. It was strange too to speak English in the petrol station, hear the squawking Kent accent and even feel the familiar words in his mouth.

  This wasn’t somewhere he’d expected Ali to live. She’d always talked about Paris, New York, Berlin – not mid-Kent, with its commuter towns and overly pretty villages where a house would set you back over half a million. It was the kind of place Mike was always going to end up, and Ali had been dragged with him, pulled along like the tail of a comet. That was . . . disappointing. But not surprising. He told himself it was never going to end any other way.

  Apart from all that though, the evening had been good. Callum’s blokey banter was sometimes hard to adjust to, and where he led Mike followed, but it was good to see them all again and remember he’d had a life before Sweden, before Astrid. It was as if he was groping his way along, trying to find the Bill who’d turned up at Oxford aged eighteen, with two pairs of jeans, one pair of trainers, a tin of rolling tobacco and not much else. Bill, the name he’d chosen for himself, shelving the Bilal he’d grown up with on the coach journey down. He’d struggled to explain to his mother that he needed a new name for Oxford. That no one meant to be racist, not exactly; it was more that they’d grown up only seeing non-white faces cleaning their houses or serving in corner shops. Now his mother was dead, no one ever called him by his real name.

  He was glad he’d come, yes, but all the same he’d felt the need for some time out after dinner. Smoking was very useful for that, an excuse to wander away when a conversation got too much. After he’d gone to see if Ali needed help – he was surprised at how anxious she’d been to have everything in order, a plate at each place and a bowl to sit on top of it, a tumbler and wine glass and napkin and cutlery; Ali who used to eat pasta and pesto out of a saucepan on the floor of the communal hallway in college – he ambled down the garden. Part of him was kicking himself for the awkward moment in the kitchen. Stupid, to think they could go back to their old friendship, after so long. When he’d touched her arm, he’d seen the alarm in her eyes, and wanted to explain he hadn’t meant – but he didn’t know what he had or hadn’t meant.

  Outside on the decking, the night air was cool. The candles Mike had lit were out, and he and Callum sat in darkness, only the sounds of their voices showing anyone was there. Bill was pleased, though he couldn’t have said why, that he liked Ali’s house. It was a little shabby round the edges, the garden overgrown and full of flowers, foxgloves, night-scented stock, hyacinth, but in a way that seemed organic and not planned. He liked the way the trees formed an arch over the garden, and the cries of birds drifted down. Earlier, when showing them round it, all Ali could do was apologise for the pile of garden waste behind the shed, and it made him sad to think she couldn’t enjoy this small paradise she lived in.

  He wondered what Astrid was doing. Neither of them were on Facebook, which Astrid hated, but he could see the attraction of it now. Just to know where she was, who she was with. Have some small idea how she was spending her time.

  Bill sighed. For years he’d been slightly baffled by the romantic dramas of his friends, while he and Astrid had moved along like swans swimming over a pond, cool and respectful. Now he felt the draw of all kinds of unSwedish behaviour. Hacking into her emails. Begging her to take him back. He knew it was over, they both did, but it was surprisingly hard to let go.

  He remembered he’d left his phone in the saddlebag of the bike and he thought maybe he’d text her, or see if she’d texted him, or something. Even holding the piece of plastic in his hand would be some pathetic link to her. He slipped down the side of the garden, leaves brushing his face, past Jake’s empty tent – the boy was so awkward and unhappy, Bill wished he knew him well enough to try and offer some words of wisdom – and ducked into the garage, which was bigger than his and Astrid’s lakeside home in Sweden. Actually, it was just hers; she’d had it when Bill had met her, on a post-university bike ride through Scandinavia, three years older than him and a hundred per cent cooler.

  The garage smelled of oil and woodchip from the stack of logs all along one wall. Karen, Bill knew, was staying in the office on the floor above; he could hear the sound of beeps drifting down. Jake must be playing a game of some kind. A two-storey garage: Ali and Mike had really bought into the post-Oxford cult of possessions. Ali had been funny about the room situation earlier, asking Mike why he’d put Karen there. ‘I was saving it for Bill.’

  ‘Bill can have Benji’s room.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ She’d seen him listening and smiled, in a fake shiny way that made his heart hurt. The old Ali had never smiled like that. He gathered she thought it more appropriate for him, a single man now, to sleep out here, rather than Karen on her own. Old-fashioned. Was that who Ali was now – or ma
ybe who she’d always been? He could hardly claim to know her after all this time.

  He found his phone: no messages. A feeling of desolation came over him, as if Astrid was moving further and further away with every hour that passed.

  ‘So this is where you sneaked off to.’ Karen was in the garage doorway, eyes glittering. She was very drunk, he thought.

  ‘Not sneaking. Going to bed?’

  ‘No way. Need a cardy. S’colder now.’ But she didn’t go upstairs. ‘So. You’re single now.’

  ‘Guess so.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’ Karen was doing something odd with her feet, which were bare and dirty, balancing one off the opposite leg like a yoga pose she was too drunk to hold. He remembered how they’d been friends so many years ago, both into indie music in a college full of upper-class kids who only talked about rowing and drinking. He had no idea what her life was like now. A son of almost eighteen, the same age they’d been when they met.

  ‘Astrid? Yeah, I miss her. We were together twenty years.’

  ‘None of us thought it would last. We thought you’d be back from the frozen north in months. But it’s taken all this time.’ She sounded plaintive. ‘We missed you, Billy Boy.’

  ‘I missed you too.’ He kept his voice light, in the hope of ending this conversation.

  ‘Did you miss me specifically?’

  ‘Of course. Shame it’s too pricey to come back a lot.’

  ‘Do you remember first year?’ she said suddenly. ‘Remember when we first met?’

  ‘Er, I think so. That indie-soc meeting, yeah?’

  ‘I couldn’t believe it when you came in. I thought I’d already seen all the boys in our year and there you were.’

  ‘Well, yes, I didn’t really like the whole college bar scene.’

  ‘Do you know what I thought?’ Karen was leaning against the wall now, one leg up. Her dress was very low-cut. Bill suddenly realised what was happening.

  ‘We should go back,’ he began guiltily.

  ‘I thought . . .’ Karen’s voice swooped up. ‘I thought you were the hottest guy in our year. By miles.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you. Long time ago, of course. I have a lot less hair now.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Listen, Kar—’ The moment stilled between them. She moved closer; her long hair brushed his face. Ali wore hers shorter now, a sensible Mum-cut. ‘I might go to bed, actually.’

  ‘Don’t go to bed! Boring!’

  ‘We don’t drink much in Sweden. I’m out of the habit.’

  ‘Oh. You’ll leave me with boring old Callum and Mike, talking about boring work?’

  Bill could have said he knew she didn’t find Mike boring. But he wanted to be kind. Karen had been on her own for a long time, decades, and he’d only been alone for two months and it hurt like a knife in his ribs. ‘Come on. I’ll walk out with you.’

  He extended his arm, meaning to shepherd her away, but she nuzzled into it. He could smell the booze on her breath, and the strength of her perfume. She must have doused herself in it. ‘Oh Bill. You’re always so nice. I wish you’d liked me like you liked Ali.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I like you both equally.’ His voice was neutral. Karen might have been drunk enough to share all her secrets, but he wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he went up to his bed in Benji’s room, and stared at the glowing stars stuck to the ceiling, and thought of Astrid, and also of Ali in the next room, just metres away, and some time later he woke up to all hell breaking loose.

  Chapter Six

  I ran. When she said Mike, it was Mike, I ran straight out the door and through the grass in my short summer pyjamas and bare feet. I just had to find him, talk to him, and this would all be sorted out. What Karen said was insane. It couldn’t. He wouldn’t. I just had to find him. Afterwards, I’d have stinging welts all over my feet from the tiny sharp plants that lived in the lawn. I couldn’t see Mike at first, it was so dark, the light from the kitchen spilling out but failing against the blackness of the countryside. People were starting to emerge – Jake must have still been in the room over the garage, and he was coming out now, hair sticking up like a grouchy badger, to see why I was shouting. I saw Cassie from the corner of my eye, near the side of the house. She was in her skimpy pyjamas with flip-flops and a long cardigan. I didn’t understand why I was seeing that but I hadn’t time to think because I had to find Mike. There was Bill, in a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, coming down the stairs into the kitchen, and Jodi was standing on the decking in her pyjamas, still with the cafetière in one hand. Where was Mike? This was crazy. This was a nightmare.

  I found him on the swing seat, the one where Cassie and Jake had sat earlier. He was out cold, his hair sticking up, a sloppy drunk expression on his sleeping face. I remember thinking it looked swollen, as if he was allergic to something. ‘Mike.’ It was all I could do not to shake him.

  He came awake slowly, his face screwed up as if he was in pain. ‘Oh God. Did I fall asleep?’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  He wiped his hands over his face. ‘Christ, Ali, don’t shout. My head.’

  ‘Mike! Karen’s saying that you . . . Someone’s attacked Karen!’

  And haven’t I asked myself a hundred times since if I saw anything on his face? And I did. I know I did. A flicker of guilt. ‘What?’

  ‘She . . . she . . .’

  ‘You bastard!’ Jake was coming at him, across the lawn, and Bill was there, grabbing him by the elbows, murmuring something. ‘What did you do to her? What did you do?’ Jake kept saying it over and over.

  Mike was gaping at us all – Jodi, Bill, me, Jake, Cassie lurking near the house still, pale and frozen. I could hear Karen in the kitchen, the high keening sound of her crying.

  Bill said, ‘I’ve called the police.’ He was so calm.

  I stared at him. I felt for a moment like he’d done it to hurt me, somehow. How could we have the police here? We could sort this out, surely. ‘Why?’ was what I said. ‘No, Bill, this is just – this is ridiculous! It can’t be!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but she . . . she begged me to.’ He sounded awkward. I saw the way he wasn’t looking at Mike. I felt Bill’s arm round my shoulders. ‘Come on, Ali. We have to let the police sort this out. We just have to keep everyone where they are until the police come.’

  The police were so quick, I’d hardly had time to get my head around what was happening. I paced on the decking, in and out of the kitchen door, bewildered and shaking. It couldn’t be true. She’d made a mistake. I’d tried to go to Karen, to help her or soothe or ask her what she meant, because she couldn’t mean what it sounded like, but she’d pushed me away, stumbled from my touch. Her hands were trembling and her face was so white, as if all the blood had rushed out of her. Jake was in the kitchen with her, and Jodi was looking after her, and she’d shooed me away with a brisk, ‘I think it’s best if you stay outside, Ali.’ In my own house! Mike was outside, still on the swing seat, head bowed, with Bill, who had also gently urged me away. Bill hadn’t sat down but was standing awkwardly over him. It wasn’t clear if he was guarding Mike or taking care of him. Callum, I guessed, was still passed out on the living room sofa. Cassie hovered on the decking, wrapped in her cardigan. I saw that her flip-flops had mulch on them, the kind of dirt and leaves you got in the woods just outside the back door. Where had she been? ‘What happened?’ she kept saying.

  No one answered her. No one had the words. ‘Mum. What happened?’

  ‘Where were you?’ I turned on her. ‘Why were you outside?’

  ‘I . . . I couldn’t sleep. It was noisy. What’s wrong with Karen?’ It wasn’t so long ago that she’d called her Auntie Karen.

  Still I couldn’t answer, and I suddenly felt cold all over, as if I was going to be sick. The words went over and over in my head. It was Mike. He raped me. My mind rejected them, because it couldn’t be true. How could it be true? They were friends! We were all friends! But something had happene
d, I could see that from the marks on her neck, the way she shook and hugged her arms around herself. A mistake, then. She’d made a mistake. My mind would not take it in, the thing that Karen had said. For the first time in many years, I genuinely had no idea what I was supposed to do. Who should I go to? What was going on? It was Jodi who took charge again. She came to the door and put her arm around Cassie, who shrugged it off. ‘Auntie Karen’s not feeling very well, love. She says – well, she’s saying someone hurt her. You should pop up to bed. It won’t be very nice around here.’

  ‘She’s right.’ My voice sounded raw, as if I’d been talking all night. I swallowed. ‘Please Cass. Will you take Jake and go to your room?’ All I could think was to get them away from this, get the children out of here. Not that Jake was a child; he’d be eighteen soon. How could I even begin to tell Cassie what her father had been accused of? I couldn’t, because it wasn’t true. It would all be sorted out once the police came.

  Although, of course, they’d never been much help to me and Mum, the times I’d called them back then.

  Cassie’s head turned as if she’d only just noticed Jake, who was crouched down beside Karen in the kitchen, whispering to her. ‘Please Mum. Tell me what happened. Did he hurt you?’ Karen didn’t seem to see him. She was rocking, her hands clutching so hard at her elbows they were almost white.

  There were feet on the stairs and I turned and – Oh, God, I’d forgotten Benji. In his Star Wars pyjamas, his rounded child’s tummy poking out, he looked so innocent and sweet. ‘What’s happening, Mum? You were all shouting and you woke me.’

  I wanted to move, to explain, to shield him from this even though I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t understand what was happening, but then I heard a noise outside, on the drive. A car on the gravel. The police.

  ‘Come on, Benj,’ said Cassie, seeming finally to get it. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

  The police were here. All I could think was, my God, we were all so drunk, and Cassie had been up to something, and we looked so guilty. All of us just looked guilty as hell. And I found myself remembering that night back in 1996, the night Martha Rasby died, and feeling that same mixture of fear and shame and terrible, crushing guilt.