Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  I turned to go.

  “Caz.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry I got short with you. Let’s go out tonight. Have a meal, go to a club. I’ve got just enough dosh.”

  I laughed. “Do you always spend your money as soon as you’ve got it?”

  He raised his eyebrows at me. “Yes. Of course.”

  “You’ll have to tone yourself down a bit if you don’t want to be recognized. It’s a pity the market’s only Saturdays. You can get a tee shirt for a pound, and a hoodie for a fiver down Hoxton Street. We could try Peacocks, they’re cheap. Or Age Concern.”

  Ric recoiled as though I’d suggested he wear drag. “I’m not going out looking crap.”

  “What about when we first met?”

  “Nothing wrong with those clothes, except I’d been wearing them for three years. On second thoughts, let’s get a bottle and a film and stay in. Unless you have plans? Have you got a boyfriend, by the way?”

  “Not just at present,” I said with dignity. “I did have. We parted by mutual agreement.”

  Later that day we drove to Waitrose up the Holloway Road. Ric didn’t hang about. I trotted after him while he sped round collecting duck a l’orange, potato dauphinoise, green vegetable medley, Haagen-Dazs strawberry cheesecake ice cream, a bottle of Bollinger and, as an afterthought, a steak for Dog. He stopped at the DVDs.

  “What d’you want to get?”

  I scanned the racks. Not a huge choice. I picked up The Other Boleyn Girl.

  “What about this?”

  “History as chick flick.” He held up Blade. “This is good.”

  “I think not. My Best Friend’s Wedding? I missed seeing it.”

  “You can go on missing it. Unforgiven? Awesome film.”

  “Yes, but kind of depressing…”

  In the end we went for a classic; Casablanca. I couldn’t believe Ric hadn’t seen it. I went through a big Humphrey Bogart phase in my teens. I can’t say Ric was keen, in fact he had a definite lack of enthusiasm, but I told him he’d love it, it was on everyone’s top ten films list.

  At the checkout everything we’d got, a small basketful, one meal for two, came to PS73.58. I winced as Ric got the notes out and paid.

  “That’s twice what I spend in a week on food.”

  “Ah, but then you’re not a multi-millionaire,” he said softly into my ear, so the girl didn’t hear.

  “Right now neither are you,” I muttered.

  The meal was delicious. It made a pleasant change from the baked potatoes, sardines, spaghetti, and beans on toast that were my normal fare. We ate it in front of the television, watching Casablanca. When we’d finished everything except the champagne, we pushed the plates to one side on the floor, and slumped, replete, on the sofa. Dog lay at the other end, on his back, paws in the air, asleep.

  Ric put an arm around my shoulder and pulled me to him, in a companiable way, not making anything of it, while we watched. If I’m honest, I have to say I enjoyed the feel of his arm and gently-moving muscular ribcage. My boyfriend and I had split up a few months before; no great loss, but I missed the warm sensation of someone else’s body next to mine more than anything else. James and I don’t have the sort of friendship where we can hug each other, or casually lean against each other, without it meaning something. I don’t know why, but if our hands brush we both apologize. Funny.

  The film came to its satisfying conclusion; Ingrid Bergman followed her duty rather than her heart, while Bogart and Claude Rains walked off to win the war: “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

  “What d’you reckon?”

  “Cool.” Ric turned and kissed me lightly on the lips as the credits rolled, drew back and looked at my face.

  “Not a good idea, Ric…” I can’t say I didn’t like it, because I did. I liked the texture and smell of his skin, his eyes intent on mine, his strength; and there was a sense of danger about him, that I found both disturbing and exciting. It just didn’t feel right. Well, it felt right, all right, but not right. Am I making myself clear?

  He kissed me again, putting a bit more into it. “Why not? I think it’s a good idea,” he murmured. “One of the best ideas I’ve had for weeks…”

  I had to get a grip. Fast… “I’m your sidekick. Sherlock Holmes didn’t screw Dr Watson.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not so sure about Batman and Robin, the Boy Wonder…” Ric’s hand slid under my top and stroked my back. Aah…

  But it wouldn’t do; too much of Ric was still white on the map, even if I decided to risk the hic sunt dracones parts. I scraped together some indignation. “Stop treating me like an amenity. Forget it.” I pulled away. “And it’s no good looking at me like that, either.”

  “Would it help if I said I wanted to rip your clothes off the first moment I saw you?”

  “No!”

  “Could be your only chance to go to bed with a dead rock god.”

  “Bog off.”

  “You’re a hard woman, Caz Tallis.”

  Making a huge effort, I got up from the sofa and cleared the dishes. Not what I wanted to do at all. Ric, I felt sure, was well aware of that. He didn’t push it. He didn’t appear unduly concerned by my rebuff. He brought the bottle and glasses to the kitchen, standing closer to me than he used to, then mooched off downstairs.

  Chapter

  10

  *

  “Has your friend gone?” James asked, once we’d ordered and the waitress had left.

  “Joe?” I said, though I knew perfectly well who he was talking about. “No, actually, the man he was going to stay with couldn’t put him up after all. He’s still at the flat.”

  I took a piece of hot bread off the wooden serving platter. No side plates - maybe they weren’t trendy that week - so I buttered it in my hand, crumbs going all over the white tablecloth. Delicious… The restaurant affected an air of severity, and called itself a chop house; it had been launched that spring by a first-class chef who knew his own worth.

  James looked perturbed. “How long is he going to stay with you?”

  “I don’t know. Till he gets himself sorted out.”

  “Is he paying you rent?”

  “Yes, he gave me a few hundred pounds to be getting on with.”

  The waitress reappeared with two glasses of wine. I was glad I didn’t know what they cost. It might have spoilt my enjoyment.

  “Have some bread, it’s lovely.”

  James shook his head. He hesitated. Two young Russian men were shown to the next table, sat down and began an impassioned and incomprehensible conversation.

  He said, “You’re not…he’s not…you’re not going out with him, or anything, are you?”

  “Good heavens, no!” I gave a light laugh. “I’m just helping him out, that’s all. Purely temporary arrangement.”

  “Who is he, Caz?”

  “I told you. He was at college with me. A few years above me…” My face felt hot. I knew I was going pink. I drank some water. “Gosh, it’s warm in here.”

  “Caz, I don’t want to offend you, but I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.” He gazed earnestly at me. “And now your mother’s dead, there’s nobody to look after you and I worry about you.”

  James has the old-fashioned virtues, honesty, loyalty, dependability; these attributes, while not flashy, are the bedrock of any relationship. I looked away from his grave blue eyes at the white tiles, bentwood chairs, schoolroom globe lights, and a clientele who did not look rich, but must be to be here. There was a busy hum of people enjoying themselves.

  “If I tell you, you’ve got to promise to keep it to yourself. Whatever you think about it.”

  James looked alarmed.

  “What on earth is it, Caz?”

  “You’ve got to promise.”

  “Okay.”

  I lowered my voice. “The guy at my place. He’s Ric Kealey.”

  “Ric Kealey’s dead.”

  I shook my head
. “No, he faked it.”

  James’s hand shot across the table and grasped mine, as though he was saving me from drowning. Like I said, we don’t touch. I left my hand in his, feeling uncomfortable.

  “He’s wanted for murder. You’ve got to tell the police.”

  “He says he didn’t do it. And I believe him. Well, ninety-nine per cent of me does, anyway.”

  James’s face was appalled. “Caz, quite apart from the danger to you of having a possible killer in your house, you’ve made yourself an accessory after the fact. You could go to prison.”

  “It’s obstructing justice and harbouring a fugitive, actually. I looked it up. I couldn’t find what the sentence is, though.”

  “Have you given him a set of keys?”

  “Well, yes…else I’d be letting him in and out all the time.”

  The waitress materialized beside us, and put our plates on the table. She had to work round our arms. Cold rabbit brawn terrine for James, salmon smoked in the chef’s back garden for me. As soon as she had gone, he said,

  “Why don’t you come and stay with me? Just while he’s at your place.”

  “I can’t do that! What about my work? Anyway, I’ve agreed to talk to a few people for Ric. People he thinks could have done it. Er, can I have my hand back? I need it to eat.”

  James released me. “Are you mad? He’s got you going round interviewing suspects?” The Russians’ eyes slewed our way, and he lowered his voice. “If Ric’s story is true, then what you are doing is the equivalent of poking a furnace with a short stick. He’s no business to let you do it.”

  “It’s all right, really,” I said uneasily. “I’m being careful.”

  James wouldn’t let the subject go. I suppose he hoped to convince me to shop Ric to the police. I told him about selling the horses, and it seemed only to confirm his low opinion of Ric. “You realize this man’s manipulating you? And you’ve fallen for it, you’re doing whatever he asks you to. I wondered what he was after when he turned up with that ridiculous bunch of flowers…”

  And so forth. I kept getting him off the topic, to find he’d returned to it. I wished I’d never told him, especially as the food was remarkable and he was putting me off. The main course I had was amazing.

  I tried again. “How’s Posy? I haven’t seen her for ages.”

  James fidgeted with his pudding spoon, watching the twirling reflection of the ceiling fan. “She’s fine. Hannah’s thinking of opening a shop in London, and she might get Posy to run it for her.” Posy’s boss Hannah was an old school friend of hers, who did interiors and had a small but flourishing shop in Cambridge selling furnishings.

  “Would she like that? She’d have to move to London.”

  “Yes, she’s quite keen,” said James.

  It occurred to me for the first time their relationship might be getting serious. I’d never thought that about any of James’s girlfriends before. Posy would probably move in with him if she came to London, and maybe that’s why she wanted to. Frankly, I found it depressing that most of my future meetings with James were likely to include Posy. I valued our friendship, enjoyed the private jokes that went back to our childhood, and the presence of a third person would spoil that. But there was nothing to be done. I would just have to get used to it; she was a nice girl, after all. I must not be selfish. Start now.

  “Why don’t you bring her with you Saturday week?”

  The nineteenth of July was James’s birthday, and James always comes round to my place for supper on his birthday. He’s been doing it since we were teenagers and he used to come to my mother’s house in Fulham; I can’t even remember how it started, but it’s become a tradition.

  “But we always celebrate my birthday just the two of us.”

  “That doesn’t mean we have to. Anyway, Ric’ll be there.”

  “I suppose. All right then, I know Posy would love to see your flat now it’s finished.”

  “We can have a proper dinner party, out on the roof if it’s fine.”

  I’d tethered my bike to a lamppost in Cowcross Street. James walked me there, and waited while I unlocked the chain and fixed the lights. I thanked him for the meal, and he exhorted me to be careful. He suggested I should wear a bike helmet. I suggested he should ride a bike and find out what it was like.

  I set off through streets crowded with the young, rich and chic. Almost no breeze, just the rush of air created by my speed. A perfect summer night. I could smell the flowers in Charterhouse Square. Carthusian Street, Goswell Road, and Old Street towards home.

  Ric opened the door as I was fishing for my keys. He carried the bike upstairs for me to its niche on the first floor, then followed me up to the flat.

  “Got any brandy?”

  “Metaxa. D’you want some?”

  I poured us a glass each and we took them outside. The moon was nearly full. No stars; it’s rare to see them in a London night sky. Dog pottered about, then came and settled by Ric. He liked to stay close, as if, having found himself an owner, he was going to keep an eye on him. Ric didn’t have a lead for Dog; he didn’t need one. He stroked the dog’s ears.

  “Phil rang this evening.”

  I looked at him. “Has he sorted out the money?”

  “No. He said he’s working on it - he reckons he’ll have to get me a false identity. He wants me to leave London. Go and stay in a bed and breakfast in Scotland.”

  “Why?”

  “He said I’d be less likely to be recognized somewhere remote. He’d rather I went abroad, but he knows I won’t till I’ve got the money. I’m not going, though. Not abroad, and not Scotland. I’ve had it up to here with remote. I told him. He didn’t like it. He’s afraid I’ll be spotted, then he’ll be implicated.”

  “How long will the money take?”

  “I asked him that, and he said he doesn’t know. I told him I can’t live on nothing. He’s going to post me twenty grand in cash.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s not as much as I asked for.” Ric brooded. “He’s going to send it to the post office in Albemarle Street addressed to you.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because they’ll want identification before they hand it over.”

  “He could send it here and save me a trek.”

  “I didn’t want him to have your address. I shouldn’t have let him meet you. You told him your surname, and he remembered it. I’m worried he might look you up on the internet, and there’s your website with all your details.”

  “D’you think he did it, then?”

  “I’m not discounting anyone at this stage,” said Ric, making me smile. He must have pinched the line from Agatha Christie. I was feeling cheerful, after a good meal and the Metaxa. I drained my glass.

  “More?” Ric picked up the bottle and gave me a top up.

  “What’ll you do with the twenty thousand?”

  “Spend it.” Ric grinned. “What else is money for?”

  Chapter

  11

  *

  Friday I biked to Oxford Circus and picked up Ric’s money. On the way there I dropped into Topshop and bought two tops, a pair of shorts and some strappy gold sandals. I’d been a bit careful about spending on clothes lately, but felt entitled since getting the cash for the horses from Ollie and Grace.

  Back at the workshop, Ric ripped open the jiffy bag, counted the notes, pocketed them and left the building with a gleam in his eye, leaving Dog with me. I went to work on the Ayres. He’s called Saladin. I had already removed the car filler some idiot had liberally applied, and glued in the new right back leg I made for him, copied from the existing one. I put the horse on his stand while the glue dried, with bolts through the holes, to make sure he would still fit properly on it - something I learnt to do the hard way.

  Now the glue was set, I lifted the horse off and dismantled the stand, then heaved it up to the roof and applied paint stripper to the multiple layers of paint. I was deeply involved in this vile task whe
n the bell went. I peeled off my vinyl gloves, stepped out of the old trainers I keep for messy jobs, so as not to tread paint stripper indoors, and went to answer it. It was Ric.

  “Where are your keys?”

  “Come down to the yard. I want to show you something.”

  “Can’t you bring it up here?”

  “No.”

  Grumpily I slipped out of my overalls and went downstairs in my shorts and bare feet. I opened the front door. Ric, dressed in black leathers, sat astride an immense motorbike that throbbed and snarled huskily, the noise reverberating round the Yard. It was very black; shiny black on matt black, with a few chrome bits here and there to better demonstrate its blackness.

  “I got you a helmet. Come for a ride.”

  “I’m paint stripping…”

  “Five minutes.”

  I put on the helmet and climbed on the bike, bare-footed and bare-legged as I was, and wrapped my arms round Ric, smelling warm leather and feeling the bike quivering to be off like a thoroughbred. With a deep roar we left the yard, and shot down the road. He took me on the fastest circuit of Shoreditch I’ve ever made. At corners the bike leaned in until I thought we must graze the ground, but Ric knew what he was doing. It was exhilarating. I was laughing as we came back to Fox Hollow Yard. I got off, and stood admiring the bike.

  “It’s a Harley?”

  “Yeah, a Night Rod Special.”

  “Where will you keep it?” Parking looms large in the mind of any Hackney resident.

  “Street parking’s free for a bike, but I’ll find a lock-up for it. I’m going to Epping Forest. Come with me?”

  I was torn. “I would, but Saladin’s stand is covered in paint stripper. I’ll have to get it off, and I meant to finish it today. I didn’t get anything done this morning.”

  “At the weekend, then. Less traffic. We’ll get you some leathers.”

  He turned the bike. “See you tonight.” He accelerated and disappeared; I listened to the diminishing growl of the engine till I could hear it no more. I sighed and went indoors, wishing I was with him, imagining speeding along forest roads…