Remix (2010)

by Lexi Revellian

  Emma and Phil Sharott. She’d taken up with him after his wife died - very soon after. Who was her boyfriend for two and a half years, between Bryan and Phil? No one the paparazzi had been interested in, or it would have been on Google. Unless it had been someone who wanted to keep it quiet, and had succeeded. Or maybe Ric had put her off men for a while. I could understand that.

  I trudged past Tottenham Court Road tube station, the litter-strewn nothingness of Centre Point’s ground level, New Oxford Street, Bloomsbury Way. No wonder Ric had been touchy on the subject of Bryan’s death. He’d always shut up or left the room, though what he had said tallied with Emma’s account. But what he hadn’t said was the crucial part, it now appeared.

  Theobald’s Road, the tall trees of Grey’s Inn Field on my right, expensive and fashionable Clerkenwell Road. I’d been very convenient for Ric, right from the start. I’d given him a place to live, a taxi service; I’d let him come up to the flat, even when I wasn’t there, and use my computer. He’d got me running around talking to people. James thought I was crazy. Ric would have been in my bed if I’d let him, too… But I’d said no, and he’d been okay about that, he’d backed off. He hadn’t raped me; he hadn’t been pushy or put pressure on me, then or since; we’d been alone in the building, and Fox Hollow Yard is deserted outside working hours. No one lives there except me, and a studio photographer who’s away most of the time.

  I felt muddled, the way you do when you’re about to make the wrong decision. I hadn’t known Ric for long, but I knew him better than Emma. My opinion, tentatively formed on my rooftop weeks ago, was that he was all right; until today nothing had happened to change that. Maybe Emma was making it up. It’s safe to allege rape three years on - impossible to prove or disprove the story. Even safer if she believed Ric was dead. The dead can’t argue, and you can’t slander the dead. Clearly, Phil had not told her Ric was alive.

  Along Old Street, left into Bath Street, wait for ages to cross the broad expanse of City Road, into Shepherdess Walk. I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t decided. Supposing I shopped Ric to the police, then found out he was telling the truth? He’d have less chance than last time, after jumping bail and playing dead. Particularly once Emma had dropped her bombshell.

  Still uncertain, I walked past police vans, up steps smelling of urine and disinfectant to the bright blue automatic door. Inside, the duty sergeant stood at a counter behind thick glass in a short-sleeved shirt, explaining to a sad Chinese girl.

  “That’s your crime reference number. You’ll get a phone call, can’t tell you when, I’m afraid, but they’ll take more details. Sorry about the wait. You could be lucky, there’s a chance of getting it back, but sometimes they break them up for parts…”

  There were three chairs, occupied by a black man, a white man, and a child. The child stared curiously at me, the men were slumped, practically asleep. An Asian family and a short stout peroxide-blonde woman waited in line. I leaned against the wall by a public phone.

  The girl left, and the family asked about a police report they were waiting for, regarding a fight, that they needed to apply for housing in Hackney. None of them looked like people who’d get involved in a fight. They were told it would take six to eight weeks. The space was so small, it was impossible not to eavesdrop.

  I tried to imagine telling the helpful policeman behind the glass, with half a dozen people idly listening to our conversation, that I’d got the late Ric Kealey in my flat round the corner, and was here to turn him in. He’d be polite, I could tell that. I’d just have to sound sane and be persistent.

  The minutes dragged by. The family’s problems appeared intractable; poor things, struggling with bureaucracy in an alien tongue. I felt exhausted. I sat on the floor, leaning against the wall, as Bryan had. Emma had seemed more upset talking about the rape than about finding Bryan’s body. Was that significant? I couldn’t imagine being in either situation. Perhaps she’d got used to talking about the murder, but not the rape.

  The Asian family left, the white man went to the counter, the fat woman sat with a sigh of relief and I glanced at my watch. I’d been there twenty-five minutes. Ric would be wondering what had happened to me, why I hadn’t rung. It was his turn to cook that evening, and he’d threatened me with a curry. I’d told him I only liked mild fruity curries. He assured me his curry, though admittedly there was a risk it might blow the top of my head off, would be so delicious it would change my mind. It was a legend among The Voices.

  “None for you, Dog,” he’d said, burying his face in Dog’s fur. “I like the top of your head just the way it is.”

  He’d planned to shop for ingredients while I was at Emma’s. I got to my feet, moved to the door, pressed the release, and walked through it. I was not going to hand Ric over to the police, not yet.

  I would play him the recording, and watch his reaction.

  Chapter

  18

  *

  Ric was upstairs in the flat, almost completely horizontal on the sofa, Dog sprawled on his chest. They were watching Shrek. I sat on the far end of the sofa, and Ric heaved himself more or less vertical and clicked off the television. Dog jumped down, came to be patted, and wandered off.

  “What kept you? I expected you hours ago.”

  I didn’t want to look at Ric, but I made myself. He looked the same. Impossibly attractive, familiar, a face I’d grown fond of. I know this sounds stupid, but my chest hurt, a sort of dull ache round my heart.

  “I walked back.” My voice sounded flat and tired. “Phil came in just as I was going.” I got the recorder out of my bag, and put it on the coffee table. “He didn’t let on to Emma. He wanted to wipe the interview, but I wouldn’t let him.”

  “Lucky you’d finished. Did she say anything?”

  “Yes…listen to it.”

  “I was going to start the curry now you’re here. Can’t you tell me while I do it?”

  “It’s better if you hear it for yourself.” I switched on the recorder.

  Emma and me giggling…Ric raised his eyebrows. I turned up the volume, so every word could be heard. My voice asked,

  “What’s the song called?”

  “It’s a Voices’ song. Not one of their best-known ones, but it’s lovely. ‘You’re on my Mind’…”

  “Shit. Phil should have asked me.” I paused it. He shook his head. “It’s okay, go on.”

  We sat there while Emma told me about her hopes for the new album. On the recording I sounded unlike myself, the way one does; I could hear my mother’s inflections from time to time. Ric slid down on the sofa and shut his eyes. They opened when the subject of Emma’s job came up, but he didn’t say anything. We heard Emma ask me to sign her agreement, and I got out the piece of paper and handed it to Ric. After a quick look he put it on the table.

  “What about Ric Kealey?”

  “Ric…he was so gorgeous, that’s the first thing you noticed about him…”

  Ric sat up. It’s irresistible, listening to what others think about you. A vain bugger, Dave Calder had called him.

  “I think he fancied me. He used to make excuses to be alone with me. If I left the room, he’d follow. Discreetly. But when we were alone, he’d just put me down…”

  “Pause it!”

  I paused it.

  “That is so not true! I did not follow her around. If anything it was the other way about, for the first few days, till she latched on to Bryan. Emma fancied me - no question - she just thought Bryan was a softer option.”

  I pushed the button.

  “…I started getting silent phone calls in the middle of the night on my mobile when Bryan was away, never when he was there. Hardly anyone had the number. There’s no proof it was Ric, of course, but he knew when I was alone, and he could have got the number easily, too.”

  Ric reached across and stopped the machine. “She gave me her number! Bryan lost his mobile, and she offered me her number so I could get hold of him. I never used it. Why is she saying thi
s?”

  I turned it on again. Emma’s voice, lower and troubled, “The next morning, when Bryan came home, Ric was with him. He said, ‘Emma, you look terrible. Huge bags under your eyes. Didn’t you get any sleep last night?’ Then he smiled.”

  “She’s making it up! This didn’t happen!”

  He listened quietly to Emma’s account of the row at Tiger Studios, eyes down. I guessed he was okay with her version of that.

  “…He grabbed my arm, pulled me towards him and kissed me. He was very strong. I struggled, but I couldn’t get away. I tried to, but I couldn’t… And then he raped me.”

  “WHAT?” There was fury and disbelief on Ric’s face. “She’s saying I raped her? It’s a lie. You don’t believe her, Caz, do you?”

  “I don’t know what I believe. Listen to the rest.”

  “That’s…awful…” My voice, sounding shocked.

  “Caz, I didn’t do it. She’s lying.”

  Emma’s tearful voice continued. Ric did not interrupt any more; he sat in silence. It got to, “Phil, I didn’t know you were in London today. How nice.”

  I pressed pause, looked at Ric, and said, “Tears were running down her face. Either she’s telling the truth, or she’s a superb actress. I don’t know her well enough to judge. Where did you get those bruises you had last week?”

  “Not from raping Emma three years ago. Or d’you think it’s something I do on a regular basis? I got into a fight with a guy outside a cafe. I came out and caught him trying to smash my bike lock with a hammer.”

  “You didn’t tell me. I nearly turned you in today, after what Emma said. I went and queued at the police station - if there’d been fewer people you’d be arrested by now. I want to know what really happened, Ric. You said yourself you were off your head with drugs half the time. I don’t like lies. Tell me the truth.”

  Ric got up, scowling. “I’m going to see her. Right now. She’s only doing this because she thinks I’m dead. Phil can’t have told her. Come with me, I want you to be there, then you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

  I stood up too. “Hang on, Ric, let’s talk about it first. There’s no point—”

  The doorbell rang, and went on ringing, as if it was stuck. I looked at the entry phone’s small screen to see who it was. Ah.

  “It’s Jeff.”

  “Jesus, what timing. Don’t answer it.”

  The bell stopped. I went to the round window that overlooked Fox Hollow Yard. A silver Maserati was parked in the middle of the cobbles. Jeff stood next to it, scanning the windows for signs of life. I shrank back. He moved out of sight towards the door, and the bell started again.

  “He’ll go eventually,” Ric said.

  Silence. I waited to see Jeff get in his car. Instead a series of thumps and crashes resounded through the building.

  “He’s kicking my front door! I’ll have to let him in, he’ll damage it - or he might break a window!”

  I made for the buzzer, and Ric grabbed my arm. I thought of Emma; maybe Ric did too. He let me go.

  “Ric! RIC! I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, ANSWER THE DOOR!” Jeff sounded beside himself. His shouting must have been audible on the street outside the Yard. Anyone hearing it would think someone was having a row and pass on. Probably…

  Another frenzied attack on the door.

  “Just leave it, Caz, he’ll go in a minute.”

  Jeff walked to his car, but not the driver’s door. He opened the boot, and delved around. He closed the boot. In his hand was a car jack.

  “I’m letting him in.”

  I sped to the entry phone and pressed the buzzer until I saw Jeff’s head appear on the screen, and the door open, then pelted downstairs. I didn’t want him going berserk in the office with the jack. There were a lot of valuable horses down there. Ric ran after me. Dog scrambled after Ric.

  We burst through the door. Jeff turned towards us, his face blank. I could smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room. His eyes passed over me as if I wasn’t there, and rested on Ric. Slowly, he bent and laid the jack on the floor, keeping his eyes on Ric as if he might disappear.

  Ric smiled at him. “Hi, Jeff. It’s been a long time…”

  Jeff came forward and clasped Ric in his arms, burying his face in his neck. If I’d had any doubts about Ric’s sexual orientation, the way he was standing in Jeff’s grasp would have dispelled them, even though I couldn’t see his expression. Discomfort was written all over him; his spine was rigid, his head held back; when harsh sobs came from Jeff’s throat, Ric patted him gingerly on the shoulder with every sign of reluctance.

  “Hey, it’s okay, dude,” he muttered.

  I retreated through the door and left them to it. I was tempted to pick up the jack and take it with me, but figured if Jeff got violent Ric could sort him out. My legs ached as I climbed the stairs; I went into the flat and headed for the kitchen. Though I was hungry, I couldn’t face cooking. There was a bottle of wine in the fridge and I poured myself a glass. I toasted the end of a French loaf, buttered it, put an apple on the plate and slumped on the sofa, staring into space.

  The situation seemed to me to be getting out of hand.

  Ten minutes later Ric put his head round the door.

  “I’m ordering pizzas - what do you want?”

  “You left Jeff on his own down there?”

  “It’s okay, he’s calmed down. He’s just a bit drunk and emotional. Wants to talk. Best if you keep out of his way. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  “How did he find the address?”

  Ric came towards me. I got a faint whiff of Jeff Pike’s aftershave. “He rang Emma and asked if Vikki Wilson had been in touch. She told him you were going to interview her today, so he went to Bayswater and skulked around until he saw you come out of her house, then followed you here.”

  All the way from W2 to Hoxton, and I hadn’t spotted him. I really wasn’t cut out for P.I. work.

  “So what happened to him for over an hour?”

  “He lost his nerve. Couldn’t face finding out he was wrong after all.” Ric appeared faintly gratified by Jeff’s devotion. “He went to the pub on the corner and had a few quick vodkas for Dutch courage, got a taxi to Bayswater to pick up his car, then drove back.”

  “He won’t tell anyone you’re alive?”

  Ric shook his head. “No way.” Again a hint of complacency.

  “Well, keep an eye on him.”

  “And the pizza?”

  “Four seasons.”

  “I’ll bring it up when it gets here.” He walked over to the stairs. “Sorry about this, Caz.”

  “Yeah, you’ve got to stop all these people having fantasies about you. It’s becoming a nuisance.”

  He turned. “Does that mean you believe me? About Emma?”

  Perhaps it did. I’d spoken without thinking. “I’m too tired to work it out tonight. I believed Emma, and I believe you too. Phil said I was credulous, and maybe he’s right.”

  Ric smiled, not his usual smile; he looked curiously comforted and vulnerable. I wanted to hug him.

  “I’d better get back downstairs.” He shook his head. “Poor old Jeff. There’s nothing to be done about it…”

  “Poor old Jeff’s wife.”

  “I’ll go and order the pizzas.” A thought struck him, and he turned. “One thing, we don’t have to worry about Jeff turning up any more.”

  The rest of the evening, spent curled up on the sofa with a pizza, a good novel and half a bottle of wine restored my spirits. The Big Sleep - I’ve read it three times, and seen the film, and I still don’t know who killed the chauffeur.

  At about ten I heard the front door close. I took my plate to the kitchen, and walked to the window. There’s a security light in Fox Hollow Yard that is set off by movement; the idea is to discourage people from dealing drugs, having sex or peeing against the walls. The Yard looked like a film set in its brilliant beam. I could almost hear a voice say, “And…action!” On cue I saw Jeff go
to his car, remove a couple of parking tickets from the windscreen, drop them on the cobbles, open the passenger door, chuck the jack in the back and get in. Ric, looking like the star of the film, strolled over and got behind the wheel. The Maserati’s powerful engine purred into life, and the car moved smoothly on to the road like a panther out on the prowl for its evening meal.

  When Ric returned, I was on the roof terrace watering the plants. I’d forgotten to do it in daylight, but I’d switched on the outdoor lighting and could see well enough. Spem In Alium, by my namesake Thomas Tallis, sounded in the quiet; eerie, angelic, piercingly sad. I thought of the Duke who, hearing it for the first time, ‘tooke his chayne of gold from of his necke & putt yt about Tallice his necke & gave yt him.’

  Lavender, honeysuckle and thyme scented the air, and the moon was new, sharp against a deep blue sky. Ric walked through the flat, out to the rooftop and stood beside me.

  “Nice out here. I took Jeff home. Beer on top of vodka, he was too drunk to drive. He wanted me to stay at his place.”

  “Oh.”

  “No, I mean he said I could stay there instead of here. I thought you might want me to go.”

  I moved to the next bay tree. They stand taller than me, a metre across, in big Italian pots, and drink a lot. The splash of the water was as soothing as the music. Maybe I should get a fountain. Ric leaving…

  He followed me, standing close in the darkness. “Because of what Emma said.”

  “D’you want to go?”

  Ric took the hose, turned it off and laid it down, and put his hands on my waist. Their warmth through my tee shirt made me shiver.

  “No. Too many things I don’t know,” he said. “What’s Caz short for?”