by Neal Doran
As he spun his Allen key in reverse he muttered to himself grumpily. The worst part of it was that he was finding it so much easier to get annoyed at Rebecca than he did to worry about her. It was certainly a change from the start of the pregnancy, when he’d felt an unusual burst of protectiveness that was all a bit macho and not really his thing. He grunted to himself – his hormones must be all over the place at the minute.
His mobile rang and he grabbed it from his pocket. It was his dad. He let it go to voicemail. Now was not the time to be talking snooping journalists when he had a good sulk going on. For a second when it rang, he’d hoped it might be Rebecca downstairs trying to break the ice from the row.
But before he’d thought that, he’d wondered hopefully if it might be someone else.
His day at work hadn’t been the most productive after he’d heard from his wife about the journalist. But then he’d learnt in the past couple of weeks that being productive wasn’t actually something many people there really worried about. Looking for a distraction he’d spent most of the early afternoon swapping movie trivia and sarcastic insults with Gemma. Then they’d met in the kitchen for another coffee. Everything about her seemed dedicated to doing the wrong thing. As James had arrived in his room Gemma’s boss had walked past the door too. She’d paused, given Gemma a quizzical look, and said, ‘Still here?’
Now while most decent skivers would have made an effort to come up with an excuse once they’d been rumbled, Gemma just went with a slightly bored sounding ‘yep’, and put the kettle on again.
‘Are you trying to get yourself fired?’ he’d asked her with an amused smile as her boss paused, then stomped away.
‘Tricky to do that to the owner’s daughter,’ she’d replied.
‘No way!’
‘No. Sucker. I just know the line where the shit I can give them is below the level of shit it would involve to get rid of me.’
James had thought he was looking entertained but unsurprised by her approach. Her response had suggested he hadn’t got it quite right.
‘Look at your face. You look horror-struck. I can see your mind whirring. “How could anyone risk a dream job at this shithole?”’
‘I’m just surprised you haven’t been headhunted to become Vice-President of Smartarse Remarks somewhere bigger.’
‘Shut it, or I’ll grass you up to your dole officer. Wasting the opportunity of your valuable placement Googling George Romero’s films. Which you really should know anyway.’
They’d sat and drank coffee for a couple of minutes before Gemma had piped up again.
‘I’ve done a bit of Googling of my own, you know.’
‘Really?’ He’d panicked as he thought what she might have learnt about his father-in-law, but remembered that so far, thank Christ, his name hadn’t been mentioned in any reports.
‘Charity fun-runner extraordinaire for Tosspot & Tosspot chartered accountants and ever-so-keen senior manager who gives eager young graduates the inside story on what life’s really like in the glamorous world of audit and insolvency.’
A couple of years ago James had been roped in to the milk-round recruitment hoopla and been interviewed for the internal magazine. He remembered it had been a pretty cheesy piece. And now apparently available online.
‘No offence, mate, but you sound like a Christian.’
‘Can I interest you in a pamphlet that can tell you the Good News about that?’ he asked earnestly.
Gemma gave him the finger.
‘So what are you doing on the dole and in this dump anyway? Just because the job centre told you you had to, and you wanted to be a good boy? Would’ve thought the old boys’ club would have got you something better.’
James didn’t know what it was that had made him tell Gemma he was here on a Back to Work scheme in the first place, but he suspected it was because he’d wanted to look a bit less of a goody-two-shoes in her eyes, more a fellow inmate. But she infuriatingly insisted on his being a square, when probably the worst thing she’d done in her life was give her supervisor a bit of backchat. That was probably why he told her something he’d not told a soul in over ten years. Including, he flushed thinking about it, his wife.
‘Job hunting can be a bit tricky when you’re in my situation,’ he said, ‘you don’t really want people looking too closely into your background.’
‘What, you fibbed about your uni results? Covering up that 2.ii in doing tricky sums?’
‘It was something that happened at university actually. But it’s not something I like to talk about.’
‘Oh,’ she’d said, flicking through the copy of the Metro lying next to her on the row of comfy chairs. Messing with his head again by calling his bluff on his reluctance to talk.
‘A criminal record isn’t something that usually goes down well in a corporate environment,’ he said.
She perked up a little.
‘Stealing traffic cones?’
‘GBH.’
‘Shit. What?’
That had broken through her relentless cool indifference. But then he’d worried it sounded a little too threatening.
‘GBH, plea-bargained down to ABH. But not something for the CV either way.’
‘You beat somebody up?’
He’d regretted starting down this route almost immediately. But at the same time, it was good to talk about it. Something he’d not thought about much over the years that had come to the front of his mind because of his lost job.
‘No, didn’t beat anyone up. It was an accident really, but a pretty bad one. I was out with some guys, friends of friends really. Wasn’t my sort of thing, but the night had started with shots of tequila and gone downhill from there. It was about half ten in a crowded bar and the downing pints started. Six seconds, a pint glass thrown in the air in triumph… It landed, smashed, into a girl’s face.’
‘Jesus.’
‘She was rushed to hospital. Blood everywhere. They had to fight to save her sight in one eye. She was OK, but there’s still a scar, and she needs glasses and stuff. I went to the hospital with her, got arrested, spent a night in the cells. Legal aid lawyer got me bail.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Police got witness statements, my lawyer cobbled together what he could in terms of a defence, saying it wasn’t a deliberate act, that the glass had slipped as I raised my arm triumphantly, that what I’d said to the cops at the time should be disregarded because I was still drunk at the time. Pretty thin, but it was enough to bargain with to get the charges downgraded in exchange for a guilty plea. Some of their lawyers had really wanted to go for me apparently – they don’t like to feel like all they’re doing is sending poor people to prison all the time, according to my solicitor.’
‘I can’t believe it. You managed to finish a pint in less than six seconds.’
She’d had enough time to recover her cool, clearly.
‘Stupidest six seconds of my life.’
‘You’ve still got time to do something stupider.’ She’d given him a look then that he hadn’t quite been able to fathom out. That he’d wondered might be some sort of invitation.
‘So Robert has an ex-con on his team,’ she continued. ‘Does he know about it?’
‘Didn’t ask, didn’t tell.’
‘And I thought I was the rebel in the office.’
‘What can I tell you, I’m trouble.’
‘Hmm. Dark horse, eh?’
The only person he’d ever told was his dad. He’d been old enough to deal with it on his own, and the police weren’t going to bring his parents into it if he didn’t need to. But the university had requested a meeting with them as he struggled not to lose his place on his course, and keep some hopes of a decent career, so he’d had to do something.
James had got Ben up for a visit on false pretences, claiming the student paper had wanted to hear a talk with a real-life editor on how the local news sector was changing. When he got to Bristol, Ben had taken some convincing not t
o tell Margaret, but James had been able to rely on his father following through on his personal beliefs of respecting everyone’s individual choices (it usually only applied as long as those choices got them in trouble with the powers that be in one way or another, but he wasn’t going to complain about that on this occasion). Ben had always tried to treat James as a grown-up, letting him do his own thing. It had had its merits at the time, but there’d been occasions when he wouldn’t have minded having a parent step in. Even at nearly twenty, having committed a serious criminal offence, he found himself getting angry that after a brief display of outrage at his son’s participation in ‘lad culture’ Ben was more aggravated by possible police persecution and university politics than he was about the harm his son could have done to an innocent woman.
‘She seems to be all right – the girl,’ he told Gemma.
‘You’re still in touch?’
‘I’ve, er, checked on her through the power of Google too. She’s doing fine, got a nice career in TV research, getting married I think.’
‘I’ve Googled exes before, but that’s a bit different…’
James had written to the girl, Helena Eastman her name was, after he was sentenced. He’d apologised as best he could and offered to help her in any way possible. Paying for tutors to catch up on any work she’d missed had been the best idea he could think of at the time. She’d never written back, which was understandable, but he’d wished he could have met her in person to apologise properly and try and explain. He worried how long it had affected her life. Wondered if it still did. It had certainly taken him a long time to get over it – a good few years – and he hadn’t been injured.
He’d eventually made a conscious effort to not think about it any more. It wasn’t doing him or her any good. He left uni, deliberately lost contact with the people he knew there, and acted as if it had never happened, and that seemed to work. For enough of the time, anyway. When it bubbled to the surface he found something else to do to take his mind off it. That was why it had been surprising when he actually brought it up to Gemma, but he was acting very oddly, and that was only the start.
‘So anything sordid in your past that’s trapping you in this dump?’ he asked.
‘Nothing I could tell you without a stiff drink.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘I can handle it, I just think you’d need one to get through it.’
‘Now that sounds interesting.’
‘So what are you doing tomorrow night?’
‘Nothing…’
‘I’ll grab you at five-thirty on the dot then. No giving this place a minute of overtime. Then I can scandalise you.’
That expression he’d seen earlier, the almost-invitation, was back.
‘Right. OK,’ he’d said as casually as possible.
‘Try not to get us in any bar fights.’
Before he could answer another of their colleagues, a smiley older woman, came into the staff kitchen. Gemma pulled herself up from her slouch on the chairs and sauntered out without even acknowledging her arrival. James pulled himself up straight on the dining table chair he’d been slumped in and smiled at her with a quick hello. But couldn’t help feeling like he was probably blushing, and scurried out of the kitchen.
James repetitively tapped a dowel against the side of the drawer he was putting together. It was just a drink with a colleague. A young, fit colleague. But she knew that he was married. He assumed. She’d never asked, but then she never expressed an interest in anything much about other people. She’d have seen his wedding ring though, he was sure. Look, he needed an escape valve, and going for a pint with a workmate who likes the same movies and has a bit of a sense of humour is fine, he told himself. He’d tell Rebecca about it when they were talking again.
‘I’m sorry, darling.’
James jumped at the voice behind him, snapping him out of his daydreaming. He pulled himself to his feet, hobbling a little on a leg that had gone dead.
‘No, I’m sorry. You’ve had another crappy day. And that journalist stuff wound me up. You OK?’
Rebecca hugged him, and told him she was sure that something would come up for him soon, and that she knew he was trying hard. He grunted non-commitally.
Has Kam come up with any possible news? You said he was keeping an ear open.’
‘Nothing yet,’ he said. ‘But I might hear more tomorrow. Said I’d meet him for a pint after work.’
With Rebecca’s head tucked into his chest, James found it difficult to swallow.
‘Good idea. I’m off to bed. You coming?’
‘I’ll just finish this bit off, and I’ll be through.’
‘I’ll be having a read for a while. Don’t stay up too late…’
James began sorting through his dowels and screws again, not looking up.
‘Night, love.’
Chapter 30
It was the worst phone call that Rebecca had ever received. She hadn’t known what to say, or what to do in response – all she’d managed at first was ‘oh’. She’d been that close to not picking up the phone as well. She hadn’t been in the mood for a conversation with Maggie. Then her mother-in-law had been so weirdly polite, and distant and formal, it wasn’t like her at all. Of course Rebecca has launched into her usual spiel when she’d answered, ‘Hi Maggie, how are you? How’s the youth club art project getting on?’ that kind of thing, and Maggie had told her. Just a few details without any of the enthusiasm or self-involved frustration that the question usually prompted. Rebecca must have kept nervously firing questions at her for a couple of minutes before Maggie got down to the reason for the call.
‘I’m trying to get hold of James. I need to tell him that Ben has died.’
Rebecca had hoped for a second this was a different Ben, that in death, at least, Maggie’s first-name-only parenting philosophy would be set aside. That she couldn’t be talking about James’s dad.
‘What happened? Are you OK?’
‘We don’t know yet. He was alone in the office, the cleaners found him. I tried to contact James on his mobile but it’s switched off.’
‘Do you need me to come around?’
‘I’d like to see James if I can. Is he there?’
‘Sorry. No. I should’ve… No, he’s met up with a friend. I’ll try him again and we’ll come over.’
‘I’ve some calls to make. I need to go to the hospital, but I’d like to wait for him, if I can. I’ll keep the mobile line free.’
‘I’m so sorry, Margaret.’
They’d hung up, and Rebecca had cursed herself for being so stupid on the phone. Keeping Margaret blabbing about crap when she had such awful news, and then not even telling her that her son wasn’t home, leaving her hanging, waiting expectantly.
Ben was dead. She worried that she’d pried too much asking what had happened. Something at work, Margaret had said, which could be anything. He wouldn’t have killed himself would he? she wondered to herself. She told herself off for immediately looking for the most scandalous answer. And she needed to get hold of James. She tried his mobile, which went straight to voicemail. Panicked, she didn’t know whether to leave a message. Would Maggie have left one? Would her own tone give away that something was wrong?
She disconnected the call, and scrolled through her contacts list. Kam had kids, he was more likely to have his phone on, even if they were boozing and gossiping. She found his number and dialled, and it rang. While she waited for an answer she stared at the episode of Holby that had been paused when she picked up the call from Margaret. For a second she thought about recording it for later, before remembering what was going on and turning off the telly. Just as she assumed the call to Kam was going to go to his messages, it was picked up. There was a bit of a breathless pause, then her husband’s best pal said a tired hello.
‘Kam, hi, sorry to disturb you. It’s Rebecca.’
‘Becs, hi! How are you doing? Didn’t recognise the number when it came up.’
Rebecca thought it sounded a little quiet for a pub in the background.
‘Is James there?’ she asked.
‘James?’
‘He said you guys were going for a drink, and his phone’s off. I just need to speak to him.’
There was a long pause at the end of the line.
‘Yeah…yeah! Of course. But…no. I had to go home early, one of the littl’uns projectile vomiting. All the stuff you have to look forward to. I think he…was gonna stay and finish his pint.’
‘When did you leave? Just he’s not home yet, and his phone’s off.’
‘Umm, about an hour ago? I’m not long in.’
‘It’s just I need to speak to him, there’s b—’
‘I think I saw some other guys he used to work with coming in as I left. He could be with them? But I wouldn’t have their numbers.’
‘OK, Kam,’ she said softly.
‘Look I’ve gotta go, I can hear the puking’s started again. Take care, love.’
He hung up. She hadn’t even had the chance to tell Kam what she was calling for. She’d sounded like she was checking up on her husband. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was sure that Kam had been lying. He hadn’t seen James, and didn’t even know he was supposed to be covering for him.
What could he be doing that he wouldn’t even tell his best friend? Or his wife.
The thing was, it didn’t matter. She couldn’t ask him now. She couldn’t imagine there’d be a time when she could. She supposed Kam was now texting James about his amendments to the story to make sure he had it straight.
For now all she could do was wait for James to get home and tell him his father was gone and not ask any questions.
She flicked the TV back on and started up Holby.
Chapter 31
James had been distracted all day at work. It was lunchtime before he realised he’d been producing his order reports based on the wrong month’s figures so he’d have to start again. Not that he’d got very far with them in his jittery state, but it was annoying just the same. He hadn’t seen or heard anything from Gemma all morning. The squeeze of excitement he got in his stomach when he thought of it was something he hadn’t felt in a long time. She didn’t care about his job, or his lunatic family, or about anything much beyond the superficial, she just wanted to spend time with him. And she was pretty hot.
