Your Closest Friend

by Karen Perry

  Behind me, there’s a sudden interruption of laughter, two guys hurrying past sharing a joke. The echo of their voices lingers like a third party to this conversation.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come here, bothering you with this. I just couldn’t think where else to go.’ And now the tears are really falling, effortlessly pouring out of me without my even trying.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he says reluctantly, standing back to let me pass, but there’s a look of distaste on his face and I can tell he’s not happy, his evening interrupted by all this emotion.

  Inside the doorway, I stand there, shoulders hunched forward, snivelling like an orphan.

  He says, ‘Come through,’ and leads me down into the kitchen.

  It’s so bright in here, all the lights lit, filament bulbs burning over the island, hidden fluorescent strips backlighting glassware in wall cupboards.

  ‘I’ll fix us both a coffee,’ he says over his shoulder, fiddling with the Gaggia, which I suspect is as much of a distraction from my state as anything else. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve nothing stronger in the house.’

  I perch on one of the stools at the island, bring my bag to rest on the veined-marble top.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, opening my bag. ‘I came prepared.’

  When he turns around, a coffee in each hand, and sees the whiskey, something comes over him. A drawing down of his features.

  ‘No. Not for me,’ he says quietly, coming forward and putting my coffee in front of me, sipping from his while his eyes remain on the bottle.

  ‘It’s Irish,’ I tell him, attempting a watery smile. ‘We could have Irish coffees.’

  ‘You go ahead.’

  I unscrew the lid and pour a shot into my cup, then hold the bottle out, pointing to the label.

  ‘Look. Writers’ Tears,’ I say, with a sad little hiccup of a laugh. ‘Cara told me you were a writer, so I just thought …’

  ‘She did?’

  God, the neediness in his voice, like he can’t even hide it.

  ‘Come on,’ I whisper, leaning in to give him a secret conspiratorial smile. ‘Keep me company. I promise I won’t tell.’

  And that’s all it takes. That’s how easily he caves. I keep my disdain tucked away behind my smile as I tip the bottle into his cup, a generous measure.

  ‘She let me read one of your stories.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one about the guy travelling home on the bus. It was lovely. Funny, but kind of moving too, you know.’

  He ducks his head and shakes it, a show of false modesty. ‘It feels like a million years has passed since I wrote that.’ Then he says, ‘I can’t believe she kept those stories.’

  ‘Well, it’s not like they’re on display on her coffee table,’ I say frankly, and he laughs and I can feel him warming to me, loosening up. This is working, I think. ‘But she did tell me that she always thought it a shame – that you didn’t pursue your writing. That’s where your real talent lay, she thought.’

  He’s hanging on my every word, drinking it up, and it’s pathetic how easily he’s buying this. Not that I’d be much better. Slavering for the smallest crumb of a compliment from her. In a way, we are the same, me and him. Survivors, shipwrecked and washed up on the shore, gasping for air, desperate for a sign of rescue. But of the two of us, only I know that we are not comrades but rivals. Only I know that my presence here tonight is not a comfort – it is a duel.

  I slop some more whiskey in our cups and this time he doesn’t demur.

  ‘So, what were you fighting about?’ he asks.

  I make a show of sighing and seeming downcast, then I lay it on thick about how she’d confessed her true feelings to me – that she didn’t love her husband; that her heart belonged to someone else.

  ‘She didn’t mention your name, but I guessed it was you,’ I tell him.

  ‘How?’

  ‘She said it was someone from her past, someone she used to live with. “Even when we were breaking up, we still vowed to always love each other,” she said.’

  He stares hard into his mug, then, leaning on one elbow, he puts his hand to his head.

  ‘Why would she say that to you and then act like …’ He lets the words drift, and into the silence I read his exasperation, the turmoil of his thoughts and emotions. ‘You know, I’d take her back, that’s the crazy thing!’ he laughs, suddenly animated. ‘I’d take her back in a heartbeat. Even though she lied to me about my own child.’ His eyes flick in my direction, narrowing. ‘But you knew that, didn’t you? Lobbing your little grenade.’

  My heart tightens, a jump of fear at the weight of his suspicious gaze. It’s not too late for me to back out, to walk away.

  In a small voice, I say, ‘I thought you had a right to know.’

  Still skewering me with that cool look, he says, ‘I suppose you thought you were helping,’ and I can’t tell if he’s being caustic or sincere.

  Slowly, reluctantly – because it’s a gamble – I reach across, put my hand over his.

  ‘I just saw two people who should be together,’ I say softly, seriously.

  I wait for him to respond. Woozy from the whiskey and intimidated by my own dark purpose, my hand rests over his in clammy hesitation.

  ‘Okay,’ he says, turning his own hand so we are palm to palm. His fingers give a quick squeeze of reassurance and a thrilled shiver passes through me.

  The coffee dries out, but we keep drinking. I have to be careful not to let myself get too crazy, although part of me needs it. Despite everything, I’m still frightened at the prospect of the night ahead, the rattle of nerves rubbing up against the hardness of pure resolve. It helps numb the boredom too, because he’s one of those drunks that talks and talks. About himself, his past mistakes, the wrong turns taken, how things could have been different. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Boo-fucking-hoo. I tip my whiskey back and pour more into his cup. The night’s getting on and he’s showing no signs of slowing. I’m waiting for the slurred voice, the lull in conversation, the sinking down into sleep. But I need it to be a deep sleep, so when he’s staggering over to the stereo, squinting at Spotify until he finds that perfect jazz track that’s running through his head, driving him crazy – ‘What was the name of that fucking song?’ he mutters – I take the opportunity to spill my powdered gift into his cup. Nothing deadly – I’m not pouring hemlock down his throat. A couple of sleeping pills to ensure I’ll get the job done.

  Next thing Ella Fitzgerald is in the room with us, her caramel-smooth voice warm, and he’s swaying to himself by the stereo under the bright lights, smoking a cigarette, locked in some private moment of his past.

  So I go over to him, and take his hand, saying, ‘Come on. We gotta dance.’

  And he lets me pull in close to him, fixing his arm around me, the cigarette clamped between his dry lips, and we dance with our eyes holding each other’s gaze and I’m humming the song and imagining this is not his body I feel pressed against mine, nor his eyes looking at me in a new and speculative way. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and puts it to mine, and I push down on the revulsion I feel at the wetness of his spittle on the filter adhering to my lips. I barely have time to release the plume of smoke when his mouth is upon mine, desperation or greed in that kiss, sucking my tongue into his mouth.

  My heart is pounding when we go upstairs. There’s an urgency about him, like he wants to do this quickly before he changes his mind. Or maybe it’s me who’s thinking that, my own resolve wavering and stumbling. When I feel his hand like a cold claw on my breast, it takes everything I have not to spring back from him and flee.

  But then I remind myself of my purpose – steeled by the memory of my promise. I’ll show you how much I love you. What I’m doing here is an act of liberation. I have to remember that. I have to remember the danger he poses to us. And so I try to put my mind elsewhere while the act takes place. My body is a doll on the bed, a hollow thing that he is pawing and probing and
pushing into, and as he does, it crosses my mind that this was her bed once, a place where she found pleasure and abandon. In the photograph I had stolen from his wardrobe, it was this bedhead that she reclined against, smiling, one finger pressed coyly to the corner of her mouth, both knees drawn up a little and pressed to one side; but there was nothing coy about the spread of her breasts or the light in her eyes. And as he pumps and groans above me, I know that it is not me he’s fucking – it’s her. The eagerness of his exertions, his rising excitement – none of it is for me. I’m just a proxy – a temporary stand-in. And that’s when I start laughing.

  ‘What?’ he asks, still pushing into me, but he’s starting to laugh too, like he’s in on the joke.

  I keep laughing, pausing just long enough to tell him, ‘I’m going to kill you.’

  And he giggles like it’s a figure of speech I’m using, not a statement of intent, and besides, he’s hurtling fast down the avenue of his own pleasure, no words are going to throw him off-course.

  It’s over quickly enough. I feel something cold and wet against my thigh as he slips out of me.

  And then we’re both lying on our backs, staring at the ceiling. I can hear him panting, see the rise and fall of his chest, while I remain perfectly still and wait.

  A calmness has come over the bed. It is almost time.

  I lie in the semi-dark of the room and listen. I hear the creaking of floorboards expanding and contracting, the late-night twitter of a bird high up in the rafters. Downstairs, the jazz is still playing, and far outside, the low rumble of traffic. Somewhere in this city, she is waiting for me. I can feel it. And it is the knowledge of this that keeps me steady, causes me to rise carefully, not that I’m afraid of waking him, he’s that far gone. Like a child, worn out from the playground, falling instantly down deep into sleep.

  I don’t dress yet. Instead, I tiptoe naked back downstairs to where I’ve dumped my bag. The blades are in a small plastic envelope, and I have taken the added precaution of packing surgical gloves which I snap on now. Creeping back up the stairs, I can’t help laughing at the picture of my own self.

  He is splayed naked across the bed, one arm thrown over his head. His nose whistles as he sleeps. I perch on the side of the bed and say his name. Then I reach up and take his wrist, drawing his arm down so it lies by his side. I pinch the skin on his chest hard. But he’s down so deep, he doesn’t stir.

  Now is the moment. But I’m not afraid. I’m not charged with any emotion. This is a mercy killing. A form of euthanasia. Putting the poor bastard out of his misery. But most of all, this is my gift to her. With this act, I am saving her.

  The blade is sharp and surgical. It draws easily through the skin. Blood spurts violently but he hardly stirs. Only when I cut through the arteries in his leg does he turn his head, a groan released from the floor of his chest.

  It is hard to believe how calm I am, how self-possessed. I put the blade into his right hand, taking care to curl his fingers around it, like a treasure I am pressing on him, urging him to keep safe. After the initial spurts, the blood gurgles and gulps, draining steadily out of him. I pick my way carefully over the floor to the bathroom, keeping my surgical gloves on while I shower, wash my hair, sluicing the blood down the drain. By the time I am dressed he is dead. At least, that’s how it appears. I don’t draw close enough to check. It’s more a feeling I have – the way the room holds the air: an emptiness there.

  It’s well past midnight when I leave the house. I am taking a chance, no matter what time of the day or night I choose. My hood pulled up, I stand in the hallway, gathering my nerve, waiting for the right moment before venturing out into the night.

  The road is quiet, the only living thing I encounter as I walk away is the russet swish of a fox, disappearing over a wall in a shiver of waxen leaves.

  Part Three

  * * *

  21.

  Cara

  ‘Well?’ he asks.

  I can already feel him leaning in, the air between us shrinking.

  ‘Don’t,’ I say, when I mean the opposite.

  On this warm night, on the side of this street, the sounds and smells of city life impacting upon us, it feels like a negotiation is happening. A base animal instinct – reading each other’s signals. I see the dilation of his pupils, the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, read his intent in the way he won’t break my gaze, pushing for a response. And in my own body, I feel my increased heartbeat, a chemical arousal happening in my bloodstream, the magnetic pull silencing the voice screaming from the rational side of my brain. Emotion holds sway. Ignoring my warning, he leans in and kisses me. A closed-mouth kiss of short enough duration, but there’s nothing chaste about it. A kiss loaded with intent.

  We smile at each other as he draws back from me, and then I turn from him and walk away. This is not a dismissal, and I know that he knows this. Nor is it an invitation to follow. It’s part of the game.

  I resist the urge to look back, walking steadily, confidently, my bag over my shoulder, one hand slipped into my jeans pocket. The zing of cocktails in my bloodstream mingles with my hormones to make a cocktail of their own. A magical elixir – it’s like the years have fallen away and I’m nineteen again, willingly enslaved by an all-consuming crush.

  I turn the corner on to Redchurch Street, out of his view now, but still I feel his watchful gaze, bask in it. I wonder how long I must wait until he contacts me. Will there be a text from him as I sit on the Tube, feeling the sway of the carriage taking me home? Passing The Owl and Pussycat where the punters have spilled out on to the street, perching on bar stools as they down pints, I realize I am smiling to myself, the cacophony of their happy inebriation striking a familiar chord inside me. I get my facial expression under control, and look up, and that’s when I see him.

  Eyes, blank and glassily malevolent. The gun in his hand.

  Fight or flight. Hyperarousal. Acute stress response. Call it what you will, it amounts to the same thing. The triggering of glands in the brain, a cascade of hormones that activates responses in the autonomic nervous system. This same control mechanism, ironically, also fires into action during sexual arousal. Perhaps it was because this system had already been called into play moments earlier when I stood in the street with Finn and felt the tug of my desire, the same glands poked alive, the stream of hormones already released, that when I see the terrorist coming towards me, I neither flee nor fight. I freeze.

  Screaming splits the night. There’s a sound like a firecracker as the gun goes off. I watch bodies fold over on themselves, then slump to the ground. It feels as if the whole street is already in motion by the time my nervous system wakes up and I start to run. I run and I keep running, right up until the moment I feel her hand reach out and clasp my arm, hauling me back into the darkness.

  Later, I learn that not everybody ran. Some people stood their ground – a few have-a-go heroes, their fight instincts outweighing all others. Those lads drinking outside the pub, their pint glasses sailing through the air in a barrage of shots. They’d picked up their bar stools and flung them at the attackers, then rushed back inside the pub to retrieve chairs, tables, more artillery.

  You don’t know how you’ll react until you’re in the situation, and I suppose I learned something about myself that night. When danger rears up, my instinct is not to stay and fight, but to run. It’s evolution. The way I am wired. I’m as helpless to resist it as I am to change the way I digest food or how my pupils dilate and contract. But when I heard about those people outside the pub and how they’d fought back in the face of danger, I’d felt the tiniest nudge of shame. For all the science to explain it, my response felt cowardly. Perhaps, in the end, that is what I am. A coward.

  Now, I get off the Tube at Earl’s Court. My legs are shaking. I have no idea why I am here, why I have chosen this stop. Propelled by an instinct I cannot fathom, I emerge from the Underground, blinking in the street lights. I pull my coat tight around myself, and walk,
head down, along the high street. I don’t know this place, and yet anyone would think I’m moving purposefully, as if I am going somewhere, when really what I am doing is escaping. Fleeing. Running, even though I’m walking. My mouth is dry. It feels like there’s some kind of constriction in my throat, making it impossible to swallow. In my mind, I am counting – an old habit to ward off anxiety. I count the number of steps I take. Like a child, I stare at the pavement, avoiding the cracks. I take care not to brush against strangers. These tics and habits all guard against an invasion of thoughts, of images – his body on the bed, those blood-drenched sheets.

  I walk until the dryness in my mouth becomes unbearable. There’s a Boots on the corner, and I go inside, pluck a bottle of still water from a refrigerated shelf, then stand in line for the cash register. I hold the water to my chest, rock back and forth a little, toe to heel, toe to heel.

  ‘Is that everything?’ the shop assistant asks me.

  The bottle beeps its price, and she hits a button on the till.

  ‘Miss?’

  Her voice comes at me from a distance, like I’m not really there at all. I’m back in that bedroom, the tang of blood in my nostrils, the air cloying with death.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, leaning forward involuntarily, my arm knocking against the display, cereal bars and packaged biscuits tumbling to the floor.

  ‘Miss!’ I hear her calling after me as I stumble out on to the street. ‘Your water!’

  It takes over half an hour for me to get back there. The wait for a train, the dash back along Ackmar Road. I keep thinking that I should call the police, ring for an ambulance, alert them, but another part of me thinks I should go back there first, as if needing to double-check – to make sure I didn’t dream it up.

  When I turn on to Elphiron Road, I see the fluorescent vehicles, the blue lights spinning although the sirens are turned off, and realize that I am too late. A small cluster of bystanders has formed on the pavement outside. A middle-aged man holding plastic shopping bags bulging with food, a mother jiggling a fretful toddler on her hip, an older woman in a dressing gown, one hand pressed to her mouth, are all staring at the house. I see these people but I don’t approach, thoughts clattering and careening through my head: How will I explain myself? My reasons for coming to the house, and then my erratic behaviour: fleeing the scene, failing to call the police? Even in my shocked state, I can still see that the optics aren’t good.