I remember some of the things from David’s death two years ago with perfect clarity and yet, like anything, memories fade. Truth blurs with fiction and I’ve told so many fictions since what happened that I sometimes find myself believing the lies. I repeated them so often in the immediate aftermath that I sometimes lie awake at night trying to figure out what was real and what wasn’t.
But I do remember how I killed him and what I did directly afterwards. I felt uneasily calm, perhaps as composed as I’ve ever been. It’s only now that I wonder whether it was an illusion and my mind is playing with itself. Perhaps I was never that collected and everything that happened did so in a crushing panic? Somehow, in among all that, I failed to notice that David was never dead…
That’s my fear – that the truth I’ve been telling myself for two years was never the truth to begin with. That’s why nothing happening is worse than something happening.
I’m scratching the scar on my neck again – and everything that has happened has seemingly left me slipping into old habits once more. I watch the lower floor for a while longer and then turn back to my list, though I still can’t bring myself to add David’s name to the bottom.
After getting through a few bits of admin, I take Andy’s advice and call a solicitor’s office. It’s the same one I spoke with when I was trying to figure out whether it was worth divorcing David. The person who answers the phone must know who I am as she puts me through to ‘one of the partners’ – Mr Patrick – almost immediately.
I tell him what happened, half expecting him to reply that he can’t help. I’m braced for the worst, but he’s calm and seemingly unruffled. Mr Patrick has one of those voices that’s as smooth as a Creme Egg left in a windowsill on a summer’s day.
‘I think what you’re missing is that the police have to prove you were driving,’ he says. ‘It’s not the other way around. You don’t have to prove that you weren’t.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I reply.
‘And I’m sure they are rapidly coming to that conclusion.’
He tells me to leave it with him for now but to get in contact if I hear anything more from the police. I instantly feel better after hanging up. It’s obvious, of course. The one thing everybody knows about a justice system is that people are innocent until proven guilty – and so it’s clear that the police have to prove it was me driving. If they had any evidence of that – which they can’t because I wasn’t – then I would have already been charged.
I turn back to my computer and again look for details from the crash. In the time I’ve been speaking to the solicitor, a news story has appeared that names the pedestrian who was hit. ‘Trevor Barnwell, 52, from Gradingham’ was struck in the early hours of yesterday morning. It says that police are investigating the circumstances, but, other than that, there are few more details than before.
I spend the rest of the morning getting on with the smaller jobs I usually put off. I pay the cleaning bill and send out a couple of invoices, before a text arrives from Andy, who asks how I’m doing. When I say that I’m working as normal, he asks if I want to go for a meal that evening. I’m tempted to say no, if only because I’m in the mood to barricade myself away from the world. Instead, I end up agreeing because at least it will be something that’s happening.
It’s only after all of that that I remember to check the membership system. It takes me seconds to find Yasmine. As she said, she signed up over the phone yesterday. The timing is curious, but I’m not sure what else to read into it.
Although we call it a ‘membership system’, it’s not quite true. We don’t sell memberships because there’s no on-site gym – we sell blocks of classes. Yasmine’s address is listed, which, if I’d checked in the first place, would have stopped me from having to drive aimlessly around her estate. If I’d done that, though, I’d have missed her walking along the streets.
Her phone number is also on file – although it doesn’t match the unknown 07 one that’s been texting me. I’m not sure if that means anything. There’s an email address, too – and everything seems as it should. I’m still not sure what to make of what I overheard from her call last night. It’s not as if I can do much in any case. I can hardly follow her everywhere.
I take a few minutes to watch what’s going on below, where one of the physical therapists has arrived. He has a roll of towels tucked under his arm and spends a minute or two chatting to Jess on reception, before heading off to one of the smaller side rooms. There are two more classes in the afternoon, with two more trainers. This somehow ended up being the business plan in that I’ve gone from actually doing what I wanted to taking money from other people who are now doing it.
I turn back to the computer screen but can’t face the mundanity of it any longer. I never grew up wanting to put numbers into spreadsheets or fill in the blanks for invoices. I’m not sure anyone did. Instead, I change into the running gear I keep in the cabinet. I hesitate when it comes to the orange studio top but opt for it anyway.
It’s a warmer day outside today, though not by much. My breath spirals ahead of me as I start jogging along the pavement that leads towards the centre of Gradingham. The hedges that line the path gradually turn into low walls and houses set back from the road.
Gradingham has its moments during all four seasons. In the spring, the fields that surround it bloom with a golden yellow and, on sunny days, it feels as if the whole village is glowing. The summer means emerald green fields under endless blue skies. There are fêtes and beer gardens; with weekly barbecues at the cricket club. Autumn brings a rainbow blanket as the leaves change colour seemingly day to day. Even winter, with its glacial verges and biting cold, has its charm. When it snows, or the frost is particularly thick, these stone-clad buildings are coated in postcard-perfect white. I’ve lived here all my life and, I suppose, the window is narrowing for me to ever leave.
The houses turn into the High Street and I run along the deserted path before crossing the road at the end and heading back the way I’ve come.
With a job in fitness, everyone assumes that trainers enjoy activities like this. There is a degree of truth to that – but running is still horrible. Sometimes I crave a chip butty like anyone else and would rather have my feet up in a comfy chair.
I’m thinking of chips as I arrive back at the studio. My watch says I’ve done a fraction over 10km and I head upstairs to have a shower. In the time that has taken, I’ve received no further texts, calls or emails.
I waste another hour doing little but wondering if this is it from now on. Instead of any sort of conclusion to who was in the photo, or who took my car, I’ll live with this needle of paranoia.
I am working my way through a stack of receipts when an email arrives from Steven, the awards organiser. He has sent me a link to a website that is hosting a series of photos from the night. I skim through a badly written report and the list of winners to get to the pictures. Most of them are of individuals or small groups posing somewhat awkwardly. I’m in four – two of which are from when I was on stage getting the award; the other two were taken when I was looking the other way in a group shot. I go through each image looking for the man in the blue suit who looks like David.
He’s not there.
Almost all of the photos were taken in the early part of the evening, so it’s not necessarily a surprise. If he was only in the room for the moment the winners’ group photo was taken, then he wouldn’t be in any of the others.
I focus on the final ones in the set – but Steven’s photo was taken at a different angle than Jane’s. Some of the winners are looking to this picture-taker, while others – including me – are staring at someone else who had a camera. It’s all a bit of a mess – and there’s no sign of anyone who looks like David in the back. It’s only when I’m comparing his pictures to the one Jane sent me that I remember the circumstances. We were all ready to step away when she stopped us for one final shot. It was that one in which the man in the blue suit appeared.
> I’m still scanning through the photos when my phone rings and the word ‘MUM’ flashes across the screen. It’s rare that she calls me – and almost all our phone conversations happen at pre-determined times. I’ll go into them with a literal list of things to mention because, without that, I’ll be stuck with a lecture about how my life is going nowhere and that things haven’t been the same since David left. That’s if she remembers David has gone.
I wince as I press the button to answer. It is never good news when she calls unexpectedly.
‘Hi, Mum…’
‘You’ll never guess who’s got cancer.’
I stumble over a reply. As opening gambits go, it’s strong.
‘Sorry…?’ I say.
‘Go on: guess.’
‘Mum, I—’
‘Iris. I just heard. Lung cancer. Never smoked a cigarette in her life. Still, we all breathed it in back then. She’s only two years older than me. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
I don’t get a chance to ‘think’ because she’s off. There’s no time for me to tell her that I have no idea who Iris is because she’s busy explaining in intricate detail about how chemotherapy might or might not work and how Iris has been given three months to live. There’s a sort of glee to her telling, as if one of her friends having cancer is an indication that Mum herself has lived a good life because she hasn’t got it. Even if I could get a word in, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve learned with experience that the best way to handle these types of conversation is to let Mum talk herself out. Give it five minutes and she’ll move onto the weather.
That’s why I’m only half listening when all the hairs on my arm stand up.
‘Anyway, it was nice for David to pop in. I’ll never know why you got rid of him. Still, I suppose that’s the modern way, isn’t it? I just think that—’
‘You saw David…?’
Mum stops speaking and I can imagine her frowning with annoyance at being interrupted.
‘What?’ she says.
‘You said that you saw David…?’
There’s a pause and then: ‘Who?’
‘David.’
‘Who?’
I stop and take a breath. Mum is at her most coherent when she’s allowed to process things at her own pace. Interruptions not only annoy her but they make her lose any train of thought.
‘You said that David popped in,’ I say slowly.
There’s another gap and I’m worried I’ve lost her. I wait and then hear her clucking her tongue.
‘He came by yesterday,’ she says.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I might be old, Morgan, but I’m not senile. He popped in yesterday. I’ll never know why you got rid of him. Still, I suppose that’s the modern way, isn’t it? I just—’
‘Mum.’
‘What?’
‘I’m coming over.’
Seventeen
THE WHY
Three years, five months ago
Edinburgh’s cobbled streets are covered with a slick of damp as the grey wash hovers ominously above. It feels like it might rain, although the woman at the hotel said that it’s always like that.
‘Never go out without a coat,’ she said.
‘Even in July?’ I asked.
‘Especially in July.’
There was sun this morning, but the darkness and chill of the day makes that feel like something of a dream.
David grips my hand a little firmer as he leads me through an arch which brings us out onto more cobbles. We don’t speak because we don’t need to. There’s something intrinsically old-time romantic about wandering hand-in-hand through these ancient streets. This is the sort of thing I pictured about being in a relationship. I check the watch that he gave me for my birthday and it tells me that it’s almost three in the afternoon. It feels a long way from the village in which I grew up, yet there is nowhere in the world I’d rather be.
It takes us almost half an hour to walk to the exhibition centre. David seems to know what he’s doing as he leads us around to one of the doors at the side. There’s a big sign for the ‘International Collectors’ Fair’ and David flashes a pass to a man on the gate, who waves us through. Inside, it smells of crisp, frayed paper; like walking into a musty bookshop. There are long rows of stalls that stretch from one side of the hall to the other. People are crowding along the aisles, shuffling forward like penguins huddling for warmth.
We stop on a platform overlooking the scene and David leans forward on his forearms as I slot in at his side.
‘I found some gems from your mum’s friends,’ he says. ‘I’ve already got some interested buyers in Sweden. I might have to fly out there in a week or so.’
‘I’ve heard Sweden’s really expensive,’ I reply.
‘Most of Scandinavia is. They earn more, so it doesn’t matter to them. It’s only when you visit that everything seems to cost a lot.’
‘How much will you make?’
‘Enough to make it worthwhile.’
David seems to be scanning the stalls for something, so I continue waiting at his side, watching the masses below. It’s only then that I realise how few women there are. There are men of all ages, shapes and sizes – although they are almost all white. This business feels very focused.
With David saying his haul is ‘enough to make it worthwhile’, I wonder if I should finally bring up rent. He’s been living with me for three months now and I’ve never quite got around to asking him to contribute to our living arrangements. Perhaps not even rent, but food or a share of the bills – that sort of thing. On average, he’s probably gone for a day a week at various fairs, though I’m not always sure. Until he brought me here, I was beginning to think that he was, essentially, unemployed. I never brought it up, but he might have picked up on it, which is why we’re in Edinburgh – and why he has been paying for everything.
So far, we’ve spent a whole day wandering the streets, which was topped off with afternoon tea and a whisky-tasting that somehow left me both light- and heavy-headed. I slept well last night.
David is still scanning the floor, where the long rows seem to be split into sections. There are records in one area and books in another, while I can also see magazines, comics, newspapers, figurines, street signs, football programmes and toys. There is even a stall below us selling the sort of bobblehead that’s in the back of David’s car.
‘Is this the type of place you sell?’ I ask.
David hums a little, turning from side to side. ‘Not really. It’s small fry here. People come to be cheapskates. The big money is in importing. If you can get something in bulk from somewhere like Bulgaria or Romania, there might be some first editions in there.’ He licks his lips and then adds: ‘I might be on to something in Slovakia. Got a supplier who reckons he’s come across a load of records from the sixties and seventies. All smuggled stuff from back when it was behind the Iron Curtain. Perfect condition, he says. He mentioned some Bowies, but that’s probably only scratching the surface.’
I’m not sure how to reply. It’s the first he’s mentioned of it and, if it’s true that big events like this are a waste of time, then I’m not sure why we’re here.
‘The problem is having the money upfront,’ David says.
He lets it hang for a while and only continues when it’s clear I don’t know how to reply.
‘A lot of my money is tied up in stock,’ he adds.
He has mentioned this before, although I’ve never been quite clear where David’s stock actually is. He told me he’s got records and books in storage that are waiting for the right buyer. When I asked how long it might take to sell, he shrugged and said that’s the business.
‘It’s true what they say,’ he adds. ‘It takes money to make money – but the banks don’t want to know.’ With barely a breath, he nods below: ‘Shall we go for a wander?’
I follow him down the stairs and we join the hordes of people who are ambling along the aisles. I never realised quite ho
w much there was to collect. So much of what is on display looks as if it came straight from the landfill. There’s a stall where someone is offloading rack upon rack of metal signs. It looks like they’re from the fifties and sixties, with many advertising cigarettes in a way that seems so strange nowadays. I can understand collecting something like records – they can be listened to and there’s something artistic about the sleeves. I can’t see the point in anyone amassing signs.
David notices me staring and clamps a hand on my shoulder as he laughs. ‘It’s not what you’d buy – it’s what someone else will buy.’
We continue on, looping around to another aisle where there are rows of stalls selling toys. There are walls of action figures that I remember from my youth. Star Wars, Thundercats, He-Man and She-Ra, and Ninja Turtles are the ones I spot first – but there are many more. I was never that interested in anything specifically marketed for girls, which is perhaps why it’s a surprise to see the sheer breadth of colourful My Little Ponies on the next stall.
‘Takes you back, doesn’t it?’ David says.
The final stall has mainly Disney plushes. I step inside, partly to get away from the masses, and instantly baulk at the prices. There’s a palm-sized Mickey Mouse soft toy for which the seller is asking £300. David flits through the price labels and seems unsurprised by it all.
‘Do you sell soft toys?’ I ask.
‘Not regularly. They sometimes show up in a bulk buy.’
‘I can’t believe this costs £300.’
David points to the £450 tag attached to a Pooh Bear.
‘Do people pay that?’ I ask.
‘How do you think people like me make money? You can buy a hundred things in a job lot and it only takes one sale to cover the cost. Anything else is profit.’
Close to You (ARC) Page 10
