Come Again

by Emlyn Rees

  ‘Correct. I reckon it’s the best shot I’ve got. What do you think?’

  Jack thought. Seconds passed. Then Jack spoke. ‘It’s perfect, you sly old rat. Treat her mean, keep her keen. Just like—’ He halted. ‘Still,’ he added, ‘I do foresee one problem . . .’

  ‘What?’ I demanded, mildly annoyed that such a thing could exist, and already doubting its provenance if it did.

  ‘How,’ Jack asked, ‘without going out on a date with her and thereby inadvertently demonstrating that you fancy her, are you going to find an opportunity to explain to her that you don’t fancy her, thereby making her fancy you?’

  Damn.

  ‘Good point,’ I said, suddenly stumped.

  But then Jack chuckled. It was a good chuckle, the kind of chuckle that inspires confidence. ‘Strike that,’ he announced. ‘I’ve got the perfect solution.’

  It sounded dangerous, but maybe, just maybe . . . ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Keep your mobile phone switched on and wait for my call. I’ll fix up a time and a place for you two to meet accidentally. That way, she’s none the wiser, and you get to say your piece.’

  It was brilliant.

  ‘You’re on,’ I said.

  And as it happened, I didn’t have long to wait. On Friday evening, Jack called me on my mobile at the office. ‘Operation Marchmont is go,’ he hissed down the line. ‘We’re in the Blue Rose, so get your arse down here now.’

  By the time I got there, he was sitting with Amy and H over by the fire. I walked over and said hello to Jack and Amy. H, though, I totally blanked, not even so much as looking her in the face. This, though, I admit, had nothing to do with any attempt at disdain on my behalf. More terror. From the moment I’d sighted her on entering the pub, my heart had leapt directly into my mouth, and as I’d watched her on my approach to the table, it had taken to using my tongue as a trampoline. Fearing that if I stayed a second longer it would launch itself on to H’s lap, I mumbled something about getting a drink, and swiftly turned and headed for the bar.

  ‘Matt,’ she said, catching me up. ‘About the other day . . .’

  I turned to face her, keeping my mouth firmly shut. Her eyes looked in to mine and my heart did the mouth thing again. Only this time, it did it worse. My throat dried. My tongue turned to Fuzzyfelt. And my stomach flipped. I was going to crack. My lips were twitching, starting to stretch . . . oh, God, no . . . her eyes . . . those eyes . . . I was going to smile. I thought Nelson. I thought Churchill. I thought Eisenhower. Be a man, my son, be strong.

  I summoned up my coldest look, straight from the bottom drawer of the freezer. ‘Forget it,’ I said, my voice clipped. ‘If you don’t want to be friends, it’s fine. Really.’

  I paid for my drink.

  ‘I do want to be friends,’ she said, looking at the floor in embarrassment. ‘I got the wrong end of the stick. I was in a dreadful mood and I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you of coming on to me. It was out of order and I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us, especially with the wedding coming up.’

  She folded her arms across her chest.

  Her chest, for Christ’s sake, her chest . . . I felt my eyes begin to drop . . .

  Napoleon.

  Monty.

  Patton.

  What’s-his-name? That bloke who won the battle of Agincourt.

  I cleared my throat. ‘I meant . . .’ I began, my voice a rasp. ‘I meant,’ I tried again, overcompensating this time and sounding like I’d just inhaled the contents of a helium balloon, ‘what I said about just wanting to be friends.’ Then I remembered a seminar I took on public speaking and concentrated on speaking clearly and slowly. ‘AndI’mgladwe’resortedonthatfront,’ I blurted out.

  She looked up at me quizzically. ‘Sorry?’

  I noticed a trace of a smile on her lips. She thought this was funny. It was the break I’d been looking for. ‘I’m glad we’re sorted,’ I snapped.

  ‘Me, too.’

  I avoided her eyes and hesitated and drew breath. Here came the hard bit.

  King Arthur.

  Henry the Eighth.

  You can do this.

  ‘To tell the truth,’ I said, ‘it was awkward for me, too, because, as you’ll no doubt be relieved to hear, I don’t fancy you. I don’t mean that nastily, H. It’s just that you’re not my type. Sorry,’ I added, hurriedly picking up my drink and squeezing past her.

  I headed straight back to Jack and Amy, knowing that only yards behind me, the first bomb of Operation Marchmont had just gone off, and feeling infinitely relieved that, for now at least, I was out of range.

  The effect of the blast was immediate, and astoundingly, considering my miserable efforts, beneficial. On her return to the table, not only did H park her bum right next to mine, but she started talking. To me. And smiling. At me. With that smile. And looking at me. With those eyes. It was like time had been rewound, back to Club Zanzibar last year, like that first aborted snog had been erased and we were working from a clean sheet once more. We were friends again. We were having a laugh. We were getting drunk together. I was relaxing and enjoying myself. My heart had retreated to its natural place. But most important of all, we were flirting.

  The conversation in the cab on the way back to my place after Jack and Amy had left us alone went:

  H: I haven’t gone home with a bloke since I split up with Gav.

  Me: Neither have I.

  H: I’m drunk.

  Me: Me too.

  H: Maybe I should go home.

  Me: If you like.

  H: Do you think I’m being a slag?

  Me: No.

  H: Do you wish I was?

  Me: No.

  H: I think you’re a slag.

  Me: Why?

  H: Because that’s what Amy says.

  Me: You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.

  H: Do you have one-night stands?

  Me: Sometimes.

  H: Do you enjoy them?

  Me: Sometimes.

  H: Are they easy to walk away from?

  Me: Usually.

  H: Even with people you know?

  Me: Usually.

  H: Do you think he can see?

  Me: Who?

  H: The driver.

  Me: See what?

  H: This.

  Me: What are you doing?

  H: You.

  And the conversation in my kitchen went:

  Me: Do you want a drink?

  H: No.

  Me: Coffee?

  H: No.

  Me: Something to eat?

  H: No.

  Me: Cigarette?

  H: No.

  Me: Do you want to go to bed?

  H: Yes.

  Me: Now?

  H: Yes.

  And the conversation in my bedroom went:

  Me: You look edible.

  H: So eat me.

  Me: Mmm . . .

  H: Ah . . .

  Me: Should I wear a condom?

  H: Is the Pope a Catholic?

  Me: I don’t think he approves.

  H: I don’t think he’s slept around as much as you.

  And the conversation the following morning went:

  Me: I brought you breakfast.

  H: What time is it?

  Me: Nine.

  H: Shit.

  Me: What?

  H: I’m meant to be meeting Amy and Susie in half an hour.

  Me: Can’t you be late?

  H: No, I promised.

  Me: It’s eggs Benedict.

  H: Sorry. No can do.

  Me: I’ll give you a lift.

  H: It’ll be quicker by tube.

  Me: Suit yourself.

  H: Where are my knickers?

  Me: Behind the TV.

  H: Who put them there?

  Me: I did.

  H: What on earth for?

  Me: A delaying tactic.

  H: What?

  Me: To stop you doing a runner.


  H: I’m not doing a runner.

  Me: Yes, you are.

  H: No, I’m not. I enjoyed last night.

  Me: Enough to do it again?

  H: Sure.

  Me: When?

  H: I’ll call you.

  Me: When?

  H: Are you trying to close me?

  Me: Are you ducking out on me?

  H: I’m away next week. Working. In Paris.

  Me: All week?

  H: All week.

  Me: See you at the wedding, then . . .

  H: Sure. See you at the wedding.

  Me: Goodbye.

  H: I’ll see myself out.

  I check my watch: it’s nearly three o’clock. No wonder the square’s empty. I should probably get back to work soon. One more cigarette, then I’ll scoot. I rest the mobile phone on my lap and light one up, inhale. I stare in to the branches of a tree. I might just be being paranoid. That’s what Jack said when I spoke to him on Sunday about what had happened.

  ‘She slept with you, didn’t she?’ was his reaction. ‘What more proof do you need that she’s into you?’

  ‘She was drunk, Jack. We both were.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So, in the morning, when she was sober, she did a runner. Her sober reaction to waking up in bed with me was to flee the scene of the crime.’

  ‘She was meeting Amy. She told you so and it’s true. Amy met her yesterday morning. Dress fitting.’

  ‘OK, then, what about her being away all next week?’ I demanded. ‘You’re not telling me that’s not an avoidance tactic?’

  ‘Her Paris trip? Sorry to disappoint you again, Matt, but it’s gospel. She’s been banging on about it for weeks.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Just cool it.’

  ‘Listen, Jack. Is it all right if we keep this to ourselves for now?’

  ‘What, you mean, not tell Amy?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’d just rather, that’s all. You know, in case nothing comes of it.’

  ‘But it will,’ he insisted.

  ‘Yeah, but all the same . . .’

  ‘OK, mate. Whatever you say.’

  ‘Swear?’

  ‘Swear,’ he solemnly replied.

  ‘Thanks. What about Amy? Has she said anything to you?’

  ‘What, about you two shagging? No. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  Only it wasn’t no reason, it was the biggest reason in the world. All people are different; I acknowledge that. But at the same time, there are some universal traits which apply to just about everyone. And bragging to your mates about a top shag is one of them. H didn’t brag, though, did she? She didn’t tell Amy, because if she had, then it’s a certainty that Amy would have told Jack, and it’s an equal certainty that if Amy had told Jack, then Jack would have told me. (Such is the nature of trust in a close social circle.)

  I’ve analysed this over and over again and have come to the conclusion that there are three likely explanations for H’s silence on this matter:

  One, she could be embarrassed about her drunken behaviour, and doesn’t want to tell anyone in case they think worse of her, particularly her closest friend.

  Two, she sees nothing wrong with her behaviour, but is totally grossed out that it was me she behaved that way with.

  Or three, she might be cool with the way she behaved and simply be keeping quiet until she sees if it’s just another notch on the headboard or the start of something more serious.

  Now obviously, short of repeating my observation to her that she’s not a slag, or having plastic surgery to transmogrify me into her perfect guy, I’m pretty stuffed if it’s explanation one or two. Three, however . . . three I can run with. So long as I get to see her, then I can show her that together we can really go places. That’s what I wanted to do the morning she left. I wanted to fix her breakfast. I wanted us to lie in bed, talking the day away, getting to know each other. Because I know this can go somewhere if we only give it a chance. I see her. Jack was right about her. She’s right for me. Of course she is: she’s perfect. And I can prove it to her, as well. But when? The sooner the better, that’s for sure. The wedding’s a whole two weeks away. Leave it till then and whatever momentum we’ve got going for us now will have reached stasis.

  I stare back down at my mobile phone and toss my cigarette away. Then I take out a piece of paper from my pocket. There’s a phone number on it, written in my squiggly handwriting. The paper’s well-thumbed, which is hardly surprising since this must be about the thousandth time I’ve looked at it since I hastily copied it down on Saturday morning. I feel sick just looking at it. I know it’s wrong. But what other hope have I got?

  I’d copied the number from another piece of paper that I found in H’s bag on the floor of my room the night she stayed. I wasn’t being nosy. It was just kind of sticking out. With some other pieces of paper. Which I just kind of read as well. Granted, the pieces of paper came from a sealed envelope marked ‘Hen Party Details’ – the same sealed envelope I’d watched H return to her bag in the Blue Rose after giving Amy a copy. But who was I to fall deaf when opportunity knocked?

  I resealed the papers and put them back in H’s bag and glanced over at her on the bed. The bedside lamp was still on from the night before. H was lying on her front, facing me, sound asleep. Her head and torso were uncovered by the sheets and I gently traced a finger along the perfect skin of her forearm. Then I folded my scribbled piece of paper up and slid it inside the pillowcase beneath my head.

  ‘He’s coming for you,’ the scatty-looking woman sitting next to me on the bench suddenly hisses, ripping me from my reverie.

  For a moment, I’m too shocked to say anything, and simply stare at her agog. She’s in her early twenties and looks like she’s just stepped out of a club, all dark shades and jewellery.

  ‘Who is?’ I ask, recovering my composure.

  ‘The devil,’ she says, grabbing my wrist. ‘Beelzebub. Satan.’ Her grip tightens. ‘Call him what you want.’

  ‘I see,’ trying not to sound too freaked out.

  ‘I mean it,’ she insists. ‘I saw him last night. In Hyde Park.’

  ‘Do you mind?’ I ask, prising her fingers free. ‘Only it’s starting to hurt.’

  ‘He’s coming for you,’ she snaps. ‘To punish you for your sins.’

  Accuse a lawyer of anything dodgy and, chances are, they’ll have a guilty reaction. Especially it like me, they have a somewhat seedy past. My mind flies immediately back to 1981 when, dressed as Batman and Robin, Jack and I carried out the – still unsolved – broad-daylight robbery of Calder Road Post Office, Bristol. But there’s no way this woman could know about Jack’s cunning pocketing of twenty-four mint humbugs and my equally dastardly theft of two liquorice pipes, three strawberry whips and a packet of Spangles, is there? I study her face for a few seconds, just to be sure, but all she does is stare right back.

  ‘You should get some sleep,’ I finally tell her, slipping my phone into my greatcoat pocket.

  She looks at me slyly. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘That the devil’s currently at large in Hyde Park? No, I don’t.’

  ‘He’s taken the form of a goat and walks on his hind legs.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say as comfortingly as I can, getting up to go, ‘I’m sure that’s true.’

  ‘He’s called Gerald,’ she shouts after me. ‘I saw it on the sign he wears around his neck. I . . .’

  But I’m no longer listening. I cross the square to the iron gate, the piece of paper still in my hand. Once there, I stop and take out my phone, my blood fizzing with adrenaline. Hurriedly, I thumb in the first few digits. But then I freeze. I can’t. The woman’s right. Do this and the devil’s going to be on my case for the rest of my life. More terrifying still, so will H. She’s never going to believe it’s a coincidence. I mean, the odds are preposterous. At the same time, though, she’s never going to be able to prove tha
t that’s exactly what it is. All she’ll have is supposition. So be brave. This is your only chance. So what if it’s wrong? Doesn’t the end justify the means? And if the end is getting H, shouldn’t you be prepared to use every means at your disposal? The answers to these questions come snapping back in an instant. Who cares? Yes. And yes again. So without another thought, I do it. I do something so evil that The Exorcist would look cute and cuddly in comparison. I finish dialling in the number.

  ‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice answers. ‘You’re through to Leisure Heaven. Lisa speaking. How can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to make a booking, please. For this weekend. Friday and Saturday night.’

  ‘How many in your party, please, sir?’

  ‘Seven definites. Maybe eight.’

  ‘Bear with me, sir. Our computer system’s down at the moment.’ I listen to the sound of rustling papers and muffled curses for several seconds. Eventually, Lisa comes back: ‘You’re in luck, sir. I can do you two chalets. They’re the last ones and they both sleep four to six guests. How will that do?’

  ‘That, Lisa,’ I say, pulling out my wallet and extricating my credit card, ‘will do very nicely indeed.’

  Part II

  Stringer

  Friday, 16.00

  ‘You swine!’

  I grab Ken by the throat and twist him round to face me. ‘It isn’t so funny when it’s the other way round, is it?’ I snarl, before adding, ‘You geeky little squit,’ for good measure. I take a second to shine my torch at the back of my hand where he scratched me. As I suspected: blood. ‘Cut me up, would you?’ I demand, turning back to face him and examining his sharp little hands. ‘All right. Well, here’s where you start paying.’ I stare into his eyes, but all he does is stare impassively back. He hasn’t got so much as a hair out of place. He’s a cool one, all right. I’ll give him that. He’s exactly how he was when he used to hang out with Barbie and my sister. Well, fuck him. The past means nothing. No one messes with the Stringer Man and lives to tell the tale. I tighten my grip and twist, and then it happens: his head comes clean off in my hand.

  ‘Are you all right in there?’ I hear Karen calling out in a muffled voice.