by Ben Cheetham
Jake glanced at the drink in Julian’s hand. “Bit early for that, isn’t it?”
“I’m celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
“The business is back in the black for the first time in over two years.”
“Hey, that’s brilliant.”
Julian poured Jake a shot. They lifted their glasses simultaneously and emptied them. “Y’know what, we should head into town tonight,” suggested Jake. “Celebrate properly.”
Julian shook his head. “I’ve got too much work to do.”
“Aw, come on, Jules, take a night off, kick back for once.”
Julian’s gaze strayed to the photo on the office wall of his mum in her bridal dress. “You sound like my mum. She’s always telling me I push myself too hard, that I should take a holiday.”
“She’s right.” An expression of almost childish eagerness lit up Jake’s face. “Hey, we could go away together to Spain, or somewhere like that. I’ve never been abroad before.”
Julian swabbed the scratch of guilt Jake’s words inflicted with another shot of whisky. “Maybe in a few months, when things have settled down here. The business is only just back on track. I can’t afford to take my eyes off it right now.”
Jake sighed, but nodded agreement. “I guess you’re right.”
Again, Julian’s thoughts travelled back over the past several weeks and months, to the change in Jake that’d been gradually occurring ever since he’d taken him in and given him a job. There’d been times when Jake had irritated, even infuriated him with his sullen, often perverse obstinacy and quick temper. There’d been times when he wondered whether Jake would ever be able to adjust to a regular life with a regular routine. He was fairly certain that even a couple of weeks ago his unwillingness to go along with either of Jake’s suggestions would’ve been met with a display of angry disappointment. But suddenly the balance of his personality had shifted. The torrent of grumbling complaints from his line supervisor had dried to a trickle, then stopped, and finally been replaced by cautious praise. The old expression of shifty distrust in his eyes had been replaced by something more open and direct. Jake Bradshaw, it seemed, had left the building. Jake Harris had arrived. “Come on,” said Julian. “Let’s lock up and go home.”
“Oh, I meant to tell you,” Jake said, as they made their daily round of the factory floor. “I heard on the radio that another one of them’s killed himself.”
A familiar tightness came into Julian’s throat. “Which one?”
“That doctor they locked up for killing one of them girls they thought Ridgway killed. They found him dead in his cell. He’d cut his wrists and his throat. How many’s that now?”
Julian counted them in his mind. Tom Benson had been the first. When it came out that he had a taste for cocaine, prostitutes and sadomasochistic sex, in rapid succession he lost his job, his wife and finally, after jumping off The High Bridge, his life. Some sleazeball, closet homosexual politician with a penchant for underage boys was next. He gassed himself in his car. After him came a businessman who enjoyed playing the role of an entrepreneurial philanthropist in public and murdering young girls in private. He gave himself both barrels of a shotgun, after his name was connected to the deaths of two girls previously attributed to Michael Ridgway. Then there was a solicitor who after having sex with Joanne Butcher had watched while she lay dying from a heroin overdose. And then a teacher, a judge, two priests. All so-called decent, honest people. They OD’d, jumped off buildings, and hung themselves, and nobody went to their funerals. “Eight.”
“There’ll be more before this is over. They still haven’t found half the fuckers on those videos. Imagine what it must be like to be one of them, sat at home with your wife and kids, or whoever, just waiting for the coppers to come knocking.”
Julian didn’t need to imagine. He knew what it was like to live with that. He knew how the sick feeling welled into your throat every time there was a knock at the door, every time the phone rang, every time the post arrived, every time you opened your eyes.
“Man, if I was one of them fuckers, I’d do myself in,” continued Jake. “Wouldn’t you?”
Julian made no reply. He pretended to check something on a machine so that he didn’t have to look at Jake. Recently, he’d thought a lot about suicide. He’d even driven to the bridge and leaned far out over its railings – like Mia had done – wondering how it would feel. The rush of air, the stinging cold slap of water against his body, his lungs filling with water, burning. Then blackness. Merciful, dreamless blackness. He knew he couldn’t do it, though. Not while his mum was alive, not while Jake needed him, and not while there was a chance, however seemingly slender, that Mia was alive.
Jake sighed. “You know, whenever something like this happens…” His voice faded into sadness.
Julian nodded, managing a sympathetic half-smile. “I know.” Whenever something like this happened, it brought thoughts of Mia to the fore and made Jake wonder where she was. Was she dead? If so, where was her body? If not, where was she? Was she safe? Or was she somewhere where she might soon be dead? So many questions and no answers. Only fear, frustration and sadness.
When they arrived home, Henry came bounding to greet them. Jake laughed, rolling him onto his back, scratching his belly. After Jake moved in, he and Henry had quickly formed a deep bond. Now they were practically inseparable. Every day, Jake took Henry for long walks in the forest. Every night, Henry slept at the end of Jake’s bed. The relationship was mutually beneficial – Henry helped Jake not to think about Mia as much, and Jake eased Henry’s grief over the loss of his master. Julian went through to the kitchen where his mum and Wanda were busy preparing a meal. He bent to kiss his mum, noting the puffiness under her eyes that suggested she’d been crying. “How was your day?” she asked.
“Good.” Julian told her about the company returning to profit.
Christine smiled, but the sadness in her eyes remained. “I always knew you’d turn things around. You’ve got your father’s head for business.”
As always, Julian winced inwardly at the mention of his father. “It’s got little or nothing to do with any business acumen I may have. All the publicity and goodwill generated by the newspapers has brought more orders our way than we can deal with.”
“You must learn to give yourself credit, Julian. I’ve seen how hard you work. Your father would be proud.” Christine’s gaze was drawn to the living-room by the sound of Jake’s laughter. “He’d be proud of what you’ve done for that boy too. You’ve really helped him turn his life around.”
“It’s ready,” said Wanda. She called Jake through, and the four of them sat down at the table. Julian ate mechanically, not really tasting his food, swilling it down with wine. His parents had always drunk wine with their evening meal, but Julian had never had a taste for it, until recent months. At first it was only one glass, but one glass had quickly turned into two or three – a fact that hadn’t escaped his mum’s notice.
“You shouldn’t drink so fast, darling,” she said, as Julian reached for the bottle. “It’s not good for you.”
“I know, but it’s the only thing that helps me relax.”
Christine smiled that sad smile again, the one that told Julian she was thinking about his dad. “You know, your father would say the same thing whenever I nagged him about his drinking. And I’m going to tell you what I used to tell him, you need to find an alternative way to relax, one that helps you enjoy life, rather than deadening it.”
“You mean like a hobby.”
“Maybe.” Christine gave Julian a meaningful look. “Or maybe something else.”
He frowned. “If you’re talking about Eleanor-”
“What if I am?” interrupted Christine. “If you ask me, it’s about time we talked about her.”
“Well I’m not asking you.” Julian stood. “I’m going to finish my meal in my room.”
“Don’t be like that, Julian, I just want to understand wh
at happened between you two.”
“All you need to know is it didn’t work out. The rest is none of your business.”
Julian didn’t finish his meal. The prickly exchange with his mum had killed what little appetite he had. He sat at his PC, trying to work, but his head was too full of thoughts of Eleanor and the most recent suicide – two things that were separate, yet connected in his mind by a terrible sadness – to concentrate. He lay on his bed, staring at the TV, a heaviness in his chest like a concrete block. Gradually, the sensation faded off and his eyelids slid closed. As usual in recent months, the dream started with him pacing back and forth on the wine-red carpet beside the bed. The door opened, and the chauffeur guided Mia into the room. At the sight of her, rage bubbled up in him like a white-hot poison. He fought desperately to suppress it, but it burst forth, spewing all over Mia in a flurry of violence. And when all the poison was out, he straightened to stare at himself in the mirror, and Michael Ridgway’s deadly calm, shark-black eyes stared back.
Julian awoke in darkness, burning with thirst. But not for water. He rose and peered into the hallway. All the lights were off and the house was silent. Assuming everyone was in bed, he padded to the lounge. He stopped when he saw his mum sat by the moonlit windows, staring at a photo of his dad. He was about to creep back to his room, when she said in a low, tear-filled voice, “Today’s the first anniversary of his death.”
“I know.” Julian approached her and laid his hand on her shoulder. “I haven’t mentioned it because I didn’t want to upset you.”
Letting the photo rest in her lap, Christine lifted her good hand to Julian’s. It troubled him to feel how cold her touch was. “Knowing he died trying to save Jake’s sister, that’s the only thing that keeps me going, apart from you.”
Julian removed his hand from hers, thankful she wasn’t looking at him. There was nothing inward about the grimace passing over his face. “You should get to bed. It’s cold in here, and you need your rest.”
Sighing, Christine returned the photo to the mantelpiece. “Goodnight, my love.”
Julian couldn’t tell whether she was talking to him or the photo. “I’ll help you into bed.”
“That’s okay, I can manage.”
As Christine turned her wheelchair to head for her bedroom, Julian said, “I’m sorry about earlier, Mum.”
“I’m sorry too. Sorry you feel the way you feel. Sorry you won’t talk to me about it. You seem so alone. And believe me, Julian, life’s too short to be alone.”
Julian waited until his mum was gone, then reached for the whisky. After a couple of glasses, he took out his mobile-phone, and scrolled through the list of contacts to Eleanor’s name. He stared at it for a long while, before flinging the phone aside. It was pointless, crazy. Torturing himself with thoughts of what he might have. Now, more than ever, he needed to isolate himself from her. There were already too many lives that’d be devastated if Mr X’s threat came to pass. He swallowed more whisky, closing his eyes.
Julian almost vomited up his drink when the intercom buzzer sounded. His eyes darted to the clock. It was well after midnight. He could only think of one reason anyone would come to the house at that time of night. The buzzer sounded again, the noise cinching like a barbed wire noose around his nerves. He approached the intercom and spoke into it, his voice husky, strangulated. “Who is it?”
“It’s Eleanor.”
Relief swept over Julian, swiftly followed by a surge of elation that threatened to overwhelm his self-control. He checked his emotions, and his voice was carefully modulated, containing neither pleasure nor pain as he asked, “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think I’m doing here? I’ve come to see you.”
“I realise that. But why now after all this time?”
“Are you going to let me in or make me talk to you from out here?”
Reluctantly, but seeing no other option, Julian buzzed the gate open. On his way to the front door, he paused to look in a mirror, smoothing his hair and rearranging his face into a bland mask. He’d only seen Eleanor once since that night in the barn. At his dad’s funeral she’d caught his eye and smiled sympathetically, but he hadn’t smiled back. He’d avoided her at the wake and ever since, ignoring her calls until she eventually stopped calling. At first, Mike had kept him updated on how she was doing. When he heard she’d gone to university, he’d been both relieved and devastated. After that he hadn’t asked about her anymore, hoping that with the passage of time he’d begin to think about her less. But the opposite was true. When it was going crazy with the police and the journalists and the trial, he’d barely had a spare second to think about her. Gradually, though, as things settled down, she’d crept back more and more into his thoughts.
When Julian opened the door, they stared at each other without speaking. Eleanor looked the same, except her skin had lost some of its freshness. No doubt the result of too many late nights of studying and partying. Julian knew he looked a lot older than the last time they’d been together. Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the premature lines that worry, work and whisky had etched into his face. Eleanor broke the silence. “Hello, Julian.”
“I assume this isn’t a coincidence.” Julian’s voice quivered a little, despite his best efforts to keep it even. The sight of Eleanor was like a knife cutting at the strings of his mask.
“You’re right, it’s not,” admitted Eleanor. “Your mum rang me tonight.”
Julian pursed his lips, hissing air through his nose. “I told her it was none of her business.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows gathered into a reproachful frown. “She’s worried about you.”
“Well she’s no need to be.”
“Really? From the looks of you, I’d say she has every need to be.”
“I’ve been working too hard, that’s all.”
Eleanor stared at Julian, clearly unconvinced. When he blinked away from her gaze, she said, “Look, can we go inside. I’ve just driven for three hours. I could do with a drink and maybe something to eat.”
Julian stood aside. “Do you want a coffee?” he asked, as Eleanor made her way to the couch.
Shaking her head, she pointed to the whisky. “I’ll have one of those.”
“I didn’t think you drank spirits.”
“I didn’t until I went to uni.”
Julian poured Eleanor a drink. “Do you want a sandwich or something?”
“This’ll do for now.” Eleanor patted the couch for Julian to sit down. He lowered himself onto it, careful not to sit too close to her. Another silence passed between them. Again, Eleanor broke it. “Your mum seems to think you’re heading for a breakdown.”
Julian laughed softly through his nose. “Sometimes I think my whole life’s been one long breakdown.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, though. If you’d just open up and let someone help-”
Julian cut Eleanor off with a shake of his head. There was only one person he could ever imagine letting see inside him, and she was gone, probably dead, maybe by his hand.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, Julian? Why do you always keep everyone at arm’s length?”
Once more, Julian found himself avoiding Eleanor’s eyes, which searched his as if looking for a way in. “I’m not the person you think I am. I’m not a good person.”
Eleanor shook her head in disagreement. “Look at what you’re doing for Jake. Why would you do that if you weren’t a good person?”
Because I owe him that much at least, thought Julian. But he said, “It’s just perception.”
“What’s just perception?”
“Truth. And the truth is, you only see two things when you look at me: what you want to see, and what I want you to see.”
Leaning forward suddenly, Eleanor clasped Julian’s hands between hers. “I see someone lonely, confused and hurting. I don’t know what this thing is you’re carrying inside you, but I do know this, you’ve got to let it out, share it
, otherwise it’ll poison your whole life.”
Julian stared at Eleanor with a frightened longing in his careworn eyes. His lips worked soundlessly. They stopped. They started again, but still no words came. He pulled his hands away from hers, lowering his gaze.
“Why won’t you trust me?” said Eleanor. “What are you afraid of?”
“You don’t understand.”
Gently, Eleanor lifted Julian’s chin with her hand. “No, you don’t understand. I love you, and nothing will ever change that.”
“What about what happened in the barn? I could’ve hurt you.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Only because you stopped me.”
“No, Julian, you didn’t because you couldn’t hurt anyone.”
Julian’s eyes grew incredulous. “I killed a man!”
“That was different. You were trying to protect your dad.”
“And now I’m trying to protect you.”
“By shutting me out of your life. That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I know it doesn’t seem to, but believe me, Ellie, you’re better off out of it. Way, way out of it.”
“Well here’s what I know. I know you’re the kind of person who’s willing to risk everything for someone they owe nothing. I know you’d rather hurt yourself than anyone else. And…” Eleanor hesitated. Then, almost under her breath, she continued, “And I know you feel the same way about me that I do about you.” Now it was Eleanor’s turn to lower her eyes. She stared at her lap, as if afraid to look in Julian’s face for confirmation or refutation of her words. “Just tell me I’m wrong, and you’ll never have to see me again.”
Julian’s gaze moved past Eleanor to the mantelpiece. His vision bounced between his dad’s photo and her, between the past and the future, like a beam of light trapped between facing mirrors. She was right – at least, she was right about his feelings for her. But it made no difference. Not while Mr X’s threat was hanging over him like a ticking bomb. And, above all else, not while he didn’t know what’d happened to Mia. If she was dead and buried somewhere in the forest – as the police feared – then so was any possibility of allowing himself to be released from his self-imposed prison of emotional isolation. When he finally spoke, his voice was as flat as his eyes. “You’re wrong.”
