‘Anywhere from forty-eight hours to two weeks,’ he replies. ‘It depends what sort of priority they give it.’
‘Do you have any idea whether it’s a high priority…?’
‘I wish I could help – but as soon as this gets to a lab, it’s out of my hands.’
I’m not sure if he means literally or figuratively – but I guess the outcome is still the same.
He explains that if the blood matches someone already in the DNA Database – or a close family member – then they’ll get a match and be able to identify who it belongs to. If there’s no match, then it will sit on file. They might arrest someone for something unrelated in the future and, assuming a crime had been committed, would be able to charge him or her for the other offences.
I thank him and then he heads back to his car, accelerating off along the road as I watch, wondering if he has my fate in his hands.
I’m about to turn back to my car, finally ready to go to work, when a familiar face emerges from behind the postbox a few doors down. It’s at the opening to the lane that runs along the back of the house and the man strides out briskly, hands in his jacket pocket. He heads towards me, watching the houses – but it’s only when he sees me that he stops on the spot. He edges back towards the road, a startled, frightened animal in headlights. For a moment, I think he might rush back the way he’s come but he doesn’t. He presses ahead until he’s at the edge of the drive.
‘Hi,’ Jason says.
‘Are you watching the house?’ I ask.
He squirms, tucking his elbows tighter into himself, his hands not leaving his jacket pockets. ‘No.’
I’m not sure if being in prison should make a person better at lying – or worse. Either way, he’s awful at it.
‘I’m on my way to work,’ I say.
‘Right.’
He bobs from one foot to the other, watching me but never making full eye contact. There’s a breeze that’s playing with his mucky brown hair. It hasn’t been washed for a day or two and is longer than it ever used to be, enough to be tucked behind his ears. He’s in jeans, with a green army-style jacket and heavy leather boots.
I move towards the car, keys clearly in hand. He isn’t standing directly behind the car and I could leave if I wanted – but I’d have to drive directly past him. I’m going to have to talk to him sooner or later and I suppose this isn’t the worst time.
‘You look good,’ he says. ‘All official, like.’
I’m in a suit that I’ve had for at least five years. It can be machine washed, which is the main reason I like it so much.
‘Didn’t wear many suits when I was a teenager,’ I reply.
‘Aye, me either.’
I remember the images from the news of Jason being hurried into a courtroom. I was twenty-one, so he was either nineteen or had just turned twenty. He was wearing a suit a couple of sizes too big. The jacket was low across his backside, the sleeves almost reaching his fingers. It was probably a charity shop job. Most of our clothes came from the local Oxfam or Heart Foundation stores in those days.
Ellie went to court every day but I never did. I’d watch the news each evening – a new thing for me – and then pore over the coverage in the papers the next morning. Also a new thing for me. I’d never bothered with news before then.
I can’t remember how many days the trial lasted. It felt like weeks but was probably only two or three days. It’s not like they had a lot of disputed evidence over which to argue.
‘How are you?’ I ask, continuing my new-found trend of asking stupid questions.
‘Outside is better than inside.’
Jason glances both ways along the street and then inclines his head ever so slightly, asking for silent permission to step onto the driveway. I wave him forward and he approaches slowly, as if I’m a coiled snake who might strike. He stops when there’s a metre or so between us, giving me a close-up view of his pockmarked skin. There’s a scar close to his ear, zigzagging across his hairline.
‘I’ve got to see a probation officer twice a week,’ he adds. ‘It’ll go down to once in a few months.’
Jason crouches, tugging up the bottom of his jeans to show me the plasticky tag that’s strapped around his ankle.
‘I’ve got to be in our Ell’s by nine every night. Not allowed out again ’til six.’
He hops for a moment, unbalanced on his single foot, and then settles back onto a solid standing.
‘How long have you got to do that?’
‘Six months if I behave.’
I’m not sure what to say, so remain silent.
‘How old’s your daughter?’ he asks.
It’s a question out of the blue. There’s every reason for him to know about Olivia – Ellie would’ve visited him in prison over the years, and he’s now living with her – but it still feels strange for him to mention something I’ve never told him.
‘Eighteen,’ I reply.
He nods slowly for a moment and then: ‘Wow… that’s old.’
It’s not – but I know what he means. He went into prison when he was only a little older than that. He knew me as a childless teenager – and now I have a daughter the same age. There’s a wistful calm between us and I know he’s thinking of the things we were doing when we were that age. Ellie, Wayne, Jason and me. Us against the world.
‘Is she a good kid?’ he asks.
‘Yes. She works at a local café in the evening. She’s doing accounting lessons with Ell and might go back to college.’
A nod. ‘What about your old man? He treat you well?’
For a second, I think Jason means my father – but he died when I was a child. It’s only then I realise he means Dan.
‘It’s complicated,’ I reply. ‘We’re sort of… separating.’
It sounds so official now I’ve said it out loud to someone who’s more or less a stranger. Telling Olivia was talking to family; going over things with Ellie in the previous weeks was more or less discussing it with family. This is different. I’ll be telling people at work next, then neighbours. It’s actually happening.
Jason blinks and then quickly adds: ‘Oh. He doesn’t knock you about, does he?’
‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’
Jason coughs an apology but it’s obvious why he’d think that: he’s spent two decades in prison – and it’s not like his upbringing was Garden of Eden stuff before that. A person only knows what they know.
Physical violence isn’t the only type of mistreatment, though. Dan’s no more abusive than I am but we’ve been together so long that we bring out the worst in one another. This is what happens when you live with someone you can’t stand. You make each other’s lives a misery and, in the end, everyone loses.
Jason tugs at his jacket, glancing past me towards the house. I know what he’s thinking: that this could have been him. He’s wrong, but he can’t know that.
‘I wrote to you,’ he says quietly.
‘I know.’
‘You never wrote back.’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
He nods slowly, acceptingly, and then hits me brutally with five stinging words. ‘You could have said sorry.’
‘I—’
He cuts me off instantly. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’m the one who’s sorry.’
I have to say it now. It’s been twenty years in the making, words I should have said then but couldn’t because it would have meant admitting my part in everything that happened.
‘I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have done that to you.’
He shrugs. ‘I knew what I was getting into and then, afterwards, none of that was your fault. That was all me. You didn’t set the fire.’
There’s something so powerful and evocative about the word. Fire is life: it’s warmth and comfort – but it’s destructive and terrifying as well. It was a lesson I sure as hell learned.
When he was nineteen years old, Jason set fire to a pub, killing three people who were a
sleep upstairs. His legal team had little defence, other than trying to get the charges negotiated down to manslaughter. The system disagreed. He was charged and convicted of a triple murder.
Even putting aside the arguments over whether he meant to kill, the fact is that he did.
That doesn’t mean it’s entirely his fault.
I say nothing because I’m not sure I trust myself. I didn’t drop the lighter but I’m not blameless either. I knew that then and I know it now.
Jason’s eyeing the scar that hoops around my own temple. Ours almost match now. I scratch it self-consciously and he takes the hint, turning away to the street.
‘Are you going with Ell tomorrow?’ he asks.
It takes me a couple of seconds to remember what he’s talking about – and then the true depth of my self-absorption is clear. I’d completely forgotten about tomorrow.
‘Of course I am,’ I reply. In my mind, I’m scrambling, trying to figure out how to tell Graham I’m going to be late once more. I’ll need to invent a client or a meeting, something like that.
‘Ell says the two of you visit every year…’ He winces and then speaks really quickly, his words blending into one. ‘Can I come, too?’
It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s asked.
‘I understand if you don’t want me there,’ he adds
‘No – he was your brother, too. You should definitely come.’
‘I just wanna chance to say g’bye. I never went to the funeral. Couldn’t face it at the time and then, when I were ready, they wouldn’t let me out on day release for the anniversary.’
‘You should definitely come with us. You didn’t have to ask permission.’
‘I was gonna ask last night – but it looked like you were a bit shocked to see me.’
I shrug: ‘Well, it has been twenty years…’
‘Aye.’
He turns and steps back towards the pavement and I wonder if this is why Dan saw Jason hanging around the house. He was building up the courage to ask if he could visit his brother’s grave with Ellie and me. I watch him walk off in the direction of Ellie’s house. He stops to look back at me and, when he realises I’m still watching, he quickly faces forward again, ducking his head and shuffling quickly out of sight.
I sigh deeply once he’s gone, unsure if this is a weight lifted, or another added. I can’t believe I’d forgotten the anniversary of Wayne’s death. Ellie and I visit his grave every year, yet, somehow, it had fallen from my memory. Like a lot of things recently.
Last night, I thought that Jason was a symbol of the worst thing I ever did – but he isn’t. It’s his brother, of course. Jason and Wayne Leveson: two brothers – and look what I did to them. Even now, look at what I’ve done to Dan; to myself.
Is this me?
Is this what I do?
I destroy everything and everyone around me.
Chapter Sixteen
‘The police?’
Graham is surprised. He readjusts his tie, loosening the knot slightly and sitting up straighter in his office chair as if I’m the police, instead of simply mentioning them.
‘We had a break-in at home yesterday,’ I explain. ‘The glazier patched things up first thing – which I texted you about – and then the police were a bit late. I would’ve called but they were busy taking statements and the like. I have to go back to the station tomorrow morning to give a few more details.’
It’s a lie that comes to me on the spot but it’s perfect. Who’s going to argue with that?
Graham’s frown softens. ‘But everything’s all right?’
‘I was a bit shaken last night but, y’know… The police say there’s been a series of break-ins in the area…’
I tail off, letting it hang there, not wanting to overdo it too much. It’s not like I’m going to burst into tears and cry about the unfairness of life. He doesn’t need to know that nothing was taken and it was probably Dan or I who left the back door unlocked in any case.
I can imagine Natasha along the hallway, ears pricked waiting for the sound of raised voices.
Graham shuffles through the Post-it notes on his desk, picking them up and re-sticking them until he finds the one he’s after. His face is reddy-purple and it’s hard to tell if it’s redder than usual. He has a beetroot sort of glow at the best of times but, when he gets worked up, it looks like he’s about to pop.
‘Luke,’ he says. ‘What’s going on with him?’
‘I’ve not heard back since our aborted meeting on Monday night. He’s not answering his phone or replying to texts or emails. I’m not sure what else to do. I guess he’s not interested.’
Graham starts to chew on the inside of his mouth, screwing up his cheeks as he does so, as if it’s something particularly gristly.
‘What about this Declan from yesterday?’
‘Hasn’t he emailed? I thought he’d be in contact today…?’
Graham shifts his mouse around, squints at his screen and then shakes his head. ‘He’s not contacted me.’
I admit that I’ve not heard from him either – and then Graham starts drumming his fingers on the desk. I’ve seen this before and it’s never a good sign. Graham is a salesperson’s best friend while things are going well; but I’ve seen him turn when things aren’t working out. Over the years, I’ve avoided many of his mood swings, maintaining enough of a sales record to be unspectacularly satisfactory. Other people take the bonuses – but other people get fired as well.
Never me.
He pushes a sheet of A4 across the desk, saying nothing but making his point. The fact he’s printed it off means it has to be serious. I pick it up and scan the rows and columns. There are typos – which means Graham almost certainly created the spreadsheet himself – but that in itself tells a story. I’m in trouble.
‘There’s a second page,’ he says, passing another sheet of paper across his desk.
I read the second and, if anything, it spells even more trouble than the first.
‘What have you got to say?’ Graham asks.
I take a breath and re-read the first sheet, looking for even the slimmest glimmer of hope. It’s not there.
‘Is there anything I should know about?’ he adds.
I bristle at his words and try not to show it. Is there anything he should know? The obvious answer is no. My life away from the office is none of his damned business. Of course there’s nothing he should know. There are things he could know – but that isn’t what he asked.
The first page shows the company’s sales since the beginning of the year. I’m rock-bottom – and not by a little bit. I’ve got a third of the sales of Mark, who’s at the top; and only a little bit over half of what Claire has done. She’s second from bottom. I’m the very bottom of the chasm. After me, there’s zero. Natasha is only a little below Mark, the complete cow.
The second of the A4 sheets is an annual report of my sales in terms of pounds. It’s steady for the first few years and then starts a slow decline until the final year – this one – which is like a lemming plunging from a cliff.
So, no, there’s nothing he should know – but I need some way of explaining this utter shambles.
‘My husband and I are separating,’ I say.
It’s the second time in as many minutes that I’ve surprised him and Graham almost falls off his seat. I’m not quite sure what he was trying to do but I think it was to appear intimidating but he leant forward at the wrong time, his elbow slipping off the desk and almost sending him head first into the keyboard. He just about catches himself and then straightens his shirt as if it never happened.
‘Oh,’ he replies. ‘Well, I suppose I know something about that…’
‘I’ve not told many people.’
Graham relaxes into his seat and takes a large breath. I wonder if he was going to fire me, or simply rant and rave for a bit. He’s never been the best motivator and his man-management is along the lines of having a few in the pub after work alongsi
de a tipsy ‘sort it out’. Either that or a shoutathon in his office.
The red is fading from his cheeks and it feels like I’ve avoided the worst of the telling-off. He’d probably spent the morning building up to this, so it’ll be a let-down for him.
He runs a hand across his scalp and there’s a moment where I wonder if he might be about to try it on with me. Ask me out for a drink, or something. By anyone’s standards, it would be fast work.
That’s not it at all, though. It’s wishful thinking that anyone might look at me in that way and there’s an odd ambiguity that I don’t want anything to happen with Graham – but I’d still appreciate that feeling of being wanted.
Graham stares off to the side at his wall of photos of himself. He takes a few seconds, probably considering his words. He slumps slightly in his chair and sighs.
‘Do you need time?’ he asks. ‘I know I did after me and Isobel broke up.’
His sudden sadness is such a shift of direction that I’m lost for words. He’s shrunk in front of me and the red in his face has faded back to flesh.
‘I, um…’ It’s such a surprising offer that I have no idea how to respond. I think it’s startled him as well.
‘It’s fine if you do. I didn’t realise you were having problems.’
‘Perhaps in the future,’ I say. ‘I’m okay for the moment. I know things haven’t been going well this year but I’m hoping things will settle down.’
He examines me carefully and then nods slowly. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I think work will help take my mind off everything. It’s been a complicated few months as we try to sort everything out.’
He snorts. ‘At least you’ve got your own job. Isobel took half of everything – and she hadn’t worked a day in her life. Shouldn’t be allowed.’
I say nothing, not wanting to point out that running a home is a job as well. I know Graham owns a house that an estate agent would describe as ‘spacious’, so keeping that in a decent state would take plenty of hours.
Last Night Page 10
