Precious Thing

by Mcbeth, Colette

  In the rare moments of calm I held imaginary conversations with Jonny, where (after walking through the door, arms open wide) he’d scoop me up and kiss me all over and put me out of my misery with an innocent explanation and an apology for not being in touch. But when I couldn’t think of any such innocent explanation and I began to scratch my own skin in frustration, the confusion set in again. For my sanity I forced myself to focus on something else. My thoughts turned to you, Clara.

  It was the song that came to me first; I found myself humming it before I even realised what it was and then the name flashed in my head like a neon sign and I had to laugh at the beautiful grotesque fucking irony of it. The song of our summer 1995, Everything But the Girl, ‘Missing’.

  Can you remember it, Clara, that weird slice of time when we weren’t quite adults but we were definitely no longer children? We’d ditched Take That in favour of DJs and dance compilations and promised ourselves that this was the summer we’d make it (underage) to the Zap Club.

  We’d been talking about it for months but hadn’t worked up the courage to go on our own and be turned away for being too young in front of a queue of cool people. Then Matt, the sixth-form guy you were seeing, said he knew someone on the door, Paul Oakenfold was going to be playing, did we want to go?

  It was the summer holidays and all week long we’d hung out on the beach, or on the old pier eating Fab ice lollies quickly before they melted in the sun. The smell of coconuts from your tanning spray followed us everywhere as did my factor twenty-five lotion and the wide-brimmed sunhat I wore in the hope of stopping the march of freckles across my face.

  As the days passed and your skin turned a deep brown colour we talked of nothing else but Saturday night; what outfits we were going to wear, what we would tell your dad to convince him to let you stay out late; no need to persuade Niamh – a rare perk of having a neglectful mother.

  When Saturday came I arrived at your house early, two bottles of Diamond White and Castaway hidden in my bag. We drank Blastaways and danced to Everything But the Girl’s ‘Missing’, ‘Dreamer’ by Livin’ Joy and ‘Rhythm is a Mystery’ by K Klass which we played repeatedly, not just because we loved the tunes; our musical tastes had developed faster than our CD collection, which still groaned with Take That hits.

  ‘Well?’ you said when you were dressed. ‘What do you think?’ You did a little turn which made your hair swirl around your face, catching the light. Moments passed and I couldn’t take my eyes off you, this vision in front of me: your dark skin glowing under a white dress, those impossibly blue eyes dancing with excitement, thick black eyelashes, deep red lips. I wondered whether or not you were real.

  ‘You look … stunning,’ I said.

  You reached over to kiss me. ‘Good, that makes two of us then. Come on Rach, let’s go and party.’

  On the way out we promised your dad we’d get a cab home, the only way we could stop him coming to collect us himself. ‘One o’clock, Clara, that’s the absolute latest. If you’re not back by then I’m sending out the search party,’ he said. ‘And girls, enjoy the concert, you both look beautiful.’ We smiled and left quickly so he wouldn’t see the flush of a lie creep across our faces. We’d told him we were going to see Blur at the Paradox, knowing he’d never have let you go clubbing at the Zap.

  Down by the arches on Kings Road, the home of the Zap, dance music pumped out on to the street. A snake of people waited, dressed up, dressed down, shuffling from one foot to the other, chatting, laughing. To me, they were older, hipper, they acted like they belonged here. Looking down at myself, my plain black trousers, the green halterneck top I’d bought in Oasis last week, I realised how plain and ordinary I was in comparison. You, on the other hand, outshone everyone there, just like you always did, Clara.

  We went to stand at the back of the queue but as soon as we met up with Matt and his mate Scott they swept us to the front. I kept my head down, anticipating the embarrassment of being turned away by the woman with the long blond ponytail and clipboard. But to my surprise she nodded, opened the door and ushered us inside.

  It was still filling up, dark and dank; the smell of stale alcohol and smoke hung in the air. Matt wouldn’t leave your side, whispering into your ear, nodding his head in agreement with everything you said. I’d watched his reaction when he caught sight of you in the queue, and I think he must have known that you were out of his league but still, he was determined to cling on to you for tonight at least. I was left with Scott, who had started waving his arms out in the air and dancing too close to me. After all the anticipation, the huge week-long build-up, I wanted to turn round and run away. I was still thinking of what excuses to give you when you came over, hooked arms with me and said, ‘Come on, I need a wee,’ and suddenly we were heading towards the toilets.

  In the cubicle together I realised you didn’t need a wee; we were there for another reason entirely. You opened your hand to reveal two little white circles, smaller than paracetamols and embossed with little doves. ‘Shall we?’ you whispered, eyes flashing with mischief. ‘Matt says they’re really good ones.’

  I didn’t know what to say. In all the hours we’d spent talking about tonight we’d never discussed taking Ecstasy. It hadn’t even been on my radar. You must have seen me wavering. ‘Come on,’ you said, handing me one, ‘everyone else will be doing them,’ and I thought about how I was going to leave because I felt so out of place and then I saw you put the little round circle into your mouth, throwing your head back and sloshing it down with a swig from a bottle of water. All the time smiling, daring me to do the same. ‘No going back now,’ you said. And I grabbed the water from you and placed the pill on my tongue, wincing as the bitter, chemical taste hit me, and then I washed it away with a drink. Two minutes later we were out of the toilets, emerging into the club again, no idea what would happen next.

  The answer was nothing, not for ages. The club had filled up, hot and sweaty bodies too close to each other, dancing to thumping music. Matt’s face was red, glistening from the heat, staying close to you, wondering no doubt when the pill would work and you would melt into him. We kept on looking at each other: Is anything happening? Shaking our heads because we both felt totally normal. I began to wonder what all the fuss was about.

  Then a song I didn’t recognise came on and slowly I felt the beats of it playing through me as a fuzzy warmth took hold in my head, like liquid velvet, smoothing and soothing me, melting away every worry I’d ever had. Before long I couldn’t tell where the music stopped and I began because it had become part of me, and all I could do was let it take hold.

  I turned to you and saw your pupils big and wide, our smiles connecting. Then you were next to me, your hand on my back sending tingles all the way up my spine and into my head. My whole body had come alive, so wonderfully, deliciously sensitive to even the gentlest touch.

  That’s when we heard the first bars of ‘Missing’. Our song. And we couldn’t stop grinning because it was all too good to be fucking true, as if someone had made a drug just for us and planned the whole evening with the most perfect cosmic timing.

  I felt your hand take mine and in our own little bubble we were pulled by the music right down into the noisy heart of the club where the song pumped through our hearts and the strobing lights danced on our eyelids.

  You leant close to me and shouted in my ear so your words vibrated through me, ‘Let’s never lose this, Rach.’

  You weren’t talking about the drugs and the music, however beautiful it all was. You were talking about us and the clearest, sharpest thought ran through my head. If I ever lost you, I would lose myself.

  ‘We won’t, I promise you,’ I said, ‘I’ll never let you go.’

  We stayed there, dancing together because we couldn’t stop until finally we moved away to a quieter, darker spot, sinking to the floor our backs against the wall, just drinking it all in. We’d lost Matt and Scott long ago in the throng but when I mentioned it you just shrugged and
closed your eyes.

  ‘Never mind,’ you said and took my hand in yours, leaning your head on to my shoulder. One moment stretched out for hours until finally the heat faded from our bodies. Your eyes were open again and you looked at your watch as if you had just remembered something. ‘Shit,’ you said dreamily, ‘think we’re about to turn into pumpkins. We need to go.’

  Outside the cold air tickled our skin. We crossed the road and were drawn by the noise and the dark shadows of the waves down on to the beach. ‘Stop,’ you said, as we stumbled over the pebbles. ‘Look at them.’ Your hand was pointing upwards to the sky. ‘Can you see how big they are tonight?’

  I sat down and looked up towards the stars. They seemed enormous, so close to us I thought they might drop out of the sky.

  You sank down on the beach next to me, the lights dancing above us. And together we lay back reaching our arms high above our heads into the black sky, stretching them out further than we ever thought possible. That was when we felt it, the electric heat sparking on the tips of our fingers and charging through our bodies. The waves lapped on the shore close by and we swore to each other that we had both just touched a star.

  Chapter Fourteen

  MONDAY MORNING, BACK at work and your name was in the air again, hovering out of my reach. I felt a twinge in my stomach knowing that I would be left on the sidelines while someone else reported on it.

  Swiping myself through the doors to the newsroom, I walked straight into Richard Goldman, another correspondent, who tipped his coffee all over my cream wool coat.

  ‘Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered under my breath, trying to move past him, but he blocked my way.

  ‘Shit, sorry,’ he said in his public-school drawl before he looked up and saw it was me. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see in work.’ His eyes wandered up and down me searching for signs of emotional collapse.

  ‘Best to keep busy,’ I said.

  ‘Well, whatever works for you. But I wanted you to know you have my sympathy.’ I studied his face, trying to work out whether he was being genuine or simply enjoying seeing everything fall apart for me. I’d always had the feeling he’d never forgiven me for beating him to the crime correspondent job. I remembered the words of a colleague when I first started at NNN: the more you know him the less you like him.

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘it might make you feel better knowing that the story is in good hands.’ He rubbed his own together. ‘I’m just off there now.’ And with that he swiped himself through the door and disappeared into the car park.

  I’m not a vengeful person but there are times when natural justice needs a helping hand and this was one of them. I didn’t want Richard’s grubby fat hands pawing you and Jonny, and yes, if I couldn’t be on the story, at the very least I wanted to be kept updated of any off-the-record briefings from the police. Richard would rather die than give me any privileged information. I had to do something. Though what, I couldn’t think.

  Then lunchtime arrived and an opportunity so tantalising landed in my lap, it was impossible to ignore.

  Richard was in Brighton, on the promenade doing a live headline for the one o’clock bulletin. All he had to say was I’m Richard Goldman in Brighton where police spent the weekend questioning motorists and revellers in the area where Clara O’Connor disappeared more than a week ago, and then the shot would cut away from him to the next headline.

  It’s not the kind of thing you can fuck up because you have ten seconds, no more, and that’s not enough time to recover if you fluff it. But Richard stumbled as soon as he opened his mouth. And then – so quick I almost missed it – at the bottom of the shot I saw his hand move down to his crotch where he gave himself a small but noticeable tug. Remarkably he recovered his composure as if his dick was hotwired to his brain. The gift, the gift of it. I looked across at Jake but his face was fixed on the bulletin with a look of concentration. I played it back, wondering if I had imagined it. But no, it was still there.

  Instinctively I pulled out one of my old notepads where I had written the password for a false e-mail account I’d set up a few months ago. I’d been posing as an elderly woman during an investigation into a company that was pressurising pensioners to have useless security systems fitted. The account was in the name of Jean Beattie, a name I borrowed from an old neighbour in Dover Road who used to pass me custard creams through the fence and talk to me about my plants.

  I typed in the password and clicked on the compose button.

  In the address field I wrote: newsdesk@nnn.co.uk

  And then:

  Dear Sir,

  At 67 my eyesight is certainly not what it was. However I am convinced I have just seen your reporter Richard Goldman fiddle with his penis during his report on the one o’clock news. I’m hoping this kind of behaviour is not encouraged at NNN. I have always enjoyed watching your news programmes but I’m not beyond defecting to the other side.

  Yours,

  Jean Beattie

  I read it once over before hitting the send button.

  Thirty-two minutes later a response dropped into Jean’s inbox.

  Dear Mrs Beattie,

  Thank you for your e-mail. I have looked at the report in question and although his hand does quite clearly appear to sit in that general area I doubt it was for the purpose you mentioned. Please accept my apologies if this offended you in any way. Rest assured I will be talking to the reporter in question to make sure this doesn’t happen again.

  I hope you continue to enjoy our news coverage.

  Regards,

  Robbie Fenton

  News Editor

  I gave it ten minutes before I sauntered up to Robbie’s desk, the taste of freshly applied lip gloss in my mouth, ready to execute the next part of my plan to get Richard off the story.

  I saw him look up.

  ‘Nice package from Richard at lunchtime,’ I said without a trace of irony.

  He mumbled something under his breath. ‘Everyone else was busy.’ I took a step to move away and then turned as if I had just remembered something.

  ‘I met Amber Corrigan the other day,’ I said. His features screwed up as he struggled to put a face to the name. ‘The girl from the press conference,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Ah … her,’ he said. ‘Will she talk?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ I said, ‘she was only speaking to me as Clara’s friend. She’s told everyone else to get lost.’

  ‘I see,’ Robbie said, stroking the stubble on his chin, ‘I see.’

  And I knew he did.

  The idea formed in my head a little later in the afternoon. At first I thought it was too cruel but I told myself he’d only fall for it if he was as ego driven as he’d led me to believe. And, I reasoned, if that was the case, he would be the author of his own downfall, not me. Besides there were more important things at stake than Richard Goldman’s career, such as finding you, Clara. The more information I could glean, the better chance I would have of tracking you and Jonny down.

  I checked the running order of the bulletin. Richard was the second story. A report from Brighton then a live DTL – or down the line with him immediately afterwards. I knew he’d be thinking of something wise to say, some analysis to offer or, even better, a piece of exclusive information. I also knew it was unlikely he’d have any to give.

  I waited until five fifty-one to make the call. I imagined Richard pacing up and down the promenade rehearsing his lines for the live, the adrenalin pumping through him. To be honest I thought I might have left it too late. He could have switched his phone to silent, but I had no choice. I didn’t want to give him enough time to make any check calls.

  It rang four times before his plummy voice answered.

  ‘It’s Rachel,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ve just had a call from one of my contacts in Sussex to say they have found Clara’s car abandoned up near Devil’s Dyke. They haven’t released it officially yet, but thought we should be the first to break it.’

  ‘You’r
e giving it to me?’ he asked incredulously, just as I had expected.

  ‘Call it professional generosity,’ I said, knowing my explanation wouldn’t convince him. ‘Look, if you want the truth, it pains me to give it to you, but since I can’t do anything with it myself, I’d rather you get it first than the competition. The lesser of two evils so to speak,’ I finished with a laugh.

  ‘And he’s a good contact?’

  ‘One of my best. I can’t tell you to go with it, it’s your call. And you can’t tell anyone it came from me. Maybe you should wait, I think they’ll announce it to everyone later. You better go, you’re on in five minutes,’ I said and I hung up.

  I wasn’t at all convinced he had the balls to do it. My only hope was he would find the prospect of a scoop too delicious to resist.

  Five minutes later Richard Goldman announced on national television, in a voice an octave higher than usual, that he could reveal exclusively how Clara O’Connor’s car had been found abandoned in a ditch near Devil’s Dyke.

  It only took another three minutes to bring him back to earth when Sussex police rang the news desk to complain that they had made no such discovery. Ten minutes later my BlackBerry vibrated with an e-mail from Robbie. ‘I need your help with the Clara O’Connor story. Talk tomorrow.’

  I was buoyed. A door that had been shut in my face had swung open again. I took it as a sign that finally events were shifting in my favour and when Jake suggested we go for a drink I surprised him by taking him up on the offer.

  We stayed in the pub until they threw us out, two bottles of Bordeaux to the good. My head was warm and fuzzy and mellow; I even laughed at his jokes, blocking out for a few blissful hours everything else that was happening around me.

  Out on the street Jake flagged down a taxi and said I couldn’t go home alone ‘not after the break-in’. It was the first time he actually referred to it as if he believed it. But when we pulled up outside my flat, we realised I wouldn’t have been alone anyway.