by Simon Lelic
‘Why would I deny it? It’s a picture of me standing in the street!’
‘It’s more than that and you know it!’
Jack exhaled. ‘Where did you get it, Syd?’ he repeated. ‘If you’re going to accuse me of something, at least tell me where you’re getting your evidence. Or are you too coked up right now to remember?’
‘Fuck you. Someone sent it to me. OK? It was on my email when I woke up.’
‘Who?’
‘What?’
‘Who sent it to you?’
‘Just …’ I shook my head. ‘I don’t know. It was just some random AOL address. Letters and numbers. No name.’
Jack stooped to pick up my phone, tried to get it working again. It bit him.
‘Ow. Shit.’ He sucked at his finger, bloodied by the shattered glass.
I sniffed out a smile. ‘Serves you right. I hope you get fucking gangrene.’
Jack ignored me, tried again with the phone. ‘It’s buggered. You’ve completely buggered it.’ He was staring at it, fiddling with the power switch. ‘Not that it matters. I know exactly who sent it to you. Although I’m surprised he bothered to do it anonymously. I’d have thought he would have wanted to claim credit.’
‘What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?’
‘Bloody Bart, that’s who.’
‘Bart? Why would Bart –’
‘Because he wants to get into your knickers, that’s why! He wants my job, too. My promotion. He wants to screw me basically, to give himself a chance of screwing you.’
Now I laughed. I couldn’t help it. ‘That’s ridiculous. Bart doesn’t want to screw me. He’s your friend, Jack – remember?’
‘That’s what I thought, too. Until he got me fired.’
‘Fired? You’ve been fired?’
‘Fired. Suspended. Same difference.’
I pressed my palms to my temples. That focus I’d been cultivating had started to dissipate. What I wanted was another line of coke. Not wanted. Needed.
‘Anyway, I should have known you’d defend him.’
I looked up. ‘What?’
‘Bart. I should have known you’d defend him.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘What do you think it means?’
I gaped. ‘You’re the one who’s been sleeping around, Jack! Don’t try and turn this around on me!’
‘I’m not turning anything around. I’m stating the facts, that’s all.’
‘Jesus, Jack. And I thought I was messed up. Your parents have made you so insecure you can’t even trust your best friend. Your girlfriend.’
Jack recoiled. He seemed to flounder briefly but then recovered himself. He met my eye. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said. ‘It could be worse. At least I’m not a bloody drug addict.’
I don’t know what it was exactly that finally tipped me over the edge. That Jack had struck so close to the mark, probably. That little raw bit deep inside that when someone touches it causes us to kick out purely as a reflex. And that’s exactly what I did. I flew at him with everything flailing, so that he had no choice but to reverse into the hall. In the end he managed to catch hold of my arms but not before one of my fists cuffed his cheek.
‘Bloody hell, Syd!’
I wriggled and twisted myself free. Jack held out a palm like he was trying to stop traffic. With his other hand he was dabbing at the spot beneath his eye where I’d punched him, checking for some evidence I’d drawn blood.
‘You hit me!’
‘Good! I was trying to!’
Jack looked again at the tips of his fingers, determined to produce something that would show how much he was hurt.
‘Get out, Jack.’ I was breathing heavily, exhaling my words. ‘Just fucking go.’
I think Jack briefly considered putting up a fight. He would have won if he had, because I’d expended all the energy I had left. After all that coke it was time for the comedown, which for me always feels like I’ve been drained by a Dementor. Usually the only thing that cures it is another big fat line but all I wanted to do this time was curl up beneath my duvet in a ball.
Jack turned and snatched up his keys. The bowl we keep them in tipped from the sideboard but he didn’t pause long enough to right it. He slammed the door so hard it rebounded and as I sank to the floor I watched him storm into the street. And that was the moment it first struck me: the worry that’s been gnawing at me ever since. Jack said before that it feels like he’s losing me but the danger is we’re losing each other. And I realize that’s part of this – that it’s the point of this whole sordid game – but even so I’m worried I don’t know how to stop it. That’s what scares me the most, Jack. That maybe now there’s no way to stop it.
Jack
We’re going to the police. OK, Syd? We’re going to take what we’ve written and we’re going to explain, to tell them everything we know. It’s what we said we would do at the beginning, if it ever came down to it, and I don’t see how we’ve been left with any other choice. Besides, it’s clear to me now. It’s obvious, the way it was obvious to you right at the start.
First, though, we have to finish what we’ve begun. It won’t take long. We’re almost there. The only part left to tell is the bit we’ve both been dreading. The part that makes me sound guilty and Syd, in her words, like she’s going insane. Which I admit isn’t all that far away from what I thought at the beginning of this, too. I figured Syd was just reacting to what had happened to Elsie. That she was putting two and two together and coming up with one: one cause, one threat, one absurd rationalization. I couldn’t see how such disparate elements could fit together. I didn’t want to see it. It was easier – less frightening – to view what was happening as a run of bad luck. But imagine, I don’t know, that your vision gets blurry. That you’re getting headaches. That sometimes when you cough, you cough up blood. Perhaps you’ll be able to fool yourself that everything’s fine, that none of the symptoms are related, but to an onlooker the reality will seem self-evident. That there’s something darker at work. Something deadly. Something, to stop it from killing you, that sooner or later you’re going to have to face.
It was barely lunchtime when I got to the Evening Star. I mentioned before that I’m not much of a drinker, but this was one of those occasions when the pub seemed about the only appropriate place for me to go. Syd and I had been to our new local once before, but only for form’s sake. You know, to say we had. But quite honestly, and even though it looks OK from the outside, the Evening Star wasn’t the kind of place I’d normally have been in any hurry to visit again. It wasn’t rough or anything, not that I witnessed, just a bit depressing. It was your typical south London boozer, basically. The type of establishment where, if you were to ask to see the wine list, you’d be offered a choice of either red or white. There was no music, no Sky Sports, not a gourmet burger in sight. Before the smoking ban the air inside would have been more carbon monoxide than oxygen, and since then the odours that had previously been masked had taken over: urine and bleach blocks in the area closest to the toilets; soggy bar towels and stale lager everywhere else.
‘Can I help you?’
The bartender, a man with tattoos on his forearms that had faded green, and whose age might have been anything between forty and sixty, was looking at me as though he suspected I’d wandered in lost. It wasn’t quite An American Werewolf in London, but for a moment I was transported from SW17 all the way to the Yorkshire moors.
‘Pint of Foster’s, please,’ I said. ‘No, wait,’ I amended. ‘Jack Daniel’s and Coke. A double.’
The barman hesitated slightly before picking up a glass, as though he was still weighing up whether to serve me. He pumped two shots of Bell’s from the optic without checking whether I was happy with the substitution and then turned to face me once again.
‘Ice?’ he said, and I shook my head. He filled the glass part way using the dispenser, so that my drink was half whisky, half sugary brown water. �
�There’s a ten-pound minimum,’ he said, when I presented my card.
‘Keep it,’ I answered. ‘I’m going to want more than one.’
I carried my glass to a table beside the dusty, unused fireplace and settled on the least-stained chair. Other than a guy seated at the bar with his dog lying at his feet, there were only three other patrons in a room that was maybe a third of the area of our ground floor: two blokes seated together by the window, nursing the final inches of their pints, and another loner at the table nearest the door. He was doing a crossword, from the look of things. Heads had turned when I’d come in, but once I’d settled it was only that dog under the bar stool that continued to stare. I tipped my glass to it, then drained half my drink in one swallow.
What a day. I mean, seriously: what an utterly crappy day.
First work, then Syd. And, caught in between, Sabeen and her entire family. I still couldn’t get my head around everything that had happened. How it had happened, when the morning had started out like any other. It was that photo that was foremost in my mind, the one showing me and Amira. Syd had only let me see it for a moment, but there was no denying that it hadn’t looked good. I recalled Ali’s teasing, the way I’d tried covering my embarrassment with a joke, but no one was laughing now. Least of all Syd. Although how Syd could think I would cheat on her – with a seventeen-year-old, for heaven’s sake! – was beyond me. And based on a photograph, which in Syd’s eyes had been enough to dispel any reasonable doubt. I’d been accused, convicted and sentenced before I’d even known I was on trial.
And Bart. My so-called friend. It was what he’d done that stunned me above all. As well as telling our boss about how I’d helped Sabeen, he’d emailed that photo to Syd. More than that: he’d spied on me, picked his moment, taken that photo and then made sure Syd saw it, all while hiding behind his bullshit, made-up email address and his phoney friendship with me. I couldn’t believe I’d trusted him, even further with some things than I’d trusted Syd. Which made me worry, briefly, about what else he might have up his sleeve – what other secrets of mine he planned to share. But it occurred to me fairly quickly that it hardly mattered. He’d lost me my job, sabotaged my relationship with my girlfriend. Things were already about as bad as they could get.
I’d had four double whisky and Cokes by the time he walked in. Elsie’s father. My favourite neighbourhood nutcase. He spotted me immediately and paused for half a step, but when he noted the bartender watching him he headed directly to the bar.
I must have been more drunk than I realized because I sniggered. Aloud.
Elsie’s father dropped his chin towards his shoulder. ‘Is something funny?’
Which struck me as funny in itself. I mean, how clichéd could you get? He might as well have accused me of spilling the pint the barman had just placed in front of him.
I managed this time to keep my amusement to myself. ‘Just the day I’m having,’ I said.
Elsie’s father continued to stare, then after a second or two turned towards his drink.
I should have left then. I’d finished what was left of my whisky and Coke, and I wasn’t particularly taken with the prospect of approaching the bar to order another. But as I was contemplating my next move, it occurred to me that I would need to go up to the bar anyway to settle my tab. And if I was going to do that, I might as well get another drink. Because I didn’t want to leave yet. And I certainly didn’t want Elsie’s father to believe I was only going because of him. So screw it, I thought. Screw him, screw Bart, screw everyone. If I wanted another drink, I’d bloody well order one. I’d had enough of pandering to what people thought. Of modifying my behaviour to please others, only to have them stab me in the back.
I carried my empties to the bar with me.
‘Settle up?’ the barman said.
I shook my head. ‘Same again.’
The barman glanced at Elsie’s father, then took one of my dirty glasses and reached towards the optics.
‘You sure you haven’t had enough?’ said a voice from the bar stool beside me. ‘What did you do, hit your head throwing up in the toilet?’
I’d intended to ignore Elsie’s father if he opted to speak to me. ‘What are you talking about?’
He swivelled on his stool. ‘That mark on your face,’ he said. ‘Looks like you either fell over or someone came at you with a flying handbag. Now who might have done that? That pretty little lady of yours, by any chance?’ He angled himself slightly towards the man seated on the bar stool beside him. ‘The one who would be pretty if she didn’t have a nine iron sticking halfway up her arse.’
The man beside him looked down at his pint, as though he knew what was coming and wanted no part of it. I touched my cheek where Syd had walloped me. I flinched, as much in surprise as from the pain I felt.
This time Elsie’s father was the one to snigger. ‘It was her, wasn’t it? She kicked you out too, I bet. That’s why you ended up here.’ He laughed into his upturned pint jug. He was still grinning after he’d swallowed.
My hand fell from my cheek and I picked up my refilled glass. I was halfway back to my seat when it struck me what Elsie’s father had said. What he’d failed to say, rather. Because he surely must have guessed by that point that Syd and I had been the ones to call social services. And yet in spite of what had happened to Elsie since, his daughter evidently hadn’t even crossed his mind.
‘Don’t you care?’ I said, turning.
Once again his chin touched his shoulder, his upper lip cocked halfway to a sneer.
‘Your daughter’s lying in hospital and you’re sitting here … what? Celebrating, is it?’
That sneer of his faltered, and I saw his eyes dart towards the barman. He might not have cared about his daughter, but he clearly cared enough about his own skin to worry about what other people might have been thinking. The pub was by no means full, but in addition to the regulars who’d been here when I’d arrived, there was a man and a woman seated in one of the booths now, as well as another couple standing at the bar. And all eyes were focused on us.
Elsie’s father rose from his bar stool. Slowly, preparing himself, he sipped his drink at me.
‘I would’ve thought you’d’ve learned your lesson,’ he said, carefully placing his pint jug down beside him. ‘I warned you about sticking your beak in where it doesn’t belong.’
The memory of our previous altercation came back to me; of the pain when his knee had struck my groin. I pressed on with my attack regardless. ‘Have you even visited her?’ I said. I was sure that if he had, Syd would have seen him, would at some point have mentioned it to me. ‘Do you even know what hospital she’s at?’
Elsie’s father bared his teeth and started forward. The barman reached between the beer taps and caught his shoulder. ‘Sean,’ he said. ‘I’ve warned you about kicking off in here.’ He aimed his gaze then squarely at me. ‘And you, you should have taken the hint and settled up. Now I suggest you leave. You can come back for your credit card tomorrow.’
There was a finality to his tone that reminded me from out of nowhere of my father. It bore no ambiguity, left no room for quarrel. It was brusque, business-like: nothing personal. What he said would simply be done. And that was why, with my father, it had always hurt so much. It was never personal with him either. He spoke to me the way he would have to a stranger on the street. Politely, when called for, but never affectionately. Curtly, more often, and never with any suggestion he cared.
I dropped my eyes, sensed them skitter around the room. I slid my drink on to the nearest table and turned to snatch up my coat. I got as far as the door.
‘Poor little lamb,’ called Elsie’s father. ‘Now he’s got nowhere left to go. Why not do everyone a favour and put yourself out of your misery?’ He sniggered then, and it was that snigger – gleeful, vindictive, triumphant – that caused me to turn.
‘What?’ I said.
Elsie’s father shrugged himself free of the barman’s grip. ‘I said, put yo
urself out of your misery. Go take a bath in the Thames.’ Another snigger, a satisfied little glance at the other regulars closest to the bar. He wasn’t just laughing, I realized. He was gloating.
And that’s when it struck me. Because who else had motive the way he did? Syd and I had interfered in his life, now he was interfering in ours. And all at once it made sense why he hadn’t tried confronting me sooner: the man had already taken his revenge.
‘You?’ I said. ‘You did this?’
I thought of Bart, then. Of what I’d accused him of. My best friend. My only really close friend, actually, apart from Syd. But I’d been wrong. Hideously, hopelessly wrong. Syd’s reaction had said it all. He’s your friend, Jack – remember? And I did, finally – but too late.
Elsie’s father didn’t say anything. But given the look on his face, he didn’t have to.
‘You, what? You followed me? And Ali … Sabeen … that was you?’ I started towards him from my spot beside the door. ‘You … you cost me my job. My best friend. My girlfriend.’
I said before, when the policewoman asked, that I don’t get angry. And I don’t. Genuinely, I’m not that type of person. But everyone has a limit, and in terms of what I was willing to put up with (as well as what I’d drunk), I was already well beyond mine. And it wasn’t just about me. It was about Sabeen and Ali and all the rest of them. It was about Elsie. About Syd, in my mind, more than anyone.
It wasn’t much of a fight. Perhaps if I’d managed to get in one good swing that would have been enough for me. But the barman was out quickly from behind the counter and he had hold of me before I’d even realized he was there. Someone was holding Elsie’s father back too, I think, although if I’m honest it’s all kind of a blur. I recall trying to hit the bloke and failing, and then getting driven back towards the door. Like in rugby, when one of the skinnier blokes gets lifted off his feet by a forward. Before I knew it I was out on the street, on my arse basically, the barman on top of me, and screaming the first thing that came to mind.
