Come a Little Closer

by Karen Perry

  As she listens to the bleep of the monitor, sees the tag encircling his slender wrist, she remembers the note he sent her earlier that week, words scribbled, the slanting cursive communicating an urgency she felt as she read it.

  Haven’t you ever done something that you profoundly regret? Aren’t you ever tortured by the thought that if you had only done something differently, everything would have turned out right? Do you know what it’s like to live with such guilt?

  She might have told Yvonne that she was too tired to wait. She might have skipped the baby’s bath that night. She might never have taken her hand away from him as he lay on his changing table. She might have reacted instead of just trusting that everything was fine.

  In the dimly lit room, she leans forward and kisses Anton’s pale cheek. Sudden emotion leaps in her throat. ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘I understand what it’s like. I know.’

  16

  Hilary

  Hilary is at home when the ambulance arrives. It’s late, but neither Greg nor she has been able to sleep. They are in the living room, watching The Last of the Mohicans on Netflix, when blue lights flash through the Venetian blinds. Greg hits pause but Hilary’s already off the couch, peering through the slats.

  ‘It’s Number Fourteen,’ she tells him.

  A small crowd has gathered by the time they get outside. She spots the Kellys, and Jane and Paul Grant, Will and Maria Bolton both in dressing-gowns. Greg goes to stand beside Martin Cooper – a widower, who lives at Number 38 – while Hilary pulls on a sweater and follows him.

  ‘Any idea who it’s for?’ Greg asks.

  Martin, a small man in his mid-sixties, shrugs. ‘I assume it’s Anton.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to him?’ Hilary asks, trying to push down on the panic rising inside. What if he’s dying in there and nobody’s with him? What if he’s already dead?

  Martin stares at her. ‘I’m as much in the dark as you are, my dear.’

  Murmured conversation ripples through the gathering. She hears one of the newer residents say: ‘Isn’t that the guy in the papers? You know – the murderer?’

  Idle speculation follows: a revenge attack, some crazed relative of the murder victim seeking atonement, a prison feud that’s spilt out into the quiet suburbs. Hilary shifts her weight impatiently from one foot to the other, her jaws clamped together. These people, she thinks, don’t have a fucking clue.

  While they wait, she scans the crowd, but there’s no sign of Leah or Jake.

  A door to the house opens, and one of the paramedics emerges – a stocky woman, blonde hair drawn back into a stubby ponytail. A hush falls over the crowd as she comes down the steps and swings open the two rear doors of her vehicle. Without thinking, Hilary moves towards her and asks: ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Please step back, madam,’ the paramedic says, before climbing up into the vehicle for some equipment to take into the house.

  Hilary feels Greg’s hand clasping her upper arm. She doesn’t look at him.

  When they bring Anton out of the house, there’s a ripple of shock through the gathering, everyone craning their necks to see. The street is cast in the orange light thrown from the overhead lamps. Under their sickly glow, Anton looks more dead than alive. Hilary’s heart kicks out in fright. Instinctively, she moves towards him, shaking free of Greg’s grip.

  She hasn’t gone two paces when a figure emerges from the door above, and Hilary’s eyes flick up towards the young woman descending the steps slowly, carefully, as if at any moment she might slip and lose her footing. Hilary’s eyes narrow. Leah’s face is white with shock. She’s still wearing the patterned green dress she’d had on earlier that day, but Hilary notices now that the sleeves are soaked, a darkened patch of damp spreading through the fabric. The ends of her hair are also wet.

  The younger woman doesn’t see Hilary, doesn’t seem to notice anyone in the crowd as she drifts past. And when the paramedics lift Anton into the back of the ambulance, Hilary feels her chest tighten with resentment as she watches Leah climb up after them. With disbelief, she stares as the young woman – a woman who hardly knows Anton – takes her seat alongside him.

  He might die, Hilary thinks. He might die and I’ll never get another chance.

  She moves to approach, but Greg’s hand is back around her arm. She feels his grip tighten.

  The doors close, and the driver instructs them to move back. The crowd watches as the ambulance executes a three-point turn, and Hilary says to Martin and Greg: ‘Where will they take him? Which hospital?’

  ‘Vincent’s, I expect,’ Martin says.

  And then the ambulance disappears around the corner in a flare of blue light and whining sirens.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ Martin remarks. ‘Drama over.’

  The crowd begins to disperse.

  ‘Good to see you, Martin,’ Greg says, and Martin claps him on the back and asks when the new book’s out.

  ‘Next month.’

  ‘Marvellous. I’ll look out for it.’

  Vaguely, she’s aware of mumbling an invitation – an afternoon at their house to celebrate the book’s publication – but it’s as if the voice is coming from somewhere beyond her, the words like putty in her mouth.

  They are crossing the street to their house when Greg, a couple of steps ahead of her, stops abruptly and turns back. He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her.

  ‘What?’ she says.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asks. ‘Asking which hospital. You’re not planning on visiting him, are you?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she says, a stifled huff of a laugh emerging from her throat. But she keeps her eyes on his face, the fierceness of his gaze.

  He holds her there in his stare for a moment longer, as if he’s considering adding something. In the end, he turns from her and she follows him into the house.

  They take their seats on the sofa and resume watching Mohicans. But an anxious presence is in the room with them now, and after a few minutes Greg stands up, announcing he’s going to bed.

  Hilary lies in the dark. From the next room, she can hear gentle snoring. But she’s too jittery to close her eyes. She keeps thinking she can hear a car engine outside. At one point, she sits up, startled by the scream of mating foxes. Looking out at the night sky, she tries to read the stars, but streetlamps blur the darkness and pretty soon she gives up and lies back against her pillow.

  Her eyes close and she thinks about the neighbours gathered on the street outside, and how it reminded her of another night many years ago – another gathering.

  They were coming home from the pizzeria when they saw people standing outside Number 14. It was a Saturday night and music was playing within the house, laughter and high-volume conversation, the tooting of a trumpet pouring out through the open windows and door. There were people on the street with drinks in their hands, leaning against the railings, sitting on cars, an off-spill of the party inside.

  ‘Who are all these people?’ Greg asked.

  He was holding Hilary’s hand, a bottle of wine he’d picked up in the off-licence in the other.

  ‘A party,’ Hilary said, before adding drily: ‘Our invitation must have been lost in the post.’

  This was three days after they had moved out of the flat. Their house, while not quite finished, was habitable, and Greg had been impatient for them to go. Charlotte had been courteous but brisk when they’d handed back the keys, and Hilary had just about managed to be civil. There was no love lost between the two of them – not since they’d fallen out over the dog. Three days of back-breaking work, cleaning and painting and moving furniture around. She had thrown herself into it, careful to hide her doubts from Greg, about the house, about him, and her growing anxiety over the difficulties involved in seeing Anton now that they were no longer living in the same building.

  Greg was moving away from the house heaving with people, when the idea came to her, and she pulled him back.

  ‘Come on,’
she said, tugging Greg towards the steps. ‘Let’s check it out.’

  She felt his resistance.

  ‘No, Hil.’

  ‘Come on, why not?’

  ‘I’m tired. Can’t we just go back to ours? Besides, we weren’t even invited.’

  ‘So? They can’t have a party like that, right across the road from us, and not expect us to crash it.’

  Music and laughter spilt from the open door and windows. His eyes moved between her and the house, the bottle of wine held against his leg.

  ‘All right,’ he said, after a moment, and she felt a little zing of pleasure as she thought of Anton, the opportunity this afforded them, and led Greg up the steps.

  They entered a sea of noise. Hilary felt like she’d been underwater for hours, and now, coming up for air, she was assaulted by the sensory overload. Women’s laughter seemed sharp and piercing. The men were shouting to be heard. A thick pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air, and everywhere she turned there was the press of bodies, people pushing to get past.

  ‘I see Charlotte.’ Greg pointed, and Hilary looked past him and saw the hostess coming down the hall holding two plates of finger food aloft. She was wearing a sea-green sleeveless floaty number, hoop earrings gold against her hair. ‘We should say hello,’ Greg said, already raising his hand in greeting.

  ‘Look who it is!’ Charlotte said, her smile broad but not quite reaching her eyes, which flicked with surprised curiosity from Greg to Hilary.

  ‘We’re being very cheeky,’ Hilary admitted. ‘Shameless gatecrashing. But we heard the music so …’

  ‘Not at all! It’s wonderful to see you both.’

  Hilary tried to match her smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. She felt uneasy in Charlotte’s presence. There was a hardness beneath the hostessy good manners that put her on edge. And then Charlotte’s eyes swept over Hilary’s body, taking in the jeans, the sandals, the smock shirt she wore when painting and decorating – she hadn’t bothered to change when they went out for pizza.

  ‘My God, Hilary, whatever are you wearing?’ Charlotte asked, her eyes widening with amusement.

  Hilary’s cheeks flushed, her temper flaring.

  ‘Here,’ Greg said quickly, offering Charlotte the wine. ‘A peace-offering.’

  Hilary glared at him.

  ‘Oh, now, there’s no need for that,’ Charlotte said, admonishing him in a mocking way. ‘Would you mind putting the wine in the kitchen, darling? I’ve my hands full!’ She held aloft her platters and moved to go past them. ‘And help yourselves to a drink!’

  In the kitchen, they squeezed past the crowd gathered there to the counter by the sink. Greg put down their bottle and picked up one that was open, poured wine into two paper cups and handed one to her.

  ‘A peace-offering?’ she said to him, watching as he gulped his wine. ‘Why did you say that?’

  ‘I was being nice.’

  He was looking past her now, his head bobbing a little to the syncopated beat of the music. ‘Livin’ La Vida Loca’ was playing.

  ‘If anything, she’s the one who should be apologizing to me.’

  In the week before they’d left the flat, Hilary had broken into the house to rescue the children from the upstairs window. She’d found Charlotte drunk on the sofa. The row had been fearful, prompting the premature move to their own unfinished house.

  ‘Don’t start up with that,’ he said gently. ‘Look, there’s Martin and Vanessa,’ he said, holding up a hand and waving.

  For a while they chatted with these neighbours, Martin and Greg attempting to discuss Y2K compliance above the din of the crowd, Hilary explaining to Vanessa their latest drama with a building contractor, but her attention was divided, her eyes darting around the room, seeking him out in the crowd.

  She felt hyped up and conspicuous. Everyone around her was dressed for the party. The men were casual enough, but the women all teetered in heels and strappy sandals, jewellery flashing. Many seemed to have taken their cue from the Sex and the City playbook – sleeveless shift dresses in jewel colours, or frothy delights in cool pastels. In her washed-out grey denims and painting shirt, Hilary felt like a teenager called down to mingle on sufferance with her parents’ friends. She thought about slipping out and going home to change quickly, but was afraid if she did she’d lose her nerve and wouldn’t come back.

  She drank more wine and tried to relax, waiting for him. The reception rooms felt large and beige, light cast from gilt wall sconces shaped like candles, faux-wax melting down the sides. Thick-pile carpet underfoot gave off its own particular heat and the stairway swept through the hall in an impressive fashion. The kitchen was a disappointment. Small and poky, it looked unloved and underused. It was clear the lady of the house had little interest in it. The little boy, Mark, sat on the stairs, guarding the upper floor. He wore Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas and sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his chin balanced on his hands.

  ‘Hello there,’ she called up to him, but he didn’t answer, just stared down at her with a closed-off expression.

  She wondered at him being allowed to stay up so late. There was no sign of the little girl.

  All the while, she was aware of Anton’s presence. Without ever looking directly at him, she tracked him with her peripheral vision, and knew he was keeping tabs on her, too. They worked their way around the rooms of the house, carefully avoiding each other, which lent an erotic charge to the evening – that sense of deliberate withholding. It wasn’t until late into the night that he came for her.

  The crowd had dwindled but the party was not over, not by a long shot. In the kitchen, one of Charlotte’s friends was doing Angel card readings. A karaoke machine was in situ in the living room, drawing most of the crowd. Greg and Martin, their arms slung around each other’s necks, were performing ‘Personal Jesus’, when she felt someone touch the base of her spine, heard Anton’s voice in her ear: ‘Follow me.’

  No one noticed them slipping out. He led her down into the garden, moonlight casting the path in a silvery light cutting through the darkness of the lawn, the lumpy mass of the flower beds. After the thrum of the music and voices of the house, the quiet in the garden felt loaded. She kept her eyes on the back of his neck above the navy loose-necked shirt he wore.

  Hilary knew what was going to happen. She had known it from the moment she had made the decision to gatecrash the party, the possibility shimmering in her imagination for the entire night. And now they were nearing the end of the garden, he reached back for her hand. Opening the door of the little shed, he drew her inside.

  At first he just kissed her, deep and slow. But then it became more intense, his hands down the back of her jeans, pressing her to him, his erection straining against her hip.

  ‘Take these off,’ he instructed her, tugging gently but insistently at her waistband, and her heart gave a sudden leap. She glanced through the little window, back across the empty garden to where all the windows of the house shone.

  It was not the first time they’d had sex, but they had never done anything so risky. And Hilary had never been one of those girls who swapped stories about the weird places they had done it: deserted platforms of late-night railway stations, the women’s toilets in the arts block, the stationery cupboard at a part-time office job. Before Anton, the bravest she’d ever been was to have sex with her college boyfriend in his parents’ bedroom while they were out at the theatre. And always, with Anton, their coupling had taken place in the privacy of her bedroom, in the quiet of the basement flat, or across the road in her new house when the builders weren’t around. There had never been anything like this before.

  Anton was unbuckling his belt with urgency so she swallowed all her doubts and inhibitions and unbuttoned her jeans. She pushed them down to her ankles, along with her knickers, and had barely straightened up when he was upon her, and within seconds he was inside her. So different from their previous encounters, so astonishing, it felt charged with meaning, as if their relat
ionship itself had deepened, grown even more risky and dangerous. Surprise and disbelief went through her that they were actually doing this – it took her a moment to decide to abandon herself to it, free herself from the nagging voice of doubt, unshackle herself from any thought of risk and betrayal and shame. She felt the hard rub of the wooden shed behind her buttocks, and pulled him further into her, as deep as she possibly could. When she came it was with a reckless cry into the dark, and she felt his mouth covering hers as if to suck the cry out of her, killing any noise.

  She doesn’t like to think of what happened next. One minute it was just the two of them, losing themselves to their passion, and the next Charlotte was there, eyes lit up with fury and disbelief.

  Hilary was shaking when she went back into the party. The karaoke was continuing, but there was no sign of Greg. She looked around for him frantically, but when Charlotte returned to the house Hilary sank back into the shadows. A moment later, she slipped out of the front door, the golden ripple of Charlotte Woodbury’s laughter following her as she hurried across the street.

  All those years she had carried on. She had kept eating and sleeping. She had worked at her friendships. She had been a good neighbour. A good wife. She had shared a bed with her husband, feigning desire and even love. She had allowed him to make love to her while her mind and heart were elsewhere. It shamed her a little, to think of how she kept on living this normal life while Anton rotted in a cell.

  But she didn’t forget him. She didn’t forget what he meant to her. What they meant to each other. Sometimes Hilary lay wide awake, feeling the rushing thrill of that last time together, replaying it in her mind over and over again. She would never forget what he had done for her – his sacrifice had gone unrewarded but for her one act of waiting.

  Now, as the sky beyond the window fills with the granular light of dawn, there’s a push of feeling inside her – a nasty spike at the futility of it all. All this time she has waited.

  She thinks of the way that woman climbed into the ambulance with him. She thinks of the way Leah had looked down upon him, had reached out to touch his face, just as the doors had closed. And a new uneasiness lodges inside her, like a pill just swallowed. It has a bitter taste as it breaks out over her tongue.