Three Steps Behind You Page 4

  While I’m waiting for my scampi, I line up my glasses and shots on the bar. I saw Adam do this once, at his first stag do. Or rather, he got a waitress to it for him: she just flicked her pen, and the shot glasses dominoed perfectly, nesting the shot glasses of Jägermeister into the amber of the Red Bull.

  I am not inclined to ask the barman to flick his pen – as he may take it the wrong way – so I will need to do this myself. Or rather, Luke will do it. Because one night, I can imagine Luke going out to the bar with his City mates, his objective being to get very noticeably drunk. Far too drunk to drive. Whether he’s drinking to forget, or to give himself liquid courage for something happening that night, I haven’t yet decided. But he needs to drink. And so, therefore, do I. I do it with great devotion for the next five hours.

  ‘The sky is so bright and blue and Hampstead is so pretty – ooh! Bus! Mustn’t be squashed!’

  ‘Pond Street, Pond Street, I’ll get a bus from Pond Street!’

  ‘The bus will take me to my love, and my love roses I shall give!’

  No, no, no. What am I thinking? Luke must run! Run with the roses! Scampi power legs, brandy power legs – zoom! Blood and thorns, blood and thorns. Excellent – Jesus, place your crown upon me!

  My legs will take me to my love, and my love roses shall I give. His wife’ll think I’m a murderer as long as she shall live!

  It’s dark outside Nicole and Adam’s by the time I get there. And I’m starting to get a same-day hangover. I contemplate knocking on the door, but it won’t help. Instead, I let myself through the side gate and stand in the back garden, looking up at the house. I identify Nicole and Adam’s bedroom.

  ‘Nicole!’ I shout. ‘I brought you flowers!’

  There is no reply. It occurs to me the house is dark. I look at my watch. Only 9 p.m. Even they can’t be in bed now. Perhaps they’ve gone for dinner. I contemplate doing a quick search round West Hampstead eateries to find them. I’m tired, though, after my run. Better perhaps just to wait for them inside. I go back round to the front of the house, take out my emergency key and insert it in the lock. Odd. It won’t go in. I try again. Must be the drink, making my hands unsteady. I try to force it, but still it won’t go – the hole is the wrong shape, my key doesn’t match it. They’ve changed the locks.

  This is Nicole. I know this is Nicole. Adam wouldn’t do this. He knows I need access, he knows I need to rescue him, in an emergency. Say the house was burning? Amber flames, grey smoke, trying to crisp him away. I’d need to be there to save him.

  And what if Luke needed to get close to his beloved?

  Luke punched the glass. His fist would not go through. Harder, harder, he needed more force. He must ignore the resistance, punch right through it. He tried again, raised his fist, squared it to the window. Smash! There, and he was in. Now he must make the hole bigger, deeper, so that he could get fully inside. Ignore the pain, keep powering through. He’d haul all of himself through until…

  … I am sitting on the carpeted floor surrounded by glass and blood. And the rose.

  Safely delivered, then. This is the power of the method. The power that will make my work the very best it can be, make it revered, and make me worthy of him.

  Now I am in, all I need to do is wait for Nicole. And Adam.

  Chapter 11

  Adam sees me first.

  ‘Jesus!’ he says. It must be the blood and the roses.

  Nicole stays in the darkened hallway.

  ‘Nic, get me some TCP!’ he shouts. I don’t think TCP is quite the thing here, but I don’t want to hurt Adam’s feelings.

  Nicole stays where she is.

  ‘Nic, come on, he’s hurt!’ Adam calls out again. He hovers over me. I can smell wine on his breath. He is deliciously Merlot-y. I wonder if he can smell the Elderflower. It will blend in with the TCP if Nicole ever fetches it. She is still inert against the wall.

  ‘Fine, fine, I’ll get it. Jesus!’ he says again, as he walks away and jogs upstairs. I sit looking at Nicole. She looks back at me. We stay like that for a moment, and then she breaks the gaze. Loser, I think, as she joins Adam upstairs. Adam and I used to play that game for hours, just staring at each other. He always blinked first. What a couple they must make.

  I hear whispers from upstairs, but can’t make out what is being said. Then a door slams. Adam jogs back downstairs again, holding TCP, cotton wool and Sellotape.

  ‘Sorry about Nic,’ he says, unscrewing the TCP lid. ‘She’s been funny all afternoon.’

  I watch him dab the antiseptic on the wool, like they do with chloroform, in the films. It’s like old times. When we were younger, when I moved in with him and his parents, after the death of my own, he’d help me with cuts and grazes, when no one was watching. Making everything better.

  ‘First the shower, then smashing into our home,’ Adam says. ‘It’s not on, Dan. I should call the police.’

  He gently wipes my bloodied wrist with cotton wool. It stings. I clench my hand slightly. Adam looks at me. The sapphire eyes dazzle. I press my tongue into my bottom teeth to suppress the pain.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But it’s the method, you know? Like with the lobster?’

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t know. But he will, when I’m famous.

  ‘Don’t call the police,’ I say. ‘I won’t hurt you. You know that.’

  ‘What about Nic?’ he asks.

  ‘I won’t hurt her either,’ I say. And it’s true, because if anyone hurts her, it will be Luke.

  Adam gets out a fresh piece of cotton wool and starts unravelling the Sellotape.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant, what will Nicole think? This kind of thing frightens her.’

  ‘I brought this rose for her,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m here. To apologise again, for the misunderstanding.’

  Adam looks at the rose. It has blood on the thorns and its petals are soggy.

  ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’m sure she’ll be … delighted.’ He laughs a little. I laugh too. I can feel us both relax. ‘Here, hold this,’ says Adam, gesturing to the cotton-wool pad.

  I hold the pad over my wrist, as Adam carefully winds the Sellotape round and round my wrist. With each turn around my wrist, I try to manoeuvre my hand so that his knuckles will graze my arm.

  ‘Keep still,’ he says.

  The blood is seeping through the cotton wool, staining it.

  ‘You should go to A & E, really,’ he says.

  ‘What, and wait half the night for them to just do the same dressing? No thanks.’

  ‘The waiting times aren’t that bad,’ says Adam. ‘They saw me pretty swiftly after … you know.’

  ‘How do you know? You’d passed out.’

  He looks at me, frowning slightly. ‘Right. I’d passed out.’

  ‘I’d best be getting home, I guess,’ I say when Adam has finished bandaging.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ he says. ‘Crash here for tonight, take a sofa.’

  ‘What if I get blood on Nicole’s sofas?’

  ‘They’re not Nicole’s sofas.’

  That’s right, they’re not. Adam bought the sofas when he and Helen married. Just after he bought the house – or rather, she did. Outright. It’s a wonder he keeps working, or doesn’t upgrade the house. He could probably afford Bishop’s Avenue now (aka M/Billionaires’ Row), with his bonus and a decent mortgage. I asked him once, why he didn’t. He cast his eyes down and said, ‘Because it keeps Helen alive for me in a small way, staying here.’ I wished I hadn’t asked.

  I strip down to my boxers and curl up on the sofa under the throw that Adam gives me. So many memories, here. I’d invite him to join me, but I doubt he’d like it. And I doubt very much that Nicole would, either.

  Not that she can value the marriage bed very much, though. Because when I wake up in the middle of the night, she is standing in the doorway. Watching me. And frowning.

  Chapter 12

  In the morning, there is a text from t
he car rental place inviting me in for an investigatory meeting later that day.

  Adam grills me while he cooks the breakfast bacon in the oven. It saves discussing the previous evening.

  ‘Don’t go,’ he says. ‘Tell them you want to see their evidence. Ask for their HR procedure. Say you need to speak with your lawyer.’

  They do things differently in the City.

  ‘I smacked a co-worker in the face, Adam. I’d say they have their evidence.’

  ‘You’ve been a good employee, though, and it’s not like you to be violent, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Right,’ Adam says. ‘And I’ll bet you were provoked?’

  ‘Yes,’ I acknowledge.

  ‘Good. Then raise a grievance against the guy who provoked you. That’ll throw them. Trust me – I know how HR work.’

  Adam goes through to the living room and returns with the rose. He chops the long stalk and puts it in a vase on the tray.

  ‘Too much?’ he asks.

  ‘Go for it,’ I say. ‘Tell her I hope she slept well. No interruptions.’

  He nods his assent. When I go upstairs to shower after breakfast, I see the tray emptied outside Nicole’s room. The rose is there still, but all its petals are shredded.

  Adam gives me a lift to the car rental shop, over in Hendon. We listen to the Today Programme while John Humphreys castrates his latest victim. I wonder why anyone would go on the show.

  ‘Exposure,’ says Adam. ‘To position stories before they break another way.’

  ‘But they get destroyed!’

  ‘Rather that than stay silent. Besides, they get to manage their own downfall. Makes them feel they aren’t completely impotent.’

  I think about book three and wonder if he is right. I look at him now, driving along confidently, tolerating me so close by his side. No. About this one thing, Adam is wrong. Difficult to imagine how I would do damage limitation.

  When we get to the shop, I suggest he leaves the car with us and gets the train into Farringdon. He elects to drop me off on the corner and use the station car park.

  ‘Wouldn’t want them to expect my business.’ Which is true – he was a good customer before. A regular one, anyway. Always discreet. ‘And my car will show your ones up!’ He’s joking, but it’s true. The black BMW 4x4 is a bit of a contrast to the red Skodas on the forecourt.

  I watch the back of his car as he pulls away. What would it take, I wonder, to be permanently in that car with him? Permanently in the passenger seat, with him at my side? There’d have to be a space first, I suppose.

  Perhaps it will just take time. Time, and book four. Because I still remember the message he gave me, the message I wrote in book three. About playing the long game.

  For now, I trudge towards the shop, where my colleagues are waiting to mete out judgement. Perhaps I will vanish from the garage too, like Jimmy did. Although that was of his own volition. He, too, wouldn’t have wanted to show the forecourt up. When he landed that Maserati. A lucky win. Some might say too lucky.

  Chapter 13

  In the car shop, Prakesh can hardly contain his excitement. His leg jiggles under the table as he calls the investigatory meeting to order. It is a tight squeeze in the back office, what with Chris and Steve there too. Chris says he is here as my ‘workplace representative’. In other words, he just didn’t want to miss the gossip. Steve is here as the aggrieved party.

  If I wanted to, I could look at Prakesh’s notes. There is something headed ‘Script for Investigatory/Disciplinary meeting’. I wonder if it ends by me being given a Maserati. Probably not.

  ‘We are gathered here today,’ Prakesh begins.

  ‘That’s the words for a wedding ceremony!’ mutters Chris. Perhaps he has forgotten he is supposed to be representing me.

  ‘You’re only meant to be observing,’ says Prakesh.

  Chris pouts and tries to sink down in his chair, but he is obstructed by the collective knees under the table.

  ‘Now, Dan. You know why you’re here,’ continues Prakesh. ‘You punched Steve—’

  ‘Allegedly,’ I say.

  Prakesh turns to look at Steve. He has a dressing strapped across his nose. Prakesh turns back to me and raises an eyebrow.

  I lift my sellotaped, Adam-bandaged wrist slightly. ‘Doesn’t prove anything,’ I say.

  ‘Bet he put that on for the sympathy vote,’ says Chris. In theory, he could be talking about me or Steve. But I know he means me. Perhaps I should ask for a new workplace representative. Bring Jimmy back, so he can help me, like he used to.

  I begin to peel the Sellotape off my skin. Prakesh continues talking.

  ‘That’s not the only reason we called you in here, though.’

  My skin lifts up to join the Sellotape, puckering slightly. Rip, the tape sounds as it pulls away.

  ‘While you were gone, we found some paperwork irregularities …’ Prakesh is saying.

  Rip, sounds another portion of the tape. Some of the hairs on my wrist come with it. I examine them. Some are grey. I wonder if you can dye wrist hair.

  ‘Around the procedures for renting out cars.’

  I rip away the last section of the tape. Now just to reveal the blood. I hope it will be impressive.

  ‘In particular, the letting of cars to one Jeremy Bond, two years ago,’ Prakesh continues. ‘It seems you didn’t get the correct …’

  Prakesh pauses as I lift the cotton wool from my wound. I see his eyes take in the deep welt, part dried almost black blood, part fresh crimson.

  ‘… deposit,’ he continues. ‘Or identification documents.’

  ‘That’s not news,’ I say, because it isn’t. I went through that with the police, back at the time. Once they’d finished questioning Adam. Nearest and dearest always makes for the clearest suspect, at first.

  ‘Who is Jeremy Bond?’ asks Prakesh.

  ‘A guy who’s not big on deposits or ID documents,’ I retort.

  ‘I can do you for aiding and abetting,’ says Prakesh.

  ‘If the police can’t, you certainly can’t,’ I point out, turning my wrist around so I can see the blood from all angles.

  Prakesh changes tack.

  ‘And then there’s your previous conviction.’

  I look up.

  ‘How did you know about that?’ I ask.

  Prakesh shuffles the papers around on the table and mutters to himself. I consider asking him to speak up, to tell me why what I did back then is relevant. But I know that won’t help. So I place my hands calmly on the table, remembering what Adam had told me.

  ‘That’s a spent conviction,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not relevant to my employment and you can’t penalise me for it.’

  Adam’s lawyer told us both how to respond, when Adam’s employers tried to make an issue of it. Advice worth the money Adam paid for it.

  ‘All this leads us to conclude … to conclude …’ Prakesh is scrabbling round the table. Steve hands him a piece of paper. ‘That a disciplinary panel may well find you guilty of gross misconduct and that we could terminate your employment without notice or salary,’ he reads, breathing only at the end of the sentence. He looks up at me then looks down at the paper again. His eyes scan up and down it, clearly having lost his place. Steve helps him out and points to the relevant bit in the script.

  ‘Oh, yeah … so: but we don’t want you to have to go through the indignity of that. And we understand there may be some bad feeling about the events leading up to the assault, and that in these circumstances you may assert a discrimination or bullying claim.’ Prakesh looks up at me. ‘Do you assert that?’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. Why not?

  ‘So we’re going to offer you a settlement of two months’ salary if you sign up to the terms of this agreement.’

  ‘I want to raise a grievance,’ I say, remembering Adam’s advice of this morning.

  ‘What about?’ asks Prakesh.

  I shrug.

  ‘If you raise a
grievance, I press charges,’ says Steve.

  I consider. Two months’ money is not very much. Not enough for me to afford a Maserati. But then, I don’t drive. Not really. Not like Jimmy. Plus I could get a job in the City. I could go to work with Adam. I could buy Luke some proper grey suits and really inhabit him. Or I could just devote my time to researching book number four.

  ‘Okay,’ I say.

  Prakesh hands me a settlement agreement and tells me to see a lawyer. Why is everyone so obsessed with lawyers? Only the guilty need them, right? The confessedly guilty.

  ‘Am I free to go, then?’ I ask. It reminds of all those police interviews over the years. The second set, after the accident, I was just ‘helping the police with their inquiries’, so I generally was free to leave. So I would go, leaving them to listen back to the hour after hour of me on tape, telling them nothing of importance. Luckily, Adam didn’t give them book two. Or they might have found their motive. But in the first set of interviews, in the years before that, it was a mistake to ask that question. Because I wasn’t free to leave at all.

  Prakesh tells me I can go. Eight knees move away from each other under the table as we push our chairs back.

  ‘Do I need to clear out my locker?’ I ask, walking towards it.

  Prakesh shakes his head.

  ‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity later,’ he says, ‘after you’ve signed the agreement.’

  ‘And am I supposed to be working until I’ve signed it?’ I ask.

  Again, Prakesh shakes his head. ‘You’re still suspended, mate. Plenty of time to write your diary.’

  Steve snickers. I consider punching him again. But they would probably reduce the settlement to one month’s money. Besides, I have done my research now, about what fist against jaw sounds like. Were I to attack again, it would need to be with a different implement. A knife, say.