Complicit (18 page)

Before

Sometimes everything is wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. I had no time to arrange anything remotely acceptable so the next rehearsal took place at my flat. There really wasn’t space for them in the living room and I had to start by telling everyone that we’d have to play as quietly as possible because I couldn’t risk falling out with my new neighbours.

Guy didn’t turn up, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. There wouldn’t have been room for him and his drums, and the noise would have been disastrous. I felt acutely self-conscious about Hayden. We’d only got out of bed just before the rehearsal was due to start, and although I had showered and cleaned and scrubbed, I felt they’d be able to smell him on me. And he had such an air of possession: he looked at my stuff, picked up books, left bits of clothing around. Of course, he was like that everywhere. He always seemed to take over any space he occupied but my flat now seemed permeated by him. It must be obvious to everybody.

I thought of telling him to go out and come back but he would have been utterly baffled by the idea or turned it into some kind of impromptu stunt at my expense. Then the bell rang and Joakim arrived. There was a glow about him. Some of it was probably the forbidden excitement of seeing the real-life place where your teacher lives. He was always a bit on edge around Hayden, but no more than I was at that moment.

I didn’t particularly like having Amos in my flat. He thumbed through books, seeing whether they were his. ‘We need to have a final sort-out,’ he said.

‘This is not the time,’ I said.

He got a diary out and suggested dates until I snapped at him. Then he became huffy. Worst of all was the playing – I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the constraints of space or my strange Hayden-induced state of nervousness and agitation. Sometimes it’s like the weather, that jangling feeling when you know a storm is due and you long for it to come and be over with. Sonia wasn’t at her best. She was suffering from hay fever and her voice had gone croaky. Not croaky in a sexy way, like Nina Simone, but just squeakily out of tune. She edged her way to the kitchen to make herself a warm drink.

I was trying out a new tune on them, ‘Honky Tonk’, which I thought might get people moving at the wedding, but it wasn’t working out. Neal was in a foul mood. There was a sort of arpeggio pattern he had to play on his bass – it was the rock on which the whole song rested – but he couldn’t get it. Three times in a row we started the song, then the bass-line collapsed and the performance with it. People looked at each other awkwardly.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘Maybe we should just move on to something else.’

‘No,’ said Neal, too loudly. ‘I’ve got it. I did it perfectly when I went over it last night. Come on. One, two, three…’

We started, and then we stopped again, like a slow-motion car crash. It was almost funny, except that it wasn’t funny at all. I heard Neal swearing at himself under his breath and then not under his breath. He started playing it over and over on his own, still getting it wrong. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m losing it. It’s getting worse instead of better.’

‘Hang on,’ said Hayden.

He put his guitar down and took the bass from Neal, who was too astonished to speak or react.

‘Listen,’ said Hayden.

He played the bass-line, and it immediately flowed and swung and brought a smile to my face that I instantly suppressed. I hoped Neal hadn’t seen it. Hayden carried on playing, apparently oblivious to us all, his eyes closed, a smile on his face, varying it gradually, making it sound even better. Suddenly he seemed to remember where he was and stopped. He handed the bass back to Neal. ‘Something like that,’ he said.

Neal’s eyes were shining with anger. ‘Why don’t you just play it yourself?’ he said.

‘I would, but what would
you
play?’ said Hayden. Unforgivably.

There was an expression almost of disbelief on Neal’s face. Of very angry disbelief.

‘That came out sounding worse than it was meant to,’ said Hayden. ‘I could look the bass part over for you, if you like. Make it a bit simpler.’

I wondered if Neal might hit him. Or just spontaneously combust, like people did in Victorian novels.

‘Sure,’ he said, in a strangled tone. ‘That would be good.’

After

That night I slept heavily and woke late, troubled by the last remnants of a dream I couldn’t recall. I lay for a long while under my covers, staring up at the blotchy ceiling and reminding myself of where I was. It was a hot, still day, the sky a flat, electric blue, the sun like a blowtorch. The leaves on the trees outside my flat were a dark, dirty green and the grass in the small square up the road was bleached yellow. It was hard to be anything but listless in such heat. Late August, the dying days of summer.

When I got up to look outside, I could see the neighbour-but-one’s dog lying stretched out in the patch of garden, and in the house opposite a tiny naked child stood pressed against the upstairs window, as if the glass was cooling her hot pink body. I told myself I should be painting the bathroom, or pulling more of the wallpaper off my bedroom walls, which already looked flayed. But it was too hot. I shouldn’t be here, in this poky flat, with my heart jumping in my chest at every sound, my stomach lurching. I should have gone away this summer, gone to a Greek island. For a moment I imagined myself sitting on a boat, a sea breeze on my face, dangling my feet in the clear turquoise water, with some impossibly beautiful whitewashed village behind me. Drinking ouzo, dancing, swimming, walking on white sand, being free – not here, not trapped by what I’d done and trying to inch myself along with my lies and half-truths and fears.

When a police officer rang and said they wanted to come and see me, I almost broke down on the phone and confessed. It would have been a relief. Instead I arranged to see them in my flat at two o’clock that afternoon. They wouldn’t take up much time, said the officer.

I immediately rang Sonia. I hadn’t talked properly to her since that terrible evening. We had exchanged glances, laid comforting hands on each other’s shoulders, given each other reassuring or warning smiles, but said not a word about what we had done. It lay between us like a deep crevice. I said we needed to meet.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to see Amos.’

I told her about Sally and the police.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I got a call from them, and so did Amos. Sally gave them various names. But it’ll just be a formality.’

‘We have to make sure we get our stories straight.’

‘Bonnie.’ Her voice became stern. ‘We don’t have a story. Just keep it simple and keep it short.’

‘You don’t think we should meet?’

‘There’s no need.’

I paced around the flat. I pulled a few more shreds off the wall. I took a door off a cupboard that was fixed to the wall but which I intended to remove once I’d bought proper tools – no more cupboards, I decided, just open shelves and hanging rails. I drank tepid coffee, found cheap rails on the Internet and ordered three, which was far too many. There was nowhere I could put them. I rifled through the clothes in my wardrobe, wondering what to wear for my police interview. Nothing seemed suitable. What would be suitable, anyway? I practised answers in my mind. ‘No, I didn’t really know much about him…’ ‘Yes, I found him a place to live, as a favour to my friend…’ ‘No, he never said anything about going…’ ‘When did I last see him? Let me think. It must have been the last rehearsal. Do you need the date?’ ‘I think he just moved on. He was like that…’ I had to seem helpful, rueful, not really worried.

The phone rang, breaking into my reflections and startling me. It was Neal.

‘Hi,’ I said, my skin prickling with dread. ‘Everything OK?’

There was silence at the other end. Then he said: ‘Do you want to talk?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

‘I just thought you might.’

‘I don’t think that would help. But if you need to say something, then say it. Though when things have been said, they can’t be unsaid.’

‘You have a fucking nerve, Bonnie Graham.’

‘Is this about the police wanting to interview us?’

‘Of course it’s about the police. What do you think?’

I thought of Sonia’s advice. ‘Just keep it simple. It’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, will it? Is there anything you want me to tell them – or not tell them?’

I sighed. ‘No, Neal,’ I said slowly. ‘There’s nothing I want you to say.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you need me –’

‘Thank you. But I’m fine.’

After he had gone, my legs felt weak beneath me and my hands were shaking so much that at first I couldn’t even turn on the tap. I splashed water over my face and neck and drank two glasses. Then I sat at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands and waited.

Becky Horton came, with a male police officer. From the first moment he was clearly bored, just wanting to get it over. It made me feel better. They refused coffee.

‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ said Becky, comfortably.

‘I’m sure there’s no need to be concerned,’ I said. ‘He’ll turn up in Newcastle or Cardiff or somewhere, playing in some weird dive.’ I had to shut up: in a minute I’d be telling them everything, just to fill the silence.

‘Why Newcastle?’ said the male officer, suddenly interested.

‘That was just a random city,’ I said.

‘Random?’

‘I said Cardiff too.’

In the end I only told them what I’d said the previous day with Sally: that I’d last seen Hayden about nine days ago, that I had checked his flat two days ago and found signs of his disappearance, that I had no idea of where he could be but wasn’t really worried.

‘How well did you know Mr Booth?’ said Becky.

‘Not well. I met him by chance. He was playing in our band.’

‘You didn’t see him socially?’

I paused for a moment. I didn’t want to be caught lying. ‘Just in the way that you do when you’re playing in a band,’ I said. That could cover quite a lot.

‘Did you know any of his friends?’

‘No,’ I said.

Before

I wasn’t drunk enough, or they were too drunk, or both. Things that seemed hilarious to them didn’t seem funny at all to me – particularly when they got on to remembering all the different places they’d trashed in their time on the road. Nat and Ralph were there – the two I’d seen that night at the Long Fiddler – and so too were a couple more people Hayden had played and toured with.

‘Remember when you set fire to the waste-bin?’ said Jan – I think his name was Jan: he was tall and thin and bendy, with straggly blond hair and pale blue eyes. He was wearing mud-encrusted boots that were resting on Liza’s nice table between the tin-foil curry containers.

‘And you tried to put it out with a bottle of whisky?’ That was Mick, who had a scar that puckered his lip, and dark red hair.

There were roars of laughter. Jan reached for another can of beer, missed and sent it flying to the floor, where it lay leaking its pale liquid over the carpet while he simply picked up another.

‘Remember that flat in Dublin?’ said Ralph, setting up another quiver of hilarity around the room.

‘Or those cockroaches that fell on our faces when we were sleeping?’

I picked the can up and pushed Jan’s feet off the table. He barely noticed. I stomped off to the kitchen to get a cloth. Tales of vomit, broken glass, excess drugs and cute women floated through to me and I stood there scowling and feeling like a nagging wife, worrying about the stains on the rug, the marks on the table, the fragile black vase on the mantelpiece, all of Liza’s precious knick-knacks.

When I came back into the room, Hayden was giggling like a teenager, his eyes watering and his shoulders heaving. He had the best giggle of any man I’d ever met, hiccupy and infectious. He’d drunk a large amount of whisky and beer, and his body had a floppy looseness about it.

‘I think I’m going to make a move,’ I said, as his mirth subsided.

He grasped my wrist. ‘Don’t go.’

‘No, really.’

‘Please. You can’t leave. This lot will be off soon.’

‘Will we?’ asked Nat.

‘Bonnie?’

‘Invite us over, then throw us out when you’ve found something better to do.’ This was from Jan.

I stared at him for a moment but he didn’t seem bothered. ‘Now I really am going to go,’ I said coolly.

‘Don’t mind them. They’re just oafs,’ said Hayden. He stood up, with some difficulty, and wound his arms around me, leaning against me. I felt the weight and heat of his body, his breath against my cheek. There was a group jeer.

‘Piss off,’ said Hayden. He kissed my jaw but I pulled away from him. I could feel the atmosphere in the room curdling.

‘Remember that time with Hayden and the tabby cat?’ Mick was attempting to return the group to its previous boozy nostalgia.

‘Remember the time with Hayden and the mysteriously disappearing money?’ said Jan. ‘That was fun.’

Hayden held my hand. He rotated my thumb ring slowly, not looking at Jan and appearing not even to hear him.

‘Not now, mate,’ said Mick, quietly.

‘It’s all right for you to say that. You didn’t lose any money. You don’t have a sodding debt to pay off.’

Hayden went on playing with my ring.

‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

At that Hayden looked at him. He didn’t seem in the slightest bit drunk any more. His voice was contemptuous. ‘What do you want me to say? If you want to be safe, go and train as an accountant. You’re a musician. Of a kind.’