One Night (14 page)

I could have bitten my tongue, he
looked so shocked. I saw he was wearing a formal grey suit. I hadn’t seen
Stephen in formal attire. It was a novelty – and it was smart. He looked older,
more handsome, a man about town. And broad and large and close to me. I looked
at my hand lying limply in his. I would be safe now. Surely I would be safe
now?

We had tea in the hall. My mother fussed around everybody as though she was the
chief mourner in the show. Elva Spears engaged in deep discussion with a group
of serious looking people who drank their tea with care, as though slugging
back a good mouthful would be disrespectful under the circumstances. People
stood about in small, awkward groups. A funeral was hardly the place for hearty
social interaction. It left Stephen and me on the fringe, holding our cups and
saucers delicately, horribly aware of each other, keeping polite distance,
smiling a little too carefully while people threw me looks of intrigue and
concern.

‘They obviously think you’re going
to keel over again,’ said Stephen.

‘And they could be right.’

‘You’re all right, aren’t you?’ He
looked anxious.

‘Yes, I think so. Don’t worry. I’ll
keep upright for the next couple of hours.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘That long?
I’d hoped we could get out of here before then.’

I looked up at him, noting the use
of ‘we’. ‘How’ve you been?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been good, thank you.’

‘Heard you had a girlfriend?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘News gets around.’

‘She’s a friend.’

‘A college friend?’

‘Yes. Well, actually – ’ he put his
cup carefully into the saucer. ‘Actually we did go out together. But it wasn’t
serious.’

I nodded sagely as though he’d just
made an interesting scientific point. My head was throbbing. I was clinging to
the vestiges of intelligible conversation.

‘And you?’ Stephen asked casually.
‘You been seeing anyone?’

‘If I had, I’d have had him with me
on that Saturday night.’

To my dismay, he took this as an
accusation. ‘I’m sorry, Casey. So sorry you can’t believe. Honestly, with all
my heart, I wish I had been there.’

I was feeling too blurred to
counteract this confusion. I said fuzzily, ‘You would have fixed them.’

He gave a slight laugh which didn’t
reach his eyes. ‘From what I’ve heard, you fixed them pretty good yourself. Left
Sedgeworth in a nice mess.’

The vision of Brent Sedgeworth’s
bloody face filled me with sudden apprehension. My legs wobbled. I said, ‘I
have to sit down.’

Stephen grabbed me by the arm. ‘I’m
taking you out of here. You’ve had enough.’

I made little protest as he walked
me over to the table to put down our cups, then to my mother and Elva Spears to
say goodbye. Elva kissed me and clung a little. I saw Stephen say something to
my mother who nodded, her look sympathetic. She glanced at me, mouthed
something, and smiled. She was glad to see me with Stephen. I would be safe on the
arm of a good, strong man.

We left, Stephen holding me upright
all the way to his car. As I sank into the front seat, a sense of relaxation crept
over me and I sank back, my eyes closing as I felt the familiar contours of the
seat. There was a whiff of Stephen’s aftershave – the one in the blue box with
the gold writing I had given him for Christmas. I felt almost weightless, light
as thistle. I opened my eyes.

Brent Sedgeworth was standing directly
in front of the car, staring at me through the windscreen.

I gave a yelp of shock. I glanced round but Stephen was some distance away,
talking to the priest who must have followed us to the gate. In slow horror, I
turned back and looked at Brent. He was smartly dressed in black, the same
leather jacket I remembered from that night. His blonde hair was swept neatly
to one side, his blue eyes watching me with a cross of derision and hatred. Deep
bruises were still evident under his right eye. His cheek was swollen, a raw
line running to his temple, a plaster on his neck.

Appalled I watched as he came
around to the side window. All I could think of were his fingers gripping my
hair as he had dragged me onto that moonlit road.

‘Little Casey,’ he said.

Mind-numbing fear overwhelmed me.
Worse even than anything I’d experienced on that night because then I’d been
driven by survival; fear had been a motivator, a catalyst for action. Now it
mesmerized me. I couldn’t move or scream, just stare.

‘So you’re just another liar, Casey
Blaydon. I thought we had an agreement and then you did me down. You knew that
fucking dog was there, didn’t you? You never had any intention about keeping
your end of the bargain. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been saying to
the police.’

When I didn’t answer, he leaned
closer, his forearm resting across the top of the door. ‘You change your tune
or you’ll get what’s coming to you. You get that? You little bitch! You get
your facts straight or you’ll really have something to whine about.’

Something thudded powerfully inside
me – my heart slamming into my ribs like a mallet. This man meant what he said.
He was a cold-blooded manipulator who liked to get what he wanted without
obstacles. And he wasn’t a fool. He would kill me without compunction – and do
it in such a way that he would probably get away with it. Stealth and subterfuge
were his traits. And he would play them well in the context of murder. He
already had.

‘You fuck off,’ I managed through
stiff lips, trying not to look at him.

His grin was malevolent. ‘Gonna be
on your tail, baby shoes. Gonna be everywhere. Keep it in mind.’

He eased away slowly, his eyes on
mine. Then in a casual, easy lope, he moved away. I looked for Stephen but he
and the priest were now, inexplicably, pouring over a piece of paper. Neither
looked in my direction. Fear shuddered through me. Tears burst hot in my eyes.
After all my attempts at control I was falling apart. When Stephen finally slid
into the car, I was shaking like an autumn leaf in a high wind.

‘Casey! What the matter? Oh, my
darling Casey! I’m so sorry!’ And he swept me into his arms, thinking I was
again overcome with grief.

Even in the warm, strong comfort of
Stephen’s arms, there was no solace. I felt that I would never return to that brief
spot of happiness I’d experienced before Brent had appeared. All I could feel
was the relentless power of lasting damage.

‘I’m taking you home,’ said
Stephen.

‘No,’ I said at last. ‘No. I want
to go where there are people. Lots of people. Normal people. I need a drink.’

I had no idea of the journey. Eventually the car stopped and we were outside a
charming roadside pub. There was a cozy table under a window that looked onto a
garden with an old-fashioned wishing well and beds of roses. Stephen ordered a
beer and I had a glass of chilled white wine. ‘Semi-sweet,’ Stephen said.

The waitress came and went and
returned with our order while I sat in a blur, comforted by the warm buzz of
conversation around us. I made an effort to pull myself together. Losing
equilibrium was disconcerting and I didn’t want Stephen to know how frightened
I’d been.

‘What were you and Father Barron discussing
outside the gate?’

He looked a little abashed. He drew
a piece of paper out of his pocket. ‘The dear Father seems to think you’re under
unbearable stress and you should get professional help.’ He proffered the
paper. ‘He’s written down three names for you.’

‘A shrink? He thinks I should see a
shrink?’

‘He’s just trying to be helpful.’
Stephen turned his head to one side. ‘Would you consider it?’

‘I’m not nuts. I’m just finding it hard
to come to terms with things.’

He nodded sagely. ‘That’s exactly
why you need to talk to someone.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Simple reason. I don’t like
talking about it.’

‘You’re bottling it up.’

‘I just need a little time to
process things.’

‘Okay.’ He shifted forward, taking
my hand as he used to do, squeezing it under his large one. ‘You can also talk
to me, you know.’

I smiled. ‘Ah, yes. The
counsellor.’

He looked a little self-effacing.
‘Thought it might come in useful sometime.’

‘Never thought of something like this,
huh?’

He eased back, let go of my hand.
‘No.’

I don’t know why – maybe it was
because he let go of my hand – but I said, ‘Brent Sedgeworth was outside the
church. He threatened me.’

Stephen’s eyes widened. ‘That bastard
was at the funeral?’

‘He must have been. He was dressed in
black. It would have been announced in the paper.’

Stephen looked grim. ‘I wish I’d spotted
him. I’d have knocked the living daylights out of him.’

I smiled. The wine was beginning to
relax me. ‘That would have gone down well in the church.’

He looked serious. ‘I don’t like
you staying on your own while all this is going on.’

There now. He’d just touched a red
button. I knew that staying on my own was laced with anxieties – probably not
unfounded – but the thought of giving up the one place that was my own refuge,
where everything was familiar, was not top of mind. I couldn’t imagine leaving my
own clutter to clutter up someone else’s.

I looked at Stephen over the top of
my wineglass. ‘Do I know where this is going?’

He flushed. Maybe I was too
forthright because he said: ‘You’re welcome to stay with me if you like.’

I put my glass down carefully.
‘That’s kind of you.’

I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic,
but that’s the way it came out.

‘Well, until all this blows over,’
he qualified, which was a mistake.

‘I’m perfectly fine where I am.’

‘Don’t be pigheaded, Casey.’

Another mistake.

‘I’ll be fine. Besides I don’t want
to get in Cresella’s way.’

He hesitated a moment. ‘Her name is
Catherine.’

‘Yes, well. Don’t want to upset
that
applecart.’

‘Don’t be daft. We’re not living
together. The relationship is very casual.’

‘Relationship,’ I repeated, making
the word sound pointy.

He leaned back, exasperated. ‘For
fuck’s sake, Casey. You can be so bloody – ’ he fished for a word. ‘So
awkward
when you want.’

He was right of course. But what I
wanted at that very moment was for him to forsake all others and sweep me into
his arms, carry me away to safety to my flat and act without question as my
valiant bodyguard. To take charge, to be my knight bearing my colours. The way
it had been. The way we were. And the fact I couldn’t get him to say the things
I wanted him to say was infuriating.

And yet despite this petty sense of
jealousy and imagined abandonment, there was something else between us. I had
changed. There was a defining line in my life: before that night, and after
that night. I would never be the same. Adjustment to normal life was going to
take a long time and returning to things the way they were was impossible. To
demand it of Stephen when I couldn’t give it to myself, was crazy. Everything
from now on would be awkward, clogged with dark mental pictures that made me
frightened of simple things: a walk in the woods, a dog on a chain, an old light
bulb, the dank smell of a cellar.

‘We could start again.’ I looked
down. ‘If you want.’

He looked wary. ‘What do you mean?’

I took a breath. ‘Well, let’s not
talk about who lives with whom. Let’s just have supper. I’ll cook up a moussaka
and toss in a salad. Bring wine.’

‘When?’

‘Friday.’

The wary look continued. ‘Are you
sure?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t have to
be
old times. It can just be like old times.’

He studied me, weighing up
consequences. Then he said quietly, ‘I’d like that.’

‘Good.’ A little fizz started
inside me. ‘Good.’

The pub seemed to fast-forward to a
brighter place, people talking, the happy clink of glasses.

‘And Casey?’

‘Yes?’

‘Please don’t do the Greek thing. Rather
do chicken.’

I put the paper with the names and phone numbers under the framed picture of
Mona and me at our last school party. We were both squinting into the sun, both
dark, small and clutching white teddies. The owl and the pussycat. It reminded
me of how similar we’d been. Like sisters. I went and stared at my reflection
in the bathroom mirror. There were deep shadows under my eyes. I’d been looking
like death warmed up. No wonder everybody had been watching me with such
curious concern. And Father Barron had thought fit to rustle up his little
piece of paper.

I made a cup of tea and planned a
light supper of egg and toast. Stephen had offered to stay with me but I’d
refused. Too much time together might spoil things. I needed some space to
balance things out. I took my tea and went and stood at the window. The street
was fairly empty. It wasn’t late – but Saturday night meant most people were
out. Across the road was a row of gracious old tenements, the lights aglow in
some windows, lighting up other lives in the creep of twilight.

I took a sip of hot tea. Somehow
the quiet street comforted me. I don’t know what I expected to see: people
loitering, unexplained shadows; Brent Sedgeworth leaning against a lamppost,
staring up at my window. But there was nothing. A couple of slow cars, a cat
cleaning itself atop a letterbox. Night was sinking into place. All was at
peace. The funeral was over. I could let some things go for a few hours – face
it all again in the morning.

The doorbell rang.

I froze. The cup shook in my hands.

Who on earth was this?

I checked my phone. Nobody had left
a message to say they were coming over.

The doorbell rang again.

I went forwards, feeling that if I
opened that door, I should run for my life.