The Bones of Summer (14 page)

What came out wasn't what Craig had intended at all.

“No,” he said. “Michael is dead.”

“Why?” Paul answered at once. As if he'd been expecting that.

Craig broke his gaze. Stared into the murky depths of the coffee instead. But what he was seeing now wasn't his drink at all: flashes of a woman laughing, his mother of course; the way Michael had looked when he'd come, that first time; the rustle of the leaves above where they'd lain; the feel of the earth on his back.

“Because if he'd been alive, I'd have found him by now,” he whispered instead. “And he would never have left his sister like this for so long. With no word.”

“Okay,” Paul said and Craig had the sense that he'd moved closer, though he didn't look up. “Did you know this before you started looking? Or now, when you've thought about it?”

"For God's sake."
Craig slammed his mug onto the table, all but breaking it, and sprang up, backing away from Paul. “For
God's
sake, how the hell am I supposed to know that? I'm only trying to do what I thought might be the right thing. I don't know what all the answers to the bloody questions are.”

Paul held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Neither do I. That's why I'm asking them.”

“Then maybe you should stop asking me and start asking someone else then.”

Paul's eyes darkened and it was almost as if Craig could feel him slipping away. A moment ago they'd been so close. And now this. His own fault entirely though. His fault.

“Maybe I should. Though if you want to know the truth.... “Paul hesitated and Craig took a step toward him once more.

“Go on.”

“If you want to know the truth as I see it, I think you already know that we'll find nothing. You're not doing this because you want to see Michael again. Why should you? He's your
history
. If you'd wanted him, you would have done this before now. No, you're doing this because of you. Something's changed and it's screwing you up inside, whatever it is. Your father, or Michael, I don't know. But
something
. And don't try to say I'm wrong. For God's sake, Craig, I've been in this business too long to believe you. You've been lying to me in all sorts of ways ever since we met, and the only reason I don't walk away is because I don't think it's me you're trying to deceive. Anyway, if you were trying to deceive me, I think you'd at least make the effort to be a damn sight better at it. I think you're actually trying to fool yourself. God alone knows what about.”

He looked as if he were about to say something else, but Craig had had enough. “So what gives you the right to sit in judgment and be so bloody patronizing? If you say you know what I'm supposed to be thinking, why all the mystery? Why don't you simply tell me what it is? And, anyway, what makes you think you're so bloody perfect and never wrong anyway? Just because you're older than me doesn't mean
piss-all
. You don't know anything. And you're not so great either; just look at what happened at the club when we met. Just look....”

He trailed off, but Paul was up and facing him, a frown disfiguring his forehead and hands clenched into fists. “What do you mean? What happened at the club?”

Craig swallowed, but the words wouldn't go away. It felt that if he let them go, then he might be lighter. Freer. Maybe even safe.

“You,” he whispered, but he could tell Paul could hear him perfectly. “You were desperate, weren't you? I mean, I don't go clubbing much, not anymore, but even I could tell you were desperate. Taking whatever was on offer from the moment you walked in. People—the barman even—were laughing about it. It's not that you're not good-looking, because Christ knows you are. But God, you were so fucking lonely you might as well have been wearing a banner with it on.”

As Craig stared at Paul, his face spasmed as if he'd slapped him. He had no idea what Paul would do next and with all his heart he wished he'd never spoken.

“It's true,” Paul said quietly. “That night I met you, I was the loneliest I've ever been. And the most alone. I would have taken anything, Craig. Any sex that came my way. I did too. You weren't the only man I had sex with that night. And hey, maybe it's true what they say, that like calls to like. Because I wasn't the only screwed-up, desperate bastard out hunting in the club. Was I?”

“You had sex with someone else?” His other words slipped Craig by, though he knew he'd worry over them later.
"Who?"

“A whore. I paid him.”

“When?”

He blinked and half-shrugged. “Oh for God's sake, what does it matter? I....”

"When?"
Without thinking, Craig pushed him back against the wall. “You fucking well tell me
when
.”

A moment's silence and then Paul smiled. With his mouth only.

“After you,” he said. “In the morning, after you'd gone, I went back into the club. I still needed to come properly, didn't I? And I....”

Before he could finish whatever
bastard
things he might have been about to say, Craig had raised his hand. Aimed a slap at his bloody,
bloody
mouth. But Paul was too quick for him.

Grabbing his arm, Paul twisted it so he gasped and, at the same time, kicked Craig's legs out from under him. He fell heavily but brought Paul down with him too, tearing at his hair and his face with his free hand. Paul swore softly and rolled him over until he was half-kneeling across Craig's body, forcing him to be still. For a while Craig struggled against him, but it didn't do any good—the more he struggled, the more it hurt. Paul was stronger and had the advantage of being on top. To his shame, Craig realized he was crying. When he stopped fighting Paul, he eased back a little.

“Fuck it,” Paul whispered, his hands still holding Craig down but now no longer hurting him. “I'm sorry. I lied to you; it was
before
you. I did the whore at the club before you. I'm telling the truth now. Or rather he did me. He sucked me off. I didn't touch him anywhere. Not the way I touched you. I needed it. I can't explain now, but I
needed
it. It won't happen again. I haven't been with anyone apart from you since you at the club. Haven't wanted to either. Even the times we're quick, it's been good.”

By now Craig couldn't see him properly for the crying but he managed to nod. He felt two more of Paul's breaths on his cheek and then his boyfriend rolled off him. For a while they lay together panting, hands still touching.

It was Paul who spoke first.

“For God's
sake
anyway,” he whispered. “How the hell did we get here? I'm not a violent man, I swear it, but please, Craig,
why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?
”

Craig took a shuddering breath of his own. His head was packed with crimson and his thoughts were no longer those he could handle. When he spoke, he didn't recognize himself.

“I think I killed him,” he said. “I must have done. I killed Michael.”

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Chapter Thirteen

Confession was never good for the soul, no matter what his father said. But feeling the words slipping off his tongue after seven years of ignoring them made something come free; Craig found he couldn't stop.

“I killed him,” he said again. “
I must have done
. I lied to Eva. What else could I do? One moment Michael was there, like I told you before. The next he wasn't and I was gone. That's not everything though. There's something I didn't tell you. I don't like to think about it. My father was carrying something when he surprised us. God knows what, something from one of the tractors, I think. Whatever, it was long and hard. He hit me on the shoulder with it. He was going to do it again but I punched him, managed to get it off him, tried to hit him back. Michael got in the way. After that, everything's hazy. I must have hit Michael and then got knocked out somehow. I don't know. Whatever. Michael's dead and I'm a fucking murderer. My father must have hidden the body afterwards. I must have just lost it, just for a second, and now Michael's dead. I hoped he might be alive, but he's not, he's not. And now my father's coming after me, and maybe it's not because I'm gay. Maybe it's because of what I did, and what he did to cover it up. God knows, Paul, I've tried to forget it over the years, but I can't. Not anymore, not after Eva. Not after what she said.”

He stopped then, even though he thought he wouldn't. He thought he would go on forever and ever, talking and talking until there were no words left and the whole world was still. But he was panting too hard now to speak at all. Thank goodness he was simply staring up at the ceiling, not facing anyone, certainly not Paul. He took a strange kind of comfort from the dirty white paintwork, the swirl of the brushstrokes leading to the corner where one lone spider lurked in its web. Safe. For that moment, Craig envied it.

Paul's fingers closed more firmly over his own.

“You don't know that for sure,” he said. “You can't.”

“Maybe not, but I remember Michael's face just in front of mine and then there was blood. I had whatever my father had brought with him in
my
hand and a second later there was blood. What the hell else am I supposed to think? What do
you
think, I mean
really
think?” Craig sat up. Stared at Paul. He couldn't read his boyfriend's expression.

Paul withdrew his hand and sighed. “I don't know. But it's important not to jump to conclusions. We have a row—our first—, you lose your temper, aim a not very good slap at me and then you tell me you're capable of killing someone? Someone you loved? It's hard to know what to say, Craig.”

“Everyone's capable of killing, aren't they? Isn't that what you people say?”

Paul shrugged. “Well,
sort
of. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the Sundays. Or even what you see on TV. Because, trust me, when it actually comes to it, murder isn't as easy as you imagine.”

“Why not?”

“Look, let's sit down first. Let's talk like normal people about it. Okay?”

Craig nodded and Paul dragged one of the two comfy chairs over to his desk. When he motioned Craig to sit, he obeyed. Then Paul perched himself on the desk edge.

“From what you're telling me,” he said, “you remember it like this: Your father tried to hit you with this weapon, whatever it was. You got hold of it and you tried to hit him. Am I right so far?”

Craig nodded. He was unable to speak at all.

“Okay. Then while you're doing that, you remember seeing Michael and then there's blood. After that you remember...?”

“Nothing,” Craig whispered. “Between that and waking up in my bed, like I told you, I don't remember anything.”

“So you must have been knocked out. Or knocked yourself out somehow.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

A short silence. Then Paul folded his arms, looked down at the floor. He was frowning.

“There are always other explanations, Craig,” he said. “I don't think you should discount them.”

“Such as...?”

“I don't know yet,” was the reply. “But I think you owe it to yourself and to me to find out.”

* * * *

At home in the flat that night, Craig thought about what Paul had said. Thought about him too, and was glad he'd seen his boyfriend's office. It seemed to matter somehow. He hoped he'd see Paul's flat soon too, if he allowed it. When they'd parted Paul had been cagey, even distant. Not that Craig could blame him, not after the fear he'd confessed to, the act he might have done.

Craig promised himself he'd think about that later though. Right now he had Maddy to deal with. It was time to be truthful.

After his explanation, which wasn't exactly brief, she cupped her chin in her hands on the table and gazed at him.

“So,” she said, “you think you murdered your lover, even if accidentally, and ran away, leaving your father to face the consequences. Then you changed your name and dodged the long arm of the law for seven years?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

Maddy's eyes widened. “God, Craig, I think we both need a drink.”

He took the beer she offered and gulped it down. She did the same with her wine.

“But if that's the case,” Maddy continued, “if that's the case and your father buried Michael's body under the patio or whatever, why the hell go searching for him again anyway?”

Craig drew in a deep breath and tried to explain. “I thought if I found Michael was alive after all, then I wouldn't need to worry about it anymore. Since my father's been missing, it's like something inside me has changed. I want to find out what the hell went on, if what I was imagining was real. Or just some terrible nightmare that's been following me around all these years. If Michael was alive, then everything would be fine and I'd be free of it.”

“But now you can't find him? What happens now?”

“I don't know, Maddy. Paul seems to have some idea about what to do next, but I simply don't know.”

His best friend was saved from any follow-up from this by the sound of the front door opening. Julie was back.

“Hello, people.” Julie swept into the kitchen, all pressed maroon suit, pinned-up hair, and high-heeled shoes. “What's happening tonight then?”

Unsure how the hell to answer that, Craig stared blankly at Julie. “God. Pass. I'll let Maddy deal with that one.”

Maddy gave herself a little shake and took a deep breath. “Well, it's like this, Julie: Craig thinks he might have accidentally killed that boyfriend he had when he was seventeen and has been hoping to find him alive and well and living in Muswell Hill so he could prove that he was wrong. However, with Michael still missing, that's not so easy. On the other hand, Paul believes that's not the only explanation, so they're going to find out what might have happened. Somehow. And I'm hoping to God that my best friend hasn't got himself into some serious mess. Though honestly if you have, Craig, I'll stand by you. You know that, don't you?”

With that, Maddy turned back to him, her face crumpled with concern, and Craig hugged her. She smelled of soap and wine.

“Thanks,” he whispered.