Too Close For Comfort (22 page)

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Jim in a quick undertone, visibly relieved to have got himself off the hook. ‘These look dee-licious.’

‘Yeah, you’re in for a treat!’ said Rita. ‘Mick’s in the kitchen himself today. He’s mixed a bit of pork he had in with Alan’s beef. Makes them just
right.’

Jim took a theatrical bite, and gave her a thumbs-up. ‘Compliments to the chef.’

Rita beamed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be out to say hello.’ She looked at me, her smile withering its way off her face. ‘Enjoy.’

‘Is she your girlfriend or something?’ Jim rolled his eyes. ‘And who’s Alan – the cow?’

‘No, he’s the butcher. And Rita’s just Rita. Tuck in.’ His eyes briefly scoped their way down my body. ‘You need feeding up.’

I felt a shiver of discomfort, a sense of the discomfort that Patrick would feel if he was a fly on the wall, but I pushed it away. These were special circumstances, and it wasn’t as if I
was offering him encouragement. Besides, it meant nothing: Jim was Jim, just as Rita was Rita. And I was still Mia; I would never do anything to threaten my relationship. I subtly shifted backwards
in my seat.

‘When we said goodbye last time, when we’d talked about the’ – I made a discreet sniffing motion – ‘you implied that there was more to come out.’ I
paused: would saying this make the situation with Lysette even less recoverable? ‘When we went to Kimberley’s that night – it was horrible, Jim, it definitely felt like they were
hiding something. I think you were right.’

Jim didn’t reply, chewing on Alan’s beef for longer than was strictly necessary. I felt strangely disappointed: I wanted him to leap on my words, validate me, but he was withdrawn
and quiet.

His words were flat. ‘Lysette needs to look after herself.’

‘Too right,’ I said. ‘And in answer to your question that day, I don’t like Kimberley. I think she’s a manipulative bitch. The first thing Lysette should do is get
as far away from her as she can.’

I could feel my heart pounding, heat rising again. Jim ignored it, gave a half-smile.

‘I really don’t think that’s going to happen.’

‘I thought you were worried about her?’ I hissed, increasingly frustrated. I wanted an ally, and I also wanted – no, I needed – someone else to keep watch over
Lysette.

‘I’d had a drink. I was overexcited, seeing you again after all this time. We had our moment back then, didn’t we?’

I ignored him, tried not to let the words puncture any softer, younger part of me. A ‘moment’ was such an inadequate phrase for what we’d had. I couldn’t go there
now.

‘Jim – what if it’s relevant?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The drugs. The police are trying to build up a picture of Sarah’s state of mind before she died.’ Jim’s eyes were tracking me now. ‘What if it’s
relevant?’

His right hand was balled up into a fist.

‘Jesus, Mia!’ he hissed. ‘Just leave it, OK? I know you’re angry with Lysette, but are you planning to get her kids put into care?’

‘Calm down, OK? Don’t be so melodramatic.’

‘How’s that melodramatic? You’re suggesting telling the police my sister has a drug problem.’

It wasn’t just the words; it was the strength of his reaction. Jim liked to glide smoothly over the surface of life, his charm keeping him light on his feet. He was rattled.

‘A problem?
Has
a problem? Do you think she’s still at it, even with Sarah gone?’

I thought back to the way she’d sped off the night before the funeral, a woman on a mission. Could she even have been high at the wake?

But before Jim could reply, the huge TV on the far wall was turned up to an ear-shattering volume. There was Lawrence Krall, in a well-cut suit, standing outside the car park where Sarah had
been found.

‘This CCTV footage is a significant discovery,’ he said, before the screen cut to a grainy scene on a busy street.

There she was: Sarah, walking down the street, laughing, turning to the man next to her. It was Peter. His arm came out, flung itself around her shoulders. They walked a few more steps, and then
the picture cut out.

‘This proves that Sarah Bryant was with Peter Grieve on the day of her death,’ continued Krall, ‘in the immediate vicinity of this car park. Were you here that day? Can you
corroborate the police timeline, or contribute any further information as to Sarah Bryant’s state of mind?’

I looked at Jim, wanting him to acknowledge the way that Krall had echoed my phrase, but his eyes were trained on the screen. The whole pub was glued to it, a couple of journalists scribbling
notes.

‘That’s it then, isn’t it?’ said one of them in a tone of grim satisfaction. I’d seen her here the night before, a sharp-eyed girl in her mid twenties who was more
striking than pretty. She was slurping a cup of coffee as she scribbled, the sleeve of her suit jacket soaking up the spilled liquid.

Lawrence Krall continued, smoothing his slightly too-long hair back as the wind ruffled it into a peak. ‘If you have any information, however small and insignificant it might seem to you,
I would ask you to come forward. This investigation needs your help. Thank you.’

The picture cut back to the news studio, a photo of Sarah – a beaming smile on her face – behind the two newscasters. Within a few seconds it had evaporated, replaced by a still of
military tanks, and Rita had turned the sound down. Jim took a swig of his lager.

‘That proves it then, doesn’t it?’ he said, his mood visibly improved. ‘They needed more proof, and now they’ve got it.’

‘How is that proof?’ I said. My eyes kept pulling towards the screen, as if Sarah might reappear there and reveal something different.

‘You saw him up there. Your mate Lawrence Krall.’

‘My mate Lawrence Krall?’

Jim play-acted pushing his hair backwards, tossed his head.

‘Yeah,’ he said, a note of challenge in his voice. Men clearly thought Lawrence Krall was irresistible.

‘He’s not my mate. And he’s just doing his job. Building up a picture of Sarah’s life, which no one around here seems all that keen to help him do.’

‘You’ve always been like this, Mia,’ snapped Jim, face flushed. ‘Do you remember what I used to call you – Sister Mia? You’re so fucking idealistic. He thinks
he’s got him bang to rights. They’re sewing it up. And you didn’t even know Sarah, so I don’t know why you’ve appointed yourself her representative on
earth.’

‘Lysette doesn’t think Peter did it,’ I said stubbornly. ‘I thought he seemed really gentle when I met him.’ For approximately sixty seconds – I didn’t
add that crucial detail. ‘And if he didn’t, then someone else did.’

‘Yeah, well. Sarah could make fucking Bambi lose his shit – she was a game player.’

‘What do you mean?’

He ignored me. ‘And Lysette’s on another planet. I’ve got a six-month-old at home who makes more sense than she does. And for someone who’s not here to investigate
– who’s
just here to provide support –
you seem to have a lot of opinions.’

He was being hateful, but he had a point. Why was I worrying away at this, rather than simply standing back and watching it unfold?

‘Fine,’ I said, feeling myself deflate. I should just get through the rest of my time here and gratefully and gracefully slip back into my own life, that standby little black dress
that you forget to appreciate until the Christmas party. ‘Do you want another drink?’

‘When have you ever known me say no to a second drink?’ he said, his twinkle restored, his words implying that the twenty-year gap in our acquaintance had been twenty minutes. I
thought of his wife with that six-month-old he was holding up like a talisman; wondered how thrilled I’d be if I were her, but I still made my way to the bar.

I’d been so focused on our argument that I’d unplugged myself from the rest of the room. It was crackling, voices raised, everyone animated. I didn’t want to be that
sanctimonious prig that Jim had painted, but the excitement of it was repellent to me, perhaps because the image of Max – his small body hunched over his battered book – was still so
fresh in my mind.

‘Same again?’ said Rita.

‘Exactly. You can put them on my room.’

‘Oh. Are you staying here too?’ It was the journalist, who’d appeared as if by magic right next to me. She put out a hand, cuff still soggy with coffee. ‘I’m
April.’

She was smiling a little too widely, exposing the kind of gently yellowed teeth that told me that coffee and cigarettes were a mainstay of her job. Her handshake vibrated with the pulsing energy
that was electrifying the room, her dark eyes fixed on me. I couldn’t help thinking the question was a contrivance: she knew exactly who I was.

‘Mia. Are you a journalist by any chance?’

‘I am,’ she said, naming her red top proudly. She carried herself with a breezy confidence that I could never have achieved at that age. ‘I’ve been here a whole
week!’ she added, a sly, conspiratorial smile on her face which she was naive enough to think that Rita would miss.

‘That’ll be £3.10,’ Rita told me, slamming the glasses down as if it was me being snide. ‘But it’s on your room.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I said. I picked them up, but April wasn’t going to let me get away that easily.

‘So what brings you here?’ she said, subtly barring my way.

‘Oh, um, my friend lives here. I came to see her.’

‘And she’s a psycho . . . psycho thing,’ interjected Rita helpfully.

‘How fascinating!’ said April. ‘If I get the drinks in tonight, will you tell me all about it?’

‘I’m happy to tell you about the job, but what people tell me is obviously confidential.’

‘Of course – you must be seeing people here. I mean, that footage today’s a real game changer, but I guess you’re already one step ahead of the rest of us.’

She kept searching my face. Rita was cleaning glasses now, but I sensed she was listening to every word.

‘It certainly looks bad for him, but it doesn’t confirm anything.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked, the words tumbling fast from her lipsticked mouth.

I stepped sideways, desperate to end the conversation.

‘Just – innocent until proven guilty. I thought that was the whole point of living in a civilised society.’

Jim was making a thirsty motion at me from across the bar, lifting his empty glass. God, if he could have heard my pontifications on the nature of justice he’d have had a field day.

‘Right,’ said April, cocking her head. ‘It’s just – there aren’t any other suspects, are there?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ I said.

‘It’s unlucky for him, isn’t it?’ she said, feigning concern. ‘Not being here to defend himself?’

‘Quite,’ I said, pushing past her now: she’d lost the right to courtesy with her wheedling questions. ‘Nice to meet you, April.’

‘Oh, you too!’ she said. ‘See you later!’

Not if I see you first, I thought childishly, then remembered that the alternative was sitting in my monastic cell watching
Scandal
on my iPad. I didn’t need to
be burning any more bridges.

I deposited the drinks, and sat down. I played with a cold chip on my plate.

‘You’re just Little Miss Popular, aren’t you? Who’s that?’

‘She’s called April. She’s a tabloid hack. And can you
stop
bitching at me?’

He must’ve heard the catch in my voice. He extended a hand across the table, but I tucked mine into my lap.

‘Must run in the family,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’ He held my gaze. ‘And for all Lysette’s bitching, she is really grateful you’re here.’

‘Maybe she was. She isn’t any more.’

‘Just – look, you’re a very kind person. You’re ridiculously clever, too, we’ve always known that. Just bring it down a bit. Let It Be, as John Lennon would say.
No, it was Paul McCartney, wasn’t it?’

‘OK,’ I said, my voice small.

‘It is really nice to see you again, even like this.’

‘Yeah, you too,’ I said. The problem was, part of me meant it.

‘And I’m sorry, Mia. That’s what I really wanted to say. I’m really sorry for how I behaved back then. I was just a stupid boy.’

I looked at him a second too long – the white capital letters that stretched across his black hoodie, those clichéd, Converse-clad feet. He was a whole new breed of boy: a man-boy.
And yet, something still tugged at me. A desire to reach back into the past and right it.

‘Me too,’ I said, looking away. ‘What my dad did to you was horrific.’

‘Fathers and daughters, man.’ He didn’t want to connect to it, I could tell, that was why he’d lapsed into the syntax of a Beat poet. ‘I’d lock mine in a
nunnery if I could. Can I have one of your chips?’

We chit-chatted a few minutes, me crowbarring in my wedding plans, the lightness of it a relief after the strange intensity of what had gone before.

‘Shit, I should go,’ he suddenly said, jumping up.

‘So should I,’ I said, childishly irritated that I hadn’t said it first. ‘I’m seeing a new one – Janey Sims? Do you know her?’

‘Mousy,’ pronounced Jim.

‘If you see Lysette . . .’ I couldn’t bring myself to send an apology. ‘She’ll be feeling terrible, seeing Sarah like that. People gossiping.’ I paused.
‘I do care. If she needed a gun, I’d still get it for her.’

It was a stupid expression of ours, a way of measuring our friendship. I shivered: it didn’t seem so funny any more.

‘What are you two like?!’ said Jim, grinning at me. ‘She knows that. It’ll be OK.’

I wondered if this Janey would have heard about the CCTV. Of course she would have done. Like Lisa had said, news travelled fast. We walked outside, me trying not to feel the eyes that were
boring into my back like sniper’s bullets.

‘Do you want a lift to the school?’ said Jim, as we approached his muddy estate car.

‘Definitely not,’ I said, too quickly. He smirked, enjoying the implied intrigue, which was not what I’d intended at all. ‘Well, bye,’ I said, giving him a quick,
awkward hug.

‘Bye, Mia,’ he said, pulling me back into it. Too much of him was in that hug. Betrayals can be big or small, spoken or unspoken: sometimes it’s the silent ones that prove to
be the most devastating of all. ‘I’ll see you soon. You’re not alone, trust me.’