Three Steps Behind You

As though five years had not passed, Nicole starts up about Helen again.

I hear about the pearls that reverted back to Helen’s family, the guilt Nicole and Adam felt when they sent out their own wedding invitations, Nicole’s constant search for justice. She is a woman obsessed.

‘Someone out there drove away knowing they’d hit her, that they might have killed her,’ she says, looking at me. ‘Who does that?’

I look away.

‘It was an accident,’ I say, taking Adam’s line, in his absence.

I see the first signs of the Heath out of the window. Red leaves on the trees, some fallen, covering up the grass. But we want the unnatural part, the funfair, the thrills laid on for families. I suppose Nicole and I are family, really. Me, her and Adam – all one loving unit. Adam knows it, because he’s read book two. He doesn’t know how much of a unit we were – particularly when Helen was alive – because he hasn’t read book three. But he knows it, really, how close we are. And he’ll have explained it to Nicole, now. Nicole, and her quest to find Helen’s killer. Nicole, who will be the star of her own show, for when I write the world according to Luke.

I don’t know if she’ll like the show, if she’ll really feel comfortable with it. I mean, she never really did any acting, after RADA, so I hear. Not much good at it, perhaps. Then Adam coming along meant she didn’t need to work. But I need to get her on stage.

Chapter 9

‘Were you like this with Helen?’ Nicole asks me as I lean across her, staying close, to strap us into the dodgem. Most couples are with children, enjoying their half-term break. But then, we are an unusual couple.

‘Like what?’ I ask. The warning clang for the start of the next session sounds, and the dodgem gets power.

‘Odd,’ she says.

‘I’m not odd,’ I say, as I charge with the dodgem round the corner of the rink, ramming into the rubber sides. Nicole grips onto the edges of our black metallic ride for safety.

‘Your fingers will be crushed by another car if you do that,’ I say. ‘Keep them inside the vehicle.’ I turn us to loop round to the other side of the rink, leaning into Nicole as we take the corner. I feel her breasts press against my arm. They are less oppressive than Helen’s, but still in the way.

‘You call walking into the shower on someone not odd?’ she asks.

‘Are we still on that?’ I retort. ‘It was a misunderstanding. Besides, Adam seemed to like it.’

I look at her. Her face blushes red, but she smiles.

‘Well, don’t do it again,’ she says.

‘I won’t.’ I pat her hand for reassurance. ‘Unless you invite me.’ She draws her hand away.

‘Anyway, Helen was different,’ I say. ‘Adam’s first love. Less baggage.’

‘Thanks,’ Nicole says drily. ‘You must know all about Adam’s baggage, right? From years back.’

I swing the dodgem round and narrowly avoid smashing into a kid in a green car.

‘Phew!’ I say.

‘You’re meant to crash into each other. That’s the point.’

‘Oh.’

‘You must know what he’s thinking, second guess what he does, way more than I can?’ Nicole says.

‘I suppose,’ I say. Obviously, the genuine answer would be ‘yes’, but boasting on this point won’t endear me to Nicole.

I drive round a bit more, crashing into other cars. They all have children in. The attendant puts two fingers to us, then to his eyes, then to us again, in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

‘Any particularly juicy secrets you know about?’ she asks.

I drive the car slowly round the edge of the rink, while the attendant fulfils his promise of watching us. I see Nicole’s dress has ridden up, hoisted round her upper thighs.

‘May I?’ I ask.

Before she can reply, I pull her dress back down over her legs, being sure to graze her inner thigh as I do so. She tries to cross her legs away from me but there isn’t space.

‘No particularly juicy secrets,’ I lie. Why should I tell her what I know?

The siren sounds for the end of the ride.

‘Again?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘But I’ll have my own car this time.’

She escapes from the car, pulling her skirt down over her bottom as climbs out. Her new car is silver. Or is it grey?

The clang sounds for the start of the ride. I will not let her out of my sight. This is about the chase, the thrill of pursuit. Nicole takes the car up to the other end of the rink. I follow. Round the corner she goes. I am there. You’re meant to crash into each other, she said, so I do. She jolts forward in the car, casts a look behind her then sets off again. I am with her, there, behind her, then parallel. I bump her again, she jolts again. She looks back, then quickly steers away from me, up to the other side of the rink. I speed after her, and catching up with her, ram her into a corner.

‘Hey!’ she says.

I retreat, then ram the car again.

‘Stop it!’ she shouts. The attendant starts to come out of his little hut. I back off, and let her move away from the edge of the rink. I zoom down the opposite end of the rink, then do a U-turn. She is coming down the rink in the opposite direction. I carry on, full speed. She is closer, closer, tries move away but I am too quick. I ram into her full speed, a head-on collision, and she jerks forward in the dodgem, hair flying over her face.

When she looks up at me again, I see the edge of her lip is bleeding. Her skin is white and her eyes are wide. She looks like she is seeing me, all of me, for the first time. And doesn’t like what she sees.

Chapter 10

Nicole is edgy, nervous, when we come off the ride. She won’t look me square in the face. Her eyes dart about. I can understand why, what she might be thinking, what suspicions me crashing the car into her might have triggered, but she will not be the one to mention it; she might just be being stupid, I imagine her thinking. Instead, she flits from conversation to conversation. I hear from her about the weather, the clothes people are wearing, what she plans to order from Ocado this week. In short, everything but nothing. I wish she’d shut up. I bet Adam must do too, sometimes.

I try to block out Nicole’s jabbering, working on book four in my head.

Luke takes the black scarf, similar to the one that binds his lover’s hands, and ties it round her mouth. It acts as a gag, and her cries are silenced.

Would a scarf act as a gag, though? Or would she still be able to cry out? Hands are best to drown out cries, but then you don’t have them to manoeuvre your lover. And they can bite, quite hard. So I’ve heard. Those ball things you get on gimp masks, that’s what they’re for, I guess. ‘A ball in the mouth keeps a lady silent.’ I could do advertising, if they sack me over the punching incident. I zone back in to Nicole’s conversation when she starts asking me questions.

‘Maybe you should learn to drive before you next go on the dodgems, hey?’ she asks, laughing. But the laugh doesn’t work. It is too forced and does not change that expression in her eyes, half fear, half excitement.

‘You don’t drive, either, do you?’ I ask, knowing the answer. But that is what small talk is – asking questions you don’t care about, to get information you already know, while a subtext bubbles underneath.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I didn’t before, and I certainly wouldn’t now.’

Now means, of course, post-Helen. The roads being too full of dangerously innocent cyclists.

‘In that case, we’re fully dependent on others, you and I,’ I say. ‘Let’s catch the bus back, see how Adam’s getting on.’

She pauses, then starts jabbering again.

‘Actually, do you know what? I think I’ll grab a cab. Save you the bother. There’s one!’

She raises her arm to flag down a passing taxi, desperate to get away. Her watch flashes in the light, a silvery-grey streak. I wonder what it would be like if that streak were red, how much blood there would be. The taxi stops and its lobster-orange light is darkened. Nicole disappears into it and slams the door, leaving me alone on the curb. Not, perhaps, a triumph for Luke, but it’s not over yet, his relationship with her.

I decide not to go straight home. Instead, I will do some more research. Some writers just sit at their desk, making up words, characters, scenes, but I know better. I know I need to live first. Writing is the after-life. I walk down the road to The Garden Gate pub.

I ask for a Jäger Train. I’ve never had one, but I’ve seen people having them, enjoying themselves. The barman suggests that I might prefer one of their fruit beers. I tell him I would not. He confesses they don’t cater for Jäger Trains at 3 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. So I order seven glasses of elderflower pressé and seven shots of Courvoisier brandy: the Hampstead equivalent. I order some lobster-tail scampi with it. Luke is no novice. He knows that eating is not cheating. The barman gives me a flower in a vase to signify my order. It is a rose.

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 the 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.