Complicit Page 8

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘But I’m good at eating what other people cook.’

  It was true. He ate anything he was offered, as if he was permanently hungry and nothing could ever fill him.

  ‘I came to ask you something.’

  ‘Let me guess. You want me to be nicer to that guy. What’s he called?’

  ‘Amos.’ I knew he remembered.

  ‘Yeah. Him.’

  ‘You’re upsetting him.’

  ‘I think he’s upsetting himself, Bonnie. You and him?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘He’s still half in love with you, or certainly doesn’t want anyone else to be, and he’s trying too hard to impress you, Sonia too. It’s a bit complicated, like a tightrope act, and he’s wobbling all over the place. Poor guy.’

  ‘That’s not really the point.’

  ‘One of the lessons in life is that the more you care the less you impress.’

  ‘How cruel.’

  ‘Cruel but true.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  He stared at me for a moment. ‘You don’t care much what people think of you, do you? And look at the result.’

  ‘I care as much as anyone.’

  ‘And then there’s Neal, of course,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I came here to talk about the band.’

  ‘If we’re not going to have a fry-up, at least let’s have some crisps. I think there are some in that cupboard.’

  Before I could think what I was doing, I’d stood up and was obediently searching among the jumble to find them. I tossed the packet over to him.

  ‘Don’t you want some?’

  ‘I’m a vegetarian.’

  ‘Smoky bacon flavour doesn’t mean there’s bacon in them.’

  ‘You’re sowing discord.’

  ‘That sounds Biblical.’ He pulled open the bag but didn’t eat.

  ‘What’s the point of humiliating people?’

  ‘I don’t mean to.’ A look of puzzlement crossed his face. ‘But it was such a horrible noise in there, and Amos doesn’t really care about music. He just wants to look good, to make an impression. Suddenly I couldn’t be arsed. Do you want a cigarette?’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  ‘You don’t smoke, you don’t eat meat. What do you do?’

  ‘Please will you be more tactful.’

  ‘The young guy’s OK.’

  ‘Joakim. I know.’

  ‘And you, of course.’

  I felt absurdly pleased by that, then immediately annoyed with myself for being pleased. For some reason, I got up from the sofa and stood opposite him to speak, and then felt stupid for doing that, while he lay back in his chair and smiled at me as though I was some comic act he was taking pleasure in watching.

  ‘I want to know if you’ll help me,’ I said, very formally. ‘It’s just a stupid thing. I know we’re not very good. I know it’s not important or glamorous or challenging, and there’s no reason that you should be involved at all.’

  ‘Except, of course,’ he said, ‘there is a reason.’

  ‘You should leave if you can’t be part of the joint effort. That’s fine, I’d understand. I just won’t have you upsetting everyone for the fun of it.’

  ‘I can’t leave.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ It was suddenly hard to speak.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He still didn’t move, and neither did I. We stared at each other. My heart was beating painfully in my chest; my body felt loose and hot. I couldn’t drop my eyes but I didn’t know how long I could go on standing in front of him.

  ‘No,’ I managed at last. I thought of Neal. I fixed his image in my mind. I remembered his smile. ‘I don’t.’

  He reached out a hand and took mine. I let him. I let him pull me to him. ‘Look at you,’ he said. ‘Prickly Bonnie Graham.’

  ‘I’m not,’ I said.

  ‘One of a kind.’

  I could say I didn’t mean it to happen. I could say I forgot myself – what does that mean anyway, to forget yourself, to lose yourself? I did feel lost, adrift on a tide of desire that took me so much by surprise it was as if I’d been punched in the stomach, all the wind knocked out of me, and I sank to my knees beside the sofa with what sounded like a sob. I could say that I didn’t mean it, it wasn’t me, it just happened, but it was me who took his face, a stranger’s face, unfamiliar, between my hands and held it for what felt like ages so that I was conscious of time passing, of cars outside, people’s voices. And then at last he was kissing me and I was kissing him. I knew that this was what I had come for and I knew he had been waiting for me.

  ‘No,’ I said, as he lifted me onto the sofa, but I didn’t mean it. I know I didn’t mean it, because when he said, ‘Bonnie?’ I said, ‘Yes. Yes.’

  After

  I lay in bed and stared at the light that was now glowing behind the curtain, projecting its stripes onto the carpet. What was the plan? There wasn’t exactly a plan. There was nothing more to be done. Nothing except to go over and over things, to work out where we had made a mistake because there was always a mistake. Were we really sure that nobody had seen us? Were we really sure we hadn’t left some sort of trace behind? Had it been the right place to dispose of a body? How long would it be before they found the car? Neither of us had any idea what the procedures in the car park were. People go away on holiday for two weeks, maybe three or four. The car park empties and refills like a tide going in and out. What procedure do they have for spotting an abandoned car? Is it possible that we left something in it? Would it be a clever idea to go back to the car park after a week or two and drive it to another zone? I could check at the same time whether we had left something. Or would that be stupid?

  You read about criminals returning to the scene of the crime. It’s almost like a proverb. Is it a certain fascination, pulling you back like gravity? Or perhaps it’s simply the nagging feeling you get when you have to keep going home to check you didn’t leave the gas on or the window open. I knew this was a form of madness because I was trying to remember the things I’d forgotten. What were the gaps? What were the objects that were just outside my range of vision? And what about my things? What about my satchel? Where had it gone?

  If only I could be certain that this was the best it would ever get. That nothing more would happen, nothing would be discovered. I’d just have the rest of my life to try to think of the mistakes I might have made, and not to think of the terrible things I had done.

  Before

  I felt weak and unsteady as if I had gone a day without food. The bare boards seemed to sway under my feet as I walked to the bathroom. The water from the shower head was hardly more than a trickle. Everything felt just slightly askew and strange, the way it does when you’ve arrived in a foreign city and you’re noticing life in a way you don’t when you’re at home. I aimed the shower at my face, trying not to get my hair too wet, then gave up and found some shampoo on the end of the bath and washed it. My body felt tender and bruised but what did I feel? What did I feel in my head? What did I feel in my heart? I pressed my hand against my breast and closed my eyes. What had I done?

  I’d seen Hayden at Sally’s house, noticed how, with his long body and his air of total acceptance, he had occupied the space. If there was food, he had eaten it, if there was a sofa, he had sat on it – sat on it so conclusively and definitively that there was no room for anyone else. He seemed to live in a perpetual present, the past forgotten or denied, the future unimagined and ignored, cause and effect irrelevant to him. What had happened between us existed in that world of disconnected moments, with no context and no meaning. Was that how I should think of it? Pick up my clothes and leave as dawn broke and the birds began to sing, pretend when we next met that we were strangers?

  With Amos, sex had been a natural part of our life, sewn into the fabric of things. We spent time together: we went to movies, concerts, pubs and clubs,
we met friends, we ate out and we ate in, we went for walks, we hugged, held hands, made love. But this: I didn’t know what it was. It was as if I was a piece of food, a rare and lovely delicacy that Hayden had found, wanted, picked up and eaten with great care and discerning pleasure – something intimate yet also impersonal.

  I found a towel and sat on the edge of the bath, drying myself carefully, even under my feet, and tried to think what I was feeling, feel what I was thinking. I wasn’t sure of the difference. With Amos it had been clear: sometimes good, sometimes not so good, sometimes tender, sometimes more passionate, sometimes something a bit wrong that we could discuss. But what about this? How had it been for me? I couldn’t tell. I didn’t even know if I wished it hadn’t happened or if I was glad it had. It had felt new, like something I had never done before. Somehow the safety net had been taken away.

  When I went back into the room wrapped in the towel, Hayden’s head was turned towards me but it was still too dark for me to see if his eyes were open. He didn’t speak or move.

  I had to kneel on the floor and search under a chair and the sofa for my clothes. It was difficult to find them among all the other mess. My tights were scrunched up with my knickers trapped inside them. My bra and dress were by the end of the sofa. My shoes had been tossed in random directions. I pulled them all together into one pile and then, quite slowly, put them on, facing Hayden. Now his hands were behind his head and I could feel that he was watching me. I imagined him unblinking and expressionless and, in the darkness, felt more exposed than I had ever been before. As I pulled my clothes on, I thought of him peeling them off me with deliberate care, as if I was precious and might break.

  When I was done I walked across to the sofa and sat beside him.

  ‘I’m going,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not light yet.’

  ‘It’s just a few minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Stay awhile. Nobody should be alone in the small hours.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Naked in the dark and nowhere to hide.’ He shifted. ‘Please, lie down beside me for a bit.’

  So I climbed back onto the sofa and held his naked body against my clothed one and ran my hands down his back and my fingers through his hair and over his face. His cheeks were wet.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said ridiculously, pulling him closer. ‘Don’t be upset. It’ll be all right. Everything will be all right.’

  ’Don’t,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Don’t get involved with me. I’m no good for anyone. I’ll let you down.’

  ‘Who’s involved?’ I aimed for lightness.

  ‘I’m warning you, Bonnie. You really, really shouldn’t.’

  We lay like that until light showed between the curtains. His breathing deepened into sleep, but I was fully awake and I watched him for a long time, the way his eyes flickered with dreams and the way his face softened and slackened. Then I woke him, or half woke him because he barely opened his eyes, although he was smiling, and I turned him towards me and unbuttoned my shirt and we both slid together under dark waters, drowsy and full of slow, strong desire. Afterwards, I got up very quietly and left, shutting the door firmly behind me.

  After

  What time was it? I sat up and peered at the digital clock, whose green numbers glowed dimly in the light filtering through the flimsy curtains. I wanted it to be dark, the room full of coolness and shadow, but it was two o’clock in the afternoon and heat pressed against the windows. I felt sweaty, in need of another shower. The phone rang again and I heard Sonia’s voice. Something about the rehearsal. A shiver ran through me: in one hour we had a rehearsal. We would all be there, except him. But his absence would be like the black hole in the centre of the room, sucking everyone into it. Everyone would know; everyone would look at me. I would have to pretend that I didn’t know where he was. Exchange no glances with Sonia. Act out bewilderment, resignation, irritation. A room full of lies, so many people caught up in this terrible charade. Meet their eyes. Shrug. Smile. Play the banjo. Cover up the silence where his music should have been.

  I climbed out of bed, pulled on an ancient pair of stripy cotton trousers, which were loose enough not to rub my sore skin, and a long white shirt, a bit like a nightshirt, with a high collar that I buttoned to the top to hide my throat, and long sleeves. I wanted to cover myself up and this outfit, which made me look like a cross between a waiter and a prisoner, was the best I could do. I damped down my hair and brushed it until it lay flat on my head. Now I looked a bit like an adolescent boy after a binge.

  The rehearsal was in a different house today: a friend who’d rather grudgingly agreed to have his Saturday afternoon invaded. I took a last glance at myself in the mirror to make sure that there wasn’t some mysterious sign of guilt written all over me, picked up my banjo case and left.

  Before

  I heard Neal on my mobile’s voicemail as I walked the mile and a half back to my flat in the early hours of the morning, stars fading from the clear sky, the moon just above the rooftops. ‘If you don’t get back too late from sorting Hayden out, maybe we could meet up. I could take you out for dinner. Let me know.’ His tone was warm, eager. We had an agreement.

  ‘Bonnie.’ Neal’s voice on my answering-machine at home. ‘Call me when you get this. I’d really like to see you. Don’t worry about how late it is.’ There was a pause, then his voice stumbled: ‘I can’t sleep anyway. I’m thinking of you.’

  Neal was courteous, helpful and somewhat shy. The woman he had loved had died in a car crash. He found it hard to show his feelings. Now, however, he was showing his feelings to me. He was happy because of what he knew was about to happen between us. And I had left him this evening, gone to Hayden’s and had sex with him.

  Did I still want something to happen with Neal? Did I want anything else to happen with Hayden? I sat on the edge of my bed, kicked off my shoes and rubbed my aching feet. What had I done and why had I done it? I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything at all. My body ached and felt strange to me, as if what had taken place with Hayden had changed it in some way. Even thinking of him sent a loose tremor of desire through me.

  I would ring Neal tomorrow – except, of course, today had long ago turned into tomorrow. I would tell him – what? That I was ill, I had the flu. That’s what I’d do. I’d put everything off for a day or two, hide from him and myself.

  After

  Alone in my friend’s house, I put the bottle of wine I had brought for him on his kitchen table and went into the living room to wait. I sat on the armchair, then stood up again to walk around, examining the books on the shelves, the photos on the mantelpiece. It was five past three. Someone should have arrived by now. Had I got the arrangement wrong?

  At ten past three the doorbell rang and it was Sonia. She was wearing a floor-length black skirt with a pale yellow T-shirt, and her dark hair was piled up. She was fresh and clean and strong and full of comfort. I had no idea what to do, what to say, how to behave. I wanted to burst into tears and be hugged by her and at the same time I wanted her to act as if nothing had happened, so that last night could just become a dream of mine, shrivelling in the light of day.

  She looked at me appraisingly. She gave me a little nod. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t turn up.’

  ‘I nearly didn’t.’

  ‘Is anyone else here yet?’

  We stood in the room like hosts waiting for a party to start. There was no conversation that wouldn’t seem artificial. I had the clutching sense of a friendship coming to an end because what she had done for me was so huge, a favour that overshadowed everything else.

  ‘Sonia,’ I began, and the doorbell rang again, three short jabs of sound.

  It was a hot day but Joakim was wearing a thick hoodie,whose sleeves came over his hands. He was carrying his violin tucked under one arm and his face was chalky. There were purplish smudges under his eyes. He grunted some sort of greeting.

 
‘Not with your dad?’ I said.

  He grunted something else.

  ‘You look a bit rough,’ Sonia said cheerfully.

  ‘I feel crap,’ Joakim said. He flung himself onto the sofa. ‘Where is everyone? I thought I’d be the last to arrive.’ He huddled against the cushions like an animal retreating into a burrow.

  ‘You need some strong coffee,’ I said.

  I went into the kitchen, and when the doorbell rang again, I stayed there, leaving Sonia to answer. I heard murmurs but couldn’t tell who had arrived until I carried Joakim’s coffee into the living room. It was Guy, in what passed for casual wear – ironed denims and a short-sleeved blue shirt. He hauled in his drum kit, nodded at me curtly, then turned his attention to Joakim. ‘Where the bloody hell were you?’

  Joakim shrugged. ‘Out.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have rung us? Your mother was frantic.’

  ‘I’m eighteen. Jesus!’

  ‘You still live with us and while you do – What’s the matter?’

  ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  ‘The loo’s through there,’ I said, pointing, and Joakim lurched to his feet.

  Someone hammered at the door, ignoring the bell, and this time I went to answer. I turned away from Neal so that I didn’t have to meet his eyes. My voice came out in a croak. I didn’t know how my legs were holding me steady.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said.

  I didn’t reply, wanting to tell him to go away, leave me alone. I felt I couldn’t have him near me, looking at me with his dark, comprehending eyes.

  ‘Am I the last?’

  ‘No. We’re still waiting.’ Then I did look at him and he looked back at me and for a moment we stood in the middle of the room gazing at each other. A small tic started up just under my left eye – surely everyone could see it dancing above my cheek, a sign of my guilt. ‘Waiting for Hayden and Amos,’ I said – made myself say. The words came out too loudly into the silence that had suddenly fallen. Sonia came over and put a hand on my shoulder. Gradually the room steadied. I dropped my eyes. My face pulsed. Joakim stumbled back into the room, paler than ever.