Our House(55)

‘Fi’s Story’ > 01:41:20

On my return to Trinity Avenue that Sunday, Harry was the first one I saw as I let myself in. Though by now accustomed to the comings and goings of his separated parents, he always came into the hallway to announce the news headlines.

‘Leo hurt his eye!’

‘Did he? How?’

‘Totally by accident, it wasn’t my fault. And we’ve finished marking everything with the special police pen!’

‘Well done! Did you do all the phones and iPads and things?’

‘Yes, every single one. Oh, and Daddy’s being sick again,’ he remembered, as Bram appeared from the bathroom.

‘Really?’ I said. Again? ‘Are you all right, Bram?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of food poisoning. How was your weekend, Fi?’

‘It was good. I . . . I spent it with a friend.’ We held each other’s gaze and I surprised myself by blushing. Bram’s response was peculiar to say the least: one side of his face began to convulse, as if sustaining blows from an invisible opponent. He looked, in fact, just as a more vengeful ex-wife might fantasize about him looking: at her mercy, crushed.

Hypothetically – because I wasn’t that woman – it didn’t feel nearly as satisfying as I might have expected.

‘Let me go and have a look at Leo’s eye,’ I said.





29


Bram, Word document

I was ready with my next move even before the inevitable provocation came on Monday morning:

- I take it you’ve seen the latest news? Whole new ball game now.

If I were really paranoid, I’d think Mike had arranged for the poor child to die for his own benefit. I couldn’t countenance seeing him again and so I phoned.

‘Nice to hear from you, Bram,’ he said. ‘You’ve finally seen the error of your ways, have you?’

‘I got your text,’ I said, coldly. ‘Your compassion is overwhelming.’

He sniggered. ‘I’m not in the business of compassion, you must know that by now.’

‘Then you’re a sociopath.’

He sighed. ‘Must we go through the same routine every time? Is this really all you called to say?’

I collected myself. ‘I called because I have a proposal for you.’

‘Oh yeah? Then we should—’

‘No, I have no interest in meeting again. I’ll tell you now, over the phone. Take it or leave it.’

His scornful puff of laughter made me want to hunt him down and smash my phone into his face.

‘Go on then, let’s hear it.’

I sucked in a lungful of air, enough to deliver my piece without pause: ‘You do what you need to do. If you’re crazy enough to steal passports from me or whatever else you need, then I won’t stop you. But I’m having nothing to do with it. You commit the crime and if by some miracle you succeed, you do whatever you like with the cash, go wherever you like. Either way, I’ll play dumb. I’ll have never met you, never heard your name.’

Steal passports from me . . . I won’t stop you: that was the offer, buried in the speech, and I knew he would unearth it straight away. Take what you need from me, just don’t ask me to be an active conspirator.

In the twenty-four hours since I’d read of little Ellie Rutherford’s death, this scenario – absurd, foolish, wicked though it was – had established itself as a comparatively desirable option. I would be the victim just like Fi. We’d lose the house but we’d lose it together, we’d have each other. It might be the making of us – the re-making of us. I imagined myself comforting her, telling her we would get through it together, that material possessions were nothing next to health, family, love. It would take years, but I would start to forget that poor girl and the family she left behind. I might even find a way to atone.

‘Is that it?’ Mike said.

Another long breath and I sped on: ‘In return, I’ll need the photo from the incident and whatever this recording is that Wendy made. I’ll need your word that there’s nothing left that could connect us or incriminate me.’ Even as I spoke, I understood how flimsy any such promise would be: he and Wendy were blackmailers, of course they would keep copies, with or without each other’s knowledge. Fresh anxiety followed: there was also a text message I’d overlooked. The one I’d received from Wendy after our night together, with the link to the news piece about the cash reward, before Mike had entered the frame, had been sent to my ‘official’ registered phone, the one provided by my employer. I’d deleted it, of course, but couldn’t messages and files be recovered by police even after deleted? Even if those fools were satisfied they’d fulfilled their side of the bargain, even if Mike gave me a convincing alibi in the event of capture, would technology betray me?

Having felt close to euphoria when devising this solution, I was now freefalling through its holes, my soul screaming.

‘Hmm.’ Mike’s voice slid into my ear, sticky, poisonous. ‘I really don’t think you’re in a position to make demands, Bram, even if you’ve deluded yourself into thinking what you’re actually making is an offer.’

‘But I don’t see why you need me,’ I said in a whine, already reduced to a pleading child. ‘You can do it without me.’