He Said/She Said(109)
If we get out of this alive, says a little voice inside me.
The cut isn’t deep; it’s just a score on the surface. The blood and the position on the crown of my belly make it look worse than it feels. I’m far more worried about the blow to my head. My ears are still ringing.
The cloth of my T-shirt catches the droplet of blood, and as it’s absorbed it appears to bloom, sudden and fast, like a time-lapse video of a poppy going from bud to full flower. It’s this spreading stain that seems to decide Beth. She picks up the pen and squares off the paper before her, then looks levelly at Jamie.
‘Why don’t you tell me what really happened,’ she says, in the deadest of voices. Her tone doesn’t seem to register with Jamie, who smiles. When he clears his throat, I feel the vibration in the tip of the knife.
‘On the tenth of August, 1999, I travelled alone,’ he lingers on the word to wring meaning from it, ‘to a music festival on Lizard Point, Cornwall, held to coincide with a total eclipse of the sun. There was a free and easy atmosphere at the festival.’ He pauses again, not for effect this time, but to let Beth’s pen catch up with his dictation. ‘On the second evening, around a campfire, I struck up a conversation with Jamie Balcombe, who was also travelling alone. We hit it off immediately.’ It’s the voice he used in court, that expensive education undegraded by prison.
I don’t know if Beth is aware that she’s shaking her head as the lines of spiky writing fill the page. She’s barely looking at the letters as she forms them. Her eyes dart in a triangle, from the paper in front of her, to Jamie, to the knife poised above my belly.
‘Not so fast, you’re not taking a secretarial exam.’ His laughter comes from his neck, not his belly. ‘It’s got to be legible.’ Beth carries on forming the letters at the same pace but slightly more evenly now. I can hear her teeth grinding in her jaw, a sickening bone-on-bone crunch.
The second hand on the clock jumps. Twenty past two. Kit will be here any minute.
Beth finishes her paragraph. Jamie continues. ‘On the morning of the eclipse, I bumped into Jamie again. We decided that it would be nice if we went together to watch the eclipse somewhere a bit more private.’
Jamie’s plan, once he’s got Beth’s ‘confession’ and mine, must be to take it to the authorities, in which case he will be giving himself up. This is the best-case scenario. The worst is that Antonia’s right: he has nothing left to live for; he simply means to clear his name, as he sees it, on the way out, and if that means taking us with him, then I don’t doubt he’d do it.
Everyone looks round as my phone plays Kit’s tune. He must be just off the Tube. Each ring sends the phone scuttling across the table, a little farther away from me; we all watch its path towards the edge. I picture Kit innocently wondering if I need anything from Tesco on the way home. What if this is our last ever chance to talk? What if it’s our last ever communication? The phone finally tips into the crack between the table and the wall, falling beyond reach and sight. It rings out a couple more times, then falls silent.
He will think my failure to pick up is me sulking about his social media fuck-up; how petty that all seems in the light of the knife over my belly. I would forgive him anything right now.
Chapter 61
KIT
21 March 2015
The extra pint and the extra time do nothing to take the edge off. Panic is an antidote to alcohol. Halfway down my glass, a new terror bubbles to the surface. Maybe this isn’t a sulk after all. Maybe Laura’s in hospital; maybe there is something wrong with the pregnancy; maybe because of what she has learned from Beth there is something wrong with the babies – I have to put out my hand to steady myself. Spontaneous early labour due to shock seems like something from a Victorian novel, but these things can happen. Anything can happen, I ought to know that. Maybe she was rushed away before she could grab her phone. Christ, maybe she was unconscious. Why didn’t I think of this earlier? Suddenly going home is as urgent as staying away was before.
I leave the dregs of my pint, hoist my rucksack on and walk to Wilbraham Road. Now, when I want to be fast, the air itself seems against me, tugging at my ankles. Someone has parallel-parked a white Fiat very badly outside the house, and there’s a parking ticket under the wipers. On the doorstep, I shrug off my rucksack, feeling like I might float off without it. A cement mixer churns in next-door’s front garden, the builders out of sight.
When I put my key in the door, I find it on the chain. This means either that she wants to keep me out, or that she’s had the door on the chain all morning, and she’s lying somewhere, unable to move, or worse. I squat to the letterbox; there’s a movement in the kitchen, a displacement of light by shadow. Relief that she is up and about is replaced by the old fear: she’s furious.
‘Laura?’ My voice echoes into the silent hallway. I see only a figure swaying in the kitchen. I slide down the side of the door frame and talk through the gap. ‘Darling, please open the door. Let’s talk about this.’
There’s a gargled sob from the kitchen that screws my insides tight. I would rather anger than tears. I take the Swiss Army knife out of my pocket and flick out several blades before deciding on the short hooked point that doubles as a tin-opener.
‘You have no idea how sorry I am,’ I say, fiddling blindly with the chain on the door. ‘It was a one-off, I promise. I’ve only ever loved you, you know that.’ My knife gets purchase on the chain; with the hooked tip, I ease out the weight at the end. ‘I wish it every day,’ I say. ‘I wish I could turn back the clock and not sleep with her. It only made me realise how much I love you. Please let’s not let it spoil things, not when it was so long ago. We’ve got so much to—’