Nothing happening is worse than something happening.
Well, maybe.
I haven’t had any further texts overnight from the unknown number. Google throws up no matches for it and I decide against messaging or calling. I try searching for Yasmine’s name online, but there’s little information about her – and her Facebook page shows me only her name and a photo. It’s rather annoying when people know how to turn on their privacy settings. I probably should have called the number when I was following Yasmine – but it didn’t occur to me at the time.
It’s been a day and a half since seeing David in that photo at the awards. A day since my car was stolen. I woke up this morning expecting something to happen – more cryptic texts, or contact from the police. Instead, there is nothing. I potter around, making myself coffee and indulging with a couple of slices of toast. There’s still no sign of the Tigger pot and so, after that, there’s little to do other than work.
The windscreen on Andy’s car is frosty, but the heating deals with that in barely twenty seconds. If this was my car, I’d be impatiently outside with a bucket of hot water in an attempt to get things moving. That does make me think that whoever took my car must have done so not long after I parked it. If it had been left for long, it would have been an icebox.
It is only a short distance to the studio, but I drive as carefully as if I’m taking my test and there’s a mardy middle-aged singleton at my side. It’s partly because Andy’s car still feels like it’s trying to drive itself, but mainly because it would terrible if I had an actual crash while denying being involved in another.
By the time I let myself into the studio, one of the other trainers – Mel – is busy laying out the mats for her yoga session. It’s clear that almost nobody yet knows about my car being involved in the crash because we go through the usual small talk. One of the other trainers is off to Bermuda for Christmas, so we go back and forth about how strange the festive season will be if it’s warm. People start to arrive and Mel sets her whale music going, which is always my cue to move on.
I head up to my office and open the slats of the blinds enough that I can see out, while nobody should be able to look in. It gives me a view of almost the entire lower level, including the entrance and reception, and I spend a couple of minutes watching as more people arrive. I’m not sure what I’m looking for but, whatever it is, it’s not outside my window.
My desk is full of pads and pens, even though I rarely use them. Almost everything is done digitally, but I end up writing myself a list:
- Someone who looks like David?
- A brother?
I start to write David’s name and get as far as the capital-D before stopping myself. Even entertaining such a thought feels like a step to madness. Neither of the other two explanations feel particularly solid, either. David didn’t tell me about Yasmine at the beginning – but it’s not as if he concealed her identity for the whole time we were together. It was weeks, not years… although I have wondered if he’d have ever told me if I hadn’t brought it up.
I remember some of the things from David’s death two years ago with perfect clarity and yet, like anything, memories fade. Truth blurs with fiction and I’ve told so many fictions since what happened that I sometimes find myself believing the lies. I repeated them so often in the immediate aftermath that I sometimes lie awake at night trying to figure out what was real and what wasn’t.
But I do remember how I killed him and what I did directly afterwards. I felt uneasily calm, perhaps as composed as I’ve ever been. It’s only now that I wonder whether it was an illusion and my mind is playing with itself. Perhaps I was never that collected and everything that happened did so in a crushing panic? Somehow, in among all that, I failed to notice that David was never dead…
That’s my fear – that the truth I’ve been telling myself for two years was never the truth to begin with. That’s why nothing happening is worse than something happening.
I’m scratching the scar on my neck again – and everything that has happened has seemingly left me slipping into old habits once more. I watch the lower floor for a while longer and then turn back to my list, though I still can’t bring myself to add David’s name to the bottom.
After getting through a few bits of admin, I take Andy’s advice and call a solicitor’s office. It’s the same one I spoke with when I was trying to figure out whether it was worth divorcing David. The person who answers the phone must know who I am as she puts me through to ‘one of the partners’ – Mr Patrick – almost immediately.
I tell him what happened, half expecting him to reply that he can’t help. I’m braced for the worst, but he’s calm and seemingly unruffled. Mr Patrick has one of those voices that’s as smooth as a Creme Egg left in a windowsill on a summer’s day.
‘I think what you’re missing is that the police have to prove you were driving,’ he says. ‘It’s not the other way around. You don’t have to prove that you weren’t.’
‘I wasn’t,’ I reply.
‘And I’m sure they are rapidly coming to that conclusion.’
He tells me to leave it with him for now but to get in contact if I hear anything more from the police. I instantly feel better after hanging up. It’s obvious, of course. The one thing everybody knows about a justice system is that people are innocent until proven guilty – and so it’s clear that the police have to prove it was me driving. If they had any evidence of that – which they can’t because I wasn’t – then I would have already been charged.
I turn back to my computer and again look for details from the crash. In the time I’ve been speaking to the solicitor, a news story has appeared that names the pedestrian who was hit. ‘Trevor Barnwell, 52, from Gradingham’ was struck in the early hours of yesterday morning. It says that police are investigating the circumstances, but, other than that, there are few more details than before.
I spend the rest of the morning getting on with the smaller jobs I usually put off. I pay the cleaning bill and send out a couple of invoices, before a text arrives from Andy, who asks how I’m doing. When I say that I’m working as normal, he asks if I want to go for a meal that evening. I’m tempted to say no, if only because I’m in the mood to barricade myself away from the world. Instead, I end up agreeing because at least it will be something that’s happening.
It’s only after all of that that I remember to check the membership system. It takes me seconds to find Yasmine. As she said, she signed up over the phone yesterday. The timing is curious, but I’m not sure what else to read into it.
Although we call it a ‘membership system’, it’s not quite true. We don’t sell memberships because there’s no on-site gym – we sell blocks of classes. Yasmine’s address is listed, which, if I’d checked in the first place, would have stopped me from having to drive aimlessly around her estate. If I’d done that, though, I’d have missed her walking along the streets.
Her phone number is also on file – although it doesn’t match the unknown 07 one that’s been texting me. I’m not sure if that means anything. There’s an email address, too – and everything seems as it should. I’m still not sure what to make of what I overheard from her call last night. It’s not as if I can do much in any case. I can hardly follow her everywhere.
I take a few minutes to watch what’s going on below, where one of the physical therapists has arrived. He has a roll of towels tucked under his arm and spends a minute or two chatting to Jess on reception, before heading off to one of the smaller side rooms. There are two more classes in the afternoon, with two more trainers. This somehow ended up being the business plan in that I’ve gone from actually doing what I wanted to taking money from other people who are now doing it.
I turn back to the computer screen but can’t face the mundanity of it any longer. I never grew up wanting to put numbers into spreadsheets or fill in the blanks for invoices. I’m not sure anyone did. Instead, I change into the running gear I keep in the cabinet. I hesitate when it comes to the orange studio top but opt for it anyway.
It’s a warmer day outside today, though not by much. My breath spirals ahead of me as I start jogging along the pavement that leads towards the centre of Gradingham. The hedges that line the path gradually turn into low walls and houses set back from the road.
Gradingham has its moments during all four seasons. In the spring, the fields that surround it bloom with a golden yellow and, on sunny days, it feels as if the whole village is glowing. The summer means emerald green fields under endless blue skies. There are fêtes and beer gardens; with weekly barbecues at the cricket club. Autumn brings a rainbow blanket as the leaves change colour seemingly day to day. Even winter, with its glacial verges and biting cold, has its charm. When it snows, or the frost is particularly thick, these stone-clad buildings are coated in postcard-perfect white. I’ve lived here all my life and, I suppose, the window is narrowing for me to ever leave.
The houses turn into the High Street and I run along the deserted path before crossing the road at the end and heading back the way I’ve come.
With a job in fitness, everyone assumes that trainers enjoy activities like this. There is a degree of truth to that – but running is still horrible. Sometimes I crave a chip butty like anyone else and would rather have my feet up in a comfy chair.
I’m thinking of chips as I arrive back at the studio. My watch says I’ve done a fraction over 10km and I head upstairs to have a shower. In the time that has taken, I’ve received no further texts, calls or emails.
I waste another hour doing little but wondering if this is it from now on. Instead of any sort of conclusion to who was in the photo, or who took my car, I’ll live with this needle of paranoia.
I am working my way through a stack of receipts when an email arrives from Steven, the awards organiser. He has sent me a link to a website that is hosting a series of photos from the night. I skim through a badly written report and the list of winners to get to the pictures. Most of them are of individuals or small groups posing somewhat awkwardly. I’m in four – two of which are from when I was on stage getting the award; the other two were taken when I was looking the other way in a group shot. I go through each image looking for the man in the blue suit who looks like David.
He’s not there.
Almost all of the photos were taken in the early part of the evening, so it’s not necessarily a surprise. If he was only in the room for the moment the winners’ group photo was taken, then he wouldn’t be in any of the others.
I focus on the final ones in the set – but Steven’s photo was taken at a different angle than Jane’s. Some of the winners are looking to this picture-taker, while others – including me – are staring at someone else who had a camera. It’s all a bit of a mess – and there’s no sign of anyone who looks like David in the back. It’s only when I’m comparing his pictures to the one Jane sent me that I remember the circumstances. We were all ready to step away when she stopped us for one final shot. It was that one in which the man in the blue suit appeared.
I’m still scanning through the photos when my phone rings and the word ‘MUM’ flashes across the screen. It’s rare that she calls me – and almost all our phone conversations happen at pre-determined times. I’ll go into them with a literal list of things to mention because, without that, I’ll be stuck with a lecture about how my life is going nowhere and that things haven’t been the same since David left. That’s if she remembers David has gone.
I wince as I press the button to answer. It is never good news when she calls unexpectedly.
‘Hi, Mum…’
‘You’ll never guess who’s got cancer.’
I stumble over a reply. As opening gambits go, it’s strong.
‘Sorry…?’ I say.
‘Go on: guess.’
‘Mum, I—’
‘Iris. I just heard. Lung cancer. Never smoked a cigarette in her life. Still, we all breathed it in back then. She’s only two years older than me. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’
I don’t get a chance to ‘think’ because she’s off. There’s no time for me to tell her that I have no idea who Iris is because she’s busy explaining in intricate detail about how chemotherapy might or might not work and how Iris has been given three months to live. There’s a sort of glee to her telling, as if one of her friends having cancer is an indication that Mum herself has lived a good life because she hasn’t got it. Even if I could get a word in, I wouldn’t know what to say. I’ve learned with experience that the best way to handle these types of conversation is to let Mum talk herself out. Give it five minutes and she’ll move onto the weather.
That’s why I’m only half listening when all the hairs on my arm stand up.
‘Anyway, it was nice for David to pop in. I’ll never know why you got rid of him. Still, I suppose that’s the modern way, isn’t it? I just think that—’
‘You saw David…?’
Mum stops speaking and I can imagine her frowning with annoyance at being interrupted.
‘What?’ she says.
‘You said that you saw David…?’
There’s a pause and then: ‘Who?’
‘David.’
‘Who?’
I stop and take a breath. Mum is at her most coherent when she’s allowed to process things at her own pace. Interruptions not only annoy her but they make her lose any train of thought.
‘You said that David popped in,’ I say slowly.
There’s another gap and I’m worried I’ve lost her. I wait and then hear her clucking her tongue.
‘He came by yesterday,’ she says.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I might be old, Morgan, but I’m not senile. He popped in yesterday. I’ll never know why you got rid of him. Still, I suppose that’s the modern way, isn’t it? I just—’
‘Mum.’
‘What?’
‘I’m coming over.’