Just between us, p.13
Just Between Us, page 13
‘I’m not eighteen either.’
‘Right.’ Daan should probably ask how old Oli is, but it seems disingenuous at best, creepy at worst.
‘Nor are you.’ It’s an accusation, but stated as a fact. ‘So how old are you?’
Daan wonders whether he should lie. He decides against it. There’s no point; he’s unlikely to be believed. Besides, if he’s going to get the boy on side, he needs to do so quickly. Time is running out. He has to reveal himself. ‘I’m thirty-nine.’
‘Are you a fucking paedo?’
‘No.’ It’s not something that should be overly denied or explained.
‘I thought you said you were a student.’
‘I don’t think I did.’
‘But you said you were into peri peri chicken and Hot Ones.’
‘I am.’
‘Like as an influencer.’
‘No, I’m certain I didn’t say that.’ Daan was of course subtle. No self-respecting influencer would ever say they were an influencer; he depended on that, talked around the subject and allowed Oli to draw what he wanted from the pauses and inferences.
‘So what do you do?’
‘At the moment, nothing.’
‘I know, COVID, blah blah, but I mean usually what do you do? Pre-pandemic.’
‘I work in the City in London. I’m a banker.’
‘But you decided to do lockdown with your family? Are your parents like old and sick and stuff?’ Daan thinks of his virile father, his energetic petite mother.
‘No, that’s not why I’m staying with them.’
There’s a pause. Daan doesn’t see it coming, and afterwards he will ask himself if that is going to be his lot in life from now on – not seeing things coming, always being a step behind. Hell, he hopes not. He’d hate that. It’s so damned ageing.
‘You’re him, aren’t you,’ says Oli. It’s not a question.
‘Who?’
‘You’re her other husband. You’re Daan Janssen.’
His fingers freeze for a moment. A sniper takes him out. He lies bleeding on the floor. Oli does nothing to resuscitate him. ‘Yes.’ Daan dare not breathe.
The French boys are shouting in their own language, demanding to know what is wrong with Slayr123, why he isn’t saving his friend. They call him a fuckhead and question his patriotism. ‘Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas chez vous, putain de tête?’ They are not prepared to save Daan, though. In disgust, they rage-quit the game. ‘Enculé!’
Daan waits to see if Oli will quit too. He wonders what he can say to influence the situation one way or the other. Then he realises there is nothing. It’s the boy’s choice. The constant sound of gunfire pounding through his headset into his brain is beginning to rattle him. The flashing explosions, the yells and footfall jar. He feels sweat bubble on his top lip. He’s not usually a man who sweats.
‘You must hate me, right?’ he says, finally.
‘I don’t ever think of you,’ replies Oli. Daan knows this has to be a lie. Maybe the biggest lie the boy has told him so far.
‘How did you work out who I am?’
‘You sound old and I watched your gaming play pattern. You only play with me or Seb. At first I thought you had to be a shit-scum journalist. You said you were Swedish, but when I asked what tunes you like – besides the mainstream crap that told me you were thirty upwards – you mentioned a bunch of bands I’d never heard of like Blackbriar, Heideroosjes and Sinister. I checked them out, thinking they might be cool. They are three bands from the Netherlands, death metal and punk. Weird for a Swede. My mu— Leigh always said people lie about a lot of stuff but not the music they like. She would know, right?’ Daan doesn’t interrupt, although he would love to know if his wife had kept separate Spotify accounts for Kai and Leigh, the way she had separate wardrobes and husbands. ‘Then I worked it out. An old Dutch guy. You’re the man who murdered her.’
There is no noise now, the game is over. The silence is deafening.
‘I didn’t murder your mum.’
‘She’s not my mum.’
‘I didn’t kill Leigh Fletcher or Kai Janssen, Kylie Gillingham, whatever the hell you want to call her.’
‘Whatever.’ Daan thinks the nonchalance has to be fake. Oli challenges, ‘Why did you track us down? Are you going to kill us too?’
‘No! No! Of course not. Why would I do that?’ Daan splutters his indignation. ‘I told you, I didn’t kill your mum. I found you because I want you to know that.’
‘Yeah, but you did,’ Oli says, flatly.
‘No, I didn’t,’ Daan insists.
‘I don’t fucking care anyway. She didn’t love us. She’s a bitch.’
‘She did love you.’ Daan doesn’t refute the bitch part. ‘Look, it’s important you believe me. I want you to know I didn’t kill her, because that means whoever did kill her is still out there.’
‘I don’t believe you. You are a weirdo fucking worm that murdered a woman who made a dick out of you and now you’re creeping around me and my brother. I’m going to the police.’
‘Fiona did it,’ Daan blurts. ‘She’s living with you, right? You and your brother are not safe.’
‘That’s bullshit.’
‘I was framed. She framed me.’
‘You would say that. Anyone would say that.’
‘Probably, but it’s true. Think about it, Oli, you’re a clever young man.’
‘You don’t know me. I might be a moron. And don’t patronise me. I’m not a young man. I’m a kid.’ His voice breaks. He’s exhausted and frantic.
Daan wishes he could help him. Even more he wishes that Kai – or more potently for Oli, that Leigh – could wrap her arms around the boy and tell him it is all going to be OK, as she must have done on many other occasions, right? Daan wonders, was she that sort of mother? Kind, comforting, reassuring. He thinks she probably was. She was a kind wife. He’d have said her most compelling characteristics were her sexiness, her wit, the way she offered a challenge, but also, she was simply kind.
He tries again, because he wants to protect his dead wife’s kids. ‘Just let the possibility into your head and then you can decide if you dare to ignore it. If Fiona killed your mother, doesn’t she deserve to be punished for it?’
‘I don’t care who killed Leigh.’ Oli’s voice is flat; he’s crushed by pain and loss.
‘You do, you must.’ Daan’s voice is high, squeaky; for him, desperation and fear have trumped pain and loss. He needs this boy to understand. ‘Fiona is a killer. You and your brother are living with a killer.’
‘You don’t think my dad had anything to do with it?’
Daan lets out a deep sigh. He doesn’t know whether he should lie or not. Which will the boy best respond to? Which will keep him safest. ‘It’s possible,’ he admits. ‘You are in a unique position to find out.’
‘But why would I do that? You’re going down for it. If my dad did have anything to do with it, I don’t want to know. We’re all OK. He seems happy enough with Fiona, and Leigh lied to us. She was married to you. She was having sex with you for years while pretending to love us.’
‘Your mother wasn’t pretending to love you.’
‘She’s not my mother.’
‘But she is, Oli. We both know she is. She loved you so much.’ Daan’s voice rasps with the strain of wanting to be believed. ‘I never saw her with you, but I know better than anyone in the world how much she loved you.’
‘That makes no fucking sense.’
‘I offered her everything, Oli. Everything, do you understand? A penthouse apartment in one of the best properties in London. It has a pool and a gym; you should see the views. I gave her a life of ease and wealth, where she socialised with the great and the good: actors, artists, politicians and journalists, the people who are zeitgeist.’ Dan is speaking quickly, not sure how much time Oli will give him. ‘I gave her an elegant extended family who liked and admired her. She had a life of unfettered joy, free from hardships and responsibilities, full of beautiful clothes, shoes and handbags. You know how women like shoes and handbags, right? But guess what? She couldn’t leave you. If it had just been a choice between me and your dad, I’d have won. There is no doubt in my mind she loved you and your brother more than anything.’
‘Piss off.’ Oli quits, and Daan is left alone with the tragic truth of what he’s just admitted.
18
Stacie
It’s crazy to be unnerved by an old woman with dementia, but I set off back to the cottage at pace. What did she mean? You are the dead woman. Well, nothing, obviously – she has dementia – but still it’s a weird thing to say. The gaps are gnawing at me now. Initially all I thought was important was surviving cancer, living. But now I feel defined by my absence rather than my presence, and it’s creating intense anxiety. I am exhausted with trying to work out who I am. I should not be unnerved by the crazy ramblings of an old woman, but I am, because I’m a house built on sand; there are no foundations. At any moment I could crumble to dust. The days without knowing who I am have turned into weeks, months, and it’s terrifying.
As I dash home, I try to repeat my usual ritual that I use to try to calm myself. Normally I recall what I do know. General knowledge, facts about history, politics or popular culture. But that’s not adequate today, and I realise I have been kidding myself pretending that it is enough to help. Instead, more ephemeral memories start to jump into my head. The few shadowy possibilities – things I dismissed as false memories or impossible dreams – jostle for attention, demanding I face them once again.
The ginger-scented bath, rich and luxurious. The expensive dresses, carelessly discarded. The sex that left me helpless, quivering. The blonde man responsible for said sex. The grave that I hate. The children that I love. The garden, full of flowers and hope. The other man, silently pleading for help but also throwing me a lifeline. I sense that. It wasn’t a one-way thing. Who are they all, and where are they now? I want to pull out my hair, slam my hands against my stupid head to somehow force some focus through the quagmire of these half-memories. I don’t know what is real.
The sky seems to be reflecting my unsettled mood. It’s looking ominous; dense engorged clouds are being buffeted by the intensifying wind, and after the weeks of sunshine, it feels especially mean and taunting. Rain starts to fall and slices into my body at right angles; it feels as though sharp needles are being thrown at me. I run the last fifty metres with my head down and so I simply barrel into him. The shock of the physical contact makes me freeze. I haven’t touched anyone for months, other than the occasional hug or arm squeeze from my dad. This body is stout, and if not quite firm, then certainly substantial. I feel the soft cotton of his T-shirt against my cheek and the slip of the nylon of his waterproof as I automatically reach for his arms to steady myself. I can smell the detergent his clothes have been washed in, and there is an intimacy. Unexpected and fleeting, but absolute. I feel dizzy. Our eyes meet.
Giles Hughes.
I know him instantly. His clear, bright eyes, his easy smile, his ruddy cheeks. Features that combine to make him look like a children’s TV presenter; kind, in control. I wait a beat.
‘Sorry, sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going,’ I gabble. I’m embarrassed, but also so delighted that I know him that I think I might fling my arms around him in relief.
‘Turned awful, hasn’t it.’ He doesn’t seem to expect an answer. His hood is pulled down low and he’s barely glanced at me. He starts to stride on. Then he spots Ronnie and pauses. He glances at me again, obviously placing me now that he’s recognised the dog. I try not to be offended by that.
‘Hi, Giles,’ I smile. He squints at me, pulls his face into an expression of surprise. ‘Yup, it’s me, Stacie,’ I say with faux brightness that I hope hides some awkwardness. I recognised him. This is really exciting for me. I want to gush and tell him so, but realise that it might be a bit much. There’s a ring on his left hand; he’s unlikely to welcome the news that he’s the only person I’ve placed since my operation. It is a lot to load onto a person.
He steps further back, widening the distance between us. ‘Evening,’ he mutters. Then he abruptly turns, dashes off, head down against the wind and rain.
I watch his bent back as he shrinks on the horizon. I want to talk to him some more, but this isn’t the moment. The rain is pouring, a ferocious surprise of a summer storm; I’m quickly going to be wet through to my underwear, so I sprint in the opposite direction from Giles’s disappearing figure, towards Dad’s welcoming cottage.
When I explode into the kitchen, the back door swings on its hinges, the gusting wind making it crash against the wall. It feels like the entire building shakes. Dad is so startled that he nearly drops the bottle of red wine he’s opening.
‘Oh my God, I need that,’ I say, practically snatching the glass from him even as he’s still pouring wine into it. I glug it back like water and then hold it out to him for a refill.
‘Steady,’ he smiles. ‘Remember you’re on medication.’ It’s a well-meant observation, but I hate it when Dad monitors my alcohol consumption. He often mentions that the doctors say I have to ‘take things steady’. I glower at him. ‘What’s up?’ he asks.
‘I’ve just bumped into Giles Hughes.’
Dad stares at me. And waits. ‘You recognised him?’
‘I did!’ I grin, and Dad gets it. He beams right back at me. This is momentous. ‘Can’t say it was exactly the warm reunion I might have hoped for from the very first person I recognised, but I guess I can’t expect that from him. There’s obviously going to be some embarrassment between us, and the storm and everything didn’t help.’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘Not much; he mentioned the weather.’ I laugh at the Englishness of this. The ordinariness of it. An embarrassed ex taking refuge in small talk. It seems so normal, and as I’m generally very far from that state, it feels like a delightful relief.
Dad laughs too. ‘He never was much of a conversationalist.’ We beam at one another and clink glasses.
‘It has really cheered me up. That Prue McCullen freaked me out.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. I decided to speak to her, but it was a mistake. She was rambling. What she said didn’t make sense.’
‘Put her out of your head. Poor woman. As I said, she’s not well. So sad.’ Dad sympathetically dismissing Prue McCullen and not lending her any credence is just what I need. He always knows how to cheer me, what to say. ‘Go and get some dry PJs on. I’ll dig out some crisps.’
It’s a good night. After I change into pyjamas and towel-dry my hair, we settle down to a game of cards. I feel buoyant that I recognised Giles, and it seems that consequently something in my mind has melted, relaxed. Or maybe that can be attributed to the fact that Dad and I drink the best part of two bottles of wine. At the end of the evening, I throw the bottles in the recycling bin and swill the glasses under the tap. Not exactly a wash, more of a cat’s lick. Who said that? My grandfather? Yes, I’m sure it was. I can hear his voice. I feel the weight of lowering a frying pan into sudsy water, then lifting it out again almost immediately and far from clean. He gently ribs my efforts at washing up, but I’m very young so he’s not criticising; there’s a sense that he admires that I’ve tried. Classical music is playing in the background.
‘Did your father live with us when I was a child?’ I ask Dad.
‘No.’
‘Oh, I thought I remembered him. A grandfather, my grandfather.’
Dad pauses, then smiles. ‘He visited in the holidays, though.’
‘OK, that will be it. I remember him.’ I beam.
‘What do you remember about him?’
‘I liked him.’ I can’t visualise my grandfather and I don’t recall Dad showing me any photos of him, but I feel a sense of warmth and safety seeping through my body at the thought of him. ‘Like you, he enjoyed a fried breakfast, right?’
‘Who doesn’t.’ Dad waits to see if I have anything more to offer up. Retrieving a memory is like pulling on a cobweb thread. Gossamer thin. He doesn’t want to yank at it, cause it to snap.
Though that’s all I have, I meet his eyes and smile. ‘Things are starting to come back to me.’
‘It seems that way.’
I go to bed a mix of excitement and relief. The night before Super Saturday shimmers. I think there must be millions of people up and down the country lying in a pool of anticipation. Excited at the pull of pubs and restaurants opening, the possibility of meeting people from outside their own household, seeing old friends again. Yet I suspect very few of them are as hopeful or eager as I am. The prospect of seeing faces that might trigger memories and allow everything to fall back into place is making me giddy. I know Dad wants me to be cautious and continue shielding, but I’m not sure how I’ll resist hunting people out.
I fall asleep knowing that Super Saturday will allow me to find some answers.
Saturday 4 July 2020
19
Oli
The train is packed. Like there’s not a spare bit of space to move in. They are lucky to have seats; some people are standing. Mostly groups of older teens who are rowdy and drinking beer from cans even though it’s only early morning. It’s so hot some of these lads have taken off their shirts and Oli can smell their sweat. As usual, he tries to avoid looking at other teenagers, especially older ones; that would be asking for trouble, something he really doesn’t need to do. Trouble obviously finds him. There are families too. Mums and dads with their kids with cheerfully coloured backpacks stuffed with activity packs and Tupperware boxes of treats. Oli doesn’t like looking at them either.
The entire crappy world seems to have decided to go to Lyme Regis, home to famous Georgian fossil collector and palaeontologist Mary Anning. The words just tumble in his head. That’s what Leigh always said when she mentioned Lyme Regis: home to famous Georgian fossil collector and palaeontologist Mary Anning. She recited it in a little sing-song voice. It was one of those funny (not very funny) family things that all families have. They’d all join in like a chorus; at least they did when they were younger. Now he thinks that was a bit pathetic. A dead woman fascinated with things that had died millions of years before her. Boring. Still, the tourist board make as much of it as they can, naturally. That and cream teas.
