The image of you, p.34
The Image of You, page 34
‘Which I probably will be.’
‘You can always get another job, Nick. You have holidays owing to you, right? Take those at first.’
‘You have to book holidays, you can’t just flit.’
‘Let’s just hope your boss has a romantic streak.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘Whatever. It’s worth it; we’ll be safer in the States if her body turns up.’
He sways, leans against the wall.
‘Why?’
‘Because I have an American passport. Obviously. We’ve both lived there since we were nine. Anna and I were naturalized and have citizenship. If the crime comes to light, it will be harder to subpoena me from the States.’
‘But I haven’t got American citizenship.’
‘No. Anyway, none of this matters.’ I didn’t want him to dwell on this. ‘If you don’t report her, how will they find out who she is? They won’t be looking for her. Or us.’
‘There must be records. Dental records or something.’
‘Anna was always terrified of the dentist. I don’t think she ever registered in the UK. Frankly, if she was going to have dental work done, then she’d have come back to the US, we’re light years ahead when it comes to that sort of thing. Once things have died down, I can go back to being me and we can carry on as we were.’
‘What about your parents? My parents. They’ll miss Anna.’
I was getting tired by then. Must I be the one to think of everything? ‘Oh fuck, Nick. I don’t know. You can tell your parents you divorced her in the end, that it didn’t work out. I’ll stage a falling-out with my parents. Anna can just disappear. Whatever. Look, let’s just get through this initial crisis, shall we?’
‘You’ll never be able to go back to being Zoe.’
Was he for real?
‘You’ll have to stay as Anna for the rest of your life.’
‘No fucking way. Can you imagine me playing Little Miss Sunshine for the rest of my days?’
He couldn’t.
‘You might have to. No one will miss Zoe but—’
‘Frankly, that’s pretty insulting.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Well, I’ll keep her ID and my personality then. How about that, Nick? Best of both worlds, after all?’ I snapped.
‘She’ll never have a funeral. She won’t be remembered and honoured. What about Ivan, Vera, Mrs Delphine, Rick?’
‘Who?’
‘He’s a guy who took a bullet for his country, and she’s a woman with kids with osteosarcoma. They’re all people at the centre who loved Anna, had been helped by Anna. They would want to say goodbye to her, they have the right to.’
‘Or maybe they would want to believe she’d never died. That she was living in America with her husband. Haven’t they all endured enough?’
‘I’ll sleep on the chair,’ was the only answer he gave me.
‘Whatever.’
I wasn’t going to beg him to get into bed with me, was I? I’ve never had to do that. I rolled over and pretended to quickly fall asleep. Genuine sleep followed pretty swiftly. It had been a long day.
* * *
Things are a bit easier this morning, largely because we both have so much to do and activity alleviates any need to talk. We have to be at the airport by six thirty, and although it’s just a five-minute shuttle-bus ride away we’re still up against the clock. I don’t know what to wear. I haven’t got any of Anna’s clothes with me and Nick’s right about one thing, most of my clothes are a bit too out there for Anna. In the end I settle on jeans and a baggy T-shirt. Usually I’d wear these (skin-tight) jeans with a vest top, and I’d wear the baggy T-shirt with teeny cutaway denim shorts. This look works, though; I’m happy with it. I finish off my outfit with trainers, rather than heels, which would be my usual preference. I tell him he needs a shave and I order him a full English breakfast. He doesn’t touch it.
‘Never mind, they’ll give you something on the plane,’ I say.
I’m not sure he hears me above the running faucet; he doesn’t respond. I have natural yogurt and a fresh fruit salad.
I understand the importance of playing the part so choose to behave just as though we’re an excited, giddy couple eloping, both when we’re in public and when we’re alone. It’s too much to constantly dip in and out of Anna’s character; I’d lose the plot. It’s safest to just pretend to love life. The way she does. Did. The thought makes me crumple slightly inside, as though my organs are being twisted or scrunched up, as though they were made of paper that can be rolled into a ball and tossed into a bin. It’s a terrible feeling; debilitating. I push it away.
Nick goes through the motions; he doesn’t respond to my chatter, it seems to be all he can do to say his name and mutter monosyllabic replies such as ‘yes’ and ‘no’. At security I think he gives the guy the impression that he’s packed fireworks, liquid nitrogen and a car battery in his hand luggage, he is behaving so peculiarly. Nick isn’t interested in looking around the Duty Free shops, although they are brilliant at Heathrow. I swiftly buy him a clean shirt, underwear and trousers, all from different retail outlets, as that’s less likely to draw attention. I insist he goes into the toilets to change.
‘Don’t throw your clothes away. Put them in this bag. We’ll destroy them later. You have blood on your jeans.’
He looks like he might faint when I say that, but he does as I tell him without offering any objections. While he’s changing I buy a book from WHSmith, although when I give it to him he doesn’t even thank me. When he thinks I’m not looking he keeps his eyes trained on me, wary, defensive. He’s studying me, like an opponent at a chess match. He’s trying to piece it all together, predict my next move. When I turn to him he swiftly looks away. He won’t meet my gaze. We can’t look one another in the eye any more. We’re both scared of what we might see.
I’d booked us Premium Economy seats. Initially, I had wanted to splash out and get Club but decided against it because if Nick does lose his job, we might have a few tight months before he secures another one. Economies must be made. Now I’m glad that we’re booked into the busier section of the plane because there’s some comfort in having more people around us. They provide a distraction. Watching other people go about their normal lives—squabble over seats, huff and puff about cabin space, noisily order drinks—helps tether us. Nick is still being deathly quiet. I don’t think anyone watching us at all carefully would believe we are love’s young dream; I can only hope no one is watching us too closely. It’s not until we’re in our seats, the engines are running and the flight attendant is vainly trying to keep everyone’s attention focused on the safety video that Nick leans towards me. He puts his mouth very close to my ear, so that I can feel his breath tickle and no one else can hear what he’s saying.
He whispers, ‘Was it your plan all along to kill her?’ It’s a brave question. I didn’t think he’d go there. ‘You booked the tickets and airport hotel in advance. You found someone to take her body away with remarkable swiftness.’ His voice cracked. ‘Did you plan it, Zoe?’
I turn to him, wide-eyed. ‘Nick, how could you think such a thing? I thought there would be a fight at the restaurant. I thought it was a good idea for us to have these flights booked so we could have a place to retreat to.’
For a moment he looks relieved. He needed to hear as much. He had to have it said. A tragic and terrible accident he’ll learn to live with. Anything more would be inconceivable, unforgivable. The crease on his forehead between his eyes softens. He sits back in his seat and reaches for his headphones but then he freezes. I watch as the colour drains from his face. He was grey to start with today, now he looks blue—no, colourless. Like a winter sky. His jaw goes slack, yett his hands grip the arms of the seat.
He opens his eyes and stares at me. ‘But you booked the flight under her name. You knew you were going to use her passport.’
I suppose it was only a matter of time. I’d hoped his hangover, the guilt and shock might have kept this at bay longer. I try to bluff.
‘If you’d chosen her, I thought it would be a good idea for you two to take a break. For you to fly out and meet Mom and Dad,’ I say hurriedly.
He’s shaking his head. I think he’s going to be ill again.
‘You expect me to believe you’d be gracious in defeat. No way, Zoe, no way. You’d have expected to win all along if there was a showdown. Losing is not an option for you. Losing me, or whatever it is you’d set your mind to. You’d always have the confidence to believe you’d be the one picked, if it came to it. You told her you were leaving; you always knew it would be you on this flight.’
He’s right. I had no idea he knew me so well.
‘Yet, you booked it in her name.’
What can I say? After a moment I decide that all I can do is tell the truth. It isn’t very me, but what the hell? I turn to him. Lean close so that our lips are just centimetres apart. If I put out my tongue, stretched it, it would be inside his mouth. I wonder, would he let me? Would he like that.
Instead, I say, ‘Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you.’
Forty-Five
Nick
Fuck, fuck, fuck. He didn’t know what to do. Where was the handbook on this? Fuck. He wished that word didn’t keep spiralling around his head. It wasn’t helping. He knew it was pretty Neanderthal but he really couldn’t think of any other word that would do. Repeating it had the effect of stunning him. Not calming him, exactly—he couldn’t imagine anything could do that—but lulling him into a sort of transcendental state. He had no idea how he would manage to sit through an eight-hour flight. Next to her. A murderer.
It was surreal. From the moment she told him about the fall he’d doubted her. The story didn’t quite hang together because it actually was too neat. Last night, he hadn’t been able to take it all in, piece it together, in order to take it apart. It was only at the moment when she handed over her passport that it struck him. It made sense to leave the country as Anna if she was covering up Anna’s death, Bbut how could she have known that when she booked the ticket? Zoe had planned it. She’d planned to kill her sister. For him.
The thought made him shake and quake. He imagined the scene. He didn’t want to; it was the last thing he wanted, yet he couldn’t not. Violent images hijacked him. If it was deliberate, then it was unlikely that Anna’s death was the result of a single shove. That would be too unpredictable. Maybe Zoe had used an instrument, a weapon. She must have clubbed Anna with something to be sure she’d go down. Not one blow and a fatal slip, more likely a beating, over and over again. A sustained attack. He closed his eyes, nonethelesshe could still see it. Blood up the mirror, blood on the basin and floor. Blood on his hands.
He wasn’t in the slightest bit flattered by her ‘I did it for you’ routine. Did she think he might be? He was disgusted, despairing. Doomed. He sat absolutely still for the entire flight. He wanted to be away from her. He wanted to scramble out of his seat and push towards the exit, fling open the door and plunge thousands of feet, just to be away from her, but he couldn’t do that. The only way he could escape her was by being absolutely and utterly still, turning in on himself, sinking inside himself and not acknowledging his physical needs. He didn’t eat, or sleep, or speak or even visit the toilet. Instead, he thought about what he should do next.
His initial thought was to simply call over a flight attendant and explain the situation, confess to his part in it. Complete and unequivocal. How could he find the words? What was his part in it? He’d covered up a murder. He was the motive for a murder. It was his fault someone was dead. The thought punched him in the gut. Anna was dead because of him.
He’d only ever got into a fight once in his life. Aged sixteen, walking home from the cinema with three of his mates. They’d bumped into a gang of older, harder boys that they knew by reputation. One of his mates was the lippy sort. He had some long-standing wrangle going on with these older boys; Nick couldn’t remember what it was about, if he ever knew. His mate said something to the wrong guy, the next thing he knew there were punches flying. He took three quite serious blows: two in his stomach and one in his shoulder. The pain of it was breathtaking. It wasn’t fast and glamorous, like he’d always imagined. Being in a fight was brutal, messy, undignified. He’d thought he’d be the sort to fight back—one, two, take that.He didn’t, he cowered. There were two of them on him, both bigger, older, stronger. He couldn’t do anything. He tried to curl himself into a ball. He remembered it clearly, each punch being landed, even though it was half a lifetime ago. He remembered being outraged and impotent.
Like now.
Humiliated, outfoxed and full of horror.
Like now.
Two of his friends had fared much worse, and the third had run, screaming, for help. Wise move, as he’d managed to avoid any blows and his actions broke up the violence sharpish. His mother had wanted them to go to the police, press charges. His father was old-school. He’d said that these things happened to boys and that now Nick would know better than to mix with trouble-seeking, lippy sorts in the future. Learned his lesson.
He hadn’t, though, had he?
He eyed the button that would call the flight attendant but did not push it. What would that achieve? He’d scare those around him; cause further panic and horror. They’d have to land the plane, maybe turn around. He’d be disrupting the day of hundreds of people. People going to weddings or funerals, important business meetings, much-needed holidays. No, he would wait until he was in America and then he’d hand himself in to the authorities there. The thought sent huge waves of terror through his body. American police officers carried guns, and they had the death penalty in some states. Not New York, he was pretty sure of that, but years of American TV and movies had convinced Nick that American cops were tough. He didn’t know anything about the law out there. What would they do to him? Would they lock him up until UK policemen could pick him up, or would he be tried and imprisoned in America?
Just moving his eyes, Nick stole a glance at Zoe. She was sleeping. Unbelievable. How could she sleep? Didn’t she have a heart or a conscience? Anna had had so much of both that Zoe’s lack was all the more notable. Anna had once said that Zoe was the zig to her zag. He thought of her proud display of childhood photos in her flat, the stories about Anna’s loyalty to Zoe. Anna had loved her sister so much. She’d sworn that it was a two-way thing. But it obviously wasn’t. She’d misjudged that. Badly. Zoe was insane, it was the only explanation. The drugs she’d taken when she was young, they must have had some effect on her. He couldn’t believe that twins who had once lulled themselves to sleep by sucking one another’s fingers would end up this way. One killing the other.
She was unpredictable. Selfish. He’d always known that. What if she carried out her threat of insisting that she’d had nothing to do with it? That he’d killed Anna, cleaned it up, booked the escape route. What would happen then? He would be sent to jail for Anna’s murder. For a very long time.
Or she might even stick to her story that she was Anna. How would he prove any of it had happened? There was no body. It would sound like the ravings of a madman. He wouldn’t go to prison but he’d be offered psychiatric help. He’d go to his grave sharing this secret with Zoe. He’d be in her debt. Not hell but purgatory then. Was that her plan?
It was too complicated. Too much. He had no idea what to do.
Zoe’s face was beautiful, still and so like Anna’s. The similarity was more striking when she was resting, he’d always thought that. Poor, poor Anna. God, he missed her. He should have grabbed her hand and not let go. What could have been simpler? He felt a wave of sorrow and longing wash over him. He missed her. Her optimism, her belief in a good and happy world, her prattle about wedding cakes; he thought of her singing hip hop karaoke on one of their early dates, self-conscious yet enthralled; he remembered her kitten pyjamas and the gentle way she put socks on his mother’s feet in the hospital. Such artless, easy company.
Although, even as he had these thoughts, he knew he was kidding himself. Anna was not as straightforward as she’d wanted him to believe—as he’d wanted to believe. Who was? Everyone had secrets, told lies, did their best to cover up their weaknesses, highlight their strengths. She hadn’t wanted to tell him about Zoe at first, because Zoe was trouble. She’d lied about her age, because she’d been concerned that he wouldn’t have been interested in her if he’d known she was that bit older. She hadn’t quite trusted him enough to confide in him about her miserable first marriage. These things had left him feeling outraged. He’d used them to vindicate his own lies and deceitful behaviour but now—thinking about it coolly, without the sting of resentment or the throb of self-justification—he saw that, funnily enough, Anna’s deceptions did nothing to detract from her. They made her more human, more accessible. At least, they could have done. If they’d had time. He saw that most of the issues were because she lacked confidence in him.
Rightly so, as it happened.
What had he done to her? Why had he started the affair in the first place? He couldn’t remember. It was just sex. People said that all the time, didn’t they? Just sex. There was no ‘just’ about the sex he and Zoe had. Their sex reminded him that sex was life; literally, sex was where life started. At its best, sex is compelling, enthralling, forceful and urgent. He regretted it now, though, with every fibre in his body. Why hadn’t he found just one of them enough?
Well, because neither of them on their own were enough for him. Simply that, he supposed. He needed different things from each woman, and only together did they form a whole for him.
Then he noticed it, a fat tear running down Zoe’s face. Was she awake or crying in her sleep? He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything any more. The tear clung to her chin. He should hate her. What she’d done was disgusting, devastating. He did hate her.
