Bright and Deadly Things, page 18
“It’s all right,” I call to Mike’s back. “I’m decent now.”
He turns, then shifts position to settle on a slightly closer boulder. “So: James,” he says with no preamble. “Tell me.”
“He essentially threatened to blackmail me.”
“What?” He searches my face. “Over what?”
“A misunderstanding. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say a misinterpretation.” I sigh and explain what James believed he saw between Sofi and me in that nocturnal shadowy world, while I sit on my own boulder in a patch of dappled sunlight and try to re-create Olive’s dressing. Apart from a mild lift of eyebrows, Mike’s expression doesn’t change.
“That little shit,” he says again when I’ve finished, though without quite the same intensity as before.
“I think we’ve already established that.” I’m aiming for irony, but I can’t keep the acid out of my tone. I reach for the towel and start to rub my hair.
He’s quiet for a moment, idly stripping a stick of its bark, revealing the pale vulnerability of the green-white inner layers. “He can’t truly think you had anything to do with what’s happened to her.”
“No, I wouldn’t think so, but I think he’d be very happy to make my life miserable. I’ve realized I really don’t much care if I lose my position at the university—not that James would know that—but I suppose I’d rather not go out under a cloud.”
“Interesting.” He continues working on the bark. “If she was still here, this would all be nothing,” he mutters, almost to himself. “She could refute it herself.”
My hands cease toweling my hair. Still here. As if she’s just left to go somewhere else, which I suppose she has, though not anyplace where we can reach her. The abyss yawns in front of me. For a moment I feel a very real fear that I might suffer an instant of vertigo and fall in, tumbling back to those dreadful, despairing first days after Nick’s death when there was not a single point of light in the world, when it would have been all too easy to lose myself for good. I force myself to put down the towel, pick up a brush. I learned that, somehow, after Nick: do one thing. Then the next, then the next. It turns out that life is really just a series of single actions. Well, not life exactly: survival. Life is something more.
For a moment Mike watches me work the brush through the tangled mess of my hair; then his eyes drop quickly away to the stick in his hands as if he’s somehow ashamed to have been looking. It occurs to me that, ordinarily, the only person who would have seen me brush my hair was Nick, and perhaps anyone in the women’s changing room at the gym, and I’m suddenly absurdly aware of the unexpected intimacy of the situation, the seclusion afforded by the trees. I find myself hurrying to break the silence. “Actually she wrote about it in her diary—both the incident and her apology. So there’s proof right there, I suppose, not that I would really want to be using her diary in my defense.”
His gaze swings sharply back to me. “You’ve read her diary?”
“Julie and Caleb asked me to this morning.” I explain their thought process and he nods.
“Sensible.” He pauses. “Was there anything in it? Anything that could have led to”—he makes a slight movement with his hand as if trying to pull the right word from the air—“well, this?”
I shake my head. “But I didn’t have time to read it all. I just read the last few entries.”
“When was the last entry dated?”
“Yesterday morning. So we have no idea if anything relevant might have happened during the day. And I suppose there could be something relevant from earlier on, before this trip; I can look later.” I feel a small pang of guilt, but I can’t bear to tell him about Will. If I tell him, I can never untell him; he can never unknow it. Loyalty to Will demands that I keep his secret safe—and loyalty to Jana, in a certain way: surely she would have to be the first if I were to tell anyone at all. But I won’t. After all, Will has nothing to do with Sofi’s death. Maybe nobody has anything to do with Sofi’s death; maybe she really did just fall . . . Mike is looking at me oddly; I change tack quickly. “I did find out that it was James behind that bet, though. Not that it’s exactly relevant.”
“And once again, he proves that he’s a little shit,” says Mike sourly. Then: “Do you still have the diary?” I nod. “Who knows that?”
“Julie, Caleb, Jana. So we probably ought to assume Will too. And, I suppose, anyone who saw me reading it outside the chalet this morning.” This morning. Only this morning. It seems further away than that. Who said, The past is a foreign country? It’s another world, another universe.
“So basically everyone could know, but might not, depending on their levels of observation.”
“Yes, I suppose. You didn’t.”
“Yes, but I was up at the hotel this morning.” He’s shredding a second stick now, methodically pulling off the bark in long strips. “What’s with the laptop?”
The sudden change of direction catches me by surprise. “Oh. Well, I might just be being paranoid.”
“Like I said before: unlikely.”
I laugh a little. “Wait till you hear me out before you pass judgment.” I tell him everything, starting with the break-in in Oxford, right through to the sense of someone chasing me on the mountainside. He starts in surprise when I explain about someone trying to get onto the laptop. “Why on earth didn’t you say anything?”
I flush a little. “I couldn’t tell if I was being paranoid; I still can’t. I’m . . .” I think of the expression on Jana’s face when she said, Be rational. “I’m aware people don’t currently see me as the most reliable of witnesses; I’m not exactly keen to go out on a limb publicly right now.” The glances, the quiet whispers of How is she doing, do you think? as I left a room: I had endured enough of that when I went back to work. “If I did, pretty much everyone would chalk it up to me being overwrought or depressed or otherwise rendered unstable on account of Nick. And I have been all of those things, and more, at times.” He tips his head briefly, not entirely conceding the point, but not arguing it either. “Even now, I can’t tell if I’m being paranoid or if I really shouldn’t be trusting anyone.”
“You’re trusting me now,” he observes. I can’t read his expression; his eyes are focused on the work of his hands.
I shrug. “You’re too big to be the person who broke into my house.”
“You’re assuming there’s only one person working against you.” I stare at him. He’s right. I have been assuming that. He looks up and smiles at whatever is displayed on my face. “Relax. Even if there’s a multitude of people working against you, I’m definitely not one of them.” His hands lift in a gesture that could be either placation or surrender, leaving the bare, barkless twig resting on his lap. “I know, I know: that’s exactly what someone working against you would say. You’ll just have to have a little faith.”
“Mmmm.”
He laughs, that gravel rumble that comes from deep in his chest. “Ah, a true skeptic.” He picks up the now white twig, surveys it critically, then tosses it into the spring. It bounces along in the ice-cold water, then catches on a half-submerged rock. It could be a bone, I think, suddenly chilled deep inside, deeper even than the reach of the glacial shower—and then the current tugs on it, freeing it to tumble along with the water, out of sight. “We shouldn’t assume the two threads are connected,” he muses. “But we shouldn’t assume they aren’t either.”
“Threads?”
“What happened to Sofi and what’s been happening to you.”
“But—connected? I don’t—” I stop. How slow have I been? “You’re saying . . .” I work it through. If Sofi’s death wasn’t an accident, then someone killed her. Even though my thoughts have got this far before, my mind still skitters to a halt: Killed her. Are we really considering that? It appears we are. And if someone did deliberately kill her, there must have been a reason. But what kind of reason is worth killing over? “How could there be a connection between Sofi and someone snooping through my things?” Except they weren’t snooping through my things: they were snooping through Nick’s. And Sofi did have Nick’s number. They even had two meetings . . . I should tell Mike that. But I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold myself whole if he assumes what I myself have considered, even though I can’t truly bring myself to believe it; I mean, Nick—really? Is it even feasible that Sofi would have been interested in my sweetly enthusiastic giraffe-sized nerd? I certainly loved my husband but even I recognized that the pool of people who would find him an attractive proposition was limited. But still, I can feel it growing inside me, the urge to spill it out and have someone—anyone—reassure me.
Mike shrugs. “Maybe it’s something simple. Maybe she saw someone doing something they shouldn’t have been. Such as, well, snooping through your things. Or trying to get into your room.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I suppose.”
He looks at me. “Spit it out.”
“What?”
“Whatever it is that you’re biting your lip and trying not to say.”
Nothing, I intend to say, but that’s not what comes out. “Sofi had Nick’s number. In her diary.”
“Ah.” His brow creases marginally: a strong statement of emotion for him. “I can’t imagine why.”
“Yes, you can.” My words are beyond dry; they’re as parched as a desert.
He shakes his head. “No, I really can’t. I do not for even a millisecond think he was cheating on you.” He looks at me. “And neither do you, really,” he says gently.
I look down at my hands, at the brush I’m still holding. I will not cry. Not now, not here.
“We should probably find out why she had his number, though,” he says after a second or two. “It might help to shed light on whether there’s a connection. Can you get into Nick’s profile on his laptop, see if there’s anything there that gives us a clue?”
“Yes, I’ll have a look later.” I’m grateful for his businesslike approach; it helps me to find the same. I wrap all my toiletries and dirty clothes in the wet towel, then stand, flexing my ankle awkwardly; I can’t tell if I’ve applied the bandage too tightly. “We should head back.”
Mike picks up the laptop, then offers me his arm to lean on; I smell his shower gel again. “Perhaps Jana should sleep in your room with you. You could play the invalid card and say that you might need something in the night.”
“Yes.” And I really might. In truth I don’t fancy navigating the stairs alone by torchlight with a dodgy ankle. And I’m definitely not keen on falling asleep alone without extensive jamming of both the inner door and that inexcusably hitherto ignored terrace door, and I can’t think how to jam the latter, since from memory it opens outward. But it has a key, at least; perhaps jamming is unnecessary.
We’re crossing the lawn now. The sun is beginning to set; the peaks have taken on an odd syrupy orange tone, as if the surface is a semitransparent skin with the light of fire burning far beneath seeping through. Lamps have already been lit in the chalet. I think of the clock, of the liquid light running along the etched whorls and swirls of the pendulum, like blood coursing through its veins. I wonder if it’s running fast or slow right now. I wonder what kind of time it was keeping when Sofi died.
As we enter the chalet, it’s evident that the salon has become the chosen point of congregation; Will, Jana, Peter, Robert, Akash and Olive are all present, looking up and acknowledging us with somber nods and muted greetings. All but Jana have a glass of red wine in their hand, though Olive’s looks untouched. Akash is leafing through one of the official chalet diaries, a small heap of others at his feet. Jana pats the empty spot on the sofa beside her. “Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll drop off your things and then come back down?” Mike suggests. “Do you need anything from your room?”
“Thanks; no, nothing,” I say, lowering myself down onto the sofa next to Jana. We swap our burdens: the laptop for the towel-wrapped bundle. I rest the device on my lap, wondering if anyone is secretly eyeing it longingly, but if they are, I can’t discern it. I’m conscious too of the grandfather clock’s imposing presence some meters behind me, like an authority figure peering over my shoulder. I grit my teeth: I will not look. I do not need to see it dancing through its own mercurial version of time.
Jana leans against me, breathing out in a long sigh as she does so, like a tree yielding to the wind. I put my arm round her and kiss the top of her head, feeling my eyes prickle. I’ve become practiced at handling my own grief; other people’s grief is harder to witness. Julie and Caleb cross paths with Mike, entering as he’s leaving; I see Mike briefly squeeze Caleb’s shoulder on the way past. Olive gets to her feet and carefully shepherds Julie to a chair. She looks better than she did earlier: her skin is no less translucent but there’s a touch of pink to her fair cheeks; the sleep must have done her some good.
A sudden thump and a shout from above rents the quiet of the room. Peter half rises out of his chair and Robert starts to say, “Wha—” but he’s cut off by a clatter of thumping treads on the stairs. In the next instant, James comes into view, his face furiously indignant as he squirms and throws protests over his shoulder at Mike, who has him by the scruff of his hoodie, pushing him into the room. In his other hand, Mike is holding my backpack.
“What’s this?” demands Robert with unexpected steel in his voice.
“Perhaps you’d like to ask James.” Mike’s voice is a whipcrack. “I found him in Emily’s room, going through her bag. Perhaps you’d like to ask him what exactly he was looking for.”
15
James?” asks Robert, blinking in surprise. Then he turns to Mike. “I’m sure this is all some sort of misunderstanding.”
“You really can’t grab me like this, you know,” James complains loudly. His face is still red with indignant fury. “I could report you,” he tosses over his shoulder to Mike. Then he turns back to the rest of us. “I could report all of you for passive bystanding.”
I stamp down the urge to laugh. Passive bystanding—really? When a girl is dead?
“Relax. I’m not touching you, passively or otherwise,” Mike says mildly. It’s true—at least, it is now. Less so when Mike was dragging him down the stairs.
“James,” Robert repeats, refusing to be derailed, “were you in Emily’s room?”
James makes a show of straightening his collar before he looks around the room. Then he throws up his hands as if to say, Oh, all right, if I must . . . “Yes,” he says, a touch petulantly. “Yes, I was.”
“Why?” I ask, bewildered.
He looks at me. I’m certain the malevolence of earlier is there, coiled within him, but I see only calculation in his pale blue eyes. He scans the room again. He’s looking for allies, I realize. He’s strategizing. “For Sofi,” he says quietly, respectfully. Ah—so this is the part he’s going to play. “For my friend. She’s . . . she’s dead, and”—he grimaces as if reluctant to go on—“Emily has Sofi’s diary—she stole it.”
“I didn’t—,” I say mildly, but James barrels on.
“Doesn’t that strike anyone as a tad incriminating? I thought we should get it back.”
“James, I gave Emily the diary,” Julie says wearily from her spot on the other sofa next to Olive. “Caleb and I both did.” Caleb murmurs assent. “We thought someone ought to look at it, in case it had any bearing on . . .” She stops, wrapping her arms across her stomach, her gaze slipping to the floor.
“What? You gave . . .” James trails off, eyes narrowed as he absorbs that. Then he rounds on Julie. “How stupid can you be? You gave it to the very person who has something to hide.”
“James!” says Olive, shocked, but Robert’s voice cuts across her. “That’s enough,” he says sharply. “James, we understand you’re grieving—we all are—but you will speak with respect to members of this party, or there will be repercussions—repercussions above and beyond the fact that you’ve been found going through a university fellow’s private property.”
Mike passes across my familiar gray rucksack. “Is anything missing?”
“I’m not a thief,” protests James, but I notice he’s more careful with his tone; he needs Robert on his side. Mike raises an eyebrow in the mildest telegraphing of disbelief. James can’t resist a dig: “Believe me, she has nothing I would want.”
I start to rummage through the rucksack, trying to remember what ought to be there. My phone and wallet are the most obvious items to check for; they’re both there, and as far as I can remember, the contents of the wallet appear to be intact. And my cap and fleece, and the water bottle, and sun cream . . . The absent item is so obvious that somehow I don’t immediately notice—until it suddenly hits me. “It’s not here.” I search through the bag again with increased urgency.
“What isn’t?” asks Mike.
“The diary. Sofi’s diary. I had it in the rucksack when we were out searching and I haven’t taken it out since I got back. It ought to still be here.” I go through the bag once again—conscious of all the eyes in the room on me, conscious of the relentless glare of the clock burning into my shoulder, of the pace of time starting to pick up—before frantically upending the bag to tip all its contents out on the sofa. But a bulging A5 notebook is not like a lost lipstick or pen. It can’t have been hiding in an overlooked corner and it doesn’t magically appear on the upholstery. I look up at Mike in consternation.
