The Other Side of the Door Page 15

  I thought of telling him to go out and come back but he would have been utterly baffled by the idea or turned it into some kind of impromptu stunt at my expense. Then the bell rang and Joakim arrived. There was a glow about him. Some of it was probably the forbidden excitement of seeing the real-life place where your teacher lives. He was always a bit on edge around Hayden, but no more than I was at that moment.

  I didn’t particularly like having Amos in my flat. He thumbed through books, seeing whether they were his. ‘We need to have a final sort-out,’ he said.

  ‘This is not the time,’ I said.

  He got a diary out and suggested dates until I snapped at him. Then he became huffy. Worst of all was the playing – I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the constraints of space or my strange Hayden-induced state of nervousness and agitation. Sometimes it’s like the weather, that jangling feeling when you know a storm is due and you long for it to come and be over with. Sonia wasn’t at her best. She was suffering from hay fever and her voice had gone croaky. Not croaky in a sexy way, like Nina Simone, but just squeak-ily out of tune. She edged her way to the kitchen to make herself a warm drink.

  I was trying out a new tune on them, ‘Honky Tonk’, which I thought might get people moving at the wedding, but it wasn’t working out. Neal was in a foul mood. There was a sort of arpeggio pattern he had to play on his bass – it was the rock on which the whole song rested – but he couldn’t get it. Three times in a row we started the song, then the bass-line collapsed and the performance with it. People looked at each other awkwardly.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said. ‘Maybe we should just move on to something else.’

  ‘No,’ said Neal, too loudly. ‘I’ve got it. I did it perfectly when I went over it last night. Come on. One, two, three . . .’

  We started, and then we stopped again, like a slow-motion car crash. It was almost funny, except that it wasn’t funny at all. I heard Neal swearing at himself under his breath and then not under his breath. He started playing it over and over on his own, still getting it wrong. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m losing it. It’s getting worse instead of better.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Hayden.

  He put his guitar down and took the bass from Neal, who was too astonished to speak or react.

  ‘Listen,’ said Hayden.

  He played the bass-line, and it immediately flowed and swung and brought a smile to my face that I instantly suppressed. I hoped Neal hadn’t seen it. Hayden carried on playing, apparently oblivious to us all, his eyes closed, a smile on his face, varying it gradually, making it sound even better. Suddenly he seemed to remember where he was and stopped. He handed the bass back to Neal. ‘Something like that,’ he said.

  Neal’s eyes were shining with anger. ‘Why don’t you just play it yourself?’ he said.

  ‘I would, but what would you play?’ said Hayden. Unforgivably.

  There was an expression almost of disbelief on Neal’s face. Of very angry disbelief.

  ‘That came out sounding worse than it was meant to,’ said Hayden. ‘I could look the bass part over for you, if you like. Make it a bit simpler.’

  I wondered if Neal might hit him. Or just spontaneously combust, like people did in Victorian novels.

  ‘Sure,’ he said, in a strangled tone. ‘That would be good.’

  After

  That night I slept heavily and woke late, troubled by the last remnants of a dream I couldn’t recall. I lay for a long while under my covers, staring up at the blotchy ceiling and reminding myself of where I was. It was a hot, still day, the sky a flat, electric blue, the sun like a blowtorch. The leaves on the trees outside my flat were a dark, dirty green and the grass in the small square up the road was bleached yellow. It was hard to be anything but listless in such heat. Late August, the dying days of summer.

  When I got up to look outside, I could see the neighbour but-one’s dog lying stretched out in the patch of garden, and in the house opposite a tiny naked child stood pressed against the upstairs window, as if the glass was cooling her hot pink body. I told myself I should be painting the bathroom, or pulling more of the wallpaper off my bedroom walls, which already looked flayed. But it was too hot. I shouldn’t be here, in this poky flat, with my heart jumping in my chest at every sound, my stomach lurching. I should have gone away this summer, gone to a Greek island. For a moment I imagined myself sitting on a boat, a sea breeze on my face, dangling my feet in the clear turquoise water, with some impossibly beautiful whitewashed village behind me. Drinking ouzo, dancing, swimming, walking on white sand, being free – not here, not trapped by what I’d done and trying to inch myself along with my lies and half-truths and fears.

  When a police officer rang and said they wanted to come and see me, I almost broke down on the phone and confessed. It would have been a relief. Instead I arranged to see them in my flat at two o’clock that afternoon. They wouldn’t take up much time, said the officer.

  I immediately rang Sonia. I hadn’t talked properly to her since that terrible evening. We had exchanged glances, laid comforting hands on each other’s shoulders, given each other reassuring or warning smiles, but said not a word about what we had done. It lay between us like a deep crevice. I said we needed to meet.

  ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to see Amos.’

  I told her about Sally and the police.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I got a call from them, and so did Amos. Sally gave them various names. But it’ll just be a formality.’

  ‘We have to make sure we get our stories straight.’

  ‘Bonnie.’ Her voice became stern. ‘We don’t have a story. Just keep it simple and keep it short.’

  ‘You don’t think we should meet?’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  I paced around the flat. I pulled a few more shreds off the wall. I took a door off a cupboard that was fixed to the wall but which I intended to remove once I’d bought proper tools – no more cupboards, I decided, just open shelves and hanging rails. I drank tepid coffee, found cheap rails on the Internet and ordered three, which was far too many. There was nowhere I could put them. I rifled through the clothes in my wardrobe, wondering what to wear for my police interview. Nothing seemed suitable. What would be suitable, anyway? I practised answers in my mind. ‘No, I didn’t really know much about him . . .’ ‘Yes, I found him a place to live, as a favour to my friend . . .’ ‘No, he never said anything about going . . .’ ‘When did I last see him? Let me think. It must have been the last rehearsal. Do you need the date?’ ‘I think he just moved on. He was like that . . .’ I had to seem helpful, rueful, not really worried.

  The phone rang, breaking into my reflections and startling me. It was Neal.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, my skin prickling with dread. ‘Everything OK?’

  There was silence at the other end. Then he said: ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’

  ‘I just thought you might.’

  ‘I don’t think that would help. But if you need to say something, then say it. Though when things have been said, they can’t be unsaid.’

  ‘You have a fucking nerve, Bonnie Graham.’

  ‘Is this about the police wanting to interview us?’

  ‘Of course it’s about the police. What do you think?’

  I thought of Sonia’s advice. ‘Just keep it simple. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘Oh, will it? Is there anything you want me to tell them – or not tell them?’

  I sighed. ‘No, Neal,’ I said slowly. ‘There’s nothing I want you to say.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you need me –’

  ‘Thank you. But I’m fine.’

  After he had gone, my legs felt weak beneath me and my hands were shaking so much that at first I couldn’t even turn on the tap. I splashed water over my face and neck and drank two glasses. Then I sat at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands and waite
d.

  Becky Horton came, with a male police officer. From the first moment he was clearly bored, just wanting to get it over. It made me feel better. They refused coffee.

  ‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ said Becky, comfortably.

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need to be concerned,’ I said. ‘He’ll turn up in Newcastle or Cardiff or somewhere, playing in some weird dive.’ I had to shut up: in a minute I’d be telling them everything, just to fill the silence.

  ‘Why Newcastle?’ said the male officer, suddenly interested.

  ‘That was just a random city,’ I said.

  ‘Random?’

  ‘I said Cardiff too.’

  In the end I only told them what I’d said the previous day with Sally: that I’d last seen Hayden about nine days ago, that I had checked his flat two days ago and found signs of his disappearance, that I had no idea of where he could be but wasn’t really worried.

  ‘How well did you know Mr Booth?’ said Becky.

  ‘Not well. I met him by chance. He was playing in our band.’

  ‘You didn’t see him socially?’

  I paused for a moment. I didn’t want to be caught lying. ‘Just in the way that you do when you’re playing in a band,’ I said. That could cover quite a lot.

  ‘Did you know any of his friends?’

  ‘No,’ I said.

  Before

  I wasn’t drunk enough, or they were too drunk, or both. Things that seemed hilarious to them didn’t seem funny at all to me – particularly when they got on to remembering all the different places they’d trashed in their time on the road. Nat and Ralph were there – the two I’d seen that night at the Long Fiddler – and so too were a couple more people Hayden had played and toured with.

  ‘Remember when you set fire to the waste-bin?’ said Jan – I think his name was Jan: he was tall and thin and bendy, with straggly blond hair and pale blue eyes. He was wearing mud-encrusted boots that were resting on Liza’s nice table between the tin-foil curry containers.

  ‘And you tried to put it out with a bottle of whisky?’ That was Mick, who had a scar that puckered his lip, and dark red hair.

  There were roars of laughter. Jan reached for another can of beer, missed and sent it flying to the floor, where it lay leaking its pale liquid over the carpet while he simply picked up another.

  ‘Remember that flat in Dublin?’ said Ralph, setting up another quiver of hilarity around the room.

  ‘Or those cockroaches that fell on our faces when we were sleeping?’

  I picked the can up and pushed Jan’s feet off the table. He barely noticed. I stomped off to the kitchen to get a cloth. Tales of vomit, broken glass, excess drugs and cute women floated through to me and I stood there scowling and feeling like a nagging wife, worrying about the stains on the rug, the marks on the table, the fragile black vase on the mantelpiece, all of Liza’s precious knick-knacks.

  When I came back into the room, Hayden was giggling like a teenager, his eyes watering and his shoulders heaving. He had the best giggle of any man I’d ever met, hiccupy and infectious. He’d drunk a large amount of whisky and beer, and his body had a floppy looseness about it.

  ‘I think I’m going to make a move,’ I said, as his mirth subsided.

  He grasped my wrist. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘Please. You can’t leave. This lot will be off soon.’

  ‘Will we?’ asked Nat.

  ‘Bonnie?’

  ‘Invite us over, then throw us out when you’ve found something better to do.’ This was from Jan.

  I stared at him for a moment but he didn’t seem bothered. ‘Now I really am going to go,’ I said coolly.

  ‘Don’t mind them. They’re just oafs,’ said Hayden. He stood up, with some difficulty, and wound his arms around me, leaning against me. I felt the weight and heat of his body, his breath against my cheek. There was a group jeer.

  ‘Piss off,’ said Hayden. He kissed my jaw but I pulled away from him. I could feel the atmosphere in the room curdling.

  ‘Remember that time with Hayden and the tabby cat?’ Mick was attempting to return the group to its previous boozy nostalgia.

  ‘Remember the time with Hayden and the mysteriously disappearing money?’ said Jan. ‘That was fun.’

  Hayden held my hand. He rotated my thumb ring slowly, not looking at Jan and appearing not even to hear him.

  ‘Not now, mate,’ said Mick, quietly.

  ‘It’s all right for you to say that. You didn’t lose any money. You don’t have a sodding debt to pay off.’

  Hayden went on playing with my ring.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  At that Hayden looked at him. He didn’t seem in the slightest bit drunk any more. His voice was contemptuous. ‘What do you want me to say? If you want to be safe, go and train as an accountant. You’re a musician. Of a kind.’

  ‘Now then,’ said Mick.

  ‘Your self-pity makes me sick.’ Hayden’s voice was horribly amiable. He put my hand against his face and held it there.

  Jan’s face became mottled with anger. ‘You took the advance – our advance – and spent it. Sounds like theft to me.’

  ‘Have you ever heard of expenses?’

  ‘You mean you pissed it away.’

  Hayden shrugged. ‘I did what was best for the band,’ he said. ‘Get over it.’

  ‘What? Losing my money and my girl to you? That’s your advice, is it?’

  ‘It worked all right for me.’

  It seemed to me that Hayden was asking to be attacked. Certainly, he didn’t move when Jan hurled himself across the room, and when Jan’s fist hit him in the stomach he merely gave an approving grunt. I held on to Jan’s arm but he shook me off and hit Hayden twice more, once on his head and then, clumsily, his neck, before Mick and Nat dragged him away. Hayden sat back and smiled at me, a very sweet smile that frightened me. There were tears in his eyes.

  ‘Leave now,’ I said to the four men, and they shuffled out, leaving the flat like a demolition site. I turned to Hayden. ‘You’re an idiot.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Did you steal the money?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But you spent it?’

  ‘It went. The way money does.’ He rubbed his face and when he took his hand away the smile was gone and he just looked tired. ‘If you’re telling me I’m hopeless, of course I am. I told you at the beginning not to get involved with me.’

  ‘And I told you I’m not involved.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. This is my summer interlude.’

  He gave a soft laugh. ‘You think?’

  After

  I woke up with a start. What was it? Was someone in the flat? I listened for a few seconds. A car drove past. I heard voices but they were far away, out in the street somewhere. No. It wasn’t that. Something in my dream, but not just a dream, something important. Suddenly it came to me out of the dark. The key to Hayden’s car. Why had I kept it? It was unbelievably stupid. That it was in a clever place made it even more stupid. If the police searched my flat and found it just lying around, I could pretend, just about pretend, that during our affair Hayden had lent me a spare car key. But if they found the key in the bottom of a jar of sugar, there could be no possible innocent explanation. And they probably would find it. I was a panicky, amateur hider and they were professional finders. They knew the kind of places where idiots like me hid things, and if they didn’t know they’d find them anyway, because when they really wanted to find something, they ripped everything apart.

  Not that it was a particularly brilliant hiding-place. What if someone who came to the flat suddenly did something that needed lots of sugar, like making lemonade or baking a cake, emptied the jar and found the key? It sounded stupid, but what would I actually say?

  I got up, ran to the kitchen and plunged my hand into the jar. I suddenly thought: What if it isn’t there? Bu
t, of course, it was. I placed it on the table and sat and stared at it. It was like a talisman, representing my contact with Hayden, my guilt. It almost exuded energy, so that I hardly dared touch it. Instead I thought about it so intensely that I almost felt dizzy. What I needed to do was throw it, and the flat key I still had, away somewhere they would never be found. Why on earth hadn’t I done that in the first place? Why? I tried to interpret the motives of this other person, the earlier me, who had abandoned the car. There must have been a reason, even if I hadn’t articulated it to myself at the time.

  I forced myself to think about this, even though it was in the past and all I really wanted was to shut it away. Yes, there had been a reason for keeping the key. If I had thrown it away, I would have lost my last chance of doing anything to the car. If I had remembered a mistake I had made, something I had left behind, there would have been nothing I could do about it. Now the car and its location wormed their way into my thoughts. Was leaving it there really such a great idea? If the police started to search for his car, wouldn’t an airport car park be one of the first places they’d look? It wasn’t as if they’d have to check all those thousands of vehicles one by one. They’d probably just have to type the registration number into a database. They’d be able to find the exact time the car had arrived there, which would give them the time of Hayden’s disappearance. They could start asking for alibis. Was it really likely that we hadn’t left some traces in the car? Even if we hadn’t, the photograph of us entering the car park would show a woman driving. There were too many weaknesses. I made myself think and think and, with a sickening lurch, realized where my thoughts were taking me. I was like a person with vertigo who was making herself walk to the edge of a very steep cliff and lean over as far as possible to stare down into the depths.

  I washed and dressed, but it was too early to go out. I needed to wait until the shops opened, and I wanted to get to the airport when there were lots of people around. The key lay in front of me, burning a hole in the table, as I drank cup after cup of coffee and hunted through the phone book until I found what I needed. I tore a corner off a newspaper and wrote the address down.