In A Dark, Dark Wood Part 22

'Does she know about Clare?'

'Yes. She wanted to see her, but we were told no visitors.'

'Has anyone seen her? Clare, I mean.'

'Her parents, I think.'

'And ...' I swallow. I won't stammer. I won't. 'And James's parents? Have they been?'

'I think so, yes. I believe they came yesterday and-' She looks down at my hands, runs her finger gently across the longest scratch, '-and saw his body. They've gone home, as far as I know. We didn't see them.'

I get a sudden, piercing memory of James's mum as she was ten years ago, her long, curly hair caught up in a clip, her bangles chiming as she gesticulated and laughed to someone on the end of the phone, her scarves fluttering in the breeze from an open window. I remember her putting the phone to her shoulder as James introduced me: This is Leo. She'll be coming round a lot. Get used to her face, and James's mum laughing and saying, I know what that means. Let me show you where the fridge is, Leo. No one cooks in this house so if you want something to eat, forage.

It was so different from my house. No one was ever still. The door was always open, and they always had friends round, or students staying, and everyone was always arguing laughing kissing drinking. There were no meal-times. No curfews. James and I lay on his bed in the flooding sunlight and no one came and knocked on the door and told us to stop whatever we were doing.

I remember James's dad, with his full beard and his accordion. He lectured on Marxist theory at the local uni and was always on the brink of resigning or being fired. He used to run me home after dark in his battered car, swearing at the temperamental choke and regaling me with his awful puns.

James was their only child.

The thought of them both stricken down by grief it's almost unbearable.

'Look,' Nina gives my hand a final squeeze, 'I'd better go. I only paid for an hour's parking and it's nearly gone.'

'Thanks. Thanks for coming.' I give her an awkward hug. 'Listen, you didn't happen to grab any of my clothes when you left the house, did you?'

Nina shakes her head. 'No, I'm really sorry. They were really strict about what we could take. I've only got one change for myself. I could buy you some sweats, if you want?'

'Thanks, that'd be great. I can pay you back.'

Nina makes a kind of derisory snort, and does a batting-away motion with her hand. 'Psssh, shut up already. You're a small, right? Any preferences?'

'No, anything's fine. Just ... nothing too bright. You know me.'

'OK. Tell you what, I'll leave you this in the meantime.' She peels off her cardigan, a navy blue knitted thing with small b.u.t.tons in the shape of dark blue flowers. I'm shaking my head, but she drapes it around my shoulders. 'There you go. At least you can open the window without freezing.'

'Thanks,' I say, huddling it around myself. I can't believe how good it feels to be wearing something that's not hospital-issue. Like I've got my personality back. Nina shrugs, kisses me, briskly this time, and then heads for the door.

'Stay sane, Shaw. We can't have two people going off the tracks on top of everything else.'

'Flo? Is she really bad then?'

Nina just shrugs, but her face is sad. Then she turns to go. I watch her stalking off down the corridor, and something suddenly occurs to me. The police guard outside my door is gone.

24.

IT'S MAYBE HALF an hour later when there comes another, brisker knock at the door and a nurse bustles in. For a minute I think it's supper and my stomach growls and turns, but then I realise there's no smell of industrial catering floating through the door.

'We've got a young man here to see you,' she says without preamble. 'Name of Matt Ridout. Says he'd like to come and visit you if you're up to it.'

I blink. I've never heard of him.

'Is he a policeman?'

'I don't know, pet. He's not in uniform.'

For a minute I think about sending her back out there to find out more, but she's tapping her foot, plainly impatient and busy, and I realise it would be easier just to see him and get it over with.

'Send him in,' I say at last.

'He can only have half an hour,' she warns. 'Visiting hours end at four.'

'That's OK.' Good. That will provide an excuse to get rid of him if he proves awkward.

I sit up, gathering Nina's cardie around myself and raking my hair off my face. I look like a car crash so I don't really know why I'm bothering, but it feels important to my self-respect that I at least make a token effort.

I hear steps in the corridor, and there's a hesitant, diffident knock.

'Come in,' I say, and a man walks into the room.

He's about my age maybe a few years older and dressed in jeans and a faded T-s.h.i.+rt. His jacket is slung over his arm and he looks hot and uncomfortable in the hospital's tropical atmosphere. He's got a scrubby Hoxton-style beard and his hair is cropped close to his skull; not a buzz-cut, but something like a Roman soldier, short curls, flat against his head.

But the thing that I really notice is that he's been crying.

For a minute I can't think of anything to say, and neither can he. He stands in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and he looks shocked to see me.

'You're not from the police,' I say at last, stupidly. He rubs a hand through his hair.

'I- my name is Matt. I'm at least-' He stops, and his lip curls into a grimace, and I know he's fighting back some very strong emotion. He takes a deep breath, and begins again. 'I was James's best man.'

I say nothing. We only sit, staring at each other, me clutching Nina's cardigan to my throat as if it's a suit of armour, he rigid and tense in the doorway. And then, unbidden, a single tear runs down the side of his nose and he swipes at it furiously with his sleeve, and I say, simultaneously, 'Come in. Come and sit down. Do you want a drink?'

'Got whiskey?' he says, and gives a short, shaky laugh. I try to laugh too, but it doesn't sound like a laugh to me, more like a choke.

'I wish. Hospital tea or coffee from the vending machine, or water.' I point to the plastic jug. 'On the whole I'd recommend the water.'

'I'm OK,' he says. He comes and sits in the plastic chair next to my bed. But he's hardly sat down when he pushes himself to standing again. 'f.u.c.k, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come.'

'No!' I grab his wrist, and then look down at my hand holding his arm, astonished at myself. What the h.e.l.l am I doing? I let go at once, as though his skin burns. 'I - I'm sorry. But I just meant ...' I trail off. What did I mean? I have no idea. Only that I don't want him to go. He is a link to James.

'Please stay,' I manage at last. He stays, standing, looking down at me, and then gives a short, curt nod and sits.

'I'm sorry,' he says again. 'I wasn't expecting ... You look ...'

I know what he means. I look like I've been beaten within an inch of my life and then patched up again. Badly.

'It's not as bad as it looks,' I say, and I surprise myself by managing a smile. 'It's mainly just scratches and bruising.'

'It's your face,' he says, 'your eyes. I see a fair bit of domestic violence in my line of work, but those s.h.i.+ners ...'

'I know. I only saw them myself this morning. They're kind of spectacular, aren't they? They don't hurt though.'

We sit in silence for a second and then he says, 'Actually you know what, second thoughts, I might get a coffee. Want one?'

'No thanks.' I'm still coasting on the remnants of the coffee Lamarr brought. I'm not yet desperate enough for the vending-machine stuff.

Matt gets stiffly to his feet and walks out of the room, and I can see the tension in his shoulders as his back disappears down the corridor. I almost wonder if he's going to come back, but he does.

'Shall we start again?' he says as he sits down. 'Sorry, I feel like I kind of c.o.c.ked that one up. You must be Leo, right?'

I almost flinch. It's such a shock hearing it James's name for me from his lips.

'Yes, that's right. So James ... he told you about me?'

'A bit, yeah. I know you were ... I dunno. What would you call it? Childhood sweethearts?'

For some reason the words bring a rush of tears to the back of my throat and I feel my lip wobble as I try to answer. Instead I just nod, silently.

'f.u.c.k.' He puts his head in his hands. 'I'm sorry I just I can't believe it. I was only speaking to him a couple of days ago. I knew there was stuff ... things going wrong ... but this ...'

Things going wrong?

I want to ask more, to probe, but I can't quite get the words out, and Matt's still speaking.

'I'm really sorry to barge in like this. If I'd known how ill you were I wouldn't have ... the nurse didn't say. I just asked if I could see you and she said she'd find out. But I heard from James's mum that you were with him when he-' He stops, gulps, and forces himself on '-when he died. And I know how much you meant to him, and I wanted-'

He stops again, and this time he can't carry on. He bends over his cup, and I know he's crying, and trying to hide it.

'I'm sorry,' he says at last, his voice croaky, and then he coughs to clear his throat. 'I only found out last night. It's been ... I can't get used to it. I kept thinking there'd been some mistake but seeing you like this ... it's kind of made it real.'

'How ... how did you know James?'

'We were at Cambridge together. We were both into theatre acting, you know, plays and stuff.' He rubs his face on his sleeve, and then looks up, smiling determinedly. 'Goes without saying, I was s.h.i.+t, but luckily I realised that in time. Didn't help that I was acting next to James. Nothing like seeing the real thing for showing up the fake.'

'And you kept in touch?'

'Yeah. I used to go and see him in his plays every now and then. Everyone else in our year became bankers and civil servants and stuff. Felt like he was the only one who made it, I'm kind of proud of him for that, you know? He never sold out.'

I nod, slowly. Yes, that was the James I knew. The man he's describing is painfully familiar. The James I knew. My James. Completely unlike the unreal, materialistic person I've been hearing described all weekend. I thought James had changed. But perhaps he hadn't. Or not completely.

'So what happened?' Matt said at last. 'At at the house? They said a shotgun went off but it just seems ... why was he even there?'

'I don't know.' I shut my eyes, and my hand goes to the hot, sweaty dressing over my forehead. 'I never asked. When we heard him walking around we thought he was a burglar.' I don't go into the rest of it the door swinging wide, our stupid hysteria. It seems like something out of a horror movie, cliched, ridiculous. 'I suppose it was a prank, the groom turning up to surprise his future bride in bed.'

'No,' Matt's shaking his head. 'I really don't think he wouldn't have gone up there uninvited.'

'Why not?'

'Well first of all, you just don't, do you? You don't crash your girlfriend's hen. It's kind of ... cra.s.s. It's her last chance at being single, you'd have to be kind of a w.a.n.ker to take that away from her.'

I guess. But I don't say anything. I'm waiting for the second reason. Matt takes a breath.

'And second ... well ... they weren't getting along that great.'

'What?' I know as soon as I've said it that my voice is too loud, too emphatic, too shocked. Matt looks up, startled.

'Look, I don't want to overstate it but ... yeah. Did Clare not say?'

'No ... at least ... I don't think so.' I think back, trying to remember what we talked about. But I know Clare. She would never admit to any kind of problem. The facade always had to be perfect, the mask never slipped. 'What kind of problems?'

'I don't know.' He looks uncomfortable. 'I don't- We never really talked about it. I'm guessing it was just the usual pre-wedding jitters, right? I've seen enough mates down the aisle to know how it goes perfectly normal girlfriend turns into bridezilla, everyone gets tense, families chip in, friends get involved, small stuff is suddenly blown up into major feuds and everyone takes sides.'

'So why was he there?' I say at last.

'I don't know. I can only guess ... someone asked him to come.'

'Someone asked him? But but ...'

But who? Clare? No. No way. She of all people knew what it would mean if James turned up at the house; there was no way she wanted me and him shut up together in the same place for two hours, let alone twenty-four. It would have resulted in me storming out, or an unholy row, and she knew it. That was why she hadn't invited me to the wedding. One of the others might have done it out of ignorance, or malice. But there was no way Clare would purposely ruin her own hen weekend. Why would she?

Flo? Could she have done it as some kind of joke? She knew nothing about my past with James. She could have done it as a jolly j.a.pe to crown off her 'perfect' weekend. And, after all, Melanie had gone. There was a spare double room. And then that might explain her abrupt breakdown: not just guilt over waving a loaded gun around, but guilt over having set up the whole prank-gone-wrong in the first place. But then surely she would have known it was probably James coming up the stairs. Why would she have fired the gun even supposing it was unloaded? I had seen her face as that shadowy figure rounded the corner of the stairs. She had looked genuinely frightened. Either she's insane, or the most fantastic actress of all time.

Could it have been Tom? Had there been something about that row with Bruce, something that would have made him want to set James up for a fall? Or Nina, with her weird, twisted sense of humour, playing a practical joke? But why? Why would either of them do such a thing?

I shake my head. This is sending me crazy. No one in that house invited James. No one. There's no way the shooting would have played out that way if they had.

'You're wrong,' I say into the silence. 'You must be. He must have just decided to come. If he and Clare had argued he might have wanted to patch it up, don't you think? He was always ...'

'A bit of an idiot?' Matt says. He gives a shaky laugh. 'I guess maybe you're right. He's not known for his forethought. I mean-' He stops and I see his fist on his knee is clenched '-I mean he was.' He stops. There is another silence, both of us thinking of the James who lives in our heads, in our thoughts. 'I remember,' he says at last, 'I remember one time at uni, he climbed the college walls and put Santa hats on all the gargoyles. Idiot. He could have been killed.'

As the last word drops from his lips I see him realise what he's said, and flinch, and before I can stop myself I put out a hand.

'I'd better go,' he says. 'I'm- I hope you're better soon.'

'I'll be fine,' I say. And then, forcing myself on, because I know if I don't say it I'll regret it, 'Will you can you come back?'

'I'm going back to London in the morning,' he says. 'But it'd be nice to keep in touch.'

There's a pen on the chart, and he pulls it off and scribbles his number on the only bit of writable surface around the side of his coffee cup.

'You were right,' he says, as he puts the cup carefully on my bedside table. 'Water would have been preferable. Bye, Leo.'

'Bye.'