I Know What I Saw

47 Saturday

When I am sure that he is in his room, asleep, I go back down. In the kitchen, the time on the oven blinks 01:22. I reach for the bag.

I step into the night with the bag tucked under my arm. The walk to the police station feels like a death march and I feel a kind of undeserved nobility about it. The air swims around my face, reminding me of itself and of freedom, now lost. I can’t keep running.

Before any suspicion of light, I reach the door of the police station and look up at the building. There’s a world behind those doors that I don’t want to open. And yet I must.

In the darkened sky, the street lamps flicker orange. I see a boy in the distance under a lamp that reminds me of Amit. His face glows in the sulphur.

I turn round and push at the door to a desk sergeant I haven’t seen before. This one looks more awake and less irritable than the others have been.

‘Is DI Blake here?’

He looks at his screen, takes my name and picks up a phone. ‘Yes, Rachel. Someone here to see you.’

I put the bag on my lap and look at it. It has kept my life’s secret. When I think of Grace and Rory, they are all in the centre of my life, whether I orbited around them or they me. But – and this hasn’t penetrated me until now – they are gone. They are dead and the damage that I did to them still clings to me. I have been running, but I haven’t been able to free myself from their guilt or their blame because I have kept them with me. How could I run away from them when they are inside me?

But now, I can escape. Knowing this, I look up.

‘Xander,’ she says. ‘Twice in twenty-four hours?’

I stare at Blake and at the bag on my lap. This moment feels suspended between two outcomes.

‘I have this,’ I say, and show her the muddy bag. She looks at me, confused. ‘It’s the other bit. Of the record. I had it,’ I say.

She is walking towards me but stops abruptly mid-stride and draws in a breath. ‘Xander. I. Oh, shit. I need to caution you,’ she says, putting a hand on her head and then sitting softly next to me. I can smell a faint scent of coffee and jasmine.

‘I’m seizing this as evidence in the case,’ she says at last. ‘Wait here. I’m going to get an evidence bag and some gloves.’ She rushes off through the double doors and is gone no longer than a minute or so. When she returns she has a large polythene bag in her hand and is pulling on surgical gloves. She takes my bag and seals it in the larger one. When she has written on the label, she turns to me.

‘I can’t ask you any questions about this without cautioning you and then interviewing you with your solicitor,’ she says, levelling her eyes at me. She is signalling.

I nod and then get up to leave.

‘Xander. You know we’re going to test it, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say, and walk to the front door, pausing to raise a hand at her in goodbye.

‘I can’t not follow the evidence, Xander,’ she calls to my back as I walk out.

There are things I have to do and I don’t know how much time I have. The sky is darkened ink and there is no moon. Its absence feels personal, as if the moon has been plucked out of the sky to shame me.

I head quickly back, but even marching at double time and taking a bus part of the way, it still takes over an hour. By the time I reach Seb’s door, dawn has begun to appear. After slipping off my shoes at the door, I tiptoe quietly up the stairs to bed.

I drop into a dark and dreamless sleep.

Morning light washes through the curtains but I shut my eyes against it. There is too much now going on in my head to be distracted by light. I need more sleep. My body and my pounding head crave it. When I wake again much later, shards of so many colliding dreams are still sticking to me that I feel groggy and disorientated. I head for the bathroom and run a bath, using bubble bath to dampen the sound of water against enamel as it fills.

I climb in and as soon as the water swaddles me, it is as if everything in my mind that isn’t ordered or clear is jettisoned into the tub. As my body becomes cleaner, my head clears, too.

I stayed there. When I was lying broken on the street, she, my love, ma belle, appeared and offered me shelter. And I took it. I slept, there on that silken carpet, for days, maybe. I was there.

I saw her come in. With him.

She’d surprised me.

Perhaps I slept there behind that sofa out of sight as the fire warmed my bones dry. Maybe they argued and he left. I made that noise, and he, alerted to me, left. And then she turned to see me. We argued. I was stalking her. I disgusted her. I would have reminded her that I loved her and that I would have done anything for her. Reminded her that she loved me. That she gave me a key. I would have reminded her about the record – that she still played it, still cherished it. And something was said or done to make me fling it. I can see it now, breaking in two. Did I strike her then? And did I then stand over her and lose control? It feels likely now. That I watched myself, as if disembodied, as my anger flooded into her, and rage took me over. As everything reddened before my eyes.

There is a rituality to this act of bathing now. It feels like a last rite. I wash each part carefully before cupping water in my hand and pouring it over my body. Finally, I submerge my head and hold it under water until my hair floats freely. When I come up for air, I feel reborn. I wrap a towel around my waist and return to my room. Seb has laid out fresh clothes again and taken away the old. Dear Seb. We’ve spoken about the money a few times and I have reassured him that he is forgiven. Told him that it never meant anything to me in itself. When I am dressed, I go downstairs.

He is in the kitchen, busying himself at the stove. There are plumes of smoke coming from a blackened pan in his hand. He hasn’t heard me come in.

‘Blast,’ he says loudly, and runs his hand under the tap.

‘Seb. Come sit. We need a chat,’ I say, taking a seat at the table.

He looks around startled and then hesitates, unsure where to put the pan. He drops it into the sink. ‘Xander. Where have you been?’

‘Seb, sit down for a second. We need to talk. I just wanted to say thank you,’ I say.

He runs his hands through his hair. ‘Xander. Where the hell did you go? And the bag – it’s gone.’

‘I wanted to tell you …’

His face contracts in concern. ‘You went to the police?’ he asks. ‘You gave it to them?’

‘I had to,’ I say. And then there is silence. We look at one another and I notice a tear in his eye and when he goes to wipe it, I realise that there’s one in mine too.

‘The money is yours,’ I say. ‘I don’t want you ever worrying about it.’

‘What?’ he says.

‘You can keep it. I don’t need it.’

‘But it’s yours. I’ll pay it back. I just need—’

‘You let me in here when I needed you. That’s – that’s everything to me.’

I can’t turn back now. I know that I can’t go to prison, so there is really only one option left. I will of course feed out the line for as long as I can. There are still things about life that I can marvel in. I want to be warm, and then to be cold and shivering under a blanket of leaves, breathing air that is crisp enough to crackle. I want to mourn, and to submit to any redemption that is left to me.

‘You kept that?’ he says, looking at my neck.

I place my fingers lightly on the shell pendant and nod. Whatever mood I left him in has shifted to something darker. ‘What now?’ he says.

I don’t know what to say to him so in the end I look down at my hands and say nothing. He doesn’t move. The silence swells between us until he speaks again.

‘When?’ he says.

The question catches me. I continue breathing slowly until I have to swallow. ‘Soon. A week, maybe.’

He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘And you’re certain?’ he asks quietly. ‘I just can’t believe it, Xander. What happened?’

I have nothing to help him with this. Nothing I can give him can explain it. I loved her. I must have. But I couldn’t live without her. Is that it? Was it that awful?

‘Shit,’ he says, coming to himself. ‘Nina – what do I tell Nina?’

I reach across the table and take his hand. ‘Seb.’

‘You can’t do it, Xander. It’s a coward’s way out.’

I smile as my throat catches more tears. ‘That’s me, Seb. Coward. A bridge. A jump.’

‘No, Xand, that is not you. You’re not a coward. You’ve held this so long now. You’ve suffered, you have, but you can’t just leave. Not now. Not after all this time. When I’ve just got you—’ He breaks off, losing himself in tears.

‘This isn’t a thing to be sad about. You mustn’t be sad about it. I had chances. I had a lot of chances,’ I say. ‘I fucked them all up.’

He shrugs off my hand. He looks at me, his face stained with tears and disbelief. Finally, he gets up and I hear footsteps as he goes upstairs to his bedroom.

I splash some water on to my face in the sink and return to the living room. There’s a small bookcase in an alcove. And when I see the books I remember how I keep meaning to read and yet never seem to manage it. I run a finger along the spines. A few of the titles mean something to me. I pick out a Maupassant and study the cover. Le Nœud de vipères. The Nest of Vipers. Rory gave me this copy.

The Christmas that he gave it to me comes flooding back. We are in the drawing room. I am sixteen and sullen, he is innocent as he always was. The fire is flickering in the fireplace and Dad is sleeping in his favourite chair beside it. I remember the feeling of blackness radiating in waves from me. But there is a whisper of frustration through the hate. And it is love. The love won’t be rinsed away. It won’t leave me and him. It stains us both.