Precious Thing (16 page)

Drowning.

Slowly drowning.

‘Oh, you know, nothing much, can’t seem to concentrate on anything at the moment,’ I said.

‘I know what you mean. Listen Rachel, you don’t mind if I call you now and then do you,’ she asked. ‘It’s just that you’ll probably get more information than me.’

I hesitated, and then relented.

‘No problem,’ I said, fully expecting never to hear from her again. ‘’Bye for now.’

I hung up and sank back into a big black hole of nothingness.

The irony was that Jonny and I wouldn’t have been together that weekend anyway. He should have been in Afghanistan, which was always going to be hard, but missing someone and knowing their absence has a purpose was a whole world away from this, this torture. A huge fault-line had opened up in my world and swallowed up the two people I cared for most. Yet somehow, somehow, I hadn’t felt the slightest tremor until it was too late. All I could see now was the damage it had left behind.

I remember that weekend in shivers and coughs and aches. My throat was raw, my body felt as if it had been stretched to the point of snapping. I wore layers of clothes, jumpers, socks, slippers, turned the heating up full blast, but still the cold wouldn’t shift from my bones. I ate without restraint in a way I hadn’t done for years: takeaway pizza, Thai, curry, biscuits from the cupboard, whatever I could lay my hands on, anything to fill the huge void inside me. In the end I was sick, which only made me feel even more wretched.

My thoughts were chaotic, my emotions swung like a pendulum between raw fury and utter desolation. I didn’t know what to think, whether to feel devastated, grief or betrayal. In the end I experienced all three.

In the rare moments of calm I held imaginary conversations with Jonny, where (after walking through the door, arms open wide) he’d scoop me up and kiss me all over and put me out of my misery with an innocent explanation and an apology for not being in touch. But when I couldn’t think of any such innocent explanation and I began to scratch my own skin in frustration, the confusion set in again. For my sanity I forced myself to focus on something else. My thoughts turned to you, Clara.

It was the song that came to me first; I found myself humming it before I even realised what it was and then the name flashed in my head like a neon sign and I had to laugh at the beautiful grotesque fucking irony of it. The song of our summer 1995, Everything But the Girl, ‘Missing’
.

Can you remember it, Clara, that weird slice of time when we weren’t quite adults but we were definitely no longer children? We’d ditched Take That in favour of DJs and dance compilations and promised ourselves that this was the summer we’d make it (underage) to the Zap Club.

We’d been talking about it for months but hadn’t worked up the courage to go on our own and be turned away for being too young in front of a queue of cool people. Then Matt, the sixth-form guy you were seeing, said he knew someone on the door, Paul Oakenfold was going to be playing, did we want to go?

It was the summer holidays and all week long we’d hung out on the beach, or on the old pier eating Fab ice lollies quickly before they melted in the sun. The smell of coconuts from your tanning spray followed us everywhere as did my factor twenty-five lotion and the wide-brimmed sunhat I wore in the hope of stopping the march of freckles across my face.

As the days passed and your skin turned a deep brown colour we talked of nothing else but Saturday night; what outfits we were going to wear, what we would tell your dad to convince him to let you stay out late; no need to persuade Niamh – a rare perk of having a neglectful mother.

When Saturday came I arrived at your house early, two bottles of Diamond White and Castaway hidden in my bag. We drank Blastaways and danced to Everything But the Girl’s ‘Missing’, ‘Dreamer’ by Livin’ Joy and ‘Rhythm is a Mystery’ by K Klass which we played repeatedly, not just because we loved the tunes; our musical tastes had developed faster than our CD collection, which still groaned with Take That hits.

‘Well?’ you said when you were dressed. ‘What do you think?’ You did a little turn which made your hair swirl around your face, catching the light. Moments passed and I couldn’t take my eyes off you, this vision in front of me: your dark skin glowing under a white dress, those impossibly blue eyes dancing with excitement, thick black eyelashes, deep red lips. I wondered whether or not you were real.

‘You look … stunning,’ I said.

You reached over to kiss me. ‘Good, that makes two of us then. Come on Rach, let’s go and party.’

On the way out we promised your dad we’d get a cab home, the only way we could stop him coming to collect us himself. ‘One o’clock, Clara, that’s the absolute latest. If you’re not back by then I’m sending out the search party,’ he said. ‘And girls, enjoy the concert, you both look beautiful.’ We smiled and left quickly so he wouldn’t see the flush of a lie creep across our faces. We’d told him we were going to see Blur at the Paradox, knowing he’d never have let you go clubbing at the Zap.

Down by the arches on Kings Road, the home of the Zap, dance music pumped out on to the street. A snake of people waited, dressed up, dressed down, shuffling from one foot to the other, chatting, laughing. To me, they were older, hipper, they acted like they belonged here. Looking down at myself, my plain black trousers, the green halterneck top I’d bought in Oasis last week, I realised how plain and ordinary I was in comparison. You, on the other hand, outshone everyone there, just like you always did, Clara.

We went to stand at the back of the queue but as soon as we met up with Matt and his mate Scott they swept us to the front. I kept my head down, anticipating the embarrassment of being turned away by the woman with the long blond ponytail and clipboard. But to my surprise she nodded, opened the door and ushered us inside.

It was still filling up, dark and dank; the smell of stale alcohol and smoke hung in the air. Matt wouldn’t leave your side, whispering into your ear, nodding his head in agreement with everything you said. I’d watched his reaction when he caught sight of you in the queue, and I think he must have known that you were out of his league but still, he was determined to cling on to you for tonight at least. I was left with Scott, who had started waving his arms out in the air and dancing too close to me. After all the anticipation, the huge week-long build-up, I wanted to turn round and run away. I was still thinking of what excuses to give you when you came over, hooked arms with me and said, ‘Come on, I need a wee,’ and suddenly we were heading towards the toilets.

In the cubicle together I realised you didn’t need a wee; we were there for another reason entirely. You opened your hand to reveal two little white circles, smaller than paracetamols and embossed with little doves. ‘Shall we?’ you whispered, eyes flashing with mischief. ‘Matt says they’re really good ones.’

I didn’t know what to say. In all the hours we’d spent talking about tonight we’d never discussed taking Ecstasy. It hadn’t even been on my radar. You must have seen me wavering. ‘Come on,’ you said, handing me one, ‘everyone else will be doing them,’ and I thought about how I was going to leave because I felt so out of place and then I saw you put the little round circle into your mouth, throwing your head back and sloshing it down with a swig from a bottle of water. All the time smiling, daring me to do the same. ‘No going back now,’ you said. And I grabbed the water from you and placed the pill on my tongue, wincing as the bitter, chemical taste hit me, and then I washed it away with a drink. Two minutes later we were out of the toilets, emerging into the club again, no idea what would happen next.

The answer was nothing, not for ages. The club had filled up, hot and sweaty bodies too close to each other, dancing to thumping music. Matt’s face was red, glistening from the heat, staying close to you, wondering no doubt when the pill would work and you would melt into him. We kept on looking at each other:
Is anything happening?
Shaking our heads because we both felt totally normal. I began to wonder what all the fuss was about.

Then a song I didn’t recognise came on and slowly I felt the beats of it playing through me as a fuzzy warmth took hold in my head, like liquid velvet, smoothing and soothing me, melting away every worry I’d ever had. Before long I couldn’t tell where the music stopped and I began because it had become part of me, and all I could do was let it take hold.

I turned to you and saw your pupils big and wide, our smiles connecting. Then you were next to me, your hand on my back sending tingles all the way up my spine and into my head. My whole body had come alive, so wonderfully, deliciously sensitive to even the gentlest touch.

That’s when we heard the first bars of ‘Missing’. Our song. And we couldn’t stop grinning because it was all too good to be fucking true, as if someone had made a drug just for us and planned the whole evening with the most perfect cosmic timing.

I felt your hand take mine and in our own little bubble we were pulled by the music right down into the noisy heart of the club where the song pumped through our hearts and the strobing lights danced on our eyelids.

You leant close to me and shouted in my ear so your words vibrated through me, ‘Let’s never lose this, Rach.’

You weren’t talking about the drugs and the music, however beautiful it all was. You were talking about us and the clearest, sharpest thought ran through my head.
If I ever lost you, I would lose myself.

‘We won’t, I promise you,’ I said, ‘I’ll never let you go.’

We stayed there, dancing together because we couldn’t stop until finally we moved away to a quieter, darker spot, sinking to the floor our backs against the wall, just drinking it all in. We’d lost Matt and Scott long ago in the throng but when I mentioned it you just shrugged and closed your eyes.

‘Never mind,’ you said and took my hand in yours, leaning your head on to my shoulder. One moment stretched out for hours until finally the heat faded from our bodies. Your eyes were open again and you looked at your watch as if you had just remembered something. ‘Shit,’ you said dreamily, ‘think we’re about to turn into pumpkins. We need to go.’

Outside the cold air tickled our skin. We crossed the road and were drawn by the noise and the dark shadows of the waves down on to the beach. ‘Stop,’ you said, as we stumbled over the pebbles. ‘Look at them.’ Your hand was pointing upwards to the sky. ‘Can you see how big they are tonight?’

I sat down and looked up towards the stars. They seemed enormous, so close to us I thought they might drop out of the sky.

You sank down on the beach next to me, the lights dancing above us. And together we lay back reaching our arms high above our heads into the black sky, stretching them out further than we ever thought possible. That was when we felt it, the electric heat sparking on the tips of our fingers and charging through our bodies. The waves lapped on the shore close by and we swore to each other that we had both just touched a star.

M
ONDAY MORNING, BACK
at work and your name was in the air again, hovering out of my reach. I felt a twinge in my stomach knowing that I would be left on the sidelines while someone else reported on it.

Swiping myself through the doors to the newsroom, I walked straight into Richard Goldman, another correspondent, who tipped his coffee all over my cream wool coat.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ I muttered under my breath, trying to move past him, but he blocked my way.

‘Shit, sorry,’ he said in his public-school drawl before he looked up and saw it was me. ‘You’re the last person I expected to see in work.’ His eyes wandered up and down me searching for signs of emotional collapse.

‘Best to keep busy,’ I said.

‘Well, whatever works for you. But I wanted you to know you have my sympathy.’ I studied his face, trying to work out whether he was being genuine or simply enjoying seeing everything fall apart for me. I’d always had the feeling he’d never forgiven me for beating him to the crime correspondent job. I remembered the words of a colleague when I first started at NNN:
the more you know him the less you like him.

‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘it might make you feel better knowing that the story is in good hands.’ He rubbed his own together. ‘I’m just off there now.’ And with that he swiped himself through the door and disappeared into the car park.

I’m not a vengeful person but there are times when natural justice needs a helping hand and this was one of them. I didn’t want Richard’s grubby fat hands pawing you and Jonny, and yes, if I couldn’t be on the story, at the very least I wanted to be kept updated of any off-the-record briefings from the police. Richard would rather die than give me any privileged information. I had to do something. Though what, I couldn’t think.

Then lunchtime arrived and an opportunity so tantalising landed in my lap, it was impossible to ignore.

Richard was in Brighton, on the promenade doing a live headline for the one o’clock bulletin. All he had to say was
I’m Richard Goldman in Brighton where police spent the weekend questioning motorists and revellers in the area where Clara O’Connor disappeared more than a week ago,
and then the shot would cut away from him to the next headline.

It’s not the kind of thing you can fuck up because you have ten seconds, no more, and that’s not enough time to recover if you fluff it. But Richard stumbled as soon as he opened his mouth. And then – so quick I almost missed it – at the bottom of the shot I saw his hand move down to his crotch where he gave himself a small but noticeable tug. Remarkably he recovered his composure as if his dick was hotwired to his brain. The gift, the gift of it. I looked across at Jake but his face was fixed on the bulletin with a look of concentration. I played it back, wondering if I had imagined it. But no, it was still there.

Instinctively I pulled out one of my old notepads where I had written the password for a false e-mail account I’d set up a few months ago. I’d been posing as an elderly woman during an investigation into a company that was pressurising pensioners to have useless security systems fitted. The account was in the name of Jean Beattie, a name I borrowed from an old neighbour in Dover Road who used to pass me custard creams through the fence and talk to me about my plants.