The Likeness: A Novel (58 page)

“An interesting question,” Daniel said. He tightened the cap on the whiskey bottle, placed it carefully on the bench beside the glass.
My heart was going like hoofbeats. “Never go all in on a bad hand,” I said, “unless you’re absolutely positive you’re a stronger player than your opponent. How sure are you?”
He gave me a vague look that could have meant anything. “We should go in now,” he told me. “I suggest we tell the others that we spent the afternoon reading and recovering from our hangovers. Does that sound about right to you?”
“Daniel,”
I said, and then my throat closed up; I could hardly breathe. Until he glanced down, I didn’t even realize that my hand was on his sleeve.
“Detective,” Daniel said. He was smiling at me, just a little, but his eyes were very steady and very sad. “You can’t have both. Don’t you remember what we were talking about, just a few minutes ago—the inevitability of sacrifice? One of us, or a detective: you can’t be both. If you had ever truly wanted to be one of us, wanted it more than anything else, you never would have made a single one of those mistakes, and we wouldn’t be sitting here.”
He laid his hand over mine, removed it from his sleeve and placed it in my lap, very gently. “In a way, you know,” he said, “strange and impossible though it may seem, I very much wish you had chosen the other way.”
“I’m not trying to ruin you,” I said. “There’s no way I can claim to be on your side, but compared to Detective Mackey, or even Detective O’Neill ... If it’s left up to them—and unless you and I work together, it will be; they’re the ones running the investigation, not me—all four of you will be serving the maximum for murder. Life sentences. I’m doing my best here, Daniel, not to let that happen. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I’m doing everything I can.”
A leaf had fallen from the ivy into the trickle of water and got caught on one of the little steps, shaking against the current. Daniel picked it out carefully and turned it between his fingers. “I met Abby when I started Trinity,” he said. “Quite literally; it was on registration day. We were in the exam hall, hundreds of students queuing for hours—I should have brought something to read, but it hadn’t occurred to me that it would take so long—shuffling along under all those gloomy old paintings, and everyone whispering for some reason. Abby was in the next queue. She caught my eye, pointed to one of the portraits and said, ‘If you let your eyes go loose, doesn’t he look exactly like one of the old fellas out of the Muppets?’ ”
He shook water off the leaf: droplets flying, bright as fire in the crisscrossing sunbeams. “Even at that age,” he said, “I was aware that people found me unapproachable. I had no problem with that. But Abby didn’t seem to feel that way, and that intrigued me. She told me later that she was almost petrified with shyness, not of me in particular but of everyone and everything there—an inner-city girl from foster homes, thrown in amongst all those middle-class boys and girls who took college and privilege so completely for granted—and she decided that, if she was going to pluck up the courage to talk to someone, it might as well be the most forbidding-looking person she could find. We were very young then, you know.
“Once we’d finally got ourselves registered, she and I went for a coffee together, and then we arranged to meet again the next day—well, when I say
arranged,
Abby told me, ‘I’m going on the library tour tomorrow at noon, see you there,’ and walked off before I could answer either way. By that time I already knew that I admired her. It was a novel sensation, for me; I don’t admire many people. But she was so determined, so vivid; she made everyone I had met before seem pale and shadowy by comparison. You’ve probably noticed”—Daniel smiled faintly, glancing up at me over his glasses—“that I have a tendency to keep myself at some distance from life. I had always felt that I was an observer, never a participant; that I was watching from behind a thick glass wall as people went about the business of living—and did it with such ease, with a skill that they took for granted and that I had never known. Then Abby reached straight through the glass and caught my hand. It was like an electric shock. I remember watching her walk off across Front Square—she was wearing this awful fringed skirt that was much too long for her, she looked drowned in it—and realizing that I was smiling . . .
“Justin was on the library tour the next day. He hung back a step or two behind the group, and I wouldn’t even have noticed him if it hadn’t been for the fact that he had a hideous cold. Every sixty seconds or so he came out with this enormous, explosive, wet sneeze, and everyone would jump and then snicker, and he would turn an extraordinary shade of beetroot and try to disappear into his handkerchief. He was obviously excruciatingly shy. At the end of the tour Abby turned around to him, as if we’d known one another all our lives, and said, ‘We’re going for lunch, are you coming?’ I’ve seldom seen anyone look so startled. His mouth popped open and he mumbled something that could have meant anything, but he went over to the Buttery with us. By the end of lunch he was actually speaking in full sentences—and interesting ones, too. We’d read a lot of the same things, he had some insights into John Donne that had never occurred to me . . . It hit me, that afternoon, that I liked him; that I liked both of them. That, for the first time in my life, I was enjoying the company of others. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s ever had difficulty making friends; I’m not sure you can understand quite what a revelation that was.
“It took us until classes started, the next week, to find Rafe. The three of us were sitting at the back of a lecture room, waiting for the lecturer to show up, when all of a sudden the door beside us flew open and there was Rafe: dripping with rain, hair plastered to his head, fists clenched, obviously straight out of some traffic mess and in a horrible mood. It was a pretty dramatic entrance. Abby said, ‘Check it out, it’s King Lear,’ and Rafe whipped around on her and snarled—you know how he gets—‘How did you get here, then—in Daddy’s limo? Or on your broomstick?’ Justin and I were taken aback, but Abby just laughed and said, ‘By hot-air balloon,’ and pushed a chair towards him. And after a moment he sat down and muttered, ‘Sorry.’ And that was that.”
Daniel smiled, down at the leaf, a private little smile as tender and amazed as a lover’s. “How did we ever put up with one another? Abby talking nineteen to the dozen to hide her shyness, Justin half smothered under his, Rafe biting people’s heads off right and left; and me. I was terribly serious, I know. It wasn’t until that year, really, that I learned how to laugh . . .”
“And Lexie?” I asked, very softly. “How did you find her?”
“Lexie,” Daniel said. The smile rippled across his face like wind on water, deepened. “Do you know, I can’t even remember the first time we met her? Abby probably can; you should ask her. All I remember is that, by the time we had been postgrads for a few weeks, she seemed to have been there forever.”
He put the leaf down gently on the bench beside him and wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. “It always took my breath away,” he said, “that the five of us could have found one another—against such odds, through all the layers of armored fortifications each of us had set up. A lot of it was Abby, of course; I’ve never known what instinct led her so unerringly, I’m not sure she knows herself, but you can see why I’ve trusted her judgment ever since. But still: it would have been so heart-stoppingly easy for us to miss one another, for me or Abby to show up an hour later for registration, for Justin to refuse our invitation, for Rafe to be just that little bit snippier so that we backed off and left him alone. Do you see now why I believe in miracles? I used to imagine time folding over, the shades of our future selves slipping back to the crucial moments to tap each of us on the shoulder and whisper:
Look, there, look! That man, that woman: they’re for you; that’s your life, your future, fidgeting in that line, dripping on the carpet, shuffling in that doorway. Don’t miss it.
How else could such a thing have happened?”
He bent down and picked up our butts from the paving stones, one by one. “In all my life,” he said simply, “these are the only four people I have ever loved.” Then he stood up and walked off across the grass towards the house, with the bottle and the glass dangling from one hand and the cigarette butts cupped in the other.

20

T
he others came back still heavy-eyed and headachy and in a prickly mood. The film had been crap, they said, some awful thing with a random Baldwin brother having endless supposedly comic misunderstandings with someone who looked like Teri Hatcher but wasn’t; the cinema had been full of kids who were clearly below the age limit and who had spent the whole two hours texting each other and eating crackly things and kicking the back of Justin’s seat. Rafe and Justin were still very obviously not talking, and now Rafe and Abby apparently weren’t either. Dinner was leftover lasagna, crunchy on top and scorched on the bottom and eaten in tense silence. No one had bothered to make a salad to go with it, or to light the fire.
Just when I was about ready to scream, Daniel said calmly, glancing up, “By the way, Lexie, I meant to ask you something. I thought I might touch on Anne Finch with my Monday group, but I’m awfully rusty. Would you mind giving me a quick rundown, after dinner?”
Anne Finch wrote a poem from the point of view of a bird, she showed up here and there in Lexie’s thesis notes, and that, since there are only twenty-four hours in a day, was basically all I knew about her. Rafe would have pulled something like this out of pure malicious mischief, yanking my chain just because he could, but Daniel never opened his mouth without a solid reason. That brief, strange alliance in the garden was over. He was showing me, starting with the little things, that if I insisted on sticking around he could make my life very, very awkward.
There was no way I was going to make an eejit of myself by spending my evening babbling about voice and identity to someone who knew I was talking rubbish. Lucky for me Lexie had been an unpredictable brat—although probably luck had nothing to do with it: I was pretty sure she had constructed that side of her personality specifically for moments a lot like this one. “I don’t feel like it,” I said, keeping my head down and jabbing at my crunchy lasagna with my fork.
There was an instant of silence. “Are you OK?” Justin asked.
I shrugged, not looking up. “I guess.”
Something had just hit me. That silence and the fine thread of new tension through Justin’s voice, and quick glances flicking back and forth across the table: the others were, instantly and so easily, worried about me. Here I’d spent weeks trying to get them to relax, drop their guard; I had never thought about how fast I could send them skidding in the opposite direction, and how serious a weapon that might make if I used it right.
“I helped you with Ovid when you needed it,” Daniel reminded me. “Don’t you remember? I spent ages finding you that quote—what was it?”
Obviously I wasn’t about to rise to that one. “I’d only get mixed up and end up telling you about Mary Barber or someone. I can’t think straight today. I keep . . .” I shoved lasagna bits aimlessly around my plate. “Never mind.”
Nobody was eating any more. “You keep what?” Abby asked.
“Leave it,” Rafe said. “God knows I’m not in the mood for Anne bloody Finch. If she’s not either—”
“Is something bothering you?” Daniel asked me, politely.
“Leave her
alone.
”
“Of course,” Daniel said. “Get some rest, Lexie. We’ll do it another night, when you’re feeling better.”
I risked a quick look up. He had picked up his fork and knife again and was eating steadily, with nothing on his face but thoughtful absorption. This move had backfired; he was calmly, intently considering his next one.

* * *

I went for a preemptive strike. After dinner we were all in the sitting room, reading, or anyway pretending to—no one had even suggested anything as social as a game of cards. The ashes from last night’s fire were still in a dreary pile in the fireplace, and there was a soggy chill in the air; distant bits of the house kept letting out sharp cracks or ominous groans, making us all jump. Rafe was kicking the hearth-rail with the toe of one shoe, in a steady, irritable rhythm, and I was fidgeting, changing position in my chair every few seconds. Between the two of us, we were making both Justin and Abby tenser every second. Daniel, head bent over something with an awful lot of footnotes, didn’t seem to have noticed.
Around eleven, like always, I went out to the hall and put on my outdoor stuff. Then I went back to the sitting room and hung in the doorway, looking unsure.
“Going for a walk?” Daniel asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “It might help me relax. Justin, will you come with me?”
Justin started, stared at me like a rabbit in headlights. “Me? Why me?”
“Why anyone?” Daniel inquired, with mild curiosity.
I shrugged, an uneasy twitch. “I don’t know, OK? My head feels weird. I keep thinking . . .” I twisted my scarf round my finger, bit my lip. “Maybe I had bad dreams last night.”
“Nightmares,” Rafe said, without looking up. “Not ‘bad dreams.’ You’re not
six.
”
“What kind of bad dreams?” Abby asked. There was a tiny, worried furrow between her eyebrows.
I shook my head. “I don’t remember. Not properly. Just . . . I just don’t feel like being out in the lanes alone.”
“But I don’t either,” said Justin. He looked really upset. “I hate it out there—really hate it, not just . . . It’s
horrible.
Eerie. Can’t someone else go?”
“Or,” Daniel suggested helpfully, “if you’re this anxious about going out, Lexie, why don’t you stay at home?”
“Because. If I sit around in here any longer, I’m going to go crazy.”
“I’ll go with you,” Abby said. “Girl chat.”
“No offense,” Daniel said, with a slight, affectionate smile at Abby, “but I think a homicidal maniac might be less intimidated by the two of you than he should be. If you’re feeling nervous, Lexie, you should have someone large with you. Why don’t you and I go?”
Rafe raised his head. “If you’re going,” he told Daniel, “then so am I.”
There was a small, tight silence. Rafe stared coldly at Daniel, unblinking; Daniel gazed calmly back. “Why?” he asked.
“Because he’s a moron,” Abby said, to her book. “Ignore him and maybe he’ll go away, or at least shut up. Wouldn’t that be fun?”