Three Steps Behind You (19 page)

I don’t have a plan, really, I realise as I approach. Perhaps I should just say it is a social call. That I miss him. That I’m also now ex-car shop, and I want to find out how life has been treating him. What he’s up to, how he’s earning a living, whether he just spends all his time driving a car, why Adam bought it for him. I suppose I want to doorstop him. I could pretend to be a journalist, researching, shout through the letterbox, hope he doesn’t open up and recognise me.

Yes, there is the Maserati. Not silver, like I thought it would be. But black. Like the sparkly granite black of Adam’s offices. It is an Adam car, after all. I prefer his BMW 4X4. Less showy. More suave. Discretely moneyed. Not like this one. But then, maybe it was Jimmy’s choice. He always was an Essex boy, living in the wrong place. Or a barrow boy, they call them, don’t they? A wheeler-dealer, dealing wheels.

I circle the Maserati, walking out onto the road, then back to the pavement. I don’t touch it, because I don’t understand it, not like I understand Adam. Or did understand him. Before he started buying people cars. Jimmy doesn’t keep it as well as Adam keeps his. There are, as I thought there would be, scratches. And the windscreen needs cleaning – full of dead insects and leaves. That makes me feel better. An unclean Maserati parked on a street with overflowing rubbish bins, pavements full of recycling containers, one for every sort of litter apart from dead bodies.

I stand in front of his house, planning a smile, a greeting.

But then my plans disappear. Because in the front room, through the window, I see Adam.

Chapter 22

He is just sitting on a sofa. As if it is the most ordinary thing in the world to be Adam, in Ealing, in Jimmy’s house, late on a Tuesday afternoon. He probably doesn’t even know that Nicole is here too, watching his sit there.

Although he’s not quite just sitting. He’s also talking. And moving his arms a lot. I can’t see Jimmy. But presumably he is in there too, nodding, listening, bonding. As if the car is not enough. The talking is so interesting that the lights aren’t on. He is sitting there in dusky darkness. They must make do with the shining light that Adam exudes. Out of his arse, or from wherever it emanates.

Why would he be here?

Why, on a late afternoon on a Tuesday, would there be Adams in Ealing?

And what, most importantly, ought I to do about it? Disclose my presence? Or just stand and watch, like Nicole does?

No. That would be too weak, too passive. This is my research, for me, in the limited time available.

I do my Luke walk up to the house and knock on the window. Adam doesn’t notice. He continues talking. There is Jimmy. I can see him now, sitting on the floor, nodding away, like a little lap dog, begging for crusts. I knock again, hoping for some answer, some reaction, some sense that I am here. I raise my fist to knock once more. Before my fist has hit the glass, Adam looks up. He sees me. His hands freeze mid wave in the air. Jimmy must notice the interruption, because he turns round to face the window. They both stare at me. Jimmy’s mouth opens. Adam’s mouth tightens, and his eyebrows furrow. We are there in suspended animation, me looking in, them looking out. Stasis.

Then Adam says something to Jimmy. I don’t know what. But Jimmy knows, Jimmy understands, because he rises up off the floor. He walks towards the doorway of the room, shooting me small glances as he does so. His brows are frowny too, now. Not as frowny as Adam’s, though, who continues to glare. Maybe I am interrupting something. Good.

I move towards the front door and wait for it to open.

It takes its time. I try to plan my first line.

Perhaps, ‘Well, this is a reunion, isn’t it?’ I could even slap him on the back, if he lets me. Or, ‘I was just passing, and saw you and Adam, so …’

Instead, when the door opens, and Jimmy is standing in front of me, I just say, ‘Hello.’

He says it back at me.

‘Can I come in?’ I ask.

‘Why?’ he says.

‘I wanted to chat,’ I say.

‘About what?’ he replies.

‘Old times. I’ve left the garage. They fired me. I thought we could catch up.’

‘That’s it?’ he asks.

‘What else would there be?’ I ask right back at him.

He shrugs. I try a different approach.

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ I ask. ‘With Adam?’

He looks at me. ‘What would you be interrupting?’

Now it’s my turn to shrug.

Jimmy starts looking past me, out towards the Maserati. ‘You come alone?’ he asks.

I’m not sure who he thinks I would invite to an impromptu visit to his home. Maybe Adam, but he is already there.

I nod.

‘Good to see you then, mate. Come in.’

I do as he says. He leads me into the hall, which smells of frying. Perhaps he has been cooking for Adam. Entertaining him? Although it does not have an atmosphere of entertainment. It is more like a wake. I remember them, from when I was younger, for Mum and Dad. And Helen.

We go into the living room. Adam is still sitting on the sofa. His fists are clenched. On the coffee table in front of him, I see something I had not seen through the window. It is a manuscript, in my handwriting. It is book two.

The notebook is not the neat item it was when I gave it to him, those years ago, before Nicole, even before his hands became tied with Helen. Then, its spiral bindings were neat, gently penetrating the straight, orderly pages. All in trim, untouched, just written with love. Now, after being in Adam’s care all this time, its pages are splayed, parted, bindings loose, pages dog-eared. I would have thought Adam would show more respect for my love. And I would not have thought he would show it, the book, to others. But if he wants to share my love, tell the world about it, that is good, isn’t it?

I start to smile at Adam, then stop as I see his fists clench. He still has not spoken to me. I wait in the doorway, as if he needs to give me permission to enter. Jimmy hovers next to me. I will have to go first.

‘Hi, Adam. Surprised to see you here!’ I say, going for the natural approach, avoiding the subtext.

Adam says nothing. His jaw is clenching and unclenching, but his fists don’t move at all.

‘How’s Nicole?’ I ask. I don’t tell him about the house-hunting trip.

‘She’s fine,’ he says, standing up from the sofa and picking up the notebook. ‘In fact, I ought to be getting back to her,’ he says.

‘Oh, I’ll come with you,’ I say, forgetting the purpose of my visit.

‘No,’ says Adam. ‘Don’t worry. Stay.’

I see Jimmy raise an eyebrow at Adam. Adam shakes his head slightly. He is in a negative mood. It is probably Nicole. She is probably torturing him about Helen again. Or just torturing him, by her very existence. He’s been rereading my book. Revisiting my passion for him. He must know, if it weren’t for Nicole, we could be together, we could be happy. But his marriage need not be binding, not like our love is binding.

I touch his arm as he leaves the room to remind me of this. He stops and turns. Then he draws very close to me. It is as though he is going to head-butt me or kiss me. I can’t tell which. His lips pucker but his jaw stays tight. Then he just walks through the door, without saying anything. I hear the front door slam and see him walk past the window. Then it is just me and Jimmy. We’re not really alone, though – Adam’s presence is with us still.

We stand, both of us, looking at the Maserati.

‘Why did he buy it for you?’ I ask. It is only fair. Jimmy, presumably, has full knowledge of me, now, of my love for Adam.

‘Don’t worry, he’s not my boyfriend,’ says Jimmy. See, as I said. Full knowledge.

‘Then what was it for?’ I ask him.

He shrugs. ‘We’re mates,’ he says.

‘So are we. Me and Adam,’ I remind him.

He looks at me, but doesn’t reply.

‘I helped him out as much as you did, on Jeremy Bond. All those free trips,’ I say, as if Jimmy might give me the Maserati, out of fairness. ‘To see his parents, without his own car – so they wouldn’t think he was loaded, that he could afford to pay them more than he did. Did he even confide in you that’s what he was doing?’

‘You need to stop talking about Jeremy Bond,’ says Jimmy.

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Your own personal safety,’ says Jimmy.

‘And yours?’ I ask.

Jimmy waits before replying. I turn to look at his face, to gauge what he is thinking, to work out what we are talking about, but he just stares straight ahead into the grey.

‘I appreciate your concern, Dan, and the sociable nature of your call,’ he says, very quietly, still looking straight on, ‘but it’s not me you need to worry about.’

He shows me out, after that. Standing on the doorstep, I tell him we should meet for a coffee, chat more about old times. He says he’d rather we didn’t.

As I walk down the street, I’m sure I hear the purr of the Maserati behind me. I look over my shoulder, but there’s nothing there. Even Nicole has gone now. There is only the dark street. And Jimmy standing on his doorstep. Watching.

Chapter 23

Back at home, I want to call Adam. I want to understand how he feels, why he has been rereading book two. Why he looked like he might look if he was reading book three. But I know he doesn’t want to talk to me, tonight, so I must sit alone. I feel further from him than I ever have done.

It’s okay, though, because there is a plan for our closeness. I gather the violin and the fencing equipment around me. Tomorrow, I will use them well. Tonight, for company, I have the television. I turn it on. I see Luke. There he is, identi-fitted in front of me. Next to him there is a picture of Ally. The newsreader is saying that there has been a significant development. I mute her. The Nicole-red ticker tape along the bottom of the screen says it too. I change channels. There is a man in a black beret and a mac making absurd facial expressions to a woman with 1970s bouffant hair. I can do without more berets and macs. If Nicole and Huhne think they can live in my television, they are wrong. On another channel, a man and woman are having sex. The programme doesn’t show enough to be useful revision. I turn off the TV.

It’s fully dark outside now. I think of an evening run, to get myself in shape, for the fencing, for Nicole. But I think too of the purr of the Maserati, its sleek black invisibility. More prudent to have an early night. I could revisit book three, in bed? But no. That closeness will not motivate tonight. It will depress me, given the earlier distance. Instead I will sleep and try to dream of him.

And I do.

A saucepan, a saucepan, a giant saucepan and flames! And I’m in the pan, and the pan is Feltham. It doesn’t look like it, but I know it is. Adam is there, under the flames, not in them, like me. And he is turning them up, then turning them down, then turning them up.

DC Huhne is putting a lid on the pan, even though there’s no water in it, just me. She is waving some keys, and she is going to lock the lid onto me. I see the lid close over me, and although it’s a glass lid, I cannot see through it. I know Adam is out there, to be seen, but I’m stuck in here, getting hotter and hotter. Then I’m out of the saucepan and in Adam’s offices again. Except the reception girls are not like they were – they are Huhne and Nicole and Helen. And when I ask for Adam, they tell me he is not there, that I cannot see him.

‘But he is there! He is there!’ I scream, because I can see him, in the glass maze of offices. And I want to follow him, break into that box where he’s hiding from me. They won’t let me, the women – they tie me up with violin strings and they secure me to a great big violin so that I can’t move, can’t wriggle, even a little bit. And they winch me up to the very top of the building, its asphalt roof, and they leave me there on the violin, which is now more like a cello because it has one of those struts at its base. And I can see now into the building, which is suddenly transparent. What I see is Adams, lots and lots of Adams, all fornicating with a three-headed Nicole, Helen and Huhne beast. And Jimmy is there, guarding them with a Maserati. But it’s not a black Maserati – it’s made of fire and ice. The ice is so cold and it wafts up towards me, and consumes the violin-cello into a pool, and in the pool Adam is dunking me up and down, up and down, and I think we are in Hampstead Heath again, by the ponds. And he is saying ‘I know, I know, I know!’ over and over and over.

So I know then that he must die. But I am tied to the violin-cello, so there is nothing I can do. Then there’s a hissing behind me, over my shoulder, getting closer and closer, so that I think it’s a loud steam engine or a car, but it’s not, it’s a snake, a green snake with a red beret. It slithers round and round me on the violin and it opens its great big mouth and I can these fangs, the fangs that would penetrate me, fill me with their poison.

‘I know, I know, I know!’ Adam is still shouting.

‘It wasss me,’ the snake says. ‘I told him, he knowsss everything now.’

Just when I think the snake is going to bite me, it slithers off me and sheds its skin, and now it’s a naked Nicole, slithering over to Adam. And above me, there is something kicking my head, and I see sparkly blue toenails, and I know it is Ally, hanging from the neck of the violin. But the toenails become nails, now, attached to a shoe, drilling into the crown of my skull, making my head bleed. Meanwhile, the snake coils itself round Adam, tighter and tighter until I can see he’s turning redder and redder and redder and I want to save him but I can’t move, I am tied, I am tied to this wooden violin. And he’s dying, he’s dying, I can see that he’s dying.

‘Adam!’ I shout ‘Adam! Adam! ADAM!’

With a start I awake. For a moment I think I am still in Hampstead Pond, because the bed is wet, and the sheets are sticking to me like water-weed.

But no. It’s only my expression of fear. My sweat.

And something else.

The something that first happened when I was fourteen.

A very wet dream.

I push the covers off me and dart away from the bed. How can I be aroused by Adam dying? How can the death of Adam, my saviour, my love, possibly bring me happiness?

I run to the shower with the covers and turn it on to cleanse myself. But it is cold, cold as the ice of the car and the pond. It is too cold even to numb me. I dart out again.