Read Three Steps Behind You Online
Authors: Amy Bird
‘I’m so sorry,’ Nicole says. ‘Look, I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take them home, and I’ll blow dry them, and we can save them.’
It is only because I am depending on her for the unwritten words of book four that I don’t just push the papers into her face and smear her with blue, tell her to take her destruction elsewhere.
But because of how important she is, I agree. ‘Yes, good plan, do that.’ It will be futile, I know; the once blue words are too brown or too nothingy to be recaptured. I will have to rewrite them. But that is even better – for then she will feel she owes me something.
On the walk home, Nicole is solicitous and inquisitive as we wend our way along West End Lane.
‘So what are you working on, anyway?’
‘My novel,’ I say. I can’t think what else it would be.
‘Oh no, that was your novel?’ she cries. ‘The one with the lobsters?’
I nod. I am pleased she has remembered the lobsters. They are obviously a good device. Plus, it means she must like them, and she will come to my house, when I invite her.
I feel I should be upfront with her though.
‘There are no lobsters in that particular bit,’ I say.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t want to have killed off the lobsters.’
Nicole is unduly sentimental. That explains her fuss over Helen. ‘You mustn’t mind about lobsters,’ I say. ‘They die, that is what they do. They are only there for that.’
She wrinkles up her nose. I will have to blindfold her, I decide, while I kill them, or she might lose her appetite. And then she might not have the energy for what is to come. And so Luke and I will not get close to her closeness.
‘So if it’s not lobsters, what is it, the bit in here?’ she asks, waving the soggy papers at me.
‘That would be telling,’ I say. I don’t want to spoil the surprise for her, telling her what happens, part way through. Besides, that bit is actually more research notes, writing up my material.
When we get in, Nicole suggests I settle down in front of the television while she blow-dries the pages. I suggest she brings the hairdryer downstairs, or I come up.
‘I want to spread out the pages in the bathroom,’ she says. ‘And we don’t want a repeat of last time, do we?’
I guess I can’t argue with that. I must win her trust; let her know it is safe to be here with me. But can I trust her?
‘You mustn’t read the pages, if you get them dry, you know,’ I warn her. ‘You’ll only be spoiling the surprise for yourself.’
‘I don’t like surprises,’ she says.
I reach out a hand to grab her wrist, then realise I am meant to be on good behaviour, so only clasp it gently. I look into her eyes while smiling softly, like Adam does to people. He’s not the only one who can turn on the charisma.
‘But I would so like to surprise you,’ I whisper. ‘With my words. When it’s all complete.’
Nicole tries to pull her hand away, but I tighten my grip slightly.
‘Promise you won’t read them?’ I ask.
She pauses. I allow my grip to tighten but smile beseechingly while I do it.
‘All right, I promise,’ she says.
I release my grip on her hand. She won’t get away so easily next time. That will still be a surprise, even if she reads these particular notes.
She takes her bag and the papers and heads upstairs. I hear a door shut.
I turn on the TV. Chat shows, reality, unreality. I mute it and I flick to the news.
I see Flasher Mac reporter in the foreground and DC Huhne in the background. Time to unmute.
‘DC Huhne, the officer investigating the case, is about to issue a statement about this incident,’ Flasher Mac is saying. ‘We’ve heard rumours of a fatality, and a passer-by who was speaking to the police earlier said, and I quote, he “hoped they catch whoever did this to her”. So what did happen in that apartment building, and to whom?’
Oh. Oh dear. An error. When I spoke to the press of ‘her’ and a ‘this’ being done, there wasn’t a her yet. Or a this. Not officially. The police hadn’t said. Huhne hadn’t said.
There is some flashing in the background, of bulbs, not of macs. The camera cuts out from Flasher Mac and cuts to DC Huhne. She is clutching a piece of paper, and reads from it. Maybe the journalist thought I knew what was on that bit of paper when I spoke to her. Maybe DC Huhne didn’t actually hear what I said, maybe that wasn’t why she looked up, why she stared. Maybe I’m safe, won’t be a suspect for whatever it is that was done. That we did. Luke and I.
‘A young woman, Ally Burrows, has been found dead in one of the apartments in the block behind me. Her death is currently being treated as suspicious. The clues we have so far suggest that this may have been the work of a lover or someone to whom Ms Burrows was close sexually.’ Huhne pauses, then continues. ‘We have provided the news networks with an artist’s impression of a man who we would like to help us with our inquiries. We would ask the public not to approach this individual, but to provide us with any information they may have.’
The camera goes back to Flasher Mac again. ‘And I believe we can now go back to the studio for those pictures.’
So Ally is dead.
And there is a picture. Of me?
We go back to the studio. A woman in power red looks serious and then, finally, we have some pictures.
First, the public see ‘young, talented Ally Burrows, who was on the brink of an exciting media career’. She looks very alive in the picture they show. I should have known, really, when I went to the flat, that she was dead.
Then they show an etch-a-sketch picture of the man they are looking for. I brace myself.
It does not look like me.
It is male, my age, and with my hair shape, but the features are all wrong. I feel smug. I know how difficult it is to describe people’s physical features. I rarely bother in my books, except when I really can’t help myself. I’m pleased the general public are not much better at it, even the observant ones. Still, it shows I was right, not to go on camera.
‘Police say they think this man is called Luke,’ says the red-suit woman.
Ah, so DC Huhne found the note. Good work.
It is not surprising that Huhne, Debbie, the DC, found the note if you consider her background. I do consider it, of course. That is one of the other important things about research. My own research, for me, not for Luke. Know your enemies. This does not mean taking them out for coffee. Nor does it mean entering into sexual relations with them, whatever my plans for Nicole. No, it means find out all about them. Their strengths, their weaknesses, their likes, dislikes. Likes are pretty easy these days if you have Facebook. You can see what anyone gives the thumbs up.
I load up Firefox on Adam and Nicole’s big Mac. Or rather, Adam’s. It was another Helen inheritance gift. I have a quick look at my news feed to see if my select group of friends are doing anything. No. The two Nigerian guys who befriended me have been pretty quiet after I turned down their request for money. And Adam never says much any more. Helen says even less.
I see that Debbie Huhne ‘Likes’ the Metropolitan Police, ‘The Bill’, The London Transport Police, ‘The Thin Blue Line’, ‘Cagney and Lacey’ and ‘K9’. She also likes both Arsenal and Tottenham. And also Chelsea. There is a contact number: 101. The Met’s non-emergency number. A friendly person to call to report a crime, who caters for all.
A general Google search should give me more of a sense of the real woman. But it doesn’t. She is apparently more of a machine. Local press articles say she was promoted earlier than her colleagues, fast-tracked, loved by her community, valued by her friends. A kind of living obituary. A careerist who cares. I wonder, though, why there is so much coverage of her. Successful she may be, but until quite recently she was just an ordinary policeman. I search again, this time for Debbie Huhne PC and daughter.
I find more of a measure of her this time. At first, though, it’s not clear whether it’s a strength or a weakness. Ultimately, I fear it may be a strength. The reason there is so much press adoration for her is this: policewoman’s husband and daughter murdered. Death of local man and girl leaves behind double grief for PC Debbie Huhne.
It wasn’t an ordinary sort of murder, though. It was a hit and run.
Which makes it very unlikely that DC Huhne will give up the first case, the Helen case. And if she listens to Nicole, it’s very unlikely she’ll give up on me.
That’s enough about Huhne. I Google Ally, to see if there are already any conspiracy theories on the Internet. Anything linking Luke or me to her. There are 10,000 results. But I don’t have time to check them, because I hear the front door open. Adam. I shut down Firefox and turn off the TV. He doesn’t need to know my interests, the way I suffer, for my method. For him, for Luke, for me. He just needs to know the results. My art. I must continue. Despite Huhne, despite Ally, I must persevere.
Adam tries to prepare me for disappointment when I mention the violin, which is sweet of him.
‘I really don’t think it’s up there, mate,’ he says, taking off his hat and scarf. ‘It’s probably not even worth looking.’ He looks tired.
I reassure him that I won’t blame him if it’s not up there, and that I can help with some of the chores he said needed doing, while he searches. He needs to mow the lawn this evening, apparently, even though it’s autumn, which might otherwise take preference over going up to the attic. He really has a lot to do, he says, and tells me unless I want to be bored to tears waiting around, I should head off home. But I persist, so he relents.
I steady the ladder as he climbs, holding the shaking steel as he pushes his head up through the loft hatch. That’s the most difficult bit, getting in. After that, you’re up, and you’re safe. It’s just coming back down again that’s tricky.
Nicole is hiding somewhere, still presumably drying out pages, so I go out to the garden to assess the lawn situation while Adam hunts in the loft. I have never mown a lawn before. To me, the grass looks the right length. I get down on my stomach and lie on the ground to examine it. It is like looking at a green giant’s hairy back – the one from the sweet corn pack lying down, letting you lie on top of him. Like with back hair, you can see each individual blade, blow on it gently, create a little breeze. It seems cruel to cut it down. But it’s just like shaving, I suppose. Giving the Jolly G Giant a bit of designer stubble, like Adam’s. Or indeed, like Luke’s. They missed that in the police picture.
I wonder if it’s different, with stubble. For the person with the stubble, I mean. I know what it’s like to be the stubble-ee. Does each little butt of face hair act as new antennae of sensation, a fresh wave pulsing down to the skin at each touch? Just in case, I should try it. How can I write a stubbly character otherwise, unless I’ve experienced it?
I remember that Adam is relying on my for his lawn shaving, so I get up off the grass and pull the lawnmower’s tail until it roars at me. I heard that once a man tried to have sex with a lawnmower. I cannot understand this. Never mind the ridiculous risks involved; think too of all the grass mulch and tiny pulverised insects that your penis would be covered in. How could you expect ever to be allowed to put that into someone’s most treasured place again, to feel cleansed and enriched by being there?
I try to give the green giant as close a shave as possible, taking the garden in straight, narrow lines. The lines carry on all the way from the waistband of my cords, down the legs, the hems, onto the garden: a seamless self-continuation. I get into a rhythm, like you sometimes do with words, like I did with book three: up, down and across we go; up, down and across we go. Up, down and across we—
‘Dan!’
Adam is standing in front of me, waving a violin. It’s a good job I saw him, or I would have mown right over him, pulping him into the ground. I turn off the mower and greet him.
‘So when shall we start the lessons?’ I ask.
‘Lessons?’
‘You’re going to teach me!’ I say.
‘Teach you? Christ!’ he expostulates. ‘But I haven’t played for years!’
Adam is so modest.
‘I’m sure you remember everything,’ I say.
‘And time – how would I have the time? We don’t all hang round on settlement payouts, you know.’ He slaps me on the back to show he is joking.
The thing is, I know he wants to teach me, but is just depriving himself. I know he wants it. Just like that girl in the common room. Just like he did, that other night. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t tell the police. So when I say what I say, it is not really blackmail, just encouragement for him. Validation.
‘It would give you much more time if Nicole knew about Feltham. I doubt she’d stay, then.’
Adam looks at me hard. I nod. Someone once told me that if you nod when you want someone else to agree, they will ultimately copy your body movements and give in. So I keep nodding.
The effect on Adam seems limited.
‘You don’t need to worry about Nicole,’ he says.
‘But you do,’ I say.
And I go back to nodding.
Slowly Adam returns my nod.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘We’ll have the lessons at my house.’
Adam starts to protest.
‘You want to keep me away from Nicole, don’t you?’ I ask. I look up at the house, and see Nicole standing at the back bedroom window. She is talking on the phone, but watching us. I touch Adam lightly on the arm, and nod up at Nicole. ‘She’s always watching, you see. I could just mouth something at her now, pop in and tell her. Adam was in Feltham for—’
Adam puts his hand across my mouth, gagging me. Beneath his hand, I smile. There. We are closer already.
With our teaching pact made, we can go inside. Adam locks the violin away in its case. I will have to wait until our first lesson to stroke its curves, and to see if they really are lobsters on its front.
Nicole comes down to meet us. Adam flicks on the TV and mutes it while Nicole talks.
‘Dan, I’m so sorry – I couldn’t save the pages,’ she says, as she enters the room.
This is a disappointment.
‘Can I see them?’ I ask. I might be able to decipher what she is not.