What You Wish For (12 page)

He saw the way I was looking at him and put his hands up.

‘Hey, I’m just saying, that’s all. I know you’re not enjoying any of this. Neither would I. Although I wouldn’t mind if Susan vanished into thin air right now. Talking of which, I’ve got a favour to ask.’ He coughed.

‘What is it?’

He nodded at the back seat. A grey leather suitcase lay there.

‘I’ve been kicked out,’ he said. ‘Can I come and stay with you? Just for a few nights, until I find myself a flat? I figure you owe me a favour.’

The thought of Simon staying in my house was horrifying. He was such a slob. But he had helped me, and maybe I could use the company . . .

‘What have you been up to?’ I asked. ‘You’ve been having an affair, haven’t you?’

He coughed. ‘Well, yeah, I’ve been seeing this girl. Cassandra. Works on the media sales team . . .’

‘You idiot. Can’t you stay with her?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘Why not?’

‘Her boyfriend wouldn’t like it.’

I laughed, even though I knew it wasn’t really funny.

‘And it’s over now, anyway. The ironic thing is that Susan found out the same day Cassandra dumped me.’

‘How unfortunate.’ I sighed. ‘OK. You can stay. But just for a few nights.’

‘Nice one.’ He grinned. ‘You’re a true mate.’

After we got back to my house, and while Simon made himself comfortable (unpacking his suitcase, grumbling about having to sleep on a futon, inspecting the contents of the fridge), I made a few phone calls.

I phoned the Conquest hospital and asked after Kate Walker. ‘She’s had her operation and she’s doing well,’ said the nurse. I hung up before she could ask me any questions.

Next I called Kathy. ‘Any news?’ I asked.

‘Oh God, no, nothing. I’m so sorry . . .’

Finally, I phoned the lecturer I had spoken to; the man who headed Marie’s computer course. He hadn’t heard anything either.

I went upstairs and took a bath. Calico sat on the rug beside me and miaowed. He was probably asking me why I was letting a strange man stay with us.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘He won’t eat your cat food. At least, I hope not.’

I went into the bedroom and dried myself. I looked at myself in the mirror. I had lost weight. You could see my ribs. I hadn’t been this skinny since I left school. My cheekbones had become more prominent, the circles around my eyes deeper. I looked like a junkie.

I got dressed and went into the spare room, which doubled as my office.

My cameras were lined up on the table. Examples of my work were tacked to every surface. Portraits and seascapes and nature shots and news shots. The photograph that had first attracted Bob Milner’s attention took pride of place – the red-faced policemen chasing the crook. And there were prints of my
Telegram
pictures. They were due to be published very soon. It should have been a momentous occasion, something to be proud of, preceded by a sleepless night. But it held no excitement for me now. I was unable to gather an ounce of enthusiasm.

I crossed the room to the cupboard that was set into the far wall. In a cardboard folder beneath piles of dusty exposures, I found what I was looking for. I took the pictures out and studied them, nodding to myself. They were just as I remembered.

I put the folder back and went downstairs. Simon was eating pizza. ‘Want some?’ he asked, offering me a slice.

I poured myself a vodka and Coke and lit a cigarette. Then I made one final call, to Bob Milner, the
Herald
’s editor.

‘Yes?’ he answered in his gruff voice.

‘Bob, it’s Richard. I’m just phoning to let you know: I quit.’ I dropped the receiver back into place and took in a lungful of smoke.

Simon looked up at me, his mouth open. I could see the half-chewed pizza on his tongue.

12

I couldn’t sleep that night. My head was too full of questions and images: those pornographic photos, the fight with Kevin, the way the strange ‘Karen’ had stared at me at the conference. All this, mixed up with anxiety over whether I’d done the right thing quitting my job. I hadn’t put much thought into it. I only knew I needed all my time to search for Marie. I told myself that, when all this was over, the lack of a steady pay cheque would prompt me to pursue my dreams, to make sure the
Telegram
commission wasn’t a one-off. When money started to run out, I would be forced to find work.

I opened one eye to check the time on the bedside clock. Three a.m. I had a vague memory of Marie telling me this was the most common time for alien visitations. And at the exact moment that I thought this, I heard a noise downstairs. A thump and click, like someone closing the front door.

I jumped out of bed and quickly pulled on my jeans and a T-shirt. At the top of the stairs, I called down, ‘Simon?’

I could hear someone moving about in the kitchen, opening drawers, shutting cupboard doors. I jogged down the stairs tentatively, calling Simon’s name again. But as I neared the bottom step I heard faint snoring coming from the living room. Simon’s snoring.

I froze. Did I have a weapon upstairs? I scanned each room in my mind. There was a heavy vase in the spare room, a small pair of scissors in the bathroom. I couldn’t think of anything else, though. I was so panicked that my brain couldn’t focus. I was trapped between fight and flight, my reptilian brain letting me down at this crucial moment.

Before I could decide what to do, a man came out of the kitchen. He was dressed in dark green, with heavy boots. He had a balaclava over his head.

He turned and saw me.

‘Simon!’ I shouted, as loud as I could. The intruder looked towards the living room door, then back at me, hesitated – then ran towards the front door, yanking it open and escaping before I could catch him.

I ran into the living room, shaking the still-snoring Simon and yelling his name.

‘What? What is it?’

‘Get up! There was someone in the house. He’s just run out the front door. I need to catch him.’

Simon sprang into action, pulling on his trousers and shoes, and the two of us ran out into the street. The man in the balaclava was just visible on the corner of the street.

‘Come on!’ I shouted, and Simon and I sprinted after the man. Adrenaline flooded my body, overcoming the burning in my lungs. Who was the intruder? What was he looking for? Could he lead us to Marie?

We reached the corner and looked around. The man was now at the end of this street, which led to the West Hill, an expanse of green with the ruined castle at one end and a path down to the Old Town at the other. Steps led down to the seafront. Just before the castle there was also a rugged cliff-face, with rocks that formed a kind of natural climbing frame down to sea level. The intruder would have several options and plenty of places to hide. We needed to reach him while he was still in the open.

Panting, with Simon lagging behind me, we reached the end of the street.

‘I’m going to puke,’ Simon said.

I ignored this. ‘Can you see him?’

I ran across the road. There was no one around, no cars. Here in the dead of night, no one stirred.

‘Where the hell has he gone?’ I asked the cold air.

A pair of seagulls took flight over to the right, near the rocks. Had they been disturbed? ‘This way,’ I said to Simon, who followed me at a jog as I ran towards the cliff.

There was a flat-roofed café on the level below me and I thought the intruder might be hiding in its shadows, so asked Simon to check. While he walked towards the building I carried on to the rocks.

I peered over the edge. There were plenty of nooks and crannies below. Places to hide. The sandstone glowed eerily in the moonlight.

‘I know you’re there,’ I called, forcing myself to sound confident. ‘You can’t get away. We’ve called the police. They’re on their way.’

I heard a scuffling sound below. At that moment, Simon arrived. ‘No one by the café.’

I put my finger to my lips and pointed downwards.

‘He’s down there,’ I mouthed.

Simon nodded to show he understood.

‘He’s not here,’ I said loudly. ‘Let’s go home.’

We waited.

About thirty seconds later, I heard scuffling again, and the man emerged from the crevice he’d been hiding in, onto a narrow ledge. He was still wearing the balaclava. From where we stood we could see him but, because of the overhang above him, I was sure he wouldn’t be able to see us.

‘One of us should go down to the bottom,’ I whispered. ‘If you go down the steps by the café, you’ll be at the bottom before him, if he climbs down.’

‘Why me?’ he asked.

‘You’re bigger than me. More likely to be able to restrain him.’

‘True.’

He jogged away and I considered my next move. As a kid, I had spent many weekends and holidays climbing up and down these rocks. Although it was dark and I hadn’t set foot here for years, I felt sure that my body would remember which way to go, where to place my feet. Besides, the moon cast enough light to be able to see.

I clambered down onto the next ledge, then moved to the right, clinging to the smooth rock where generations of teenagers had carved their initials. Mine would be here somewhere. I was still above the man who had broken into my house. He hadn’t moved.

I edged closer, slipping down another rock, my feet finding purchase in dents in the rock-face. I hung on and glanced to my left.

He had seen me.

‘Stay there,’ I shouted.

He looked left and right, trying to work out which way to go. The easiest route was towards me. In the other direction, the drop was sheer; he would need to be a skilled climber to traverse it without equipment.

Worried he was going to do something stupid, I called out, ‘I just want to talk to you.’

This didn’t work. After jerking his head left and right again, he chose the difficult exit. He hefted his body over the lip of the rock, holding himself up with his forearms.

And then he fell.

‘No!’ I shouted.

But there was nothing I could do. I watched with horror as he tumbled down the rock-face, his arms flailing at first, desperately trying to grab on to something, to find purchase.

A second later I heard a sickening crack. Skull striking rock. He hit the ground at the bottom and lay still.

Simon reached him before me, sprinting up to him and kneeling on the ground beside him, grabbing his wrist and feeling for a pulse.

‘He’s alive!’ he yelled.

I descended the cliff as quickly as I could, choosing the safest route, heart lurching a couple of times when my feet slipped. It took me around five minutes to reach the ground. Much of the time I couldn’t see Simon and the injured man.

But then I was on the ground, running over to Simon and the prone intruder.

Simon looked up at me. ‘He stopped breathing,’ he said. ‘I tried to give him mouth to mouth but . . .’ He hung his head. ‘If I’d had my mobile with me . . .’

‘There’s no way an ambulance would have got here in time.’ I heard my own voice but felt like I’d split in two, half of me talking to Simon, the other half stunned by what and who I was looking at.

Simon had pulled the balaclava off. The dead man – the man with the back of his head smashed like a dropped egg – was Fraser Howard. The country ranger.

‘Did he say anything?’ I asked. ‘Before he died, did he say anything?’

Simon looked at me and nodded. ‘He said, “She promised me.”’

Simon and I left the police station together, blinking in the morning light.

After Simon had told me what Fraser said, I had walked to a phone box on the seafront and dialled 999. The police and an ambulance arrived within ten minutes, taking Fraser’s body away while we explained what had happened. Then they took us to the station to answer lots of questions.

It took me a little while to realise that we might be under suspicion of pushing Fraser Howard to his death.

‘Why didn’t you call us?’ they kept asking, until it eventually seemed to sink in that we had left my house at speed, not stopping to pick up our phones. Mine had been charging in the kitchen; Simon’s was on the floor by the sofa.

After two hours, at which point I was wondering if I needed to get a lawyer, they told us we could go. Of course, we had been questioned separately and the fact that our stories matched helped us. Simon being a journalist didn’t hurt either.

‘I’m going to have to call Bob,’ Simon said as we waited for a cab to take us back to mine. ‘He’s going to want me to write this up.’

I shook my head.

‘If you hadn’t already quit he’d be shouting at you for not getting any photos.’

‘What did he mean, “She promised me”?’

Simon shrugged. ‘Fuck knows. But he must have talking about Marie, don’t you think?’

‘That’s the only thing that makes sense. But promised him what?’