Got You Back (32 page)

Jack drove him back to the surgery and James waved them off after reluctantly refusing their invitation to join them at the Fox and Hounds. There was nothing to do — he had no TV or radio, not even a can of beer to drink — so he went up to the flat and lay down on the unmade bed, falling asleep almost immediately.

Next morning he woke at six, stiff and aching but eager to get on with it. He had an hour to wait till the two boys arrived, so he braved a jog round the outskirts of the village, careful not to go too near the homes of anyone he knew, although he couldn't imagine who might be up at this hour apart from the farmers. He had a cold shower — he had forgotten to turn the water on — downed a can of Diet Coke and waited. Jack and Sean turned up on the dot of seven, yawning and stretching and full of stories about the night before and seven pints and the local police officer's teenage daughter.

This time they were finished by five thirty, and apart from the tell-tale footprint of the foundations, it was as if the extension had never existed. Well, almost. It was as good as it was ever going to be anyway, James thought, without shelling out for professionals.

Once again, he was asleep the minute his head touched the space where the pillow would have been if he had had a pillow. Once again, he woke at six, went for a run, showered, and this time sat waiting for the estate agent to turn up at nine.

At about twenty to, there was a loud knocking on the front door and James, impressed by the agent's keenness, which he took as a sign that his property was desirable after all, went to answer it. Standing on the doorstep was Richard. James was momentarily taken aback by the expression on Richard's face, which definitely wasn't that of someone who had just popped round for a neighbourly cup of tea. Richard hadn't been that friendly with Katie, as far as he could remember, and hadn't they once had a drunken conversation about the impossibility of monogamy? He couldn't imagine that Richard would be angry on her behalf. He must be misreading the signs, he decided, and he forced himself to arrange his face into a welcoming smile. ‘Hi, mate,’ he said. ‘Nice to —’

The sentence was left hanging in the air as a fist — Richard's fist — connected with his face. James fell back against the wall, sliding downwards, hand clutched to his cheek where the punch had landed.

‘What the fuck? What have I done?’

‘Like you don't know,’ Richard said, leaving James none the wiser. James thought about hitting him back but
Richard was a good three inches taller than he was and was a regular in the Lincoln branch of Bannatyne's. He decided to stay seated on the floor. It was harder to hit a man who was down, surely.

He rubbed his cheek. The pain was unbelievable. ‘What happened between me and Katie is between me and Katie. And Stephanie, obviously. It has nothing to do with you and your macho sense of justice.’

Richard laughed. The sort of scary laugh the gangland boss makes in a film, just before he rips someone's tongue out of their head with his teeth and swallows it. ‘This isn't about Katie. This is about my wife.’

Oh, God, James thought. Simone. ‘It's hardly my fault she threw herself at me,’ he said, knowing he was doomed.

‘
She
threw herself at
you
?’ Richard snorted. ‘Like she would ever be that desperate.’

James took adeep breath. Hewas going to get beaten up anyway so he had two choices: tell the truth and maybe plant a seed of doubt in Richard's mind about the state of his marriage, or lie and allow Richard and Simone to bond over their hatred of him. Reformed James, nice James, chose the latter. What did he have to gain by contributing to the break-up of Richard and Simone's marriage?

‘OK,’ he said, bracing himself for the onslaught. ‘I'm sorry, Richard. I was drunk. That's no excuse, I know. Making a pass at Simone is one of the lowest things I've ever done. You are — you were — my mate, after all. I just wasn't thinking straight at the time.’

Richard took a step towards him and James felt himself shrinking back against the wall. He deserved this — not because of Simone, obviously, but because of how he had
treated Stephanie and Katie. It didn't matter that he was going to be punished for the wrong crime. If he had murdered someone but was convicted of murdering someone else, what was the difference? He was still a murderer and he deserved to be behind bars. In a strange way he thought he might feel a bit better about himself if he took a beating. More like a man.

There was a split second when Richard hesitated and James thought that maybe he was going to get off lightly after all, and in that split second he realized he really didn't want to get beaten up, however righteous that might make him feel. Richard, clearly not a man used to fighting, swung his arm backwards, then flailed a slow, clumsy, clenched fist in James's direction. James, who saw the punch coming from half a mile away — and who had conveniently once come second in the under-ijs amateur boxing tournament at his local club in Frome — instinctively sprang up and threw his own fist straight out where it connected with Richard's aquiline nose, causing it to splatter across his tanned face like a squashed strawberry. The accompanying noise, a sound effect from a cheap
kungfu
film, nearly made him laugh, it was so clichéd. Richard fell backwards and slumped to the floor, more an avoidance technique, it seemed, than from the force of the punch, which had been hard but not
that
hard. There was no question of James hitting him again. It was too ridiculous and, besides, this wasn't a fight he had ever wanted to have.

James reached down and pulled Richard upright, grabbing his reluctant fingers and shaking his hand as if to say, ‘It's over.’

‘Just so you know, nothing ever happened between me and Simone, whatever she's told you.’

Richard was rubbing the side of his face. ‘Well, why would she make it up?’ he said, his anger having apparently not completely dissipated.

‘I have no idea,’ James said. ‘Why don't you ask her?’

There was a cough and James looked round. A man-boy in a too-big suit who could only be the estate agent was standing in the doorway, surveying the scene nervously. James wiped his slightly bloodied hand on his trousers and held it out. ‘We were sparring,’ he said, indicating Richard who, dressed as he was for work in a brown suit, couldn't have looked less like a man in training if he'd tried. ‘We got a bit over-eager. You know how these things are.’

The estate agent, who introduced himself as Tony, nodded as if this was the most normal explanation in the world, although his wide eyes gave away the fact that he didn't believe a word of it.

The property, as it turned out, was worth some twenty-five thousand pounds less than it would have been if the extension had been allowed to stand, and some ten thousand less than if it had been taken down professionally (‘… because they'll have the hassle of getting the concrete foundations dug up so they can have a garden…’) so the whole trip had been a false economy. By the time he left, James was past caring. ‘Stick a few plants in pots on it and tell them it's a patio,’ he said, to the bemused estate agent, gesturing at the concrete
rectangle that took up half of what should have been the garden.

‘Oh, I couldn't do that,’ the agent, who couldn't have been more than seventeen and must surely have come along with his dad on bring-your-son-to-work day, said.

‘OK, just go for a quick sale,’ James said, when he realized that, unlike London estate agents who thrived on hyperbole, this one actually seemed to have some kind of ethics. ‘I need the money. Just get rid of it.’

44

Katie had taken to walking Stanley early in the morning past the bus stop where Owen waited for his bus to the hospital in Lincoln. If he was surprised to see her he didn't let it show but, then, he didn't let much of anything show, grunting a ‘Hello’ in response to her chirpy ‘Hi’, and then moving off in the direction of the bus as quickly as he could. It was infuriating. Part of her felt he should consider himself lucky to have someone like her paying him so much attention, while another part wanted to get him by the shoulders, shake him and scream, ‘What's wrong with me?’ in his face.

It annoyed her that she cared. The man was a loser, everyone knew that. She knew she was suffering the textbook reaction to being rebuffed. It was a cliché but it was irritatingly true that the minute someone started acting as if they weren't interested in you any more was the moment you started to think you might just fancy them, after all. Someone who ordinarily you would bat away without a second thought suddenly took on an aura of desirability. When she looked at him objectively she still didn't think he was good-looking, but the fact that he'd looked after her, that he hadn't taken advantage of her vulnerability had somehow rendered him attractive. He was a good man — he needed a bit of work to transform him from a slightly unhinged charity case into someone
presentable admittedly — and good men were rare, as she had discovered. If she was ever going to even think about getting into another relationship she wouldn't make the mistake of going for the handsome, successful one. She would set her sights on someone who would be kind and caring. Someone who, she hoped, would treat her as well as she would treat him. And that someone, she suspected, might be Owen.

This morning, though, she had been distracted from her mission by the sight of a very familiar-looking man running red-faced across the fields near the edge of the village. Momentarily it had stopped her in her tracks. James was back. She couldn't believe he had the front to return. And so soon. She dug into her pocket for her mobile but then realized that six twenty in the morning was a bit early to be calling Stephanie.

She hadn't heard from her for a while, actually. In fact, the only times she had spoken to her since the big night were when she had made the effort to make the call herself. She knew Stephanie thought she had overstepped the mark a bit but James had deserved it after everything he had done. And, besides, it had made her feel better. She had always believed in karma. If she hadn't intervened something else would have happened to him anyway: a broken leg or a misplaced winning lottery ticket, maybe a pile-up on the Ai. He should be grateful to her. He might be dead if she hadn't made sure he'd got his comeuppance in other ways.

James was far enough away and looked lost enough in his own thoughts not to notice her, for which she was grateful: she had nothing to say to him. Stanley was
straining at his lead, his nose going, struggling to confirm from a field's distance away that this was indeed his former master jogging past. Katie, afraid he would bark or slip his collar and go hurtling off, tail wagging, unaware of the inappropriateness of his excitement, pulled him in the other direction and set off for home. She would have to go without stalking Owen for one morning. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it would make him wonder where she was.

The morning routine in Belsize Avenue now often included Michael making his gluten-free toast with organic marmalade in the kitchen as Stephanie tried to wrangle Finn into his school uniform. He stayed over on three or four nights a week and, although he had still not quite worked out how to communicate with a seven-year-old boy, he and Finn were getting used to being around each other. She knew Michael would have preferred it if they went out more and Stephanie knew she was using Finn as an excuse, but she had basically seen as many jazz combos and underground art installations as she could stomach. She wasn't sure she could live through another conversation about French cinema with Michael's friends without giving into the urge to say, ‘Did anyone see
Ratatouille
?’ Now that's what I call a real film.’ She thought about talking to him about it, suggesting maybe they could go out for a drink, just the two of them, or to see a blockbuster, but it was hard to tell someone that you didn't like their friends or share their interests, especially when that someone was your boyfriend. She had a feeling that Michael would be a bit offended rather than finding
it funny. So, for now, avoidance, not honesty, was the best policy.

On the nights they stayed in they cooked big meals together and listened to music — luckily, Stephanie thought, she didn't have any jazz on her iPod so they found common ground with Norah Jones and Seth Lake-man — and cuddled up on the sofa, talking. Unlike James, Michael was always interested in the details of her day, and even more unlike her ex-husband-to-be, he understood her job and didn't think it was trivial. They rarely ran out of stuff to talk about. Michael was passionate about so many things, and they usually stayed up far too late, which meant that she could never drag herself out of bed early enough to avoid having to do everything in a mad panic.

The last time they had gone out, three nights ago, they had been to Fifteen with Natasha and Martin, Stephanie having finally decided that it was time for her boyfriend and her best friend to get properly acquainted. Michael had been nervous, still not quite over the embarrassment of Natasha walking in on them in the office. Stephanie had told her to be on her best behaviour, but clearly Natasha had had a glass of wine before she left the house: ‘Nice to see you with your clothes on,’ she said, as Michael shook her hand.

Stephanie couldn't help but laugh but, when she looked at Michael he hadn't even cracked a smile. ‘Oh, come on, Michael,’ she'd said. ‘I think we're allowed to laugh about it now.’

‘I'd rather just forget about it, to be honest,’ he'd replied, not in an irritated way, Michael was never
anything other than reasonable and polite, but in a way that said, ‘Please can we change the subject?’ And so Stephanie had bailed him out by starting a conversation about something else.

The evening had gone well, though, she thought — even though they had had some pretty intense conversations about the state of the world and Michael had used a couple of obscure film references at one point, which had left Natasha and Martin looking like two rabbits caught in the headlights, not knowing what to say. Once Stephanie had jumped in, saying, ‘Isn't that the one with Juliette Binoche?’ and Michael had looked at her as if she had said, ‘Isn't Michael Winner the greatest director ever?’ and said, ‘No, that was
Chocolat
and it wasn't even a French film it was just set in France. There's a big difference,’ all of which she knew already: she had just taken a bullet for her friends.