In a Dark, Dark Wood (13 page)

‘N-not exactly.’ Shit.
Stop
stammering. ‘She said she wanted to tell me to my face. That she felt she owed me that.’

‘Fuck that!’ Nina pulled a shirt over her head, and for a moment her voice was muffled, then it cleared as her head popped out, her cheeks pink with indignation. ‘If she wanted to meet you face to face the normal thing to do would be to invite you out for a drink! Not lure you into some God-forsaken forest. What was she thinking?’

‘I … I don’t think she meant it like that.’ Christ, what was I doing defending her? ‘I think she just didn’t think—’

‘Ugh!’ Nina stood up and began brushing her hair angrily, the strands crackling as she dragged the brush through them. ‘How does she get away with pulling this
crap
? And she comes out of it smelling like roses every time! Do you remember when she told everyone in Year Ten that I fancied Debbie Harry? And then claimed it was because she felt bad that I was having to ‘live a lie’ and everyone acted like she was doing me a fucking
favour
?’

‘I—’ I didn’t know what to say. The Debbie Harry incident had been brutal. I still remembered Nina’s shocked expression when she came into the classroom and Clare was humming ‘Hanging on the Telephone’ with that particular smile on her face, and the whole class sniggering.

‘It’s all about
her
. It’s about how she looks and feels. Back then she wanted to look like the caring, liberal, accepting friend and so out it comes, sod whether I’m ready to tell people, and now she wants to feel like she can swan off into the sunset with James and no guilt – so hey presto, force you into a position where you’ve got pretty much no choice at all over whether you forgive her.’

I hadn’t looked at it like that. But in a way, Nina was right.

‘I’m not upset about what Clare’s done,’ I said, although I knew in my heart that this was only partly true. ‘What’s really been bothering me …’

‘What?’

But suddenly I couldn’t say it. The feeling of nakedness was back, and I only shook my head and turned away, pulling on my socks.

What I had been about to say, before I lost my nerve, was: how much did James know about it? Had he gone along with this plan?

‘We can go,’ Nina said conversationally as she buttoned up her own jeans and stood up to stretch, all six-foot-one of her. ‘We could drive off into the sunset and leave Clare and Flo to the crazy together.’

‘And Tom.’

‘Oh, yeah, and Tom.’

‘We could, couldn’t we …’ It was an enticing picture and I thought about it for a minute as Nina began brushing her hair.

But we couldn’t. I knew that really. Or rather
I
couldn’t.

If I’d said no, before I even got here, that would have been one thing. But backing out now, halfway though the hen – there was only one interpretation. I could imagine them all speculating about it after I was gone:
poor Nora, poor cow, she’s so screwed up over James, she ruined Clare’s hen because she couldn’t be happy for her.

And worst of all – would know. I could see it now, the two of them in their perfect flat in London, curled up in bed together, Clare sighing with concern over me.
I’m worried James, it’s like she’s never got over you.

And he – and he –

I found my hands were clenched into fists, and Nina was looking at me curiously. I had to consciously relax them, and I gave a little, false-sounding laugh.

‘If only – right? But we can’t. It would be too much of a
fuck you
in the aftermath of Melanie leaving.’

Nina looked at me, long and hard, and then shook her head.

‘All right. I think you’re kind of masochistic. But all right.’

‘We’ve only got one more night.’ I was convincing myself now. ‘I can take one more night.’

‘All right. One more night it is.’

13

IF ONLY
. If only I had gone then.

I wish I could sleep, but I can’t, even with the soft click and whirr of the morphine driver. Instead I lie awake, listening to the voices in the corridor, the policeman and woman discussing in low voices what has happened, and that one word reverberates inside my head:
Murder. Murder. Murder
.

Can it be true? Can it possibly be true?

Who is dead?

Clare? Flo?
Nina
?

My heart stops at that. Not Nina. Not beautiful, brash, vibrant Nina. Please …

I must remember. I must try to remember what happened next. I know that come daybreak they will come in here and ask me questions. They’re waiting outside for me to wake up, waiting to talk to me.

I must have my version of events straight by then.

But what
did
happen next? The events of that day swirl and pound inside my head, mixing themselves up, tangling themselves together, the truth with the lies. I’ve only got a few hours left to try to sort it out.

Step by step, then. What happened next?

My hand goes to my shoulder, to the spreading bruise.

14

WHEN NINA AND
I got downstairs Flo had stopped crying and cleaned herself up, and was eating toast and jam, evidently determined to pretend that nothing had happened.

‘Any coffee?’ Nina asked innocently, but I knew from her tone she was only needling.

Flo looked up miserably, and her lip wobbled again.

‘I … I forgot, remember? But I promise I’ll get some today when we go to the shooting range.’

‘
What
?’ We both stared at Flo, who gave a watery smile.

‘Yeah, I wanted it to be a surprise. We’re going clay-pigeon shooting.’

I gave a short, shocked laugh. Nina didn’t move.

‘Seriously?’

‘Of course. Why?’

‘Because … it’s just like … a hen night? Shooting?’

‘I thought it would be fun. My cousin went on his stag.’

‘Yes, but …’ Nina trailed off and I could see the thoughts running through her head as clearly as if they were written on her forehead in ticker tape:
Why can’t we go to a bloody spa and then clubbing like normal people? But then again, she can’t possibly make us wear pink feather boas at a shooting range, right? So it could be worse.

I wondered, too, if she was thinking of Columbia. Of the gun shot wounds she’d treated there not so long ago.

‘Um … OK,’ she said at last.

‘They’re just like clay plates,’ Flo was saying earnestly. ‘So you don’t need to worry if you’re veggie or anti-blood sports.’

‘I’m not veggie.’

‘I know. But if you were.’

‘I’m not veggie.’ Nina rolled her eyes and made her way over to the bread bin, looking for more bread to toast.

‘I thought we’d have a spot of brunch here – with some games maybe? I’ve done a quiz!’

Nina winced theatrically.

‘And then we can head out after that. And come back here for drinks and curry.’

‘Curry?’ We all turned to see Tom padding downstairs in his pyjamas and an open dressing gown, rubbing his eyes. His pyjama bottoms were knotted very low, barely above his hipbones, and there was an impressive amount of buff muscle on display.

‘Tim, hate to tell you, you forgot your shirt,’ Nina said. ‘I think you should put it on. You don’t want to tempt poor Nora beyond what she can bear.’

I threw a toast crust at her. She dodged, and it hit Flo.

‘Oops, sorry Flo.’

‘Stop it you two!’ Flo scolded. Tom only yawned, but he belted up his dressing gown and winked at me.

‘What’s the plan for today then?’ he asked as he took a piece of toast from the plate Flo shoved at him.

‘Shooting,’ Nina said, deadpan. Tom’s eyebrows nearly disappeared beneath his hair.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Shooting. Apparently that’s Flo’s idea of a jolly.’

Flo gave Nina a look, not quite sure if she was having the piss taken out of her or not.

‘Clay-pigeon shooting
actually
,’ she said defiantly. ‘It’s fun!’

‘OK.’ Tom chewed his toast and looked round the table. ‘Am I the last one up? Oh – no. Melanie’s still asleep, I presume?’

‘Melanie—’ Flo began indignantly, but at that moment Clare came in from the living room and answered, raising her voice firmly above Flo’s.

‘Melanie had to go,’ she said. ‘Family stuff. Don’t worry, Tom, either me or Nina will give you a lift back to Newcastle. But the good news is, it means we can all fit in the same car now, so we don’t have to worry about navigating – I’ll drive, and Flo can direct, as she knows where it is.’

‘Great,’ Nina said. ‘Super. We can all sing “Ten Green Bottles” and fight in the back seat. I can hardly wait.’

‘OK, so I think it’s time for the quiz,’ Flo said. She craned round in her seat to look at me, Nina and Tom in the back. I was crushed in the middle and feeling car sick already, not helped by Tom’s headily overpowering aftershave. Or maybe it was Clare’s perfume. It was hard to tell in the confined space. I wanted to open a window but it was snowing outside, and the heater was on full blast.

‘It’s Clare vs you guys,’ Flo continued. ‘Fingers on buzzers please for round one.’

‘Wait, wait,’ Nina shouted. ‘A quiz on what, and what’s the prize?’

‘A quiz on James of course,’ Clare said from the front seat, amused. ‘Right, Flops?’

‘Of course!’ Flo said. She was laughing. I felt more and more like vomiting. ‘Prize … I don’t know. Glory? Oh, no, I’ve got it. The losing team can wear these for the rest of the day!’

She dug around in her rucksack and brought out a handful of skimpy underwear, emblazoned with the slogan
I
♥
JAMES COOPER
on the bum.

I felt every muscle in my body go stiff with anger. Nina coughed, and glanced at me sympathetically.

‘Um, Flo …’ she said diffidently, but Flo ploughed on.

‘Don’t worry! Over trousers I mean – or on your head or something. Right, first question. This is for Team Backseat, with a bonus point to Clare for any that you fail to get that she guesses correctly. What is James’ middle name?’

I shut my eyes against the car sickness and listened to Nina and Tom arguing it over.

‘Pretty sure it begins with a C,’ Tom was saying. ‘So I’m thinking, Chris?’

Karl. With a K.

‘It’s not,’ Nina insisted. ‘It’s something to do with Russia. His dad was a professor of Russian politics. Theodor. Or what’s Stalin’s first name?’

‘Joseph. But I’m
sure
it’s not Joseph. Besides, who’d name their kid after
Stalin
?’

‘OK not Stalin then. Name another famous Russian.’

I gritted my teeth.
Karl.

‘Dostoevsky? Lenin? Marx?’

‘Marx!’ Nina shouted. ‘It’s Karl. I’m sure of it.’

In spite of my growing nausea, I had to crack a smile at her competitiveness. Nina was incapable of losing at anything – an argument, a board game – she often said it was the reason she didn’t do any competitive sport, because she couldn’t bear losing to
someone
, even if that someone was Usain Bolt.

‘Is that your final answer?’ Flo asked seriously. My eyes were still closed but I felt Nina nodding vigorously beside me.

‘Karl. With a K.’

‘Correct! Question two. What is James’ star sign?’

‘He’s old in the year,’ Nina said straight off. ‘I remember that. He’s definitely September or October.’

‘No, I think it’s August,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sure it’s August.’

They bickered amicably back and forth, swapping evidence, until Nina said, ‘Nora, what do you – wait, are you OK? Your face is a bit green.’

‘I’m feeling a bit sick,’ I said shortly.

‘Oh, God.’ Nina recoiled almost physically, though there was a limit to how far she could get away from me in the narrow back seat. ‘Someone open a window. Tom. Tom, wind yours down too.’ She nudged me in the ribs and said, ‘Open your eyes. Looking at the road helps – it’s something to do with giving the brain the information that you’re travelling.’

Reluctantly I opened my eyes. Flo was grinning in the front seat. Clare was driving along calmly, and I could see in the rear-view mirror that she had an amused smile on her face. She caught my eye for a fleeting moment, and the smile twitched. For a moment – just a moment – I wanted to slap her across her perfect, beautiful cheekbone.

‘I’m
sure
it’s August,’ Tom said again. ‘I remember going to the Proms with him and Bruce one year.’

‘Oh for crying out loud,’ I snapped. ‘It’s 20th September. I’ve no idea what sign that is.’

‘Virgo,’ Tom said instantly. He didn’t seem to hold my shortness of temper against him. ‘Are you sure about the date, Nora?’

I nodded.

‘OK, Virgo. That’s our answer.’

‘Two points to Team Backseat Drivers!’ Flo said delightedly. ‘Clare you
will
have some catching up to do. Next question: what is James’s favourite food?’

I wanted to shut my eyes, but I didn’t dare. This was torture.

I looked down at my lap, away from Clare, and pushed my nails into my palm, trying to distract myself from the nausea, and the memories that were crowding in unbidden. I had a sharp, flashing picture of James, sprawled on his bed after school eating his way through a bowl of clementines. He loved those things. For a moment the scent was sharp in my nostrils – the sweet tang of the oil, the smell of his room – of tumbled sheets and him. I used to love clementines – love the smell of them on his fingers, finding the peel in his pocket. I never touch them now.

‘Panang curry?’ Tom said uncertainly, and Flo pulled face.

‘
Almost
– but I can only give you half a point for that. Panang with …?’

‘Tofu,’ Tom said promptly. Flo nodded.

‘Three points! Two more questions to go before Clare’s round. Question four – which play was James’s West End debut?’

‘West End in what sense?’ Tom asked. ‘I mean are you counting the National as West End? Because personally I wouldn’t.’

There was some muttered discussion between Flo and Clare in the front seat and Flo turned back round.

‘OK, let me rephrase that as
London
debut.’

I Googled James once. Only once. Google was spattered with images of him – pictures of him in costume, on stage, publicity stills, shots of him smiling at charity functions and opening nights. The ones I couldn’t bear were the ones where he was looking directly at the camera, directly out of the screen, at me. When I scrolled down to one where he was naked on stage, in
Equus
, I had closed the browser with shaking hands, as if I’d stumbled on something violent or obscene.