Paradime (13 page)

‘But . . .’ I close my eyes. ‘Won’t someone
else
just give them the money?’

‘Sure, probably, I can’t stop that from happening. It won’t have been
me
, though. That’s the point. That’s what matters.’

I open my eyes. ‘What about Shaw?’

‘What about him? Everyone knows we have our issues, I’ve talked about it, so has he, in interviews, it’s common knowledge, but really, the stuff that’s going on now, it feels like a line in the sand for me . . .’

It’s the weirdest thing. This is the Teddy Trager I know from what I’ve been reading (and whose positions, as a result, I was able to parrot earlier to Doug Shaw), but this is the first time I’ve actually listened to him, this is the first time that what he’s saying seems real to me. In fact, the only thing that doesn’t seem real to me at all – or true – is what
I
did about an hour ago up in Trager’s office.

In the silence that follows, I look around me. Wherever we are, the roads seem quieter, less busy. I don’t remember us leaving the Saw Mill, but we’re on a back road now for sure, trees and hedgerows on either side, the moon ahead of us periodically visible through a busy rush of passing clouds. I run various scenarios through my head, but it doesn’t take me long to conclude that those documents I signed will have no legal standing whatsoever. And of course once Trager realises what I’ve done, any talk of being rational will almost certainly evaporate. As it probably
should
. . . because if there are now going to be two Teddy Tragers in this world, in whatever form,
I’ll
be the one who signed the contracts,
I’ll
be the version that sold out,
I’ll
be the one who crossed that line in the sand . . .

That’s what’s in my head when Trager suddenly starts talking again, when he asks me about Kate and whether or not we want to have kids. I’m taken aback, but I say, ‘Yeah, sure, some day. I mean, we’ve talked about it.’

‘Man, do you know how lucky you are? Even to have the possibility of a child, of a family? There’s no form of wealth that can compare to that.’

I’m not sure what’s going on here. The obvious thing would be to turn the question back on him. What about you and Nina? Didn’t I read somewhere that . . . ?

But I can’t bring myself to do it.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘you’re probably right.’

‘No, Danny, really.
I envy you.’

Envy?
It sounds as if he means it, but at the same time, under the circumstances, isn’t that a little over the top?

‘So let me get this straight.
You’d step into
my
shoes, is that it?’ I just blurt it out.

‘No, Danny,
no
, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that . . .’ He pauses. ‘My girlfriend and I have been trying, and, you know, when it doesn’t work out . . . it’s not easy.’

I stare straight ahead and say nothing.

‘There are other options, sure, but . . . it’s a big adjustment to make.’

There is silence for a while. Then he says, ‘Do you know her? My girlfriend? Nina?’

‘Uh, no, I don’t think so.’

‘Nina
Schlossmeier
? If you’ve read about me, you’ve definitely read about
her
.’

I swallow. So it
is
a game. Trager knows. He
has
to know. He’s had me under surveillance, hasn’t he? That’s what he more or less said.

We’re on a fairly quiet road now.

Holy fuck.

This is
his
move.

I nod my head. ‘Well, yeah, I . . . I’ve come across the name.’

‘Sure you have.’

It’s obvious what Trager is up to here, leading me on, being my friend, offering up confidential information. He’s playing a game of cat and mouse. But who’d blame him after the shit I’ve pulled?

And especially tonight.

I’m too tired for this. I lean back in the seat and groan.
‘Okay, okay.’

‘What?’

‘I swear, Teddy, I didn’t mean for it to happen.’

‘Didn’t mean for what to happen?’

My heart is thumping so hard I can actually hear it. ‘You have to believe me—’

‘Didn’t mean for
what
to happen?’

‘Tonight, me and Nina, we just—’

‘What are you saying?
We
? I don’t . . .
what
?’

Trager swerves the car and turns sharply onto an even quieter side road. There’s an open field to our right, trees to our left.

‘Teddy, please—’

‘You and Nina?
Where?
’

What have I done?

‘At the . . . gallery, at . . .’

‘At the Carmine? At Polly Labelle’s thing? You can’t be fucking
serious
.’

He’s driving really fast now.

‘I’m sorry.’

He bangs his hands on the steering wheel. ‘You’re
sorry?
This is unbelievable.’

‘I didn’t set out—’

‘Don’t.’

‘I mean, look, she was—’

‘
Don’t say another fucking word.
’

I take in – and hold – a very deep breath.

‘Let’s be honest,’ Trager says after a moment, ‘you’re the one who wants
my
life. You want all the shit
I
have, the money, the status. And you know what? Fine. You think I care? But Jesus Christ, my
girlfriend?
’

I’m torn here between the horror of remorse and a nagging confusion. ‘But you saw everything happen, Teddy, you were watching, why didn’t you stop—’

‘I saw it happen? What are you, insane?
How
did I see it happen?’

‘You said it yourself, surveillance—’

‘Surveillance? Not twenty-four-seven. Jesus, don’t flatter yourself. That was just to get some background on you . . .’ He bangs the steering wheel again. ‘I came to
you
, Danny, because I wanted to see if I could help. I mean . . .
look at us
. . .’

I turn and see that he’s got tears in his eyes.

‘We’ve been given this incredible opportunity, this once-in-a-
billion
chance to . . . no . . . oh shit—’

‘What?’

‘I can’t . . . Jesus . . .
I can’t
. . .’

I look straight ahead, at the dark, open countryside plunging towards us.

What the fuck?

Trager is pounding the steering wheel now, going crazy, dancing on the pedals, it seems like – then – ‘Get out, Danny! Get out of the car! Get out of the car
now!
’

‘
WHAT?
’

In one rapid movement, he reaches across me, clicks my seatbelt loose and flicks the door open.

‘Get out!
Now!
’

Then he’s pushing me out. It’s like he’s gone completely insane. But at some point my reflexes kick in and I simultaneously reach up and grab onto the sun visor with one hand and lash back at Trager with the other, striking him hard across the side of the face, drawing a spurt of blood. There’s a renewed effort on his part, and soon he’s edging me off the leather seat. My hand has slipped from the visor, and I’m hanging out of the car, precariously lodged between the side skirt and the open door. I pull my knees up to my chest and just let go. I roll on impact, hitting the ground with my bunched forearm and then with my shoulder. I keep rolling and end up on a grass bank by the side of the road.

The car speeds on.

A moment later I’m dimly aware of a second car speeding past, and then I hear a sound – it’s quick, loud, very intense.

With great effort, I manage to stand up. I move off the verge and back onto the road. I’m able to walk along the side of it for a few yards, fuelled by adrenalin – but I’m limping, and groaning, various pains announcing themselves as I move. My jacket and pants are torn, and I can taste blood in my mouth.

It’s sort of dark, but there’s a reddish glow in the sky, reflected light from a nearby town probably, and the moon, when it appears, is extremely bright. Up ahead, there’s a slight curve in the road, and, when I reach it, I see something in the dimness a little further on. I have a fair idea of what it is, what it
must
be. I keep going and eventually get to Trager’s car, which is rammed up against a tree, the front of it crushed like a beer can.

No sign of the second car.

But . . .

There
was
a second car, wasn’t there? I glance around. It’s very quiet. It’s late. I’m not sure of anything any more.

I move closer to the car and look inside it. Trager is slumped in the driver’s seat, his neck twisted, a streak of blood on the side of his face.

He’s clearly dead.

Holy fuck.

Teddy Trager is
dead
.

A single, clear question forms in my head. What just happened? What just happened?
What just happened?
Trager was really angry – and, okay, with justification, I can’t argue with that – but he pushes me out of
a speeding car
? That’s the kind of shit you get to pull when you’re a billionaire? I switch my gaze from Trager’s face to my own clenched fist, to the corresponding streak of blood on it, and I almost throw up. I was acting in self-defence, that’s obvious – that’s
obvious
– but did my punch to his face make him dizzy, cause him to lose control and crash the car?

Fuck.

Then something occurs to me. There’s no airbag. Why is there no airbag?

I look around and try to focus. I do a quick, panicky rundown of my options. One, get the hell out of here right now, run and keep running until I’m far away. Two, wait for the cops to arrive, come clean, explain everything – it’ll sound weird, sure . . . but it was just an accident, this last part, the crash part, Trager was out of his mind, out of
control
. . .

‘But sir, if that’s the case, why do you have traces of Mr Trager’s blood on your fist?’

Fuck, fuck,
fuck
.

A cellphone goes off, fracturing the stillness, and I freeze. It has to be Trager’s. Because it isn’t mine. I let it ring out, but once silence is restored, I stand there paralysed. Almost immediately the phone starts to ring again.

I reach into the car through the open door and extract the phone from Trager’s jacket pocket. The small screen swims before my eyes. It’s a blur. But I can just make out the name on it: Doug Shaw. Again, I let it ring to the end. Then I put the phone away – this time into my own pocket.

As I stand there, pain throbbing faintly beneath icy sheets of adrenalin, a third option forms in my mind. But without allowing it any time to unravel or choke on its own absurdity, I dive right in. I lean forward and start going through Trager’s other pockets, taking out his wallet and keys. I then go around to the other side of the car. The door is buckled and I have to force it open, which is difficult, because as my adrenalin ebbs it’s becoming increasingly evident to me that I have sustained serious injuries. Nevertheless, drawing on some sort of override mechanism, I proceed to pull Trager’s body out of the car. When I have him on the grass, I look behind me.

There are more trees, lots of them, and I think I can hear the sound of a river or a stream somewhere in the background. I lean down, take a hold of the body and drag it – wheezing, grunting, struggling, swearing – until I get it maybe twenty yards off the road. There’s a steep incline here that ends at the edge of what is indeed a small river. I roll the body part of the way down, as far as it’ll go, and then do my best in the near darkness to cover it up with loose branches and leaves.

At one point, as I’m standing there, out of breath, there’s a break in the clouds, and moonlight briefly illuminates the misshapen heap in front of me. It looks like something else at first, I don’t know what, I’m confused, and then it looks like what it
is
. . . a partially covered dead body. And in the fraction of a second it takes me to turn away, I catch a glimpse of my own face, a greyish, bluish version of it, streaked with something darker, blood or mud, probably both, its eyes open and staring vacantly back up at me . . .

Feeling dizzy, I move a few steps away. Then, as I limp up the little hill again, I take out my phone. It’s on silent, but there are four missed calls from Kate, as well as a single, all-caps text from her that says, ‘WHAT’S HAPPENING?’ Seeing this message on the tiny display is like a severe punch in the gut. It yanks me back to the reality of what
is
happening, and of what I’ve just done. I want to hit Reply, but I can’t bring myself to do it, because how do I explain this? And apart from anything else, this body here behind me will be pretty much
visible
in daylight, it’s not as if I’ve buried it or anything, nor is there any prospect, in these circumstances, of me being able to . . . so once tomorrow morning comes, what are we looking at? What’s the window? How long before someone takes a walk by this river?

I’d say a few hours, at best.

And then what? All hell breaks loose? The initial, queasy confusion pulls into the tight focus of an OMG news story? I’m hunted down, arrested, end up in prison, or the psych ward?

But . . .

Backing up a little here, what did I think was going to happen? That I’d finally become Teddy Trager? That I’d take his place? That I’d get to live his life? That I’d get to spend his money? That if there weren’t going to be two Teddy Tragers in the world, couldn’t there at least be
one
? Even if only for a short while? The level of this delusion is breathtaking and certainly not anything I can subject Kate to – not any more, she’s already put up with enough shit from me as it is. But at the same time, there’s really no reversing this. It’s not as if I can decide to go for option two instead and drag the body back up to the car. I wouldn’t be able to. I’m in too much pain. And, let’s face it, I wouldn’t
want
to. I’ve set this little exchange programme in motion, so whatever the fallout from that turns out to be – and however fast and relentlessly that rains down on me – I’m going to have to take responsibility . . . for everything.

Which I guess means I’m on my own.

After a moment, I turn around and toss the phone –
my
phone – back in the direction of Trager’s partially covered body. I do the same with my wallet and my keys. It’s a vain gesture, I know, an impotent protest, little more than a cheap piece of misdirection that won’t fool anyone for very long.