Trouble (26 page)

This all makes sense to me.

“But I was doing all of this because it made
me
feel better. I was so involved in being the good wife that I never stopped to offer Robert what he wanted.”

“What did he want?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

I lift my head off her shoulder and look up. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither did I,” she says, with a sad smile.

AARON

The pub is filling up around me. I’ve downed three whisky macs and the walls are starting to slide. Someone sits next to me smelling of burgers and it makes me feel a little ill.

“Cider,” I say.

The barman ignores me and serves the guy next to me, who walks away with his drinks, taking his burger breath with him.

“Can I have a pint of cider, please?” I say. I know this is what I say because I’m concentrating on making the words sound exactly as they should. Not slurred. Not too careful. I know how to seem sober.

The barman is looking at me.

“What’s my name?” he asks.

His name? Oh yeah, we’ve had a conversation about names, about Neville’s brother Greville, and the man at the end of the bar introduced himself and then he made me try and guess the barman’s name. Which was … what?

“Ste,” I say in a flash of brilliance.

“Ste-
ven
,” he says, watching me suspiciously.

“He knows that,” says Old Man at the End of the Bar whose name I actually can’t remember. “He’s winding you up.”

“Cider for him too,” I say generously.

“Make that a Bombardiers,” Old Man corrects me.

“Bombadoodlers then,” I say carelessly. SteVEN the barman looks at me strangely, but serves our drinks.

I drink mine too quickly and feel a hiccup brewing ready to burst. I swallow it down as it rises and I feel the fizz of bile in the back of my nose. I sip more cider and look at the plastic box of ashes on the bar. Someone brings back some empty glasses. There’s a half-pint glass amongst them and I sploosh some cider into it and push it next to him.

“Cheers, Neville!” I declare and clink my pint against the mini one I’ve poured.

The barman wipes up the pool of cider I’ve dribbled on the bar as he collects the other empties. He leaves Neville’s drink where it is.

My pint glass is almost empty. Probably because half of it got poured into Neville’s. I need something else.

I can’t seem to not want to drink something. My hands need to hold something, my mouth needs to sip something, my throat needs to swallow something.

“Can I buy you a drink?” I say to the next person who walks up to the bar.

“OK.” It’s a girl. She has big boobs. They are not in any way subtly dressed and they are at eye-level to someone sitting slumped on a bar stool.

Neville would approve.

“Can you buy the drinks though?” I say to the boobs and hand their owner a twenty. “Cider for me. No. A vodka. No. Both. And whatever you fancy.”

“You?” she says with a smile.

“Me,” I repeat, a bit lost. She orders the drinks and the barman pretends he doesn’t know that the vodka and cider are for me. So much for his ethics on my sobriety.

“What’s that?” she says, looking past me to the box on the bar.

“Neville,” I reply.

“Neville?” She takes her drink and hands me the change. There’s not much, but there’s lots more in my pocket.

“Neville Robson,” I say. “Used to drink here.”

When I look at her, I see that her face has slipped in disgust as she realizes that I’m sitting here drinking with a dead guy. Her boobs have stayed pert though, so I content myself with a last glimpse of those puppies before she takes them with her back to the crowd in the corner. What time is it?

It’s half past six.

I should probably go and sprinkle Neville in the beer garden. After I’ve finished my drinks.

Oh. The vodka’s gone already. When did I drink that? Whatever. I drink the cider.

I really need a piss. I get off the stool and the floor tilts so that I have to hang onto the bar a moment. The barman hasn’t noticed, but Old Man at the End of the Bar has and I see him give me a knowing smile.

I go to the loo. I’m sick in one of the cubicles then I wee on it. When I come out there’s a couple of guys at the urinals and I nearly bump into one of them on my way to the sink. He says something but I’m not really paying attention. That’s why I bumped into him in the first place.

I wash my hands and look up at my reflection too fast. The toilets rock back and forth in my reality and I have to lean my head on the mirror and close my eyes until it stops. When I open them my reflection is just a slab of skin with a giant Cyclops eye in the middle of my forehead. I alter my focus until I have two eyes, blurry, but less weird to look at. Then I push myself back off the glass.

I don’t look good. I’m not wearing my suit jacket any more and my shirt is unbuttoned further than it was when I left the house. Where’s my dad’s tie? For a moment I panic and pat all my pockets until I discover it in my trouser pocket. I take it out and see that there’s a stain on it. Where did that come from?

Looks like mayonnaise.

Oh yeah. I had a sandwich at the bar earlier – most of which is now in the second toilet from the end; some of which appears on be on my dad’s tie.

I look back up at the me in the mirror. I don’t like what I see. I see someone who lets his friends down. Neville, Chris…

Chris
. I miss you so much, mate. I’m so sorry.

Don’t be my friend, or you’ll die.

I look at the person in the mirror. I wish he was dead instead.

HANNAH

We’re in the kitchen and I’m trying to convince Mum we deserve some fondant fancies after the epic sorting we’ve just done when my phone blings.

“Hannah!” Mum tuts as I stop mid-sentence to pick up my phone. But I’m not thinking about cake any more when I see who’s texted and I open the message as fast as I can to find out what Aaron has to say to me.

You dont undwrstNd what it”s liee you do’t know wast I

That’s where the text ends. He must have sent it before he finished typing, but my phone blings another almost immediately.

Gor nonone he” a good I lost him. It( s all my faylt!!2

Mum is no longer looking annoyed with me when I look up. She can see something’s going on. I text back, worried.

Where ru?

Then I call as well. It goes to voicemail. I wonder if it’s a good idea to call again but do it anyway. This time he answers. The last ten days are written off in an instant.

“Hello?” I say, since Aaron hasn’t actually said anything.

“Hannah?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you OK?”

No answer.

“Aaron? Where are you?” I say, trying not to sound panicky.

“Toilets.”

He slurs so badly that he still hasn’t managed to get the “s” out when I ask, “The toilets where?”

“Drunken Duchess. I lost him, Hannah. Neville. He’s not here.”

“Neville’s not in the toilets?” Could the boy be any more confusing?

“I thought I brought him in here with me, but I didn’t and when I got back he was gone. How could I lose him? HOW?!” I flinch the phone away from the shriek he makes.

“Do you want me to come and help find him?” I say, but Aaron’s not listening. I think he might be crying. I put my hand over the phone.

“Can you drive me to a pub called the Drunken Duchess?” I ask Mum.

“Why?” she mouths, frowning, but I ignore her and tell Aaron that I’m on my way, although I think he’s hung up.

“It’s Aaron. There’s something wrong—” I’m halfway out of the door before I realize Robert’s halfway in, still in his suit, car keys in hand.

“Where’s the fire?” he jokes before he sees Mum’s face and stops me, hands resting firmly on my shoulders. “Hannah?”

Sometimes Robert’s harder to lie to than Mum.

“Aaron’s in some pub…” Even though I can see he disapproves, he doesn’t say anything. “He’s having some kind of breakdown.”

I look at Robert and back at Mum. “I’ve got to go to him – he needs me.”

I see a conversation between them, one of glances and sharp breaths – no words, until, “I’ll drive.” And Robert’s turned on his heel, straight back to his car, Mum and me hurrying after. They have a lot of questions, none of which I can answer, and it takes some persuading to get them to stay in the car, but Mum will just stress me out and there’s no way I’m walking into a pub like the Duchess with Robert dressed for a boardroom takeover. Me, I fit right in. The place smells like stale beer and pork scratchings and I have to ask people to “Excuse me,” before I start shoving bodies out of my way. I’ve only got fifteen minutes before Mum comes in to find me.

“Hi,” I say to the barman.

“ID,” he says.

“Er, hello, pregnant?” I say and point at my stomach. “Not about to go on a bender.”

“Then how can I help you?” he says in a weird formal tone that makes me think he’s taking the piss.

“I’m looking for my friend Aaron. Dark hair, leather jacket…” That’s when I see the jacket I mean in a heap on the floor. I crouch down and use the bar to pull myself back up. “This leather jacket.”

“He’s in the beer garden,” the barman says, nodding to a rickety-looking door.

I go outside but Aaron’s not there.

Back inside I look round the room. Aaron’s definitely not in here, although I check round the corner where there’s a dartboard. I push open the door of the Gents and try to breathe as little as possible. Boy wee stinks.

“Aaron?” I call out, grateful that I can’t see any strange men in here.

“Ladies is that door, luv.” Someone comes in behind me. I glance round to see a man about Robert’s age with a tattoo nudging up from the neck of his football shirt.

“I’m looking for my friend,” I say and walk further into the toilets, trying to bend over and look for feet in the cubicles.

I push the doors and one jams up against something. “Aaron?” I say, trying to crouch down further. Neck-tattoo man bends down for me and nods.

“Someone’s in there.” He shoves the door a little harder then reaches round. There’s a groan. The man shoves the door open and I see Aaron sprawled on the floor, his face pressed up against the side of the cubicle and his hand dangling in the toilet bowl. There’s a stain on his sleeve and when he opens his eyes they’re bloodshot. They don’t stay open for long.

My helpful stranger stops me from going in and instead he drags Aaron out. He grunts for me to open the door and he takes him all the way out, down the passage and out of the fire exit. The man arranges Aaron into a sitting position on the step and goes back inside, saying he’ll get some water. I lower myself carefully next to Aaron and shrug on his leather jacket. It’s cold – which should sober him up a bit at least.

I stare at the hair on the back of his neck. He’s had it cut – for the funeral, I guess – and I wonder what it would be like to stroke it. And because he is drunk and because I want to, I put my hand on Aaron’s neck and brush my thumb over his skin and across his hair.

For a second I think that this is what he wants too … until he shakes me off and I snatch my hand away, annoyed that, even now, in the midst of an alcoholic stupor he still can’t let me in.

Then he lurches forwards and retches.

OK, I’ll let him off. But I don’t reach out to him again.

“You all right?” I ask. He’s blatantly not, but what else do you say?

Aaron shakes his head. “I lost him, Han.”

“You lost Neville? You mean his ashes?”

Aaron doesn’t say anything, but the door behind us opens and my knight in shining football strip hands me a pint of water and a Tupperware box.

“The barman said the lad would be looking for this,” he says and gives me a grin. “Just give us a shout if you need a hand with anything, darling.”

“Thanks,” I say, before holding the box up and looking at it. It’s full of ash.

Neville.

“Here,” I say and hand Aaron the box first and the water second, like I’m asking him to mix me some cement. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see his shoulders drop in relief.

“I need to sprinkle Chris’s ashes,” he says, putting the glass down and standing up.

“Chris?”

“Neville. Neville’s ashes.” Aaron sways dangerously and almost knocks over his glass of water as he starts clawing at a corner of the box’s lid, trying to prise it off.

“Stop, Aaron.” I stand up and put my fingers over his. “We’ll come back another time to do this. I don’t think Neville would mind.”

AARON

When did Hannah get here? I don’t remember that.

But she’s found Neville.

“Thank you,” I say and give her a hug. She looks nonplussed.

“You’re welcome,” she says and pats me on the shoulder.

My mouth tastes awful. There’s a glass of water on the step, so I pick it up and sip some, swilling it round my mouth and spitting it out, then take a proper drink. Although some dribbles out the side of my mouth and down the collar of my shirt, most of it makes it in.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Hannah. “I thought we weren’t talking. Are we talking?”

“
You
weren’t talking,” she says, frowning. “But you texted me. I called. I was worried.”

I shake my head. It’s not me she should be worrying about. She should worry about her. I’m dangerous to people who care about me.

“I killed him,” I say, letting her lead me away.

“Killed who?” Hannah says, patiently.

“Chris.”

“Yeah, so, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She’s annoyed.

“My best friend,” I say.

“What?” She stops yanking at the stiff bolt on the back gate and looks up at me and I think how pretty she is when she doesn’t try. Her hair’s all scruffy and she’s wearing hardly any make-up but that just means you get to notice her eyes more. Even in orange street light.

“My best friend,” I say, echoing something I know I’ve just said. “You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine too. Why d’you think I came out here looking for you?” she says and starts working the bolt loose on the gate. “Who’s this Chris you keep going on about?”