They shook hands again, Luke clasping Alex’s hand in both of his own before walking away. He stopped and turned after a few yards though, almost in the spot where Alex had first seen him. He looked lost in thought for a second before saying finally, ‘Will was murdered. It’s important that you believe me. It’s important I’m not the only one who knows the truth.’
‘I believe you,’ said Alex, empty words, meaning nothing. And satisfied, Luke walked away up the street.
Alex stared after him until he’d disappeared, wondering where he would go at that time of night, how his onward journey to Scotland would unfold. He envied him somehow, envied him his certainties, and the comfort with which he was willing to set off into the empty night rather than stay in his house. Maybe he just envied him for not being Alex Stratton.
Back inside he picked up the carrier bag and took it upstairs to his study. He downed the whisky and poured another and sat back at the desk, emptying the carrier bag item by item. There were notebooks filled with amateurish sketches, rambling verses of poetry, drugged-up philosophy.
There were some letters but none from him or from anyone whose name he recognized. The only thing of interest was the item that was missing, the scrapbook. And perhaps that wasn’t worthy of too much consideration, Luke hardly striking him as the most reliable witness.
He still couldn’t help but turn over the implications, trying to calculate the chances that it had something to do with them, with the accident. If Will had been murdered and the scrapbook had been taken by the killer - his thoughts seized though, unable to get past words like “murdered” and “killer”. It was absurd.
He picked up the glass of whisky and took a sip, savouring the taste, concentrating on it, trying to put away everything else. He was still on edge, twitching with every stray sound around the house. It was nothing to do with Luke’s visit, this a part of the edginess that was his regular companion.
Finally he heard something from downstairs that got him out of his chair, heart thumping. It sounded like something being moved, or a cupboard door being closed, enough to convince him that someone might be down there, that perhaps he hadn’t closed the front door properly.
He crept down the stairs, checked the door, moved slowly through the downstairs rooms, a self-induced chill dancing up his spine. There was no one down there but his nerves were doing party tricks, a constant sense that he was about to hear something else, or catch some movement at the edges of his vision.
It was him of course, not something in the house itself. He’d been spooked down by the river, then by the girl in the doorway, by her voice, the talk of Will’s death probably not helping either. All these little coincidences that meant nothing had stacked up on top of each other, his rationality unravelling around them.
He turned off the downstairs lights and went up to the bathroom to get ready for bed. A part of him was tempted to put it off, knowing what would happen when sleep came, but in the end it was better to face up to it and make use of it. Anyway, sometimes when he tried to put it off it made things worse.
He’d have an attack tonight whatever he did. He’d been thinking of her again all day, and then with the evening’s developments on top, he could almost guarantee it. But it was all in his own mind, that was the thing to remember, that none of it was external, none of it was real.
He set up the equipment once he was in the bedroom, turning on the video recorders, checking that he hadn’t accidentally moved them off target, one covering the bed, one covering the door. He strapped the actimeter to his wrist then and turned out the light.
He was tired but couldn’t help feeling the familiar knotting-up of dread, knowing what lay ahead of him. He touched the wrist monitor with his other hand, as if reminding himself that this was just a scientific experiment, and concentrated on his breathing, letting his thoughts fall away.
He knew what lay ahead in the darkness, not the specifics but the generalized terror and fear of it. He knew, and yet he lay there on his back surrendering to it because it was who he’d become, the victim of his own mind, his own history.
She’d torment him again tonight, just like she had for the last ten years, and it was right that she do so, something only the two of them would ever understand. It was their history and it had to be relived.
6
This was Will’s life, spread out before him on his desk. It didn’t add up to much but it made Alex question what kind of people his family were, that they hadn’t wanted it. He had some vague recollection that they hadn’t been supportive people, not even back at college. It left him wondering how they’d have responded to Luke’s claims that Will had been murdered.