A Traitor to Memory

He would allow those two actions to serve to close the circle of crime, lies, guilt, and punishment. His life would not be the same thereafter, but it would be his own life at last. He wanted that.

Gideon had no idea what the time was when he finally arrived in Chalcot Square. He was soaked to the skin and drained of energy from the long walk. But at last, secure in the knowledge of the plan he would follow, he felt possessed by a modicum of peace. Still, the last yards to his house seemed endless. When he finally arrived, he had to pull himself up the front steps by the handrail, and he sagged against the door and fumbled in his trouser pockets for his keys.

He didn't have them. He frowned at this. He relived the day. He'd started out with the keys. He'd started out with the car. He'd driven to see Bertram Cresswell-White and after that he'd gone to his father's flat, where—

Libby, he recalled. She'd done the driving. She'd been with him. He'd asked her to leave him all those hours ago and she had obliged. She'd taken his car on his own instructions. She would have the keys.

He was turning to go down the stairs to her flat, when the front door swung open, however.

Libby cried out, “Gideon! What the hell? Jeez, you're totally drenched! Couldn't you get a taxi? Why didn't you call me? I would've come … Hey, that cop rang, the one who was here the other day to talk to you, remember? I didn't pick up, but he left a message for you to call him. Is everything …? Jeez, why didn't you call me?”

She held the door wide as she was speaking, and she drew him inside and slammed it behind him. Gideon said nothing. She continued as if he'd made a reply.

“Here, Gid. Put your arm around me. There. Where've you been? Did you talk to your dad? Is everything okay?”

They climbed to the first floor. Gideon headed towards the music room. Libby guided him towards the kitchen instead.

“You need tea,” she insisted. “Or soup. Or something. Sit. Let me get it …”

He obliged.

She chatted on. Her voice was quick. Her colour was high. She said, “I figured I should wait up here since I had the keys. I could've waited in my own place, I guess. I did go down a while ago. But Rock called, and I made the mistake of answering because I thought it was you. God, he is so not who I thought he was when I hooked up with him. He actually wanted to come over. Let's talk things out, was how he put it. Unbelievable.”

Gideon heard her and did not hear her. At the kitchen table, he was restless and wet.

Libby said, even more rapidly now as he stirred on his seat, “Rock wants us to get back together. 'Course, it's all totally dog-in-the-haystack stuff, or whatever you call it, but he actually said ‘I'm good for you, Lib,’ if you can believe that. Like he never spent our whole frigging marriage screwing everything with the right body parts that he ran into. He said, ‘You know we're good for each other,’ and I said back, ‘Gid's good for me, Rocco. You are, like, so totally bad.’ And that's what I believe, you know. You're good for me, Gideon. And I'm good for you.”

She was moving about the kitchen. She'd settled on soup, evidently, because she rooted through the fridge, found a carton of tomato and basil, and produced it triumphantly, saying, “Not even past its sell-by date. I'll heat it in a flash.” She rustled out a pan and dumped the soup inside it. She set it on the cooker and took a bowl from the cupboard. She continued to talk. “How I figured it is this. We could blow London off for a while. You need a rest. And I need a vacation. So we could travel. We could go over to Spain for some decent weather. Or we could go to Italy. We could go to California, even, and you could meet my family. I told them about you. They know I know you. I mean, I told them we live together and everything. I mean, well, sort of. Not I sort of told them but we sort of live … you know.”

She put the bowl on the table along with a spoon. She folded a paper napkin into a triangle. She said, “There,” and reached for one of the straps of her dungarees, which was held together by a safety pin. She clutched at this as he looked at her. She used her thumb against it, opening and closing the pin spasmodically.

This display of nerves wasn't like her. It gave Gideon pause. He studied her, puzzled.

She said, “What?”

He rose. “I need to change my clothes.”

She said, “I'll get them,” and headed towards the music room and his bedroom which lay beyond it. “What d'you want? Levi's? A sweater? You're right. You need to get out of those clothes.” And as he moved, “I'll get them. I mean, wait. Gideon. We need to talk first. I mean, I need to explain …” She stopped. She swallowed, and he heard the sound of it from five feet away. It was the noise a fish makes when it flops on the deck of a boat, breathing its last.