Down came the rainbow washed out all the rain . . . This whole conversation felt wrong, not going the way I had expected— “So why don’t you want Leon knowing? If it’s no big deal?”
“Leon’s not dealing too well with all this. In case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t want him freaking out.”
“What? He’s not some fragile little flower who we have to protect from, from, we’re not kids any more”—and what if I had tried to protect him, like Rafferty thought, back when we actually were kids? look where that had landed me—“He’s a grown man. If we can handle this, he can too.”
Susanna sighed. “Look,” she said, lower. “I don’t know if you’ve realized this, but Leon thinks you killed Dominic.” A small pause to see how I took that. When I said nothing: “He has from the start, actually. And he has some complicated thing going on where he’s pretty pissed off about the idea of you getting away with it.”
“Well he can go fuck himself,” I said, on a surge of anger, my voice rising. “Did he say that to the cops? Is that why they were giving me shit?”
“No. And he’s not going to—don’t worry, I’ve talked to him, he’s under control. He doesn’t actually want you to go to jail, not really. He just feels like you’ve always got away with everything and it’s not fair.”
“Jesus Christ! What are we, six?”
“Yeah, I know. It’s stupid leftover kid stuff. But if he hears about this, I don’t know what he’ll do. And I’d rather not find out unless we have to.”
“OK,” I said, after a moment. I didn’t like the sound of this. I had known Leon was stressed, obviously, but Susanna was talking like he was on the verge of an epic meltdown, and I was clearly first in line to be collateral damage. “What am I supposed to do if he shows up here and wants to know where Hugo’s gone?”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know?”
“He was pretty upset, last night. I don’t think he wants to talk to you for a while.”
“Oh, great,” I said. I didn’t particularly want to talk to Leon either, but having him out there in a massive strop with me didn’t feel like a good idea. “That’s really fucking reassuring.”
“Don’t you start freaking out on me too. Like I said, Leon’s under control. Just don’t go winding him up and he’ll be fine.”
What did that mean? Was I “under control” too? “I’m not fucking freaking out. I’m trying to figure out what the hell we do about Hugo.”
“We don’t do anything. We just sit tight.”
“He’s been there for fucking hours, Su. Without a solicitor.”
“So? Even if they believe him, that doesn’t mean they’ve got enough to charge him. And even if they do, it takes what? six months, a year? for a case to get to trial. This isn’t a disaster, Toby. I know it’s no fun, but in the long run it’s not going to make any difference to anything.”
I had finally figured out what felt off about this conversation: Susanna hadn’t even bothered registering the fact that Hugo had, according to him anyway, killed Dominic. I said, “You don’t think he did it.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Well then.”
Itsy bitsy spider back up the spout again . . . “It’s not just Leon, is it?” I said. “You think I did it too.”
After a moment: “Look,” Susanna said. Her voice was clearer, measured and firm, and Sallie’s high sweet drone had faded: she had moved away to make sure she could get this into my head. “The only thing I want here is to make sure all of us stay out of jail. That’s it. I don’t actually care about anything else. And I think whatever Hugo’s doing, it gives us the best shot at that happening. Just leave him to it.” When I didn’t answer: “OK? Can you do that?”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“What about Melissa? Is she going to be OK with that?”
“She’s fine.”
In the background, a sudden wail: “It went in my eyes!” “Got to go,” Susanna said. “Just hang in there for tonight; we’ll see what happens tomorrow, take it from there—it’s OK, sweetie, here’s your towel—” and she was gone.
First stars in the window, Hugo’s reading glasses at the edge of the desk-pool of lamplight like he had just that moment put them down. I tried to go back to the diary, but my eyes and my brain had both shorted out: it was gibberish. I knew I should probably eat something, but I couldn’t be arsed. I told myself I would eat with Hugo when he got home—he would be starving, we could order takeaway. Meanwhile I sat at the kitchen table, smoking cigarette after cigarette and listening to young owls yelping in the darkness outside.
I wanted Melissa, so much I could have howled. I thought of her in her cramped apartment unpacking dresses that still smelled of the Ivy House, tea and wood-smoke and jasmine, while awful Megan hovered and probed and made satisfied little bitchy comments about how she had actually always known I was worthless. I wanted, so intensely that it practically lifted me out of my chair, to get a taxi over there, hammer at the door till she let me in and wrap her tight in my arms; tell her she had been utterly right, I would never argue with her again, we could get on a plane tomorrow and take off for somewhere as far away from this godawful mess as she wanted.
Only I couldn’t do it. It had taken this long for it to work its way into my mind: I couldn’t go to her, couldn’t even ring her, not ever again. I had, almost certainly, killed someone. Even if somehow I got away with it, even if Hugo’s plan worked and Rafferty closed the case and went away, I was a murderer.
Melissa—the thought nearly undid me—Melissa hadn’t even cared. All she had cared about was protecting me from finding out. If only I had been willing to walk away from this, she would joyfully have walked away with me, hand in hand.
But I cared, a lot. Melissa, sunshiny and bruised and brave, throwing herself indefatigably into making things better: I was something that had no place in her life. She deserved the guy we had both thought I was—actually she deserved better than that guy, too, but I could have been that; I had been on my way to that, had already been making plans. Even after that night, there must have been some tiny fragment of me that believed I might recover. This was different. I couldn’t see any way that this could get better, any way I could work my way past it. I was too exhausted and hungover and wretched even to cry.
My phone dinged and I grabbed for it, fumbling and catching like someone out of a sitcom. Voice message.
“Toby, hiya. Rafferty here.” The reception in the Ivy House was patchy, but I was willing to bet he had deliberately rung my voicemail. “Sorry I missed you earlier. Listen, we’re still sorting out a few things, so Hugo’s going to stay here overnight. Don’t be worrying: we got in pizza, he’s taken his medication, he’s grand. Just thought you should know so you’re not waiting up for him. See you tomorrow.” Click.
I rang Hugo’s mobile: voicemail. “Hugo, it’s me. I’m just checking that you’re OK. Listen, if you change your mind, if you want me to come pick you up or if you want a lawyer, just ring me or text me, any time”—could he do that, would they let him? did he even have his phone or had they taken it away?—“and I’ll sort it out. OK? Otherwise, just . . . look after yourself. Please. I’ll try you again in the morning. Bye.”
I sat there with the phone in front of me on the table for a long time, in case Hugo rang back, which he didn’t. I tried Rafferty, with some vague idea of demanding to talk to Hugo, but of course he didn’t pick up.
It was getting late. It occurred to me that this was the first time I had spent a night on my own since my apartment. I was so tired I could barely move, but I didn’t like the thought of going to bed: asleep, undressed, far enough from all the likely entry points that I wouldn’t hear an intruder till it was too late. Instead I got the duvet from my room and stretched out on the sofa, with the standing lamp on. I wasn’t expecting to get any sleep—I was jumping at every floorboard crack and radiator burble—but at some point deep in the night I must have dozed off.
* * *