Accidents Happen A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE



Friday afternoon, and the traffic was light.

Kate free-wheeled down Headington Hill so fast that the wind pushed back the hair below her helmet like curtains in a tornado. A supermarket delivery lorry overtook her, only feet away, but she hardly noticed.

Her mind was elsewhere.

It was three days since she’d seen Jago by the river the night they’d stolen the rowing boat.

Three days without a word.

Kate checked behind her shoulder, then pulled out past a rotund man in a T-shirt and an ill-fitting suit on an old bike who was putting his brakes on every few seconds.

She pulled back in, and carried on sailing down the hill.

No, not a word from Jago since they’d ridden back along the river path to Blackwell’s on Tuesday night. Not even a suggestion of when they’d meet again. Just one more kiss as he tied up his bike, and a distracted ‘You did well, safe home’ before he went off to Balliol, clearly impatient to ring Marla.

Kate free-wheeled through the green light at the bottom of Headington Hill, cycled in a steady rhythm towards Magdalen roundabout, flew around it and headed over the bridge and up the High Street. Three minutes later she stopped at Carfax crossroads, waited for the traffic to break, pulled over at the corner of Cornmarket and Queen Street and dismounted.

She looked around.

The centre was packed today. The tidal pattern of the city was changing again. Tourists were starting to outnumber students, signalling the start of June. It was unusually warm, and legs were making their first nervous outings of the year in a variety of shorts. Kate took off her helmet and looked around, hoping for a glimpse of that cropped head or a reassuring snatch of Scottish accent. She allowed herself a little internal cheer of self-congratulation. Two and a half miles today. The furthest she’d cycled for five years on the road non-stop. And the fourth time she’d managed to cycle in traffic without stopping since stealing the rowing boat on Tuesday night.

Kate chained up her bike to a rack. The numbers were quiet, too. Present, but less insistent.

All thanks to Jago.

Who’d bloody disappeared, to London, presumably, with Marla.

Kate yanked the chain harder than she needed to, to check the bike was secured properly, then stood up and walked off down Cornmarket, trying to put Marla out of her mind, at least for the next ten minutes.

Winding her way through the tour groups and parents with buggies and boys on skateboards, she reconsidered the revelation she’d had only fifteen minutes ago, as she’d stood in a queue to buy a chicken from the organic butcher in Headington to roast for Jack tonight, before announcing that she was introducing a new weekly movie night at home for the two of them, and had bought the film he wanted to see.

There was a clue.

A clue that, for a moment, at least, would give Kate a break from the film that had been running in a loop in her own head for three days. ‘Based on a true story’, it could have been billed. It started with the facts. The scene where Jago disengaged from her on the jetty that Tuesday night, as the significance of Marla’s second call finally registered on his face.

His ex-girlfriend desperately wanted to see him after three months.

The next scene had him waving Kate off before heading into Balliol to ring Marla to find out what was going on. ‘I’m pregnant,’ Marla said, in Kate’s best American accent. ‘From our last night together. I need to see you.’ In Kate’s imaginary narrative, Marla had then jumped on the red-eye from Paris, while Jago had driven straight to Heathrow. He had arrived to see Marla standing wanly at a distance. Not tall, dark and skinny, like Kate, but petite and curvaceous, with white-blonde hair, dark eyebrows and a cute little nose. They had run to each other, tears spilling down their faces, as Marla declared that she wanted to give it another try for the sake of the baby. She missed him. She’d move to Oxford, Edinburgh, anywhere, to be with him. It didn’t matter how darn cold and damp it was.

And that was it.

THE END.

Kate moved sideways to avoid a man drawing a famous painting on Cornmarket’s pavement in chalk.

But then, in the butcher’s today, as Kate had looked down at the Doc Martens of the student in front of her, she remembered.

Her ankle boots.

Jago had put her ankle boots in his bag that Tuesday night to take to the heel bar for her the next day, because it had been closed.

So, if she were right, if he had driven off to London on Tuesday night and been lying blissfully in Marla’s arms ever since, Kate’s boots would still be in his rucksack, lying abandoned in haste in his college room.

Or . . .

Kate prayed.

The little heel bar loomed ahead of her at the end of Cornmarket, its window half the width of the neighbouring French children’s boutique and organic cafe.

Kate turned into the scruffy entrance, shuffling sideways to avoid hitting a rack of umbrellas and shoe polish right inside the door. The shop was gloomy and cramped. It appeared empty at first. Then a movement behind the counter told her she was wrong. A tiny ancient man with grey hair slicked into a sculpted wave on his head stood behind the counter, peering down at something. With great effort, like a tortoise from its shell, he lifted up his head to peer at her through his glasses.

‘Oh. Hi,’ Kate exclaimed. ‘I was just wondering if my boots were ready. Black ankle boots, should be under the name “Kate”?’

The old man stopped. He wiped his hands on his apron and turned slowly, a deep bend in his back, to a shelf. He rummaged through a pile of plastic bags, then pulled out one.

Kate’s heart leaped.

‘Sorry,’ she said to the elderly man as he handed them to her. ‘Do you know what day these were brought in?’

The old man’s whole body looked like it was sighing. He peered at the ticket.

‘Wednesday,’ he muttered.

‘Really?’ she smiled. So Jago hadn’t gone straight to London the night of the canal boat. She could, at least, erase that particular awful scene from the film.

‘How much do I owe you?’ she said brightly.

‘Ten pounds,’ the old man said weakly, as if he were too exhausted to add ‘please’. She handed him a note, took the boots with a cheerful ‘thanks’, and headed out of the shop, lost in thought.

Jago had still been thinking about her – on Wednesday, at least – regardless of Marla’s intentions.

Kate returned up Cornmarket, cheered up, and retrieved her bike. She was about to turn back to Headington to rejoin the queue in the butcher’s that she’d abandoned twenty minutes ago, when another thought occurred to her.

Perhaps Jago had never gone to London at all.

Perhaps he’d said ‘no’ to Marla on the phone that night, that he didn’t want to see her. That he’d moved on. Met someone new? Perhaps he was sitting in his room right now, working. Thinking about Kate. Planning their next night out.

She looked over her shoulder.

If she went back down Cornmarket, she could take the route past Balliol back to Headington.

What harm would it do?

Kate turned, a flutter of anticipation in her stomach, pushed her bike down to the junction and turned right. Balliol’s entrance was just visible from here. She cycled over to the left side of the road and took her time approaching the porter’s gate. The gate was open for visitors, half of its wooden arch pushed back, revealing manicured lawns beyond.

She glanced through cautiously.

The wooden gate was as impenetrable to casual passers-by as a castle keep. To gain entry, she’d either have to ask for Jago blatantly at the porter’s lodge, or pose as a tourist and pay an entrance fee. Either way, if she did see Jago, they’d both know there was nothing ‘casual’ about it at all.

She cycled on past.

She’d just have to hope that he’d spring one of his last-minute calls on her when she was least expecting it. And pray that, in the meantime, she didn’t spot him and Marla rocking around town like the young couple from the other week, all tousle-haired and freshly emerged from bed.

It was just as Kate was starting to accelerate up Broad Street back to Headington that she heard her phone ring.

She stopped abruptly, forcing the cyclist behind to swerve around her crossly.

She pulled the phone from her pocket so fast she nearly dropped it.

‘Hello?’ she said hopefully.

‘Kate? It’s Gill.’

Shit. Gabe’s mum. They’d been swapping phone messages all week, and she’d forgotten to try her again today. ‘Hi, Gill.’

‘Hi-ya,’ Gill answered in her lazy voice, tinged with its student-protest self-righteous edge that Kate suspected she kept firmly as a rebellion against ever growing up, despite being close to her forties.

‘Calling about tomorrow night.’ Gill’s tone was both teasing and antagonistic. ‘Kate. Listen. Before you say anything, they’ll be fine, love.’

Kate paused to make herself calm the irritation Gill always provoked in her. ‘I’m sure they will be, Gill. It’s just Jack said they were sleeping outside. By themselves?’

Gill gave a little tinkle of laughter, her humour at Kate’s concerns clearly being relayed with exaggerated facial expressions for whoever was in the room with her. She then turned on the slow, patronizing voice that she presumably used for the elderly people she cared for at the retirement home in Cowley – probably irritating the shit out of them, too, Kate suspected. ‘Listen, love. They’ll be right outside in the garden at the back? It’s not exactly the middle of a warzone. They’re really looking forward to it, Jack especially.’

Kate grimaced into the phone. She hated it when Gill did this. Implied that she knew Jack better than Kate. It was too painful to believe that Jack’s guard might come down in Gill’s noisy, messy, laid-back house, with its Indian throws and candles and general air of stoned inertia, in a way that it never did with Kate.

When Kate said nothing, Gill carried on. ‘Honestly, Kate, love, I can hear you worrying. You worry too much.’

Kate felt her hackles rise. If she said no, Jack would never forgive her. He might even mention it to Helen, who would in turn accuse Kate of stopping him having fun at what Helen’s would surely perceive as a ‘harmless’ sleepover. She sighed. ‘OK. Well. OK, then.’

Gill hesitated dramatically, to illustrate her shock. ‘You’re all right, then?’

‘I said, it’s fine.’

‘Ooh. Well, that’s a first!’ Gill exclaimed in what was supposed to be a playful voice. ‘We’ll send him back with Gabe on Sunday, yeah?’

‘OK, bye.’ Kate mouthed a swear word at the phone, then said, ‘Thanks.’

She shut the phone, and stood at the side of the road, fuming. Why had she thanked her?

‘Cheer up, darling!’ a man shouted at her from a passing van, looking back with a grin. ‘Can’t be that bad!’

Kate stuck a finger up at him, eliciting a howl of laughter from inside the cab.

‘It will be OK . . .’ she whispered to herself, shaking away the tears that threatened to come.

You are not cursed. Let Jack have his adventure, like you had yours by the canal boat.

Just because he’s outside does not mean he’ll be attacked.

Yet the anxiety was pummelling at her in a way it hadn’t done for days.

She shook her head as the numbers broke loose and came flying at her.

She couldn’t slip backwards. She couldn’t.

Jago. She needed to speak to Jago.

She put out a hesitant hand and rang Jago’s number.

To her consternation, it went straight to message.

‘Erm, Jago. It’s Kate. I’m outside, just passing Balliol. Just wondered if you fancied a coffee or a drink or something.’ She sighed, aware of the panicked tone of her message. ‘But maybe you’re not there so . . . don’t worry.’

She pressed the red button, and was about to put it back in her pocket.

Her phone rang in her hand.

‘Kate? Jago,’ said a Scottish voice.

‘Oh. Hi,’ she said, relief flooding through her. ‘Sorry, I just . . .’

‘No, it’s fine. It’s great to hear from you. It’s just that I’m in London at the moment. I’m not there.’

She paused, shocked. She was right. He’d gone to Marla.

‘Oh, well, don’t worry, I just . . .’

‘No, it’s fine. How are you? Not been arrested by the rowing boat police yet then?’

She forced a laugh. ‘No.’ She tried to think of something else to say but all she could think of was Marla sitting right beside him.

‘Listen. I’m glad you rang. I was going to ring you later anyway. What are you doing tomorrow night?’

She moved to let another cyclist past. ‘Um, I haven’t decided yet. Interesting you ask – Jack might be going to that sleepover I told you about, but . . .’

‘Brilliant,’ Jago said. ‘So you’re going to let him go? Well done. Well, do you fancy coming up to London, then?’

She pushed her hair away. ‘Uh, I don’t know. What did you have in mind?’

‘Ah! Step Five of the experiment, of course.’

The thought of seeing him tomorrow thrilled her so much she didn’t allow herself to feel nervous about what that might consist of. ‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. Well, can you meet me at . . . hang on, let me just check this . . .’ She heard a rustle of paper. ‘Highgate Tube?’

Kate frowned. Highgate? Where she used to live.

Jago heard her hesitation. ‘Or, if you don’t fancy it we can wait till I get back to Oxford next Friday . . .’

He was in London for another week? Could she do this? Leave Jack outside on a trampoline at Gabe’s, and go to Highgate?

‘Yes. I can come,’ she said weakly.

‘Great. I don’t know what time yet so I’ll ring you tomorrow to let you know. And don’t worry about getting home. I’ve got the car, so I’ll run you back to Oxford afterwards.’

Kate nodded. At least then she would only be round the corner from Jack as he lay in Gabe’s garden on Saturday night. ‘Oh. OK. Great, see you then,’ she said.

‘See you then!’

She put her phone away thoughtfully.

Highgate.

She tried to remember. Had she told Jago that she and Hugo lived there, that night they were in the secret garden?

And why hadn’t he mentioned Marla?

She mounted her bike again, and cycled home, arriving back just before Jack and Gabe.

‘Did you talk to Gabe’s mum?’ Jack called out as he came in, taking off his blazer.

‘I said yes. But, God, Jack, I’m trusting you. If there’s any funny business with Gabe or Damon . . . I mean it, you stay on that trampoline and don’t move.’

She watched his face, waiting for him to explode with delight. And he did smile, but a flicker of something else passed across his face.

‘Jack?’ Kate asked uncertainly. ‘What? You do want to go?’

‘Yeah,’ he said, putting his bag down, and running upstairs.

Confused, she stood in the hall, trying to work out what she’d glimpsed in his expression, and couldn’t. To her sorrow, Kate realized she’d lost so much precious time with Jack over the years that she couldn’t read him. She couldn’t read her own son.

She walked back into the kitchen, determined that would change now.

Magnus saw Kate arrive back on her bike, then the boy, in his school uniform with his friend. The boys waved briefly at each other, then Jack entered the house.

He sat back, fingering the silver necklace he’d taken this afternoon from that woman’s house on Walter Street. The window had been open again, making it easy. Taken him two seconds to lean in and whip away her bag. He also had her phone, which had some interesting photos on it. Very interesting photos.

He sat on his unmade bed, flicking through it, eating a chicken dish he’d found in Kate’s fridge while she’d been out on her bike. It was good. Like the stew back home. He’d taken five spoonfuls, then wiped around the top with his finger before he put it back in the fridge so that the previous tideline disappeared and didn’t give him away.

Magnus was about to drop his eyes back to his bowl of stew, when a movement caught his eye on his computer. He sat up and saw the skinny woman Kate had opened her own laptop and was looking at him with wide eyes. He jumped back, covering his mouth with his hand, for a second thinking she could see him.

‘Jack,’ she shouted. ‘Have you been eating over the laptop?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘You told me not to.’

‘You’re sure? There’s a crumb stuck in the letter J.’

Magnus stopped mid-chew, looking down at his bedspread, at the skinny woman’s flapjack, which he was having for pudding.

He chewed again.

He’d have to be more careful or all the planning would have been for nothing.