‘Of course not. Why would you think that?’
Jason coughs an apology but it’s obvious why he’d think that: he’s spent two decades in prison – and it’s not like his upbringing was Garden of Eden stuff before that. A person only knows what they know.
Physical violence isn’t the only type of mistreatment, though. Dan’s no more abusive than I am but we’ve been together so long that we bring out the worst in one another. This is what happens when you live with someone you can’t stand. You make each other’s lives a misery and, in the end, everyone loses.
Jason tugs at his jacket, glancing past me towards the house. I know what he’s thinking: that this could have been him. He’s wrong, but he can’t know that.
‘I wrote to you,’ he says quietly.
‘I know.’
‘You never wrote back.’
‘I didn’t know what to say.’
He nods slowly, acceptingly, and then hits me brutally with five stinging words. ‘You could have said sorry.’
‘I—’
He cuts me off instantly. ‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’m the one who’s sorry.’
I have to say it now. It’s been twenty years in the making, words I should have said then but couldn’t because it would have meant admitting my part in everything that happened.
‘I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have done that to you.’
He shrugs. ‘I knew what I was getting into and then, afterwards, none of that was your fault. That was all me. You didn’t set the fire.’
There’s something so powerful and evocative about the word. Fire is life: it’s warmth and comfort – but it’s destructive and terrifying as well. It was a lesson I sure as hell learned.
When he was nineteen years old, Jason set fire to a pub, killing three people who were asleep upstairs. His legal team had little defence, other than trying to get the charges negotiated down to manslaughter. The system disagreed. He was charged and convicted of a triple murder.
Even putting aside the arguments over whether he meant to kill, the fact is that he did.
That doesn’t mean it’s entirely his fault.
I say nothing because I’m not sure I trust myself. I didn’t drop the lighter but I’m not blameless either. I knew that then and I know it now.
Jason’s eyeing the scar that hoops around my own temple. Ours almost match now. I scratch it self-consciously and he takes the hint, turning away to the street.
‘Are you going with Ell tomorrow?’ he asks.
It takes me a couple of seconds to remember what he’s talking about – and then the true depth of my self-absorption is clear. I’d completely forgotten about tomorrow.
‘Of course I am,’ I reply. In my mind, I’m scrambling, trying to figure out how to tell Graham I’m going to be late once more. I’ll need to invent a client or a meeting, something like that.
‘Ell says the two of you visit every year…’ He winces and then speaks really quickly, his words blending into one. ‘Can I come, too?’
It takes me a moment to figure out what he’s asked.
‘I understand if you don’t want me there,’ he adds
‘No – he was your brother, too. You should definitely come.’
‘I just wanna chance to say g’bye. I never went to the funeral. Couldn’t face it at the time and then, when I were ready, they wouldn’t let me out on day release for the anniversary.’
‘You should definitely come with us. You didn’t have to ask permission.’
‘I was gonna ask last night – but it looked like you were a bit shocked to see me.’
I shrug: ‘Well, it has been twenty years…’
‘Aye.’
He turns and steps back towards the pavement and I wonder if this is why Dan saw Jason hanging around the house. He was building up the courage to ask if he could visit his brother’s grave with Ellie and me. I watch him walk off in the direction of Ellie’s house. He stops to look back at me and, when he realises I’m still watching, he quickly faces forward again, ducking his head and shuffling quickly out of sight.
I sigh deeply once he’s gone, unsure if this is a weight lifted, or another added. I can’t believe I’d forgotten the anniversary of Wayne’s death. Ellie and I visit his grave every year, yet, somehow, it had fallen from my memory. Like a lot of things recently.
Last night, I thought that Jason was a symbol of the worst thing I ever did – but he isn’t. It’s his brother, of course. Jason and Wayne Leveson: two brothers – and look what I did to them. Even now, look at what I’ve done to Dan; to myself.
Is this me?
Is this what I do?
I destroy everything and everyone around me.
Chapter Sixteen
‘The police?’
Graham is surprised. He readjusts his tie, loosening the knot slightly and sitting up straighter in his office chair as if I’m the police, instead of simply mentioning them.
‘We had a break-in at home yesterday,’ I explain. ‘The glazier patched things up first thing – which I texted you about – and then the police were a bit late. I would’ve called but they were busy taking statements and the like. I have to go back to the station tomorrow morning to give a few more details.’
It’s a lie that comes to me on the spot but it’s perfect. Who’s going to argue with that?
Graham’s frown softens. ‘But everything’s all right?’
‘I was a bit shaken last night but, y’know… The police say there’s been a series of break-ins in the area…’
I tail off, letting it hang there, not wanting to overdo it too much. It’s not like I’m going to burst into tears and cry about the unfairness of life. He doesn’t need to know that nothing was taken and it was probably Dan or I who left the back door unlocked in any case.
I can imagine Natasha along the hallway, ears pricked waiting for the sound of raised voices.
Graham shuffles through the Post-it notes on his desk, picking them up and re-sticking them until he finds the one he’s after. His face is reddy-purple and it’s hard to tell if it’s redder than usual. He has a beetroot sort of glow at the best of times but, when he gets worked up, it looks like he’s about to pop.
‘Luke,’ he says. ‘What’s going on with him?’
‘I’ve not heard back since our aborted meeting on Monday night. He’s not answering his phone or replying to texts or emails. I’m not sure what else to do. I guess he’s not interested.’
Graham starts to chew on the inside of his mouth, screwing up his cheeks as he does so, as if it’s something particularly gristly.
‘What about this Declan from yesterday?’
‘Hasn’t he emailed? I thought he’d be in contact today…?’
Graham shifts his mouse around, squints at his screen and then shakes his head. ‘He’s not contacted me.’
I admit that I’ve not heard from him either – and then Graham starts drumming his fingers on the desk. I’ve seen this before and it’s never a good sign. Graham is a salesperson’s best friend while things are going well; but I’ve seen him turn when things aren’t working out. Over the years, I’ve avoided many of his mood swings, maintaining enough of a sales record to be unspectacularly satisfactory. Other people take the bonuses – but other people get fired as well.
Never me.
He pushes a sheet of A4 across the desk, saying nothing but making his point. The fact he’s printed it off means it has to be serious. I pick it up and scan the rows and columns. There are typos – which means Graham almost certainly created the spreadsheet himself – but that in itself tells a story. I’m in trouble.
‘There’s a second page,’ he says, passing another sheet of paper across his desk.
I read the second and, if anything, it spells even more trouble than the first.
‘What have you got to say?’ Graham asks.
I take a breath and re-read the first sheet, looking for even the slimmest glimmer of hope. It’s not there.
‘Is there anything I should know about?’ he adds.