I pushed through the heavy throng of drinkers and headed straight for the bar, traversing the entire width of the pub.  I spotted Bosworth sitting in the far corner, at the same table as on our previous visit for the quiz night.  Noticing me, he shouted across the pub and raised his pint above his head in a boozer’s salute. “Alright, Julian, mate, what kept you?”

I waved back and then turned away, not appreciating the attention as the other drinkers turned to see who the loudmouth drunk was yelling at.  I negotiated the last few people huddled around the bar and waited for my turn to be served.  In the long mirror behind the myriad of optics, I could just make out Bosworth’s reflection away to my right.  He was animatedly talking to someone across the table from him.  I could only make out the back of the man’s head and shoulders, but there was an immediate familiarity in the long greasy hair and filthy denim jacket.  As I struggled to place him, I was distracted by a group of raucous women in the far corner as they began yelling and screaming while a strip-a-gram in policeman’s garb began to strut his stuff.

It was another few minutes before I was finally served, and as I sipped my beer and waited for the change there was a tap on my shoulder.  I turned to face Bosworth, already a few pints to the good.  His eyes were glazed and his breath wreaked of beer. “Ju, Ju, guess who I’ve just bumped into, he’s over there – an old school buddy of ours and he reckons he’s a business partner of yours,” he said excitedly, almost childlike, pointing to where he’d been sitting.

A business partner? What the hell was he talking about?  I was in no mood for games and responded disinterestedly, “Go on, surprise me,” as I looked over to where he was gesturing.  At the same time the figure turned to face us and I saw that it was Dave Musgrove, a sly grin plastered across his face.  I couldn’t believe the evening I was having; I hadn’t seen Musgrove for over twenty years, since our school days in fact, and then I bump into him twice in the space of a couple of months.  He was a deluded fool and the idea of spending an evening with both Bosworth and Musgrove was not something to relish.  Bosworth continued to jabber away in the background but I didn’t pay any attention until he again mentioned the words business partner, and I tuned in to what he was saying. “… yeah, and he says that you owe him some money, for doing a job for you, helped you sort out a problem.”

I took a sharp intake of breath as, in one horrific moment, everything fell into place.  My knees gave way and the pint slipped through my fingers and smashed onto the bar.  I slumped forward, falling against Bosworth, who grabbed me under the arms, preventing me from going to the floor.  “Steady on, Ju,” he said as I attempted to compose myself, “I thought it was me that had been on the booze.  Anyway, I’m off for a piss, get yourself another drink and go and have a chat with Mousey.  I told him you’d be coming and all night he’s being saying that he’s dying to see you.”

I was in a state of shock.  My head was spinning and the hot stuffy air made me nauseous.  In an instant I was taken back to a few months earlier and my inadvertent meeting with Musgrove; Jesus, what had I done?  I slowly made my way through the crowded pub and over to Musgrove.  The smile was still fixed to his face as my heart pounded; I could feel my face burning, and droplets of sweat forming on my top lip.  The anger was beginning to boil inside me.  “What the hell did you do?” I blurted as I reached his table.

Musgrove widened his grin even more. “Is that really the way to greet an old school friend and business associate?  Sit down – make yourself comfortable.”  He pulled a stool out from under the table. “Take the weight of your feet, relax.”

I immediately kicked it over, drawing the attention of the boozers at the next table.  But I was unconcerned. “Fuck off you disgusting bastard,” was all I could articulate as his calm demeanour added to my anger.

He continued: “If you prefer to stand that’s fine, but there’s the business arrangement that I would like to discuss with you.”

“There’s no way I’m having anything to do with you.  You’ve taken everything from me, there’s no way I’m giving you money,” I responded, barely containing my rage.

Musgrove stared intently back at me with pin-point pupils, taking a swig of his Guinness before wiping the froth from his lips with a dirty sleeve. “Listen, Julian, or is it Dr Julian? What do you prefer? … You asked me to take care of your missus and that’s what I did.  I thought I was being a bit creative doin’ a hit-and-run sort of thing … must have being going a bit too quick though, lost control, and sure there was a bit of collateral damage, your kids and stuff, but the job got done.”

I felt sick listening to him but didn’t know how to respond.  He continued: “I’ve given you some time, in fact plenty of time, to grieve. The police must have stopped sniffing round by now and I’m sure you’ve got your inheritance.  Now I want my payment – a deal's a deal.”

I could take it no longer and lunged at him, grabbing him by the collar of his jacket and a large clump of his lank hair.  Even Musgrove appeared surprised by my action as I hissed in his ear, “You’ve killed my whole family, you fucking moron, and now you expect me to give you money.”

The smile returned to Musgrove’s face as he pulled back from my grip and preciously readjusted his clothing. “No need to get so heated, Julian.  Relax, sit down and enjoy a drink.  If you prefer, next time I’m chatting with our mutual friend DI Patel, maybe I’ll get a blast of conscience and tell him the truth about our little business arrangement.  You must remember you asked me to kill her …”

I interrupted him and leant forward to within an inch of his face, getting the full effect of his breath,.“I never asked you to kill her, you fucking moron.  You’ve twisted everything.”

But Musgrove carried on as if he’d not heard me. “I’m sure Patel would be more than interested to find out who was responsible for the demise of your lovely missus, and with all this modern technology, CCTV and stuff, I’m sure they’ll be able to link us together.”

I couldn’t take any more of his bullshit, and headed for the door.  Behind me Musgrove fired a parting shot. “I’ll be in touch soon, Julian.” A thought that made me shudder.

I pushed through the crowd of drinkers and left the pub, desperately needing fresh air.  En route I collided with Bosworth returning from the toilet and almost knocked him off his feet.  Obviously surprised by my haste, he opened his mouth to speak but I continued on with my head down.  I reached the doorway and was immediately sick, spraying the small porch in vomit.  A smartly dressed middle-aged couple were just entering the pub and had to step back sharply to avoid being splattered.  I didn’t stop to apologise but headed across the car park as I heard the woman muttering to her husband, “Disgusting pig.”  I could think of far worse insults to direct at myself.

I needed to think and to be on my own.  I was desperate to get away from Musgrove and I broke into a jog and then a flat-out sprint.  Only slowing my pace once, to be sick again, I reached my parents’ house and let myself in.  The house was devoid of furniture, and with just a sleeping bag on the floor it felt eerily cold and intimidating.  My mood, which had only just begun to ascend from the depths, was crashing around me, and I could feel myself slipping back into the dark hole of depression that I’d struggled to climb out of in the weeks following the hit-and-run.  Perhaps bizarrely, I could almost feel my fingertips aching as I struggled to cling onto the walls of my metaphoric black hole.

I lay down on the sleeping bag while still out of breath and sweating like a pig.  I closed my eyes to block out the pain, but couldn’t rid myself of the image of Musgrove’s smug face, as if were permanently imprinted on my retina.  In the few weeks after the hit-and-run I’d thought back to my chance encounter with Musgrove and questioned, albeit fleetingly, whether he may have been involved.  But I’d always quickly dismissed the idea as ridiculous, and reassured myself that it had just been the booze fuelling his deluded words.  Clearly, I had been wrong.  Yes, of course I was angry with Helen, betrayed by her actions, but I never, never wanted her to die, and the thought of hurting my sweet boys was simply unimaginable.  Musgrove was a psychopath; he had twisted my words and taken advantage of me.