‘Do you think he’s fanciable?’

I picked harder at the dried-on paint. I didn’t want to upset her. ‘Well, yes, although he’s just not my type.’

Paula refilled our glasses, I remember, drunkenly spilling a swill of it onto Mum’s napkin. The red soaked through the white cotton like a bloodstain and Mum tutted. Paula scrunched up the stained napkin and handed it to a passing waiter, asking him to bring Mum a clean one, and then she said to me – just curiously, not in a nasty way – ‘What exactly is your type, Siobhan? All your boyfriends have been so different that I have no idea.’

For some reason, it wasn’t at all difficult to answer. Without hesitating, I replied: ‘Impulsive; creative – definitely; and talented. Not hairy. Tallish. Slim. Passionate. And someone who knows how to buy clothes for a woman. That would be my ideal man.’

It’s only now I’m home that I realize I was describing Alex. How weird is that?

But so what? That’s all behind me now, and I just have to accept that I blew it. I should’ve gone out with him when he first asked, back when he really liked me, before it all got so weird. And it definitely got way too weird in Amsterdam. I ought to consider myself very, very lucky Alex doesn’t have a clue that what happened with Evan was anything to do with me – and the rat and the magazines before that…. I wonder if they got caught at the airport with the pot? I must say, I do feel guilty about that. I wouldn’t want Alex to go to jail. Emily I’m not so sure about…. But no, I suppose even she doesn’t deserve that. I’m looking back now and wondering what on earth I was thinking…. It’s just not me, all that revenge stuff.

All of a sudden I feel quite mature and wise. I will start looking to the future, to my new life as a….whatever it is I’m going to do instead of being a novelist. But I’m too tired to think about it now, what with all the painting, and then all the drinking. I’m going to bed.

Good grief, that was the doorbell. I’ll ignore it – must be a cabbie with the wrong address, or a late night pizza or something.

There it is again. Better go and check, I suppose.

Chapter 34

Alex

Ever since I started writing my journal I’ve become addicted to recording my life. Which is why, even now, I’m typing – even though I’ll probably have to trash all the files as soon as I’ve finished. Still, I’m used to living on the edge. Accustomed, in fact, to going right over it.

After getting back from Amsterdam and reading the message from Elaine Meadows, I knew what I had to do.

I walked down the road to the only public phone box in the area, pleased that this anachronism still existed in our mobile-choked country even if it is mainly used these days as a display cabinet for prostitutes' leaflets. I felt good, strong. It was as if making the decision had cleaned away the cobwebs of fear that had blighted my life for so long. I was sick of being scared. Tired of jumping when I heard a siren, of waking up in a puddle of cold sweat in the middle of the night. Sick and tired of the mental exhaustion that inaction brings. Now I was going to stop being a coward. I was going to do something, and as I picked up the phone and dialled the number that Simon had jotted down, I ignored my trembling fingers and told myself again that this was the only way to solve my problems.

‘Elaine Meadows.’

‘Hello, Elaine, this is Alex Parkinson.’

‘Oh. Alex. I’ve been…’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry about what happened before. And I’m sorry I haven’t called you back. I’ve just returned from a trip abroad and my housemate just gave me your message.’

‘Okay. I want to…’

Again, I didn’t let her finish. ‘Have you given the police my name yet?’

‘I only made that threat about the police to scare you, to get you to contact me. All I want to do is talk to you. I just want to know the truth about what happened.’

‘Good.’ I paused. ‘I was with Kathy the night she died.’

She inhaled sharply.

‘I want to explain it to you. I want to show you. Can we meet tomorrow evening?’

She sounded like a strong woman: her voice didn’t shake or betray the way she was feeling. She simply said, ‘Okay. Where and what time?’

‘Where do you live?’

She coughed. ‘Well, actually, I live in Kathy’s flat.’

That shook me.

‘When I got back from my travels, I needed a place to stay and Kathy’s parents said I could stay here for a while if I wanted.’

‘Right. Well, okay, let’s meet at your place at seven.’

‘Can’t we meet earlier?’ she said.

‘No. I’ve got some other stuff to do.’ This was a lie, but I could hardly tell her I wanted to wait until it was dark before I met her. Before hanging up, I said, ‘Elaine, I don’t want anyone else there tomorrow. No friends. Certainly not the police, because my story is pretty unlikely. If there’s anyone else there I won’t tell you a thing. You’ll never get to hear the truth. Okay?’

She agreed straight away.

I put the receiver down and stood in the phone box for a while. She lived in her dead friend’s flat. How weird. How ghoulish. In one way, this character defect made what I was going to do seem easier. So why did I feel like I was going to puke? It was the weakness coming back, and I forced myself to push it away. I closed my eyes, clenched my fists, gritted my teeth. Be strong, Alex. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I was powerful, a master of my own fate, in control of my own destiny. Everything was going to turn around, because I wanted it to. Everything was going to be alright, because I wasn’t scared any more and I wasn’t going to take any more crap!

I left the phone box and stepped in a pile of dogshit.

The next morning, I typed up an account of what had happened in Amsterdam in my journal, Brick Shithouses and all. Then Emily turned up.

She was acting a little strangely, a false smile on her face. She asked for a cup of tea (weak, no sugar, like always) then said, ‘So what have you been up to this morning?’ She didn’t mention Amsterdam at all. I had expected her to start quizzing me about the dope and the thugs as soon as she got through the door. I was relieved – I really didn’t want any more grief from her – if a little puzzled.

‘I’ve been writing,’ I replied.

‘Oh. A short story? Pernilla will be happy.’

‘Er…yes.’

‘Can I read it?’

‘No. I scrapped it. It wasn’t very good.’

She nodded.

Taking a deep breath, I said, ‘I’m going out tonight. I got a call from an old friend. This guy that I used to know. I promised I’d meet him for a drink. Is that okay?’

‘Sure.’

‘Really? Are you certain?’

‘Of course. I’ll stay here, though, if that’s alright. I haven’t seen Nat for a while.’

‘Okay.’

We sat in silence, Emily with a smile curled at the corners of her mouth, me feeling totally baffled. She was up to something. But I didn’t have the time or energy to work out what it was. I was mostly just pleased that I was going to be able to get out of the flat and keep my date. I almost laughed. My date with destiny.

It was raining when I left the house. Simon and Natalie were out, but Emily had decided to stay at mine anyway. She was still acting mysteriously (very uncharacteristic of her) but I had more important things on my mind than her odd behaviour.

I didn’t take an umbrella; I enjoyed feeling the rain on my face and in my hair. Earlier that day I had washed my hair and been alarmed by the number of hairs that fell away from my head, clinging to my soapy fingers, reminding me that I wasn’t going to be young forever. I wondered if my dad was bald and, if so, at what age he started to lose his hair. Mum hardly ever spoke about him except to slag him off and tell me I took after him; she certainly never gave me any biological details. I wondered what he would say if I tracked him down, called him up and told him everything I’d been through recently.