The Other Side of the Door, Nicci French [new reading .TXT] 📗

I saw Joakim’s expression of hurt and betrayal. ‘It might,’ I said.

‘There’s one way to find out,’ said Guy.

‘What?’

He didn’t answer, but began rummaging in the drawers of the little table.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Searching,’ he said mysteriously.

‘What for?’

‘Well, where’s his passport, for instance?’

‘Why do you want his passport?’

‘I don’t. But I want to see if it’s here, because if it isn’t it means he’s taken it with him, and if he’s taken it with him, he’s gone off somewhere. End of story. Where else would he have kept it?’

I followed Guy as he pulled open drawers, lifted up papers, even pushed his hand into Hayden’s jackets and trousers.

‘No passport,’ he said triumphantly, to Joakim. ‘No passport, no wallet, no phone. Face it, he’s done a runner.’

‘He wouldn’t do that.’

‘And,’ continued Guy, as he went into the bathroom, ‘no toothbrush, no razor. He’s gone, son.’ His face softened at Joakim’s stricken expression. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘You’re not sorry. You’re glad. You thought he was a bad influence on me.’

‘We had our differences. But I’m sorry it ended like this,’ said Guy. ‘I know what you felt about him.’ He put a hand on Joakim’s shoulder, but Joakim wrenched himself free and half ran back into the living room.

‘We ought to go,’ I said, following him. ‘He’s not coming back here.’

‘He left his guitar,’ said Joakim, pointing at the case propped against the sofa.

‘Is that his?’ I asked stupidly.

‘He would never have left that. He loved it.’

Joakim knelt down, opened the case and drew it out. He stared at its splintered body and broken strings, touching them gently with his fingers as if they were flesh and he could heal them. ‘It’s wrecked,’ he said at last. ‘Who did that?’

‘He did, of course,’ Guy said. ‘Who else?’

‘No. You don’t understand. That would be like punching someone he loved.’

‘Yes? People do that all the time.’

‘We have to go,’ I repeated. My skin was prickling with dread. I felt I couldn’t stay another minute in this place, that if we didn’t leave very soon, I was going to say or do something terrible.

I pulled the door shut behind us and went up the next flight of stairs to hand back the key.

‘Any luck?’ the young man asked.

‘He seems to have moved on.’

‘It’s probably not relevant, but I did hear strange noises coming from the flat.’

‘Oh?’

‘I don’t know when, though. I just thought it was him and his girlfriend.’

‘It probably was.’

Before

There was daytime, when I scraped off wallpaper, met friends, sat in the park plugged into my music, or shopped. There was nighttime, when I lay in the darkness with Hayden, the headlights from cars striping the ceiling of the bedroom where we clung to each other, inflicting pleasure. These were different worlds and it seemed as if there was no connection between them. Feeling glazed and unreal, I would look at myself in the mirror and scarcely recognize myself. Sometimes I was scared, but not scared enough to stop.

‘I nearly went out with Neal.’

I was sitting in Sonia’s car, and she was driving me to her sister’s house in a village in Hertfordshire, where we were going to have lunch and then pick strawberries at a pick-your-own farm nearby. It was Sonia’s idea—it wasn’t the kind of thing I would ever have thought of doing. She said she was going to make jam for all her friends this year.

‘I know,’ she said.

‘You know?’

‘I guessed.’

‘Was it so obvious?’

‘Yes. To me, anyway. The way he stares at you, follows you with his eyes. So why didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t feel right about it,’ I said. I wanted to talk to Sonia but not mention Hayden; wanted to tell her without telling her; wanted her advice without her knowing what she was advising me about.

‘He’s nice.’

‘Too nice, maybe. Too eager. He’s the kind of guy you always call when you want something fixed.’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘You mean there’s something in you that’s drawn to men who aren’t nice, sensitive, respectful, gentle like Neal?’

‘It’s not how I want to be.’ It was easier to have this kind of conversation in the car, with both of us gazing ahead at the road. ‘Why is it so hard to talk about?’

‘Is it just Neal that’s prompted this?’

‘Kind of.’ I watched the hedges, fields, cows standing peacefully together at the fence. ‘My father used to hit my mother. Did I ever tell you that?’ I knew I hadn’t—I never told anyone. Just saying the words out loud made me feel slightly dizzy.

Sonia gave me a quick glance. I felt my fading bruise ache and a flush spread over me. ‘No, you didn’t,’ she replied softly. ‘But I’m glad you have now.’

‘I tell you things I thought I’d never be able to tell anyone.’

‘Thank you.’ Her voice was grave, comforting.

‘You won’t tell anyone?’

‘You don’t even need to ask that.’

‘Not even Amos?’

‘Not even Amos. It’s your secret, not mine.’

‘Yes.’

‘So you’re scared of repeating the pattern.’

‘I guess. Yes.’

‘And do you?’

‘Maybe.’ I thought of his fist on my face. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘Yet I don’t think you’re the submissive type,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’d say that you’re the one who is usually in control.’

It was my turn to look at her. ‘Have you been talking to Amos about me?’

‘No.’

‘Sonia?’

‘He’s mentioned you. Obviously. You were with each other for a long time. You’re his history—he can’t not talk about it to me. I’m sure you can understand that. Though of course it’s strange.’

‘You and Amos . . .’ I paused, waiting for her to fill in the gap, and when she didn’t, I finished: ‘Are you properly together now?’

‘Do you mind?’

‘Why should I?’

‘We don’t need to play games. Amos and I . . .’

‘If you and Amos are together, I’m very pleased for you.’ Was I? It wasn’t that I wanted Amos myself, but there was something strange about one of my closest friends being with my long-term partner. Something almost incestuous.

‘And you really mean that?’

‘Really,’ I said, meeting her sceptical gaze. ‘I’m glad.