The Other Side of the Door by Nicci French (13 ebook reader .TXT) 📗

on his face, varying it gradually, making it sound even better. Suddenly he seemed to remember where he was and stopped. He handed the bass back to Neal. ‘Something like that,’ he said.

Neal’s eyes were shining with anger. ‘Why don’t you just play it yourself?’ he said.

‘I would, but what would you play?’ said Hayden. Unforgivably.

There was an expression almost of disbelief on Neal’s face. Of very angry disbelief.

‘That came out sounding worse than it was meant to,’ said Hayden. ‘I could look the bass part over for you, if you like. Make it a bit simpler.’

I wondered if Neal might hit him. Or just spontaneously combust, like people did in Victorian novels.

‘Sure,’ he said, in a strangled tone. ‘That would be good.’

After

That night I slept heavily and woke late, troubled by the last remnants of a dream I couldn’t recall. I lay for a long while under my covers, staring up at the blotchy ceiling and reminding myself of where I was. It was a hot, still day, the sky a flat, electric blue, the sun like a blowtorch. The leaves on the trees outside my flat were a dark, dirty green and the grass in the small square up the road was bleached yellow. It was hard to be anything but listless in such heat. Late August, the dying days of summer.

When I got up to look outside, I could see the neighbour-but-one’s dog lying stretched out in the patch of garden, and in the house opposite a tiny naked child stood pressed against the upstairs window, as if the glass was cooling her hot pink body. I told myself I should be painting the bathroom, or pulling more of the wallpaper off my bedroom walls, which already looked flayed. But it was too hot. I shouldn’t be here, in this poky flat, with my heart jumping in my chest at every sound, my stomach lurching. I should have gone away this summer, gone to a Greek island. For a moment I imagined myself sitting on a boat, a sea breeze on my face, dangling my feet in the clear turquoise water, with some impossibly beautiful whitewashed village behind me. Drinking ouzo, dancing, swimming, walking on white sand, being free—not here, not trapped by what I’d done and trying to inch myself along with my lies and half-truths and fears.

When a police officer rang and said they wanted to come and see me, I almost broke down on the phone and confessed. It would have been a relief. Instead I arranged to see them in my flat at two o’clock that afternoon. They wouldn’t take up much time, said the officer.

I immediately rang Sonia. I hadn’t talked properly to her since that terrible evening. We had exchanged glances, laid comforting hands on each other’s shoulders, given each other reassuring or warning smiles, but said not a word about what we had done. It lay between us like a deep crevice. I said we needed to meet.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘I’m on my way to see Amos.’

I told her about Sally and the police.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I got a call from them, and so did Amos. Sally gave them various names. But it’ll just be a formality.’

‘We have to make sure we get our stories straight.’

‘Bonnie.’ Her voice became stern. ‘We don’t have a story. Just keep it simple and keep it short.’

‘You don’t think we should meet?’

‘There’s no need.’

I PACED AROUND the flat. I pulled a few more shreds off the wall. I took a door off a cupboard that was fixed to the wall but which I intended to remove once I’d bought proper tools—no more cupboards, I decided, just open shelves and hanging rails. I drank tepid coffee, found cheap rails on the Internet and ordered three, which was far too many. There was nowhere I could put them. I rifled through the clothes in my wardrobe, wondering what to wear for my police interview. Nothing seemed suitable. What would be suitable, anyway? I practised answers in my mind. ‘No, I didn’t really know much about him . . .’ ‘Yes, I found him a place to live, as a favour to my friend . . .’ ‘No, he never said anything about going . . .’ ‘When did I last see him? Let me think. It must have been the last rehearsal. Do you need the date?’ ‘I think he just moved on. He was like that . . .’ I had to seem helpful, rueful, not really worried.

The phone rang, breaking into my reflections and startling me. It was Neal.

‘Hi,’ I said, my skin prickling with dread. ‘Everything OK?’

There was silence at the other end. Then he said: ‘Do you want to talk?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’

‘I just thought you might.’

‘I don’t think that would help. But if you need to say something, then say it. Though when things have been said, they can’t be unsaid.’

‘You have a fucking nerve, Bonnie Graham.’

‘Is this about the police wanting to interview us?’

‘Of course it’s about the police. What do you think?’

I thought of Sonia’s advice. ‘Just keep it simple. It’ll be fine.’

‘Oh, will it? Is there anything you want me to tell them—or not tell them?’

I sighed. ‘No, Neal,’ I said slowly. ‘There’s nothing I want you to say.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘If you need me—’

‘Thank you. But I’m fine.’

After he had gone, my legs felt weak beneath me and my hands were shaking so much that at first I couldn’t even turn on the tap. I splashed water over my face and neck and drank two glasses. Then I sat at the kitchen table, put my head in my hands and waited.

BECKY HORTON CAME, with a male police officer. From the first moment he was clearly bored, just wanting to get it over. It made me feel better. They refused coffee.

‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ said Becky, comfortably.

‘I’m sure there’s no need to be concerned,’ I said. ‘He’ll turn up in Newcastle or Cardiff or somewhere, playing in some weird dive.’ I had to shut