His Other Life

‘Oh my effing God, no way!’ She flies at me and seizes me in a tight hug. ‘You think I’d be here right now, calmly eating caramelised onion sausages if I thought you were a violent, psychopathic killer capable of ending your own husband and coolly vanishing the body?’

‘No, no, I suppose not.’

‘Damn straight.’

I think for a few seconds. ‘So you don’t think I killed him.’

‘I do not.’

‘But you do think he’s dead?’

She looks at me sidelong and gives a wry smile. ‘Of course he’s not effing dead. Although he sodding well deserves to be, after this. Little shit.’

I close my eyes and release a breath. ‘It’s such a massive relief to hear you say that. I mean, I’ve been feeling so sure he’s alive, but if the police think he’s dead, and then if you did …’

‘Don’t worry. Matt’s told me it’s fairly standard for the police to think along those lines when someone is inexplicably no longer around. They have to think worst case scenario, don’t they?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Yeah. But that doesn’t mean that they necessarily really actually think it.’

A sudden loud bang on the front door makes us jump and we both turn to stare wide-eyed in the direction of the hallway. Goosebumps rise on my arms and shoulders.

‘Who. The fuck. Is that?’ I breathe, reaching out blindly to grab Ginger’s arm. I can almost believe it’s murdered Adam, head caved in and dripping with gore, returned from the grave to seek revenge on the one who ended him.

‘It’s Matt,’ she says, and gets up to let him in.

I eat the last piece of sausage then put my knife and fork down on the plate, and the plate on the floor. It’ll be nice to see Matt again. Haven’t seen him for years and I was always fond of the kid, in a big sister kind of way.

‘Here he is,’ Ginge is saying, coming back in. And filling the doorway behind her, even without his hat on, is a giant policeman. I stand up, because my neck is aching looking up at him. It doesn’t make much difference.

‘Is this … Matt?’ I ask the room, sounding painfully like an ancient auntie who hasn’t seen him since he was four. He’s recognisable, with the same black hair, brown eyes and large chin, but now there’s stubble where before there was only razor burn. His piercings are gone, as is the eyeliner, and his neck and shoulders look vast. It’s as if he’s been in a grow bag since I last saw him, and reconciling the two images is almost impossible.

‘That’s me,’ he says in a very deep, proper man’s voice. ‘Hi Grace. Long time no see. How are you these days?’ He closes his eyes briefly. ‘I – I mean, obviously I know that you’re not … That is, you know, of course, you must be absolutely …’ He stops. Takes a deep breath. Tries again. ‘I’m so sorry about … you know, what’s happened.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Sit down, Matt,’ Ginger says suddenly. ‘Grace and I’ll make a cuppa.’

She grabs my arm and practically drags me out of the room into the kitchen.

‘I can’t believe that’s the same gawky lad I used to know,’ I’m saying as she bustles around getting cups out and filling the kettle. ‘He’s a lot taller in black, isn’t he?’

‘Look, I want to say something,’ she says really quickly, rooting through the cupboard to find some tea bags. ‘It’s about Matt.’

‘Right?’

‘I don’t want him to …’ She breaks off, looks round, then steps lightly over to the kitchen door. She peers out into the hallway then silently closes it and turns round again to face me. ‘Matt’s already told me that the first thing the police will do is try to work out whether or not Adam is dead, and that they’ll be looking principally at you.’

‘Oh, yeah. I’d almost forgotten about being a murder suspect. Thanks for reminding me.’

‘The thing is, he probably shouldn’t even be here, let alone tell you anything.’

‘Oh. Really? Why not?’

She widens her eyes. ‘Coz you’re a suspect. Matt’s not directly involved in the investigation, it’s not his section. But even if he was, he couldn’t be because he knows you personally. And of course he’s my brother and I’m the best friend. It’s a link that could be used by a good solicitor to muddy the waters in the event of a prosecution.’

‘Oh right. I see what you mean.’ I pause. ‘No I don’t. Are you talking about if they prosecute me?’

‘Well, yes, but it won’t happen because …’

‘Of course it won’t happen because he’s not dead and even if he was – AND I HOPE HE FUCKING WELL IS – I didn’t kill him.’

‘I know …’

‘So this scenario you’re talking about, where my link with the police, through you and Matt, is used by a solicitor to … what was it again?’

‘Muddy the waters.’

‘Right. What you’re actually talking about is my solicitor. Getting me off.’

She shrugs. ‘Yeah. But we all know that’ll never happen because you didn’t do anything.’

I stare at her and the absolute horror of what she’s saying starts to sink in. The police could somehow, in some monstrous, inconceivable twist of misunderstanding, misdirection and mistake, decide that Adam is dead; and by disastrous coincidence after shocking inaccuracy, could find me responsible for it. And then, in an almost unimaginably horrific runaway trial involving spurious witnesses and mistaken identity, I could actually get sent down for it.

‘Grab the digestives,’ Ginger says, heading back towards the living room.

As we walk back in, Matt stands up and his bulk practically fills the room.

‘You don’t have to stand up whenever we come in, Matthew,’ Ginger says, handing him a mug.

‘No, hah, I know. Sorry.’ He sits.

‘So,’ she says. ‘Tell Gracie what’s going on.’ We both sit down facing Matt, as if he’s the entertainment.

He nods at Ginger, then looks over at me and lowers his chin. ‘There really isn’t much to tell you,’ he says, his voice reverberating around the room. It’s the deepest voice this room has ever experienced. Adam’s voice was much lighter. Not feminine, but much less … manly. He was more refined; but there was less of him.

Why am I thinking of him in the past tense?

‘Right,’ I say, to encourage Matt. So far, it seems like a waste of time him being here.

‘But I can find stuff out for you, pop in on my way home if there’s anything.’

‘Great. Thanks.’

‘Is that it?’ Ginger demands. ‘I thought you said you’d heard something interesting this evening.’

‘Oh yes, I did. Sorry, I was forgetting you hadn’t heard it yet.’ He turns to me again and assumes a funeral face. ‘They found the car, Gracie.’