‘Okay, brother,’ he said, smiling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Okay, I’ll get off – but you tell me. What’s the penance? There has to be one.’
He teetered for a second and then steadied himself with a hand. I was halfway to him by the time he was stable again. His hand flung out again by way of warning.
‘You don’t need redeeming,’ I said, stopping. ‘Not you, of all people. Come on. Back here.’
He laughed a little. ‘But the oblivion. There’s the oblivion I relegated you to. That’s a crime,’ he said, his voice becoming shrill.
‘I was being dramatic.’
‘No. Not dramatic. You were being truthful,’ he said seriously. ‘So, tell me, Xand, how do I recover from that?’
The wind up there felt strong. It came upon him suddenly, buffeting him and panicking me.
‘You can live,’ I said quickly.
‘And then what? I knew it all along. I saw it. I saw how he was with you and how he was with me. And I did nothing. I didn’t want to. I wanted it to be like that.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying,’ I said and the words or half of them were carried away by wind.
‘I do, Xander. What do you think all of this is? My life’s misery hasn’t just been about this,’ he said.
He was crying then and tears ran down his cheeks in fat streams, and suddenly I was thrown back to that same day in the park, Rory on his knees, Wotsits sodden on the grass. I stepped forward and he yelped, holding out his hand.
‘No!’ he said, eyes blazing.
In a single step, I could be up against him. It would take just one step. I fixed my eyes on his. He was crying so hard that all I wanted was to hold him. He was crying so hard he was in danger of falling.
I took the leap and threw my arms around him. He stiffened before collapsing into me. He sobbed and as he did he clutched at me. I pulled him back over the rail and he crumpled to the floor. We stayed like that for some minutes.
‘Come in, Rory,’ I said, once he had stopped crying.
He looked up at me, his face wet and red at the eyes and pulled himself to his feet and allowed me to usher him in.
When I left late the next morning, he saw me to the door and embraced me.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. But I didn’t read any sorrow – only desperation.
When he dropped to his death some days later, I buried this episode in my head. And now it comes back to me.
And yet.
And yet there is a version of this memory in which I threw my arms around him and held him as he teetered on the balcony. I smothered his sobs and then once they had subsided, I wiped his eyes. My hand was there on his head, stroking his hair. I whispered to him, my love. And my forgiveness.
And as his breathing settled into a steadier, slower rhythm, I leant into him.
And, gently, I pushed.
49
Tuesday
It takes an hour to reach Waterloo Bridge. It is the one that I use more than any other to cross the border. It has none of the beauty or the fancy ironwork of Chelsea or Albert. It has no lights, or towers. There is only one thing to mark it out from every other: the view.
I avoid it, now, that view. But halfway along I stop and gaze into the river instead. The river’s muddy faces swell and shift but they are still impassive, inscrutable. Tourists and workers in suits and coats pass behind me but don’t give me a second look. I don’t want to be seen. I could climb over this low barrier and slip into the water without so much as a turned glance. I would slide in like a knife and sink to the bottom with mouthfuls of river water in my stomach and lungs. The cold of it, the shock of it, will make me gasp. I will flail and when the water begins to claim me, I will rail and fight as my body’s instincts overpower my will. But then, after a brief rattle of life, I will go.
When Rory died, he succeeded but I did not. I see that now – at last. The haunting of those years finally over. I see it. I know what it means to yearn for release in this way. To be free of the oppression of memory and action. I know what made him want to go and why he climbed on to the ledge. When you are there facing the eternal nothingness, it is overwhelming. It is all that it can do. It must overwhelm because that is its nature. So, he was overcome, as he was bound to be.
Now I am, as he was then, straddling the barrier. I swing a leg over until I am sitting on the wide wall that separates earth from air and water. The surface is slippery and sitting on it makes me feel giddy, as if on a downward swing. I swivel to face the water and feel the pull of the waves. When people visit high buildings and climb to the top, the thing they fear most isn’t falling, but jumping. They are afraid that some urge will take them and they will jump. And now here I am fearing the opposite – that I don’t have the courage to jump.
The river tugs at me. I inch forward, sliding on the smooth paint. There is tingling in my feet. I slide a little further until my legs dangle freely. The nerves in my toes sizzle with the sensation of falling, but my hands are still here, gathering sweat on the flat of the wall. I am aware of some people stopping, looking. A phone or two has come out to raise the alarm.
It is time.
I can see Grace now. Her face is there in the water. Now her arms. She is beckoning me.
‘Xander!’
From behind me.
I turn my head and I am shocked to see that it is Seb. His car is parked opposite, the hazard lights blinking, and he is running towards me. I could go now, before he reaches me, but then there will be alarms and panic and commotion, and rescues. And I don’t know if I can try again after that.
I spin back around and slide reluctantly on to my feet. ‘Why are you here?’ I say.
He comes puffing up, crossing the road quickly in between beeping cars. ‘What are you doing?’ he says, panting.
‘You knew,’ I say. ‘You knew I was doing this. I told you.’
He nods frantically. ‘Yes,’ he says between breaths, ‘but that was before.’
‘Before what?’
‘Xander. When you went haring out of the house after that call, I did last number ID and called the number. Jan.’
‘So?’ I say. She can’t have told him anything – she would be bound by confidentiality.
‘So, speak to her,’ he says, handing me his phone. I stare at it momentarily before taking it.
‘Jan?’
‘What’s that noise – I can hardly hear you. Is that you, Xander?’
The traffic crowds into the phone and I cup my hand around it to fend it off. ‘Sorry. Can you hear me now?’
‘Xander? Good. You hung up before I could tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’ I say. Already my heart is beating hard.
‘Whose print it was. Our print was for a guy called Yull. Harry Yull.’
‘Harry Yull?’ I say weakly. And then the name begins to chime bells. As I say it out loud it strikes me.
‘He went by a version of the name. Ariel,’ she says. ‘Anyway, the police, your friend Blake especially, have been busy following up this guy. Turns out he was in the area on the date of the murder. He was working just around the corner from her address. So, the Crown are reviewing the case.’
For a few moments, I stand there in silence. I am sure I cannot have heard this properly and yet, there she is on the other end of the phone, almost laughing from the news.
‘But,’ I say, ‘I was there.’ Seb looks at me expectantly, the wind blowing tears into his eyes.
‘Well, they’re not saying it wasn’t you. It’s more that they’re saying they can’t be sure it was you. They can’t disprove your defence. You said it was another guy, and, well, it turns out another guy’s print was on the record fragment. In blood.’