He glanced at Mandy, then away. He had exactly the same distant expression he’d get as a kid when Dad would try to pin him down over something. ‘I – I can’t remember,’ he muttered. ‘You know, it’s a bit of a haze.’
‘A bit of a haze? A bit of a haze? Wake up, Thom. This is serious.’
Mandy put her hands into the air. ‘Let’s calm down. Phoebe. We’re only trying to get to the truth of what happened.’
‘The truth? I’ve told you the truth.’
‘Yes, but do you see our point? That’s what you said to me on the night of the accident. You said you were telling the truth then. But you weren’t. You were lying then, so how do I know you’re not lying now?’
‘I’m not fucking lying, Mandy.’
‘No need to shout.’
‘But I’m not lying. Why the hell would I be lying?’
Mandy’s face became calm. ‘To save yourself? Maybe?’
Flea put her hand up to shade her eyes from the lights in the pub and studied Mandy’s face. ‘Are you being funny?’
‘It was you driving the car, wasn’t it?’
‘What?’
‘I said, it was you driving the car. You swore to the cop it was you driving.’
‘Swore because I was protecting Thom. He was off his tits.’
‘Says who?’
Flea let all the air out of her lungs. ‘This is fucking insane. Insane. I can’t believe this is coming out of your mouth.’
‘You were so high-strung that night – you know how you get. You were upset with work – upset about your parents.’ Mandy’s tone was pained, uncomprehending, as if it was not the sort of thing she’d understand but she was willing to be flexible about what others did. ‘You drove when you were upset and got followed home by the policeman. He breathalysed you. There’ll be a record of it somewhere.’
‘Tell me you’re not serious. Tell me you’re not trying to turn this on to me.’
Mandy didn’t answer.
Flea gave a low, disbelieving whistle. ‘You fucking bitch.’
‘Be careful what you say.’
‘Right.’ She put her glass down on the platform. ‘We’re going to the police.’
Mandy didn’t move. ‘I don’t think so. It’s your word against Thom’s. Mine. And the cop’s.’
‘That’s not going to work, Mandy. You take the gloves off, mate, and you lose. I’ve got proof I wasn’t driving the car.’
‘Really?’
‘A photo. Showing Thom hit Misty.’
Mandy sighed. ‘What is it about you, Phoebe, that always makes whatever you say sound so unfeasible? Where is this photo? Shall we have a look at it?’
‘It exists.’
‘Then show us.’
‘It exists, Mandy. You’d better believe it.’
Mandy smiled and put a reassuring hand on her arm. ‘I’m sure it does. Somewhere – maybe in your imagination. But there’s no need for you to invent things because we’re not going to tell anyone anyway. No, you’ve got nothing to worry about from us. We’ll protect you. We’re not going to say a thing.’
Flea snatched her arm away. ‘Don’t fucking touch me.’
She went to the car. Sat inside, windows closed. Turned up the Snow Patrol album as loud as it would go and tapped out the music hard on the dashboard. From the pub balcony one or two people were staring at the little Clio. On the fishing platform Mandy and Thom stood facing her, shoulder to shoulder. Their faces were in shadow but she could tell they weren’t speaking. They were doing nothing. Just watching her.
She thought of Ruth Lindermilk. Remembered the key going down her T-shirt. She imagined how she’d react if she ever found out the real reason the photo was important. Not a woman who’d be scared by the police into giving up a bit of evidence. Especially not to help Flea. She’d sooner destroy it.
Thom and Mandy. Still over there. Watching her like dummies from the jetty. She tapped harder.
PC Prody’s testimony would be that he’d chased her. Not Thom. It’d be that she’d sworn over and again she’d been driving the Focus. Pearce: well, Pearce she didn’t want to think about. He’d tell everyone that Sergeant Marley had been bouncing around some very confident theories about where Misty would and wouldn’t be found. Not in the lake, she’d said. We definitely won’t find her in the lake. Like she knew. Big fat mouth. She’d only said it because she didn’t think someone as groomed as Misty would commit suicide by drowning. It had been a stupid thought – off the top of her head.
She looked at the jetty.
Thom: It’s a bit of a haze.
Mandy: We’ll protect you.
She turned the music off. Got out and came back to the jetty.
‘Flea.’ Mandy’s hand went out warningly. ‘Let’s have a talk about this and-’
Too late. Flea was on Thom. Had him by the shoulders. Slammed him against the post. ‘Tell the truth!’ she yelled.
‘Let go of me.’
She dragged him forward. Slammed him back again. His arms flew out. The pint glass toppled, shattered. ‘Say it now.’
Winded, he slithered down the post to a sitting position. On the balcony people turned in amazement. She got him under the arms and pulled him forward, throwing him down on his face, put her feet astride his back and dropped her weight on his buttocks. Got his hair in her hands. ‘Take some responsibility.’
‘Stop it.’ Mandy scrabbled at her hands. ‘Stop it now.’
Flea wasn’t listening. She was seeing Dad, a million years ago, slapping Thom. The flatness in Thom’s face. The way he didn’t react. ‘Tell the truth!’ she screamed.
He groped blindly behind him. ‘Leave me alone.’ He got his fingernails into her hands and tried to pull them out of his hair.
She clenched her teeth. Leant back and hauled his head up. ‘Tell the fucking truth-’
He threw himself sideways, his bony hips twisting, until he was on his back, facing her. She tried to slam his head down but he stopped her, grabbing her wrists. While she struggled, he lifted his knee swiftly, twice, three times, catching her in the groin. And now Mandy was squatting next to her. Not screaming. Silent. Face screwed up in concentration, her meaty arms grappling around Flea.
‘Get off me, you bitch.’ Flea rammed her elbow out sideways. Missed. A muscle jarred in her shoulder. ‘Get off.’
She flung her weight sideways, hair flying. Back again, trying to break Mandy’s grip. But she was twice Flea’s weight and strong, and she kept her face against Flea’s shoulder, held the armlock grimly, going with the movement. They rolled on to the jetty. She felt a fragment of glass slice into her cheek, felt Thom wriggle out from under them, heard him stand as she struggled with Mandy.
‘Let go of me, Mandy,’ she spat. ‘Because I will kill you.’
‘Get her hands!’ Thom yelled suddenly. ‘Get her.’
Flea kicked blindly as his hands scrabbled for hers. She felt spiteful fingernails in her wrists. Felt herself being lifted. He was strong too. Stronger than she’d ever guessed. Blood was running down her chin. Vague ghosts of people were coming from the bar, shouting.
‘I’ll kill you.’
A kick. Or a punch. In her stomach. Up high, under the diaphragm. She didn’t see who it came from, but it pushed all the air out of her – finished her in one. Mandy released her and she fell forward and lay there, not moving. The cop trained to stand up in a riot was on the jetty with blood coming out of her face, thinking the only important thing was to get another breath into her body.
‘Phoebe.’ Mandy’s voice was just a whisper close to her face. Flea could smell the tang of her sweat. The sweetness of laundry detergent. ‘Phoebe, Thom and I love you very much. Very much indeed. That is why we are going to help you. We’re going to help you sort out your problems, your issues, and together – together – we’ll find a way of not taking you to the police.’