A Secret Worth Killing For. Simon Berthon

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СКАЧАТЬ it just comes out.

      ‘Hey,’ he says, putting his arm round her. She doesn’t pursue it and they head to the sandwich bar. It’s turned cold, grey winter and they eat inside.

      ‘I’m really glad you told me about the kids,’ he says. ‘I know not to ask too much of you.’ She wonders if this is some kind of explanation for the day before.

      ‘I’d like to spend more time—’ she begins.

      ‘Me too,’ he interrupts. They munch silently for a few seconds.

      He looks up, a glint in the eye. ‘We could sometimes work from my flat in the afternoon.’

      ‘Work?’

      ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘why not?’ She knows he’s deceiving himself as much as she is.

      ‘OK, maybe day after tomorrow?’ she suggests. He’s skipped a day, so she can too.

      ‘Done.’ He stretches out his hand – she shakes both it and her head.

      He doesn’t arrive at the library till mid-morning, takes down a bound volume, buries himself in it for an hour and a half, closes it, and walks behind her, brushing her neck with the back of a hand, to replace it. She follows him out.

      ‘I bought a car,’ he announces.

      ‘A car!’

      He grins inanely. ‘Let’s pick up a sandwich and go.’

      ‘OK.’

      He says he’s parked the other side of St Stephen’s Green so, lunch in bags, they cut through the bared winter trees, his arm around her shoulder reinforcing the warmth of her coat.

      Suddenly she feels him flinch. He jerks to a stop, whisks her under some branches, pulls his hood over his head and buries himself in a hug with her. She’s too surprised to resist, then tries to pull away.

      ‘What the—’ she begins, but he puts his forefinger over her mouth to silence her. He has a quick glance behind, repeats the signal with a finger over his own lips and hides himself within her again. A minute passes, he breaks away and they resume the walk.

      ‘What the fuck was that all about?’

      ‘I thought I saw a ghost,’ he says. ‘Well sort of.’ She can see he’s thinking it out. ‘Actually, it looked like a girl I once knew. Had no idea she could be here. It would have been awkward.’

      ‘Awkward?’

      ‘Yeah, it sort of ended messily.’ His eyes drop to the ground. ‘Probably my fault.’ He says it to mean anything but. ‘It was a while ago. Hey, I’m sorry.’

      ‘What’s her name?’ she asks.

      A beat. ‘Her name?’

      ‘Yeah, her name.’

      ‘If you really want to know, she’s called Susan. It just could have been really difficult,’ he repeats. ‘She was upset.’ Another beat. ‘So was I.’

      ‘Exactly how long ago?’ she asks.

      ‘Couple of years,’ he replies briskly. He’s more confident now.

      ‘Oh, well, guess it happens,’ she says. ‘Weird, though, she turns up here.’

      ‘Yeah, I know. I mean I didn’t know. It’s nothing, just coincidence.’

      She doesn’t push but it’s a knife to her heart. She berates herself for letting it get to her – of course he’s had other girls. How could a boy like him not have?

      They reach a bright-red hatchback car.

      ‘What do you think?’ he asks.

      ‘It’s flashy,’ she says without enthusiasm. She tries not to go on thinking about what happened.

      ‘It’s an RS turbo, not just some crap Fiesta,’ he explains. ‘After last weekend, I thought we could hit the road some more.’

      ‘That’d be good,’ she says, ‘if I can ever get away again.’

      She detects his deflation. He wants the car to be for the two of them but the incident in the park has soured the surprise.

      They draw up in a broad avenue of well-kept Victorian villas. He opens the door of his first-floor flat and ushers her in ahead of him and through to the sitting room.

      ‘Wow, it’s big,’ she says.

      ‘I’m lucky,’ he replied. ‘I inherited a bit of money. Though I guess that wasn’t lucky really.’ A cloud passes over his face. She suddenly feels for him, gives him a hug and a kiss, and pulls back to look around.

      One wall is a tableau of portrait posters. Martin Luther King, Lawrence of Arabia, Muhammad Ali, Karl Marx, Bobby Sands set alongside Jesus Christ, Ayrton Senna holding the 1991 World Championship trophy.

      ‘Friends of yours?’ she asks him.

      ‘Ha-ha, funny girl,’ he replies, restoring the big grin and giving her a deep kiss.

      ‘All right,’ she says when they ease apart, ‘why them?’

      ‘All men who changed the world.’ His eyes range over them before settling on Senna. ‘And he’s just brilliant. He’ll be number one again next year for sure.’

      ‘Can’t say it’s my scene.’

      ‘You’ll love it when I get you close up to the noise.’

      She ranges towards a small round table with a handful of framed photographs. He hovers over her as she picks them up one by one. Colour snapshots of a good-looking young couple by the sea and among hippy-dressed crowds at a festival.

      ‘Mum and Dad,’ he says, ‘Isle of Wight 1969. When Dylan came over.’

      ‘They look too straight for that.’

      ‘Some people went for the music. The Who, Moody Blues, quite a line-up.’

      She replaces it and picks up David himself on graduation day wearing black gown and cap.

      ‘You haven’t changed much,’ she says.

      ‘Christ, it wasn’t that long ago,’ he protests.

      ‘What about your year?’ she asks.

      ‘By the time they got round to the group photos I was going stir crazy,’ he answers. ‘Mainly a bunch of twats, anyway.’

      She works something out. ‘Is that why you’re living out here, then? Among the posh?’

      ‘If you mean did I have enough of squawking undergraduates, the answer’s yes. I don’t like the crowd. Never did, really. I suppose I’m a bit of a loner.’ He checks her expression. СКАЧАТЬ