Dan and Adam have always been close. In fact, they’ve been closer than Adam could ever guess. And if Dan’s going to get that close again, it will take time. It will take research. It may even take practice. Fortunately, Dan is a very patient person – and Adam trusts him. With his house key. With his secrets. With his wife…

But as Dan gets closer, someone is watching. Someone who will stop at nothing to uncover the truth… and seek revenge.

It’s only a matter of time before danger steps out of the shadows. Dan has his sight fixed on the future; perhaps he should have kept one eye on what lay behind.

This chilling psychological thriller from the author of Yours is Mine explores love, obsession, and betrayal, and asks: can we ever really know another person?

Praise for Yours is Mine

‘Plenty of twists and surprises … This is excellent escapism.’*

5 stars from London_reader

‘… impossible to put down as its plot accelerates towards the climax with an amazing final twist … An unusual and striking debut novel that will leave you thinking.’*

5 stars from Leonora

‘a unique story that had me hooked from the start. There were moments that goose bumps spread across my arms at the chilling reality of [the] situation. And I have to say the last chapter left me a little breathless.’*

4 stars from Katlyn

‘a captivating debut novel from Amy Bird. The author skilfully contrives a clever plot and sensitively develops believable characters, with which the reader will readily identify and come to love or despise. Amy Bird weaves together a world where nothing can be taken for granted, and the past comes back to haunt those who deserve it or not.’*

5 stars from AdamJordan

* Reviews taken from Amazon.co.uk

Also by Amy Bird:

Yours is Mine

Three Steps Behind You

Amy Bird

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Amy Bird 2014

Amy Bird asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472054784

Version date: 2018-06-27

Three Steps Behind You is Amy’s second novel for HQ Digital. She has a Creative Writing MA from Birkbeck College, University of London, and is also an alumni of the Faber Academy ‘Writing a Novel’ programme, where she studied under Richard Skinner. Amy has written a number of plays, which have shown to large audiences and received critical acclaim. Her play The Jobseeker was runner-up for the Shaw Society’s 2013 T.F. Evans Award. Having moved all around the UK as a child, she now lives in North London with her husband, dividing her time between working part-time as a lawyer and writing. For updates on her writing follow her on Twitter, @London_Writer or visit her site www.amybirdwrites.com

I would like to thank all the people who have helped bring Three Steps Behind You to readers. The HQ Digital team has been a delight to work with, in particular my wonderful editor, Clio Cornish. I am ever grateful for her insight, judgement and encouragement. My fellow HQ Digital authors have also spurred me on, both online and in person. To my legal colleagues, who have embraced the author side of my existence, I am also grateful. Thanks are due, too, to the friends, family and enthusiastic readers who championed my first novel, Yours is Mine, while I was working on Three Steps Behind You – your feedback kept me going. And of course, special thanks and love must go to my husband Michael, for his unerring support, excellent advice and endless optimism.

For all of us

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Praise

Book List

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgement

Dedication

Prologue

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

BOOK TWO

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

BOOK THREE

BOOK FOUR

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Excerpt

Endpages

About the Publisher

Prologue

Have you ever been really close to someone? So close not only that the hairs on the back of their neck stand on end, but you can count each raised follicle, and when you blow, you can see the goose bumps appear on the skin. Each little golden hair quavering, erect, as you observe.

Imagine the physical proximity that you would need to control those little hairs, the ease with which you could –with just one move – be touching the back of their neck. With your lips, with your hand, with both hands, encircling if you wish.

Ever been that close?

I have, once. And I will be again. For Luke.

BOOK 1

Chapter 1

Let me tell you a little about my method. If I were a good author, a published author, maybe I would show you. ‘Show, don’t tell’, they lecture you at those creative writing classes, the interminable hours spent taking dictation of how to craft your own unique ideas. But I’m not a good writer, not yet, you see. Nor am I published. That’s what this new method is all about. How I’m going to differentiate my fourth book, get it to the readers who matter. Make it the best.

It first occurred to me when my character, Luke, needed to cook a lobster. I could make Luke visualise the exoskeleton, in its abstract pre-cooked greyness. Then I could write him seeing it pink and lifeless on my kitchen slab. The in-between time, I just couldn’t capture so well. I realised it then: in order for me to write convincingly, I would have to do all the things that my character does.

I remember, once, Nicole reminiscing about being taught method acting in her student drama days, pre-Adam. A director had told her that if she wanted to act eating an apple, she would first have to practise eating one, savour each tooth indentation, each salivation, finishing it to the core. Only then would the audience believe she knew what it was to truly eat an apple. A tempting proposition. And Nicole’s only useful titbit.

So today, I am embarking on a whole new writerly me. The lobster in its box writhes next to me on the bus seat. I think it appreciates its role in this journey. The other passengers on the bus have been less appreciative, but they will see the true value when my name is a foot high on the Tube billboards. They can say: ‘I once sat on a bus along the North Circular with Dan Millard.’ Adam can introduce me to his friends as his mate Dan, the published author. Except by then I might have changed my name to something catchier. Perhaps Jeremy Bond. That worked for me before. And for Adam.

Back at home I put the lobster on the kitchen surface and take a closer look at it. To me, Dan, the prospect of what’s to come is revolting. I Googled it earlier. I know that if I freeze the lobster first, it will be numb, and feel less pain, but then I’d have to take the knife and slice down through the flesh beneath its grey shell, stopping just before its wide grey tail, containing the roe. I don’t think I have the strength for that. Besides, I will be writing this as Luke, who does not have my empathetic nature. Luke will want the lobster to feel pain. Luke will just seize the lobster, its claws still bound, and throw it into the boiling water. When the lobster tries to escape, jumping out of the too-shallow pan, to slither away, Luke will grasp it firmly and throw it back in again. The flames will rise under the pan until the lobster is red hot. Then, taking it out of the pan, he will twist its claws till they crack, rip off the red-pink shell, stare it in the eyes then take a snarling bite of the flesh beneath and—

Something catches in my gullet. I cough, choking. Spluttering out of my Luke reverie, I see right up in front of my face a pink, cooked, lobster, so close that I can distinguish the little hairs on its antennae. On the hob is a still-simmering pan of water. I stare, amazed. I have entered into the character of Luke so much that I have slaughtered and cooked a lobster all as him.

I smile. All I need to do is write this down. The method is working. The lobster is just the start, of course. But one must begin somewhere.

Chapter 2

Over dinner, I tell Adam about the lobster. Nicole listens too, or at least pretends to, nuzzling Adam’s ear while I’m talking. But I’m not addressing her.

‘It was amazing!’ I say. ‘I’d killed it even before I’d thought about it. This is a real breakthrough. Look, read the piece I wrote on the bus on the way over!’

‘You still don’t drive, then, Dan?’ asks Nicole, as I hand Adam the manuscript.

I shake my head. Now is not the time for Nicole’s irrelevant questions. It is the time to impress Adam with my work.

‘You always said I was the best at writing, Adam. And now I really will be, with the method!’

‘Well, if I said that, I must have meant it, hey?’ he asks, winking at me.

I nod but he doesn’t look at me. It’s okay if he doesn’t remember. I’ll prove myself again, now, get his adulation afresh, when this new work is published. I watch him while he reads. He has a bit of stubble today, blond hairs not quite breaking through, dots instead lining those sharp cheekbones.

‘Haven’t thought of learning?’ Nicole probes. ‘With all those cars at the garage?’

‘I can’t afford to. Besides, it’s so dangerous,’ I reply.

Adam flinches and I notice his eyes move across to the dresser. I see Nicole notice too and her lips tighten. She must hate that photo of Helen, the constant reminder that she is number two. All over the house, there are stills of Nicole from RADA, playing Desdemona, St Joan, Ophelia, all those other classic roles. None after college. I suppose they make her feel young. Or else she really thinks she still looks like that. On the mantelpiece though, it is just Helen. I see it whenever I come round for dinner.

Nicole sees me looking at the photo of Helen.

‘They’ll catch the driver one day,’ she says, kissing the top of Adam’s head. ‘Give you closure.’ She drapes a protective arm around Adam, forming a barrier between him and me.

‘They’ve tried, they failed,’ he says. He kisses her arm but his tone is clipped.

‘I’ve chosen the third-person voice for Luke,’ I say, helping Adam by changing the subject. ‘That way I have more control over him.’ Adam nods, as if he understands.

‘Which novel is this now? Fourth?’ he asks me.

‘Third,’ I lie. There is no need to bother him with the real book three. He is a banker, so his grasp of more, let’s say, boundary breaking art is poor. There are more drinks than books lining the walls of his West Hampstead home, even though he must have emptied most of the whisky in the week after The Accident, before Nicole came along.

Still, even with his banker’s brain, Adam can’t help but notice the dazzle of the lobster paragraph in what he thinks is book three. I’m so pleased with it, I can remember it word for word.

Luke ran his fingers along the hairs on the antennae of the lobster, which blushed as though it had just been caught getting out of a hot bath. Luke examined the little hairs on the antennae. If only he could get that close to a woman, he thought. Then he tore into its flesh.

The bit following on from that passage will be difficult, of course – Luke getting close, to a woman. I’ve never been big on that. Still, I’ll need to man up, apply the method. That’s what he’s cooking the lobster for, you see. To woo her. When she comes to his house.

Nicole is drumming her fingers against the dining-room table. That must be terribly distracting for Adam, when he’s reading my work.

Adam looks up. Good, I think. He will tell her off. Instead, he puts his hand over hers, encircling it, like the twine round the lobster’s pincers earlier. She stops drumming.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘But I put a lot of effort into the risotto. And then Dan turns up already having eaten a lobster, and now you’re too busy reading to eat.’

I catch Adam’s eyes and roll my own, creating a joke out of Nicole’s nagging. Helen used to nag, too. Adam looks away, though, obviously too embarrassed by his second wife to see the humour. Nicole catches the look, glares at Adam, and starts shoving forkfuls of risotto into her mouth. She is looking plump. That explains it.

‘So, what do you make of it, Adam?’ I ask.

I wait for his praise.

‘Same old handwriting from school, isn’t it? Can just about decipher it!’ says Adam, putting the notebook to one side. ‘Still, better than mine!’

Typical of Adam to make these little jokes – it’s part of his charm. He must know how to decipher my handwriting by now, after book two. I know he’s read it, even if he never talks about it. I smile, and move my chair slightly closer to his, so I can point out particular bits in the notebook. I will trace his fingers going over the handwriting, explain to him what it all means.

‘Idiot!’ shouts Nicole, as my movement upsets my plate and the wine next to it, causing them both to splash a red arc over the cream carpet.

I get down on my hands and knees to try to help, at the same time as Nicole descends to the floor. Our heads are almost touching. If I move forward an inch, I could butt her head with my own, see if I meet scalp in that excessive pile of mousy hair.

She looks up at me. I hold her gaze. She looks away quickly, turning her attention to pouring salt on the wine.

I look at her still and under the force of my gaze she looks up again.

‘Sorry, Nicole,’ I say, making my voice as manly as I imagine Luke’s to be. I gently touch her hand and it freezes. Good, she must be electrified by my touch. Here, then, is the woman for me to get close to. For Luke.

Chapter 3

As I ride the bus home, I wish I’d been able to tell Adam about book three. I may read it again later, for my own enjoyment, but I don’t intend to share it with anyone. It’s not that I question its brilliance, rather that they wouldn’t understand – wouldn’t understand how necessary the character progression was. Some of it, they would even call brutal. Perhaps parts of it were a little forced. And some of it, they would call sheer coincidence, or a windfall. But in the moment, the characters had to seize their opportunity and could not have acted differently. That’s the real test.

I get off the bus one stop early and run home. That’s the sort of thing Luke might do. He’s quite fit, you see, and I’m not – yet. I want him to start running in the novel, when he gets agitated about what he’s doing.

Luke went for another of his runs, past her house, hoping she would be in, that he could make an excuse and ring the doorbell. He ran holding a bouquet of roses, the thorns digging into his hands, but he did not feel the pain; it was nothing to his love for her.

I map out the paragraph in my head. Too bad there are no roses round here. The pollution from the road has killed off every flower, turned every house grey. Somehow it even seems to have turned the curtains inside the houses grey. As I jog along, I see only houses that either are boarded up or should be. And then I’m back at my own half-house, an ‘a’ to someone else’s ‘b’. ‘A’ is for Adam, though, so I struck lucky there. There are some drawing pins at home, I’m pretty sure. They will do for a start.

In my bedroom I take one of the pins out of the noticeboard. It’s holding up a school picture, one I particularly like: there’s me in my little shorts, standing next to Adam. We were inseparable at school. I was always there, by his side. He used to joke about that, when we were older. ‘Oh, it’s my shadow, Desperate Dan,’ he’d say, and everyone would laugh. He’d cuff me round the head affectionately to show it was a joke, and everyone would laugh some more. Popular, Adam was, and it was good of him to allow me to share in his charismatic glory. One time, I’d popped round to his house just as he was heading out – the rest of the gang were already there. He looked surprised to see me, but his mum insisted that I go out with them too, and so he invited me along. Sure, we both would rather have been alone together, but what can you do? People will always interfere, if you let them. Like Helen, when she came along.

The pin is rather sharper than I’d imagined it to be. And it looks a little rusty. I click the gas ignition on the hob and hold the pin over the flames, watching how they engulf it. The orange is so rich yet so translucent. I can’t believe it would hurt me if I just – ah!

I dart my fingers away, almost losing grip of the pin. But I hold it firm. I have to feel Luke’s pain; I have to know how to block it out, like he does, with the rose-thorn.

Turning off the hob, I retire to the sofa. I take the pin between finger and thumb, and press it into my skin. I don’t go very deep the first time, just leaving an indentation. Blood, there needs to be blood – otherwise how can I know what it feels like, the blood dripping round the thorn? I press a little deeper. Ow! That hurts. And only a miserable little pin-prick. I need to distract myself somehow, while I do it.

I pick up the phone and dial.

She answers.

‘Hello? Who is this?’

‘Hi, Nickie’ – that’s what Luke would do, shorten his beloved’s name – ‘it’s Dan.’

I dig the pin into my leg. Blood starts to appear under the surface.

There is a sigh from Nicole.

‘Hi, Dan; I’ll get Adam.’

‘Actually, Nickie, it’s you I want to speak to.’ I dig the pin deeper. Blood breaks the skin.

‘Oh!’ says Nicole.

Silence, as I continue to remove the pin, then drive it in again. I can imagine her there, in the bedroom, darkness, semi-dressed, wondering when this will end.

‘What do you want?’ asks Nicole, her voice tight.

‘Just to thank you, for this evening.’ Pin in, pin out, more blood. Mustn’t cry out. ‘And to say I’m really sorry about the wine.’

Nicole seems to relax a bit, getting used to me. Like Helen did, before the end.

‘Oh, that’s okay. Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.’

‘Well, I hope you can clean up the blood.’ Shit. ‘I mean, the wine, the risotto, I hope you can clean it up.’

There is silence on the other end of the line.

Then, ‘Dan, if you’ve something to say, just say it.’

I stay silent. Make her wait.

‘Nickie?’

‘Yes?’

‘See you soon.’

She hangs up before I do, leaving me to examine the pinboard of my leg. I’ve done quite well, considering. And it doesn’t feel so bad. Only like some little ants, making pin-prick bites at your flesh. Attracted to blood, ants are. So I’ve heard. Unfortunately the sofa has suffered for my art, covered in tiny flowering buds of red. I’ll need to wash it. I pull the once-cream throw off the sofa, and drag it to the shower with me.

There’s a scene in the book when Luke is in real need of a shower. He’s been attending to his dinner date. I haven’t quite worked out the climax of the novel yet, but I think the scene is around that point. Luke likes his showers hot, to scrub everything away. Too bad the water in my shower is like ice. I’ll have to do that research elsewhere.

I come out of the shower shrunken and cold. That’s what a numb lobster would feel like, I guess. Their legs still move a little after you make the first incision, even when you take them out of the freezer. Slowly, pedalling through the air. The lady on Google says they feel no pain then, though, that this is perfectly normal. People believe what helps them, I guess.

Still shivering, I dry myself quickly and climb into bed. I will treat myself, I decide. Leaning over the bed, I pull out my secret stash. Some people would keep porn under their bed, I suppose. Lots of women with unattractively large bosoms, like Helen had – maybe that’s what she used to force Adam away from me. I bet Nicole keeps old theatre programmes under her bed (their bed) to remind her of when she was adored. Instead, I unlock the real book three from its chest. Yes, this is perfect bedtime reading. I smooth my hands over the handwritten pages, remembering, the excitement I felt when I wrote it, of that earlier closeness. And how happy I was for Helen to have the star turn, in the end.

Chapter 4

I always sleep with the door open, just because I can. Once you’ve slept with it closed, locked, against your own volition, I think you always will. I bet Adam does, too. Although I can imagine Nicole wanting to seal them in, into that prison of a bedroom, with her.

He always used to sleep with the door closed, before, when we were kids, when I was staying. He liked the dark, unlike some boys. His own space, cut off from other people. Adam must have been thrilled when he got the house in West Hampstead. Or rather, thrilled that he had found a wife who owned such a house. Comforted that he could still live there after her death.

My bedroom ceiling here has stars on it. Stars and little aeroplanes and space ships. Only partly because of the time when I couldn’t see them. Mostly because Adam had them, in his room. When Adam was pretending to sleep so that I wouldn’t exhaust myself from talking to him, his face turned to the wall in the bed on the opposite side of the room, I used to stare at those stars. Sometimes I’d wish on them. The main wish: that Adam and I would be together for always.

I don’t need to wish that now, though, here, tonight. You see, I know now that Adam and I will always be together. Sure, we sleep in separate beds, miles apart – 3.2 miles, to be precise. But even though I am tucked up here and he is there, doing unthinkable things with Nicole, we are together really. It was like that before, when we had separate rooms. I knew he was with me really.

Most people are not lucky enough to have a twenty-nine-year friendship like ours. I think I always knew it would be special, from the moment we started playing together, when we were eight. We had all the same interests. He joined chess club, I joined chess club. He went to the library, I went to the library. He played football, I played football. Like every good shadow, I was always there. We shared everything, then.

So I suppose I should be content. I suppose I should be happy, lying here, with my hands under my covers, preparing all of myself for sleep. But we’ve been so close, in the past. Even closer than now. True, he invites me round for dinner all the time. When Helen was there, I just had to take me chances, pop in when I could. Since she died, he’s more open to me being there. But I want to be closer. Again.

Oh! But of course! The method will give me that closeness! I sit up in the dark. Nicole is perfect for book four. I should have realised that is why I was led to her, as my woman to get close to, for Luke. It’s almost as pure and perfect as the epiphany that prompted book three. Her flesh will bring Adam and I as close as we were in that book, it will give me the closeness I’ve craved ever since.

For this is it: Adam has been there. In Nicole. If I, as Luke, have the most intimate closeness to, in, Nicole, I will be where Adam has been. And it will be like I am touching him. Our ultimate manhood brought together in Nicole.

Luke, then, will do it for me. Luke – my character, my invention – holds the key to unlocking those remaining layers that separate us. Yes, all the other goals remain the same. Through Nicole, through being with her, to understand what it is to be with a woman, I can method write that as well as the other parts of the book, and so I will get published. I’ll be able to afford a place on his street. I’ll get close to my main reader again, the one for whom I write all my work and live all my life: Adam. And when he sees the next book, and the fame that it brings me, he’ll appreciate my work. On page, and off. Yes, all that.

But now, I see, much more than this, I will achieve my prime goal: I will be as close to Adam again as I was in book three.

Chapter 5

Ignorant of my epiphany in last night’s darkness, the guys at the car rental are on true back-slapping form. Not my back – that never gets slapped. You’d think after ten years here I might be allowed into their fraternity. But then, they have not been here the full ten years. Just me. I wonder what they put in handover notes to their successors? Abuse Dan, he’s a weirdo. Mock Dan, it’ll kill some time. But don’t get changed in front of him.

This morning, it starts with my suit. That’s not my fault: Luke wears a suit to work in book four, so I need to see what that’s like, how restrictive it is, whether the tie stops me breathing. Luke’s suit would of course be grey silk, perfectly cut, like the suit Adam wore on his [first] wedding day. Unfortunately, my only suit – my funeral suit – is black and too small. Plus running in it probably hasn’t helped. It sticks to me in odd places.

Steve wolf-whistles when I walk into the reception area. He puts his head into the back room.

‘Guys,’ he shouts, ‘you gotta see this. Danny boy’s all dressed up!’

I ignore them and check the time. Good – 8.45. Another fifteen minutes until we open. I take my notebook and red pen from my rucksack. I sit on the high-stool beneath the counter, then stand up, wincing. My legs are covered in little scabs and bruises where the pin penetrated: a small round of blood encircled in a wider sphere of grey. Sitting down is to be avoided.

I start writing Luke’s working day in the City and then become conscious that I am being observed. I try to ignore the feeling but it is too intense, so I turn.

Steve, Chris and Prakesh are standing looking at me, grinning.

‘Oh, he’s writing in his diary now!’ says Chris.

‘It’s not a diary, it’s a novel,’ I say. They should know by now. I tell them often enough.

‘Are you writing down who you fancy, Danny boy?’ asks Steve. ‘In your diary?’

There’s enough of that in books two and three, I feel like telling them. But that would only lead to more questions.

‘Ooh, let it be me, let it be me,’ cries Prakesh, his hands clasped beneath his beard.

I continue writing.

Luke surveyed the other men on the trading floor, their sweaty ape-like faces. Their time had come – the trading bell tolled for all men. He rolled up the sleeves of his Thomas Pink shirt, cufflinks popping. Without warning, his fist connects with one of their jaws. The crack sounds like …

What does a crack sound like? I must find out. I take off my jacket and drape it over the counter.

‘Oh, a strip show! Excellent!’ says Steve.

I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, buttons popping.

‘Da, da, da-da-da,’ sings Steve. ‘You’ll have to be quick, mate, we open in five.’

I take one of my arms right back until my fist is level with my shoulder. I propel my fist forward and hit – nothing.

‘What, you practising your front crawl, mate? Need some armbands,’ laughs Steve, amused by his own wit.

A bell rings.

‘Customer!’ shouts Steve. ‘Right, Danny boy, sort yourself out, get into the back room, stick a polo shirt on and come back when you’re decent.’

I glance over my shoulder, hoping for Adam. No. He used to come here a lot more, before The Accident. Not so much, after that. Then, it was just the police.

So without Adam, I go into the back room and change.

Transformed, I return.

The crack sounds like …

I smile politely at the customer Steve is dealing with. Steve is doing the paperwork. Jimmy Price used to do it for us. He was the ace at paperwork. Always used to help Adam, too. But then he left, suddenly. Dropped in once, afterwards, driving a Maserati. Said he’d won the lottery, told us a whole long story about when he’d won, how much, and what the numbers were. Like we needed to know all the details.

The crack sounds like …

I practise squeezing my fist under the counter. Steve escorts the customer out into the car park and shows him the car. Steve has handed over the keys and is coming back.

The crack sounds like …

I advance towards him. He looks up briefly and stares at me blankly, the look of a co-worker who doesn’t care.

Ready, this time, I take my clenched fist and I swing.

Oh, I see.

The crack sounds like the breaking of a lobster’s claws.

Chapter 6

Apparently it is unacceptable workplace conduct to give your co-worker a bloody nose, so on suspension I run over to Adam’s. I know he will be in. It is his first wedding anniversary – or rather the anniversary of his first wedding – and he always takes the day off work. He knows I generally find myself coming over there to keep him company. He never objects.

I find him sitting in the dark drinking Veuve Clicquot, the same champagne they had at their reception. He is watching the wedding video, smiling softly to himself. Adam is a real romantic, although you wouldn’t know it unless you are close to him.

‘Dan! What are you doing here? How did you …?’

I remind him about the spare key, for use in emergencies.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Right. I thought I’d changed the locks after, you know?’

I shrug and sit down next to him, wincing as the scars of last night’s research make themselves felt. After that initial first shock, though, the pain can be endured.

He sips some champagne and presses pause on the video. The best man is in the act of handing over the rings. I understood when Adam didn’t ask me to be best man. After all, if I’d been there at the altar with him and Helen, his loyalties would have been divided.

‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there to comfort you, that night,’ I say.

‘It’s okay, mate,’ he says, punching me lightly on the arm. ‘Your aunt was sick.’ He presses play again on the television.

We sit there, listening to each other’s breathing. Or at least, I listen to his. It is regular but deep, and every so often, he sighs. The grief is still there, it seems. It reminds me of old times, when I was fourteen and the grief was mine, and he sat next to me in church. I held hands with his mother, on the other side of me. She squeezed my hand. I took Adam’s hand and squeezed it. He didn’t squeeze back. At first. I wonder now whether I should take his hand and squeeze it? But no. He understands without that, now, having read my earlier work.

On screen, with the best man out of the way, the bridal couple are revealed again. Helen has mistakenly worn a strapless dress. It is either to show off her cleavage or the family wedding jewellery. Both are too showy.

‘She looked beautiful,’ comes a voice from behind us.

I jump and turn. Nicole is here! She is wrapped in a silk dressing gown – at 11a.m. The luxury of not having to earn your keep. It doesn’t look like there’s much on under her dressing gown. That doesn’t interest me. But it would interest Luke. It interests Adam, too, unfortunately, despite this being his and Helen’s day – he strokes her silken arm.

Nicole is not in the market for his seduction, though.

‘I just wish Helen had been more careful,’ says Nicole, ‘on her ride.’

‘But then you couldn’t have married Adam,’ I say, which is true.

Nicole stares at me as though I have missed the point. Apparently it is rude to state the obvious.

‘Dan just means we have to be thankful, Nic. That’s all,’ says Adam, playing peace-maker.

‘Yes, that’s all,’ I say. ‘Don’t misunderstand me.’

‘Helen would be happy for us,’ says Adam. ‘Believe me. She was a very generous person.’

I’m sure Nicole has heard it all before, had her second-wife guilt assuaged while she delights in her inherited husband. But still, there’s no harm in comforting her. If it will bring her close to Luke.

‘Come and join us, Nicole. Plenty of room.’ I pat the sofa next to me.

‘No, I’m fine. I’d be intruding. I’ll go and take a shower or something.’

‘I insist,’ I say.

‘Yes, come on, Nic,’ says Adam, looking at her. ‘I want to mark the past, but I can still celebrate our future, hey?’

You can see why Nicole thinks Adam loves her. When the sapphire of his eyes is directed on you, the world sparkles. Plus, Nicole apparently enjoys the idea of being celebrated. She moves to join us on the sofa, and stands between me and Adam, waiting, apparently expecting me to shift over so that she can sit next to Adam. I do shift, but closer to Adam, leaving her with the bit of sofa on my other side. Rolling her eyes, she sits down next to me. Even a banker’s sofa is not big enough for three adults to sit next to each other without touching. On the one side, is Nicole’s leg, pressing into mine. On the other, is Adam’s, resting comfortably against me. I know which one I would like to touch. But that is forbidden to me. Adam made that clear, after book two, by not responding, when he’d read it.

Nicole’s dressing gown has come slightly loose, revealing pale inner thigh on both her legs. I lean over her, and gently pull the dressing gown over thighs, tightening the sash. She gasps and pushes me away, standing up.

‘Don’t!’ she says.

Even Adam has to look up at this.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Dan touched me!’ Nicole exclaims.

‘I was trying to protect her modesty,’ I say. ‘The belt had come undone.’

‘He touched me!’ Nicole says again.

Adam leans over me to pat Nicole’s leg.

‘I don’t think Dan’s interested in that kind of thing, honey,’ he says, reassuring her. Then he takes a sip of champagne and turns back to the screen.

He knows, you see, that I only love him. He will have read that, when he read book two. We’ve never discussed it, but he must have read it. By now. What he doesn’t know is the full extent of how the method will manifest itself, with Nicole.

Nicole shoots a glance at me, pulling the dressing gown tight around herself. This will make things a bit more difficult for Luke. But there are ways round resistance.

Nicole stands abruptly. ‘I’m going to have that shower.’ and she leaves us to it.

Once she’s gone, Adam turns to me. ‘Is this going to be an issue?’ he asks. ‘Because I need you to get on with Nic. Like you got on with Helen.’

I resist the urge to snort. Helen hated me. Plus, I never got invited over as much when she was alive. Even when I dropped by, they wouldn’t open up. Adam’s got better about that, since she died.

‘I never said how grateful I was for your support,’ Adam says earnestly, ‘after the accident, and the, you know …’

‘The break-in.’

‘Right. The “break-in”.’

We stare at the wedding video. ‘I do,’ says screen Adam. I remember sitting in the congregation, wishing I’d given him book two sooner. I gave it to him after the rehearsal, the night before, asking him to read it before the big day. He laughed and said he needed to sleep, to keep his stamina for the big day. I suggested he read it on honeymoon. He laughed again, clapped me on the arm. ‘Mate, you crack me up!’ he’d said.

‘She died doing what she loved, you know,’ I say, in case it will make him happy. I don’t think the idea of Adam dying doing what he loved would make me happy. Particularly if it was Nicole.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘She just loved cycling along cold dark lanes.’

‘While you were out partying,’ I half-joke. She just loved that, too – nagged him about it. If she’d lived, she would have guilt-tripped him for not collecting her.

‘It was a work thing. You saw that, on Facebook – I had to go out with the guys. But listen, Dan mate, it’s so important we all get on: you, me and Nic.’ He looks at me, his cheeks flushed. I know it’s the champagne, but I wish it wasn’t.

‘I know what,’ he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a wad of cash. ‘Here. Take her out.’

‘What?’

‘Take Nic out for the day. The park or the zoo and lunch, or something. I need to be alone, with the video, today, do my grieving – you know that.’

I nod, and accept the money. I will take Nicole out.

But first, that shower.

Chapter 7

Luke stands at the door of the wet-room, watching his lover wash herself clean of him. She is oblivious to him. She is washing all the most intimate parts of herself, her back to him, her wet hair slicked down her back. The shower must be hot, he thinks – her usually pale skin is turning red. He moves closer towards the crack in the door. He can almost see the beads of moisture on her glistening back. She starts to turn to face him. If he stepped forward one more step, pushed the door open further, stepped through, he could—

Nicole screams, backing away from me in the shower area. I back away too, back across the threshold, but that doesn’t stop her screaming, so I move forwards, into the wet-room, holding up my hands flat, showing I mean no harm. She continues to scream.

‘Shh!’ I say, my finger to my lips.

‘Adam!’ she yells. ‘ADAM!’

She is covering herself for modesty. I don’t care about that. I’d hand her a towel, but I see her neck is still soapy. She could do with a hand wiping it off. I advance forward to help. Nicole backs into the corner of the shower area, pressing herself against the terracotta tiles.

‘Adam!’ she shouts again.

‘I’m sorry, I was just waiting for my turn. I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ I say.

‘What’s going on?’

I hear Adam’s voice over the water.

‘Adam!’ Nicole runs to him. Seeing as she doesn’t seem to mind about the soap, I turn off the shower and try to pass her a towel. Adam takes it, and wraps it round her.

‘What the hell are you doing, Dan?’ he demands. The usual jocular tone is gone. This is fierce Adam. I can see his point. I am in a shower room with his naked wife. At least I have my clothes on. I would like to tell him it is for the sake of art, but he might not believe me. Some things even book two doesn’t excuse.

‘He was watching me! He was standing there, watching me!’ shouts Nicole.

‘I wasn’t watching, Adam. The door was open, I was waiting for my turn. The hot water’s broken at mine.’

‘He came in!’

‘Because you started screaming. I wanted to calm you down. I’m sorry. I see now I ought to have shut the door.’

Adam sighs deeply. When he speaks again, his voice has less edge. ‘Nicole, go into the bedroom. I’ll come through in a minute.’

She disappears, leaving me with Adam.

‘I’m sorry, Adam,’ I say. ‘It was a misunderstanding.’

‘A misunderstanding?’ Adam looks me in the eyes, questioning me. I stare back into them. Surely I don’t need to speak to answer? Surely we can communicate without words, by now?

But he seems to be waiting for me to verbalise.

‘A misunderstanding,’ I say.

He looks at me for a moment longer, then takes a deep breath. His shoulders rise and fall.

‘Ok, I trust you, mate. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.’

I nod back. I would never hurt him, intentionally.

‘And you were willing to take the rap for me, I’ll always remember that,’ he says. I nod. We both know the reference. ‘But Nic doesn’t know that. She gets anxious. Just … I’ll smooth it over, but try not to freak her out, okay?’

‘Okay.’ I nod. I will try. I suspect she may find Luke a bit intimidating, but I have to persevere. For Adam. For art. For publication and his adulation.

Adam walks through to the bedroom that adjoins the wet-room. He kisses her on the lips and I turn away, but I can still see them in the mirror. Adam opens his eyes during the kiss and makes eye contact with me in the reflection. He holds my stare as he moves with Nicole into the depths of the bedroom.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was revenge.

But it can’t be, because he doesn’t know. So I close the door between the two rooms and listen to him converse with Nicole while I take off my clothes.

‘It was just a misunderstanding, Nic,’ I hear Adam say.

‘he was standing there!’ she protests, loudly.

‘Keep your voice down!’ Adam hisses.

‘Why do you let him come round here?’ Nicole asks. ‘You don’t even like him. Just tell him to get lost.’

‘Look, sweetie, I know he’s a bit odd, but he’s always been there when I need him. Give him another chance, okay? For me?’

Silence. I sidle closer to the shower-room door, pressing my naked body close to it so that I can hear the conversation in the other room.

‘I’ll make it up to you,’ says Adam, so softly I can barely hear him.

I hear Nicole giggle. I doubt she is still wearing the towel.

‘But I thought this was Helen’s day!’ says Nicole, cheekily.

‘Well, I can’t do this’ – there is a pause, while presumably Adam does something – ‘to Helen, can I, hmm?’

Then there is no more talking. I move away from the door and turn on the shower. I don’t want to hear the intimacy of their silence. I must focus on Luke, focus on the task in hand.

Luke closes his eyes, and lets the water course over his body. He can still feel that final touch of his lover, can still see her fine neck, smell her jasmine shower wash. Opening his eyes, he turns to face the room, he finds it empty of life. He’d half expected to see her looking at him. But of course, she wouldn’t be, not any more.’

Yes, that would work well, towards the end of the book. When Luke has finished with Nicole. But for now, he has barely started.

Chapter 8

Adam was not overestimating his power of smoothing things over. By the time I am out of the shower, Nicole is dressed and ready to accompany me to the fair. We leave Adam at the front door. He kisses Nicole goodbye and waves to me. It should be the other way round, me being kissed, her being waved away, but that is how it must be, for now.

All is not quite forgiven, though. Nicole makes a gulf between us as we walk up Narcissus Road to the bus stop. All wrapped up in her usual red beret, scarf and gloves, she keeps close to the holly bushes that line the inside edge of the pavement, as if she is trying to blend in with the berries.

I guess I will need small talk if I’m going to use Nicole for book four. I am struggling for conversation starters when a cyclist zooms past to the outside of me, helmetless.

‘I think all cyclists should wear helmets, don’t you?’ I ask. I don’t care, but it is something to say.

‘It didn’t help Helen,’ is Nicole’s immediate response.

‘Was she wearing a helmet?’ I ask.

Nicole nods. ‘I’ve been over it a thousand times with Adam. She always had bike lights, reflective clothing, all that stuff.’

Yes, of course. The reflective clothing. I went through all this at the time. With a distraught Adam, and with the police, too, before they decided it was an accident.

‘Seeing that wedding video today just reminded me, you know,’ she continues, ‘how much Adam loved her.’

This is not a useful conversation. I have no wish to be reminded of Adam’s love for another, from the one he currently says he loves.

‘You should come round for dinner some time,’ I say.

‘I wish I could find out who was driving, put his mind at rest. Give him closure,’ Nicole says. Then she stops talking, registering what I’ve just said. ‘I’ll ask Adam, we’ll fix up a date.’ Back on with the Helen routine. ‘Whoever it was, the police will find him. I’m sure. They just need a little help.’

‘No, not Adam. Just you, and me. Dinner,’ I say.

The bus appears, and any reply Nicole gives is lost.

We tap our Oyster cards dutifully and take our seats.

I keep on with my efforts for a conversation change.

‘I’m sorry about the shower,’ I say.

I touch her thigh, lightly.

She removes my hand, firmly.

‘Adam and I love each other,’ she says.

I’m not sure how that is relevant. I love Adam, after all, but the need here is different. Luke must have his material.

So I just shrug and say sorry again. She shrugs back. She seems to have calmed down. Maybe Adam explained why I could not have a real interest in her. Maybe, in that darkened room, before we came out, Adam was telling Nicole about book two. Maybe it was words, not just actions, that flushed her cheeks.

As though five years had not passed, Nicole starts up about Helen again.

I hear about the pearls that reverted back to Helen’s family, the guilt Nicole and Adam felt when they sent out their own wedding invitations, Nicole’s constant search for justice. She is a woman obsessed.

‘Someone out there drove away knowing they’d hit her, that they might have killed her,’ she says, looking at me. ‘Who does that?’

I look away.

‘It was an accident,’ I say, taking Adam’s line, in his absence.

I see the first signs of the Heath out of the window. Red leaves on the trees, some fallen, covering up the grass. But we want the unnatural part, the funfair, the thrills laid on for families. I suppose Nicole and I are family, really. Me, her and Adam – all one loving unit. Adam knows it, because he’s read book two. He doesn’t know how much of a unit we were – particularly when Helen was alive – because he hasn’t read book three. But he knows it, really, how close we are. And he’ll have explained it to Nicole, now. Nicole, and her quest to find Helen’s killer. Nicole, who will be the star of her own show, for when I write the world according to Luke.

I don’t know if she’ll like the show, if she’ll really feel comfortable with it. I mean, she never really did any acting, after RADA, so I hear. Not much good at it, perhaps. Then Adam coming along meant she didn’t need to work. But I need to get her on stage.

Chapter 9

‘Were you like this with Helen?’ Nicole asks me as I lean across her, staying close, to strap us into the dodgem. Most couples are with children, enjoying their half-term break. But then, we are an unusual couple.

‘Like what?’ I ask. The warning clang for the start of the next session sounds, and the dodgem gets power.

‘Odd,’ she says.

‘I’m not odd,’ I say, as I charge with the dodgem round the corner of the rink, ramming into the rubber sides. Nicole grips onto the edges of our black metallic ride for safety.

‘Your fingers will be crushed by another car if you do that,’ I say. ‘Keep them inside the vehicle.’ I turn us to loop round to the other side of the rink, leaning into Nicole as we take the corner. I feel her breasts press against my arm. They are less oppressive than Helen’s, but still in the way.

‘You call walking into the shower on someone not odd?’ she asks.

‘Are we still on that?’ I retort. ‘It was a misunderstanding. Besides, Adam seemed to like it.’

I look at her. Her face blushes red, but she smiles.

‘Well, don’t do it again,’ she says.

‘I won’t.’ I pat her hand for reassurance. ‘Unless you invite me.’ She draws her hand away.

‘Anyway, Helen was different,’ I say. ‘Adam’s first love. Less baggage.’

‘Thanks,’ Nicole says drily. ‘You must know all about Adam’s baggage, right? From years back.’

I swing the dodgem round and narrowly avoid smashing into a kid in a green car.

‘Phew!’ I say.

‘You’re meant to crash into each other. That’s the point.’

‘Oh.’

‘You must know what he’s thinking, second guess what he does, way more than I can?’ Nicole says.

‘I suppose,’ I say. Obviously, the genuine answer would be ‘yes’, but boasting on this point won’t endear me to Nicole.

I drive round a bit more, crashing into other cars. They all have children in. The attendant puts two fingers to us, then to his eyes, then to us again, in an ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

‘Any particularly juicy secrets you know about?’ she asks.

I drive the car slowly round the edge of the rink, while the attendant fulfils his promise of watching us. I see Nicole’s dress has ridden up, hoisted round her upper thighs.

‘May I?’ I ask.

Before she can reply, I pull her dress back down over her legs, being sure to graze her inner thigh as I do so. She tries to cross her legs away from me but there isn’t space.

‘No particularly juicy secrets,’ I lie. Why should I tell her what I know?

The siren sounds for the end of the ride.

‘Again?’ I ask.

‘Sure,’ she says. ‘But I’ll have my own car this time.’

She escapes from the car, pulling her skirt down over her bottom as climbs out. Her new car is silver. Or is it grey?

The clang sounds for the start of the ride. I will not let her out of my sight. This is about the chase, the thrill of pursuit. Nicole takes the car up to the other end of the rink. I follow. Round the corner she goes. I am there. You’re meant to crash into each other, she said, so I do. She jolts forward in the car, casts a look behind her then sets off again. I am with her, there, behind her, then parallel. I bump her again, she jolts again. She looks back, then quickly steers away from me, up to the other side of the rink. I speed after her, and catching up with her, ram her into a corner.

‘Hey!’ she says.

I retreat, then ram the car again.

‘Stop it!’ she shouts. The attendant starts to come out of his little hut. I back off, and let her move away from the edge of the rink. I zoom down the opposite end of the rink, then do a U-turn. She is coming down the rink in the opposite direction. I carry on, full speed. She is closer, closer, tries move away but I am too quick. I ram into her full speed, a head-on collision, and she jerks forward in the dodgem, hair flying over her face.

When she looks up at me again, I see the edge of her lip is bleeding. Her skin is white and her eyes are wide. She looks like she is seeing me, all of me, for the first time. And doesn’t like what she sees.

Chapter 10

Nicole is edgy, nervous, when we come off the ride. She won’t look me square in the face. Her eyes dart about. I can understand why, what she might be thinking, what suspicions me crashing the car into her might have triggered, but she will not be the one to mention it; she might just be being stupid, I imagine her thinking. Instead, she flits from conversation to conversation. I hear from her about the weather, the clothes people are wearing, what she plans to order from Ocado this week. In short, everything but nothing. I wish she’d shut up. I bet Adam must do too, sometimes.

I try to block out Nicole’s jabbering, working on book four in my head.

Luke takes the black scarf, similar to the one that binds his lover’s hands, and ties it round her mouth. It acts as a gag, and her cries are silenced.

Would a scarf act as a gag, though? Or would she still be able to cry out? Hands are best to drown out cries, but then you don’t have them to manoeuvre your lover. And they can bite, quite hard. So I’ve heard. Those ball things you get on gimp masks, that’s what they’re for, I guess. ‘A ball in the mouth keeps a lady silent.’ I could do advertising, if they sack me over the punching incident. I zone back in to Nicole’s conversation when she starts asking me questions.

‘Maybe you should learn to drive before you next go on the dodgems, hey?’ she asks, laughing. But the laugh doesn’t work. It is too forced and does not change that expression in her eyes, half fear, half excitement.

‘You don’t drive, either, do you?’ I ask, knowing the answer. But that is what small talk is – asking questions you don’t care about, to get information you already know, while a subtext bubbles underneath.

‘No,’ she says. ‘I didn’t before, and I certainly wouldn’t now.’

Now means, of course, post-Helen. The roads being too full of dangerously innocent cyclists.

‘In that case, we’re fully dependent on others, you and I,’ I say. ‘Let’s catch the bus back, see how Adam’s getting on.’

She pauses, then starts jabbering again.

‘Actually, do you know what? I think I’ll grab a cab. Save you the bother. There’s one!’

She raises her arm to flag down a passing taxi, desperate to get away. Her watch flashes in the light, a silvery-grey streak. I wonder what it would be like if that streak were red, how much blood there would be. The taxi stops and its lobster-orange light is darkened. Nicole disappears into it and slams the door, leaving me alone on the curb. Not, perhaps, a triumph for Luke, but it’s not over yet, his relationship with her.

I decide not to go straight home. Instead, I will do some more research. Some writers just sit at their desk, making up words, characters, scenes, but I know better. I know I need to live first. Writing is the after-life. I walk down the road to The Garden Gate pub.

I ask for a Jäger Train. I’ve never had one, but I’ve seen people having them, enjoying themselves. The barman suggests that I might prefer one of their fruit beers. I tell him I would not. He confesses they don’t cater for Jäger Trains at 3 p.m. on a Monday afternoon. So I order seven glasses of elderflower pressé and seven shots of Courvoisier brandy: the Hampstead equivalent. I order some lobster-tail scampi with it. Luke is no novice. He knows that eating is not cheating. The barman gives me a flower in a vase to signify my order. It is a rose.

While I’m waiting for my scampi, I line up my glasses and shots on the bar. I saw Adam do this once, at his first stag do. Or rather, he got a waitress to it for him: she just flicked her pen, and the shot glasses dominoed perfectly, nesting the shot glasses of Jägermeister into the amber of the Red Bull.

I am not inclined to ask the barman to flick his pen – as he may take it the wrong way – so I will need to do this myself. Or rather, Luke will do it. Because one night, I can imagine Luke going out to the bar with his City mates, his objective being to get very noticeably drunk. Far too drunk to drive. Whether he’s drinking to forget, or to give himself liquid courage for something happening that night, I haven’t yet decided. But he needs to drink. And so, therefore, do I. I do it with great devotion for the next five hours.

‘The sky is so bright and blue and Hampstead is so pretty – ooh! Bus! Mustn’t be squashed!’

‘Pond Street, Pond Street, I’ll get a bus from Pond Street!’

‘The bus will take me to my love, and my love roses I shall give!’

No, no, no. What am I thinking? Luke must run! Run with the roses! Scampi power legs, brandy power legs – zoom! Blood and thorns, blood and thorns. Excellent – Jesus, place your crown upon me!

My legs will take me to my love, and my love roses shall I give. His wife’ll think I’m a murderer as long as she shall live!

It’s dark outside Nicole and Adam’s by the time I get there. And I’m starting to get a same-day hangover. I contemplate knocking on the door, but it won’t help. Instead, I let myself through the side gate and stand in the back garden, looking up at the house. I identify Nicole and Adam’s bedroom.

‘Nicole!’ I shout. ‘I brought you flowers!’

There is no reply. It occurs to me the house is dark. I look at my watch. Only 9 p.m. Even they can’t be in bed now. Perhaps they’ve gone for dinner. I contemplate doing a quick search round West Hampstead eateries to find them. I’m tired, though, after my run. Better perhaps just to wait for them inside. I go back round to the front of the house, take out my emergency key and insert it in the lock. Odd. It won’t go in. I try again. Must be the drink, making my hands unsteady. I try to force it, but still it won’t go – the hole is the wrong shape, my key doesn’t match it. They’ve changed the locks.

This is Nicole. I know this is Nicole. Adam wouldn’t do this. He knows I need access, he knows I need to rescue him, in an emergency. Say the house was burning? Amber flames, grey smoke, trying to crisp him away. I’d need to be there to save him.

And what if Luke needed to get close to his beloved?

Luke punched the glass. His fist would not go through. Harder, harder, he needed more force. He must ignore the resistance, punch right through it. He tried again, raised his fist, squared it to the window. Smash! There, and he was in. Now he must make the hole bigger, deeper, so that he could get fully inside. Ignore the pain, keep powering through. He’d haul all of himself through until…

… I am sitting on the carpeted floor surrounded by glass and blood. And the rose.

Safely delivered, then. This is the power of the method. The power that will make my work the very best it can be, make it revered, and make me worthy of him.

Now I am in, all I need to do is wait for Nicole. And Adam.

Chapter 11

Adam sees me first.

‘Jesus!’ he says. It must be the blood and the roses.

Nicole stays in the darkened hallway.

‘Nic, get me some TCP!’ he shouts. I don’t think TCP is quite the thing here, but I don’t want to hurt Adam’s feelings.

Nicole stays where she is.

‘Nic, come on, he’s hurt!’ Adam calls out again. He hovers over me. I can smell wine on his breath. He is deliciously Merlot-y. I wonder if he can smell the Elderflower. It will blend in with the TCP if Nicole ever fetches it. She is still inert against the wall.

‘Fine, fine, I’ll get it. Jesus!’ he says again, as he walks away and jogs upstairs. I sit looking at Nicole. She looks back at me. We stay like that for a moment, and then she breaks the gaze. Loser, I think, as she joins Adam upstairs. Adam and I used to play that game for hours, just staring at each other. He always blinked first. What a couple they must make.

I hear whispers from upstairs, but can’t make out what is being said. Then a door slams. Adam jogs back downstairs again, holding TCP, cotton wool and Sellotape.

‘Sorry about Nic,’ he says, unscrewing the TCP lid. ‘She’s been funny all afternoon.’

I watch him dab the antiseptic on the wool, like they do with chloroform, in the films. It’s like old times. When we were younger, when I moved in with him and his parents, after the death of my own, he’d help me with cuts and grazes, when no one was watching. Making everything better.

‘First the shower, then smashing into our home,’ Adam says. ‘It’s not on, Dan. I should call the police.’

He gently wipes my bloodied wrist with cotton wool. It stings. I clench my hand slightly. Adam looks at me. The sapphire eyes dazzle. I press my tongue into my bottom teeth to suppress the pain.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But it’s the method, you know? Like with the lobster?’

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know. But he will, when I’m famous.

‘Don’t call the police,’ I say. ‘I won’t hurt you. You know that.’

‘What about Nic?’ he asks.

‘I won’t hurt her either,’ I say. And it’s true, because if anyone hurts her, it will be Luke.

Adam gets out a fresh piece of cotton wool and starts unravelling the Sellotape.

‘That’s not what I meant. I meant, what will Nicole think? This kind of thing frightens her.’

‘I brought this rose for her,’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m here. To apologise again, for the misunderstanding.’

Adam looks at the rose. It has blood on the thorns and its petals are soggy.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I’m sure she’ll be … delighted.’ He laughs a little. I laugh too. I can feel us both relax. ‘Here, hold this,’ says Adam, gesturing to the cotton-wool pad.

I hold the pad over my wrist, as Adam carefully winds the Sellotape round and round my wrist. With each turn around my wrist, I try to manoeuvre my hand so that his knuckles will graze my arm.

‘Keep still,’ he says.

The blood is seeping through the cotton wool, staining it.

‘You should go to A & E, really,’ he says.

‘What, and wait half the night for them to just do the same dressing? No thanks.’

‘The waiting times aren’t that bad,’ says Adam. ‘They saw me pretty swiftly after … you know.’

‘How do you know? You’d passed out.’

He looks at me, frowning slightly. ‘Right. I’d passed out.’

‘I’d best be getting home, I guess,’ I say when Adam has finished bandaging.

‘You’re kidding, right?’ he says. ‘Crash here for tonight, take a sofa.’

‘What if I get blood on Nicole’s sofas?’

‘They’re not Nicole’s sofas.’

That’s right, they’re not. Adam bought the sofas when he and Helen married. Just after he bought the house – or rather, she did. Outright. It’s a wonder he keeps working, or doesn’t upgrade the house. He could probably afford Bishop’s Avenue now (aka M/Billionaires’ Row), with his bonus and a decent mortgage. I asked him once, why he didn’t. He cast his eyes down and said, ‘Because it keeps Helen alive for me in a small way, staying here.’ I wished I hadn’t asked.

I strip down to my boxers and curl up on the sofa under the throw that Adam gives me. So many memories, here. I’d invite him to join me, but I doubt he’d like it. And I doubt very much that Nicole would, either.

Not that she can value the marriage bed very much, though. Because when I wake up in the middle of the night, she is standing in the doorway. Watching me. And frowning.

Chapter 12

In the morning, there is a text from the car rental place inviting me in for an investigatory meeting later that day.

Adam grills me while he cooks the breakfast bacon in the oven. It saves discussing the previous evening.

‘Don’t go,’ he says. ‘Tell them you want to see their evidence. Ask for their HR procedure. Say you need to speak with your lawyer.’

They do things differently in the City.

‘I smacked a co-worker in the face, Adam. I’d say they have their evidence.’

‘You’ve been a good employee, though, and it’s not like you to be violent, is it?’

‘No,’ I say.

‘Right,’ Adam says. ‘And I’ll bet you were provoked?’

‘Yes,’ I acknowledge.

‘Good. Then raise a grievance against the guy who provoked you. That’ll throw them. Trust me – I know how HR work.’

Adam goes through to the living room and returns with the rose. He chops the long stalk and puts it in a vase on the tray.

‘Too much?’ he asks.

‘Go for it,’ I say. ‘Tell her I hope she slept well. No interruptions.’

He nods his assent. When I go upstairs to shower after breakfast, I see the tray emptied outside Nicole’s room. The rose is there still, but all its petals are shredded.

Adam gives me a lift to the car rental shop, over in Hendon. We listen to the Today Programme while John Humphreys castrates his latest victim. I wonder why anyone would go on the show.

‘Exposure,’ says Adam. ‘To position stories before they break another way.’

‘But they get destroyed!’

‘Rather that than stay silent. Besides, they get to manage their own downfall. Makes them feel they aren’t completely impotent.’

I think about book three and wonder if he is right. I look at him now, driving along confidently, tolerating me so close by his side. No. About this one thing, Adam is wrong. Difficult to imagine how I would do damage limitation.

When we get to the shop, I suggest he leaves the car with us and gets the train into Farringdon. He elects to drop me off on the corner and use the station car park.

‘Wouldn’t want them to expect my business.’ Which is true – he was a good customer before. A regular one, anyway. Always discreet. ‘And my car will show your ones up!’ He’s joking, but it’s true. The black BMW 4x4 is a bit of a contrast to the red Skodas on the forecourt.

I watch the back of his car as he pulls away. What would it take, I wonder, to be permanently in that car with him? Permanently in the passenger seat, with him at my side? There’d have to be a space first, I suppose.

Perhaps it will just take time. Time, and book four. Because I still remember the message he gave me, the message I wrote in book three. About playing the long game.

For now, I trudge towards the shop, where my colleagues are waiting to mete out judgement. Perhaps I will vanish from the garage too, like Jimmy did. Although that was of his own volition. He, too, wouldn’t have wanted to show the forecourt up. When he landed that Maserati. A lucky win. Some might say too lucky.

Chapter 13

In the car shop, Prakesh can hardly contain his excitement. His leg jiggles under the table as he calls the investigatory meeting to order. It is a tight squeeze in the back office, what with Chris and Steve there too. Chris says he is here as my ‘workplace representative’. In other words, he just didn’t want to miss the gossip. Steve is here as the aggrieved party.

If I wanted to, I could look at Prakesh’s notes. There is something headed ‘Script for Investigatory/Disciplinary meeting’. I wonder if it ends by me being given a Maserati. Probably not.

‘We are gathered here today,’ Prakesh begins.

‘That’s the words for a wedding ceremony!’ mutters Chris. Perhaps he has forgotten he is supposed to be representing me.

‘You’re only meant to be observing,’ says Prakesh.

Chris pouts and tries to sink down in his chair, but he is obstructed by the collective knees under the table.

‘Now, Dan. You know why you’re here,’ continues Prakesh. ‘You punched Steve—’

‘Allegedly,’ I say.

Prakesh turns to look at Steve. He has a dressing strapped across his nose. Prakesh turns back to me and raises an eyebrow.

I lift my sellotaped, Adam-bandaged wrist slightly. ‘Doesn’t prove anything,’ I say.

‘Bet he put that on for the sympathy vote,’ says Chris. In theory, he could be talking about me or Steve. But I know he means me. Perhaps I should ask for a new workplace representative. Bring Jimmy back, so he can help me, like he used to.

I begin to peel the Sellotape off my skin. Prakesh continues talking.

‘That’s not the only reason we called you in here, though.’

My skin lifts up to join the Sellotape, puckering slightly. Rip, the tape sounds as it pulls away.

‘While you were gone, we found some paperwork irregularities …’ Prakesh is saying.

Rip, sounds another portion of the tape. Some of the hairs on my wrist come with it. I examine them. Some are grey. I wonder if you can dye wrist hair.

‘Around the procedures for renting out cars.’

I rip away the last section of the tape. Now just to reveal the blood. I hope it will be impressive.

‘In particular, the letting of cars to one Jeremy Bond, two years ago,’ Prakesh continues. ‘It seems you didn’t get the correct …’

Prakesh pauses as I lift the cotton wool from my wound. I see his eyes take in the deep welt, part dried almost black blood, part fresh crimson.

‘… deposit,’ he continues. ‘Or identification documents.’

‘That’s not news,’ I say, because it isn’t. I went through that with the police, back at the time. Once they’d finished questioning Adam. Nearest and dearest always makes for the clearest suspect, at first.

‘Who is Jeremy Bond?’ asks Prakesh.

‘A guy who’s not big on deposits or ID documents,’ I retort.

‘I can do you for aiding and abetting,’ says Prakesh.

‘If the police can’t, you certainly can’t,’ I point out, turning my wrist around so I can see the blood from all angles.

Prakesh changes tack.

‘And then there’s your previous conviction.’

I look up.

‘How did you know about that?’ I ask.

Prakesh shuffles the papers around on the table and mutters to himself. I consider asking him to speak up, to tell me why what I did back then is relevant. But I know that won’t help. So I place my hands calmly on the table, remembering what Adam had told me.

‘That’s a spent conviction,’ I say. ‘Anyway, it’s not relevant to my employment and you can’t penalise me for it.’

Adam’s lawyer told us both how to respond, when Adam’s employers tried to make an issue of it. Advice worth the money Adam paid for it.

‘All this leads us to conclude … to conclude …’ Prakesh is scrabbling round the table. Steve hands him a piece of paper. ‘That a disciplinary panel may well find you guilty of gross misconduct and that we could terminate your employment without notice or salary,’ he reads, breathing only at the end of the sentence. He looks up at me then looks down at the paper again. His eyes scan up and down it, clearly having lost his place. Steve helps him out and points to the relevant bit in the script.

‘Oh, yeah … so: but we don’t want you to have to go through the indignity of that. And we understand there may be some bad feeling about the events leading up to the assault, and that in these circumstances you may assert a discrimination or bullying claim.’ Prakesh looks up at me. ‘Do you assert that?’

‘Okay,’ I say. Why not?

‘So we’re going to offer you a settlement of two months’ salary if you sign up to the terms of this agreement.’

‘I want to raise a grievance,’ I say, remembering Adam’s advice of this morning.

‘What about?’ asks Prakesh.

I shrug.

‘If you raise a grievance, I press charges,’ says Steve.

I consider. Two months’ money is not very much. Not enough for me to afford a Maserati. But then, I don’t drive. Not really. Not like Jimmy. Plus I could get a job in the City. I could go to work with Adam. I could buy Luke some proper grey suits and really inhabit him. Or I could just devote my time to researching book number four.

‘Okay,’ I say.

Prakesh hands me a settlement agreement and tells me to see a lawyer. Why is everyone so obsessed with lawyers? Only the guilty need them, right? The confessedly guilty.

‘Am I free to go, then?’ I ask. It reminds of all those police interviews over the years. The second set, after the accident, I was just ‘helping the police with their inquiries’, so I generally was free to leave. So I would go, leaving them to listen back to the hour after hour of me on tape, telling them nothing of importance. Luckily, Adam didn’t give them book two. Or they might have found their motive. But in the first set of interviews, in the years before that, it was a mistake to ask that question. Because I wasn’t free to leave at all.

Prakesh tells me I can go. Eight knees move away from each other under the table as we push our chairs back.

‘Do I need to clear out my locker?’ I ask, walking towards it.

Prakesh shakes his head.

‘You’ll have plenty of opportunity later,’ he says, ‘after you’ve signed the agreement.’

‘And am I supposed to be working until I’ve signed it?’ I ask.

Again, Prakesh shakes his head. ‘You’re still suspended, mate. Plenty of time to write your diary.’

Steve snickers. I consider punching him again. But they would probably reduce the settlement to one month’s money. Besides, I have done my research now, about what fist against jaw sounds like. Were I to attack again, it would need to be with a different implement. A knife, say.

So I just nod at them all, and head for the door.

Outside, I catch a flash of red.

Nicole and her beret! Watching me again?

No. Just sun on Skoda.

No Nicole, with her midnight frowns.

I run over to Hendon station. Crossing the bridge over the railway line, I see a train approaching. If I run faster, swipe my Oyster, I could just make it. I can go wherever it’s going. Luke could do with the exercise, so I start to sprint. I build up speed, pushing people out of the way so I can reach my goal. As I come level with the station hut, the slope running down to the car park, I might just make it. But then I see the cars. And Adam.

Not Adam himself. Just essence of Adam. His car, the rear end sticking out beyond the rest of the cars in the car park, calling to me. I speed up my run, racing Luke to the car.

Who would win the race? [Breathe] Would the last lunge across the line make the difference? [Breathe] Would his opponent recover himself? [Breathe] Or would this be the end for Luke’s ambitions?[Last breath?]

Book four could end on a cliff-hanger, like that. Although I’m not sure who Luke’s opponent would be. Or why the race to the finish would be so important. I haven’t got that far in the plotting.

I slam into the back of the car, reaching my goal. I double over, recovering myself. There’s still a way for Luke to go, or for me to go, on the fitness stakes, if I want to seduce a girl by way of research. Which I do. I need to – want doesn’t come into it.

Behind me, I hear the train gather up speed again. I’ve missed my moment. I run my hands over the boot of Adam’s smooth black vehicle. Even the licence plate gleams, its personalised personality shining through. ‘AN12 XXX’. A gift from Nicole on their wedding day. I wish the plate was dirtier, less well looked after. I could give him another personalised plate, with my settlement money – fasten my love to both ends of the car. But I’d probably get the message wrong, overdo it, like with book two, and he’d leave it languishing in the garage. Nicole would win, again.

I imagine him waxing and polishing, the strokes of his hand over its shining skin, working so furiously that his wrist aches. I trace my hand over it too, so I can share in his rhythm. Back and forth I imagine us going, back and forth together.

But I’m kidding myself. He will pay someone else to clean it. This car hasn’t been touched, loved, by Adam at all. His fun happens inside it, controlling it, commanding its journey along the road. Without him in it, it’s dead. Adam inside gives things their significance, their importance. Things such as Nicole.

I hear another train. This time, I will catch it.

Leaving Adam’s car behind me, I run up the slope, into the station building, swipe my Oyster and run down the steps to the platform. I take a quick glance at the indicator. Perfect! An Adam train. I enter, pushing myself between the doors. Question is, shall I get off at Adam Central, aka West Hampstead, where he will not be now, or Adam City, aka Farringdon, and find him at work? Perhaps it’s too needy to follow him to work – although I could do with his advice on the lawyer. Besides, Nicole is as much use to me as he is, right now, given her significance, for my research. And with him out, she will be alone.

Chapter 14

Have you ever experienced that sensation, when you arrive in the area where your best-loved lives, of being watched? Not in a sinister way, a Nicole way, but in an expectant way. As I step out on West Hampstead station, I feel the Adam bubble surround me. He may not be here right now, he may be at work, but I am here to serve his purpose – for my purpose is his purpose, really – and I can feel his spirit know that. ‘Behold,’ it says, ‘here is your servant come to wait upon your wife.’ It would be more accurate if it said, ‘Behold, here is your servant come to wait upon your wife, then seduce her for his research; think how close master and servant again will be.’ But it cannot know everything, and the fact of a beneficent eye watching me is enough.

Unfortunately, though, not all eyes are beneficent.

Some eyes drive brown cars.

In particular, some police eyes drive brown cars. A particular brown car. One I came to know quite well after the accident, because it kept appearing outside my home, and Adam’s home.

So when I see it parked at the top of Narcissus Road, I know police eyes are nearby.

And not just any police eyes. The piercing eyes of DC Pearce. The man to whom I owe my honed knowledge of lawyers, handcuffs and coffee machines. To add to all the ones I had, that first time, years ago, when it wasn’t him.

DC Pearce and his detective act. He was a very good actor. Method, probably. I can imagine him spending his childhood acting like a detective, wearing a mac, inspecting things with a magnifying glass, throwing flour over doorknobs, pretending he was dusting for finger prints. My parents bought me a kit like that, once. Adam and I tried to snort the flour, like normal kids. I hadn’t wanted to, but Adam had made me. It felt wrong – a present they’d given me, when they were alive. Snorting it, when they were dead. Adam said it was like what people used to do with snuff. That it would be fun. Adam said a lot of things.

And here is DC Pearce’s car, at the top of Narcissus Road.

The car is empty, so Pearce must be on the roam. Detecting. Further down the road. With Nicole, maybe? His fellow watcher.

I could just run.

I could run back to the train, catch it all the way to Adam City.

But actually, there’s no time for that. Because DC Pearce is walking right towards me.

Chapter 15

Still the mac. Still the cigar. Still, too, presumably, his Columbo box set back at home, viewing guide covered with top tips for that one last question.

New, this time, though, is the woman by his side. A redhead. Not beret red, like Nicole. A real redhead. Pearce has lent her a mac, although he’s spared her the cigar. Fine. So they’re both the same school. More playing at being detectives. Which means I’ll need to play at being the innocent. Whatever it is I’m supposed to have done now. Adam wouldn’t have called them, would he? About my Jesus antics last night? Would Nicole?

DC Pearce smirks when he sees me. He mutters something to his colleague and points his cigar in my direction. She stares at me and nods to herself. She drops one step behind DC Pearce.

‘Danny boy!’ says DC Pearce. ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear!’

I’ve missed his sense of humour.

So has he.

I extend my hand to shake his.

‘DC Pearce,’ I say.

‘DS,’ he corrects me.

Oh. A promotion. Surely not for anything involving me, or Helen. He hasn’t solved anything, yet, so far as I know.

‘Visiting our mutual friend, are you?’ DS Pearce booms. ‘Or that lovely wife of his, hey?’ I expect he would slap me on the back, if I would let him close enough. Burn a hole in my back with his cigar.

‘Sarge, should we really be mentioning …?’ says the redhead, in what she probably hopes is a whisper.

I look at DS Pearce and I think I detect a hint of an eye-roll.

‘Allow me to introduce my colleague,’ says Pearce. ‘Danny boy, this is DC Huhne, newly promoted.’ He winks at me. ‘We were all delighted when we heard she was going to shed her uniform.’

I see the woman’s jaw clench, but then a professional smile replaces it. Cold, courteous, functional. She extends her hand.

‘Mr Millard,’ she says.

Interesting. She already knows my surname. DS Pearce notices me notice. He has not been promoted for nothing. He leans forward.

‘We’ve been talking about you,’ he whispers conspiratorially.

‘Why?’ I ask, as if I want to know. Much better just to say ‘Good for you’, and walk off down the road.

Instead of answering, DS Pearce holds his palm out flat and looks at the sky.

‘Raining, Danny boy,’ he says.

‘No it isn’t,’ I say. I know his routine, what’s coming.

‘Yes, it is, isn’t it, Debbie?’ he says to the woman. She doesn’t answer, but pulls her mac tighter round herself. Good dog, well-trained. She’ll be rewarded with a biscuit later. Maybe a congratulatory cigar fed into that other sphincter.

‘Danny boy, why don’t you shelter in our car, until the worst of it’s eased off, hey?’ Pearce asks rhetorically, unlocking the car, and holding open the passenger door.

‘Are you going to handcuff me?’ I ask.

‘Are you going to resist our questions?’ Huhne counters.

I think about the cold hard steel on my wrists. I think about it on Nicole’s wrists. It would be better suited there. Different setting, same idea.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Right. Come on then,’ says Pearce. ‘Maybe Debbie will show you her cuffs, later, if you’re nice to her. Hey, Debbie?’

Debbie inclines her head, in what may be amusement, or agreement, or ‘I’ll sue you for harassment, you lecherous bastard’. As she walks to the rear doors of the car to get in, I notice that the heel of her shoe clacks and grinds along the pavement, a nail exposed. Too much street-walking. A sign of diligence, in a detective. Perhaps that’s what got her promoted, not her attractiveness as a side-kick.

DS Pearce’s shoes squeak. Still. Even so, they are effective to stamp out the light in his half-finished cigar.

I expect us to drive to the police station. Instead, Pearce offers me a doughnut – Krispy Kreme, sugar glaze – and puts on Classic FM.

‘Mozart’s good for the brain,’ he says. ‘Scientifically proven to help you think.’

‘What are you thinking about?’ I ask.

‘Not a lot,’ he says.

What would be a silence is filled first by violins, then by DC Huhne.

‘We’ve had fresh information,’ says Huhne. ‘From an informant.’

‘Who?’ I ask. Then, ‘About what?’

‘How many things are you entangled with the police about, Danny?’ asks Huhne, half-joking, half-inspecting his doughnut. ‘The same old thing: your friend’s dead wife.’

For a moment I think he means Nicole is dead. My stomach does an excited jump. Then I realise he means Helen. My stomach settles again. At least this means Adam hasn’t phoned in about last night. I should never have thought that of him – too treacherous.

‘We’re duty bound to investigate it,’ continues Huhne.

Pearce takes a bite of his doughnut.

‘What my enthusiastic colleague means is that we’re duty bound to be seen to investigate it.’ He cocks his head at Huhne. ‘She’ll learn.’

‘So what are we doing now?’ I ask.

‘Going through the motions,’ says Pearce.

I nod, as though this means something.

‘Nicole?’ I ask.

‘We couldn’t possibly say,’ says Huhne.

Pearce licks at some glaze and smacks his lips.

‘Is getting hit by someone on the dodgems fresh evidence?’ I ask.

‘Certain suspicions have been raised,’ says Huhne. ‘We have to take them seriously.’ She is just showing off now, trying to tell me and/or Pearce that she knows what she’s doing, isn’t just a piece of skirt. Pearce flicks a look at her in the rear-view mirror. Then he turns round to regard her properly. Huhne pulls her skirt over her knees.

‘What the lovely Debbie means is that, because the dear deceased lady’s father still insists on paying most of our salaries through his taxes, we have to show willing,’ adds Pearce.

Oh. The money thing again. Right.

‘So we can say we took you in for questioning, and we didn’t have cause to arrest you,’ Pearce elaborates.

‘Or even caution me.’

‘And everyone’s happy,’ says Pearce, mouth downturned.

‘I wasn’t on the original investigation,’ says Huhne. ‘So humour me.’

I wonder if this is good cop bad cop. Or lazy cop keen cop. If they’ve planned all of this.

‘What were you doing on the night in question?’ asks Huhne.

‘February nineteenth?’ I ask.

‘What other night would I be talking about?’ she asks.

I shrug.

‘Is there another night you want to talk to us about?’ she questions, not letting it drop. I was right – diligent.

‘No,’ I say. Which is true. I don’t want to talk about it. To her.

‘So what were you doing?’

Pearce answers for me. ‘He was looking after his aunt, i.e. doing fuck all while she slept.’

‘No, I wasn’t. I was working on a book.’ Because I was, in a way. Book three.

‘Oh, are you a published author?’ asks Huhne. I wonder if she will ask for my autograph if I say yes.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not yet. But I will be soon. I’m working on something new. My best work yet.’

‘I’ve always wanted to write a novel,’ says Pearce.

‘You need convincing characters,’ I tell him. I consider telling him about the method, then think better of it. I’m still not sure how that’s going to end.

‘Ah, sod it. And here I was, just thinking I could write about all the fiction you spin us,’ says Pearce.

I shift in my seat.

‘Don’t worry, Danny boy. I’m messing with you. We’ve no reason to believe you’re lying about this one, have we, Debbie?’

‘Not about this one,’ she says. I think she is still thinking about the February 19th question. ‘But we’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

‘Am I free to go?’ I ask Pearce.

‘Yes,’ says Pearce.

‘For now,’ adds Huhne. I can’t tell whether it’s a line from police school or whether she means it.

I get out of the car. ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you, too, Debbie,’ I say. It’s meant to be a pick-up, but she doesn’t respond. Pearce, does though, chuckling to himself.

‘A man after my own heart,’ he says.

I slam the door shut and follow the brown VW with my eyes as it drives away.

It leads me down the street, where I see a flash of red. This time, it is Nicole.

Chapter 16

We stand at opposite ends of the street, Nicole and I.

The grown-up thing to do would be for me to walk up to her and confront her, before she can go back inside. Ask her if she is telling stories to the police. Ask her what Adam would say. Ask her if she really intends to rob me of my liberty. That would not help me with my quest, though. Or rather, the second quest. The first quest was in book three – I realised that at the time, that it was one of those sorts of stories. This one, I suppose, is a quest too. One per book is a suitable ratio. This time, the elixir Luke must return with, as they used to say in those writing classes, is a woman. And Nicole is the woman. So I must journey to her centre, return with what I need, for Luke, to understand, the closeness. And for me to get my Adam fix.

The immature – and more useful – approach, which I intend to take, is just to turn away, back to the station. To pretend none of it has happened. I am just about to do this when the red blob starts walking towards me.

‘Dan,’ she calls. ‘Hi there!’

Is this normal? Being greeted by a person who has presumably just told the police she suspects you of being at best a careless driver and a liar, at worst a murderer?

There is still time to turn, to pretend I haven’t heard her, to rush back to the station in pursuit of a train. Playing hard to get, or something, it can be. But instead, I stay where I am, and let her come to me.

‘What brings you here?’ she asks.

So. She is playing the innocent.

‘The police,’ I say, wanting to see her reaction.

She handles it well.

‘The police?’ she asks, eyes wide. Not quite as wide as when she looked at me after the dodgems, but wide enough.

‘They threatened to handcuff me,’ I say.

‘But what for?’ she asks.

‘Do you like handcuffs, Nicole?’ I ask, since we are doing direct questioning.

‘What for?’ she repeats.

‘For the person not wearing the handcuffs to do all sort of exotic things to the person wearing them,’ I say, pretending I think we’re not talking about the police.

‘What were the police here for, Dan?’ she persists.

DS Pearce is much better at this kind of thing than I am. Maybe that’s because he is actually attracted to the person he is sleazing at. I need the practice.

‘About Helen,’ I say.

‘Helen?’ Nicole repeats at me. I think I see the flicker of satisfaction around the edge of her lips. Well, I’m not going to let her have that satisfaction.

‘Someone gave them a tip-off about me. But they don’t believe it. Just going through the motions. Their words, not mine.’

Nicole does a little frown, so quick you wouldn’t notice, unless you were looking for it. But she will not give up that easily in her little game.

‘You, involved in Helen’s death?’ she asks. ‘Why on earth would they think that?’

‘I told you,’ I say. ‘They don’t.’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘I mean, that’s good. I can’t imagine, you doing that to Adam. To Helen.’

‘Can’t you?’ I ask, trying to get her to hold my gaze.

She manages it. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Still,’ she continues, ‘the police should take it seriously, any fresh information.’

I shrug. ‘Not if it’s without foundation.’

‘But how do they know, unless they investigate?’

I want to ask ‘So you think they’d find I killed Helen, then, if they investigate it, this little tip-off of yours?’ But if I do that, I might as well abandon book four. She’ll think I’m out for her blood. For that book, when it comes to it, I can gag and I can bind to my character’s content, stop her telling little tales. She will have handcuffs then, whether she likes it or not:

The ties are fast around her mouth. Next door, the water boils, for their feast. The lobster, restrained, will soon be ready. There’ll just be time to finish devouring, before her husband arrives.

Nicole keeps speaking, making the most of her current freedom.

‘You won’t mind me not asking you in for tea, will you?’ she says. ‘It’s just that I’m on my way out and …’

She casts her eyes down to the pavement. If she really doesn’t want to look at me, I’d be happy to blindfold her. That’s part of the plot of book four too.

‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I understand. You can walk with me to the station.’

She flicks her eyes up, panicked. ‘Actually, I just need to pick up one or two things from inside. I don’t want to keep you.’

Very well, then. I’ll visit Adam in the City. Nicole will be a slow burn. The flames will keep flickering beneath her, I’ll be sure of that – she won’t keep me from visiting Adam, visiting her. It is through Adam I will win her. For Luke, always for Luke. And it is through her I will again be close to Adam.

This time, as I walk back to the station, there is no comforting feeling of a benevolent eye. Pearce is watching me. Huhne is watching me. Nicole follows me all the way from Narcissus Road. She disguises it well. Every time I turn around, and see that flash of red, there is just a pillar box, or a holly bush, or a robin redbreast. She hides that split-second before I turn round, you see. She has chosen her urban camouflage wisely. She’ll follow me until she finds what she’s looking for. Good, in a way, if she likes to get close. That’s what I’m after. But what worries me is that she will stop me seeing Adam. I mean, not really, because no one can stop me seeing Adam – he’ll always be there, in my mind’s eye. But she might stop me being in Adam’s presence. Permanently. If she manages to get me arrested. So she will definitely need to be gagged, long term.

As she sits behind me, watching me, on the train, she disguises herself when I turn around as the emergency stop handle. Infantile behaviour, but clever – she knows I will never close my hands around that, throttling it to stop the train moving along into Adam City. So she can just sit and wait and watch, gathering her ‘evidence’, wearing a mac, playing police, in league with Huhne, in league with them all. Possibly, even, in league with Adam.

Chapter 17

Reaching Adam does not take long. Rather, reaching his office. Reaching him is a different matter.

It’s just a matter of a simple train journey from West Hampstead to Farringdon. We always used to get the train together, Adam and I, so it’s odd to be taking it alone. When I say together, I allow for the fact we were in separate carriages. We had a little ritual, after we were released. Adam’s parents sent both of us to college to get our A-levels. Different colleges, but the same train-line went to both, if you made a few changes. I made a few changes. First of all, I had to get the train to Staines. It wasn’t that far from Uxbridge, where Adam’s parents had rented me a flat. I could have used my inheritance then, to rent it, but they said they felt in loco parentis, that they’d let me down. Being in loco parentis didn’t mean they treated Adam and I as brothers. We were to be separated. Luckily, I fought back for the both of us. Every morning, I made sure we boarded the same train. Every evening, after Adam came out of his college full of maths and economics, I would walk to the station with him (well, behind him). My bag had business administration in it but my brain didn’t. My brain was full of Adam. On the last day of college, after exams, Adam dropped back to talk to me. It was nice to hear him talk about how well he’d done. He sounded so clever, so self-assured. We sat next to each other on the train and he told me more about it. I asked if he wanted to come back to my flat. He couldn’t. He had a date. He got off the train two stops early. I stayed on.

From Farringdon, I take the Tube to Liverpool Street. People in dark suits zap around holding document cases. I do not exist to them; I have to stand aside in the street to let them past otherwise we would just collide, and I would have to apologise. I try to be how Luke must be – imagine the suited swagger, battering people out of the way with his broad chest. I make an attempt but I don’t have the armour, so I am knocked off the pavement into the gutter. Nicole is close behind me, I know without looking. The red ties and poppies that people are wearing remind me. Nicole and I are like the poppy really – I am that deep black circular centre, and she is the red, constantly surrounding me, but flimsy. I could tear her away in an instant. But Luke in all his greenery is our stem, uniting us. Pinned to Adam until he chooses to cast us off.

Adam’s building is like a granite spaceship. I step on an escalator at street level, and am carried up and up through dazzling black and glass, until I reach reception. They won’t let me past the security barriers without an appointment, so I phone Adam and try to make one. His mobile is off. I sit down on a cream leather sofa next to the barriers and consider my next move. As I do so, I see one of the side gates open, and a man comes out, depositing a pass on the counter. The gate is still open. The receptionists are busy with new visitors. I could slide through it, if I go now, now NOW!

And I’m in.

But I don’t know where Adam is to be found. I walk to what I think are lifts, but there are no buttons to press, just a small digital display on the granite pillars between each one. I stand staring at them. A suited man appears beside me.

‘Infra-red,’ he says, holding his pass to one of the displays. ‘Visitor?’ he asks.

‘Yes,’ I say.

There is the sound of an ocean. I can’t think why and then I see the man go into the lift. I was expecting a ‘ping’ but apparently here tsunamis announce ascension. I get into the lift with him.

‘Which floor?’ he asks.

‘Banking,’ I say.

He stares at me. I try to remember more detail about where Adam works, and my brain delivers a name. The suited man nods.

‘Me, too,’ he says, waving his pass at another digital – or is it infra-red? – display. The lift starts to carry us up. ‘Who are you here to see?’

‘Adam,’ I say. The man waits expectantly. Apparently there is more than one Adam. ‘Lomax,’ I add.

The man nods and the lift door opens. I wonder if that is his party trick.

I follow him through to another reception. Women with red neck scarves sit behind a shiny white curve, blocking my way.

‘Good meeting, Mr Shipley?’ asks one of the women.

‘Nothing to the pleasure of seeing you,’ Mr Shipley replies.

The woman smiles and blushes lobster-red to match her scarf. I wonder how many times a day she has to do that, whether it’s stipulated in the job description.

Mr Shipley does a sideways head movement in my direction.

‘He’s here to see Adam Lomax,’ says Mr Shipley.

The women notice me for the first time.

‘Take a seat, sir,’ one of them says, dismissing me. ‘He’ll be right with you.’

I sit down on another white leather sofa and wait. Beyond the receptionists is a city of glass. Glass rooms interconnect with other glass rooms through glass corridors. Everyone can see everyone – but they can’t touch them. Inside their little glass boxes, they strut around, men standing, women sitting. Imprisoned, in their own way. I spot Adam in one of the closer rooms. I see him talking but there is no one in the room with him. Then I see a blue glow emanating from his face. Bluetooth. Or digital. Or infra-red. Nothing physical. Adam looks up in my direction, and he nods to me. I nod back. He doesn’t come out, though. I can see him, can communicate with him, but I still cannot get close.

Finally, Adam walks out of the room, through the glass maze, and opens a glass door into the reception area. His poppy sits on his jacket lapel, pretending it is an innocent icon. He winks at the receptionists as they walk past. This time they’re not just blushing because it says they must in their job description. They must think he’s flirting, but he’s not. Or rather, he is, but it’s not sexual. He flirts with everyone, makes them feel loved, gives them a promise of sharing with him. It’s up to him whether he delivers. With me, he doesn’t need the routine – I know what we mean to each other.

‘What brings you here, mate?’ he asks, shaking my hand because we are in business world. The additional touch on the elbow is a concession to our friendship.

‘They mentioned Feltham,’ I say.

‘Shh!’ Adam looks over his shoulder at the receptionist. ‘Not here,’ he whispers, turning back to me.

‘I thought everyone here knew?’ I ask.

‘Not everyone,’ he says. ‘Come with me, we’ll go somewhere private.’

He leads me through the glass labyrinth and I wonder how we can possibly be private with everyone watching us. He takes me back into the room he was in earlier, when I arrived.

‘Soundproof,’ he says

I wonder if they are also bullet proof – I imagine one shot being fired and shattering all the offices into tiny shards, people and rooms fragmenting.

‘Who mentioned Feltham?’ asks Adam. ‘HR or the police?’

He knew, then, that the police were coming?

‘HR weren’t there,’ I say. ‘It was my colleague, Prakesh. Why would the police be there?’

Adam shrugs. There is a little bit of sweat on his forehead. He takes off his jacket, so that the poppy is no longer next to his heart. I would like to pin it to his shirt, let the pin graze his naked skin, but I resist.

‘So why did Prakesh mention it?’ Adam asks.

‘Previous conduct,’ I say.

‘Did you indecently assault anyone at work?’ he asks.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Not at work.’

Adam looks at me.

‘No,’ I say again, more conclusively.

‘So it’s not relevant,’ he says. ‘And besides, it’s a spent conviction.’

I nod. ‘That’s what I told them.’

Adam flicks through some paperwork on his desk.

‘So, what else did you talk about?’ he asks, studying a bit of paper.

‘Jeremy Bond.’

Adam looks up at that.

‘What about him?’

‘Loaning cars to him without proper paperwork, who he was, all that kind of stuff.’

‘You didn’t tell them anything?’

‘No,’ I say.

Adam takes a breath. ‘Good,’ he says.

It’s nice of him, always to be so concerned about me.

He goes back to looking at his papers.

‘They’re keeping an eye on me, the police,’ I say. ‘They were at Narcissus Road. I think Nicole called them.’

Adam frowns.

‘About last night? She said she wouldn’t.’

I shake my head. ‘About Helen.’

Adam stands up and thumps the table. The people in the glass boxes nearby look up. He sits down again.

‘Mate, you’ve got it wrong. Why would Nic do that?’

‘Are you saying I’m paranoid?’

He doesn’t answer. I think about the red that followed me on the train. There was no way that could be paranoia.

‘She’s outside now, if you want,’ I say.

‘What? Where?’ asks Adam, looking around.

‘You won’t be able to see her,’ I warn him. ‘She’s hiding. Biding her time.’

‘Right.’ He nods. There is a pause. He does, he thinks I’m paranoid. ‘Well, I won’t disturb her now, but I’ll talk to her. Tell you what – we’ll go out to dinner, all three of us, start over. Lobster and champagne – our treat.’

‘Do you need me to do the kill?’ I ask.

He looks at me blankly.

‘The lobster,’ I say. ‘Do you want me to kill it for you?’

Adam laughs. ‘No, mate – the chef does that for you. Lobster halves, all nicely cut up, bit of mayo.’

‘Oh,’ I say. I thought I could have been of use. ‘I’ll get a suit.’

‘No need to dress up, mate, it’s just us.’

‘With the money,’ I say. ‘They offered me a settlement agreement.’

‘I’ll have my lawyer look over it,’ Adam offers.

‘One of those nice suits, in Moss Bross.’

‘You don’t want a suit, mate. Have one of my old ones – you’ll have to lose that gut though.’ He slaps my stomach. His hand pauses there. ‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Seems you already have.’

‘I’ve been running,’ I say. ‘You can see if you like.’ I start to untuck my polo shirt under his hand.

He jerks his hand away.

‘You’re in a glass box, mate – not the time to show off your abs!’

I nod.

‘Maybe later,’ he says. ‘Show them off to me and Nic.’ He winks at me. I am beyond blushing. Instead, I think about how we can have a best torso competition. The loser has to eat lobster off the abs of the winner.

‘Anyway, mate, you don’t spend your cash on a suit,’ Adam tells me. ‘Live a little. Get something that makes your heart race.’

I wonder if he knows what he’s inviting.

Chapter 18

The indecent assault thing didn’t make my heart race, back then. Or at least, not in the way Adam means. Mostly, I was just worried about us getting caught. We didn’t, but she told on us. So we got caught out. It was bad form, Adam said, to kiss and tell. Sometimes I want to do that, but I can’t, so I write it instead. But I can never publish. Unless of course I use a pseudonym. But that seems kind of dishonest. Plus the people I most want to know my story never will.

Even though she was a slut, who, as Adam said, was asking for it, she never got ‘it’. It was just touching. Adam started it, when we were alone with her, in the common room. They let girls join our sixth-form. ‘It’s just for girls who want to shag through their A-levels,’ Adam told me. That was a bit odd, because they mostly just huddled in a group by themselves when we tried to talk to them. ‘They’re playing hard to get,’ Adam had said.

So he suggested we ‘get’ one of them. We were in the common room, late, one winter evening – I’d been waiting for Adam to come back from football so we could walk home together. I’d been chatting to Olivia. She was in my English class. We were discussing Daphne du Maurier when Adam strode in, full of testosterone and sweat. He invited us to feel his shirt, so we did, flattered by the invitation. Then he said we should all feel each other’s shirts. Underneath. Olivia wasn’t keen, but she obliged, because that’s what you do when Adam asks you something. But then Adam wanted to be underneath everything. He said I had to as well, unless I was a faggot – how could I touch him and not her? He put my hand on her. In her. While he held her down.

But that doesn’t really count, as experience. Which is annoying, given the months we had to pay for it. I tried to stop Adam having to pay for it, said it was my idea, my fault, but the girl told a different story.

The time inside, with Adam, was not of itself a problem. But here’s the rub: Luke still needs experience.

The alternative is this, which would not go well:

Luke surveyed her lying on the bed. Finally, he had her here. So he unzipped his trousers, lifted her skirt, turned her over, and wondered what exactly he ought to do.

No. So I need to find out, for Luke, what he ought to do, so that when he does it, with Nicole, he does it right. Because that time will really matter. For Luke and I both to experience the closeness that we need. And indeed, I need to test that he can do it at all. Because it’s not clear whether his heart will race, and his blood will pump, in the right way. And if that doesn’t work, he will not really get close, where it counts.

I get the Tube to Moss Bros in Oxford Street first. Nicole is with me for the whole journey in the red of the Central Line. At first I think she hasn’t followed me out of the station but then, just as I get to Moss Bros, I am nearly hit by a red bus zooming up at me from behind. I shake my head as I hurry into the shop. Nicole really is out to get me.

Inside the shop, there is no red. No femininity. Just suits for men. I decide to hire, not buy. That way, I will still have some cash left, for the other needs. I hire the best one they have – it even has tails.

‘You going to a wedding?’ asks the assistant.

‘No,’ I say. ‘Are you?’ I will need to practise small talk, for later.

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