Killing Cupid (27 page)

The exact details of our conversation elude me, but it turns out that the woman was a friend of Kathy’s. She – the friend – had been away for a year somewhere, and had only just heard about Kathy’s death, and couldn’t believe she’d fallen off a fire escape. Apparently Kathy had never done it before – although, I mean, surely one can only fall from the top of a fire escape once? I didn’t really understand what she was on about, if the truth be told, but it was nice to talk to somebody sympathetic.

We chatted for some time – enough time for me to have another gin – and it got me thinking even more about how crap my life is. I mean, Kathy and I were actually pretty good friends. We certainly could have been. I really liked her.

‘I really liked her,’ I found myself sobbing down the phone. ‘She was a really, really good friend to me. I miss her so much.’

I’m not sure, but I think the woman on the end of the line was crying too. ‘So do I,’ she said. ‘And I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.’

‘Nor did I,’ I said, the tears coming thick and fast, dripping into the melting ice-cubes in my glass. ‘It’s not fair, is it? Nothing’s bloody fair.’

Nothing was fair. I mean, look at me. No boyfriend, no book, no job, no friends – and all the time Alex and Emily rubbing my nose in it with their smugness, and him about to get a publishing deal, knowing my wretched luck; and her laughing behind my back and wanting to give me a piece of her fat mind. The woman was saying something else.

‘Wha’?’ I think I might have been slurring my words slightly.

‘I said, did you go to the funeral? I couldn’t even get back for the funeral.’

‘Yes, I went,’ I said, fresh tears coming at the memory of that sad, sad day.

‘Did you know any of Kathy’s friends?’

‘Nobody. I didn’t know anybody there at all – oh, except Alex Parkinson. He was there.’

‘Alex Parkinson from your writing class?’

That was odd. I didn’t realize this woman knew about my class. And how did she know who Alex was? In fact, why was she ringing?

‘Yes. Why did you ring me, again?’ I was gradually becoming aware that I sounded a little odd.

‘Like I said just now, I want to talk to everyone who knew Kathy. I can’t believe that her death was an accident. The police aren’t doing anything.’

And there I was thinking she’d just rung to offer her condolences. Still, I was shocked to the core.

‘You mean, you think Kathy was murdered?’

‘I don’t know. But I know she wouldn’t have killed herself. So, were Alex and Kathy friends?’

I tried to remember, but all I could think about was Alex coming back home with me after the funeral, and us having a row about the clothes he’d bought on my credit card.

‘No. Don’t think so. He only came to the funeral because he was in love with me and guessed I’d be there.’

There was a sort of disgusted silence at the end of the line. It was only later I realized that that statement didn’t put me in the best possible light. But it was true! That was the day Alex confessed his feelings for me, and, like an idiot, I kicked him out. Why am I such a moron? True love stared me in the face and I turned it away. And now he’s all over Emily.

The woman hung up soon after that. Still don’t really understand why she rang or what she wanted.

The rest of the day passed in something of a blur. I forgot about the rat for a while and had a little sleep on the sofa. It was only later when Biggles jumped up onto my chest and demanded to be fed that I remembered, and pushed him off, imagining him breathing dead rat in my face.

The sealed-up jiffy bag was still outside the back door and, in my defence, I was still dizzy from the gin. I laughed at the thought that it looked like an exciting mail-order present, a nice, fat parcel waiting to be opened. I could just pop it in the post, I thought. It should just fit through the slot of that letterbox on the corner, if I flatten it a bit. But who could I send it to?

I didn’t have to think about it for all that long, just long enough to look up Alex’s address in my college records, write her name c/o him on a label, whack it on the jiffy bag and walk to the postbox.

I think I’m still a little bit drunk, even after that walk. Better just go to bed.

Chapter 28

Alex

Thursday

Emily had to take the day off work yesterday, most of which she spent in my bed, eating sweets (her diet forgotten) and listening to an Eighties compilation album over and over. She said she couldn’t face seeing anyone after receiving ‘the parcel’, as it became known, euphemistically. A dead rat. Someone had sent her a dead rat. It was unbelievable. And the thing that made it worse was that Emily had a terrible fear of those long-toothed, long-tailed rodents. She had told me about it one night, lying in bed, when we were talking about things that scared us. Emily had said, ‘When I read
1984
I didn’t need to imagine what would be in my Room 101, because it was right there in the book. Rats.’ She had shivered at the thought of it.

And I shivered at the thought of who might have sent it to her. The more I turned it over in my mind, trying to persuade myself that I must be mistaken, the more I was convinced. If I hadn’t seen Siobhan talking to Emily, I would never have considered her as a suspect. But it was too much of a coincidence. I quizzed Emily, trying to find out if she’d made any enemies recently, but she was adamant that she’s never had any enemies, apart from a couple of girls at school who used to pick on her for having puppy fat. Plus she couldn’t believe that any ‘aggrieved authors’ could have discovered her home address, let alone her boyfriend’s address. She was upset and bewildered, unable to figure out what she’d done and to whom.

But what the hell can I do about it? I can’t tell Emily about Siobhan. I can’t go to the police. Part of me thinks I should contact Siobhan, talk to her, ask her why she’s doing this. I mean, I paid back the money I owed her. I’m out of her life now, moving on. I just don’t get it. If she’s trying to get revenge against me, why is she sending stuff to Emily? What is she trying to achieve?

And although I’d like to know the answers to my questions, I know that if I contact her it’s bound to make things worse. I just have to hope that now she’s carried out her little act of revenge, she’ll be satisfied and stop. So, for now, I’m going to be an ostrich and bury my head. But if she does any more to hurt Emily, well…

I’ll have to do something.

Just typing this is making me feel weak and sick. It’s all I need at the moment, what with Kathy’s friend and everything else. My life feels like that scene in
Star Wars
when Luke, Han and Leia are in the waste disposal room, up to their waists in shit, when the walls start closing in.

Except I’ve got no R2-D2 to save me.

Friday

This morning, at 11am, something wonderful happened.

I was sitting in my bedroom, brooding about the Emily/Siobhan problem, trying to decide if I’d be better off in Tibet, chilling out with a bunch of monks - women and sin forsaken forever – when the telephone rang.

Whenever the phone rings in this flat it might as well be a death knell, or the sound of a harpie calling me to the rocks. Sighing, I dragged myself to the living room and said a tentative, ‘Hello?’

‘May I speak to Alex Parkinson?’ said a shockingly-posh, strangely-familiar voice.

‘That’s me.’

‘Ah, Alex.’ A kind of purr came into her voice, the sound a cat might make when it spies an exquisitely juicy mouse, and that’s when I realised who it was. It was Pernilla. And as soon as it struck me, I had to sit down, my heartbeat almost drowning out her voice. ‘I’m calling to tell you that I absolutely love your stories.’

I can’t recall every word of the conversation: it seemed too unreal. But she went on to tell me that while she had been exceedingly sceptical about the literary credentials of her assistant’s boyfriend, she had been bowled over by my astonishing stories. ‘Your voice is so different yet authentic,’ she said. ‘I was thrilled – and also a little disturbed – by the way you got inside the mind of a chap who is so clearly on the edge of sanity in
The Long Drop
. Wonderful.’ I soaked up the praise like a desert welcoming rain. And after she’d buttered me up for a while, she told me that unfortunately they couldn’t afford to offer me a ludicrous advance like those I might have read about in the Sunday papers, mainly because short story collections are not huge money-spinners. But they could offer £5000 for a book of short stories and then we could talk about a novel. ‘I think this could be the beginning of a long, successful career.’

I was reeling, hardly able to speak, and at the end of the call Pernilla said, ‘Well, I’ll let you absorb all this, then maybe you could call me after the weekend and we’ll set up a meeting to talk about the book and your future.’ She emitted an extra loud purr. ‘I shall tell Emily to pick up a bottle of something fizzy on the way home.’

When I put the phone down I didn’t know what to do. I felt as if someone had stuck a needleful of adrenaline into my heart. All my problems were forgotten and I was pumped full of energy, sparkle, joy. I wanted to call Emily but I knew she’d be sitting right next to Pernilla and would know about it already. I desperately wanted to spread the news – I needed a megaphone and a rooftop. I even had an urge to call Mum, but knew she’d merely greet the news with a ‘So what?’

I decided to call Simon at work. He was thrilled. ‘That’s fantastic, mate. Wow. Hey, do you think one day they’ll put one of those blue plaques outside our front door: Alex Parkinson, Novelist, lived here? We’ll have to go out to celebrate later. Tell you what, I’ll call the Indian and book a table and the four of us can go out. Or is the Indian not good enough for you writers? I guess you’d rather go the Groucho or something.’ He laughed and I laughed too, feeling even more giddy and ecstatic.

I kind of floated into my bedroom and sat down in the front of the computer. I didn’t have a megaphone and a rooftop, but I had email. I wanted to let everyone know so I composed a message, announcing my good news, and sent it to everyone in my address book, which isn’t a huge number of people, to be honest. The people on the list included my old colleagues (who would no doubt be extremely pissed off to discover that they were soon going to be selling a book with my name on the cover) and even that idiot Brian, who once foisted his email address on me at the writing class, though I’d never had cause to contact him before. The only person I removed from the list before I sent the email was Siobhan.

Then I went out for a walk. The city looked so beautiful, so alive, and I could feel its history – its resonant literary past – seeping through the cracks in the pavement which actually seemed to contain a trace of gold. I stopped off at Waterstones and found the space where my book would go, between Jefferson Parker and Adele Parks. I walked as far as the river and looked down at the grey water, the shadows of the buildings opposite reflected on its surface, and although I couldn’t see my own reflection I felt like Narcissus, absorbed by myself, feeling the coat of self-doubt and loathing I’ve worn for so long dissolving, melting away.

Later

Of course, that feeling didn’t last for long.

Emily and I had celebratory sex as soon as she got here, then we got ready for our meal with Simon and Natalie, both of whom were genuinely happy for me. We dressed in our best clothes and the flat smelled of the girls’ perfume. It was dark outside, the air crisp, streetlights shining against a deep black sky, as black as the cab that would carry us to our destination.

We were waiting for the taxi when the phone rang again. I grabbed it, thinking it might be someone responding to my email, calling to congratulate me. But, for the second time that day, in a kind of sick, twisted symmetry, someone said, ‘May I speak to Alex Parkinson?’

‘Speaking,’ I said.

She paused. ‘My name is Elaine Meadows. I was a friend of Kathy Noonan’s and I believe you went to the same writing class as her. I’ve been calling all...’

She might as well have walked into the room and delivered a karate chop to my windpipe. At the same time she was speaking I heard – as if from a great distance – Simon say, ‘The taxi’s here,’ and I must have gestured that I would be one moment, because the three of them headed out to the cab.

‘I heard that you went to Kathy’s funeral. I wondered…‘

‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘who did you want to speak to?’

‘Alex Parkinson. You said…‘

I interrupted again. ‘No, sorry – my name’s Alex Parker. I must have misheard you. You must have got the wrong number.’

I dropped the receiver. I was sweating. Why the fuck did I lie to her like that? It looked so suspicious, so obvious. I hurried towards the front door, the taxi driver sounding his horn impatiently. As I shut the door behind me, the phone began to ring again.

The meal tasted of cardboard; the wine like dirty washing-up water. I felt sick, unable to concentrate on anything. Emily joked about it, saying I must be in some kind of shock, dreaming about success. Simon raised a toast – ‘To bestsellerdom’ – and I held up my glass weakly. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t felt so happy during the afternoon; it was like coming down from E, landing so hard that it knocked all the wind out of me. Kathy’s friend had found me. It was all the fault of that arsehole Brian. If I saw him again, I’d throttle him; I’d stuff his socks full of rocks and chuck him in the Thames. It was so unfair. What the hell was I going to say if that woman called again – especially as I’d lied to her now? Goddamn, Alex – it was such a stupid thing to do.

I needed time to think. Some space, away from here, away from the flat, from London and Elaine Meadows and Siobhan and dead rats and ghosts.

‘Let’s go away,’ I said to Emily.

‘What?’

‘Let’s go for a break somewhere, to celebrate.’

Later, Emily told me that she had also been thinking about how nice it would be to go away, to help her recover from the shock of receiving the magazines and the rat. ‘Where shall we go?’