Trust No One (21 page)

“There is no
somewhere else,
” he says, and they can hear voices in the hallway coming back towards them. “She died in here,” he says. “Right there on the floor. He said my office was just how I left it, but it’s not, because when I left it Sandra was dead right there,” he says, pointing at the floor, “and when I look there hard enough I can see her. I can see all the blood,” he says, then looks at the shirt. Was shooting Sandra a formal occasion? Did he dress up for it? “I need the journal to know . . . to know I didn’t . . .” he says, then he tries to reach deeper into the hole, jamming his shoulder against the floor so hard that it hurts. “I need to know I didn’t do this.”

“It’s okay, Jerry,” Nurse Hamilton says, and she rests the shirt on the arm of the couch and walks towards him.

“It’s not okay,” he tells her, and he can remember sitting in this room writing up a storm, writing up a world of storms, all those words . . . why the hell can’t he remember the journal?

He pulls his arm out. He slumps against the desk. Terrance is back, and with him Eric. “How you getting on there, buddy?” Eric asks.

“We need to pull up the rest of the floor,” Jerry says, and gets to his feet. Pulling up the floor is exactly what they need to do. The journal will be under there, then he can find out who really killed his wife, because it couldn’t have been him. Couldn’t have been. Then he and Henry can figure out together what they’re going to do to that guy. “Gary, we need more screwdrivers and some pry bars,” he says, and when nobody reacts, he stars clapping his hands. “Come on, people, we need to get to work!”

“Umm . . .” Terrance says, and then looks to Nurse Hamilton.

“I used to rip apart houses and put them back together for a living,” Jerry says. “This will be a breeze,” he says, but nobody moves. What in the hell is wrong with them?

“We need to go,” Nurse Hamilton says. “Perhaps Terrance can look after we’re gone?”

“Who the hell is Terrance?” Jerry asks.

“I’m Terrance,” Terrance says. “Or Terry, for short.”

Jerry shakes his head. “You’re Gary. Unless . . .” Then it all makes sense. “He’s lying! If he’s lying about his name, then he’s lying about the journal!” he says, shouting now. “He found it already! He wants to be just like me! He found it when he reached under a minute ago and threw it out of range! He’s going to steal it!” He understands everything. He is Jerry Grey, a crime writer, a man who can see how things end one third of the way through, and yet he missed this one. “You killed Sandra so you could buy the house cheap!”

“Jerry . . .” Eric says, while Terrance stands still, looking stunned.

“He killed Sandra so he could steal my journal,” Jerry shouts, and then he picks up the screwdriver from the desk. He lunges with it towards Terrance, who jumps back. At the same time Eric reaches into his pocket for the gun, and Jerry realizes it’s not just Terrance that’s in on it, but all these people. They all know what happened here, they all played a part in Sandra’s death, and they’re trying to trick him into believing he did it. “You all killed her. You wanted my house and you wanted my ideas,” he says, and Eric brings his hand out of his pocket and it’s not a gun, but a syringe. They are going to poison him and make it look like a heart attack. He turns towards Eric—he has to take out the biggest threat first, and that’s when there’s a huge weight on his back as his arms are pinned to his side, and he realizes he messed up, that Eric isn’t the biggest threat at all. Nurse Hamilton has him in a bear hug. The woman who is afraid of nothing. He tries to shake her loose, but she’s too strong. Eric steps in and Jerry can see his reflection in the orderly’s glasses. A moment later the needle of the syringe punctures Jerry’s arm. Something warm floods his body, making him immediately tired. His body becomes heavy. He drops the screwdriver. It rolls across the floor and falls into the gap left by the missing floorboard.

“I didn’t see it coming,” he says, and he smiles as the world starts to disappear, and then laughs at the irony of it all. For the first time he couldn’t connect the dots. He closes his eyes and he thinks of his body on the autopsy table, the coroner saying there are no signs of poisoning, the world being led to believe that it was Captain A that took him away.

And wasn’t it exciting?

Here are some fun facts for the future. If somebody offers you a dessert, say yes. You are a dessert guy. There are plenty of guys you are not. You are not a car guy, you are not a dog guy, you are not a hip-hop guy, you’re not a sane guy but a dementia guy, and you ARE a dessert guy.

Tonight was the first dessert tasting you’ve ever been to, and in that demented little head of yours you had imagined it would be like a wine tasting (and haven’t you always wanted to go to one, swirl around a glass, and go
 . . . hmm . . . grape?
). You thought you’d hold a cake-loaded fork up to your nose, wave it around a few times, go
hmm, a hint of flour, a hint of . . . my, is that cocoa? Is that a dash of cinnamon?
A wave, a sniff, then a bite, you let your mouth fill with the taste before spitting it out onto a napkin.

It wasn’t like that, of course, and that’s not even the most exciting part about the day. You’re still feeling some kind of
rush
from what just happened, but it’s time to do that thing you do, Jerry (or should I say Henry?), that you’ve done to others over the years, and that’s get through the boring bit first. Don’t worry—it gets better.

You thought it was a restaurant you were meeting Eva and Rick at, but it was a bakery, and the owner was a friend of Rick’s aunty, or the uncle of a cousin, or somebody he was abandoned with on an island for a year, and they stayed open late so you could all meet there and gorge on two dozen different types of desserts, which got narrowed down to three for the wedding. The baker was a guy in his midforties, a good-looking guy with great hair and a great laugh who made Sandra laugh a lot, laugh a lot and touch her own hair (which she wore down, something she hasn’t done in a long time—and you know what that means, right?), and the way they looked at each other made you think this could be the guy she’s going to take table shopping. Because of that, every dessert you tried you said you hated, to the point that Eva told you to
Lighten up, Dad,
and Sandra said you were being rude. The truth is the desserts were fantastic, so fantastic that you would leave Sandra for the baker if you had the chance (actually that’s a joke, Jerry—you’ve already got one Big D in your life and don’t need another). You said you weren’t being rude, that you’re not really a dessert guy, and you didn’t understand why they couldn’t have left you at home to work out your ideas for the new book.

You know why.
That was Sandra’s answer.

And you did know why. Because you might rip up somebody’s roses. You might go spray-painting. You might eat pasta off the carpet. However, if you did step outside, an alarm would go off. And why? Because day fifty-four started with a knock on the door. Sandra was up, you weren’t, but it was the alarm guy. Two of them actually. You wandered down in your robe an hour later and they were standing in the kitchen talking to Sandra, who had just made them coffees, and you didn’t like the way they were
looking
at her, but what was worse was the way Sandra
liked
the way they were looking at her. They introduced themselves to you while they had their coffees, then they went back to work while you went and lay on the couch to think about the next book. It took them three hours in the end, and then they showed you and Sandra how everything worked, but you didn’t pay much attention because you were in your
Who gives a shit
phase, and why not? These alarms were there to control you, and what forty-nine-year-old man likes to be controlled? Every time an external door gets opened now a signal is sent to a wristband that Sandra is wearing to alert her. At least you’re not on a leash. Or are you?

It was not long after they left that Mandy called. She said after much discussion in the office it’s been confirmed that a ghostwriter will indeed be taking over. There are two options. One is to have the ghostwriter not actually be a ghost, and to have his name on the cover, sharing the workload, sharing the credit, sharing the royalties almost evenly. Option two is the ghostwriter remains a ghost, only your name goes on the cover and the world won’t know you had help. However, option two comes with an even further reduced royalty rate. You don’t want a ghostwriter, but if they’re going to do it, it’s better nobody knows, and you told Mandy that.

Sandra saw it differently—she saw your ego getting in the way of money the family could use, but you really can’t face having your name on the cover along with somebody else. She’s just upset because mentally she’s already spent the money on a holiday with the baker. Sandra may be right about the ego thing, but it
is
your career, all that work, all those years—you can’t now say to the world
This is my new book—I couldn’t write it by myself.
The surprise was Sandra didn’t argue, in fact she hugged you and said of course she understood.

In the afternoon she took you suit shopping. You chose a dark one with pinstripes, and Sandra chose a light blue shirt to go with it. You’ve been measured up, and the suit will be ready in another week. It’ll look great at the wedding, and great in your coffin too. Then came the dessert tasting in the evening and you are, F.J., a dessert guy. You could live on desserts, and why not? Soon you’re not going to care how you look.

Okay—you’ve been patient, you’ve just had another G&T, which makes three, so let’s get down to business. At first you were freaked out, of course you were, because the street was full of flashing sirens and people, there was a fire engine and two cop cars and the first thing you thought was that your house had burned down.

It wasn’t your house. It wasn’t anybody’s house.

It was Mrs. Smith’s car, parked up her driveway, smoldering away. You had missed the show as the flames had been put out fifteen minutes earlier. There were updates from the neighbors who were all standing on the street that Mrs. Smith’s car had been set aflame. Mrs. Smith was on the front doorstep of her house, the freshly painted walls behind her, running her mouth at a hundred miles an hour to the police officers trying to keep up. She pointed at you when she saw you. You were
The Man Goes Burning
from your ghostwritten book.

Somebody had torched her car.

And not this somebody, because this somebody was being rude and not lightening up to the baker who your wife is banging, so this somebody had an alibi, and fifteen minutes later when a pair of officers (not the same pair as Cunt Thursday) intercepted you as you pulled into the driveway to ask what you had seen, Sandra told them neither of you had been home.

Well somebody is home,
the officers said.
The lights have been on and off over the last few minutes.

I assure you there’s nobody home,
you said, which you knew wasn’t true because Eva and Rick would be there, they’d made better time than you on account of your window-shopping on the way back to the car to give them more time. Along with Eva and Rick there would be many of Sandra’s friends and work colleagues and some family. At that moment they would be hiding in the dark behind furniture getting ready to jump out and say
surprise,
which it really would be as Sandra’s birthday is tomorrow.

We’re going to need to search your house. If you’re adamant there’s nobody home, then it’s possible the person who lit the fire is hiding in there,
one of the men says.

It’ll be our daughter,
you said.

Eva won’t be there,
Sandra said.

There’s no need to search the house,
you said.
I’m sure it’s just Eva.

But it won’t be,
Sandra said.
What if somebody is hiding inside?

There’s not,
you said.

Sandra didn’t believe you. Sandra offered them her keys, and there was nothing you could think to do as the officers went to the front door. When you tried to go after them, Sandra stopped you.
Did you have
him
do that?
she asked, and she was angry, vein-throbbing angry, not like the time you forgot your anniversary a few years back but closer to the time you forgot her birthday. Which you hadn’t forgotten this time, but were somehow in the process of ruining.

What? Who?

You know what and you know who,
she said.

I really don’t,
you said, and you really didn’t.

Because you don’t remember. You’re going to use this . . . this stupid disease as an excuse for everything now, aren’t you?

She was frustrated and lashing out, and the counselor had warned that you wouldn’t be the only one going through the five stages of grief. In all your wallowing and angst, buddy, you’d forgotten that. Sandra is at anger, coming right off the back of stage one—infidelity.

I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.

Hans set that car on fire to hide the fact you were the one who spray-painted her house,
she said,
and now he’s hiding in our house and you know he’s in ther
e
.

I did no such thing,
you said.
And he’s not in there. I promise.

I don’t want you seeing him anymore, are we clear on that?

You weren’t up for an argument, so you told her you were clear on that.

Then make sure you write it down in your bloody Madness Diary.

It’s a journal.

The police were at the door. Both of you were close enough to the house to hear everybody shout out
surprise
as the lights inside were thrown on as the police walked inside. In hindsight, you were lucky nobody got shot.

Sandra’s anger disappeared then. The police backed out and read the situation accurately, gave Sandra a few minutes to acknowledge the occasion, then spent the next hour taking statements as everybody else socialized.