Follow Me Down (20 page)

They didn’t follow, but I kept going, into the shade of the graveyard and I didn’t stop until I had to, until I had to reach for one of the old, leaning headstones to steady myself a moment before my legs gave way. I’d barely caught my breath before I heard someone say, ‘Thanks for that,’ and turned to find Dominic watching me.

I wanted to run at him, grab him and shake him, ask why he hadn’t called me back, ask him what the hell was going on, but as soon as I saw him, it was all forgotten. I’ve never seen him like that, as though a light had gone out somewhere. It was like returning home after a vacation to find everything closed. Locked. I just wanted to hug him, but he was wearing that black suit, the one he wore to my first social at Crofton, and I almost smiled at the memory, Scarlett twirling in that red dress, her arm in the air. But I turned away from him again.

‘Thank you for reading that, for saying something real. She’d hate this.’ I turned to face him, but when I saw his wet eyelashes, I couldn’t look at him, and I looked at the back of the church as they began singing ‘Amazing Grace’. ‘The poem, the organ, “The Lord is my Shepherd”. All of it. It’s not her.’ When I didn’t agree, he pushed on. ‘And what’s with the white flowers? Scarlett’s not white, she’s yellow.’

‘Highlighter yellow.’ I lifted my chin to look at him then.

‘And flamingo pink,’ he said with a faint smile.

‘And Saint Patrick’s Day green.’

‘And red. Scarlett red.’

‘But not white,’ I said, crossing my arms, and he nodded back.

‘I couldn’t stay in there. They’re all crying, girls she’s never spoken to. They don’t even know her.’ He turned to the church again, suddenly livid. ‘You don’t even know her!’ he roared, hands balled into fists.

I was stunned. I’d never seen him like that and it scared me, seeing the rawness of his grief, like red paint splashed over the church walls. When my heart began thrumming, I felt it again – doubt – creeping back into my bones and suddenly I heard DS Hanlon’s voice.
What is Dominic Sim capable of?
Not that, I told myself, like I tell myself every time the words drift into my head now. Not that. But looking at him then, his cheeks flushed and his jaw hard, I didn’t know what he was capable of.

When I took a step back, he looked mortified. ‘I’m sorry, Adamma,’ he said, his hands on his hips as he took a deep breath. ‘It’s just that, before the service started, I heard her grandmother telling someone that the programme is pink because it’s her favourite colour and –’ He stopped with a frown. ‘I’m not going mad. It isn’t pink, is it?’

I shook my head. ‘Pink is Olivia’s favourite colour. Hers is red.’

‘Actually,’ he said with a bitter chuckle, ‘she’s too fickle to have a favourite colour. It changes every week.’

I nodded, the corners of my mouth lifting for just a second, and when he saw, he smiled, his eyes even heavier. ‘Sometimes I think we’re the only ones who really know her.’

My cellphone rang then and it made me jump. My hands shook a little as I took it out of the pocket of my blazer and rejected the call.

‘Don’t you want to get that?’

‘It’s the Mercedes garage about bringing my car back. I’ll call them later.’

He nodded then looked at his feet. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t called you back.’

‘I’ve been going out of my mind, Dominic,’ I breathed, slipping my cellphone back into my pocket. ‘I’ve been calling and calling.’

‘I know.’ He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘I know.’

‘Why haven’t you called me back?’

‘I tried to, about four times, but I didn’t know what to say.’

There was a moment of silence as my thoughts flew around my head again, knocking together but not sticking. I was so mad, but then I wasn’t because there he was in his black suit, looking at me with those sad, sad eyes and when I heard ‘Abide With Me’ coming from the church, something in me began to crumble. I could feel it falling away, slowly, then quicker, quicker, like an avalanche and I understood it then, why the girls at Crofton keep things behind closed doors.

I closed my eyes, but a moment later, I was aware of him in front of me, the muscles in my shoulders clenching like fists when I felt his knuckles brush against my wet cheeks, but when I opened my eyes to look at him, I saw someone standing behind him, watching us, and my heart stopped.

I shook my head and stepped away from him. ‘Olivia, this isn’t—’

He spun around to face her and she lurched forward so suddenly, I thought she might punch him.

‘You can’t stay away from each other, can you?’ She looked between us, hands balled into fists at her sides as a tear rolled quickly down her cheek.

‘Olivia –’ he tried, but she ignored him, looking back at the church, then at us.

‘I couldn’t take it, I had to get out of there. I came outside for some air and I see you and I think,
That looks like Adamma and Dominic
.’ She blinked, sending a fresh tumble of tears down her cheeks. ‘But then I think,
They wouldn’t. Not at her funeral
.’

‘Olivia, please,’ I tried again.

‘We haven’t even buried her yet!’ she roared, and the look on her face.

I wanted to be sick.

‘We were just talking, ’Liv,’ he said, and he sounded tiny. Like a little boy.

I made myself look at her. ‘Olivia, I’m so sorry.’

She didn’t listen and walked away, but when I tried to go after her, she stopped and raised an unsteady finger at me. ‘You picked the wrong one!’ she said, and her voice had changed. It was harder, there was a little spite in it, a little Scarlett.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask him!’ She pointed at Dominic. ‘Ask him! Ask him who was the last person she spoke to before she left the house on Sunday.’

My heart stopped. ‘No.’

He stepped between us then. ‘Olivia, stop it.’

‘Stop what, Dom?’ She licked her lips and smiled and there was a little Scarlett in that, too. ‘Stop telling the truth? Tell her where your Aston Martin is.’

‘No.’ I shook my head at her, then I turned to shake my head at him too. ‘No, Dominic. It was that guy. The guy in Savernake Forest. The one in the car.’

‘Tell her, Dom.’ She crossed her arms, suddenly calm as I watched his cheeks get redder and redder. ‘Tell her how someone saw you driving through the forest on Sunday.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ he said through his teeth. ‘I was with Sam.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time Sam covered for you, Dom.’

He ignored her and turned to look at me. ‘Adamma, it’s me. It’s
me
,’ he said – whispered – and reached for my hand, but I pulled away.

‘No.’

‘I was the last person she
called
.’

I shook my head. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘I rejected the call.’

‘Why?’

‘I was with Sam. He was skateboarding and he called to tell me that he tried to grind down a hand rail, or something, and landed funny. He hurt his wrist and couldn’t drive so he asked me to take him to the hospital.’

I shook my head again, but I felt a quick quiver of dread as it came back to me: Sam on the morning Scarlett ran away, asking how much I wanted to put on when she was coming back while I ignored him and asked him why his arm was in a sling. ‘Sprained my wrist thinking of you, baby,’ he’d said with a filthy smirk, pretending to jerk off with his other hand, which earned him a shove from Dominic.

‘I was in the hospital when she called,’ he went on, his voice low.
Familiar
. ‘The nurse told me off for having my phone on so I rejected it. Call Great Western if you don’t believe me. The police did. That’s why they haven’t arrested me.’

Olivia scoffed and he shot a look at her. ‘It’s true.’ He looked at me again and when I stepped back, his face folded. ‘It’s true.’

But it was too late, it was there – the doubt – needling its way in. Then I was walking away, away from him, from Olivia, towards the sound of ‘Amazing Grace’.

I slipped back into the church as quietly as I could, covering my mouth with my hand as I tried to catch my breath so that no one would hear me panting. But Mrs Delaney saw me, of course, and smiled, a gentle,
It’ll be OK
smile that should have made me feel better, but then everyone turned and began to file out of the church and my heart started banging again.

It wasn’t the time, but I had to find Chloe – I had to – and when I did, I reached for the sleeve of her blazer and tugged her into the corner, next to a statue of Mary, her palms outstretched. The urge to grab the lapels of her blazer and shake her was almost impossible to fight. I guess that was obvious because she frowned at me.

‘What’s wrong, Adamma?’

‘You know that guy?’

‘What guy?’

‘The one from Savernake Forest.’

She closed her eyes and sighed. ‘Not this again, Adamma. I told you—’

‘I know. I know. But are you sure you don’t remember anything about him?’

‘I was shitfaced,’ she hissed, then blushed and turned to check over her shoulder at everyone shuffling down the aisle towards the doors, before turning back to me and lowering her voice. ‘I don’t even remember what I was wearing.’

‘What about the car?’

‘I barely saw it. It was too dark.’

‘Chloe, please.’ I swiped a tear from my cheek with my fingers. ‘Was it Old? New?’

‘Adamma—’

‘Please, Chloe,’ I interrupted, then made myself take a breath and lowered my voice as I remembered that we were surrounded by her family. ‘I think he murdered Scarlett.’

‘What?’ she gasped. ‘No.’

I nodded and she was quiet for a moment, her lips parted.

‘So if you can remember anything, Chloe.’

‘OK.’ She tucked her hair behind her ears. ‘OK. Let me think.’

‘Close your eyes,’ I suggested. She did. ‘What can you see?’

She frowned. ‘Nothing. I just saw his car for a second.’

‘Was it new?’

‘No, but it was nice.’

‘Nice?’

‘I don’t know.’ She opened her eyes again. ‘It was shiny. Taken care of.’

‘Did you see a badge?’

‘I only saw the side of it.’

‘That’s something.’ I jumped on it. ‘Do you remember the shape of it?’

‘I don’t know anything about cars, Adamma.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I pushed, breathless with panic as I willed her to say something to eliminate Dominic’s Aston Martin. ‘Come on, Chloe. You must be able to remember what type of car it was. Was it a four by four like The Old Dear?’

She thought about it for a moment. ‘No. It was small.’

‘Small? Small like a sports car or small like a Mini?’

‘Small like a sports car, but that’s all I remember, I swear. I saw the car stop and when I heard him ask if I wanted a lift, I ran. I didn’t even look at him.’

‘OK,’ I said, forcing myself to let go of the breath I was holding on to.

But then she said, ‘He had to wind down the window,’ and I went rigid.

‘What?’

‘When he asked me if I wanted a lift,’ she said, almost to herself, ‘he had to wind down the window and I remember thinking a car that cool should have electric windows.’

‘Cool? You didn’t say it was cool.’

‘
I
don’t think it’s cool.’ She shook her head, like I was mad. ‘It wasn’t a Range Rover or anything, but my dad would have loved it.’

‘Why?’

‘It was like something James Bond would drive.’

146 DAYS BEFORE

DECEMBER

When I was four, I helped our gardener, Jide, plant a hibiscus in our garden. It’s one of my earliest memories, crouched down next to it, my tiny hands clumsily patting at the soil. My mother bought me a yellow plastic watering can and I watered it every day, anxiously poking at the cloud of leaves for some sign of life, and when it finally bloomed – the delicate heart-coloured flowers erupting overnight – I don’t think I’d ever been so excited. I would sit at my bedroom window for hours staring at it and thinking,
That was me. I did that
. But when we moved to New York, the hibiscus died. ‘
A na-amacha
. Sometimes these things happen,’ Jide told me with an elegant shrug when I asked him what we’d done wrong.

I know now that he was right – it probably wasn’t getting enough sunlight or maybe it got tip
-
borer (yes, I looked it up) – but I was sure that it was my fault, that I’d stopped paying attention to it so it died. I think that’s what happened with Scarlett. Apart from a couple of texts, I haven’t heard from her, not since I’ve been at home with my father. I don’t know if she’s just being Scarlett or if I’ve done something, but something’s changed between us. If you hold a true friend with both hands, then when I got her sister Edith’s wedding invitation, I realised that we weren’t even in the same room any more.

It had been two weeks since my father had been shot and everyone who was going to send a card already had, so when I grabbed the pile of mail from the kitchen counter before I left for the hospital, I expected to find bills and junk, but there it was, a heavy cream envelope with her scruffy handwriting scratched across it.

My first thought was that it was a card, a letter even, something to let me know that she was thinking of me, and my heart relaxed, but before I could open it, my father took off his glasses and shook his newspaper at me.

‘Have you read this nonsense, Ada?’

‘Calm down, Papa,’ I told him, patting his arm.

That made me feel better as well, him sitting up in bed, about to rant, because that meant he was better, and after sitting through two surgeries and seeing more of his blood than I ever wanted to see, I needed him to be better. But before he could launch into whatever had pissed him off, I opened the envelope to find a wedding invitation and my heart tensed again.

‘What is this, Adamma?’ he asked, peering over the top of his newspaper as a shower of pink rose petals fluttered onto his bed.

‘Scarlett’s sister’s getting married,’ I said with some relief before the lump in my throat formed as I realised there was no note, no
I hope your dad’s better
or
I miss you
. The only thing she’d written was my address on the front of the envelope.

‘The big one, I hope.’

‘Yes.’

‘How old is she?’

‘Eighteen.’

He went back to his newspaper with a humph. ‘Listen to this, Ezi,’ he muttered when my mother came in with a vase of flowers.

‘Pretty!’ she said, nodding at the rose petals.

‘Wedding invitation,’ I muttered, trying to stuff them back into the envelope.

‘Who’s getting married, Ada?’

‘Scarlett’s sister, Edith.’

I saw her eyebrow quirk up in the reflection of the window as she put the vase on the windowsill. ‘How old is she?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Nishad.’

I knew that Edith was in love, much to her grandmother’s horror. She had been for months and I think Scarlett was a little put out; she was the one who was supposed to fall in love with a guy her grandmother hated.

‘Have they been together long?’ my mother asked, her voice a little higher.

I considered lying but went with, ‘He’s a doctor,’ instead.

‘A doctor! How did they meet?’

‘They’re volunteering together in India.’

I saw her eyebrow quirk up again. ‘Didn’t she just go to India?’

‘In August.’

She exchanged a glance with my father, muttered something I couldn’t make out in Igbo, then went back to the flowers, taking one of the orange lilies and putting it in a glass of water next to my father’s bed. ‘Don’t tell Papa any more, Ada.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘We don’t want him to have a heart attack, too.’

He chuckled from behind his newspaper. ‘I’m in the right place.’

‘Uche!’ She frowned. ‘
I choro ihe a?
’

‘No, I don’t want that, Ezi. I’m just saying.’

It’s the only time my mother treats me like a child, when she argues with my father. She insists on arguing in Igbo, as though I won’t understand what she’s saying, but my father never humours her, which infuriates her more.

She put her hands on her hips. ‘
Amuna m amu.
’

‘I’m not laughing at you, my love. Merely noting the convenience of it.’

She turned to me with a huff. ‘When is this wedding?’

I checked the invitation. ‘December the twenty-second.’

She blinked at me. ‘This year?’

I nodded.

‘But that’s next Saturday, Ada.’

‘They’re not getting any younger, Ezi,’ my father said from behind his paper.

‘Well.’ She clapped. ‘We must book you a flight. Get you a dress.’

‘I’m not going.’ I looked at her like she was mad and she returned the favour.

‘Why not?’

‘I can’t leave, Papa.’

She huffed. ‘You see, Uche.’ She tugged at the sleeve of his pyjamas. ‘All this talk of heart attacks and now the child is too scared to leave your side.’

‘Adamma,’ he said, moving his hand and letting the corner of his newspaper droop down so he could look at me. ‘You have to go. You’ve been invited. It would be rude not to. Besides, it’s been two weeks. You must miss your friends.’

As if on cue, my cellphone buzzed.

Did you get the invite to the Wedding of the Year? – D x

‘Ada,’ my mother snapped.

‘Sorry, Mama.’ I pressed my lips together so she wouldn’t see me smile.

He’d been in touch constantly since we parted at the airport. It began with a text to let him know I’d landed safely, then he texted back to check on my father, then on me, then, within a day or so, we were texting each other every few minutes. It was driving my mother nuts; she told me off every time I got a message. I’d even turned my phone on silent, but she still heard it when it vibrated.

‘Fine. I’ll go,’ I said with a sigh, picking up the rest of the petals and putting them in the envelope. But my heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again.

Fluttered and fluttered.

As soon as I RSVP’d, Scarlett didn’t leave me alone. She still didn’t call, but I gathered from the string of emails she sent that the wedding was going to be a bit like a Nigerian one in that everyone in the village was involved. The butcher provided the meat, the florist the flowers and the poor old lady in the bakery was going blind piping a lace design onto the cake to match Edith’s dress. It was like a Royal wedding, Scarlett insisted, everyone was talking about it.

She loved it, of course, loved emailing me every day before I left Lagos with photos of the bunting hanging in the village and her bridesmaid’s dress and the flowers she’d be carrying. Anyone would think she was the one getting married. And while she finally said all the right things –
Have a safe flight
 . . .
Can’t wait to see you
 . . . 
I’ll make sure your dad gets the biggest piece of wedding cake!
– it was always an afterthought at the end of her message.

She invited me to the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding. I wasn’t in the wedding party so I have no idea why they wanted me there, but as soon as her father opened the door to me and gathered me into a hug, I realised why.

‘Adamma, darling,’ her mother gasped when she saw me walk in, pulling me into a hug, then feeding me a quail egg hors d’oeuvres while telling me that I must be famished after my flight.

Hearing the commotion, Olivia wandered out of the dining room, then flew at me, hugging me as well – even though she never had before – asking how my father was. That’s when I saw her, coming down the staircase in a Merlot-coloured gown that Edith must have been grateful she was wearing the evening before her wedding. She didn’t flinch when she saw me, just smiled that
Mona Lisa
smile, and when she got to me, she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘How lovely to see you, Adamma. Thank you for coming,’ she said, as though I was a distant cousin she only saw at weddings, then she gestured at one of the staff lingering in the hall with a tray of hors d’oeuvres to take my coat.

When he had, I noticed her smile tighten as she turned to her parents and Olivia, who were still next to me, waiting for me to finish telling them about my father. It took them a moment, but they took the hint and dispersed in different directions as she led me towards the dining room.

‘That’s a lovely dress,’ she said with a slight swing of the hips as we rounded the table in the middle of the hall, the vase of paper white roses on it almost yellow under the light of the chandelier. ‘I wish I had the courage to wear orange.’

I registered the jab with a wounded frown, but she didn’t look at me, just carried on towards the voices and the ring of crystal spilling out of the dining room. But as we approached the doorway, she stopped and pushed her shoulders back.

‘I’m glad your father’s better,’ she said with a warmer smile, and it was her way of apologising for the swipe about my dress, I know, but it didn’t feel like enough.

‘Why haven’t you been in touch, Scarlett?’

She seemed startled by that and blinked at me a few times, before catching herself and waving her hand. ‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ she said with a long sigh that told me to stop making a fuss. ‘Not when you were with your family.’

A couple of weeks ago, I might have pushed her, might have told her that she
was
family, but she isn’t, I know that now, so I shrugged and followed her into the dining room. He was the first person I saw and I was so surprised that it made my heart stop dead in my chest, like a car hitting a brick wall. I didn’t think I’d see him and I guess he didn’t think he’d see me, either, because I said I’d see him at the wedding. It was such a surprise that I almost stepped on Scarlett’s toe.

Olivia was talking to him and clearly besotted, her head tilted and her eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them (if she was a cartoon character they would have been two huge hearts) as he said something that made her laugh. I suddenly felt very smug at the thought of the string of text messages on my phone, of all the things I knew about him, our private jokes, the x he now added to each one he sent. So when he looked up and his mouth split into a smile, it made me smile, too, and it’s silly, because I’ve known him for months, but it was like seeing him for the first time. I’d even given him a nickname because my mother kept asking who I was talking to – Vivian Darkbloom, the pseudonym Nabokov wanted to publish
Lolita
under, which I figured was apt after our furious exchange over whether it was really an epic love story or just creepy. ‘My friend Vivian,’ I tell my mother each time she asks, the lie rolling off my tongue, swift and delicious.

He even looked different, younger –
softer
– his hair a mess from where he’d been playing with it too much, and I had to fight the urge to run over to him. I think he did as well, because he took a step forward, then stopped himself and waved instead. I waved back, but when I realised that Scarlett was standing next to me, smiling and waving, too, my cheeks suddenly stung as our arms dropped to our sides in unison. She turned to look at me, more confused than angry, then caught herself. ‘I’ll get us some champagne.’ She smiled sweetly.

But she never came back.

There was no seating plan, so when Scarlett’s father invited us to sit down for dinner, she made no move to sit near me and remained at the top of the table, next to Dominic, her glance sweeping towards me every now and then like the arc of a lighthouse warning me to keep back. So I reached for the nearest chair. The table filled up quickly and a moment after I sat down, Mr Lucas put his hand on the chair next to mine and asked if anyone was sitting there. When I told him there wasn’t, the old woman sitting opposite me eyed him carefully, clearly questioning his intentions, then softened and leaned a little closer when he asked after my father, making no effort to disguise the fact that she was listening to my response.

‘He’s much better. Thank you,’ I said stiffly, my cheeks flushing a little under her gaze. ‘He should be out of hospital soon.’

His shoulders relaxed. ‘That’s a relief,’ he said, pouring me a glass of water, the ice tumbling out of the silver jug with a clatter then landing in the glass with a series of
PLOP
s. When it was full, he held up his champagne glass. ‘To his health.’

I lifted my eyelashes to look at him as we clinked glasses. ‘To his health.’

‘Are we toasting?’ I heard Scarlett say and glanced up the table to find her watching us with a curious smile. I don’t know how she heard us from the other end of the room – not over the chatter as compliments were exchanged about the flowers – but with that, everyone turned to look and I was so embarrassed I wanted to dissolve into a puddle of linen and lace.

Luckily, Mr Lucas recovered quickly, turning to Edith and Nishad and raising his champagne glass with a smile. ‘Look down you gods, and on this couple drop a blessed crown.’

There was a titter of approval as everyone around the table raised their glasses. Edith looked thrilled and turned to Nishad and kissed him to another titter. Her grandmother didn’t join in; she plucked a drooping tulip out of the centrepiece and handed it to the waiter as he put a small plate of asparagus down in front of her.

‘
The Tempest
?’ I whispered when everyone returned to their conversations.

He lowered his voice as well. ‘It was either that or
The Simpsons
.’ He shrugged. ‘Wrong crowd.’ I must have looked confused because he did a frighteningly accurate impression of Homer. ‘What is a wedding?
Webster’s Dictionary
defines a wedding as “the process of removing weeds from one’s garden.”’