I Saw a Man (31 page)

The speeches were short. Samantha thanked her course tutors, Sebastian, the owner of the gallery. And she thanked Michael, too, for his help, and Rachel as well, for hers, raising her glass to each of them in the crowd. She spoke briefly about how the photos on these walls had been found as the result of a loss. But she said nothing else about Lucy or the specifics of her own journey towards those early minutes of the day, waiting to discover what its light would deliver. When she finished speaking and backed away from the microphone there was applause, a few whoops from her fellow students, and then Emmanuel stepped up again to encourage everyone to drink and, if they could, buy one of Samantha’s prints.

Over a final smattering of applause, the crowd began to move again, towards the drinks or to view the work. Michael looked for Josh where he’d last seen him. But he wasn’t there. He glanced over the rest of the room, then pushed his way through to the second space. Josh was nowhere to be seen in there, either. Michael was aware of his heart racing. He realised he had to talk to him. He had to know why he’d been keeping his distance. Why he’d looked at him that way across the gallery.

Squeezing himself back through the crowd, he made his way outside into the cool of the night. There were three smokers on the pavement, but none of them was Josh. He looked up the lamp-lit street, a spring mist gathering about the rooftops. It was empty. Josh had gone.

Michael thought about walking up Flask Walk, trying to catch up with him. But it was no good. He could just have easily turned the other way and could already be walking across the Heath, or along any one of the surrounding streets.

Michael turned back to the windows of the gallery, fogged by the crowded bodies inside. Someone wiped a sleeve across a pane, swiping an arc of clear glass. Michael peered through it, just in case he’d missed him in there. But there was only the drinking and talking crowd, and at its centre Samantha, flushed with her success, her images of the pond hung around her, its stilled waters a silent witness to everything Michael had done.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I SOLD SIX!
Can you believe it? Six!”

The private view had rolled on to a nearby pub, and then again for a nightcap at Sebastian’s house. Now Michael and Samantha were back in her kitchen in South Hill Drive. Samantha was drunk. But she was also elated. The exhibition had opened well. There had been praise, attention. She looked years younger.

“Sebastian said that hardly ever happens,” she said, pouring another shot of whisky into her glass. “Not on the first night.”

“It’s great,” Michael said. “But I’m not surprised. Of course people want them. They’re…” He picked up one of the unselected prints, still on the dining table. “Well, they’re calming, aren’t they?” he said. “And they reveal more with each looking.”

“Oh, shut up!” Samantha said, dropping into one of the armchairs in the conservatory. “You’re always so bloody nice to me. Last drop?” She held the whisky bottle towards him.

“You’re right,” Michael said, sitting down opposite and holding out his glass. “They’re pretty ordinary, really, and most people there couldn’t tell the difference between a decent image and crap, anyway.”

“Steady,” Samantha said, mocking a hurt expression as she poured out the last of the whisky. “Don’t go too far.”

Michael raised his glass. “Congratulations,” he said. “You deserve it.”

They both drank, Samantha releasing a deep breath on swallowing. Tipping her head back against the chair, she closed her eyes.

Michael wanted to ask her about Josh. Had she spoken with him? What had he said? Why had he left? But now wasn’t the time. She was infused with her present and her future. She didn’t want to talk of the past. Not now, when this was all so fragile, so passing.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, her eyes still closed. Her speech was slow, liquid. “This house. It’s way too big for just Rachel and me. We rattle around in here. We don’t even ever go up to the top floor.” She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling for a moment, then brought her head forward to look at him. Her expression was serious, but then a slow smile spread across her lips, followed by a girlish shake of her head. She looked down, away from him.

“I don’t know, you might not want to,” she said. “But it’s crazy. I mean, you renting that place next door and us with all this space. I just wanted you to know.” She got up, suddenly more businesslike, nervous. “If you wanted to,” she said, taking their glasses over to the sink, “you could rent here instead.” She turned and leant against the counter, looking back at him. “The top floor. There’s a study, a bedroom.”

Michael stood and went over to her. “Thank you,” he said, taking her by both shoulders. She looked vulnerable, exposed. “That’s such a kind offer. But…”

She broke away from him, turning to the sink and running a tap to wash the glasses. “Christ, Michael,” she said, sounding cross. “I didn’t mean like that. I just thought it would make sense, that’s all.”

“I know,” he said. “And I mean it. It is a kind offer. And good to know, too. Really, thank you.”

“Well, it’s there if you want it. That’s all.” As she took off her watch, Samantha looked at its face. “Jesus,” she said. “Is that the time?”

Michael looked at his own. It was nearly two o’clock. “Sign of a good night, I guess,” he said.

Samantha turned from the sink to face him again. She was frowning, as if trying to work out how they’d got here, to this late hour, this position. Michael could see she was coming down from the night’s excitement. A brief cloud of longing passed through her expression. For what? he wondered. For before all this? For her previous life, however imperfect, before she’d had to create this one in the wake of her daughter’s death?

“I should get to bed,” she said eventually, crossing the kitchen to turn off the lamps in the conservatory. “Rachel’s got a hockey match tomorrow. Christ, no, today. All the way over in bloody Ealing.”

“Well,” Michael said, picking his jacket off the back of a chair. “Congratulations again. You did really well tonight.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said, looking out at the darkness beyond the glass. When she turned back to him, her expression had softened. “And for all your help, too,” she said, smiling. “Really. Thank you, Michael.”

―

As Michael got undressed for bed that night, he knew he had to tell Samantha. At some point, she would have to know. It couldn’t be avoided. For her as well as for him. Walking down her hallway to the front door, after her offer, passing Lucy’s portrait of him, it had almost crushed Michael completely. As if he’d been walking, with every step, into a deeper and deeper depth. Whatever the damage it would do, to the opening of her new life, to his, to Rachel, he had to tell Samantha the truth. If he didn’t, his knowledge of those minutes he’d spent in her house before Lucy died would continue to suck the goodness from every second they spent together.

But then, once she knew, there would be no more seconds together. This he also had to acknowledge. Another plank of Samantha’s life would have been swept from under her. Once the true minutes of that Saturday afternoon were exposed, she’d never want to see him again. He would have perverted the course of justice. She would tell the police. He would have to leave. But still, as he got into bed, the lamplight from the Heath thrown faint against the walls of his bedroom, Michael knew it was only a matter of time. He couldn’t keep those minutes to himself much longer. He had to cut them out, like a tumour, and the only way to do that was in their telling.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE VIDEOCASSETTE WAS
on a high shelf in the groundsman’s office, wedged with a pile of others between a stack of
Top Gear
magazines and a tool box filled with screws, nuts, and bolts. A manual for a power drill was resting on top of it. With all the other boxes and tools in the room it was unlikely Josh would have found it so easily, had it not been for a date on its spine written in black marker.
07/06/08.
Seeing those numbers, in that order, was like hearing his name rise clear above the hum of a bar for Josh, or seeing your child’s face in a crowded station. Even among the clutter of that small office, it was a date that sang out to him. A date he’d never forget, branded as it was within him as the date of Lucy’s death. The date on which, for all of them, everything had changed.

Josh had been working with the Heath conservation and maintenance team since the start of the year. There were usually just three of them, sometimes more on the bigger jobs, coasting their pickup along the Heath’s paths, its hazard lights blinking and its wire cage filled with branches, off-cuts and sacks of leaves. When he could, Josh started as early as possible, and it was often he who’d unlock their storage shed, or who could be seen, an hour before the shift, drinking a coffee on one of the benches on Parliament Hill. The work had opened him up. He’d come to learn the touch of different winds and breezes, to see oncoming rain in a texture of light. Standing from his bench to start his day, Josh would glance over at the distant city towers as he dropped his empty coffee cup into a bin and feel like he’d escaped. As if he were a survivor who’d been thrown a lifeline on which he was only just now gaining a firmer grip.

During his working week on the Heath, Josh was able to observe his family from afar. And then again at closer quarters when he saw them on the weekends. He’d become more comfortable with the silences he shared with Rachel, and calmer, too, about the woman he was witnessing Samantha become. But hanging over it all was still the question of Michael. The question of who he was and of what he wanted; of the soil on the landing and of where he’d been during those few minutes on the Seventh of June 2008.

More than once Josh had considered telling Samantha the truth, confessing to her that he hadn’t been in the house when Lucy fell. But if he ever hoped to get her and his daughter back, then he knew this was impossible. And, he told himself, that person had been another Josh, anyway, another man, and he couldn’t let him ruin the chances of who he was now, of who he wanted to become.

But Josh couldn’t let Michael ruin his chances either. As long as he was close to Samantha and Rachel, as long as he was there, living next to them, Josh knew there’d never be space to make them his again, and him theirs. Not while there was still so much he didn’t know about Michael and what had happened that day. He’d told Slater he’d been at his fencing lesson. That’s what she’d told Josh when she’d talked him through all his neighbours’ statements. At the time he’d listened with only his own self-interest in mind. Had any of them seen him leave the house? Had any of them seen him return? But none, according to Slater, had. So Josh just felt relief when Michael’s statement had been added to those of the others on the street.

But now he felt only suspicion. How did Slater know Michael was at his lesson when Lucy fell? Had she checked with his instructor? Had he been seen walking there across the Heath? Josh had wanted to find the card she’d left him and call her and ask her. But he knew he couldn’t. The way she’d questioned him, the manner in which they’d all treated him. He knew she suspected him, sensed his lies at the edges of his story. So he couldn’t provoke her to look any closer than she already had.

No, if Josh wanted to corroborate Michael’s story, then he would have to do so himself. If it was true, then he could let go of his suspicion. But if it was not, then—then he didn’t know what he would do. But at least he would know. At least he’d be able to extinguish the agonies of his uncertainty, defuse some of the unforgiving questions that still haunted him about what had happened to his daughter.

After that evening they’d spoken over the hedge, Josh, whenever he could, began watching Michael. He wanted to understand him, to discover what he wanted. Was it Samantha? Is that why he was spending so much time with her? Was she what this was all about? Josh couldn’t be sure, not without knowing more about Michael. So he watched him. He became familiar with the times his bathroom light came on in the morning, and his study light turned off at night. He followed him, at a distance, to his favourite cafés, or to the archives of the local museum. Just the other week he’d watched from up the street as Michael had helped Samantha carry her prints from the framer’s, loading them into the back of his old Volvo. And he’d watched, too, as Michael had walked to his fencing club on a Thursday, then taken the same route across the Heath for his lessons on a Saturday. Which is when Josh had first seen the Heath’s conservation team unloading tools from a storage shed at the school.

It was a shed they shared, it seemed, with the school’s caretaker, in whose office they also took their breaks when working on the Highgate side of the Heath. On that same afternoon Josh had seen them at the school he’d also noticed the security camera angled above the entrance to its sports hall. Had Slater viewed the tape from this camera on the day Lucy fell? Had she seen, for sure, Michael enter the building? But, more important, Josh had wanted to know as he’d walked back across the Heath to his flat, how might he find a way to see the tape himself? How might he witness, with his own eyes but without raising the suspicions of Slater, the truth of Michael’s story?

Josh had told Samantha it was Nathan, the gardener at Willow Road, who’d put him forward for the job with the Hampstead Heath team. But that had been a lie. Instead, he’d applied directly, using Nathan as a reference and an old City connection on the corporation’s board to push it through. Josh began working with them the following month, but he’d known he’d have to be patient, that there were no guarantees. He was acting purely on speculation. But then wasn’t that what he’d always done, and what he’d always been so good at with Lehman’s? Speculating, betting on outcomes, playing a waiting game, then striking when the opportunity came.