Think Yourself Lucky (28 page)

"It very much does, and I hope—"

"I've already said I won't say anything bad."

He was urging Stephanie to wonder why and ask, but she let some sympathy into her eyes. "Do you want to tell me how it happened?"

"Something made her crash her car."

This wouldn't prompt Stephanie to ask what had, and David was on the edge of saying someone was responsible when she said "Is that all they know?"

"The police say it looks as if she was using her mobile on the motorway, in the outside lane. Her husband says she never used it on the road, wouldn't even touch it if it rang."

"I suppose being pregnant can change you."

"I'm just telling you what the police say. That doesn't mean it's the truth."

"Then what do you think is?"

He'd been hoping to catch himself out—to leave no option except speaking—but he felt his words desert him, not so much fleeing out of reach as being borne so far away that they were beyond his grasp. He could only make another dogged bid to trick himself. "I think there'll be one less to annoy me at work."

"You said you wouldn't say anything bad." When he only gazed at her, willing her to sense how much he couldn't utter, Stephanie said "What's making you like this? However upset you are—"

"Are you really sure you want to know? You'll like me even less than you do at the moment."

"You mustn't tell me how to feel, especially not about you. I want to know everything about you, David. Whatever it is, we can work it out together."

She reminded him of his parents. Perhaps that was one reason he'd been drawn to her, and he had no idea how useful it would be. "Then you have to read that blog," he said.

He'd feared he might be robbed of the ability to say even that, but it was out now, past denying—at least, by him. Stephanie looked confused and not far from saddened. "The one you said was using your title, you mean? Why should I want to do that?"

"I can't tell you. You need to see."

"Put the glass down for heaven's sake. You'll crack the stem if you hold it like that." As David managed to relax his grip and plant the wineglass on the table Stephanie said "Let's have dinner first, shall we?"

"Can't you turn it down?" He could tell she hoped to coax him away from his obsession. "I thought you wanted an explanation," he said. "In that case you'll have to look at the blog."

"Can you honestly not tell me otherwise?" When David shook his head, which felt like an attempt to shake more words out, Stephanie sighed. "All right, if it bothers you so much I'll look."

She seemed distracted, perhaps uneasy. Once she'd transferred the casserole to the oven she turned the heat low before she fetched her laptop. As she opened it on the table and inserted the jack of the lead.

David was reminded of Frank Cubbins. Was it too late to tell her he'd changed his mind? He mustn't do that to protect himself, and he had to believe she wasn't at risk. "What was it called again?" she said, not very much as if she wanted to know.

"
Better Out Than In
."

"But you don't think it is." When David had no answer she typed the words, and he watched her across the table as she was confronted by the site. "What do you want me to see?" she said.

His mouth was almost dry enough to destroy his voice, and he took another gulp of wine. "Can you see the link about not needing a menu? Read what that entry says."

He watched her face grow puzzled as she read, and then it filled with disbelief and tried to stay incredulous until it covered its expression with a blankness he'd never previously seen Stephanie adopt. He saw her come to the end of the entry, but he'd taken several breaths before she looked at him, "Are you trying to tell me you wrote this, David?"

"I'm not, no. I didn't see it till the first time I read it,"

"Then what are you—"

"Just look at some more. Read as much as you can."

He swallowed as she found another link, and then he reached for his glass. He had no idea which entry she was reading now, and her face gave no indication how it made her feel. She'd clicked on a third link before she said "How many of these am I expected to recognise?"

"You ought to be able to figure out a few. I know every single one." With a sense of relinquishing his last chance to keep her affection David said "Look at the latest."

He could see when she read past the encounter in the bookshop. From attempting to tolerate or at least understand the barrage of uninvited language, though the task was a visible strain, she began to look as if she would very much prefer not to comprehend what was in front of her, on the screen and perhaps across the table as well. For some moments after her eyes stopped moving she didn't speak. "Was that meant to be Emily?" she said as though she hardly wanted to be heard.

"I'm afraid it was. The others from work, they're on there too, and some of our customers are." Now that he was able to talk David found it hard to finish, though perhaps he was simply trying to fend off Stephanie's disquiet. "The couple he calls Daft and Pathetic," he said, "their names were Pat and Daff. They came in to book a holiday but the husband kept pretending he didn't remember places they'd been. I don't know if you saw, but he had a heart attack at the airport when he couldn't find their passports. Guess who stole them or hid them or just made it so the fellow couldn't see them. I'd forgotten about him and his wife, or I thought I had. They didn't even end up booking their holiday through us."

Perhaps he'd babbled at such length because he was afraid to learn what Stephanie was waiting to say. "Tell me none of this was anything to do with you, David."

"I can't." This sounded too close to wanting to be silenced, and he said even more fiercely "It has."

"What are you trying to say?" When he didn't respond at once she said "Or are you trying not to?"

"I told you I didn't write any of it. You must know I couldn't have." He was dismayed to wonder if he'd convinced her of the opposite. "All that about the motorway," he insisted, "it was posted last night when I was here with you. Go on and check."

He was silent while she did, but it left her looking uneasier still. "I wouldn't want to know you if you'd written it, but then who—"

"Suppose I didn't need to write it? What if I only had to think?" As Stephanie parted her lips and then pinched them inwards with her teeth he said "Or suppose it was more like the other way round?"

"You've lost me, David, and you're making me feel as if that's what you want."

"That's the last thing I do. It's hard for me to say all this, you know." With what he hoped was inspiration David said "He gave it away at the bookshop, if he was ever really there. Didn't you see what he told us?"

"I can't say I wasted much time on it."

"Not the stuff about titles, but maybe that's where all that was leading. 
I didn't realise what he'd said at first myself. He says if you suppress your thoughts that just lets them get out of control, and that's what has been happening with mine."

He hoped Stephanie was grimacing only at the blog. "Are you saying you could ever have thought any of that about Emily?"

"That's exactly what I wasn't saying. I wished she wouldn't come to any kind of harm, and look what happened to her."

"Then you can't think there's any connection, and as for the rest of it—

"It wasn't just Emily I wanted nothing bad to happen to. Remember Luther Payne? He was the case that was ruining my mother's sleep."

"I do remember." As if she'd seen how to bring David back to reality Stephanie said "And I remember how you wished he'd have an accident or something worse, so that doesn't prove your point at all."

"But it does, Steph." However unwelcome his triumph felt, David had to say "I kept wanting him to be dealt with and nothing happened. He wasn't killed till I wished he'd be left alone because my mother would have felt responsible if he'd been harmed. It isn't what I wish that makes these things happen, it's what I can't admit I wish. Most of the time I can't even admit how I feel about these people."

"Think what you just said. You aren't the only one to feel responsible."

"Yes, but my mother wasn't. Only I am."

Perhaps Stephanie's observation had been a last attempt to put off saying "Do you think you need to see someone?"

"Maybe you're right and I need to see Mr Newless."

"I hope you're just playing with words now." With a decisive movement that looked like a bid to take control, Stephanie shut down her computer. "I mean someone you can talk to about this," she said.

"I just did, and you don't know how hard it was. I don't think I could do it again."

Stephanie unplugged the laptop and folded it up. Perhaps this gave her time to think, or only to prepare to say "You want to know how all this looks to me."

"That's why I've told you everything. We've seen what happens when I keep things to myself."

"I've known something was wrong for a while. I'm glad you've told me at last," She rested her hands on the lid of the laptop as if to reassure herself the contents were safely shut away. "If you really think all this can't just be a series of coincidences..."

"You must have seen there's too much to be."

"All right, I did." She reached across the laptop to take both of David's hands in hers and gripped them hard. "Then even if you aren't aware of it," she said, "you have to be writing this. Maybe that's why you've been insisting you aren't a writer, because you don't want to believe it. But however nasty all this is, you didn't do these things, you only wrote about them. It must have something to do with that drug you took."

"If that's what makes sense to you."

"Doesn't it to you?" Her grasp felt like a plea rendered physical. "If you want to consult someone," she said, "I could come with you if you like. If you find it hard to talk about I could maybe help. I could say what you've said to me."

He saw how she was endeavouring not to let her distress prevent her from helping. He couldn't just reject her aid, however little it could achieve. "Let's see how it works out," he said and felt more alone than ever.

Stephanie hesitated before releasing his left hand so that she could top up the glasses. She did her best to sound amused, but it came out wryer. "This was meant to be a celebration."

"Can't it still be?"

"I've got a job."

Perhaps this wasn't quite an answer, but it had to be enough of one. "Well done, Steph," he cried and held up his glass until she met it with hers. "Tell me more."

"It's a new place. Mediterranean fine dining. Mick's wife recommended me. I'll be the sous-chef, but they're paying more than he did."

"I can see how happy you are. Just stay like that and we'll forget everything else for now. Let's have your celebratory dinner," David said and almost managed to believe in his own enthusiasm. He watched her bear away the laptop as though all that it brought to his mind could be kept at a distance, and vowed he would forget while they were celebrating her luck. She wouldn't like to know what he couldn't help making until he suppressed it. If she weren't so determined to dismiss Lucky Newless, perhaps she would be grateful that he'd made it possible for her to find a better job.

Once he was certain that Stephanie had gone to sleep David felt safe to lie awake without being afraid to disturb her, but then he had to think. What had he achieved by showing her the blog? She didn't believe how it worked, and he hadn't even established that nobody could see it unless he drew their attention to it in some way. All he'd done was distress Stephanie on his behalf, however much she'd striven to make tonight into an unspoiled celebration. He had to realise she would no longer feel at ease with him unless he sought some form of treatment, but how could that help him in the circumstances? At least he'd proved he could talk about the blog and what it seemed to represent, all of which felt like breaking through a mental barrier. Perhaps talking was the start of a solution, even if his listener didn't accept what he said. Or could Stephanie be right after all? Was it possible that some effect of the drug had lain dormant in his mind all these years, only to be triggered when he was forced to reach deep into his brain at All Write? Might he indeed be producing the rants on the blog and forgetting every time he had? In that case, wouldn't therapy help after all?

He didn't quite believe it. The explanation was too facile and left too much unsolved—how he would have had the opportunity to write all the entries, for instance. The one about Emily had been posted before he'd even heard of her death, and that was true of too many of them to be dismissed as coincidental. When Stephanie grew restless next to him beneath the quilt he felt as if his doubts were troubling her, and he made his hand relax on her midriff; he hadn't been aware that his arm had grown so tense. As her sleepy fingers slipped between his he tried to match the rhythm of his breaths to hers, keeping them shallow so as not to risk wakening her, though she must be used to his breaths on her neck in the night. Perhaps she found them comfortingly familiar. He was attempting to share the peace she'd achieved, however temporary it might be for both of them, when he felt a chill breath on the nape of his own neck.

He had to stiffen his whole body to restrain a shiver, though he'd realised what the icy intrusion must be—a draught through the window. He heard the wind rouse the trees in the park as he blinked at the dim bedroom. Beyond Stephanie's silhouette a sliver of light through the curtains petered out on the quilt, well short of her dressing-table and its mirror, which framed a feeble image of the window. As far as David could make out from the reflection, the curtained window was shut tight, and if he went to check he might well disturb Stephanie. He was reaching to draw the quilt over his neck when he glimpsed movement in the room.

Had the curtains stirred? He thought he'd seen the scrawny strip of light across the bed grow restless. No, its edges hadn't shifted; that wasn’t what he remembered seeing. It had darkened for an instant, but not because of any restlessness of the curtains. A shape had crossed it— a shadow that his memory suggested had been as thin as an insect. However fanciful he wanted to believe that impression was, he couldn't avoid recognising that the intruder was behind him.