Alex Walters - Trust No One

She threw the towel around her shoulders and looked at the display. Two missed calls. The first number, sure enough, was Liam’s. The second, though, wasn’t the voicemail service she’d expected, but another mobile number. The number wasn’t one she recognized. If it was important, she thought, the caller would leave a message. Most likely, it would be a wrong number or a cold call. In any case, her instinct now was to let others do the running. If someone had a job, she could be found.

She was still holding the phone when it rang again. Liam’s number. She thumbed on the phone and spoke before he could. ‘I’ve told you not to use this number.’

‘And a good evening to you,’ Liam said. ‘You’re answering now, are you?’

‘Yes, and I shouldn’t be. I’ll call you back.’

Before he could object, she disconnected and fumbled in her handbag for the other mobile. She ought to stop and put on some clothes, she thought. The bedroom was warm enough, but she preferred not to be at any disadvantage when talking to Liam. But if she delayed he’d just call back again on the original line.

It took her a moment to switch on the phone and dial Liam’s number. She expected him to be irritated, but he sounded only resigned.

‘On the right phone now, then?’ he asked. ‘Important to get these things straight.’

She paused, mentally counting to ten. ‘It’s not a game, Liam. I don’t do these things for fun.’

‘You can say that again,’ he said. ‘Though Christ knows why else you do them.’

‘To make a bloody living, Liam,’ she said patiently. Almost immediately, she regretted the words.

‘Because I don’t, you mean?’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Liam . . .’

‘How much have I made this month? Sold two pictures. Hundred quid each. Not bad. Just remind me how much the mortgage is again?’

‘That’s not the point. You know I’ve always been happy to support your painting. You’ve got real talent . . .’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. And what happens when I can’t paint?’

This was a topic she always tried to steer away from. It was unproductive, pointless. And the last thing she needed today. ‘Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Liam.’

‘I’m not being melodramatic. I’m being realistic. It’s a degenerative disease. I’m going to degenerate. Maybe later, maybe sooner. But eventually.’

And in the meantime you can wallow in the prospect , she thought, though she knew how unfair she was being. They were very different people. Her instinct was to avoid trouble, not face it till she was compelled to. Liam’s was to embrace it head-on. But she knew that he was pragmatic, not indulgent. And this was his trouble, not hers.

‘You don’t know that,’ she responded feebly. ‘You can’t know that. And, anyway, eventually could mean decades . . .’

‘Yeah, thanks for that,’ he said. ‘I feel much better now.’

‘Oh, Jesus, Liam . . .’ She’d lost it, she knew that. It was stupid even to be having this conversation. She took a breath and tried to start again. ‘Anyway, how’ve you been?’

There was a hesitation which made her wonder what he wasn’t saying. ‘OK. Not so bad.’

‘Are you all right?’ she pushed him.

She could almost hear him mulling over his reply, wondering whether to make another semi-joking bid for martyrdom. ‘Yeah, I’m all right. I’m fine. Really.’

‘Have you been back to the doctor?’

‘Not yet. I will.’ He was beginning to sound tetchy.

‘Liam, is it getting worse?’

‘Christ, Marie, how do I know? No, it’s not, not obviously. But it’s never been bloody obvious, has it? Not yet.’ For a moment, she thought he’d ended the call. ‘I don’t know,’ he said finally. ‘I imagine all kinds of things. But that’s probably all it is. There’s no way of knowing till it happens.’

‘Go back to the doctor,’ she said. ‘See what she says.’

‘You know what she’ll say. Nothing. What can she say?’

It was true. They’d had the diagnosis, and that was unequivocal. Multiple sclerosis. He’d had the scan. They’d been shown the images, the lesions in his brain. Had it all carefully explained. There was no doubt. The only question was how far the disease had progressed. Was it still in the remitting stage, where the symptoms could still come and go? Or was it in the progressive phase, where the likelihood was an inexorable, if possibly slow, decline? The distinction, the neurologist had told them, was not always clear-cut, and Liam’s condition seemed to be on the cusp. That was what she’d said, but Marie had suspected that her eyes, professionally expressionless, had intimated a different story.

‘She’ll give you a view. About whether it’s getting worse.’

‘I don’t need a view. I’ll know if it’s getting worse.’

She couldn’t tell whether the future tense was euphemistic. ‘At least get it checked out.’

‘If it keeps you happy.’

‘It’ll reassure me, anyway,’ she said.

‘Just as long as you care.’ The tone was ambiguous. ‘Anyway, you’ve got better things to do than talk to me. I’ll let you go.’

She knew he didn’t mean it, that he wanted to keep talking, but she could feel her self-control draining away. ‘Look, I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time?’

‘Whenever you’ve got a moment.’

‘Same time,’ she confirmed. She began to mutter some half-hearted endearment, but he’d already ended the call. Dear God, why did she bother? They hadn’t even made the effort to get married before they’d reached this state. She didn’t know what she felt for Liam any more than she’d known what she felt for Jake. With Liam she really had believed, once, that it was love. Now, it just felt like an old habit, not quite abandoned, but increasingly buried under layers of semi-serious recrimination and bickering.

She shivered suddenly and realized that she was sitting with only a towel around her shoulders, her body still damp from the bath. The window blinds were open, and she’d probably brightened the day for some old man or pubescent teenager in the flats opposite. Either that, or traumatized some busy-body who’d be penning a shocked letter to the Residents’ Association. The way things were going, she could guess which was more likely.

Welsby was out on the balcony, chain-smoking, watching the pale sun sinking over the quays and the industrial landscape of Trafford Park. He’d left Salter and Hodder inside, systematically working through the flat. Salter had obviously expected him to lend a hand, but Welsby reckoned that was one of the privileges of rank. Not having to spend any more time than necessary breathing in the stench of stale blood.

‘All right?’ Salter said from behind him, the note of irony in his voice more or less concealed. ‘Sir?’

‘Not so bad,’ Welsby acknowledged, without looking round. ‘Getting a bit parky out here, though.’ He gestured towards the dominant bulk of Old Trafford on the far side of the canal. ‘And I could do without having to stare at the theatre of bloody dreams. Nearly finished?’

Salter sat himself down opposite Welsby. ‘Getting there. I’ve left the youngster to finish off.’

‘Aye, well, you deserve a break.’ Welsby stretched out his legs and eased back against the chair. ‘Mind you, your arse’ll get numb if you spend too long out here.’ He waved a packet of cigarettes towards Salter.

Salter shook his head. ‘Giving up,’ he explained.

‘Again? Your bloody trouble, Hugh – no willpower. Some of us are properly committed.’

‘Don’t imagine my lapse will be too protracted,’ Salter said. ‘Not if I have to deal with many more fuck-ups like this one.’