S. Bolton - Dead Scared

OK, here’s the really serious bit. I went to see Bryony Carter again today and I discovered something. She can’t talk but she can write. Only the odd word at a time because she doesn’t seem to have much control over her muscles. She told me someone was watching her. Which really doesn’t fit with Evi’s online bullying theory. For someone to be watching, it all sounds more focused and deliberate. She also said that she was scared and then wrote down the word Bell . Mean anything to you? Bryony’s GP is called Nick Bell and he was in her room (watching her?) the day I met him, but to be honest I can’t see it. He seems nice. No one else of that name at the university who seems likely. I’m going to go and see her again. I don’t want to push it, though, she’s in a very delicate condition.

OK, I think that’s all for today. I can barely keep my eyes open and there’s a young gentleman reclining on my pillow who is looking decidedly neglected. I’m talking about the teddy, by the way. I call him Joe, did I mention that? Blimey, I’m tired. Good night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs … I’m really going now. Zzzzzz …

Joesbury stood up, crossed the room and let his head fall against the cool wood of the door. After five minutes he sighed and reached for the phone.

Cambridge, fifteen years earlier

‘ NO ONE HAS to do this,’ said the young man who’d stolen the key and opened the door at the top of the church tower. He was tall and lean and at twenty-one his body was as close to perfect as the male form usually gets. His hair, grown longer since he’d left his strict boarding school behind, flew out around his head like a pagan crown. ‘I know we’ve talked, but until we got here, none of us knew how we’d feel. If anyone changes his mind, that’s OK .’

The first of his two companions to step on to the roof was wearing the navy, red and yellow scarf of one of the more famous Cambridge colleges. He shook his head. ‘I won’t change mine,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea how much clearer it’s all been since we decided. Like a massive weight just gone.’ He turned to look back at the stairs. ‘I can’t go back down there,’ he said, and there was the gleam of tears in his eyes. ‘I just can’t .’

‘ Got to, one way or another,’ said the third boy. Then he glanced anxiously at each of the other two. ‘Sorry,’ he said. His pupils were enormous in his pale face and seemed to have lost their ability to focus. His hands were shaking. He was smaller and thinner than his two companions, a boy bred for indoors .

The long-haired boy rested a hand on the smaller one’s shoulder. ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘We deal with it how we can .’

‘ So how do we do this?’ asked the third boy, speaking faster than seemed natural. ‘Hold hands and count to three?’

‘ Let’s just go look,’ suggested the boy with long hair. ‘I want everyone to be sure .’

‘ I’m sure,’ said the one wearing the Trinity scarf. ‘Thanks for being with me, guys. Whether you come with me all the way or you don’t, I couldn’t have made it this far without you. You’ve been good friends .’

He held out his arms and, in turn, the other two stepped into them. The hugs were brief, blokesy, little more than mutual back-patting .

Together they walked across the roof to the parapet. A yard or two away, the third boy held back. The first two either didn’t notice or pretended not to. They reached the stone edging and sat down on it. Not taking their eyes from each other, they swung their legs over the edge until two pairs of shoes were dangling .

‘ Good luck, mate,’ said the first .

‘ Love you, man,’ his companion replied .

A strangled scream from behind. The third boy was running at them, his mouth open, fists pumping. He reached them, sprang up on to the parapet and leaped .

Silence for three, maybe four seconds. Then a crunch. Silence again .

Both boys on the parapet had leaned forward to watch the moment of impact. Moving as one, they straightened up and turned to each other .

‘ You know, Iestyn, even if he hadn’t, a bloody good push would have done it,’ said the long-haired boy .

The one wearing the Trinity scarf, Iestyn, shook his head. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘Trust me, takes all the fun out of it .’

Still moving as one, they smiled, raised their right hands and slapped a noisy high five .

Friday 18 January (four days earlier)

‘YOU’RE LATE.’

The denim-clad bottom wiggled itself into a comfortable position on the leather passenger seat and its owner ostentatiously raised her left wrist.

‘Your watch is fast,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘I’m bang on time.’ Joesbury released the handbrake, checked the rear mirror and pulled out, just as Chris Evans announced that they were listening to the Friday show and that it was nine thirty-two on Radio 2.

‘Guess the BBC’s watch is fast too,’ he said.

‘How was the traffic?’

‘Not bad, considering,’ he told her, which pretty accurately described the five-minute trip from the central multi-storey car park to the spot on the Queen’s Road, some way down from the college, where he’d agreed to pick her up. Because of the email he’d sent at the crack of dawn she thought he’d driven up from London.

She was looking round, into the back seat, up at the ceiling. ‘This isn’t your car,’ she announced as he turned on to the Huntingdon Road. Heading north out of Cambridge the traffic was busy but moving steadily. On the radio, a James Brown track started.

‘Isn’t it?’

Now she was in it the car smelled gorgeous; like sweet oranges and tiny white flowers on a tropical evening, and what the fuck was he now, a poet?

‘When I knew you last autumn you had a poncy green convertible. A real ladies-who-lunch wagon.’

‘Sweet of you to remember.’ There were lights ahead and Joesbury eased his foot off the accelerator. If they came to a standstill, he could look at her. Otherwise, it really wasn’t responsible. He pursed his lips to keep the smile at bay, wondering if there was a penalty for driving under the influence of Lacey.

‘Mind you, when I knew you last autumn you had a right lung that hadn’t been ripped open by a bullet. I guess life moves on.’

‘Ouch,’ said Joesbury. Nope, he was not going to look.

‘Does it hurt?’

That didn’t sound like concern in her voice – more like hope – but it was hard to tell without looking at her.

‘No, it’s actually a pretty comfortable drive.’

The lights stayed on green, the suburbs started to fade away and the speed of the traffic picked up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see she was looking directly at him. He glanced round before he could stop himself and his stomach did a little flip-flop. She hardly ever wore make-up. For a moment, he found himself grinning inside at the thought she’d dressed up for him. Then he remembered she was undercover. As the glamorous albeit drippy-as-an-old-tap Laura Farrow.

‘I still own the ladies-who-lunch wagon,’ he told her, as they neared the dual carriageway. ‘This vehicle is registered to a company in Essex that ceased trading two years ago.’

‘Wow, a real spy car.’

He faked a sigh. ‘Flint, are you taking this a hundred per cent seriously?’

She wiggled a bit in the seat, like an over-excited child on an outing. ‘Too right I am,’ she said. ‘I missed two lectures to come out on a jaunt with you, you know. So where are we going?’