Our Mike and Dylan day soothes me, although it isn’t quite like old times. Around four o’clock he gets tired and has to go for a nap. I watch him lope upstairs, his chin sagging to his chest, knuckles white as he grips the bannister. He stumbles a bit and I jerk forward, but he waves me away. When he’s out of sight, I feel an arm settle around my waist and I turn my head into the crook of Carol’s shoulder. We stay like that for a long time.
“Sure you’re up to this?”
“Dylan?”
“Yeah?”
“I am so going to out-party your ass.”
Mike zips up his jacket and we head for the door. We’re almost at the road when Big Mike calls us back and tosses his son a baseball cap.
“But, Dad, it’s my plan to come out as a big bad baldy tonight. Girls are going wild for chemo-head this season.”
Big Mike forces a wonky smile. “Wear it there and back. You can rock the cue ball as much as you like once you’re inside. Oh! And, Dylan, if he gets tired and you need a lift?”
I wave my mobile. “I’ll call you right away, Big M.”
Big Mike shoots me a salute.
“My dad is such a tool,” Mike sighs.
“Your dad rules and you know it.”
“God, you’re right,” he groans. “It kind of kills me.”
It isn’t far from Mike’s to Gemma’s. Kids ride bikes in lazy circles, the setting sun thrumming off silver spokes. People in designer jumpers mow their lawns and leave the cuttings for the gardener to deal with.
As we walk, I’m reminded again how this side of town is a world away from your old estate, El. You said once that the “over here”, as you called it, felt like a Hollywood film set, all cardboard houses and actor’s smiles and scripted opinions.
“By the way,” Mike says, “I’ve been doing some detective work.”
“Okay, Sherlock, share.”
“Alistair Pardue? Remember him?”
I do, El. I remember him flat on his homophobic arse after you belted him one.
“Well, he wasn’t exactly Team Ellis, was he? Prime suspect for at least one of our mystery men. Unfortunately he was in Scotland camping with his family the night of the accident.”
“Jesus, his poor family.”
“And I’ve been thinking,” Mike continues, “if we’re saying Gemma could be the person who rescued you, well, I don’t want to sound sexist, but could she really have dragged you out of a sinking car?”
“Thatiskind of sexist,” I say, “and don’t forget Gemma is netball captain, swim team captain, and head ballbreaker of the new cheerleading squad.”
“Don’t remind me.” Mike throws out his arms, waggling imaginary pom-poms.
“And maybe she wasn’t alone,” I say. “She’s seeing Paul Donovan now, isn’t she? A strapping rugger-bugger like him could do some serious heavy lifting. And Donovan has a car. If for some reason Gemma wanted to confront El that night, they could easily have followed us from the dance.”
“Dude.” Mike frowns. “Are you even allowed to say ‘rugger-bugger’?”
I’m saved from answering this by my phone bleeping. A new message from Mum. Eighth since this morning. I delete it, along with the rest.
Looking up, I see we’ve reached a confluence of streets that all seem to feed into Gemma’s. The invitation didn’t mention a dress code but virtually everyone pouring down the road is in black. The mood doesn’t entirely reflect the clothes, though. Kids are arriving in loose groups, fingers hooked through six-packs, passing around half-drunk bottles, everyone grinning and gossiping. Mike catches my eye.
“Sure you’re sure about this?”
I nod and we join the swarm.
