I’m still trying to dislodge this morning from my thoughts when I realize I’m being heckled. This isn’t usually the best way to get my attention, but I recognize the voice. It’s Steve’s, and he’s chasing me.
I’ve been avoiding him since letting down his tires last week. Now, though, I guess, my misdemeanors are quite literally about to catch up with me.
I’m half-minded to sprint for the boating lake, attempt a pedalo-based getaway with my small herd of dogs in tow. But then I remember Steve could definitely outrun me, wrestle me to the ground, and get me to submit, all in the space of about ten seconds.
Steve’s a personal trainer, holds loathsome outdoor boot-camp classes for people with masochistic tendencies. He must have just finished one, because he’s sweating as he swigs from an oversized muscle milkshake. He’s in jogging bottoms and trainers, a T-shirt that looks like it’s been sprayed to his body.
“All right, hounds,” he says to my motley crew of three, falling into step at my shoulder.
He seems relaxed. Still, that could just be the endorphins. I keep striding purposefully, guard firmly up. If he asks me about his tires, I’ll deny all knowledge.
“What’s going on, mate?”
Or I could just say nothing at all.
Steve gets straight to the point, because he’s efficient like that. “Joel, I know it was you who let down my tires last week.” His voice is low but firm, like I’m a kid he’s caught nicking cigarettes from the corner shop. “I’ve been asking around, got Rodney to check his footage. It’s all on CCTV.”
Ah, Rodney. The eyes of our street. A walking, talking citizen’s arrest. I might have known he’d be my downfall. The clues have been there formonths, ever since he got broadband installed last summer just so he could tweet the police.
Self-reproach snakes through me. I want to say something but don’t know what. So I just stuff my hands deeper into my pockets, keep walking.
“You know,” Steve’s saying, “after you’d done it, you rested your head against the wheel arch. You felt bad, didn’t you?”
Of course I did, all rationale aside. Because, for so many years, Steve felt more like family to me than a friend.
“Iknowyou didn’t want to be doing what you did, mate. So just tell me why.”
Even the thought of that conversation feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. Racing heart, prickling skin, speech shriveling to sawdust in my mouth.
“I had to tell Hayley,” Steve says, when I fail to enlighten him.
This comes as no surprise: they function properly, the two of them. Sharing everything, withholding nothing.
“She’s not happy. Actually, she’s fuming. She can’t understand what the hell you were thinking. I mean, I hadPoppywith me—”
“The tires were right down. You couldn’t have driven away, even if you’d wanted to.”
Steve grabs my arm now, pulls me to a halt. The strength of his grip renders me pretty helpless: I’m forced to meet his eyes.
“Poppy’s your goddaughter, Joel. The least you could do is tell me why.”
“It wasn’t... I promise I had good reason.”
He waits to hear it.
“I can’t explain. I’m sorry. But it wasn’t malicious.”
Steve sighs, releases my arm. “Look, Joel, all of this... It’s kind of confirmed what me and Hayley have been thinking for a while. We need more space anyway, now we’ve got Poppy, so I should tell you... we’re going to do it. We’re moving out.”
A breath of regret. “Sorry.” I need him to know this. “Really, I am.”
“We probably won’t sell. Not at first, anyway—we’ll get a tenant in. The mortgage is nearly paid off, so...” He pauses, looks at me as though he’s let slip something really offensive. “Just heard that back in my head. What a middle-class arsehole.”
Steve and Hayley were sensible, bought their flat off our landlord when prices were still reasonable. “Not at all. You work hard. Hang on to the place.”
He nods slowly. “I wish you could tell me what’s going on, mate. I’m... worried about you.”
“Everything’s under control.”
