We get in the taxi. The leather seats we take in the back are worn and soft from the thousands of people who’ve sat on them before us. Once the driver’s checked we’re who he’s supposed to be picking up, he apologises. ‘Sorry, traffic is wild.’
I’m buckling in, and absentmindedly I chat away. ‘Did you get caught up on the lane closure on the Bellshill bypass?’
The driver gives an answer which is lost by Gavin speaking over them. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Heard it on the radio while I was getting ready.’ A plausible and reasonable fib, I think.
‘I’ve never heard you listen to the radio.’
Suddenly the view of Hamilton town centre becomes fascinating to me. When my phone pings with a message from Amara, the genuine distraction it offers is welcome.
Tonight cancelled. Be in touch with new date soon.
I shift the phone’s screen towards Gavin so they can understand why I’m telling the driver to turn around.
Back at the flat, I offer to be the kind one of us who goes to check in on Mrs Neilan and fling them the keys to mine.
Mrs Neilan’s door remains open. ‘Mrs Neilan?’ I say into the hall. ‘Our plans were cancelled, wanted to check in on you.’ There’s no response. I walk further into the flat, the pissy smell of hyacinths strong. She’s not here and Angus’s lead is off of the hall table where it usually sits. The perfect scenario; I have offered to do good only for there to be no takers.
Back at mine, Gavin’s hanging their khaki coat on the hook next to the door as I come in. They ask, ‘Why is there a hammer steeping in bleach in the sink?’
Which is a very good question.
To buy some time, I go through to the kitchen as if I haven’t a clue what they’re on about. ‘Oh, that?’ Despite the rinse I’d given it before I put it in the sink, the hammer’s leached a rusty red in the bleach. I busy myself rooting about in the cupboards, pantomiming a woman who’s trying to decide what to make for dinner, while also feigning ignorance of how metal, bleach, hammers, everything, works. ‘I need to hang some pictures. It was pretty dirty, though, so I chucked it in bleach.’ Closing the cupboard door, I put effort into sounding authentically innocent and confused. ‘Why? Should I not have done that? Did I do something wrong?’
‘You don’t strike me as a woman who has tools?’ This is needlessly rude but I let it slide.
‘Well, I didn’t, not until Colin died. The police left me with all the tools he had on him that day and no one from his family’s claimed them. I guess it’s my little inheritance from having to witness his death. A small token of his appreciation for all the rent money I contributed to help him grow his personal wealth.’
Gavin puts a hand onto the worktop, steadying themself. ‘Was it just his tools you were left with?’
‘His phone is in there, too. Obviously that’s dead.’ Gavin winces at the word ‘dead’, giving me a golden opportunity to deflect. ‘What is your deal with Colin? He’s some guy you knew from work. When we first met I thought it made sense combined with all the other stuff you’re dealing with, but now I work in the same place you do, I cannot fathom how you can care this much about the man.’
‘Wouldn’t you be affected if someone you had a working relationship with died? What if Brian passed away? Or me?’
‘Oh, come on, those are not comparable at all.’
We stare at one another. I haven’t a scoobie what to do so I leave it to Gavin to make the next move. They do when they ask, ‘Where are the tools?’
‘In the hallway cupboard.’
To them, my telling the location is an invitation to go get them. Bizarre behaviour. I don’t follow to start with; it’s nice to have them distracted. When they open the cupboard, I hear them say, ‘Ouch,’ as my skis fall onto them. Then there’s the scrape of the toolbag being pulled from the shelf. ‘Wow,’ they say, as if they’ve uncovered actual treasure. When this isn’t followed by the clatter of metal or the jingling of screws or whatever else rubbish is in there, I grow concerned.
Looking out from the kitchen I see them on their knees. The bag in almost the exact spot Colin had it. Creepy. They are not admiring the spanner or the spare saw blade I’ve seen in the bag. No, they have my notebook from the early days of all of this. The one with notes on contributors fromFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammer, the one with the rules about who can and cannot be victimised. This is definitely harder to explain away than a manky hammer.
‘What’s this? Why is it all men’s names? Who are these men?’ They are on a page which has the name ‘Dominic’ written on it. The only other words I can make out are my gigantic scrawls ofLIVES IN NEWCASTLE – TOO FAR?????
‘They’re nobody. It’s research.’
‘For what?’ They flick through the latter pages, which are mercifully empty. ‘Are these people you’ve hooked up with?’
‘What does it matter?’ I grab the notebook from them. ‘Why are you being so invasive? Just because we’re dating doesn’t mean you can root around my stuff.’
‘Since when did you go to a gym? Which gym is it you’re going to?’ The words race out of them.
‘I got a pass for the one in the retail park to see if I liked it. Not that it’s any of your business.’
Hearing this, they slump, deflated, their shoulders drooping, before asking yet another stupid bloody question. ‘Why wouldn’t it be my business? Are we exclusive?’
