‘Like buses,’ I say, an obvious attempt to lighten things up while my heart is jackhammering in my chest so fast it might kill me.
Two officers position themselves next to the door on the street; two others come inside.Ting-a-linggoes the bell. I’m prepared as much as I can be for this. It’s off to jail I go.
Except it’s not me that the officers approach. ‘What’s all this about?’ Brian asks, retreating towards his office as if under attack.
Diane pops her tea down. ‘Brian, we know what you’ve done. We’ve collected enough evidence to arrest you for the attempted murder of Paula Homerton and the actual murders of William McAllister and Peter Smeaton.’
‘The what? No.’
I can’t watch. My eyes are locked on my dusty keyboard.
‘Brian, you know fine well what’s happened. You’re under arrest. One of the officers here will caution you and take you to the station for questioning.’
Diane’s words play out. Brian is told he isn’t obliged to say anything but it will be noted if he does.
‘This is all wrong. I would never kill anyone. I didn’t do this.’ The handcuffs are placed around his wrists and he screams, ‘No. No. I didn’t do anything.’ Me, a person certain of his innocence, can’t help but notice he’s being a bit over the top, like a guilty man trying to appear innocent. As he’s led away, tears streaking down his face, he says, ‘Tell Leanne what’s happening and she needs to get me a lawyer.’ He twists and turns his arms seeking a secret release that isn’t there.
Diane stays in the office. ‘Sorry about that.’ She collects both our mugs, takes them through to the kitchen as if this is her place of work and not mine. She comes back wiping her hands on a piece of kitchen roll. ‘I understand that will have been quite a shock. We’ll need to talk to you, take an in-depth statement, but that can happen at a later date. For now, all I need is for you to leave us details of any logins you have for Brian’s accounts: email, calendars, the pin for his phone.’
Diane gives me a notebook and pen. My already messy writing is almost indecipherable from how much I’m shaking.
‘The office is going to be searched for any evidence that could assist in our investigation. You can take your things and leave. Someone will be in touch when you’re allowed back, but it may be a few days.’
I do as I’m told, get out onto the pavement. The inhale I take on this main road in Hamilton is the sweetest, freshest air I’ve ever breathed. Freedom.
Then I consider Brian experiencing the exact opposite, all because of me and my meticulous, fictitious record keeping and exclusive use of his mobile phone for all of my research, providing an extensive collection of data to back up the clues I’ve left. The copy ofEat That Frogwith Brian’s name inscribed inside it dumped near where Willie was found. Brian’s business card tucked into Pete’s pocket. Paula’s DNA all over the bull bars on the front of Brian’s car. The hammer in the boot of Brian’s car wrapped in the bloodstained towel used to wipe it down after Harry’s death – although they haven’t connected him yet. It’s at times like these that being a triangle pays off, and it’s why being a squiggle is a hindrance. Brian’s mistresses might be able to poke holes in some of the stories, but who are the police going to believe? Someone in a relationship with Brian or the cold, hard evidence? Poor Brian.
I call Leanne as requested and can hear the faint sound of a phone ringing nearby. Looking across the road, I understand the call I hear is my call. Leanne is folded behind the pillar at the entrance to the abandoned Italian restaurant. We lock eyes as she answers and I tell her information she clearly already knows. ‘Brian’s been arrested, he needs a solicitor.’
‘Thanks for letting me know.’
‘He was cheating on you the whole time.’
‘I know.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘I am now he’s locked up.’ Then she hangs up.
43
It’s been quite the day. After getting kicked out of the office, I was home before elevenses to really sit in my feelings, which were predominantly relief it had all worked out. The afternoon was spent comfy on the sofa, waiting. For Gavin to call me after they read my text to them:You’ll never guess what’s happened. Call me ASAP.For Malcolm to pick up the pieces of his career. For Brian’s arrest to make the news. For those solicitors to offer me my job.
Malcolm acted first, publishing an iPhone Notes statement on his social media.
For a long time I have not been a happy man. I have drunk too much and behaved erratically. What I posted last night was an example of this pattern of behaviour. I do not mean any of it in the cold light of day, but that I said those things and shared them publicly is proof I have reached the point where I need professional help.
Today I am going to pause filming the latest series ofFixer Uppers Go Under the Hammerso I can take time to heal and become the happy man on your television once again. All I ask is you please respect my family’s privacy at this time.
Mal
I raised my glass of water to my phone screen. ‘Well done, Malcolm, you were right. Uncancellable.’ He’ll be back in a few months giving interviews about his mental health struggle, and he’ll either have genuinely sought treatment and be in a better place, or he’s lied and when he returns he’ll still be given grace by everyone: his colleagues, his family, the public,Strictlyproducers. Win-win. In his next incarnation I hope he finds a source of joy that is greater than Premier Inn Prosecco.
In mine, I will find happiness in different ways, too. No more killing – it fucks Brian appearing guilty, for one. For another, it’s like Malcolm and the feet and the miniatures: it’s temporary satisfaction. I’ll need to source a more sustainable way to be of use to society. Joining the renters union doesn’t seem so pointless after all.
The comments piled up under Malcolm’s post.
You are so brave to admit you have a problem.
