George shrugs. ‘All right, you let that hamster in, and I’ll go crack open that champagne.’ He slaps him on the shoulder and strides off towards the kitchen, matching his steps to the beat, and leaving Miles to answer the door.
Chapter 6
Miles
Miles pauses by the front door for a moment and grins as he weighs up how to greet his old friend. Should he pretend to be angry, scold him for not being in court today, or just throw his arms around him in a big hug? It might be funny to try the former, but even as a trained actor Miles can’t pull that off – he feels the corners of his mouth being pulled upwards like a string puppet’s, beyond his control – there’s no way he can feign anger right now. Not at Reubyn.
He jerks the front door open, and immediately his smile falls from his lips. He hides his drink behind his back. The man standing on the step is not Reubyn, but a lanky bloke in a cheap grey suit. He’s got a thin face and a downy receding hairline, and Miles recognises him instantly – he was on the press bench for much of the trial. The man clutches a notepad in his left hand and rotates a biro between the long fingers of his right.
‘Hi, Miles,’ the man says, in an accent from somewhere in the Midlands. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name’s Anthony and I’m a journalist, here on behalf of theTribune. It must have been such a relief to hear the verdict today?’ He brings the pad in front of him, ready to record anything Miles says.
‘I gave a statement outside court; I don’t have anything else to say.’
The reporter nods briskly. ‘I totally get it. You’ve been through one hell of an ordeal – I can’t imagine what it’s been like.’ It’s not a question, but his rising inflection demands an answer. He waits a beat, eyebrows raised at Miles, then continues. ‘Did you get my letter?’
‘Maybe. There were a few.’
‘I just wanted to offer you the chance to tell your side of the story, Miles.’
Miles’s eye twitches. How is it that he’s got to deal with this after the day he’s had? After theyearhe’s had. A voice in Miles’s head says he should tell this guy to piss off, but he knows he can’t do that. He must be polite. Besides, isn’t this reporter just doing his job? He probably doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than Miles does. Miles steps outside and closes the door most of the way to cancel out some of the noise from inside, where, regrettably, someone has just turned up the volume on ‘Celebration’by Kool & The Gang. ‘I appreciate that,’ Miles says. ‘But I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’
The reporter starts nodding again, like he’s battery-powered and someone just switched him back on. ‘Yeah, of course, Miles. I totally get it, I really do. But the thing is: it’s really one-sided, what gets reported from a trial like that. And you’re a victim, too – being falsely accused, that’s terrible. I can give you a chance to set the record straight.’
Miles claws at his hair. Answering the door was a mistake. Inside the house, ‘Celebration’is fading out, and above it comes the unmistakable pop of a champagne cork and George’s hyenic howl. Miles needs this conversation to end, quickly. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Thanks very much, but I don’t want to do an interview.’
‘There would be a fee, too, although I know that’s not what’s important; the important thing is that people will understand your side of things and know the toll it’s taken on you.’
‘Thanks, but Ireallydon’t want to.’
The reporter nods, slower this time, and raises a hand of submission in response to the slight change of tone in Miles’s voice. Mercifully, the music coming from inside has moved on to something much slower and more sombre; what sounds like a church organ drones in mournful sustain over the soft strum of an acoustic guitar. ‘I’ll be honest with you,’ the reporter says, ‘people in your situation often think talking to the press will be a bad move, but the truth is thatnotdoing it can make things worse. Right now, everyone wants to know what you’re thinking, and one interview can make all that interest go away. And if you don’t do an interview then—’
‘Sorry, but the answer’sno.’
‘Okay, I hear you loud and clear.’ The reporter narrows his eyes and nods towards the door. ‘Are you having a party, Miles?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
The notepad is back front and centre, and the reporter’s pen is poised. ‘Hey, I can’t blame you after the ordeal you’ve had – of course you’d want to let your hair down.’
‘I’m just catching up with a few friends.’
The reporter scribbles. ‘And it’s a champagne kind of night? Why not, eh?’
Miles wrinkles his brow. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a couple of drinks. I need to go now.’
The reporter hollers as Miles opens the door. ‘Hey, Miles, are you a fan of Lynyrd Skynyrd?’
Miles looks over his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘This song,’ he says. ‘“Free Bird”.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got to get back inside. Thanks for your time.’ Miles shakes his head, confused, and closes the door. His heartrate has cranked up; he’s got a feeling that conversation didn’t go as well as it could have. He’s a little light-headed as he trudges through the hallway and into the kitchen, where George comes at him with a bottle and tops up his glass.
‘Here you go,’ George says. ‘Where’s Reubyn?’
Miles shakes his head. ‘That wasn’t him.’
‘Who was it?’ George’s head recoils. ‘Are you okay?’
