Everyone in the room is looking at Miles, who stands stunned, staring vacantly into his drink.
‘Miles,’ Eleanor says, the pointed, courtroom tone returning to her voice. ‘Who was it?’
‘A reporter.’
‘Oh no.’ Eleanor rubs her temple and looks around at the group. ‘Who let him answer the door? What did you say, Miles?’
‘I thought it was ... He seemed to think we were having some kind of a party.’
Eleanor shakes her head. ‘From now on, Miles doesn’t answer the door, doesn’t answer the phone, doesn’t so much as stand next to an open window, at least not for a few days.’
Miles stands silent for a moment. The rock song playing on the stereo, the title of which he is now unlikely ever to forget, is increasing in energy. ‘Who put this music—’ Miles shakes his head and lets the rest of the question crawl back into his throat. It’s irrelevant – whoever chose the song – there’s no undoing that now. But he feels it returning: the swirling doom. It’s not as heavy or all-encompassing as it was, but still it’s coming back, pecking lightly at his skin and curdling in his stomach, and right now he should be free of all that. Until Caira’s death, he’d never felt it before, or anything close to it; the darkest shade of black in the spectrum of human emotion had not been visible to him and then suddenlyit was – he was standing on a precipice and staring into it from a great height. He takes deep breaths, fills his lungs, and focuses his mind. He can’t let the darkness back in.Notguilty – that was the verdict. He repeats it over in his mind.Not guilty. He needs it to sink in, to register with every fibre of his body: it’s all over, he’s a free man. Maybe George is right – theyshouldbe celebrating, just not in full view of the tabloid press. Almost completely out of tune with that thought, someone turns the music down to a barely audible volume.
‘What did you say, Miles?’ Eleanor asks again.
‘Nothing. I didn’t tell him anything, not really. But he said if I did an interview, it would make it all go away.’
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’ She sighs and shakes her head. ‘The thing is, these journalists are vampires – they suck blood, but they’re fickle. Fickle as the wind. If you ignore them for a few weeks, they will move elsewhere.’ She looks wide-eyed at Miles and must pick up on his need for reassurance because she inhales deeply and carries on. ‘Right now, this case is red hot. Caira’s name is trending, and people are clicking on stories about her, but soon the stories will dry up, and if there’s nothing to click on, they will stop clicking. And when they stop clicking, the reporters will crawl back under their rocks and leave you alone. I’ve seen it happen a hundred times before.’
‘Journalists,’ George says, patting Miles on the shoulder. ‘Bloody snakes, you can’t trust them.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be—’
The bell trills again, followed by a heavy knock. They look at each other, all serious, as if what’s on the other side of the front door might be some mob or plague that could threaten them all.
‘Here we go again,’ Carl says. ‘I’ve had quite enough of this. Miles, stay where you are. I’ll get it.’
Chapter 7
Reubyn
Reubyn waits to make sure the journalists have packed up and left before he gets out of his Mini. Miles, the poor bugger, apparently had no idea there was a photographer papping him from a car window the whole time he was talking to that reporter. Reubyn could’ve stepped in, warned him off, but he’s managed to go so long without getting caught up in this that it would be foolish to now. He feels terrible that he hasn’t been in court every day to support his friend during his trial, but he’s worked so hard to get his channel off the ground, and now that it’s finally taking off, the last thing he needs is to damage his reputation by getting drawn into that media black hole. Miles will understand that, of course. And now that he’s been acquitted, Reubyn can and will support him in any way he needs, just as long as it doesn’t result in his name being used under any unfavourable headlines. The whole thing has been a complete mess – a nightmare for everyone involved – and now, the best outcome would be to draw a line under it as quickly as possible and move on.
Darkness has fallen, giving the windows an amber glow, and lining the street are orbs of light atop the cast-iron lamp posts. It’s been a while since he last came here. This is one of thegrandest streets in Bristol, and his visits come with incrementally more powerful reminders that Reubyn inhabits a different social position to his peers from school. His background was unlike that of the others at Holvine College, in that his family didn’t have an endless supply of money. Reubyn’s place at Holvine was heavily subsidised because his mother was a teacher there. When she died from a brain tumour, the school made the gesture of waiving all future fees for his education – including an option to start boarding. His father, whose work was temperamental and involved long days, eagerly took them up on that offer, despite Reubyn’s protestations. And so that was it: he spent almost his entire life at that school up until the age of eighteen.
Reubyn crosses over and presses the doorbell, followed by three heavy raps of the iron knocker to make sure he’s heard in the rear of the house. Miles’s dad opens the door a crack and peers out, then swings it open and welcomes him in. Reubyn receives a warm handshake and spots Miles waiting sheepishly in the hallway.
‘Mate!’ Reubyn jogs over and gives him a hug. Miles’s shoulders feel stony and fleshless through his shirt. ‘It’s such a relief.’
‘Thanks, man.’ Miles outstretches an arm, ushering him down the hall. ‘It really is.’
Reubyn follows him into the kitchen and finds it surprisingly full, given how quiet it is. He is no stranger to social awkwardness, and he senses it the second he walks into the room; the air of discomfort hits him like a wave, invisible and silent, yet powerful – almost enough to knock him off balance. It’s something to do with the journalist who was interviewing Miles on the doorstep just then, he reckons. The media want more dirt on him. Even though the poor sod has had a light shone on even the most private aspects of his life.
Miles’s mum smiles at the sight of Reubyn. It’s a broad, unconvincing smile, the kind of beam you’d get from a used-car merchantwho knows what he’s selling is a dud. She rushes over and pecks him on the cheek, filling the air around him with perfume. ‘How are you? Are you excited about the trip?’
‘I sure am. I’ve been looking forward to it.’
That last part is a lie; Reubyn wasn’t as confident as the others that a not guilty verdict was coming. It was about six months ago that Polly sent the email around to a handful of his friends, explaining about the trip.Whenhe’s acquitted, she wrote – notif– like the whole thing was a formality and Miles only needed to show up to court and the charges would melt away. It’s important to be optimistic in circumstances like these, Reubyn supposes, but he was never able to share in that optimism. Not completely, anyway. But now that it’s all over, is he excited about the trip? Damn right he is. Not only does he get to catch up with his old friends, but it’s also a free holiday courtesy of Miles’s parents and a brilliant opportunity to create content. What’s not to love?
‘So, you’re good to go?’ Miles says. ‘How soon can you leave?’
‘Yeah, whenever really.’
‘Good stuff,’ George says, appearing by Reubyn’s side and giving his back a firm slap. ‘Do we need a visa or anything?’
‘Sort of,’ Elis says. ‘But it only takes a few days to be approved. I’ll set up a WhatsApp group and put all the details there, so everyone is across it.’
‘No dramas, then,’ George says.
