One Step Too Far (25 page)

Oh well, thought Angel, and she guessed she’d just see Cat at home. But she was a bit annoyed that Cat had left without saying goodbye, especially as she’d taken her pink silk purse – Angel was feeling a little edgy now, and wasn’t sure who it would be OK to ask in here. In the end she went to rejoin Simon, and drank more champagne which took her mind off her purse, and when Simon asked her if she’d like to come back for a nightcap, he was staying at a hotel just round the corner, she thought, why not, he was attractive and besides it would save her a cab fare, and so they left together and Angel hoped afterwards that Cat wouldn’t mind.

58

Many hours later I sit on the edge of my very own bunk in a cell in Paddington Green Police Station and I’m still trying to digest the fact they think I’m a murderous drug dealing tramp.
Am I?
What with the terror of waking up next to a corpse I’d completely forgotten the implications of what we’d done together, how we’d shared Angel’s drugs, that it was me who'd given them to him.
T
hat I have caused his death.
I shiver uncontrollably, it’s cold in here, my police-issue white top and trousers are far too flimsy, and I realise that my pathetic attempt to run away from the past, to start a new life, has failed, back-fired, caused yet more misery. I’ve been strip-searched again, by two officers this time, and the snail trails on my body are still there and the rank smell of sick is lodged forever in my nostrils. At least I can give up now, I really am past fighting for survival, but the irony is I think my erratic answers earlier mean they’ve put me on suicide watch, so someone keeps peering through the grill every 15 minutes. It would be quite amusing really, if I hadn’t killed someone. A fat-faced policeman looks in on me yet again and I look blankly at him for a while, uncomprehendingly, like a gorilla in a zoo, and then I turn my face to the wall.

59

When Angel got back at lunchtime on the Saturday and it was clear that Cat still hadn't come home, Angel started properly to worry. Although she’d never liked to ask (she'd assumed Cat would tell her when she was ready) she’d always sensed a strange sadness in her friend, and after the drama of yesterday she wondered just what the truth was and what Cat had done now, whether she was OK, or whether perhaps she should call the police.

Don’t be daft, thought Angel. She wasn’t Cat's mother, she probably just went home with someone. But the feeling wouldn’t go away and when Angel went to work on the Saturday night she left Cat a message asking her to call as soon as she got home, and she wrote down her number on the back of a gas bill and left it on the table by the front door, in case Cat had lost her mobile, maybe that’s why she hadn’t called.

It was from one of the customers at the blackjack table that Angel first overheard the shocking news that Roberto Monteiro was dead. So when she finished her shift she pulled up the BBC news on her phone to see what had happened, and that’s how she found out her best friend had been arrested for murder.

60

I’m sobbing quietly now, as if it has finally hit me. I regret everything I’ve done these past two days, every last thing. If only I’d been sensible, like I used to be, taken the day off work, stayed quietly at home. If only I’d been brave enough to get through it on my own. If only I’d not gone out for lunch with Simon, what an insane idea, as if I could possibly have enjoyed myself. If only the doctor’s drugs hadn’t turned me manic, crazy. If only I’d stayed in bed all evening instead of going out again, what the fuck was I thinking, and to a pointless awards dinner of all things. If only I’d not gone on to the party, not met Robbie, not had Angel’s drugs on me. If only if only if only. And now because of me one of the country’s brightest young footballers is lying dead and blue in a morgue. When the police said it was Roberto Monteiro it all made sense at last – why people were staring as we walked to find a cab; why he was so keen for us to stay in rather than go out and be recognised; why he seemed so into me, who didn’t have a clue who he was, knowing I must have liked him for himself; why he was wealthy and yet so young. He just didn’t seem like a footballer to me though – I thought footballers lived in home counties mansions, not central London apartments, and this may sound prejudiced but he seemed far too cultured, too much of a gentleman. His sister’s a model apparently, it seems she’s a friend of the fashion designer’s and that was why he was at the club. He was injured, recovering from a knee operation, and so would have been allowed to be out, even on a Friday night. I only know all this because I overheard the policeman called Pete telling someone outside my cell, and he was almost crying, he must be a Chelsea supporter.

Of course I’ve heard of Roberto Monteiro, everyone has, but I’ve never been into football and although it sounds silly, out of context in my over-wrought state I just did not work it out. I'd even laughed with my husband one time, shortly before everything went wrong, at how much Ben looked like him. I almost laugh now, I feel hysterical, maniacal, mad. What did Robbie see in me, I wonder? Was it just that I didn’t know who he was, or was it more than that? And what did I see in him? Was it only that he looked like my husband? I suppose I’ll never know, and then the tears come, big fat generous ones, for Robbie, for his youth and promise and beauty that will never be fulfilled, and that makes me think of everything else that has happened and I curl up tight on the filthy bunk and wish the world would just fuck off and go away.

61

Caroline had felt a peculiar sense of triumph when she'd fucked her twin sister’s husband. She’d thought he was fair game, Emily had abandoned him after all, and the fact that Ben’s desire for her, Caroline, had been so intense and all-consuming, well, it had made her feel powerful, magnificent, in that moment of release for them both, the ultimate triumph in her lifelong competition with her sister. Immediately afterwards, when he’d pushed her violently off and leapt to his feet, staring at her with revulsion before bolting from the room, she’d realised the depth of his disgust for her – that their act had turned to hate not love, that she’d achieved nothing. Her heart tightened as she poured another drink, and she wondered why she was so unlovable. What was wrong with her?

Caroline stayed on Ben's couch all night and drank herself stupid, and in the morning she crept upstairs to his room and stared at the slammed door, willing him to come out. She debated opening it herself and just barging in, but the handle was hanging at an odd angle, as if it was about to fall off, and in the end she thought better of it, he
had
been quite scary last night – and so she turned on her heel and staggered out into the street. She swayed the hundred or so yards to the end of the road and stopped outside the off-licence, with its green steel grill snapped shut like teeth, and she stood at the kerb and teetered as a bus crashed past. Eventually she crossed when there was a break in the traffic, and stumbled along the side street opposite, not knowing what to do, where to go. She perched on a garden wall and buried her head in her jacket and began to sob, loudly, theatrically, and she’d been there for maybe five minutes when two lads in United shirts swaggered by, and said, “Cheer up love, you could be a Chelsea supporter,” and when she looked up at them bewildered they laughed and said, “Haven’t you heard – Roberto Monteiro’s dead.”

62

I’ve been alone in this cell for hours, with just my toxic thoughts and the every-15-minute sight of a bored-looking policeman to distract me. Eventually I guess I doze off, and only wake up when a meal gets dumped through the hatch. My jailer tells me they’re still collecting evidence so won’t be interviewing me for a while. I don’t acknowledge that I’ve heard what he’s saying, I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t care whether they interview me ever, I don’t care if I never leave this cell again. The meal they give me is a supermarket ready meal, a lasagne they must have removed from the packaging and microwaved themselves. I haven’t eaten since the curry last night, and although I’m not much interested in living anymore my stomach continues to defy me, it’s rumbling, and so I take a few mouthfuls and it’s actually quite nice, and I end up eating it all which dimly surprises me. They’ve only given me a plastic spoon, I obviously can’t be trusted with a knife and fork, and when I’ve finished eating the uniformed officer demands I give him back the spoon, as though it’s precious, so I hand it through the hatch to him. I lie down again and nothing happens for more long hours, apart from at some point there’s some shouting and swearing outside, some heavy scuffles, and then I hear another cell door slam and some pitiful high-pitched wailing starts up, and it must be someone different as the shouting voice earlier had been low-toned and threatening, although I had no idea what language it was in. It grows dark and I use the toilet in the corner of the cell and even in the gloom I can see it’s shit-smeared and disgusting, and then I lie back down and go to sleep.

When I wake up it’s light and a microwaved breakfast gets shoved at me, and I almost wonder whether to ask what’s going on, what will happen next, but I feel too listless, apathetic, I just can’t be bothered. Instead I sit up and take hold of my inadequate implements and smash the food down my throat like a toddler. Before I’ve finished the door opens and a young man in very clean jeans and a pressed striped shirt asks me to get up, they’re ready to interview me. It must be Monday morning – I should be in work, they’ll all be there by now, talking about me, I must be the biggest story ever. I get up and my bones feel old. The police officer asks me to follow him and he leads me along the passage, past other wretched prisoners, and someone is ranting and swearing and begging to be let out, he says he needs to feed his dog. I feel sorry for the dog, pining somewhere, hungry, and it makes me cry. The thought of another police interview, a year after the last one, is torture now it comes to it, and I feel so guilty and bereft, about Robbie this time, I can barely stand, but I do my best to keep up and we walk through some double doors and along another cheerless corridor and enter a small windowless room that contains a desk, three orange plastic chairs and a big old-fashioned tape machine. The detective tells me to sit, and he takes one of the seats across the desk from me, and he looks too immaculate, too newly-laundered for these surroundings.

I lean back and again I look in on myself, as though I’m watching an actor still, and the sensation makes me feel dispassionate and strangely calm. We wait, how long, maybe half a minute and then another plain-clothed officer comes in, a woman this time, and she sits down and they start the interview, and although they ask me again if I want a solicitor I don’t care what happens, so I say no, it’s OK thanks.

I answer all the questions they fire at me, about how I met the deceased, how I came to be in his flat, what we’d been doing for the last 36 hours. I realise that it sounds nasty, sordid, and I want them to know that actually it wasn’t like that at all, it was romantic, special, as nice a way as any to pass the time if you have to end up dead. (I start sobbing at this point, and they have to stop the interview for a few minutes.) When I’ve quietened down they ask me about the drugs and I tell them they were my friend’s and that we only did a tiny little bit, we were busy, and at that they stop me, and say, “Do you mean to tell me that you supplied the substance to Mr Monteiro?” and I answer, yes, I suppose I did.

Although I don’t want to think about any of this, what’s the point, it won’t bring him back, they ask me more questions, about who my friend is, how I met her, what she does for a living, what her full name and address is, that kind of thing. I realise too late that I should have said the drugs were mine, but they press me and I can’t think of what else to say so I tell them the truth and I feel bad that now I’ve got Angel into trouble too, dragged her into this whole sorry mess. Finally they stop the interview and take me back to my cell. They don’t tell me what will happen next, they just lock the door and leave me there, so I lie down, on my back this time, and stare at the ceiling, try to arrange my thoughts. Do they really think I killed him?
Have I killed him?
He was an adult, he took the drugs willingly, didn’t he? Was there something wrong with the drugs? Was it the drugs that killed him,
if so why aren’t I dead?
I’m sad for myself now, but most of all I’m sad for Robbie, that he is dead, another life wasted, and I’m sad that my life really is over this time, there’s no way back from this.

I have no idea what time it is. One of the uniformed officers opens the cell door and asks me politely to come with him, as though we’re in a hotel and he’s showing me to my room – he must be newly qualified, he has that air about him, it’s sweet really. I swing my body off the dirty bunk and sit on the edge and toss my head between my legs, as if I can simply shake off the filth and the shame. The officer waits patiently, and when at last I get up he leads me from my cell and takes me down long cold corridors to another room, maybe the one where I first got booked in, although it all looks the same to me, grey and grim. Here yet another plain-clothed officer awaits me, and he says something like: “Catherine Emily Brown, I am hereby charging you with possession of a Class A drug, namely cocaine. You will be bailed to attend magistrates court and must return on the day you are summoned.”

I look at him uncomprehendingly. Where was the word
murder
in his statement? What does he mean by
bailed
? My left cheek starts pumping, and it’s never done that before. My mouth falls open and I’m aware that in my thin white sleep-suit, with my twitching face and heavy eyes weighed down with misery, I appear like I just don’t get it. So he tries again. “Miss Brown, what I am telling you is that you are free to go.”