When I first try to stand, I almost fall over. I steady myself against the wall. Head hammering. I look through her things, choosing a pair of cargo pants and a baggy T-shirt. When I pull the T-shirt over my head, I feel dizzy and I can’t rid myself of the sense that something dreadful has happened, and that I haven’t been paying attention.
In the same breath, the nausea overwhelms me. I dash to the bathroom and kneel over the toilet, heaving up a caustic stew of alcohol and fruit. In between the waves of retching, I prop myself against the wall, pressing my forehead against the cool tiles.
Tempe is in the shower. She turns off the water and steps out, pressing a towel against her lower belly. Drops of water glint on her shoulders and breasts. I clear my throat and avoid looking at her.
‘You poor thing,’ she says, stroking my hair. I notice her left hand, which is no longer bandaged. There is a semi-circle of puncture wounds that look like bite marks on either side of her thumb. I want to say something, but she’s naked and I’m trying not to be sick.
Going back to the bedroom, I look for my phone and my wallet, lifting bedclothes and pillows, searching the dresser and windowsill.
‘Have you seen my phone?’ I yell.
Tempe is still in the bathroom. ‘Pardon?’
‘Have you seen my phone?’
‘No.’
‘I had it last night.’
‘I’ll call your number.’
She appears and unlocks her mobile, calling up my contact details, before pressing the phone against her ear. Shaking her head.
Shit!
‘Maybe you left it at the nightclub, or in the Uber.’
Shit! Shit!
‘I’ll call the club … and the driver.’
Tempe gets dressed as I search the room again. Memories of last night are coming back to me in staccato flashes. I’m sitting on a bench of a bus shelter. People are around me, but I can’t make sense of what they’re saying. Tempe has two heads. Four eyes. It’s like some form of sedated consciousness where I’m awake and aware, but unable to intervene, or converse.
‘I can’t remember what happened,’ I say.
‘At least you had a good time,’ says Tempe.
‘Did I?’
She punches paracetamol from a foil packet and pours me a glass of water. Every little noise is amplified.
‘Can I use your phone to call Henry?’
‘I’ve sent him a message. I told him you were here.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was looking for you.’ She makes it sound so obvious.
‘I have to go.’
‘I’ll make you a coffee.’
‘No time.’
Tempe insists on driving me. I get into the front seat and immediately lower the window in case I feel sick. Propping my feet on the dashboard, I tie the laces of her white trainers, which have splatters of red on the toecap and tongue. She must have worn them when she was cleaning the front door. I have a matching pair at home. We bought them together at a twofor-one sale in the West End.
Tempe drives with her chin held high, both hands on the wheel, humming to herself. I want to turn on the radio, to fill the silence. My mind keeps going back to last night. Tempe didn’t seem angry about not being invited. It was more disappointment, or sadness. She arrived anyway. She invited herself. I was drugged and she took me home. Where were my other friends? Sara, Margot, Brianna, Phoebe. Why didn’t they help me?
I want to ask Tempe if she kissed me, if we did anything, but I’m too embarrassed. What if I imagined it? What if was part of a dream? What if I kissed her?
We’ve reached the western edge of Clapham Common and I tell Tempe to pull over because I think I might be sick. Out of the car, I lean over my knees, but nothing comes up. When I straighten, I have sweat dripping off my face.
‘I can walk from here.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
I set off, grateful for the fresh air. Tempe follows me until I reach the next intersection, before tooting her horn and turning left into Elspeth Road. Finally away from her, my whole body relaxes and I’m suddenly so tired that I want to curl up under a tree and fall asleep.
Nearing the house, I notice someone on the far side of the road, keeping pace with me. A police car is parked opposite. Fairbairn reaches the steps before I do and takes up a lounging position, leaning on one elbow, raising his face to the sunshine.
‘I rang the doorbell. Your fiancé said you weren’t home,’ he says breezily.
‘Is something wrong?’
‘Where were you?’
‘I stayed with a friend.’
I pause, assuming that he has something to tell me. He points to my forearm. ‘You’ve hurt yourself.’
I follow his gaze and notice the long red scratches that haven’t quite broken the skin.
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Really?
‘I must have been asleep.’
‘That was a violent dream.’
I take him upstairs and make him wait in the kitchen while I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face, trying to wake up. Henry follows me.
‘I got a message from Tempe. What happened?’
‘I think my drink was spiked. Tempe took me back to her place and put me to bed.’
‘I tried to call … to send messages.’
‘I was wasted. I’m sorry.’
‘You should go to the hospital.’
‘I know. Let me deal with this first.’
Fairbairn has been waiting in the kitchen.
‘I took the liberty,’ he says, handing me a cup of tea. ‘Big night?’
‘Something like that.’
‘What was the occasion?’
‘I’m getting married.’
‘I see,’ he says, but I don’t think he sees at all.
‘My girlfriends took me out clubbing. I drank too much or my drink was spiked.’
‘Which one was it?’ he asks. ‘Were you drunk or drugged?’
‘I don’t know. What’s this about?’
‘Darren Goodall.’
‘What’s he done this time?’
‘He’s dead.’
I’m staring at Fairbairn, trying to decide if this is some sort of sick joke, but I can see he’s telling the truth. My stomach cramps and I feel another wave of nausea.
‘What happened?’
‘He was murdered. We’re following up on anyone who had dealings with Detective Goodall. When did you last see him?’
‘A few days ago. I was in court when his wife applied for a DAP order.’
‘You accompanied her?’
‘I offered her moral support.’
‘As a friend.’
He makes me sound compromised, as though I’ve been caught out in a lie. I feel myself growing annoyed.
‘Do I need a lawyer?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know. Do you?’ He looks at me quizzically. After a long pause, he smiles disarmingly, and finally sips his tea.
Henry is hovering in the doorway to the living room, wanting to know why a police officer is in our kitchen. I wave him away. Fairbairn slips his notebook into his jacket pocket, patting it with his hand.
‘How did he die?’ I ask.
‘Detective Goodall burned to death.’