‘When?’
‘Right at the beginning when she was drawing all those sketches of you.’
I don’t remember that. I feel as though everybody has become an expert in hindsight: my friends, Dr Coyle, Elsa, Pearlie and Henry. It’s like when people see photographs of Ian Brady, or Myra Hindley, or Jeffrey Dahmer and say, ‘Don’t they look evil,’ as though their crimes are written on their foreheads and should be obvious to everybody. I haven’t been blind to Tempe’s odd behaviours and neediness, but she was also great company, and a brilliant organiser, and she made me laugh.
‘How is Henry?’ my mother asks. ‘Worried sick, I expect.’
‘He’s called off the wedding.’
Her eyes widen in surprise and narrow again.
‘I’ve embarrassed his family,’ I explain.
‘You or your father?’
‘You can’t blame this on him,’ I say, which might not be completely true. Right now, his money is the only thing standing between me and a prison cell. The irony isn’t lost on me. I’ve spent the past decade trying to distance myself from my father and now I’m staying in his house, taking advice from his barrister.
We move to the kitchen, where I finally get that cup of tea. She makes me tell her the story, but I reveal only those pieces that will make her feel reassured. We are both playing a game. She is pretending to be ignorant of how the legal system works and I’m editing the facts to present a more hopeful picture.
After an hour of talking, I make my excuses, saying that I have a meeting with the lawyers.
‘Where to?’ asks Tony when I get back to the car.
I give him the address of the Chestnut Grove Academy. I need to practise. I need to sweat. Maybe if I hit something hard enough the answers will shake loose.
61
Classes at the studio are normally mornings and evenings, which means it is empty in the middle of the day. I get changed into my Keikogi and wrap the black belt around my middle, crossing the ends, tucking the right over the left and pulling both strands tight before completing the knot.
I begin with movement exercises: hip drives, flat rolls and half-circle monkey hops. I move on to shadow sparring, which is like shadowboxing, studying my reflection. From there, I shift to the heavy bag, throwing actual kicks, punches and hand strikes with such force and speed that the bag swings back towards me and I pretend that I’m being attacked.
I have sweat dripping off my nose when I hear the door open and recognise Tempe’s silhouette.
‘I thought I might find you here,’ she says brightly.
‘That’s what all the stalkers say.’
I turn back to the mirrors, keeping her in sight.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she says, oblivious to my terseness.
‘I’ve been rather busy.’
‘Did you get my messages?’
‘I’ve blocked you,’ I say, which is a lie because I don’t know how.
‘Why?’
I try to laugh, but it sounds strangled. ‘I’m not allowed to talk to witnesses.’
‘I didn’t release those photographs,’ she says. ‘It must have been the police.’
‘You took them. You spiked my drink. You took off my clothes. You photographed me naked.’
‘It wasn’t like that. You’re making it sound—’
‘Creepy?’
‘I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I wanted to draw you. You look so beautiful when … when you’re—’
‘Unconscious? Comatose?’
She falls silent and moves further into the studio. ‘Do you want a sparring partner?’
‘No.’
‘You always say it’s better to train with someone.’
‘You don’t want to spar with me, Tempe, I mean that.’
Ignoring my warning, she disappears into the locker rooms and I wonder whether she’s simple-minded, or deliberately trying to goad me. She’s either the most sanguine, or most stupid person I’ve ever met. A few minutes later, she’s back in the studio, dressed as I am, with a different coloured belt.
‘I don’t want to spar with you,’ I say.
‘Oh, come on, we’re here now.’
She bows and says, ‘Shomen ni rei!’ acknowledging the history of karate and the long line of instructors who have carried on the martial art until now. She bows again, this time to me, saying ‘Sensei ni rei!’ before thrusting her fists down and dropping into kiba-dachi, ready to defend.
I dance forward and she dances back. I feint with left and right, before spinning a kick at her head, which she blocks. I trained Tempe well, but she’s not a black belt. She has a longer reach than I do, which means not letting her get too close; or attacking her without a strategy. She will not come to me. She will wait and defend.
Moving smoothly, I barely seem to shift weight onto my left foot when I spin with my right, slamming a kick into her torso. She collapses to the mat, winded. I wait for her to stand.
‘That was quick,’ she says. ‘Maybe we should use the pads.’
‘No, you’ll be fine,’ I reply. ‘I barely touched you.’
She gets reluctantly to her feet and readies herself. We begin again. This time she’s waiting for the same move, but I use the opposite leg. And although I’m looking at her torso, I aim the kick at her head. She lets out a cry and holds her hand across her bloody bottom lip.
‘Why are you being so mean?’
I am standing over her. ‘You put a tracking app on my phone. You followed me. You invaded my home. You lied to me about everything. Your past. Your family. Your job. The wedding …’
‘What about the wedding?’
‘The venue cancelled. I won’t be getting married.’
‘Why?’
‘It could be because you told them I was someone important. Or that my photograph is all over the internet, lying naked in your bed. Or it could be that I’ve been charged with murdering a detective, who I met because I was trying to protect you.’
‘You couldn’t have killed him. You were with me.’
‘Exactly. You’re my alibi.’
‘I’m your friend.’
‘No! We’re not friends.’
Tempe is still sitting on the mat. She touches her finger to her bottom lip and examines the blood, wiping it between her thumb and forefinger like it’s a drop of oil.
‘Did you kill Blaine?’ I ask.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Ainsley’s dog.’
Tempe shakes her head, adamantly. ‘I wanted to lose him, that’s all – teach him a lesson for barking – but the little bastard latched onto my hand. I had hit to him with a brick to make him let go.’
‘You’re a monster.’
‘It was an accident, I swear.’ She pushes herself upright. ‘I think I’ve had enough.’
‘No. Come at me. Give it your best shot.’
‘You’re too angry.’
‘Oh, you haven’t seen me angry.’
Half-heartedly, she drops into her kiba-dachi and begins circling around me. Occasionally, she lunges forward as though launching a punch or a kick but skips away again, too scared to fail.
‘Did you leave the flat that night?’ I ask.