are drunk, people take drugs, people have sex with people they shouldn't be having sex with. People get confused about what happened when. People get embarrassed about the way they behaved, they don't want to talk. They lie, pretend to have blacked out. So accounts differ - what happened when, to who, at what time.
It's the nature of these things. I don't care what you were doing in that car with Robert Morrow. I don't care if you two were taking drugs, making love--'
'Drugs,' said Nathan, quickly. 'Cocaine. We had a few toots of cocaine.'
'Good for you. I just need to know exactly when you were doing it--'
'For the timeline.'
'Spot on. So, you and Bob are in the car. Chatting. Love and life.
You neck a bit of Bolivian.'
'Quite a lot, actually.'
'You neck quite a lot of Bolivian. Bob says, don't do this, don't walk out on the girl of your dreams. Or words to that effect, and--'
'And we go back to the party.'
'This is what time?'
'This is, I'm not sure. I was, y'know. My state of mind. But there were some people around when I tried to hit Mark, so--'
'Yes, there were.'
'Oh. Okay. So what time was it?'
'Shortly after 2 a.m.'
'Right. Ouch. A lot of people saw it, then.'
'Quite a few. Something like that - drunken bloke punches the host, misses, nearly falls into the swimming pool - it makes for a bit of a highlight. People remember it. So we use it, a kind of tent pole.
To help establish the timeline.'
'I see. It wasn't a very good punch.'
'From what I hear, it was all a bit Charlie Chaplin.'
'Ah.'
'So, that's it? You left, round midnight. Bob picks you up. You get yourselves a bit fired up. Have a deep and meaningful chat. You go back to the party. Try to land one on your boss--'
'I embarrass myself horribly. Bob drives me home. I wake up, and I want to d ie. Merry Christmas.'
Holloway sat there for a few long moments, scrutinizing Nathan with mint-blue eyes. Then he sighed, glancing over at Hadley. She was still looking out the window, as if waiting for another bus to pass.
Holloway said, 'We may be in touch.'
'Okay. Do you think she's all right? The girl.'
'I don't know. I hope so.'
'But you think she'll turn up?'
'They usually do.'
'Good,' said Nathan. 'Good. This is awful. This is awful for every one.
Holloway gave him a courteous nod. Hadley gave him a mute glance. And they were gone, Nathan closing the door on them.
He sat down and put his head in his hands.
Then he went to the kitchen cupboard and removed a bottle of vodka.
He filled the mug from which Holloway had been drinking.
The vodka burned his gullet on the way down and sat like molten glass in his guts. He emptied the bottle. But it wasn't enough.
Sara called.
'Have you found somewhere to go?'
Nathan said, 'No.' And to her teeth-grinding silence he said: 'It's been a weird week. Have you seen the papers?'
Her voice was quiet when she said, 'What do you think? You know him. Is there, could there be anything in it?'
Mortally offended, he cut her short, 'The last thing Mark needs at the moment is his friends gossiping about him.'
Ashamed of herself, she gave Nathan another week in the flat.
One more week, and that was that. If he wasn't gone, she'd have him thrown out.
She had brothers.
He told her thanks, he'd find somewhere as soon as he could.
He put down the phone.
It rang again, immediately.
He picked it up.
'What?'
It wasn't Sara. It was a tabloid journalist called Keith. Keith offered Nathan half his annual salary to talk about Mark Derbyshire.
Nathan looked at the receiver as if it was firm and warm and damp, like a semi-erect penis.
He said, 'How did you get my number?' and, without waiting for an answer, he slammed down the receiver.
He curled on the sofa and tried to sleep.
He woke to the twilight and went to work. They fired him.
He and Howard, both unemployed now, went for a drink.
'Jesus,' said Howard. 'What a week.'
Nathan chinked his glass.
'Fuck it,' he said.
Mark Derbyshire's landline had been
It's the nature of these things. I don't care what you were doing in that car with Robert Morrow. I don't care if you two were taking drugs, making love--'
'Drugs,' said Nathan, quickly. 'Cocaine. We had a few toots of cocaine.'
'Good for you. I just need to know exactly when you were doing it--'
'For the timeline.'
'Spot on. So, you and Bob are in the car. Chatting. Love and life.
You neck a bit of Bolivian.'
'Quite a lot, actually.'
'You neck quite a lot of Bolivian. Bob says, don't do this, don't walk out on the girl of your dreams. Or words to that effect, and--'
'And we go back to the party.'
'This is what time?'
'This is, I'm not sure. I was, y'know. My state of mind. But there were some people around when I tried to hit Mark, so--'
'Yes, there were.'
'Oh. Okay. So what time was it?'
'Shortly after 2 a.m.'
'Right. Ouch. A lot of people saw it, then.'
'Quite a few. Something like that - drunken bloke punches the host, misses, nearly falls into the swimming pool - it makes for a bit of a highlight. People remember it. So we use it, a kind of tent pole.
To help establish the timeline.'
'I see. It wasn't a very good punch.'
'From what I hear, it was all a bit Charlie Chaplin.'
'Ah.'
'So, that's it? You left, round midnight. Bob picks you up. You get yourselves a bit fired up. Have a deep and meaningful chat. You go back to the party. Try to land one on your boss--'
'I embarrass myself horribly. Bob drives me home. I wake up, and I want to d ie. Merry Christmas.'
Holloway sat there for a few long moments, scrutinizing Nathan with mint-blue eyes. Then he sighed, glancing over at Hadley. She was still looking out the window, as if waiting for another bus to pass.
Holloway said, 'We may be in touch.'
'Okay. Do you think she's all right? The girl.'
'I don't know. I hope so.'
'But you think she'll turn up?'
'They usually do.'
'Good,' said Nathan. 'Good. This is awful. This is awful for every one.
Holloway gave him a courteous nod. Hadley gave him a mute glance. And they were gone, Nathan closing the door on them.
He sat down and put his head in his hands.
Then he went to the kitchen cupboard and removed a bottle of vodka.
He filled the mug from which Holloway had been drinking.
The vodka burned his gullet on the way down and sat like molten glass in his guts. He emptied the bottle. But it wasn't enough.
Sara called.
'Have you found somewhere to go?'
Nathan said, 'No.' And to her teeth-grinding silence he said: 'It's been a weird week. Have you seen the papers?'
Her voice was quiet when she said, 'What do you think? You know him. Is there, could there be anything in it?'
Mortally offended, he cut her short, 'The last thing Mark needs at the moment is his friends gossiping about him.'
Ashamed of herself, she gave Nathan another week in the flat.
One more week, and that was that. If he wasn't gone, she'd have him thrown out.
She had brothers.
He told her thanks, he'd find somewhere as soon as he could.
He put down the phone.
It rang again, immediately.
He picked it up.
'What?'
It wasn't Sara. It was a tabloid journalist called Keith. Keith offered Nathan half his annual salary to talk about Mark Derbyshire.
Nathan looked at the receiver as if it was firm and warm and damp, like a semi-erect penis.
He said, 'How did you get my number?' and, without waiting for an answer, he slammed down the receiver.
He curled on the sofa and tried to sleep.
He woke to the twilight and went to work. They fired him.
He and Howard, both unemployed now, went for a drink.
'Jesus,' said Howard. 'What a week.'
Nathan chinked his glass.
'Fuck it,' he said.
Mark Derbyshire's landline had been
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