Chapter 9
9
SIX DAYS BEFORE HE LEFT ME
In between glances towards the boys sparring, there is a swell of guilt, as I begin to dig around in his social media. The woman I was would never have done this, snooped around his private messages, but I force the feeling aside. I have to find out what happened to him.
I begin shuffling through Kit’s Instagram feed, all so easily accessible; photos I’ve looked at before taking on a different filter. Now I can see it through the eyes of a woman who knows more than she did then. Words and phrases flutter in front of me in bold, in different colours, singed at the edges, sparks of fire in the spaces between words.
What are you hiding, Kit?
I scour through the images. The most recent photos are of us, our weekend trips out: getting up early, driving to a beach, going on a hike or a bike ride.
God, we were sickening.
I click on an image of us taken last week. We’d taken the sleeper train to Scotland, walked for hours that day. Kit had a business meeting with a potential client on the Saturday morning, but the rest of the weekend was ours. We’d gone to Loch Killin, in the Highlands. The day was swollen with rain, but we’d made the most of it, pulling on our wetsuits and wading into the freezing water. The photo is of us after our swim, a small fire built as we huddled around it in thick blankets, a hip flask of whisky in my hand, Kit pouring coffee from our camping kettle, the sun setting behind us. A couple walking their husky had taken the photo. The orange glow of the fire was reflected in our eyes.
Did he know then what he was about to do? I look over at him. His eyes meet mine and, for a brief moment, I wonder if he can read everything I’m thinking, but then he flashes me his smile before returning his attention to James, who sidesteps a wild jab.
I lean towards the photo. I had always thought there was nothing about the days before he left that would have indicated that something so huge to even contemplate was about to happen. But maybe it was a massive signal. A sepia-coloured, too-perfect-to-be-true day, which could have had flashing neon signs above our heads reading: he’s about to leave you!
I open my A4 notebook. In it are notes for my lessons. Highlighted is a paragraph about triangles that I needed to read up on before I taught it. Maths, forever the thorn in my side, even now after teaching for years. I click my pen, firing another glance at Kit before writing down the names of every single person who has commented. It takes a while, Kit had a strong following on there, built up by his adventure posts and by his computing ability. Dream day job meets dream weekend life.
I analyse the comments, adding them against names I don’t recognise, questioning if they’re really who they say they are.
When James and I had waded through these after he disappeared, the playing field was different. The game had rules we knew: Kit had gone on a hike; he’d gone to a place he went often; we suspected he was hurt, badly; we tried to deny that he was dead. And so we, the players in this never-ending metaphor, were different, too. We both had different goals. We were trying to find any kind of clue that Kit had got lost, that he may be trying to contact us if his phone was damaged. We waited for updates. We hoped for a picture of him battered and bruised but with a tired smile saying: ‘It was a rough one, but I’m fine. Can’t wait to get home.’
My eyes continue flicking up towards them. Kit is laughing at something James has said. James takes the moment’s pause to land a jab to his stomach. James’s eyes are alight, as he avoids Kit’s blows. Kit’s punches are calculated. There is a game plan, which makes him a good sparring partner. I remember James telling me this when we were painting over the nicotine brown colour that is currently still washed over the bricks.
‘That’s what made him so good to train with, trying to find a tell, a tick, that would let me predict his next move. I never found one.’
Turns out neither of us did.
I bring my focus back to the screen, my attention so very different from before. Now I’m looking for clues about what happened. What is going on with Kit, right now, that would make him leave us?
My hand hovers over the mouse pad, clicking on his Facebook account. It’s not as active as his Instagram, but I soon find myself clicking on the Messenger symbol. Most messages are from me, or James, a few from Jack and Callum, one group chat about his old school friend, Ryan’s stag trip in Ibiza next spring that he never went to. Messages I read after he went missing. My finger scrolls quickly until I see a message I don’t recognise. It came this morning. I do a quick calculation; it would have been while I was at the shop. It’s a woman: Rebecca Bevitt. The name sounds familiar but the reason is hidden from me, just out of grasp. Her profile picture is of a golden retriever. The message reads:
I need more time.
I scroll up to Kit’s original message:
You in?
My heart is beating so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear the sounds of the room. I quickly click on her profile. There is nothing there – no posts, no images other than her profile picture.
I look back at the boys. Kit must feel the way I’m staring at him. He takes his focus away from James. Noticing this, James takes advantage and lands a sly upper cut.
‘Shit!’ Kit says, making a time-out signal with his hands. I exit the app as Kit pulls his mouth guard out and ducks under the ropes. I quickly scribble her name down before closing my notebook. I grab a water bottle and walk over, passing it to him. ‘Lucky shot,’ he explains with a grin.
‘I’ll get some ice,’ I say.
‘No need.’ He leans in, kissing me. His lips are warm; I can taste the salt from his sweat. The familiarity of it pulsates along my bottom lip. My finger touches it, so normal, so abnormal. ‘It was just a cheap shot.’ He raises his voice as if to prove his point to James. ‘It’ll hardly mark.’
I feel my face reacting to this, a frown almost. Had he always put James down this much? Had I just not noticed? Or was it banter as I’d always presumed?
James shakes his head in response, one hand making notes, the other holding his bottle to his mouth. I recognise the ease of his ability to multitask – often with one hand stirring a tomato sauce, the other ticking off things from a to-do list. James loves a list. He glances up at me as though my stare is prodding him on the shoulder and looks away just as fast, as though I’ve just flashed him my boobs – which I do on occasion, especially if he’s on a Zoom call and I’m out of camera shot. The tips of his ears redden and his words would get all jumbled up.
I pull my gaze away and quickly return my attention to Kit.
Who is Rebecca Bevitt? And what does she need more time for? The words are fizzing on my tongue.
‘Who’s Rebecca Bevitt?’ I ask. My voice is solid, somehow calcified with the pressure of his answer, the answer that may shatter and turn everything I know about Kit to dust. He smiles, but it’s like seeing the expression in reverse. The edges are tight, his eyes looking up to the grimy window, examining the water bottle.
‘She’s a client,’ he says easily, adjusting the cuff of his glove. ‘She wants me to design a website for her company. Why?’
I think fast. ‘A message popped up on your laptop. What’s her company?’ I ask as he begins to take off his gloves with his teeth. I reach over and unfasten the Velcro for him, yanking them off.
‘Huh?’ he asks, picking up the water bottle, lifting it back to his lips.
‘Her company? What is it she does?’
He crushes the plastic. ‘Upcycling I think.’
My attention is drawn to James, like I’m bluetoothed to him. I want to tell him about Rebecca Bevitt, ask him if he thinks Kit is lying, listen to his theories. This is what we did after Kit went – we looked for clues; we told each other every little lead that would help us get closer to finding him. But James is outside of the ring, his back to us, the black phoenix curving towards his ribcage; he’s still taking down notes on their fight. Back then, now , it used to irritate me, this need to show that he took boxing more seriously than Kit, but the truth was, he did. I don’t think either of us gave James the recognition he deserved for the hours he put in, for his determination. All of that was wasted when Kit left, his need to fight physically replaced by his need to fight to find his brother.
‘It might swell,’ I say pulling away as he tries to wrap his arms around me.
Rebecca. You in? I need more time.
‘I’ll be back in five.’
‘Where are you going?’ He grabs my hand, pulling me back.
‘To get ice?’ I say, extracting myself.
His lip twitches like he’s on the verge of laughing. ‘Where from?’
‘Huh?’
‘Ice? Where are you getting ice from?’
Oh yeah. I’ve forgotten this place didn’t have a freezer, just a larder fridge that stank of onion and feet.
‘Tesco Express down the road.’
‘Can you grab me a can of Coke while you’re there?’
‘Sure. James?’ He looks up, startled. ‘Need anything from the shop?’ I ask, giving him my most relaxed smile. Nothing to see here. I don’t know your orgasm face. I’ve never told you I love you. You have never made me feel like I’m home. Nope. Not at all. I’m just your brother’s girlfriend off to the shops for a can of Coke.
‘No, I’m good… thanks.’
‘Sure I can’t tempt you with a packet of Revels?’
Last week we’d shared a family packet and he’d identified twenty out of thirty-seven Revels in the packet before biting down. I’d had a meagre score of eleven. I didn’t have any Maltesers; you rigged the game. Mine were all coffee and toffee. We played again the next day. He’d filled my bag with all Maltesers so I’d win. But it wasn’t the winning, it was the thought that went into the prank. He says, said , making me laugh was worth any amount of chocolate sorting. We’d kissed then, both tasting like chocolate.
James repeats, ‘I’m good.’
‘Okey dokes. I’ll be… well, I’ll be off then.’ James ignores me.
By the time I get back, the boys have finished. I pass Kit some ice wrapped up in a jiffy cloth and throw James a bag of Revels, which he catches with a look of confusion. I return to my things as nonchalantly as I can, my fingers reaching for the laptop.
Kit doesn’t look my way. James is throwing him Revels, which Kit is trying to catch with an open mouth, while still holding the ice against his eye. I click open FB messenger, but the message from Rebecca won’t open. Kit isn’t paying me any attention. The Revel throwing has stopped and he’s talking over his shoulder to James as they pack up. My turquoise nail slides across the mouse pad, clicking on her profile, but the message thread has gone.