Chapter 6 Miles
Miles
Miles pauses by the front door for a moment and grins as he weighs up how to greet his old friend.
Should he pretend to be angry, scold him for not being in court today, or just throw his arms around him in a big hug?
It might be funny to try the former, but even as a trained actor Miles can’t pull that off – he feels the corners of his mouth being pulled upwards like a string puppet’s, beyond his control – there’s no way he can feign anger right now. Not at Reubyn.
He jerks the front door open, and immediately his smile falls from his lips.
He hides his drink behind his back. The man standing on the step is not Reubyn, but a lanky bloke in a cheap grey suit.
He’s got a thin face and a downy receding hairline, and Miles recognises him instantly – he was on the press bench for much of the trial.
The man clutches a notepad in his left hand and rotates a biro between the long fingers of his right.
‘Hi, Miles,’ the man says, in an accent from somewhere in the Midlands.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you. My name’s Anthony and I’m a journalist, here on behalf of the Tribune.
It must have been such a relief to hear the verdict today?
’ He brings the pad in front of him, ready to record anything Miles says.
‘I gave a statement outside court; I don’t have anything else to say.’
The reporter nods briskly. ‘I totally get it. You’ve been through one hell of an ordeal – I can’t imagine what it’s been like.’ It’s not a question, but his rising inflection demands an answer. He waits a beat, eyebrows raised at Miles, then continues. ‘Did you get my letter?’
‘Maybe. There were a few.’
‘I just wanted to offer you the chance to tell your side of the story, Miles.’
Miles’s eye twitches. How is it that he’s got to deal with this after the day he’s had?
After the year he’s had. A voice in Miles’s head says he should tell this guy to piss off, but he knows he can’t do that.
He must be polite. Besides, isn’t this reporter just doing his job?
He probably doesn’t want to have this conversation any more than Miles does.
Miles steps outside and closes the door most of the way to cancel out some of the noise from inside, where, regrettably, someone has just turned up the volume on ‘Celebration’ by Kool the important thing is that people will understand your side of things and know the toll it’s taken on you.’
‘Thanks, but I really don’t want to.’
The reporter nods, slower this time, and raises a hand of submission in response to the slight change of tone in Miles’s voice.
Mercifully, the music coming from inside has moved on to something much slower and more sombre; what sounds like a church organ drones in mournful sustain over the soft strum of an acoustic guitar.
‘I’ll be honest with you,’ the reporter says, ‘people in your situation often think talking to the press will be a bad move, but the truth is that not doing it can make things worse. Right now, everyone wants to know what you’re thinking, and one interview can make all that interest go away. And if you don’t do an interview then—’
‘Sorry, but the answer’s no.’
‘Okay, I hear you loud and clear.’ The reporter narrows his eyes and nods towards the door. ‘Are you having a party, Miles?’
‘What? No, of course not.’
The notepad is back front and centre, and the reporter’s pen is poised. ‘Hey, I can’t blame you after the ordeal you’ve had – of course you’d want to let your hair down.’
‘I’m just catching up with a few friends.’
The reporter scribbles. ‘And it’s a champagne kind of night? Why not, eh?’
Miles wrinkles his brow. ‘I don’t know. It’s just a couple of drinks. I need to go now.’
The reporter hollers as Miles opens the door. ‘Hey, Miles, are you a fan of Lynyrd Skynyrd?’
Miles looks over his shoulder. ‘What?’
‘This song,’ he says. ‘“Free Bird”.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got to get back inside.
Thanks for your time.’ Miles shakes his head, confused, and closes the door.
His heartrate has cranked up; he’s got a feeling that conversation didn’t go as well as it could have.
He’s a little light-headed as he trudges through the hallway and into the kitchen, where George comes at him with a bottle and tops up his glass.
‘Here you go,’ George says. ‘Where’s Reubyn?’
Miles shakes his head. ‘That wasn’t him.’
‘Who was it?’ George’s head recoils. ‘Are you okay?’
Everyone in the room is looking at Miles, who stands stunned, staring vacantly into his drink.
‘Miles,’ Eleanor says, the pointed, courtroom tone returning to her voice. ‘Who was it?’
‘A reporter.’
‘Oh no.’ Eleanor rubs her temple and looks around at the group. ‘Who let him answer the door? What did you say, Miles?’
‘I thought it was . . . He seemed to think we were having some kind of a party.’
Eleanor shakes her head. ‘From now on, Miles doesn’t answer the door, doesn’t answer the phone, doesn’t so much as stand next to an open window, at least not for a few days.’
Miles stands silent for a moment. The rock song playing on the stereo, the title of which he is now unlikely ever to forget, is increasing in energy.
‘Who put this music—’ Miles shakes his head and lets the rest of the question crawl back into his throat.
It’s irrelevant – whoever chose the song – there’s no undoing that now.
But he feels it returning: the swirling doom.
It’s not as heavy or all-encompassing as it was, but still it’s coming back, pecking lightly at his skin and curdling in his stomach, and right now he should be free of all that.
Until Caira’s death, he’d never felt it before, or anything close to it; the darkest shade of black in the spectrum of human emotion had not been visible to him and then suddenly it was – he was standing on a precipice and staring into it from a great height.
He takes deep breaths, fills his lungs, and focuses his mind.
He can’t let the darkness back in. Not guilty – that was the verdict.
He repeats it over in his mind. Not guilty.
He needs it to sink in, to register with every fibre of his body: it’s all over, he’s a free man.
Maybe George is right – they should be celebrating, just not in full view of the tabloid press.
Almost completely out of tune with that thought, someone turns the music down to a barely audible volume.
‘What did you say, Miles?’ Eleanor asks again.
‘Nothing. I didn’t tell him anything, not really. But he said if I did an interview, it would make it all go away.’
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he?’ She sighs and shakes her head.
‘The thing is, these journalists are vampires – they suck blood, but they’re fickle.
Fickle as the wind. If you ignore them for a few weeks, they will move elsewhere.
’ She looks wide-eyed at Miles and must pick up on his need for reassurance because she inhales deeply and carries on.
‘Right now, this case is red hot. Caira’s name is trending, and people are clicking on stories about her, but soon the stories will dry up, and if there’s nothing to click on, they will stop clicking.
And when they stop clicking, the reporters will crawl back under their rocks and leave you alone.
I’ve seen it happen a hundred times before. ’
‘Journalists,’ George says, patting Miles on the shoulder. ‘Bloody snakes, you can’t trust them.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t be—’
The bell trills again, followed by a heavy knock. They look at each other, all serious, as if what’s on the other side of the front door might be some mob or plague that could threaten them all.
‘Here we go again,’ Carl says. ‘I’ve had quite enough of this. Miles, stay where you are. I’ll get it.’