Chapter 8 Miles
Miles
Miles lies on his bed, his eyes closed, while the last of the guests are being herded out downstairs.
He’s exhausted, his fuzzy brain ready to shut down, and it feels like a weight is being applied to his body from above, pushing him deep into the mattress.
He didn’t realise he was running on pure adrenaline, and once that wore off, his body turned lifeless and empty.
After a few hours of well-meaning-but-awkward platitudes and congratulations, he was hit by a wave of tiredness so strong it wiped him out, and he had no choice but to remove himself from the situation and go upstairs.
The massive sense of relief at being a free man still remains, but somehow even that has taken a toll.
It seems that when all the tension and anguish left his body it took all his energy with it.
He’s happy, of course, but it feels hollower than expected, and there’s something else – this growing sense that things still aren’t quite right.
That conversation he had with the reporter has been playing on his mind, and he suspects there could be more bad headlines coming his way.
Maybe they’ve already been written. He knows he shouldn’t check, but he can’t resist. He opens the Tribune app on his phone, and, sure enough, there it is.
A new story. A sickness forms in his stomach at the sight of the first picture: it shows him, standing at the front door of the house, wine glass in hand, stupid grin on his face.
It must have been taken the second he opened the door, when he thought he was about to greet his old friend.
The picture has been cropped so tightly around Miles that the reporter can’t be seen.
The headline says: Free Bird! Miles Deverill hosts party with champagne and Lynyrd Skynyrd to celebrate not guilty verdict.
And there are other pictures, including one which is simply a close-up of the magnum George brought with him.
They must have had a camera pointed at his house for hours – maybe they still do. He reads the story.
Exclusive by Anthony O’Neill
Aspiring actor Miles Deverill has toasted his freedom with a champagne-fuelled house party just hours after being found not guilty of murder.
Mr Deverill, 30, was acquitted earlier today after a jury took just four hours to conclude he was not responsible for the death of social worker Caira Kennedy, 40, who was strangled with her own scarf last year.
By 7 p.m. this evening, just hours after the verdict, friends had arrived at his family’s ￡3 million home, including one who turned up with a ￡120 magnum of Bollinger.
And guests enjoyed the champagne while listening to party hits including ‘Celebration’ by Kool from there it just repeats the story from earlier, which he’s already read.
It’s a long article and it takes ten seconds or so to thumb all the way to the end, where the comments section begins.
He knows he shouldn’t look, but it’s compulsive – he can’t help it.
There are 173 comments on this story alone, and he starts scrolling through them.
LilianM: I’m not sure this is wise. There’s a time and a place for a party like this.
Drfc1963: What’s he supposed to do? Mope for the rest of his life? What he’s been thru is every man’s worst nightmare and if he wants to have a couple of drinks then good luck to him. I will buy him a pint if he comes to my local.
Hunny Bun Bun: This makes my blood boil!! Miles Deverill is an arrogant, overprivileged little rich kid who thinks he can do whatever he wants! Gross! Poor Caira!
AlexB: He’ll get his comeuppance. Mark my words.
After reading a dozen or so comments he closes the app.
He knows they will continue in a similar fashion – a mixture of bile and support, with the occasional moderate, sober voice thrown in.
He knows the views here aren’t representative of the population (for a start, most people simply do not hold such passionate opinions about those they’ve never met), and he’s been warned against reading below-the-line comments on news articles.
But this isn’t the only place the keyboard warriors raise their ugly heads.
When he got home this afternoon, one of the first things Miles did was change the privacy settings on his Instagram account.
It was time he got back into the world – he needs to have a visible public profile, on his own terms, if he wants to get his career back on track – and it was good that he had a ton of new follow requests.
But he’s starting to wonder if making his account public again was a good idea.
In the six hours since, several of his older posts have attracted some unwelcome comments.
They range from backhanded compliments (you’re pretty cute, for a murderer) to more cryptic suggestions of guilt (where’s the scarf, Miles, where is it?) and outright abuse (rot in hell, toff).
Miles blocked a few accounts and felt confident the abuse would cease in time, once the trolls were bored of his case and became obsessed with someone else.
Now he has to block a few more. He considers making the account private again, although he won’t do that – he can’t let the trolls win.
Miles has to trust that all this noise will die down eventually.
Even his strongest critics will come to accept that, in the eyes of the law, he’s an innocent man, whether they like it or not.
There are no charges against him, now. Not so much as a speeding ticket. His slate has been wiped clean.
The problem is: he’s been cleared in a criminal court, but in the court of public opinion the case seemingly still has a way to run. Even after being acquitted, this is going to define him. Forever.
After briefly discarding it, Miles picks up his phone again – he needs distracting from his thoughts.
He opens his email app. Earlier, he received a dozen or so emails from friends, acquaintances and colleagues, all expressing their support.
It left him with a warm feeling, verging on pride – something he hasn’t felt for the best part of a year.
His email account seemed to be a safe space, probably because it’s a private forum – that’s not of interest to the trolls, who prefer their words to be out in the open, so the whole world can breathe in their toxicity.
In the hour since he last checked, only one new email has landed in his inbox – from his agent.
He sighs. Kate tried to reach him earlier, but he ignored her call.
Miles thought he deserved better treatment from Starlight.
He joined the agency as a kid, when he would do the occasional job in return for a boost to his pocket money (he appeared in advertising for breakfast cereal and funeral plans and everything in between), and he went full-time after finishing his A levels, positioned as high-end talent with even more agreeable – and rising – rates of pay.
It was all going swimmingly. But when he was charged, the agency dropped him immediately – something he learned through a statement it had released to the media.
It hurt more than it should’ve. The decision wasn’t personal, he knew that – they were just trying to protect their business from bad publicity.
But it could’ve been handled differently.
Miles had been loyal (he could have easily signed with another agency), he never once cancelled on a job, and he made them a decent amount of money.
He deserved an explanation, at least. Whatever Kate wants now, it can wait for another time.
But once again, out of curiosity, he finds himself unable to resist. He clicks open the email.
Hello Miles!
I was sooo relieved when I saw today’s verdict!
You must be desperate to put all this behind you and get back to work, and we can’t wait to see you!
It’s great that you’re taking a holiday, but you must give me the dates ASAP so we can book your work around it.
We’ve already had a number of inquiries since the news came out today and the offers are very varied and exciting!
Please call me at your earliest convenience so we can discuss.
All my best,
Kate
Miles begins to type out a reply and then abandons it to the drafts folder.
It’s exhausting, this instinct to constantly try to please and be polite, even to people who don’t give a toss about him.
Yesterday, Kate wouldn’t have touched him with a bargepole, and she makes no apology for, or even acknowledgement of, the fact that she so ruthlessly deserted him as a client at the first sign of trouble.
Does she deserve a prompt reply? No. Yet, it will still irk him that he’s keeping her waiting, and it will nag him more and more the longer he leaves it.
Out of habit, he opens the junk folder before closing the app.
Miles glances down the list of spam emails.
A sudden wave of prickly heat tingles through his exhausted body.
In among the scam messages offering discounted Viagra and guaranteed cash prizes is an email with a subject line that stands out among the rest. Hello again.
But what shocks him is the name of the sender: Caira Kennedy.
It only spooks him for a second – then he can see it for what it is: apparently, some trolls are so dedicated to their sport that they’ll even go as far as setting up a fake email account in the name of a murder victim.
Nothing is too low for these people. He stares at it for a moment, and then again curiosity gets the better of him.
He clicks it open. The email is blank, except for an attachment: an audio file.
He probably shouldn’t play it – God knows what kind of abuse is on there, could it even contain a virus of some kind?
– and there’s no doubting the malicious intent of the sender.
He’s weighing it up, his thumb hovering tantalisingly close to the play button, when there’s a knock on his door.
‘Come in.’
His mother enters, peering around the door first, then drifting in, her arms arranged into a strange cross over her chest, like she’s trying to warm up. ‘I just wanted to check on you – do you need anything?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
She sits on an upholstered chair in the corner. ‘It’s so good to have you here, but it doesn’t feel real. You know, like I might wake up tomorrow and find it’s all a dream.’
Miles sits up and tosses his phone on to the duvet. ‘Mum, don’t worry. It’s all over.’
She opens her mouth to speak, then decides against it. After a few seconds of thought, she says: ‘Are you sure about New Zealand?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
‘I wish you weren’t going so far away.’
‘Mum, that’s the point.’ It hasn’t always been the point, but it is now.
When Miles and Elis originally discussed the idea of going to New Zealand, the distance wasn’t a factor.
But, right now, he needs to escape, and New Zealand is about as far away from here as he can possibly get without boarding a rocket and blasting out of Earth’s atmosphere.
It’s exactly where he needs to be. ‘Anyway, it’s not for long.
And, with any luck, by the time I get back, this whole thing will have blown over. ’
Zara gets slowly to her feet. She appears to have a similar level of energy. ‘Are you sure I can’t get you anything?’
‘I’m fine, honestly. I’m just tired – I’m going to sleep soon.’
She leaves, and Miles hauls himself up, starts getting ready for bed.
He brushes his teeth, splashes water on to his face, dries his face on a clean towel.
A routine like this at home feels suddenly surreal and it catches him unawares – his hands tremble and he tenses his facial muscles to hold back tears.
If things had panned out differently, he would be spending tonight in prison.
The fatigue is also having an effect, making him emotional.
He needs to rest. Tomorrow, he’ll feel better – when he has a clear head.
Miles gets into bed and turns out the light.
Tiredness has made him slightly dizzy, like that giddiness you get towards the end of a match when you’ve been running for eighty minutes and your blood sugar levels are low.
Sleep should come easy now. He’s wrapped in comforts: the sound of silence, the smell of home-laundered sheets, the softness of memory foam.
Yet still he can’t settle. His mind, whichever direction it wanders, keeps circling back to the email lurking in his junk folder, with the audio file attached.
He knows he shouldn’t play it – of course he bloody shouldn’t – but he wants to.
He has to know. He has to. If curiosity killed the cat, then Miles’s recently gained spirit of inquiry could take down a pride of lions.
He takes his phone off the bedside table, and his eyes, now adjusted to the darkness, sting as the screen lights up.
He opens the email app, and his junk folder, and clicks on the email.
He stares at it again, then turns up the volume on his phone and taps his thumb on the tiny black triangle.
It starts playing. The audio clip is eight seconds long, and it only takes two of those seconds to jolt Miles’s heart out of rhythm.
His whole body turns cold. He plays it again.
And then for a third time. What he’s just heard isn’t possible. It can’t be.