Page 67 of A Face in the Crowd

All of a sudden, Steven’s shoulders slump. ‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he says wearily.

‘No, I don’t.’

He wags his phone towards me, but it’s more comical than threatening. ‘Tell me this,’ he says. ‘Say the crash was perfectly normal. It was an “accident”’ – he makes bunny ears with his fingers – ‘where did you bury Ben Peterson’s body?’

‘You already know the answer, so why ask?’

He claps his hands together as if he’s caught me out. ‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘You didn’t bury him. And, why?’

I wait, not particularly wanting to engage but somehow needing to hear it.

‘Because that fire,’ he adds, ‘if there was one – burned so hot that all they found was ash.’

‘They found more than ash,’ I say.

‘Well, yes… bags and jewellery, that sort of thing—’

‘And there was definitely a fire,’ I say. ‘There are photos of it.’

‘Photos can be doctored.’

‘There are video imagesfrom a helicopter. There are scorch marks on the ground. Parts of the rails melted. Someone was live-streaming it from their bedroom with their phone.’

‘Well, okay, there probably was a fire but—’

‘There wasdefinitelya fire.’

‘Right, but that’s not important. What’s important is that you never buried a body. Hardly anybody did. Most of the coffins were empty.’

This is one thing on which we can agree. Most of the coffinswereempty. Not that it means very much. There was a fire after the crash and, in one carriage in particular, there was very little left. There was a public inquiry that discovered serious safety lapses on the maintenance.

‘How can a train burn that much?’ Steven asks.

‘I don’t know. I’m not an expert – but there was an expert at the inquiry and she said—’

‘She was a plant. An actress. We found stills of her starring in a Ukrainian soap opera. Where did the extra fuel come from?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Exactly!’

He thrusts his phone forward again, like this is a huge a-ha moment. That he’s caught me out. The ‘believe in reality’ badge on his lapel reads increasingly like the rantings of a nutjob. Idobelieve in reality; I think it’s Steven who doesn’t.

‘There’s more,’ he says.

‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

Steven throws his hands up and jumps off the wall. It’s such a shock that I almost tumble backwards in an attempt to escape one of his flailing arms.

‘Fine!’ he shouts. ‘Don’t believe me. Maybe you’re in on it too? I didn’t realise it went this far. You’re one of them.’

‘One of who?’

‘The illuminati.’

I sigh and rub my forehead once more, pushing myself up until I’m standing. The lights from Hamilton House seem so appealing. The central heating will have kicked in by now and, despite what I think of it, my flat can be deliciously cosy on these types of evening.

‘Is this the lizard thing?’ I say. ‘Because, if it is, I’m definitely not a lizard.’