Page 58

57

Kier

Devon, July 2018

I’m still feeling queasy when I get back to the van, the fragrant notes of the citrus in the cake cloying in my mouth. It’s after five, and I should be working out what to make for dinner, but I can’t face even thinking about food.

Kicking off my shoes, I grab a glass of water instead. It’s only when I sit down on the bed, start sipping, that I sense it: something awry.

Not Zeph’s absence this time; the space feels off-balance. Disturbed. I look around, eyes slowly attuning to my surroundings, trying to establish what it is.

It’s as my gaze settles on the table that I realise: my laptop.

It’s in a different position than how I left it. No longer open, facing the window, but at an angle, the screen pushed down.

A tiny detail, but it niggles. Woody might have knocked it on the way out, it’s plausible, but I remember seeing it open when I left the van.

I pause for a moment, the headline from the newspaper and the camera lens directed at the café playing at the back of my mind.

We’re not far from the beach. What if someone’s been watching the van? Knows I’m alone? I’d left the side window ajar; someone could have levered it open further.

The thought chills me.

Slowly, I make my way around the van. It doesn’t take long. I even check the driver’s area. No one there and nothing missing either.

I close my eyes and slowly exhale, burrowing my fingers into Woody’s fur, but the feeling persists: that the van isn’t quite my own.

My gaze moves to the window, an unwelcome thought slipping into my mind: Is it possible that the person who was in here is now outside the van, watching me?

I move from window to window, looking for movement, any sign of a presence. There’s no one there, but as I look through the window that faces the cliff, I freeze.

I can smell something.

Smoke, but something else too. Burnt paint. A faint chemical odour.

I know that smell. My eyes lurch right, towards the fire pit.

Right away, it’s obvious where the smell has come from.

Someone’s disturbed the ashes.

I look again, correcting myself: no, not just disturbed them, the ashes are gone.

The fire pit has been scraped almost completely clean.

I swallow hard, the gravity of the complete removal glaringly apparent: with the ashes gone, for the odour to still be strong enough to smell from the van, it must have been done only recently.

As I turn away, I realise I’m still holding the glass of water, gripping it so tight my fingers are starting to feel numb. Putting it down on the table, I make my way outside to the fire pit.

I stop beside it, stare into the now empty metal bowl, thinking it through.

It is possible that the breeze may have caught the ashes, but even as I toy with the idea, I realise how unlikely it is.

If that were the case, there would be a thin film of ash, perhaps across the van and the ground, a pattern built up against the edges of the fire pit itself as the wind gusted. Not to mention the larger pieces of the canvas, some of which would be heavy enough to stay put.

There’s nothing.

But why? I try and think of benign explanations but there are none.

An odd daze settles over me as I churn it over in my mind. Someone would only do this if they knew what the painting was of, what it meant to me.

There’s only one person who did, as far as I’m aware, and that’s Zeph.

Yet the more I mull it over, the more it doesn’t make sense. I’d seen photos of him, back in New York.

But what if those photos were old ones, posted to simply look like he’d gone back?

What if he never left at all?

Thinking for a minute, I decide the quickest way to get a definitive answer is to find out if someone’s seen him in New York. I know right away who to call: Clio. Zeph’s neighbour, fellow chef and closest friend. His first port of call when he’s gone back to the city.

We’ve travelled together a few times since Zeph and I met, and she’s become a friend of mine too. She’s fiery and opinionated, but the kind of person who gives it to you straight. More importantly, I trust her.

Back inside the van, I sit for a minute to compose myself and then dial her number.

Clio’s happy to hear from me, I can tell, asks about the wedding, about Penn. How is it being home after all this time? Where are they going on honeymoon?

Small talk, back and forth for a few minutes, before I pivot the conversation to Zeph, ask if she’s heard from him.

A pause.

‘He’s back in the city, isn’t he?’ I ask.

‘He is. I saw him a few days ago, but he looked pretty fucking downbeat.’ Another pause. ‘I’m guessing—?’

‘Yeah, we broke up.’ It’s an effort to keep my voice neutral while my head is whirling. I feel the thud of my pulse in my ears .

Zeph’s in New York. That means whoever’s done this, been in my van, it isn’t him.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, I thought you two …’

I swallow. ‘I know. Me too.’ My voice is shaky.

I’m quiet for a minute and Clio misinterprets my hesitation for something else: ‘Kier, look, I don’t want to pry, but the breakup – is it to do with anyone else?’

I know what she’s implying. Another woman. Zeph’s reputation precedes him.

‘Something like that. Romy—’ I hadn’t planned to mention her, even refer to it, but it’s out before I can stop it.

‘ Romy? That’s dead in the water, K. Zeph wouldn’t go back there, even if she was around, which she’s not.’ Clio exhales. ‘Look, I don’t like speaking ill of people, and we were friends, I suppose, when they were together, but Romy … she was messed up. Messed Zeph up too. You know, I’ve always thought that what went wrong with the restaurant was down to her.’

‘You’re saying Romy told Zeph to ask the chef to glue his finger back together?’ My tone is light, but I don’t like what she’s implying. Absolving him of any responsibility.

‘No, but Romy thrived on drama, wasn’t happy unless there was some conflict. Zeph seemed to, I don’t know, absorb her behaviour, started acting out, like she did.’

I try to calm the tremor in my throat as I wind the conversation down.

This isn’t what I was expecting to hear, doesn’t fit the narrative I’ve been constructing in my head.

Zeph ’ s the bad one, the issue in that relationship, not Romy.

This doesn’t make sense.

Saying goodbye, I put my fingers to my temples. The momentary clarity I had with Zeph leaving is gone. Everything’s muddled again. Knots and tangles inside my head.

My throat tightens, stomach surging.

I run to the bathroom, start retching violently into the toilet.