“This,” she said, turning to address the twins, “is Simon. Say hello, kids. Simon, this is Harry and Isobel. Our children.” She was beaming; that was the only word Brendan could think of to describe the way she looked. At first he suspected that she might be trying to flirt with her old flame, but then it hit him. She was proud. She was glowing with pride, showing off her husband and her children. Her family. She was telling Simon, without words, how good things were for her now, and that she hadn’t missed him one bit, not one tiny bit since he went away.
The kids started to laugh, now at ease. They went to Simon and started babbling information: telling him about school, about their bikes, their friends and teachers. Simon started to relax. Brendan wasn’t sure why his old friend had been so tense when he first walked through the door, but all that was gone now. He became the perfect guest: interesting, interested, charming, and funny.
Brendan felt himself relax, too. He’d been worrying for nothing. Simon wasn’t a threat; he never had been. If anything, it had always been him, Brendan, who was the real threat. Hadn’t he taken Simon’s girlfriend off him all those years ago, and given her everything she needed?
For the first time in his life, he felt equal to Simon-fucking-Ridley. And in doing so, he opened a door inside himself that allowed all the old, suppressed feelings of friendship to emerge, returning to the light. This wasn’t so bad; he could even get used to it. Maybe he and Simon could be buddies again, after all, and once they managed to speak to Marty it might even be possible for the Three Amigos to mount up and make a triumphant return. Perhaps Simon was right after all, and they could band together to slay the monsters of their youth.
Simon played cards at the dining table with the twins while Brendan helped Jane in the kitchen. He was spooning the prawns and Marie Rose sauce into wine glasses crammed with lettuce leaves while she took their best china dinner set from the display cupboard and wiped it down with a tea towel.
“See,” she said. “It’s going okay, isn’t it?”
Brendan smiled. “Yeah, I suppose it is. The kids seem to like him.”
“I’ll just put them to bed, so we can eat in peace.”
Brendan nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get me and Simon some more beers. Wine?”
“Hell, yes,” she said as she walked out through the door and into the hall.
Brendan heard Jane say something to the kids — probably telling them to say good night to the visitor — and then the three of them trooped upstairs, making as much racket as humanly possible. He pulled two fresh beers out of the fridge, tore off the ring-pulls and then took them through into the living room.
Simon looked much more relaxed. He was crouching on the floor, picking up pieces of Lego and smiling. “They’re great kids, mate,” he said, raising a hand and pointing in the direction of the door. “
“Thanks.” Brendan dropped into a crouch and helped him tidy up the toys. Then, when they were all neatly put back in their box, the two men started on the fresh beers. “I suppose you’d say they’re the centre of my life, those two. I can’t imagine not having them.”
“Cheers to that,” said Simon, lifting his can and taking a long hit of the beer.
The two men moved over to the dining table. It was already set with cutlery, and a candle — as yet unlit — placed as a centrepiece. “Do you have a lighter?” Simon took hold of the candle and teased the wick between his finger and thumb so that it stood upright.
“Here,” said Brendan, handing over a box of kitchen matches.
Simon struck a match and lit the candle. Neither of the men spoke, and the act seemed to take on a kind of symbolic significance. Simon held the candle aloft; the light from the flame caressed the contours of his face. He smiled — at nothing, at everything — and then he placed the candle back on the table.
“Should we, like, say a little prayer?” Brendan put down his can and belched.
They laughed.
“Okay,” said Jane, from the doorway. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” said Simon, shaking his head.
“Nowt much,” agreed Brendan.
“Hmm. Well, is someone going to give me a hand setting out the food?”
“Aren’t I supposed to be the guest?” Simon winked, took a long swallow of his beer, and let out a loud “Aah…”
“Twat,” said Brendan, standing and following Jane into the kitchen.
They ate the starter in a comfortable silence. Brendan opened the white wine Simon had brought, and it was finished before the main course. “I’ll get another from the fridge,” said Brendan, standing.
While Brendan was in the kitchen he heard Simon and Jane talking in low voices, but this time he didn’t feel threatened by them. The beer and the wine, the food, the fact that they had all relaxed in each other’s company, had quietened his paranoia. Even his back felt soothed, as if the calm had extended to envelope his body.
After the main course, Jane cleared the table and then popped her head back into the room. “I’ll just be a minute. There’s something I want Simon to see.”
Simon glanced at Brendan and raised his eyebrows. Brendan shrugged. “You’ve got me, mate. She didn’t mention anything earlier.”
Jane returned in less than a minute, carrying a large cardboard box from Argos. Brendan recognised it as the packaging from a DVD player they’d bought the kids a few Christmases ago.
Jane set down the box at the centre of the table, pushing away the coasters and the placemats and moving her glass so that she didn’t spill her wine.
“Okay,” she said, glancing at the two men, one by one: first Brendan, then Simon. “This is going to seem weird, but bear with me. Okay, Brendan?” Her eyes flicked to her husband. Brendan felt the skin of his shoulders tighten, the rash flaring as if in warning. But he said nothing; he just nodded and took a mouthful of wine.
Jane closed her eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again. She lifted the flaps on the box and took out two black box files. “This,” she said, “is sort of a collection.” She opened the top box file and took out an old newspaper, folded over to a report about strange birds seen gathered about the tip of the Needle. It was a recent edition; the incident had occurred only a few weeks ago. “It’s an unofficial history of the Concrete Grove. For years now, I’ve been keeping anything that you might describe as odd or offbeat — news clippings, photographs, even a few hand-written stories people have told me about events they found hard to explain.”
“What is this, Jane?” Brendan went to stand, but she put out her hand to stop him. “Jane?”
“I’m sorry. I know I should’ve told you about this, but once I’d started keeping it a secret, it was easier to keep on going. I’m not even sure why I started collecting this stuff in the first place — initially, I think it was a way of keeping Simon in the loop, or maybe making sure he never forgot us.” She glanced at Simon.
Brendan looked at him too, across the table.
“So it was you? It was you all along?”
Jane nodded.
Brendan felt the anger surging through him. He didn’t understand what was happening, but it seemed that his wife and her old boyfriend had secrets between them after all. He’d been right to be paranoid. It was true, all of it. They’d been running around behind his back… Somehow, they’d managed to keep some kind of long distance affair going without him noticing.
“Brendan… Look at me, Brendan.”
He turned to face his wife. She was shaking her head.
“What is this?” His voice sounded whiny; thin and reedy and childlike.
“Ever since Simon left, I’ve been sending him reminders of what he left behind. Reminders of you, and the hell he left you to carry on your own. That’s how it started, I suppose: as a form of revenge. I might as well admit that now. Then, as time passed, it turned into a habit. I just kept sending them. Whenever he moved, I did a little research and located a new address. I wasn’t even sure if they were correct, those addresses — not until now, anyway.”
“Oh, yes.” Simon exhaled a long breath. “Yes, I’ve been getting this stuff for years. Emails, too.”
“Emails?” Brendan leaned back in his chair, pushing it away from the table. He felt a little better about the situation, yet still he knew that somehow he had been betrayed. He just could not figure out how, or why.
“The emails were a lot easier,” said Jane. “Google is your friend.” She smiled, nervously. “I’m just glad you never replied.”
“Shit, mate, remember I told you about this? I thought it was Marty, sending me all that stuff. But it was
