Page 70 of A Face in the Crowd
‘What does he look like?’ I ask.
Nick purses his lips and holds his arm up. ‘Tall and dark. A bit stubbly. My type.’
I dig for my phone and swipe through the pictures until I find one of Harry. ‘Like this?’ I ask, flipping the screen around.
Nick shakes his head. ‘It’s not like I was staring – but I’m pretty sure that’s not him.’ He pauses and then adds: ‘Why? Do you think you know him?’
‘I don’t know.’
We sit for a moment and I’m almost disappointed. There’s a huge part of me that wants to be wrong about Harry – but things would’ve been so much clearer if Nick had said yes.
I keep scrolling through photos, flicking further and further back in time. There are so many of Billy. He’s in the park, chasing around with another dog; he’s at Parkrun; he’s on the beach barking at the ocean; he’s pounced on an ice cream that I dropped. The years flash by until it’s before Billy came into my life. There’s an enormous gap that means only desolation and acceptance. My life changed for the worse and I didn’t feel the need to catalogue it. Back further and there he is. It’s Ben and me at a festival the summer before the train crash. I’m in a pork pie hat and he’s giving the camera a thumbs-up. Memories never die in these modern times.
I’m not sure why I do it, but I zoom in on Ben’s face and then turn the phone for Nick to see.
‘How about him?’ I ask.
I expect a shake of the head, an instant ‘no’, but that’s not what happens.
Nick pouts out his bottom lip and squints.
‘Maybe… he was sort of similar, but this guy had longer hair. He was wearing a cap. It’s hard to say.’
I have no idea how to reply and Nick follows up with, ‘Do you know him?’
‘Perhaps…’
Nick reaches for the phone and has a closer look. He leans in and pinches the screen before handing the phone back with a scratch of the head. ‘This guy is a bit different. I can’t explain what I mean. The same but not the same.’
‘Like a brother?’
He clicks his fingers. ‘Yeah,’ Nick says. ‘Like a brother.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Friday
I have no idea what people with no job fill their time with. After waking up, I decide I’m definitely going to do some university work, but then resolve that I won’t be able to concentrate until I’ve had my showdown with Harry. I try television, but Piers Morgan’s face is as appealing as a yeast infection. After that, it’s the radio – but there’s a phone-in and Steve from Basildon is arguing with a Nobel prize-winning economist about how finance works, so that goes off, too.
I take Billy for a walk that’s as long as he can handle and, as best I can tell, he’s back to his old self. He dives off into the nooks and alleys, wanting to explore, though I keep a close eye on anything he tries to pick up from the paths. I think about last night and Nick partially recognising Ben… but I wonder if it was because he’d had too much to drink. Not that I’m one to talk.
Back at Hamilton House, the corner near Karen’s apartment is clear. If itwasMark who left something there, then he hasn’t been back. The bulb hasn’t been replaced, though.
I can’t think of anything else to do through the morning so spend my time pacing the flat going over the conversation with Harry. He’ll say such-and-such, so I’ll fire back with a killer line and then he’ll melt and have to tell me the truth. I waste so much of the morning talking myself in circles that I almost forget I actually have to go and meet him.
It’s some relief that I get to Chappie’s Café before Harry does, although there is a certain sense of déjà vu. Deformed Kevin Bacon is here, this time by himself; as are the mothers from before and the bloke in shorts – who isstillwearing shorts and hammering away on a MacBook. The poor keyboard must be on its last legs. I’m even nodded at by the same waitress, who offers a ‘sit wherever you want’. I don’t think she recognises me.
I order the same as yesterday – the cheapest coffee – and then sit around psyching myself up. Harry arrives at a minute to eleven in jeans and a jacket. He’s got an open-necked shirt and seems slightly more tanned than the last time I saw him. He gives me a small wave and a grin and then says something to the waitress before joining me. He takes off his jacket and puts it on the back of his chair, then sits.
‘This is a nice place,’ he says as he turns to look at the various prints on the wall.
‘Have you been in before?’
He shakes his head. ‘You?’
I think about saying ‘yesterday’, but then he might ask why and I’m not sure I could come up with something that sounds plausible.
‘How’s the head?’ I ask.
