Across the room on the sofa whose base was now so broken the cushions sank almost all the way to the floor, Oliver attempted to get into the ginger girl’s knickers. Other than being ginger she was exactly his type: thin but big-chested, clear skin, someone he hadn’t known before tonight. She was also, as he was learning, a terrible cock tease. Each time he dove in for a kiss, she turned her head or put her glass to her mouth. But then she’d place her hand on his thigh and squeeze. He’d groan, a little louder than needed, and try to kiss her again. Several times, he strongly indicated they should go upstairs to his quiet, private bedroom, but she wouldn’t budge, even though the way she sat on his lap made him want to drag her upstairs like a Stone Age caveman. He thought if maybe he could remember her name, it might help to move things along.
Despite all this, he knew the party was a success. As he’d suspected, it hadn’t taken much for Ellie to break her rules, and the rest, like the sheep they were, went along with it. With Lorna, the chief no-fun instigator, nowhere to be seen, he knew that meant she’d packed it in and would not be bothering them for the rest of the night. He’d managed to capture the corner of the ginger’s mouth with his own when the music cut out, the sudden silence then replaced with a slow song. He rolled his eyes at first, but the ginger seemed to be into it, rolling her body in rhythm against his, lowering her head to his neck where she licked the sweat from his skin. He got lost in her touch. Until she burst out laughing. Anger filled him like a flash flood and he was about to shove her off when he realized she wasn’t laughing at him.
“What is she doing?” the ginger whispered.
Maeve—a very, very drunk Maeve—danced by herself in the center of the front room, doing what he thought she thought were seductive moves. A crowd gathered as she ran her arms over her body, the dress that made her look like an overstuffed banana. The fabric was riding up her crotch and sticking there, thanks to sweat and static electricity. When her hand reached her mouth and she sucked on a finger, Oliver smothered his laugh. He looked across the room at Ellie, and they shared a smile. They knew someone should stop her before she really embarrassed herself, but neither of them moved.
Maeve swayed as she undid the top button of her dress. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Oh shit!” and everyone laughed, but Maeve didn’t notice. She undid the second button and someone else whistled.
Someone really, really needed to stop her.
Oliver held the ginger tighter on his lap. She whispered something in his ear that he didn’t remember, but it made him laugh. The third button came undone and then the fourth, and Maeve started to work her shoulder free from the dress. People laughed harder when it was clear her fat arm got trapped in the sleeve.
Maeve let her stuck arm hang and undid the next button with her other hand, exposing the plain tan bra underneath. She looked at Oliver then as if he were the only one in the room, and he leaned back against the sofa with his arms over his head and the ginger nestled against his side. Maeve’s strip halted as she attempted to remove her other arm, which had also become stuck. The entire party, having sniffed desperation like hounds on a fox hunt, was in the room now, excited to see what would happen next.
“What’s going on?”
Callum burst through the crowd, hesitated, then stepped in front of Maeve to shield her.
“Maeve, stop. Stop. Come on. Put your clothes on,” he whispered, trying to help her button her dress as her clumsy fingers fought to stop him.
“Aw, Callum.” Oliver grinned. “I was enjoying the show!”
Callum glared but kept talking to Maeve. “Come on. That’s enough now.”
“But I want to be noticed,” she slurred. “I want to be noticed!”
“Trust me. Everyone noticed. Let’s get you to bed.”
“No!” Maeve slapped him across the face. The crowd whooped and cheered. Ellie could no longer keep it together and laughed like a hyena.
“I don’t want to go to bed. I’m at a party, and I want to have fun!” She raised her arms above her head and jumped, her tits popping out of the dress Callum had tried to close. The crowd cheered.
“Leave her be, Tripod.” Oliver pushed himself up, ready to intervene. “She’s having a good time, aren’t you, Maeve?”
Callum shoved him away. Oliver staggered back, then punched Callum in the eye. The crowd gasped. Fists raised, Oliver turned to the ginger and smiled. He looked back at Callum. Callum punched him square in the jaw, sending him back onto the couch.
Fight, fight, fight . . . the crowd chanted.
With a growl, Oliver launched himself at Callum. The two little boys—for that was all they were at this point—collided and tumbled in a drunken heap. Both got their punches in as they rolled on the floor. Maeve, in an attempt to dodge the melee, smacked the back of her head against the mantel, toppling the empty bottles that had been left there. Indistinct whoops and cheers echoed from the crowd until Hollis muscled his way through.
“Oi. Oi! Break it up. Break it up!”
With help from Buzz Cut, Hollis split them apart. Oliver had a bloody lip. A bruise formed around Callum’s eye. Maeve sat in front of the fireplace, dress undone and skirt riding up to expose her knickers. Hollis tried to ask what happened, but Callum shoved him away.
“You’re all horrible people, you know that? You’re . . . you’re not nice and you fucking deserve each other.” Callum grabbed a bottle of whiskey out of a bystander’s hand and disappeared.
No one saw him for the rest of the night. Or so they said.
For years and years that’s the story they clung to.
But they lied. You know they lied. And for years and years, I picked those lies apart until I finally got to the truth. They had not seen who had killed him, that was true, but they knew it hadn’t been an accident. They knew it had been one of them.
But they didn’t know what to do about it. This was so much worse than cheating on an exam, and they knew that, too. That morning, as they stood around their housemate—heads like cotton wool and stomachs hollow while the late morning sun inched its way into the room, heating the spilled cups, empty boxes of wine, Pringles cans, and plastic ashtrays filled with ashes and butts—they saw their futures fading in front of their eyes.
Unable to bear the sight any longer, though they bore it longer than any decent person would have, they moved to the kitchen and poured each other warm juice and munched on leftover crisps. They had no answer but decided it would be best if they talked about this before they rang anyone. They were all there last night, and they all remembered what happened. Didn’t they?
And someone said it wasn’t their fault, and someone else agreed, but, just in case, shouldn’t they be absolutely certain no one would put the blame on them? After all, Hollis had given him the drinks and Maeve had insulted and slapped him and Lorna had ignored him and Oliver had fought him and Ellie had forgotten him. They didn’t want anyone blamed for what was clearly an accident. Because it was an accident. It was an accident after they put the phone back on the hook and threw out the broken lamp and burned the notebook Callum had kept as a record of what exams he had sold and to whom he had sold them. It was nothing more than an accident. A party gone wrong.
So they told their story to one another. To ensure it made sense, they told it many times. Until it became their truth. They remembered that after the guests had left but before they had gone to bed, Callum had stormed out of the house. They never saw him again until this morning.