08 | Bad Guy

WHEN I WOKE UP, IT felt like MY head was being split open by a crowbar. The moment I became conscious I knew I had a thousand regrets to stew over before I'd even remembered any of them. Generally, that was how hangovers went for me; I nearly always spent the day in agony, recalling every single stupid mistake I'd made and wondering if it was possible to move across the world and change my identity with two hundred pounds in the bank.

I was betting on the answer being no. Unfortunately.

I sat up slowly but covered my eyes, trying to ensure that any head-spinning was kept to a minimum. Was it possible to still be drunk? And what was that smell?

"Good morning."

I opened one eye and saw Alexei, immediately groaned and closed it again. Now was not the time for dealing with mysterious killers. I flopped back down on to the suspiciously comfortable surface where I'd been laying and prayed that sleep would come.

No such luck.

"I take it you're feeling grotty," Alex said from across the room. I groaned. "I've some paracetamol, if you'd like."

"Mmm."

"Is that a yes?"

"Mmm."

There was a shuffling sound as Alexei probably attempted to locate the pain meds, followed by his footsteps tracking across the marble floor. "You're going to have to sit up."

I stayed still.

"You do realise you're laying in your own vomit, da?"

Now it was time to move. I shot up quickly from the velvet sofa and almost knocked into Alexei in the process. He gripped my shoulders to steady me and then looked me in the eyes, frowning. "Are you still drunk?"

"Are you still drunk?" I countered childishly. Alex's frown deepened. "Sorry."

He handed me a glass of water and two paracetamol.

"How do I know you're not poisoning me?" I scowled.

"If I wanted rid of you, Grace, you'd be dead."

"And this could be your way of doing it!" I held one of the white tablets up to the light. "It could be poison."

"I'm not a coward," he scoffed, "I'd shoot you if I felt like it."

"Nice to know."

I threw the tablets into my mouth and gulped them down with glorious sips of ice cold water. My whole mouth currently felt drier than the Sahara desert; I lost all dignity while practically choking on the liquid trying to consume it as quickly as I could.

"Better?"

"Marginally." I handed him back the glass and took a moment to get my bearings. I was in the same marble room I'd walked into last night, except now it was tidy and empty aside from Alexei and I. "Where did everyone go?"

"The party ended six hours ago, Grace," Alexei informed me, taking my empty glass and putting it back on his desk that sat at the top of the room. He slid back into his leather chair, and for a moment I marvelled at his ability to still look good with no sleep and no fresh clothes. Then I realised he was wearing fresh clothes - a new crisp suit had replaced his old one.

Then it hit me.

"What time is is?" I demanded quickly, fumbling in my clutch bag for my phone.

"Eleven a.m.," Alexei said. He gestured in front of me. "Your phone is on the table."

"Eleven?!"

"Yes."

"Shit!" I snatched my phone off the poker table and pushed down the power button as hard as I could, watching as the welcome page loaded agonisingly slowly. "Come on, come on," I hissed. "Piece of crap."

Finally the screen loaded and displayed twenty missed calls from my dad.

"Oh my god."

"Grace-" Alexei began, concerned, but I was too busy having an internal mental breakdown to hear him.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," I chanted. Dad wasn't supposed to be left on his own for this long. Something could have happened - anything could have happened, and I was supposed to be on call for if he needed me. Now I had twenty missed calls and no idea what was going on. "I have to go," I told Alex, punching my dad's number into my phone.

"Let me drive you."

"No."

"Grace-"

It was too late. I'd already run out of the door, holding my phone to my ear and praying that dad would answer. Half of me expected Alex to come running after me, especially after what I'd witnessed last night, but no footsteps rang out behind me. I knew that I'd have a lot to process, a lot to think about, but right now was not the time.

Right now all I could think about was my dad.

I called a cab and waited outside the car park-turned club in the frigid air, missing nothing but my dignity, I could proudly say. Usually when I got drunk my belongings magically went missing, but I still had my clutch bag, purse and phone all accounted for. Even my Mac lipstick had somehow stayed put.

The cab ride home was the worst of my life. In the light of day, I knew that my navy dress was probably inappropriate attire and my heel-clad feet only served to reinforce the impression that I could have been some cheap hooker. That's what I imagined the cabby thought, anyway. With my smudged makeup and untidy hair complete with a splitting headache, it was safe to say I felt grotty.

But none of that mattered. The only thing in the whole world that I cared about was getting home to my dad.

I kept trying to call him, but each time it went through to voicemail and after the fifth time my phone died altogether.

When the taxi finally pulled up outside my building I practically threw a few notes at the cabbie, dashing straight out of the vehicle without even saying anything. I could feel my heart pounding furiously as I ran up four flights of stairs to reach my flat (the lift was out of order, as usual), and as I threw open the door, I prayed that everything would be fine.

Everything, of course, was not fine.

At first the flat seemed empty; there were no lights on in the living room or hallway, and there was no noise coming from the telly.

"Dad?" I called, flipping a few light switches. Everything was quiet. "Dad?"

When I paused and strained my ears, a low shuffling sound met them. It was coming from the kitchen. Oh god, I thought. Oh god.

A second more of concentrated listening confirmed that there was no intruder in the building. I steeled myself against whatever I might find and then dashed through the living room and into the kitchen.

Breathless, I flipped on the lights, illuminating a scene I had feared.

"Dad!" I rushed over to his upturned wheelchair, crouching down beside him and immediately beginning to check him over for injuries. "Are you okay?" I demanded. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he argued, trying to push my arm away. "Just had a little accident."

"Little?" I frowned. "What happened?"

"I was going to get myself something to eat from the fridge when the power went out. I was reaching for the leftovers on the top shelf..."

"How long have you been like this?"

"A cripple?" He chuckled. "Three years."

"Dad," I scolded him angrily. He should have been furious with me, not cracking jokes!

"Grace," he mimicked, tone mock-serious. "Help an old fellow up, would you?"

I stood his chair up straight and then placed my hands under his arms, hauling his weight until he sat upright. "I'm sorry," I told him sincerely. "I should have stayed home."

"No, Grace."

"No?"

"You can't stop having a life just to look after me," he said sternly, wheeling himself back towards the fridge. "You hardly go out as it is, you work most days and nights, you're only twenty three for god's sake!"

"I don't see how my age is relevant." I folded my arms.

"You're young, Gracie."

"I'm old enough to know I have a responsibility. I should have picked up the phone when you called."

"You should have," he agreed, and the knife of guilt twisted deeper in my stomach. "But you didn't, because you were busy living. Did you and Jonah have a good night?"

Oh, crap! I couldn't even pinpoint the last time I'd seen him last night. The moment we entered the building it had been like he disappeared, leaving me and Lena having too much of a good time to even notice. Then, at some point, she'd vanished too. Suddenly the knife of guilt wasn't simply stabbing me, it was cutting me up into pieces, churning and churning away.

"Um. Yeah. It was...good. Interesting." I walked around dad's chair and opened the fridge door for him so that he couldn't see my expression.

"Good, good." He pulled the door open further, exposing me. I stared straight ahead at our groceries. "Gracie, you're bright red."

"I'm not," I denied.

"Pass me the leftovers, then," he shrugged. "Your old man is starving."

I blew out a heavy exhale of relief. My dad had never been one to pry - something I was immensely grateful for.

"You can't eat this," I told him, holding the Tupperware box of leftover takeaway curry so that I could examine it. I hadn't exactly had much time for cooking lately...another thing I felt guilty about. "I'll make you something else."

Dad turned his wheelchair to face me as I closed the fridge door and he took a long moment to study my face. "You look like you haven't slept."

"Well, I haven't," I said lightly. "It was a long party."

"You should go to bed, I'll eat the leftovers. After all, who doesn't love three day old Jalfrezi?" he chuckled.

"Dad. You have to eat."

"I'm going to eat. You need to sleep."

"Okay," I sighed, "how about I make us both dinner, and then I'll go to sleep?"

"Sounds good to me." He wheeled himself out of the kitchen and into the living room.

I waited until I heard the click of his lamp turning on and the soft flow of piano wafting from the radio he kept on his work bench. Since he'd had to give up working at the hospital, he'd taken on the hobby of model building. He made everything, from miniature villages to doll's house accessories, anything fiddly that would keep his surgeon's hands busy. I supposed he liked to feel useful, still.

Once the gentle sounds of Clair de Lune floated into the kitchen, I slipped off my stupid high heels, leaned against the counter, and took a deep breath. I had a lot to think about, and a lot of messes to fix. There was Jonah, who no doubt felt hurt about his exclusion. That was one knife jabbing in my chest. Then there was Lena, who probably wanted to know everything about my night and why I hadn't been there to share it with her. Another knife. And my dad, finally, who I knew I didn't devote enough attention to. Three sharp knives of guilt.

Guilt wasn't the only thing plaguing me, though. Thoughts of Alexei were hard to resist, but I knew that I needed to stop myself from thinking them. If I didn't, then I'd have to process what I'd witnessed last night. I'd have to think about the possibility of him not being a good guy. I'd have to think about where that dead body went that had been sprawled across the floor, yet vanished the next morning.

I didn't want to think. I didn't want to know.

I cooked a simple meal of jacket potatoes and steak for dad and I, then slumped into an armchair in the front room. I wasn't hungry - in fact I felt a little sick - but I was desperate for a distraction.

"Since when do you like daytime television?" Dad asked, digging into his meal beside me. The TV blared out some mindless programme like Antiques Roadshow or something.

"Since when do you?"

"Since I have nothing better to do." He grinned. "Good steak."

"Thanks."

"So. Are you going to tell me what's really bothering you, Grace?"

I kept cutting up my potato like I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "Nope," I said lightly.

The reality was that I wanted to tell him; we'd been close since mum died and he'd been nothing short of my best friend, but I'd already considered what would happen if I were to spill my guts. Maybe Alexei's threat in the cafe had seemed like nothing, but after last night I believed every word. In fact, half of me expected him to come barging into the house at any moment, guns blazing.

It came down to the fact that I was on edge and jumpy, half prepared for the end of my life. After all, Alex had killed someone in front of me. I was a witness...a liability. Surely he'd have to dispose of me. Come morning I might be weighed down in the bottom of the Thames! They still did that, right? Criminal gangs putting people's feet in concrete and letting them sink? Maybe they'd cut off my fingers, too, and pull out my teeth.

That way nobody would ever identify me...

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