and Stephen’s voice would break as he denied it. Stephen clearly did think Terry was a wanker, but he would never have dared say it, even to me.’
Kate wanted to reach into the past and hug Stephen. And slap this Terry. A vision rose up of herself stepping in, defending her boyfriend.
But she understood what it felt like to be bullied. She’d allowed it to happen to her for a long time. It was only recently that she’d had the courage to stand up for herself.
She said, ‘Didn’t you do anything?’
Paul pushed his noodles around his plate with a chopstick. ‘No. I mean, I’d say, kind of weakly, “Come on Terry, leave him alone,” but that was about it. I was scared of Terry too – he was so unpredictable – and I suppose there was a part of me that was glad. Glad that it wasn’t me. That I was the cool brother. It’s awful, isn’t it?’
Kate didn’t respond. She wondered what kind of teenager Jack would grow into. A cruel one? Or a soft one like Stephen? She prayed neither.
Paul said, ‘Then one day, Stephen totally surprised me. Terry was doing the old “You called me a wanker” routine, and “Do you want a fight?” and Stephen put down his school bag – I can picture him dropping it – and said, “OK, then.” And he stepped forward and punched Terry right in the mouth. Knocked him over.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘That’s what I thought. I felt like cheering. And Stephen coolly picked up his bag, stepped over Terry – who was too shocked to move – and walked off. I’d like to say Terry learned the error of his ways, but the next day he started bullying someone else, someone younger and more timid, but he never bothered Stephen again.’
Paul sighed. ‘I still felt ashamed that I hadn’t done anything to help. Eventually we became friends again. We had to be, really, we were brothers. Sometimes, usually at four in the morning, I wake up and start thinking about it. I wish there was some way I could make it up to Stephen. I’d ask for forgiveness, if he was here now.’
Finally there was an awkward pause in the conversation and she could see him struggling to say something.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
Instead of speaking he reached into his pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper. He didn’t show it to her, just held it, gazing into space. Kate could almost hear his thoughts ticking away. Stephen used to do this too.
He said, ‘As soon as you told me your name was Kate, it rang a bell.’
‘Stephen told you about me?’
‘Yes. In a manner of speaking. It wasn’t something I’d thought about for a long time, but yes, I recognised your name straight away. I went home to check, to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, or mis-remembering, and there it was, in black biro.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Paul tapped the piece of paper. ‘A few days before he . . . before the fire, he wrote to me. He mentioned your name.’
‘And you’ve kept the letter all this time?’
‘I’ve kept every souvenir of Stephen I could. But this letter – I would have kept it anyway.’
‘Why?’
He handed it to her. ‘Read it and you’ll understand.’
She hesitated before taking the piece of paper from him, and as it touched her fingertips she felt a thrill, a shiver, as if the ghost she thought she’d seen earlier had touched her.
She couldn’t hear the clatter and murmur of the other diners any more. There was a wall of silence around her and Paul. The words on the page were all she was aware of. She recognised Stephen’s handwriting. Before seeing it again she would never have been able to describe it, but as soon as it was there before her she knew those looping Ls, that tight, messy scrawl. A doctor’s handwriting. They’d joked about it more than once.
The letter covered two sides of A4. She read through the first section quickly. Stephen started with a few unremarkable statements and observations – the weather, the cricket, hope you were able to watch it, etc – and then the tone of the letter changed suddenly. The writing got more uneven, even more messy. It looked like it was written in a rush. There were mis-spellings, crossings out. So unlike the Stephen she knew.
Stuck in his flat one day, when he was at work, she had unearthed an old notebook from the back of his bookcase. In the notebook were poems, a couple of fragments from stories that he’d started writing, observations about places he’d been. It was beautifully written, with immaculate spelling and grammar. She never told him she’d found the notebook in case he was embarrassed. He might, she feared, even be angry that she’d been snooping around. Then there were the notes he wrote her; cards that went with little gifts he’d bring home to her. He was careful and always accurate. This letter, with its mistakes and heavy pencil marks must have been written when drunk. Or under extreme stress.
Towards the end of the letter, the following passage screamed out at her:
I met a girl, her name’s Kate. We’ve had to keep our relationship secret from the people here, but I don’t think we’re the only ones with secrets . . .
Kate was unable to read the next segment, two lines had been crossed out with thick black pen, obscuring all but the tips of a few tall letters and the tails of some others. She picked it up a little further on.
I hope you meet her some day. If you do, and I’m not there, tell her I loved her. Tell her she was right. And tell her to forgive me.
‘Are you okay?’ Paul asked, touching her wrist.
She snatched her hand away as if his fingers were red hot then looked up, dazzled, briefly unable to speak. Am I okay? No.
She stared at the letter again, reading it over like someone who’s just received a letter telling them that sorry, the blood test result was positive, you failed the exam, you didn’t get the job you so badly wanted, I don’t love you anymore. ‘“Tell her she was right.”’ She read the sentence aloud. ‘Right about what?’
Paul raised an eyebrow. ‘I was hoping you’d be able to tell me that.’
‘And what does he want me to forgive him for?’
‘You don’t know?’
She screwed her face up, tapped her temples with the flat of her hand, perhaps hoping to knock the memories loose. Here was that thick fog again, descending over her mind, obscuring the past.
Paul said, ‘You know something? I’ve kept this letter for years. I must have read it a hundred times. And every time, I asked myself what Stephen was talking about. What were the secrets? Who was this girl Kate and what was she right about? After Stephen died I became obsessed with finding out what he was talking about. I mean, it was obvious to me that he wasn’t feeling himself when he wrote this letter. He was normally so calm and rational. Not unemotional, but with his head screwed on, you know what I mean?’
Kate did know.
‘What
