Complicit by Nicci French Read Free Book Online Page A

musician. ‘He wants to play live. What do you think about that?’
    ‘What do you want me to say? He’s good. One of the best I’ve taught.’
    ‘He looks up to you. He respects you. Playing like this is all good fun, now that he’s finished his exams, but I’d be grateful if you’d talk to him about the realities of being a musician.’
    ‘This is just a one-off performance at a friend’s wedding. We’re not touring America.’
    ‘But if he asks.’
    ‘I really don’t give career advice. However, we’re a pretty motley collection. I don’t think there’s much chance that we’ll seduce Joakim with our glamorous rock-and-roll lifestyle. Anyway, you’ll be there to keep an eye on him. Is that why you want to sign up?’
    ‘Not at all,’ Guy said. ‘I’ve spent too long playing along to Led Zep records. It’ll be good to play with some real people.’
    After
    I crept out of the door again and onto the lane. It was entirely dark now, just a few stars blinking above me and the dull orange glow of London all around. The lights were out in the flat above, but still, the person who lived there might return at any moment. Even thinking of that made my heart lurch. The shapes on the road became hunched figures that were watching me. I unlocked his car, opened the boot in readiness and returned to the flat.
    ‘All clear,’ I said to Sonia.
    Without saying anything more, we knelt beside him. I took his feet and Sonia his shoulders.
    ‘One, two, three and …’ she mouthed.
    We heaved and managed to lift him a few inches. His body sagged between us. An arm broke free of the rug and I let out a squeal before I could help myself. ‘He’s so heavy,’ I said.
    ‘Drag him,’ said Sonia. ‘Until we get to the front door.’
    We bumped him along the floor, sometimes summoning enough strength to give him a heave that carried him a foot or two along. The rug he was wrapped in stuck on the carpet but slid more easily when we got to bare boards. There were shooting pains in my ribs. My head banged and my neck throbbed and I could feel sweat running off me. Beside me, Sonia grunted and gasped.
    At last we were at the front door. I pushed it open and stepped outside. The lane was empty and silent. The garage sign banged faintly in the breeze. I nodded at Sonia.
    We half lifted the body. The rug came loose again and his hand dragged on the ground. Those hands, strong and warm: once they had stroked my face, cupped my chin. I tried to stop myself thinking of it. I staggered and couldn’t keep a grip and he thumped onto the tarmac. I gave a cry as if we were hurting him.
    ‘Sorry,’ I whimpered.
    ‘Just a couple of yards now.’
    Stooping, buckling at the knees, we shuffled the last few feet to the car. We shouldered the bundle upwards, not speaking but panting with the effort. The rug slipped further. I could see his hair. Soft hair. But the boot was too small and he was too big. He didn’t fit. We had to push it – the corpse, the body, him, the man I had… had what? Not loved, unless love can be violent, hopeless and dark, with its end written into its beginning. We had to push and twist his body, shoving it into the space. As if he was a thing – but he was a thing. He was dead. Nothing was left except memory and loss. I heard his head bang on the metal. My shirt was sticking to my back; it hurt to breathe. Sonia stood upright, her face pale in the darkness, and pulled the boot shut.
    We drove in silence, me at the wheel and Sonia studying the road atlas we’d found in the car, giving me terse directions. Police cars came at me out of alleys and parked on blind corners; lights flashed blue and sirens wailed in the night. In the rear-view mirror, I saw eyes watching me. I sat up quite straight, pinned my gaze on the road ahead. Our heavy load dragged at my mind. The car was a coffin, a little tin coffin. London dwindled, and at last the headlights were picking out hedges, fields and trees, and finally a