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“You didn’t see him?”
“I saw someone who looked a lot like Neville, but I didn’t see him coming out of your staircase,” Hugh says. “But you did—and you saw it before you knew there was anything going on. And besides, he admitted being up there, didn’t he? Don’t start second-guessing yourself now.”
“I’m not,” Hannah says. “I mean—I am—but not like that. I don’t want you to think I’m looking for holes in my own memories, not exactly, I just want… I just want to be sure—do you know what I mean? I want to see it from another perspective, see something that I might have missed. Does that make sense?”
Hugh nods.
“Well, then, what happened next?” Hannah asks.
“Well…” Hugh says slowly. He takes another sip of his wine. She has the impression he is steadying himself, steeling himself to answer. “After that… you went up the stairs. And I waited. I was just about to walk away when I heard you cry out. I knew it couldn’t be Neville, we’d seen him leave, or at least you had, but you sounded… you sounded really scared. I knew something was wrong, I can’t explain it. I ran up the stairs, the door was open, and you were inside, on your knees, leaning over—” He swallows. His face in the candlelight looks suddenly much older. “Over April’s body.”
“You knew she was dead?” Hannah whispers. Her throat feels dry, but she doesn’t raise the Orangina to her lips. She doesn’t think she would be able to swallow it. Hugh shakes his head.
“Not at first. I mean—I wasn’t sure. She looked an odd color, but that could have just been the remains of the makeup. She was—” He chokes suddenly. “She was still wearing her wig.” He puts a hand to his face, over his eyes, as if he can’t bear to look all of a sudden. “I always wondered—” and again, he swallows, and then stops.
“What?” Hannah says. She is puzzled. She has heard Hugh’s story before, but not this detail. What has he wondered?
“I always wondered,” Hugh says softly, “if he thought she was you.”
Hannah feels suddenly cold.
“What do you mean?”
“April had short blond hair. Back then you had long dark hair. And the lights were very dim, it was just that one lamp in the corner burning.”
Hannah nods. She knows the lamp Hugh means, it was the one with the rose-colored shade, the one they always left on when they left the set, so that they didn’t have to come back to a dark room.
“I always wondered if Neville walked in, saw a girl with dark hair and thought… and thought…”
“You mean, he meant to kill me?” Hannah says. Her lips are dry and her hands feel suddenly cold, as if all the blood has drained out of them.
“You had just reported him to the college authorities,” Hugh says miserably. “Hadn’t you? I’ve always wondered…”
“Oh my God,” Hannah says. She picks up her glass and takes a sip of her drink, trying to cover her shaking hands. “You mean… you mean she might have died because of what I did?”
“No,” Hugh says forcefully. He leans across the table, takes Hannah’s free hand in his. His hands are large, capable, and bony, and very strong. They are surgeon’s hands. “That’s not what I’m saying. Whoever killed April, it was their fault, Hannah, not yours. Don’t let yourself get sucked into that narrative. But I’ve always wondered, if you had gone up first…”
“Oh my God,” Hannah says again. She feels sick.
“That’s what I meant. Don’t let yourself get caught up in what-ifs. That way madness lies.”
“I just want to know,” Hannah says. She swallows against the dryness in her throat. “I just want to know what happened. I don’t remember what happened after that. I remember you doing mouth-to-mouth—”
She puts her hand to her head, as if she can press the memories back into place, remembering the sound of Hugh’s feet on the stairs, Hugh dropping to his knees beside April.
Hugh lets his hand drop and he brushes his fringe away from his forehead. His face is profoundly unhappy.
“I went over to her. You were kneeling over the—her body. You kept saying Oh April, oh my God, April, over and over again. I tried her pulse and I think in my heart I knew she was gone, but I couldn’t quite bear to admit it. I began pumping her heart, just kind of hoping against hope, and you were standing there, looking so awful, your face was just white and drained and you were kind of swaying, and I thought you were going to faint—and I said, Hannah, for God’s sake go and find someone, go back to the bar and get help. It was partly for April but partly because I thought I had to get you out of there before you passed out. I wanted someone to look after you as much as anything. And you gave this kind of gasping sob and you stumbled out into the hallway and I heard you kind of staggering down the stairs gasping Oh God, oh someone help, please help. I carried on giving April mouth-to-mouth and heart compressions for… oh God, I don’t know how long.” He stops and takes a long, shuddering swig of his wine. “I carried on until the police came. It felt like forever. But they did come. They did come in the end. They said I’d done all I could. But it wasn’t enough. I don’t think—I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for that. It wasn’t enough.”
“Thank you, Hugh,” Hannah says. Her voice is husky and her eyes are prickling. This is the first time they have ever discussed this, the first time she has ever heard Hugh’s version of events. Before the trial they were told strictly not to discuss the case, for fear of prejudicing each other’s evidence. And afterwards—afterwards the last thing she wanted was to wallow in the pain and horror of that night. Now she is ashamed to realize that what Hugh went through was just as bad, maybe even worse. He has lived all these years with the memory of April’s dead lips on his, of his failure to save her. “Hugh, it wasn’t your fault, you know that, right? April was already dead—she was strangled. You couldn’t have saved her.”
Hugh says nothing. He only shakes his head. His eyes, behind the horn-rimmed glasses, are squeezed tight shut, as though holding back tears. When he speaks it’s with a catch in his throat and a little grating laugh.
“I’m sorry, I—I wasn’t expecting this. I would have bought a larger glass of wine if I’d known.”
“I’m sorry too,” Hannah says, and she means it. “I should have warned you. It wasn’t fair to spring this on you.”
“It’s all right,” Hugh says. He tries for the suave, urbane smile he probably uses on his patients, though it’s not completely convincing, not to someone who knows him as well as Hannah does. “God knows, I should be over all this by now. These days we’d probably all be offered free therapy. Back then it was, Oh well, chin up, and we’ll go easy on you in the exams, you know?”
