You Had It Coming by B.M. Carroll (best fiction novels .TXT) 📕

The pasta is bubbling when her phone pings from somewhere. She looks around for it before remembering it’s still in her backpack. A plummeting sensation when she sees Megan’s name again.

He’s dead …

The question has been at the front of her mind since she woke up, and here, finally, is the answer.

He’s dead. I know I should feel sympathy but I can’t.

Alex chooses this precise moment to appear and she drops the phone guiltily.

‘Hey, babe.’

He’s wearing an old pair of work shorts, possibly yesterday’s, and his chest is bare and tanned, defiant of the fact that it’s still winter. Alex is a horticulturist and spends his days outdoors in the sun, often without his shirt. He should be at work right now, mowing someone’s lawn or yanking weeds from neglected garden beds. His clients rarely make use of his consulting skills or expansive horticultural knowledge. He says it doesn’t really bother him: ‘Money is money, babe. Don’t care if I’m the most expensive lawn boy in the city.’

He sits down on one of the kitchen chairs with an elongated groan. ‘Bloody hell. Big night. Hope I didn’t wake you.’

‘Think of a giraffe trying to move quietly and you’ll get the picture.’

‘Sorry, babe. Got stuck with Ramsey. He’s having a hard time at work.’

Alex is the friend who gets called when someone needs to drown their sorrows. Jess is not sure about the quality of his advice, but he can be counted on to listen and stay until they’re ready to go home; his loyalty can’t be faulted.

‘Nothing on today?’ she asks, tipping the pasta out of the pot and into the waiting colander.

‘Nothing urgent. You know how it is, they always seem a bit surprised when I come at the agreed time anyway.’

Alex, like other tradesmen, has to battle against a blanket reputation for unreliability. He’s usually good for turning up on time or at least phoning if he’s been delayed. Today excepted.

Jess plonks a bowl of pasta down in front of him. ‘Here, this should help some.’

‘Thanks, babe. You’re so good to me. I’m a lucky bastard.’

In fairness, she’s lucky, too. She can be herself around him, she can be honest: one glance or touch can replace a thousand words. They’re different, though. Jess is ambitious, intense, introverted, and obsessed about fitness. Alex is none of the above; he just wants a good time. But they fit well together. Jess doesn’t know how, they just do.

She sits down opposite him and prongs her pasta with her fork. She needs to tell him about William Newson.

He’s dead … He’s actually dead …

William Newson has always had the effect of making her boyfriend – the most laidback person she knows – extremely angry. She decides to wait a couple of hours, until his hangover subsides.

It’s a pretty bad hangover. Alex declares himself unable to do even a few hours’ work and makes a sheepish phone call to his client. Jess prescribes fresh air and some gentle exercise. The closest national park is a fifteen-minute drive; they often go there on weekends.

Alex’s ute looks incongruous next to the luxury vehicles parked along the street. Its paintwork is riddled with rusty scratches and dings, mostly from encounters with letterboxes as a result of driving too fast up and down driveways.

‘I’m driving,’ Jess states in a tone he knows not to argue with. It’s late afternoon now, but she’s still not confident that his blood-alcohol is below the legal limit. Last thing he needs is to lose his licence.

She hoists herself behind the wheel, before adjusting the seat and mirrors: his legs are a lot longer than hers. Take-off is jerky: it always takes a while to get used to the manual gearbox. The sun is starting to drop behind the trees by the time they reach Bobbin Head Road.

‘Park closes at five thirty,’ the ranger says gruffly when they stop at the entrance to pay the fee.

‘Just going for a short one, mate,’ she assures him.

She swings the ute into one of the marked spaces; there’s nobody else around. They jump out. The air is clean and pure, the only noise the sound of wind in the trees and a few chirps from native birds: this is why they come here. A number of walks, of varying lengths, begin from the car park. They decide on one that’s an estimated hour’s round trip, according to the mounted noticeboard and map.

It’s a narrow path, winding through gum trees and bush. Jess leads and Alex brings up the rear. It works better like that, otherwise his long stride would leave her behind. The first section is fairly level and she sets an easy pace, a nod to his fragile state. They don’t speak, other than a warning she issues when they come to a slippery bit. Her thoughts are far away from the bush.

He’s dead … He’s actually dead …

The urge to see Megan has been building all day. They were such unlikely friends. Megan went to public co-ed in Hornsby while Jess went to a private ladies’ college in Pymble. They met at karate, weekly classes in Turramurra, forced there by their fathers, who knew Sensei through different channels. Jess’s dad wanted her to learn self-discipline, Megan’s dad wanted to build her confidence. They were often paired together, being the same age and gender, and Megan used to giggle whenever she stuffed up the moves in the katas (there were so many bloody katas to learn). They were prone to chatting, which got them into perpetual trouble with Sensei. After class, they used to walk together to the train station, before going to their different platforms, Jess’s southbound, Megan’s northbound. If there weren’t any trains blocking the view, they would wave across at each other. Megan was sweet, uncomplicated, and quite naïve in comparison to Jess’s other friends. Her house was a ramshackle weatherboard on a sad block of land, while Jess’s family home had