Free Sympathy for the Devil by Howard Marks Page A

looking at an entirely different woman from the one who’d taken Rhys from her all those years before.
    ‘Did you love him?’
    ‘Jesus, Catrin!’
    ‘Did you kiss him behind the ear, that sweet spot he had there?’
    She saw that Della was staring at her like she was looking at a madwoman, and maybe she was.
    ‘Yes,’ she said softly, ‘yes I did.’
    ‘Yeah?’ She was sitting down now, still looking Della right in the eye. ‘And after he came, when he was lying on top of you, did he cry just a little bit?’
    Della shook her head imperceptibly, broke eye contact.
    ‘You fucking bitch.’
    Catrin felt a moment’s triumph then a giddying swing down into pure self-loathing.
    ‘Yeah well,’ Della said, ‘I stole him from you, didn’t I?’ She stood up. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’
    Catrin nodded and sat back. In the background, Nick Drake was singing ‘Time of No Reply’. She still couldn’t believe that Nick Drake was a popular act and not the secret treasure he’d been half her life, the discovery she’d made, hidden at the back of her mum’s stack of old vinyl. She’d always thought Rhys looked a bit like Nick Drake, a bit too sensitive for this world. She’d never told him that, wished she had now.
    Della put two brandies on the table, large ones. Then she sat down beside her on the bench, closer than before.
    ‘There was something you didn’t let me get to on the phone,’ she said quietly.
    Della was lifting a manila envelope out of her bag, placing it on the table.
    ‘The day after Rhys died this arrived in the post.’ Della had opened the envelope just enough to reveal some black-and-white photographs. As she pushed the envelope closer, Catrin smelt her perfume. Rive Gauche, a clean but not especially feminine scent. Della spread the photographs out on the table.
    They looked blurred. The light was too low to make out anything more than a series of tree-like shapes over on the right side. Catrin turned over the first photo and saw a sticker with the address of a photographic shop near Fishguard way out west, in the wilds.
    In the next picture she was able to make out a little more. There were figures in hooded robes dancing around a fire.
    ‘Looks like a bunch of location stills from Blair Witch .’
    ‘Keep going,’ said Della.
    When Catrin came to the sixth or seventh photo she stopped, held it up to the light and scrutinised it carefully. The shot appeared to have been taken with a telephoto lens. A man stood in a cloak and hood, but his head was turned to the right, as though he half suspected he was being watched. The figure had the same hollow cheekbones and gaunt features as the late Owen Face. The resemblance was undeniable even to the most sceptical eye.
    ‘Oh,’ she said.
    ‘Yeah,’ said Della, ‘that’s the one got me going as well.’
    ‘But what’s to prove it wasn’t taken years ago? Could be a still from one of those old videos Seerland used to do.’
    ‘Could be,’ said Della, ‘only they were developed last week, according to the camera shop stamp.’
    Catrin put down the photos, pushed them back towards the middle of the table.
    ‘But it could just be an old roll of film someone passed off on Rhys?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Della, ‘the thought occurred to me too. Only thing is, Rhys called me two weeks ago, said he’d tracked down Owen Face and was sending proof.’
    Catrin sat back. The whole thing had the smell of a scam about it, but who was working who? That she couldn’t get a handle on yet. If it was a scam it was a slick one and it had taken money and organisation, more than Rhys would have had.
    But looking again at the picture, she wasn’t sure. Something about it was drawing her in; it looked and felt right. She’d developed a sense over the years, knowing what was real and what wasn’t. The truth was she couldn’t understand any of it yet, and wasn’t sure she even wanted to.
    She only had Della’s word that Rhys had any connection to the