A Shock

by Keith Ridgway

  — A free round in the unlikely event of Anna being hit by a bus.

  — I won’t allow it, he says, and goes through to the back.

  — There was a writer.

  — You don’t like writers.

  — I didn’t say I liked this one.

  — Go on.

  — There was a writer.

  Anna has a full glass of wine in front of her. She sits in the same position, if slightly turned now towards the man she is calling Yves.

  — There was a writer, she says, for the third time. He lived in Chelsea because he thought it was important for him to live there. That a sort of cachet attached to a Chelsea address, and it would help him, somehow, in his career. This was in the 1970s. And his flat is basically a room. A tiny room at the top of a decrepit mansion house, landlord from hell, all the rest of it. He’s an idiot of course. Those days he could cross the river and be in a squat in Kennington or even up here, around Wilson, Dagmar, all squatted in those days. Civilised days those, you remember?

  — I do. You knew your neighbour.

  — But he’s an idiot. And he can’t stand his tiny room on top of all these boiled vegetable flats, and he looks around for something else. And he finds a flat, not a room, but a proper flat, first floor on one of those squares with the locked parks in the middle. And he goes to see it and it’s beautiful. Wood panelling, parquet floors, window overlooking a big back garden. There’s a kitchen, a living room, bathroom, bedroom, something else, and he can’t quite believe that it’s available to him at this rent that he can afford. And he says he’ll take it. But the landlady, this quiet sweet mysterious woman, doesn’t immediately agree to let him have it. She asks him first if he knows about the . . . She opens her hands, closes them again.

  — The Maigrets.

  She looks at Yves. He raises an eyebrow.

  — No, what am I saying. The Maynards. Colin and Florence Maynard. The couple from the newspapers. And of course, unworldly aesthete he, he’s never heard of them.

  — Doesn’t read the newspapers.

  — He doesn’t, Yves.

  — Hasn’t a clue.

  — Not the first.

  — About the famous Maynard murder.

  — No!

  — No?

  — No! No murder!

  — Oh.

  — After living in the flat for just over a year, the Maynards disappeared. Vanished. Not a trace. And I mean, not a trace. The flat completely undisturbed. As if they’ve popped out to the shops. No missing clothes. Their car where they’d left it. No sign. Police all over because of some connection she had to the Home Secretary. A cousin or a niece or some such. But nothing. Nothing, ever. And the landlady, she just wanted to make sure that this writer knows about all that, and that it isn’t a problem for him. And he’s an idiot and in he moves. And he loves his new home. And he is happy there. And nothing bad happens. Nothing at all. But he does become increasingly fascinated by the idea of their disappearance. He doesn’t really think that anything bad happened. He thinks that they just decided to leave, to step out of their lives. He thinks they’re fine, living on a beach somewhere. And he thinks that’s very powerful. It fills him with optimism. This notion that such steps are available. That we have such power. The power to vanish. He thinks of it a lot. And when he goes on his holidays, he decides to try and travel without leaving a trace. To see if it can be done. And these are the days before CCTV everywhere. Before mobile phones. When cash is still king, Yves. He buys a new bag, packs it with new clothes. In the middle of the night he dyes his hair, shaves off his beard. He puts on clear glasses. Before dawn he quietly leaves the flat and walks to Victoria, and he gets on a coach to . . . Chester, and then another into Wales, and he gets local buses to Pembrokeshire. Lovely down there Yves. Lovely coast. And he’s disappeared. No one saw him leave. No one knows he’s gone. It takes four days in fact, for people to realise he’s not around. Another three days before the landlady finds out. She gets onto the police immediately. They search the flat. The last time anyone saw him was a neighbour, the day before he went, coming back to the flat with some shopping, all smiles. And he was never seen again.

  — But I thought he was . . .

  — Yes.

  — I thought he was only seeing if it could be done.

  — Yes.

  Yves shook his head.

  — So what happened?

  — He was going to book into a little hotel. But he knew as soon as he did that his adventure was over. And he was quite enjoying this notion of having disappeared. It was dusk now, and he hadn’t slept the night before, and he went for a walk along the cliffs.

  — Ah no.

  — Yes. He fell into a sort of gully. He was knocked out. But he was alive. Upside down, unable to move, and the tide coming in. He didn’t stand a chance.

  — But his body?

  — It was stuck down there for a couple of days. The next big sea shifted it. Took it out, carried it off. Never seen again.

  Yves sighs and stares. He puts his glass to his lips but puts it down again.

  — I don’t know who can tell that story, he says.

  — No one can.

  — No.

  — It untells itself.

  — It does.

  — It self-destructs.

  — It reveals itself, says Yves. And once revealed it disappears.

  Anna nods seriously. She looks at Yves. Her eyes are soft.

  — It is a story that can never be told.

  Yves nods. He stares into space and Anna watches him, and her eyes are full of love.

  — That flat, Yves says.

  — Yes.

  — Probably still available.

  She laughs.

  — Probably very cheap Anna. We should have a look at that.

  — We should.

  — What are you two doing?

  — I’m teaching Yves a song.

  — It’s very complicated Harry.

  — It’s very simple. I need to write it down.

  — Are we disturbing people? asks Yves.

  — No no you’re fine. I just heard you sing a little.

  — We’ll keep it down.

  — You’re fine. What are you working on next Anna?

  She is rummaging for a pen.

  — Bags: A Cultural History.

  — No, seriously.

  — I don’t know. The Two Patricks maybe.

  — What’s that?

  — The story of Ireland’s patron saint, and the theory that there were actually two of them. One sent by Pope Celestine in 431. And another one, the former slave, returning from Britain in 432. They were both known as Patrick. Or took the same name. And the same story, in time. Handsome men, strong. Not dissimilar. Leading to many miracles of bi-location et cetera. They were lovers of course.

  — What about the flying cat?

  — Remind me.

  — The children’s book about a flying cat which leads to a rash of children throwing cats out of windows.

  She laughs.

  — God. No.

  — I liked it. Most survive. But they’re angry.

  — Every day when I dust my desk I shake a yellow duster out of the window. And I expect, every time, that it will be seen and interpreted as a distress signal and the police will arrive and shoot Mrs Dobson downstairs.

  — The plane crashes.

  — Ah yes.

  — What’s that one? Harry asked.

  — A story book.

  — Short stories.

  — And in each of the short stories there is a plane crash. Sometimes the plane crashes into the story, into the characters, and that’s the end of that. Sometimes

  — Sometimes it’s more subtle.

  — Yes. Like someo
ne’s wife’s plane will crash. Or there’ll be a plane crash on the television.

  — All except the last story.

  — Which takes place on a plane.

  — Which doesn’t crash.

  Yves and Anna smile.

  — I don’t get it, says Harry.

  Anna and Yves look at him, and still smile, but don’t explain.

  Yves goes to the toilet. He hums and whistles. He sees a man from Dekker House on Hopewell Street. The man says to him

  — Do you live here Stoker? You’re always here. Every time I come in I see you. You seem to spend your life here.

  He is being friendly. Yves smiles at him.

  — No, I don’t. I am rarely here. This place takes up a tiny, minuscule, insignificant part of my life. A speck. A mote. A pinprick. It’s a tiny hole in a wall.

  The man laughs.

  As he is going out, Yves says to him, still smiling.

  — May your death come as a shock to you.

  He goes back to talk some more to Anna, but of course she is gone.

  The Flat

  Downstairs, the garden. The soil and the edge of the soil. The grass, the little grass, yellowing. The small bushes, the wood of them, the leaf, the colour. Green, cream, white, yellow, pink, purple, something rusted in the corner by a broken chair. Roses, lavender, violets, peonies. Hydrangea. Delphinium. A cat in the sun. A metal table in the mud with a fake-tile top. A watering can but plastic. A pair of boots by a door. A strip of path by the wall of the house. Two houses. The garden shared. Two houses, two back doors. Silence in the middle of June. Silence being the airplanes and traffic. The sirens. Somewhere, in a different garden, the clack of shears, of something being cut down. No voices.

  Voices. On the ground floor, behind the door with the boots.

  — There used to be a key for this, a big old thing. Don’t know what happened to it. So now there’s just these bolts.

  — Ok.

  — And you have to, see, there’s a catch

  — Ok

  — On this one. You have to watch your fingers as well because when it finally slides it flies

  — Oh

  — See what I mean?

  — Shit Laura.

  — What?

  — Oh, you didn’t hit your finger?

  — No I’m fine. And this one is easy. Et voila.

  The door opens and two women and a man emerge into the light, squinting, they step down, staying on the path, forming themselves into a line, behind them the dark of the inside, the cool of it, a passageway, the house.

  — It’s very nice, says the man.

  The cat stands up and walks to them. One of the women crouches and holds out her hand.

  — This is our baby. Hello baby. How are you eh? All toasty aren’t you, you lovely little baby.

  — What’s she called?

  — We never named her. They don’t really do names, do they? Not even sure she’s ours at this stage. Are you baby? Whose are you? Whose baby are you? We barely see her. She’s a good mouser though.

  The cat brushes up against them all and walks into the dark behind them. The man turns to watch her go, and then lets his gaze run up the walls of the house. He looks particularly at the windows of the first floor. By his feet the slab step is veined and cracked like a hand. The paint of the threshold looks wet. But his eyes are upwards. On bricks the colour of wet sand, mortar the colour of dry sand, the bricks the size of letterboxes, the windows with the sky trapped in them, glinting.

  He is a young man. They are young women. They are, all three of them, wearing shorts. Red, grey, khaki. The man and one of the women wear vests. The other woman wears a loose shirt. They all wear different sorts of flip-flops. They all have short hair. The man has a neatly trimmed beard. He is white. His hair is a light brown. One woman is brown skinned, with black hair. The other has red hair, dyed red hair, and is darker skinned, and she is the first to walk on the little grass.

  — It’s shared with next door, she says. There’s a man there, Morgan, looks after it. With Alison. Between them. You green fingered?

  — Not even a little, the man says, and laughs.

  — Nor me. Laura does a bit.

  The other woman is looking at some empty pots against the wall.

  — I planted a . . . what . . . I can’t remember what it was called. We got a gift, didn’t we, some sort of shrub. So I planted that. I don’t even know where it is now. That’s the full of extent of the bit I’ve done.

  The man laughs the same laugh.

  — What’s the difference, asks Laura, between a shrub and a plant?

  — Well a shrub is a sort of plant, the man says.

  They look at him. He laughs again.

  — That’s all I have for you.

  — Let’s go in, says the woman who is not Laura. It’s fucking roasting out here.

  They go back into the dark. The women let the man lock the door, sliding back the bolts. He makes a show of seeing they’re secure. They walk along a small passage where some garden tools and a bicycle with no front wheel are propped against the wall. The cat waits for them. They go through another door. They turn, and again the young man is the one to lock it, turning a key.

  — And this goes?

  — In this thing.

  The woman who is not Laura is holding out a small wooden box. He drops the key into it, she closes the lid, and places it on a shoulder-high shelf to her left. They are in a hallway now. It is bright and cool. The cat walks to the front door and waits there, as if hoping that they are going to open the front door. She chitters. She looks up the stairs.

  The two women and the young man are talking about something new now. They don’t come to the front door. They seem to disappear under the stairs, as if into a cupboard. The hall is silent. Take-away menus and estate-agent leaflets lie on the floor. The cat moves very slowly towards the bannisters and briefly rubs her head on the edge of the bottom step before standing still for a while, her ears upright, then back, then upright again, looking up. Her head moves and stops. Moves and stops.

  Moves and stops.

  A kettle has boiled while they have been in the garden, and the woman who is Laura goes to the kitchen and makes coffee for the three of them while the young man looks through the books on the shelves and makes comments about some of them.

  — You’re a reader then? asks the woman.

  — Yeah. Well, I mean, as much as I can be, given, you know, work, all that. But yeah I love to read. It’s great to see a load of books in a place though, like this. I’m looking forward to getting some shelves up. I’ve a few boxes . . .

  — There are shelves aren’t there? In the living room?

  — Yeah, there are, but I think I’d like some more. I have quite a few books. And I do that thing, you know, where I buy more while I still have loads I haven’t read.

  She nods.

  — You know the flat then?

  She looks at him a little quizzically.

  — My flat. You said there were shelves in

  — Oh, yeah. Sorry. Yeah we used to know your . . . predecessors? Karl and Peppi. So we’d be in and out. They weren’t readers though.

  She laughs.

  — They had knickknacks and pictures and odd little things on those shelves. Not a lot of books.

  Laura comes into the room with a tray of mugs and a plate of biscuits.

  — I don’t know what we’re doing drinking coffee, she says. We don’t have any milk I’m afraid. Or sugar. We’re not used to visitors. Will you let the cat in Nadia, I can hear her.

  — Not used to visitors, Nadia repeats, smiling, in a strange voice, an older voice. No one ever comes to see us. Poor elderly spinster sisters. Poor cat ladies.

  Her voice changes again as she opens the door.

 
— Hello baby. Come in then if you’re coming. Come on.

  They all sit a little awkwardly, Nadia and Laura on the sofa, the young man on the armchair opposite. The window at his back is large, almost to the floor, and the blind is down, keeping out the sun. But the room is filled with bright light. The cat sits formally in the doorway of the kitchen and looks at him. He holds his coffee. Sips at it. Then leans forward and puts it on the table. There are beads of sweat on his forehead. No one has said anything for quite a while.

  — What’s your commute like? Nadia asks him.

  — I walk. Or at least I used to walk from the last place, which was just off Coldharbour Lane, opposite King’s. It’s a little further from here I think. But I’ll probably still walk.

  — Where do you work?

  — Borough. Just off Borough High Street.

  — Oh that’s easy, said Nadia.

  They spend several minutes talking about routes he might take through Burgess Park. No one touches their coffee, or the biscuits. Nadia speaks much more than Laura. The young man stops sweating, but leans forward with his elbows on his knees as if to keep his back away from the armchair. The cat has gone somewhere else.

  It is Nadia who again brings up his . . . predecessors. The conversation has moved on, from going out to coming back.

  — Oh Karl and Peppi used to make such a noise when they came rolling home late, she said. Which they did a lot. Or early. Or god knows.

  — Peppi?

  — Yeah. Peppi. He’s Greek.

  Laura laughs.

  — He’s Greek but Peppi isn’t, I mean the name isn’t Greek. It was some stupid nickname from when he first came to London.

  — I thought it was short for something. Or a version of something that was unpronounceable in English. No?

  Laura shakes her head, shrugs.

  The cat brushes against the young man’s leg and he jumps slightly, startled, but the women don’t notice. He holds out a hand for the cat to sniff.

  — They used to go out, Nadia continued, and stay out, you know, all weekend sometimes, and roll in at some completely random hour — three in the afternoon, seven at night, Sunday, Monday, whatever — looking like . . .

  She laughs.

  — So, the young man asks, is the entire building queer?