The Heights

by Louise Candlish

  ‘Mate of Kieran’s.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ I asked.

  ‘K?’ Lucas prompted.

  ‘What? West Croydon way,’ Kieran said.

  ‘That’s miles away! What about dinner, Lucas?’

  ‘I’ll be out, Mum!’

  As the door closed in my face, I could only stand there gaping, a mother in a teenage movie stupefied by her own irrelevance. But not before catching a parting look from my son’s new friend, a look that bristled with dislike and contempt. They call it a death glare, don’t they?

  Well, let me tell you it was so deadly, so chilling, I actually shivered inside my merino wool jumper.

  Chapter 3

  But what’s a look, you might ask? This was Beckenham, not Goodfellas. Kieran was a disadvantaged child, I was a privileged adult: it was my moral duty to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  I certainly wasn’t going to say anything to Justin – not yet. Over the course of our twelve-year marriage, I’d developed a finely tuned instinct for when to involve him in my neurotic obsessions – as Vic called them when we were together – and when to nurse the matter privately.

  I have a strong feeling that as you read on, you’ll come to regard Justin with immense admiration, maybe even pity. You’ll say he’s one in a million and far too good for me. And I would agree with that. But he’s not too good for our daughter and that’s all that counts now.

  When Justin and I met, queuing for the vending machine in the basement of South Beckenham Technical College, I was still with Vic, living in our little flat in Sydenham. I was taking an adult education class called Basic Electrical Understanding, an essential qualification for my future career in lighting, while Justin, who worked for a corporate education company, was making a supervisory visit to an engineering course running at the same time. I knew at once we were simpatico. Where Vic had grown irritable with me (‘For God’s sake, don’t be so hysterical, Ellen’ had become a common response by then), Justin was good-humoured and rational. He was like a psychologist who could never be dismayed by odd behaviour, only pleased to have the opportunity to decode it.

  As the machine spat out cups of scalding dishwater and the strip lighting flickered at migraine-inducing speeds, we joked about having found ourselves in the least glamorous coffee spot of our lives. Then we competed to name the most glamorous.

  ‘I just came back from Singapore and there was a rooftop café there that’d be pretty hard to beat,’ Justin said. His face had a kind of honesty to its construction, I thought, all straight lines and agreeable angles, and his gaze was steady.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to go to it – and if I did, the caffeine would bring on a heart attack.’ I told him of my condition, using the French term, l’appel du vide, which sounded more romantic, like the affliction of an artist or a poet.

  ‘Is that why you have the platinum hair?’ he asked. ‘A nod to Kim Novak?’

  ‘Not at all.’ I ran my fingers through the short strands, slightly stiff from a fresh bleaching. ‘I just like this colour. Anyway, it’s the James Stewart character who has vertigo. Kim trots up tall towers without a care in the world.’

  ‘It’s so long since I’ve seen that film,’ he admitted, something deepening in his smoke-grey eyes. The association was made there and then, I suppose, between glamour and frailty, and I know I benefited from that.

  ‘What’s your Hitchcock phobia?’ I asked him, as we dangled our plastic cups by their rims to avoid burning our fingers.

  ‘Well,’ he said, smiling. ‘I can’t say I’d be overjoyed if a flock of crows came flying at me.’

  * * *

  So yeah, back to Kieran. Not long after that first meeting came the night of Freya’s birthday dinner. It was a Saturday in October and she’d turned twelve the day before. I remember sourcing a vintage green-and-yellow toucan lamp for her gift. As far as I know, it’s still on her desk now.

  I popped my head round Lucas’s door to remind him we were about to leave. As usual, I made no comment about the maddening disorder of his room or the miasma of a week’s worth of unventilated odours. ‘Are you almost ready?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Freya’s birthday meal.’

  ‘Oh.’ He looked puzzled. ‘I thought that was yesterday.’

  ‘That was her tea with her friends. Tonight, we’re going to Ichi Ni for sushi.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said again. Sushi wasn’t his favourite; on his birthday, we went for burgers. Part of the mythology of our blended family was that Freya had the more sophisticated tastes of the better-off child while Lucas carried the legacy of a humbler start in life. ‘I’m not actually free.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s a party at Mac’s place. I’ve said I’ll go.’

  ‘Who’s Mac?’

  ‘Mate of Kieran’s.’

  ‘At Foxwell?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where’s he from then?’

  ‘You mean his school? What’s the difference?’

  Lucas could keep this sort of thing up for hours, which wasn’t helpful right now. ‘Well, call him and say you can’t go. This is your sister’s birthday celebration. It’s non-negotiable.’

  Freya emerged from her room, changed and ready to go. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said, anxious to avoid a row.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Justin asked, from the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Lucas isn’t coming,’ Freya called down. ‘He’s going to a party.’

  Justin came up to join us. ‘Can’t you go along after dinner?’ he suggested.

  Lucas groaned. ‘If we eat quickly, I suppose, yeah.’

  And so the non-negotiable was re-negotiated and we moved the reservation forward half an hour, arriving to a half-empty restaurant.

  ‘Do we have to have a table in the window?’ Lucas complained, choosing to sit facing me, with his back to the street, and then spending half his time swivelling to look out at it. Before he’d shovelled the last of his katsu curry into his mouth, a car pulled up outside and issued a series of long and short hoots.

  ‘I think that’s your distress signal,’ Justin said, amused, and I strained to see who was at the wheel. No one in Lucas’s year could feasibly have passed their driving test yet, so it had to be an older friend or sibling. I had no trouble recognizing the boy who jumped out of the passenger seat, however. Spotting Lucas in the window, Kieran marched over and pulled a stupid face at him through the glass, in response to which Lucas tossed down his fork so violently it fell to the floor and, barely saying goodbye, made his getaway. I expected Kieran to meet him at the door, but instead he stayed where he was and stared across Lucas’s vacated seat straight at me, that clownish expression supplanted by an insolent victory smirk. This continued even as Lucas could be seen behind him, squeezing into the back seat of the car. Only at the sound of the car horn did Kieran finally join them, keeping his right hand behind his back as he turned, middle finger raised. Since Justin had his back to the window and Freya, shy of her older brother’s friends, kept her eyes on her plate, I was the only one to see this gesture of contempt, which was no doubt just what Kieran intended.

  ‘Who was that you were glaring at?’ Justin asked me.

  ‘No one,’ I said, smiling for Freya’s benefit.

  ‘It was Kieran,’ she told her father. ‘Lucas’s friend.’

  ‘I hope so, otherwise we’ve just witnessed a kidnapping,’ he said and the two of them laughed.

  ‘Anyway, I wasn’t glaring,’ I said, my cheeks scorched like sunburn. He was glaring. ‘I’m just disappointed Lucas had to leave halfway.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like it if he wasn’t invited to anything,’ Justin pointed out, correctly.

  ‘Yes, Mum, you’d hate that,’ Freya weighed in. They were a team, those two. It had always been the case that when we broke into pairs I’d naturally be with Lucas and Justin with Freya. Now that Lucas couldn’t get out of the door fast e
nough, did that mean I was on my own? Had we entered an era of two against one?

  ‘Shall we have pudding here or go to the gelato place?’ I said, and their matching eyes met at the obvious change of subject.

  ‘Gelato, please,’ Freya said.

  * * *

  That night, in the shower, I pondered whether to air my grievances to Justin. Only as I did up my pyjama top and wandered into the bedroom did I make my decision.

  ‘Did you really not see the way that Kieran character looked at me?’ I said.

  Justin, already in bed, didn’t look up from his thriller. Its title was Die Trying. ‘No, I had my back to him.’

  ‘Well, it was really threatening. I didn’t want to say in front of Frey, but he gave me the finger as well.’

  ‘What?’ He glanced up, brow lifting. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yes.’ I got into bed, kicked out the duvet and stretched my toes. ‘And he waited till the exact moment neither of you could see. Only me.’

  Justin looked doubtful. ‘But why would he do that?’

  ‘I have no idea. Motiveless malignancy? I’ve certainly done nothing to offend him.’

  ‘Maybe you misunderstood,’ Justin suggested. (I swear that will be on my gravestone: Here Lies Ellen Saint. Maybe She Misunderstood.) ‘Or could it have been directed at his crew in the car?’

  ‘His crew?’ I chuckled. ‘No, I don’t think so. Anyway, he’s obviously a bit of a…’ I cast about for a kind alternative to the ones that sprang to mind – lout, brute, troublemaker – ‘…free spirit, and I’m not sure that’s what Lucas needs this term, is it? You heard what the Head of Lower Sixth said at the induction meeting, A-levels are a leap, and the boys can’t wing it anymore.’

  I admit I was ambitious for Lucas. He was naturally bright – his teachers’ reports backed me up – and the sort of classic all-rounder the top universities loved. ‘I know Kieran’s supposed to be some sort of computer whizz, but I don’t get the impression his priority is the academic side of things.’ It was safer to reference schoolwork over any social concerns. I didn’t want to be caught in the act of casual snobbery, even with my own husband.

  Justin closed his book. ‘Is Lucas in classes with him?’

  ‘Only for geography. Not maths or biology, though.’

  ‘I guess he has to decide for himself who he wants to hang out with.’ In the lamplight, Justin’s gaze was ambiguous: was he sympathizing with me or warning me off? I couldn’t tell. ‘Make his own mistakes,’ he added.

  ‘So you do think Kieran’s a mistake?’

  ‘I know hardly anything about him. But if he is, then Lucas needs to be the one to come to that conclusion, not us.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we can’t try to steer him away if it looks like he’s falling in with a bad crowd.’

  Justin smiled. ‘What, there’s a whole crowd of Kierans, is there?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but he certainly seems to know a lot of kids from other schools.’ Rougher schools, full of boys like this Mac (why hadn’t I demanded an address for him?). I thought of the crush of kids in the car; there couldn’t possibly have been enough seatbelts to go around. ‘It’s a different group,’ I added.

  ‘The Motiveless Malignants? Let’s try not to get too Daily Mail about this, eh?’

  He fell asleep easily, as the even-tempered do, while I stayed awake right until I heard footsteps stumbling up the path and a key turn in the door.

  Lucas, home safe.

  Chapter 4

  Leaving Jacob’s Wharf, I have my hand on the door, ready to pull it open, when it’s suddenly shoved towards me and I hear myself cry out.

  ‘Excuse me.’ The incoming figure, a well-heeled older woman carrying a canvas Tate Modern tote straining with groceries, holds the door with a show of keeping her distance.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘You gave me a fright.’

  She does not reply. Some people are instinctively repelled by skittishness, I’ve found.

  Outside, I take a moment to compose myself. I can’t spend the foreseeable future cringing. Before I make any decisions, I need proper confirmation that the man I saw is him, that I’m not losing my mind.

  I cut through Butler’s Wharf and cross the footbridge over St Saviour’s Dock, the river a churning grey expanse to my left. From the bridge, less is visible of the building opposite Selena’s than I’d hoped, the angle allowing a frustratingly partial view of that rooftop perch. I follow the passageways to Mill Street, where the entrance to the building is easily identified. The Heights, it’s called. The name is carved on a stone panel, letters in lower case, with an elongated riser on the ‘h’. There appears to be only one flat per floor and, in a grandiose touch, each has its own brass plate and button, the kind you might find on an old Venetian apartment building. The name for the top flat, number 10, is S. Harding and my breath catches in my throat when I see that. Harding is my maiden name. A coincidence or some sort of sick tribute? Some sort of joke.

  To the right of the building, there’s a narrow lane leading underground, presumably where parking and other services are situated, and to the left, there’s a gated passageway connected to a fire door. Though none of it looks particularly high-tech, all zones are accessible only by keycode.

  I have a sudden idea. First, I check I’m not wearing anything Kieran might recognize from years ago – my charcoal-grey mac was bought in this year’s sales, the furry bucket hat a recent birthday present from Freya – and then I keep my head down and press the buzzer for Flat 10.

  Nothing. Beneath my feet, the paving stones gleam in the thin light, rivulets of rainwater trickling between them. I press a second time. Again, nothing. Why doesn’t he answer? No longer than ten minutes has passed since I saw him, so where could he have gone? A horrifying thought strikes: if I saw him, doesn’t it follow that he might have seen me? Come to hunt me down.

  Holding my nerve, I try the other buzzers until someone answers and invites me to leave my package inside. The door releases and my boots clatter onto marble. To my immediate right is a slate-topped console table with a few Amazon boxes already stacked, ahead there’s a lift, and to the left are two doors, one signed to the stairs and the other marked ‘No Entry’. I keep my head down. Though the building predates the mania for police-standard surveillance and is too small for a concierge, it’s not impossible there’s a maintenance worker somewhere on the premises or a service monitoring video footage remotely.

  At the sound of the lift groaning into motion, I slip through the door to the stairs and peer through the glass panel as the lift opens and a young woman emerges. Then, before I can change my mind, I climb the stairs. It’s an enclosed staircase, with one small round window per floor looking onto the featureless brickwork of the neighbouring building, so nothing to trigger my fear. But at the tenth floor, when I push through a fire door onto the landing, there is a problem: directly ahead is a narrow full-height window overlooking the water. Clear floor-to-ceiling glass this high can bring on panic, my brain mistaking it for an unprotected drop. I need to avoid looking at it and focus on the apartment door instead, on the chrome ‘10’ set plum in the middle.

  Only now, knuckles just inches from knocking, do I ask myself what it is I intend to happen here. Do I expect to be asked in? To talk? The thought of being close to him – the thought of his being alive – causes a crawling sensation on my scalp and I let my fist drop. For a full minute, I do nothing but wait and listen. Then I take a step closer and actually put my ear to the door.

  That’s when I catch it: the sound of breathing. Soft, rhythmic, human. Spooked, I skitter off to the left and, before I can orientate, I’m right up against that strip of glass, palms flat, ten storeys above the dock. As the water ripples below, there’s the illusion that it’s the building that’s moving and I hear myself moan in terror. Then the glass seems to dissolve and I’m stepping into the void, I’m speeding headlong, Selena’s question spinning in my head: Would you land on the walkway or in the wa
ter?

  Knees soft, I stagger backwards, my hands clawing the walls as if searching for something to grip on this pitching ship, past the flat door and back to the stairwell. Whatever nerve brought me up here has vanished and I stumble back down the stairs, exiting the building without looking back. I tear down Mill Street towards Tooley Street, then straight on and across Tower Bridge Road. Seeing a coffee shop in a side alley, I duck in, order an Earl Grey to go. Breathe.

  Only as I wait do I make the connection. It’s the same café where I killed time the morning Justin took Lucas and Freya to the top of the newly opened Shard, before the four of us went for lunch. Seventy-two floors and as high as it got – still gets – in London. I remember my irrational gratitude when the group reappeared, how I hugged both my children tightly, and I feel the imprint of my son again now, the narrow bones of his torso, the jut of his chin against the top of my head.

  Collecting my tea from the server, I find I’m crying, something I haven’t done in public in a long time.

  By the time I enter the soaring space of London Bridge Station, I’ve calmed enough to find my phone and leave a voicemail for the first person – the only person – who needs to know what just happened.

  ‘Call me as soon as you get this. I mean it, Vic, it’s urgent!’

  Chapter 5

  I should explain that although Vic has often been misreported as my ex-husband, we were never married. We were twenty-three when we had Lucas and under no pressure to formalize our new family – in any case, we were never going to withstand the earthquake of a baby, with or without smoked salmon canapés and a band cranking out soft rock covers.

  But we stayed close after we split. In fact, our relationship improved, the parenting discussions that had begun to be a source of dispute between us now serving to unite us. Vic followed Justin and me to Beckenham and we co-parented in a style that would now be labelled ‘conscious’ or ‘authentic’ but that we considered basic common sense. The best for Lucas.