The Beresford

by Will Carver

  Then the front doorbell rang.

  It couldn’t be the police. Not now. Already? Surely not.

  Abe Schwartz gave himself a quick look in the mirror and ran his fingers through his hair. He wiped his face and mouth on a towel that was hanging over the door and he went back into the foyer. He had to act normal.

  The old landlady was nowhere to be seen. He would open the door. Make it look like nothing important had happened that day.

  Through the window he saw a young woman. Similar age to himself, maybe younger. WASPy. He opened the door, still breathing hard.

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’

  Act normal.

  ‘Hi, er, yes. I’m Blair Conroy. I’m here to see Mrs May.’ She waited. Abe looked at her. A moment of silence. ‘I’m supposed to be moving in today.’

  FIVE

  Mrs May would joke that she was so old, she knew Jesus the first time around.

  ‘I’m hanging in for the second coming because he still owes me money.’

  It was her icebreaker with every new tenant at The Beresford. Everyone found her charming and Blair was no exception to that rule.

  ‘So, number two is over there beneath the stairs. That’s Abe, who you met briefly when he let you in. He’s kind of quiet and bookish but a very sweet and reliable boy. You’re upstairs in number five, which is above me. You’re not a tap dancer or anything, are you?’ Mrs May smiled.

  ‘Oh, no. Nothing like that.’ Blair smiled back.

  ‘Well, the room next to you is empty at the moment and the kid in the one next to mine is hardly ever around. I can’t think of his name off the top of my head.’

  The rates were reasonable for the space you got at The Beresford, and the deposit was so low that, often, tenants would move out or move on without a word and not care about forfeiting the money. The place had something of a turnaround. You could forgive Mrs May for not remembering everyone’s names, but she blamed her forgetfulness or her age, of course.

  She handed Blair the key to flat five.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it. The place is clean and ready to go. I can have a chat with Abe and get him to help you with any boxes you have if you’d like. I’m sure he’d help.’

  Good old Abe. Chivalrous Abe. Predictable Abe. Always there to lend a hand.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll be fine.’ Blair wasn’t sure how accepting help would fit in with her new independent lifestyle.

  ‘Nonsense. Why don’t you go up and take a look around, and I’ll have a word.’

  Blair nodded, gripped the keys to her new home tightly in her right hand and made her way up the stairs. Halfway up she turned back to see Mrs May tottering back to her own place. She must have been in her eighties but her movement was more sprightly than you’d expect.

  With the key pushed halfway into the lock, Blair Conroy took a deep breath before forcing it all the way in, turning and opening up to her new life.

  Mrs May was right, the place was spotless. The long corridor led into a large kitchen, complete with central island, which had double doors that could open the space out into the living area. There was a coffee machine, wine rack, bowl of lemons and vase of daffodils to dress the white room and give it a splash of colour.

  Care and attention had been paid to keep the space neutral in order to appeal to any new resident while illustrating the impact one’s own colour preferences could have. This was not something that was offered ‘upstairs’.

  The lounge had a huge bookcase that was only half filled. Plenty of room for the two boxes of literature that Blair had brought with her. Parquet flooring and wooden cladding on the bottom half of the wall made it darker than the white painted wood on the hallway walls. But it was somehow more comforting. And warmer, even when the open fire was not yet roaring. There was nothing she could do about the floral fabric sofas but there was plenty of scope to make the space her own.

  She remembered her promise to send a text when she arrived safely, so she took a seat and fulfilled that obligation. Her parents would respond to her within the minute. Blair took that minute to sit back and take in the space that was her lounge. Through the window she could see the light was beginning to disappear from the day and she still hadn’t unpacked her car.

  Just a minute to breathe. To take it all in.

  Her phone vibrated. Proud parents. They were going out for dinner. They wanted pictures of the place once she was unpacked.

  Hello, constant stream of questions from afar. Good day, irritating video calls filled with tech-idiot muting and awkward pauses. Greetings, awkward interrogations concerning the whereabouts of local churches and bible groups.

  Blair was looking forward to a few things in that first week: preparing her own meals, leaving the bedroom door open while she got dressed, leaving the bedroom door open while she masturbated but, mostly, it was the lie-in she was going to have on Sunday – every Sunday – by not going to church.

  Another buzz.

  Another message.

  We love you, sweetie.

  Blair Conroy was glad to be away from the mediocrity of her hometown. The residents were humble and modest and ultimately caring, and it pissed her off. She knew they weren’t bad but she had always felt outside of it all. And she understood that her parents were not. They were firmly rooted in the pleasantness of everything. Part of her wanted to switch her phone off and ignore them, but they hadn’t done anything wrong. They had looked after her from birth until about two hours ago when she drove away from dependence.

  She sent back two kisses.

  Then she turned her phone off.

  Below her non tap-dancing feet, she felt the vibration of music from Mrs May’s place but couldn’t make it out. Classical. Maybe whale song. Panpipes?

  There was no need to think about that, she had to get the things out of her car before it got dark.

  Welcome, first night alone.

  SIX

  BURNING. Logistically difficult and there’s also the smell of dead flesh.

  Abe was back in his room and scrolling through his options.

  Dissolving in acid. This seemed like the least amount of work. No digging. No bonfire. And all the bath tubs at The Beresford were cast iron, which could hold the acid without eroding. On further investigation, it seemed as though there was no need to surreptitiously purchase industrial-sized barrels of hydrochloric or hydrofluoric acid, because most drain cleaners are corrosive enough to dissolve human hair and skin and, in the right quantities, reduce bone to something brittle enough to be ground into a dust.

  Abe Schwartz, who tried to do right his entire life, who lived on the peripheries, who was quiet and kind and thoughtful, had his first seriously dark thought.

  He would experiment.

  The removal of fingerprints was key, he recalled. Fingers are small. He would use the secateurs that Mrs May pruned her roses with to cut off the fingers – maybe the toes, too. He would obtain the drain unblocker from the cleaning products cupboard, fill the sink and place the twenty digits in overnight. At the very least, it would remove the skin, therefore the fingerprints, and give him an indication of how well this plan might work on the rest of the body.

  If it didn’t work, then he’d have to rent a woodchopper or feed it to some local pigs or take it out to sea or cook the flesh and eat it himself. He sniggered at that and didn’t know why.

  Abe looked down at his former neighbour, the vomit still on the floor next to him, and he wanted to say sorry. He wanted to say, ‘This isn’t me.’

  Not once did he think to call the police and explain what had happened, that it was an accident. Neither did he contemplate phoning his parents and getting the family lawyer involved. He’d probably get off with a moment of madness.

  Instead, the likeable Abe Schwartz was panicking and considering how best to cover up his stupid mistake. He was deliberating between burning, burying, melting and eating.

  And then there was another knock at his door.

&
nbsp; He hadn’t given Blair Conroy a second thought.

  SEVEN

  It wasn’t the new girl, it was Mrs May.

  ‘Oh, hello, Abe. Thanks for letting in the new tenant.’

  ‘That’s not a problem, Mrs May.’ Abe was keeping his door ajar enough to fit his face through the gap, and nothing else. He was already paranoid about the smell, though his old neighbour had only been dead for an hour. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’

  ‘If you have a spare moment, Ms Conroy has a couple of heavier boxes in her car. She’s a young, modern woman and wants to do it all herself, but I think it might make her feel more welcome if you could give her a hand … if you’re free…’ She let it hang in the air.

  Abe looked inside at a dead man.

  ‘Sure, I mean, I was just reading, anyway. How long do I have? Enough time to finish this chapter?’ He was surprised at how easily the lies were rolling off his tongue.

  ‘She’s just gone to settle in and look around, so you’ve got ten minutes, I’m sure.’ She didn’t blink.

  The newly minted killer of men gave the old lady a nod and a goodbye before she trundled back to her own flat.

  Once inside, Mrs May flicked her music on. It wasn’t panpipes. It was the flute. She pottered around, humming along, not really doing anything. She took her teacup from the dining table, poured away the cold remnants of her last brew and shook her head at the pattern of the tea leaves before placing it into the sink.

  Her place was the same layout as Blair’s. She poured herself a glass of iced tea from the fridge and walked along the corridor to the living room as though mimicking Blair’s footsteps above.

  She fluffed some pillows. Then, when Blair sat down to text her parents, Mrs May sat down to sip at her drink. When a door closed upstairs, the old landlady put on her gardening gloves, grabbed her secateurs and made her way out to the roses that didn’t need pruning.

  EIGHT

  He went by one name: Sythe. He’d chosen it himself because it means passionate and creative. Mrs May had not forgotten the name of the man in flat number three when she talked Blair through the list of tenants, she just couldn’t bring herself to say his stupid, made-up name. Because, like most people who met Sythe, she thought he was a dick.

  He would sign his paintings with that idiotic label, too. And over-wealthy, undereducated dilettantes would lap it up like they’d discovered the next Banksy.

  Aidan Gallagher had left home, dropped the accent and reinvented himself as an Irish American expressionist painter. Like so many who arrived at The Beresford, he’d been an outsider in the world he’d been brought up in. He was escaping.

  Mrs May’s place was supposed to be a halfway house, but Sythe had entrenched himself so deeply in this new persona that he’d ended up craving the poor artist’s life, even though his earnings had increased exponentially.

  Flat three had become his studio. There were canvasses leaning against the walls of the hallway, and the furniture that is provided to every flat had been pushed into the corner and piled up to make way for the easels and trays of acrylics.

  He seemed to emerge on the art scene from nowhere. There was an interest in some of his larger, more expressive pieces, but it was an exhibition showcasing one of his portraits that garnered the most interest. A small canvas of a striking black woman was framed on the wall. Her right eye was crying a fluorescent orange tear, which streaked down her cheek and over the frame before trickling down the wall and ending in a small puddle on the gallery floor.

  That’s when he made a splash. In the art world, at least. In that city. At that time.

  And it had made him even more unbearable.

  Mrs May didn’t care. As long as the rooms were filled, she was content. It didn’t matter who anybody was or why they were there. She never asked why they had to leave, she never followed up if they moved on without a word. The rooms were never empty for long.

  As soon as somebody was out, somebody else came in.

  That’s how The Beresford worked.

  Sythe played his music loudly. He would get angry with his work. He would shout at his paintings. He would scream as he put his foot through another canvas or snapped a frame. Mrs May had allowed him some space in the modest, communal garden. A corner for his metal can where he could burn the work that had upset him so much. At least once a week, Sythe was out there setting fire to wood and material, watching it burn as the smoke caused his eyes to water.

  He was creative and he was passionate. That part of this character he created was true. He was expressive – maybe even talented – but he was most certainly a dick and, in the end, being an expressive dick is what got him killed.

  NINE

  Blair took the keys, left the flat and went back downstairs. On the bottom step she could see the ruffled brown hair of the man who had let her in. There was a line of sweat running down the spine of his sensible blue shirt.

  She was only a few steps down when he turned around.

  He smiled.

  Such a kind face.

  ‘Blair, right?’

  ‘Yes. And you’re Abe.’

  ‘Well, now that’s out of the way again, I believe you have some boxes in your car…’ Abe presented his hand, gesturing for his new neighbour to lead the way.

  ‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble?’ Blair wanted to do things alone, she didn’t want somebody she hardly knew walking around the new home that she had not yet explored fully herself. But she could see that he was just being kind and accommodating. Awkward, but kind.

  She considered herself a good judge of character, and Abe looked like the dependable lapdog type.

  And Abe hadn’t noticed that small-town smile. He hadn’t clocked the purity and innocence. He didn’t smell the sweet perfume or run his gaze over the contours of Blair’s body. Because all he could think about was the dead one in his flat.

  Still, he managed to pull himself together. ‘No trouble at all, m’lady.’

  He regretted that as soon as he had said it.

  Blair led the way to the car, explaining that there really wasn’t that much to help with but that she appreciated his efforts. She asked how long Abe had lived there and he told her it was almost a year, maybe more, maybe two. He noticed her accent and she told him that she was from a place about two hours north. Abe was from the other side of the city but had always lived around these parts.

  ‘What about the other guy?’ Blair asked. Abe stiffened, his lower back already in discomfort from the weight of the books.

  ‘What guy?’ He knew what guy.

  ‘The one in number three. What’s he like? Mrs May couldn’t even remember his name.’ She grabbed a sports bag from the back seat, which contained most of her shoes.

  ‘He’s an artist. A painter. Bit of a recluse, you know? Keeps himself to himself.’

  ‘Oh, very mysterious.’ Blair was intrigued and Abe could tell.

  ‘Honestly, you could be here for three months before you even catch a glimpse of him.’

  He had either quashed her intrigue or piqued her interest, he couldn’t tell.

  Blair spotted Mrs May from the corner of her eye. She was outside the front door, wearing a pair of gardening gloves and clipping parts of a rose bush. Or pretending to.

  ‘You think she’s listening in?’ Blair whispered.

  Abe gave a short but genuine laugh. ‘She does like to be kept abreast of everything.’

  ‘She seems nice enough, though.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Mrs May is a gem. Very sweet, old lady. A little eccentric at times. I mean, she’s clearly not pruning anything over there, and I have heard some weird noises coming from her apartment. Some of the music she plays is so God-awful.’ He added another laugh but noticed Blair balk a little. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  And she could see he meant it.

  ‘No. No. I’m not offended. Not in the slightest. It’s just that where I’m from, nobody would ever use a phrase like that
, you know? God is everything to everyone. But not to me. It’s okay. That’s the thing I wanted to get away from.’

  There was a tender moment of silent understanding between the new friends before Abe broke it by saying, ‘Now can we get away from this car because this box of, I’m going to guess encyclopaedias and anvils, is starting to pull on my back.’

  They walked back up the front steps, where Mrs May pretended that she hadn’t noticed them outside. Some pleasantries were exchanged but Abe hurried things along to get inside with his load.

  For a moment, he forgot that he was now a murderer.

  It only took three trips to empty Blair’s car. They stacked the boxes outside her front door and she told Abe that she could get them in herself. That way, she had accepted help but maintained her independence. She hadn’t even looked at her bedroom yet.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Abe, it was very kind of you. If you need anything in the future – a cup of sugar, help burying a body – you know where I am.’ Blair laughed at herself.

  It made Abe nervous and awkward. He wondered whether she really meant the last part. Then he managed to rationalise her words and excused himself so that he could cut the fingers and toes off the artist hanging over his bath tub.

  TEN

  That morning, there had been another of Sythe’s infamous burnings in the corner of the garden. His paintings had been taking a slightly darker turn, and he wasn’t comfortable with the direction he was heading. He had taken his frustrations out on a canvas, and it had fought back a little. He had snapped the frame, and the splintered wood went through the palm of his left hand, bleeding over the floor and the ruined picture.

  He cursed loudly, just as he always did. Then wrapped his hand with a rag, tucked the broken masterpiece under his arm and took it outside so that he could set fire to it.