The Beresford

by Will Carver

  He took them out into the garden – knowing that Mrs May still had half a glass of wine to finish because she’d brought it with her when she came to the door, so was not going to be out there pruning her flowers just yet – and he lit a fire using the pile of old local newspapers and kindling from the storage cupboard.

  Once the flames were roaring inside the metal burn bin, Abe dropped the contents of his bag on top. First the book because it would burn easily. Then the bones. Followed by the wicker basket, which went up almost instantly. He decided to hang on to the hoody a little longer, then dumped the plastic bag in the fire with some more of the kindling.

  He was well on his way to getting away with murder.

  And the timing was between two meals, so he knew the smoke wasn’t going to be pissing off his irate neighbour over the back fence. But if he wanted to come back, shooting his mouth off again, then Abe could always just kill him.

  TWENTY–EIGHT

  Blair’s hometown was not particularly adventurous. Like The Beresford, there was a routine to everything – harvest festival, Halloween, Christmas, farmers’ market, bake sales – the cute idiosyncrasies of the small, rural, Christian community. Though Blair was trying to make her world a little bigger, to gain more experiences, it was this provincial life that had made her the way she was today.

  There was something about the grocery store in her village that offered possibility. The owner, a dangerously overweight woman in her late thirties, was, seemingly, the happiest person in town. She had found her calling. Food.

  Her business would have done no worse had she kept things traditional with the fruit and vegetables she selected to sell in her store but, having never really left the place where she was born, decided that her tastebuds would do the travelling for her. A culinary Columbus.

  People of the town went with her. They started putting papayas in their shopping baskets and avocados and Romanesco broccoli. And she would give them ideas of what to cook. When she introduced cacao nibs, there was scepticism, at first, but her passion for superfoods was infectious. And the chia seeds had been a hit, so she was trusted.

  Blair liked to run in the mornings. That hadn’t changed. But what she also loved was getting home after a run and eating peanut butter. Often on toast but sometimes straight off the spoon or a dipped finger. It was tasty and fatty and unctuous, perfect after an hour of physical exertion.

  Then, one day, out of nowhere, something was different. Blair went to the grocery store to pick up another jar of her favourite post-run fuel, and that barrel of a shop owner had jars of almond butter for sale.

  ‘What is this?’ Blair held up a small jar. Smaller than the peanut version but more expensive.

  ‘Life-changing. That’s what it is.’ That contagious grin of hers, followed by unrivalled enthusiasm, and, within a minute, Blair was standing at the till, parting with her money for a small jar of spread made with a different kind of nut and a bag of free Granny Smith apples to take with her.

  ‘When you get home, I want you to slice one of the apples into wedges and dip them straight into the jar. You can thank me next time.’

  Blair did as she was told, that’s how she’d been brought up. She took the variation of her favourite snack home, found a sharp knife, cut the apple and took off the jar lid. A layer of oil lay across the top, which didn’t look appetising. A sign on the packaging said that oil separation was natural and it would just need a stir.

  She used a piece of the apple to do so and then took a bite.

  The woman at the shop was right.

  A perfect combination.

  Abe was up early. He knew that Blair would be out running before she got ready for work and was waiting at the window to watch her leave for her morning exercise. He crept out of his apartment, across the lobby area and started making his way up the grand stairs to Blair’s place.

  Mrs May came out at just the right time to catch him.

  ‘Morning, Abe. Are you heading up to Blair, I think you may have just missed her.’

  ‘Good morning, Mrs May. Yes, I know. She’s out on her run. I just … well … I got her a little something. A surprise for when she gets back.’

  Mrs May smiled and said nothing. She didn’t want to embarrass Abe any further. It was sweet. Whether they were admitting it to themselves or not, she could see something budding that was more than a platonic friendship.

  ‘I’m just going to leave it outside her door.’

  ‘Well, don’t let me keep you, Abe.’

  He turned and continued up the stairs, and Mrs May went out into the garden.

  Blair came home twenty minutes later and completed her morning workout with a rousing bound up the stairs to her apartment. She stopped at the sight of something on the floor in front of her door.

  It wasn’t flowers or chocolates or champagne, Abe would never be so unoriginal or obvious. Blair crouched down and picked up the gift that had made Abe smile to himself the day before while out shopping.

  A large jar of almond butter with a Granny Smith apple on top. A yellow Post-it note was attached to the piece of fruit:

  Saw this and thought of you. Life-changing. A perfect combination.

  TWENTY–NINE

  Nobody had seen Sythe for two weeks. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear for this length of time. He was artistic and passionate, and that often affords such people an amount of leeway that others, who aren’t tortured by their own brilliance, are not.

  He was gone.

  The smaller bones turned to dust and were disposed of with the rest of the ash from Mrs May’s garden debris. But the larger bones took a little work. It would get hot in that bin, but not hot enough to disintegrate Sythe’s femurs. They did dry out considerably and become brittle, and that was enough for Abe to crush them into smaller fragments himself with a hammer and gradually deposit in the rubbish or while walking through town or in the woods with Blair, who was showing signs that she wanted more from their relationship than the closeness of friendship can bring.

  Abe had done it. He had escaped. He had killed another human being – a deplorable narcissist, but a living thing nonetheless – and there was no evidence left that could possibly tie him to the crime. His conscience was clean, as was the bathtub that he was now able to use again.

  He didn’t suddenly have a taste for it. He wasn’t trying to recreate the thrill of murdering somebody. He didn’t want to outdo himself. Nor had he unlocked some deep desire to become the next Dahmer.

  Abe Schwartz had acted in retaliation. He was the one that was attacked. He defended himself. The whole situation was blown out of proportion. Abe was concerned for Sythe’s welfare. He’d heard the argument on the doorstep and was checking in on his neighbour.

  Abe was kind.

  Abe was thoughtful.

  Abe was not in the wrong.

  And this is what he told himself. Of course, in retrospect he could have attempted to resuscitate the artist. He could have called an ambulance or the police and explained the accident. But he panicked. And the doorbell rang about a minute after the event to herald the arrival of the woman he thought he might in fact love.

  That’s no excuse for cutting up a person, dissolving their flesh and burning their bones. Abe knows that. He’s not stupid. But to Abe, it was done. In the past. Scrubbed out. He never had to think about Sythe again.

  A knock at his door.

  It was Mrs May. She was holding up some keys in her hand and she looked nervous.

  ‘I’m worried about Sythe. I know he goes walkabout from time to time, but I have a bad feeling. I know I’m probably being a little crazy, but I’m going to take a look in his flat.’ She jangled the keys.

  Abe’s first thought was, Does she just go into our apartments whenever she likes? What has she seen?

  ‘I’m a bit nervous. I don’t really want to go in there. And I definitely don’t want to go in there alone.’

  ‘You want me to go with you?’ All thoughts gave way to
curiosity.

  ‘Would you mind?’

  She seemed trepidatious. As though she expected to find a body in there. Abe was less so, expecting to see piles of acrylic paint tubes and canvasses on easels and sketchbooks.

  They were both wrong.

  WHAT DO YOU WANT?

  Talent is a tricky subject. There’s a school of thought that suggests it does not exist. Yes, physiologically, culturally and historically, you may find that Jamaica produces more powerful world-class sprinters while Kenya appears to have a predominance of long-distance runners. And neither is particularly dominant in the swimming pool. But with a mere ten thousand hours of practice at anything, one can become proficient or even an expert in a given field.

  Of course, this doesn’t explain Mozart, who composed his first symphony at age five. Of course, if he played piano for six hours every day from the age of one, he would have clocked up the requisite amount of time to do such a thing.

  Some people choose to believe that we all have a gift for something, a predisposition to achieve in one area. Having a gift isn’t enough, the hard work has to follow. The hours of practice are still needed if you are born with perfect pitch or outlandish speed or strength or intellect.

  And in a world where everything can be so instant, wouldn’t it be great to dispense with all the hours of graft? To suddenly be able to play blues guitar like nobody ever has, or run around a stadium faster than any person in history.

  But maybe you live in a remote part of Ireland. Your family is wholesome and industrious. The farm has been in their name for generations and you have been helping since you were a kid. But you don’t want that life. You don’t want the early mornings. You don’t want the smell of manure. You don’t even want to be outside in the air.

  You’re an artist. You want to be alone. You want to be around other artists. You think you’ve got something. Friends say you have a talent. But they are your friends, it’s not constructive. Your parents don’t understand. How is that going to make you any money?

  You don’t like your name.

  What are you going to do, Aidan Gallagher?

  Change it.

  What do you want?

  I want a space to paint. I want opportunity. Fame. Notoriety. I want to know whether I’m good enough. And, if I’m not, I want to be good enough. I want the skill. I want the talent.

  What people rarely say is that they want it in that order. You can be famous or notorious without having any skill. Pick any serial killer in 1970s America. None of them had a skill for not getting caught. They didn’t exhibit the precision of a surgeon when removing a victim’s head. They could pull a trigger or thrust a knife.

  Asking for talent is pointless because it can go unnoticed, unrewarded. You can die poor. You will most certainly go unappreciated but rarely uncriticised.

  So be honest.

  What do you really want?

  To have the financial success and renown of somebody who has talent and has worked hard. Without having talent or having to work hard.

  You want to make an impact and you don’t care what it’s for.

  THIRTY

  The rent was so cheap at The Beresford, Blair could have worked at Old Bean (the less-pretentious coffee shop that had become a regular haunt for her and Abe) and still have been able to afford her weekly food bill and a night out for drinks.

  Blair had higher hopes than that. She hadn’t just left the Bible belt on a whim; she was prepared. She had been trying to escape the country since returning from university. Her hometown did not offer much in the way of a career. She didn’t want to be a farmer, and as interesting as her part-time job in the local bookstore had been, she didn’t want to be the manager and she would never own it.

  And the very last thing she wanted was to find herself a good, local Christian man to take care of her financially while she tended to the house and baked cakes and got fat before spreading her legs in an attempt to bring another small mind into their community. Sex to procreate. Never for fun. Nothing for pleasure.

  Sinner.

  Praise the Lord.

  Please only the Lord.

  Fear the Lord.

  Minutes after graduation, Blair was scouring the internet for jobs in the city. She would delete her browser history after every search, like her dreams of escape were pornography. She was sure her parents didn’t even know what a browser history was but there could be no trail. No evidence.

  She didn’t have any experience so everything she applied for was entry-level. It didn’t matter. It was a golden ticket.

  Then there were the interviews. More lies. Fake lunches with friends from university became frequent. She would disguise her interview outfit beneath a jacket or long coat, or hide shoes in her handbag. Several failed attempts were heartbreaking. Blair cried in her room at night, wondering if there was any other way out of town, out of that life.

  Out of becoming the one thing she never wanted to be: her mother.

  Then she started widening the net. Applying for jobs in fields that did not interest her. Sure, she could work as a recruitment consultant. Her technical knowledge was limited but she could learn how to sell a laptop or computer monitor. She could work in distribution – whatever that meant. Just not there.

  It came. An offer of a position as a PR assistant for a media marketing company. Blair had a degree in English, she had a brain, she could pick things up, she was creative. But she also had that country-girl disposition, whether she wanted it or not. And she came across perfectly at the interview. A team of young, professional women. Twenty-somethings taking over the world.

  It wasn’t what she had envisaged herself doing but it was exactly where she had imagined herself being. Away.

  Goodbye, paper town.

  So long, off the map.

  Time to grow up, get a job, have her own place, maybe meet somebody she liked, finally have sex.

  Some of the girls from back home had chosen to rebel against their parents’ strict beliefs by fucking anything that moved as soon as they could. But Blair, although wanting a way out, didn’t want to rebel. She didn’t want to disappoint her family or shame them in some way. She just wanted independence. A chance. A choice.

  And that day, sitting on the sofa of her very own apartment, reading the latest bestseller, she thought about Abe and how she would like to take things forward, how she would like to make things more intimate.

  THIRTY–ONE

  ‘Grab your keys.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just grab your keys and come with me.’ Abe held his hand out to Blair as though he was going to lead her. Neither of them knew whether or not they should be holding hands with one another, though they both wanted to. Abe lowered it and made a motion for her to follow him.

  ‘Do I need a jacket?’

  ‘No, no. We’ll only be outside for a second.’

  They exited The Beresford but, instead of walking down the driveway and in towards town, Abe turned right and walked along the outside wall of his home.

  ‘Where are you taking me, Abe?’ Blair was excited and nervous. Abe had been showing that he cared about her more and more. He was thoughtful and polite and interested.

  She was also interested.

  ‘To the dark side,’ he quipped. She screwed up her face in mock irritation.

  Thirty seconds later, they arrived.

  ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Abe. What is this?’

  ‘It’s The Beresford.’

  He explained that this was the entrance to the rest of the building, the part that they never see because they are kept separate.

  ‘We can’t just go in there.’ Blair was intrigued but it felt edgy.

  ‘Actually, you just can. It’s not like our part, where you need a key. Come on, I’ll show you. We can walk in and go up in the lift, see how the other half live.’

  It felt colder to Blair in the other half of The Beresford. It was less like a home and more like a hotel or conferenc
e building.

  ‘Wait. I am not going up in that.’ Blair pointed at the old-fashioned lift. Abe laughed. ‘Does that even work? It looks like a death trap.’

  ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’ Abe pulled the iron door to the side to open the lift. ‘They don’t make ’em like this anymore.’

  ‘With good reason, I’m sure.’ Blair was concerned but she was saying this as she stepped inside.

  ‘We’ll skip level three because there’s nothing there, but we can stop on a couple of the other floors.’ He shut the door himself with a loud clang and lowered a metal lever to lock it.

  ‘I feel super safe now. Thanks.’

  Abe pressed the button for levels four and six. There was a key slot above the top floor. Abe stroked at it with his finger.

  ‘What’s that for?’ Blair wondered.

  ‘Penthouse living, I guess. No idea who lives up there or what it’s like.’

  The old lift disappeared behind dark bricks for a couple of floors before passing the open area of up-for-hire conference space. It was dimly lit, and Blair gave it nothing more than a glance.

  Then things got loud.

  They stopped at the fourth floor.

  ‘Oh my God. Are we in the same building?’

  Abe had done this journey once before. He was curious about the rest of The Beresford and why the building had been separated. Most people had heard about the couple who allegedly fell from an upper-floor window, but the split also made sense commercially for Mrs May and afforded her a more comfortable lifestyle in her elderly years.

  There was a long corridor that branched off to either side at the end, where a window showed the same view that Blair had from her bathroom.

  She counted. ‘There’s five doors on each side.’

  ‘A couple more around each corner, too.’

  ‘I wonder what they’re like inside.’