Crazy?
‘I think he’s the mad one,’ I said defensively. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure. I can think of saner things than lending a stranger my flat keys.’
‘He wasn’t a stranger. Not then.’
‘So you say.’
‘I mean it. There was nothing, no clues, nothing. It just seemed normal.’
‘Sleeping in your bed?’
‘Before. I meant before.’
‘I know, I heard you.’ He was fingering the empty pad. ‘Look at it his way. He’s living on top of you. It’s all nice and cosy. You’re letting him shop for you, run the odd errand, whatever. That’s how relationships start, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’
‘So…’ he shrugged, ‘…why the surprise?’
I stared at him, not quite believing what I’d heard. I’d come, with the greatest reluctance, to seek a little protection, a little redress, a little comfort. There were laws here that I thought could help me, anti- harassment laws, anti-stalker laws. Yet here I was, the tables turned, bringing accusations on myself. I’d been too forward. I’d led him on. Poor Gilbert.
‘What about keeping the keys, though? What about the cats? What about breaking in that night? Scaring me shitless?’
A smile this time, definitely.
‘You’ve got evidence ?’
‘Evidence of what?’
‘That it happened?’
For the second time in a minute, I thought I had trouble with my ears. Then my disbelief gave way to something a bit earthier.
‘For God’s sake,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not making this stuff up. The guy’s crazy. He walks round and round, day and night. He makes holes in my ceiling. He watches me, listens to my conversations, keeps tabs on my friends. He’s obsessed. It’s bloody obvious.’
‘Friends?’
‘Yes, people who come round, visitors…’ I loosened my jacket, exasperated, ‘… friends.’
‘They’ve seen anything? These friends?’
His hand was hovering over the pad now, the pen uncapped. I thought about the question. Brendan? The odd mate from work? The occasional pal from university days? Had they had dealings, first- hand, with Gilbert? Could they support my story?
‘No,’ I said uncertainly. ‘It’s just me really.’
‘But what about the night you mentioned? The night he came down?’
‘I was by myself, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘No one for company?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Maybe that’s the answer then. Maybe you need protection.’ He looked at me, newly thoughtful. ‘It can be a. problem, living alone, someone like you.’
He let the thought hang between us. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and angry again, too. What right had this man to lecture me on the way I chose to live? On how daft I was to rely on my own company? I’d come, after all, with a story to tell. If it hadn’t, so far, produced the response I’d anticipated, then maybe that was my fault.
‘He’s violent, too,’ I said. ‘And I can prove it.’
‘How?’
I told him what I knew about Witcher, the previous tenant, and how Gilbert had beaten him up. After I’d spelled Witcher’s name, and given him the address on Denman’s Hill, I waited for him to finish scribbling on the pad.
‘You’re telling me this Witcher bloke’s gay?’
‘Yes, apparently.’
‘And he told you what happened? Getting beaten up? All that stuff?’
‘No, he wouldn’t.’
‘Then how do you know it’s true?’
I mentioned Frankie. The ballpoint slowed, then stopped.
‘This guy Witcher didn’t report the incident?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘He ended up in hospital and didn’t say anything? Didn’t contact us?’
‘I don’t know… I…’
The policeman stood up and left the room. Minutes later, he was back again.
‘You’re right,’ he said briefly. ‘His name’s not on file.’ He began to circle the room, hands in his pockets. I heard him stop behind me. ‘This Frankie. You say he’s gay, too?’
‘Very.’
‘And he has something going with Witcher?’
‘Yes, that’s the impression I got.’
‘Pity.’ He stepped into view and made himself comfortable on a corner of the desk. ‘Straight, he might have been some use to us. The way it is, the evidence is tainted.’
‘Because he’s gay?’
‘Because he’s got something going with Witcher. The other fella, your fella…’ He shrugged. ‘Who’s to say Frankie didn’t do it? Where’s the proof?’
I nodded, saying nothing, interested only in where this interview might lead. All this clever speculation left me cold. I wanted hard, practical things. I wanted someone up there, someone in a uniform to search Gilbert’s flat, someone to find the other set of photos, someone to concentrate my poor mad neighbour’s mind.
‘Tell me what you’re going to do,’ I said bleakly. ‘Only this is getting beyond a joke.’
He was on his feet again. He began to talk about some CID detective, a woman on the station called Gaynor who specialised in cases like these. She was back on shift tomorrow. I’d be interviewed again. She’d tell me the score. She knew everything worth knowing about stalkers.
Stalkers? I thought hard about the word. Even now it was difficult to associate Gilbert with the sinister guys I’d read about in the papers.
My friend with the notepad was back behind the desk and for a moment or two I toyed with sharing this thought with him but he didn’t give me the chance.
‘What about tonight?’ he said. ‘Have you got somewhere to go?’
‘Yes,’ I lied at once. ‘Why?’
‘Just asking.’ He checked the phone number I’d given him and then pocketed the notepad. ‘Someone’ll be in touch tomorrow.’
Outside the police station, it had stopped raining. I stood at the kerbside, trying to decide what to do. This area of north London is generally hopeless for cabs and in the end I set off on foot. I’d been in the police station for nearly two hours but it was still barely nine o’clock.
I was in the High Road when I saw him. He was on the other side of the road, keeping pace with me, that distinctive walk, head bowed, shoulders slightly sagging. The moment I stopped and looked across the road he ducked into the doorway of a video store, his back turned. There were half a dozen or so people inside the store. I could see them through the metal grilles on the big plate glass windows. They gave me courage.
I crossed the road and tapped Gilbert on the shoulder. The back of his jacket was soaked. He must have been standing in the rain for ages. He turned round. His eyes seemed red and inflamed and I swear he’d been crying. Again.
‘You know where I’ve been. You must do.’
He nodded, then wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
‘You said you would,’ he muttered.
‘This is serious, Gilbert. I’ve been in there for over an hour, talking to them. I’ve told them everything. They know what you’ve been doing.’
He nodded again.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he said hopelessly.
‘It won’t be OK, Gilbert. It won’t be OK until you leave me alone, until you let me get on with my own life. Do you understand that?’
‘Of course.’
‘You’ll leave me alone ?’
‘I’ve never touched you.’
‘You have. You’re doing it all the time, not physically maybe, but in other ways. That’s not right, Gilbert, and it’s against the law too.’ I must have been more forceful than I’d intended because Gilbert backed into the shop. I followed him, determined not to surrender the advant
age. One or two heads turned, curious. ‘The law,’ I repeated. ‘You’re breaking the law.’
Trapped against a rack of Action Movies, Gilbert shook his head.
‘Laws don’t matter,’ he said hotly. ‘I’m here to protect you against all that.’
‘Protect me?’ I stared at him. Gilbert tried to push past me but I had him cornered. Close-to, he smelled of damp and neglect. For one overpowering moment, I wanted to give him a good scrub and a bowl of something filling, and tuck him up in bed. Then I remembered the kitchen ceiling again. That same eye. Watching me.
‘I’m not who you think I am,’ I told him. ‘I’m normal, and boring, just like everyone else. So let’s just forget it.’
‘Forget what?’
‘Me. What’s happened. Let’s just go back to normal, back to the way we were before.’ I smiled with what little hope I could muster. ‘Yes?’
Gilbert gazed down at me for a while, not answering, then I felt his hand gripping my upper arm. To my surprise, he was immensely strong. By the time we were outside, he was hurting me.
‘Let go,’ I said.
He was walking fast. I had to half-run beside him. He was beginning to pant, little choking gasps. Couples strolling towards us made space in the middle of the pavement. No one intervened. They must have thought it was personal. If so, they were right.
‘Let go,’ I said again.
Gilbert was beginning to slow. We were close to a pedestrian crossing. He was mumbling to himself now, some phrase or other, over and over, punctuated by the rasp of his breathing. When I spotted a break in the traffic, I wrenched my arm free and bolted across the road. Safe on the other side, I ran as fast as I could. Beside the subway to Seven Sisters tube station, still trembling, I stopped and looked back. Gilbert had disappeared.
Brendan was inspecting the bruises on my upper arm, an almost perfect set of fingertips, purpled and angry.
‘How did you know where to find me?’
‘There was an address on that Boots envelope. The one you showed me at lunch the other day.’
‘And you memorised it?’
‘More or less.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m nosey.’
His new flat was a rented place, a spacious split-level basement in a pleasant Dalston square. All I’d seen on the Boots envelope was the name of the square, De Beauvoir. The flat itself I’d found by trial and error, circling the square until I’d spotted the Mercedes, then ringing the bell chimes until I found the right door. Seeing me standing there hadn’t surprised him in the least. He was cooking, he’d said, and there was plenty for two.
Now, we were standing in the bathroom. Brendan filled the washbasin with ice-cold water, then bathed my upper arm. For the second time in less than a week, his expertise surprised me.
‘How did it happen?’ he asked at last.
I began to explain about Gilbert. Half an hour later, we were finishing the story in his lounge, me sprawled across his enormous sofa, Brendan sitting on the floor, his back propped against an armchair. Not once, to my astonishment, had he interrupted, a restraint I put down to a couple of enormous tumblers of Glenlivet.
‘You think he’s mad?’
‘Yes.’
‘And does he frighten you?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘He does.’
‘Because he’s obsessed?’
‘Because he’s unpredictable. I don’t think he can help himself. I don’t want to see him locked up but I’m not sure there’s an alternative.’
‘But who locks him up?’
‘God knows. The police? The social services? I’ve no idea. But he’d be better off locked up. I mean it.’
Brendan pulled a face and got to his feet. Out in the kitchen I could hear him opening and closing the oven door. When he came back, he had a sweater loosely knotted around his shoulders. He held out a hand. I took it and he hauled me to my feet.
‘Where are we going?’ !
‘Your place.’
I shook my head. The last thing I needed was Brendan trying to settle my account, another little outburst of violence to even the score. His earlier suggestion sounded nicer. I thought I could handle supper and a bottle of wine.
Brendan was grinning. Sometimes, I’d noticed, he could be truly intuitive.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I just want to see those photies.’
Napier Road was in darkness when we got there, no sign of life from upstairs. I let Brendan into the flat and led him through to the kitchen. The photos were where I’d left them, littered over the table, and while I shuffled them into the envelope and let the cats out, Brendan did exactly what I’d done, balancing on the table and peering upwards. There’s not a lot you can say about holes in the ceiling and we were back in the hall before Brendan voiced the obvious question.
‘Do you want to stay here?’
‘No.’
‘You want to come back with me?’
‘Please,’ I looked at him.’ Is that OK?’
We took the short cut across to Dalston, Brendan threading the Mercedes through a warren of side streets. Somewhere in Stoke Newington, he reached out, turning down the volume on the CD.
‘So what will you do?’
‘I don’t know.’
I was looking out of the window. Every passing shadow might have been Gilbert. I’d already told Brendan about going to the police. Now I mentioned the specialist detective, Gaynor. With luck, she was due to make contact next day.
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said again.
‘Will they arrest him? Give him a warning?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Say it’s a warning, say they slap his wrists. If he’s as crazy as he sounds, that’ll make fuck-all difference. They might as well not bother.’
‘Thanks.’
We exchanged looks. I genuinely think it was the first time he realised I was scared. Saying it, earlier, had been one thing. Now, in the car, he could see it for himself. His hand found mine and gave it a little squeeze. When he tried to withdraw it, I wouldn’t let him.
Brendan turned out to be an inspired cook. We tucked into a wonderful Couscous Royale, blessed with a bottle and a half of Moroccan red. Although the flat was rented, Brendan had added one or two bits and pieces of his own, and while he was out in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to a lavish fruit salad, I wandered around the lounge, trying to guess which fragments of his former life he’d managed to rescue from the bitch-queen.
One obvious souvenir was a glorious photograph of a bunch of guys standing knee-deep in snow beside a half-completed igloo. None of them had shaved for weeks and their beards were matted with ice and I was still trying to decide which one was Brendan when I felt a tiny touch on my arm. He told me that the photo had come from a documentary shoot in the Canadian Arctic. He’d been tasked to report on the devastating impact of welfare hand-outs on the luckless Eskimos and the assignment had gone way over schedule. Stranded in the back of beyond, Brendan had realised too late that he’d made the wrong film. The Eskimos weren’t, in reality, the helpless, drunken castaways he’d been led to believe. On the contrary, they were still tough, still resourceful, still proud. Listening to him talk like this, I said that the Arctic seemed a long way from smart-arse metropolitan quiz shows and politicians on the make. He shrugged, telling me it was a long time ago, and I returned to the photo, not the least put off.
‘So which one’s you?’
‘Third from the left,’ he said. ‘The good-looking bastard.’
We ate the fruit salad on the sofa while Brendan told me a little more about his days in documentary. It turned out that he’d done stuff all over the world, and he obviously had the awards to prove it, but to my shame I hadn’t seen a single film of the dozens he mentioned. When I ask
ed him whether he had dupes on cassette, he said yes but that bit of the conversation went no further and he certainly made no effort to offer me a look at any of them. There’d be no point, he said, because the memories he treasured weren’t of the movies themselves but of their making — the locations he’d scouted, the people he’d met, the trials he’d endured trying to capture reality with a bolshie film crew and the usual logistic nightmares. These were problems I could talk about first-hand - my beloved council estate overlooking Southampton Water - and it was gone midnight before it occurred to either of us that there was still half a bowl of fruit salad to finish.
I was still spooning up the juice when Brendan produced the malt whisky again. The measures were as huge as ever, though by this time I was past caring.
‘To sanity.’ He grinned, raising his glass. ‘Whatever the fuck that might be.’
He settled beside me on the sofa. We’d touched on his marriage throughout the evening, rueful asides, the odd dig at Sandra, but he’d shown no appetite for the full post-mortem which was just as well because I was in no mood to play the pathologist. What was beyond dispute was the fact that he’d left her, and that - just now - was quite enough for me.
‘You’re much too trusting,’ he said suddenly. ‘You know that?’
This, alas, was yesterday’s news. My art college lecturer had told me more or less the same thing. Often.
‘I know,’ I admitted. ‘I’m made that way.’
‘It’s not a criticism. You should just be careful, that’s all.’
‘Is that a warning? Should I take it personally?’
Brendan laughed softly. He’d propped the windsurfing blow-ups against the wall, like individual frames from a movie, and he was looking at them through half-closed eyes. I’m not as objective as I should be but they were really impressive, no question. He’d caught exactly the essence of the sport - its exhilaration, its raw excitement - and that isn’t easy. To have been part of that - not just doing it, but having the moments captured forever - was doubly wonderful and I told him so. He smiled, accepting the compliment, and then he put his tumbler on the carpet beside the sofa.
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