by Sam Taylor
It was then that James noticed the envelope. It had evidently been pushed through the letterbox, but something had jammed its progress. It lay in the door’s mouth like a white paper tongue. James could see words on the envelope, handwritten in black ink, but he couldn’t read them from that angle, so he pulled the edge of the envelope towards him. It felt light, as though it contained only one sheet of paper, and it had no return address. With a loud metal snap the envelope came free from the letterbox and James read what was written there:
Malcolm Trewvey Esq.
21 Lough Street
At first the name struck him as merely strange. It had an old-fashioned ring to it, James thought, like something from Chaucer. But this letter, surely, was proof of a connection between the name and the house, and the more he repeated it in his head, the more familiar it came to seem, until after a minute or so he was nodding and muttering, his breath quickening, as he felt himself on the verge of uncovering some buried memory. Malcolm Trewvey. Malcolm Trewvey. James knew that name, he felt sure.
Before leaving, he knocked on the door once again and looked through the letterbox. At first all he saw was the dim, grey hallway, and the bottom of the stairwell. But then he heard a noise - feet smacking rapidly on wooden boards - and saw a figure descend the stairs.
Suddenly frightened, James pulled his face away. His heart was pounding. Without thinking, he shoved the letter in the pocket of his coat and ran down the steps, up the driveway, through the gate, and across the road, where he hid behind a tree. A few moments later, he heard a door bang shut. The man was walking quickly along the pavement on the other side of the street. As before, James followed him.
This time, the man turned right up Green Avenue. He walked past the park and, at the top of the road, went left towards the city centre. Past The Polar Bear, past bookmakers and off-licences and minicab firms. As James followed him, he gripped the envelope tightly in his right hand. The man reached the end of Haight Road and turned into the busy shopping street, walking at a furious pace despite his limp. James ran to catch him up. There was a danger he would be lost to the crowd if he was allowed to get too far away.
Over the pedestrian crossing, past rows of growling cars; through an indoor shopping centre, past potted palm trees and coloured fountains; through the narrowing streets of the old town, past faux-medieval pub signs and darkened doorways . . . for an hour or more, James followed the man. Finally they walked under an archway and into a sunless alley. The buildings were high and close together here, showing their sooty backs: windowless on the ground floor, and the higher windows either blacked-out or draped with net curtains. James began to fear that he was being lured into a trap. The cobbled street was damp with moss from the near-permanent shade, and the air smelled stale and rotten. James could hear his footsteps echo. He began to walk more slowly. Ahead of him, the man disappeared under another archway. Slowly, reluctantly, James followed.
When he emerged through the second archway, he found himself in a dark courtyard. As far as James could see, there was no other exit. The courtyard was as narrow and long as a bus. James and the man were the only ones there. The man was standing outside a shop window at the far end of the courtyard. James didn’t need to read the neon sign to know that it was a sex shop: the windows were mirrored with small dark eyeholes just below head-height, so the creeps who assembled there would have to stoop to view the corruption inside. The man was doing exactly this. James allowed himself a cold smile. This, he thought, must be the guilty secret.
James stood like this for some time, watching the man, who was motionless. Eventually James became bored and drew nearer. He moved slightly to the side, in order to catch a glimpse of the man’s face, but the man was shading his eyes with his hands, so all James could make out was his ear and cheek and chin. Then James did something reckless. Without any idea how the man might react, he said aloud the name he had been whispering to himself.
‘Malcolm Trewvey.’
Not quite immediately, but almost, the man stood up straight. He did not turn around. James held his breath. He watched the man’s back, waiting for some violent movement, but none came. James exhaled and looked at the mirrored window. And there he saw the man’s face. And he saw that the man was staring at him.
James has a vivid memory of that long, awful second. Neither man looked at the other directly; both stared at the other’s inverted double. It was a strange moment, but James did not reflect on this. He was too shocked by the man’s face to think of anything else.
The man did not speak or smile or scowl - there was hardly any expression on his face at all - but in his eyes James thought he saw swift judgment, a hint of cold amusement, and then, with a blink and a turn of the head, dismissal. James felt sure the man recognised him; that he knew who James was, and what he wanted. What most disturbed James was the idea, the instinctive certainty, that this man knew his past; that he knew more about James than James himself.
He stood still and silent, not breathing, as the man opened the door of the shop and went inside. The door closed behind him and James exhaled. He was left staring at a lost and frightened-looking figure in the bright mirrored glass who quickly turned away.
In a dark pub in the old town, James sipped a pint of bitter. For a long time he thought nothing. Halfway through his second pint, the shock dissolved and he began to form words in his head. He took the green notebook from his rucksack and wrote the words down.
How old is he, this man, whose name I can only assume is Malcolm Trewvey? My age, perhaps, though something in his eyes seems older, more clued-up. If I had to guess, I would say thirty to thirty-five.
Similar height and build to me. Less athletic maybe, but better-looking: his skin more tanned, his hair more stylishly cut, his clothes more expensive. A kind of innate superiority. The power that comes from knowledge.
In that moment, when our eyes met, it was as though I had shrunk, regressed, to the shy eighteen-year-old I had been when I first came to this city. Something in his glare stripped away the years, the layers of self-confidence. Why?
What is the name of this feeling he gives me? Hatred is only part of it; it’s more like envy, but that word seems inadequate. Did I know Malcolm Trewvey when I was a student? If so, then I must have wished myself him.
Even now, I guess, deep down . . . even now I still wish it. I despise myself for thinking this, but it’s true. I wish I was Malcolm Trewvey.
James couldn’t even bear to read through what he had written. His handwriting was shaky. Feeling nauseous, he closed the notebook and looked at his watch. It was quarter to two. He ordered another pint. The minutes ticked slowly by. He would not be going south, he knew. He could not jettison his past. The plan he had formulated that morning seemed ludicrous and contemptible now he re-examined it. ‘Considering his options’ was a futile exercise; James had no options. It was his destiny to stay here. And to hope. And to wait.
When he emerged from the pub, it was nearly four o’clock and the sky was the colour of used bathwater. He walked to the docks and stared out at the rough sea, the dark horizon. He thought about the life he had left behind. It seemed unreal. He could not truly believe that Ingrid, their old apartment, her new house, her parents and brother, his former workmates, that all these people and places still existed, endured, went on changing, even now, separated from him only by miles of air and sea. ‘Don’t do it, mate . . . don’t jump!’ someone called. James looked around: it was a teenage boy, joking to impress his friends. They were all laughing.
From the corner of his eye, James caught a glimpse of the black walls towering over him, the endless pathways leading him nowhere. The labyrinth. He followed its twists and turns, mesmerised, until, after a while, the walls melted away and he found himself in a street he recognised. He had been in this street a thousand times in daydreams, but not once in reality since that first day. He went to the doorway: HARRISON LETTINGS. What the hell, James thought hopelessly, it can’t do any harm. He
rang the buzzer and the door clicked open.
The office was busier than the last time he had been here. Again, no one met his eye, so he sat down in a chair by the wall and watched them. The man who had served James was at the same desk; he was talking on the phone, head in hands. A woman in her thirties sat at the middle desk: dyed blonde hair, too much make-up, bustily confident; she was talking to a client. At the far desk, a heavy-set, middle-aged man in a suit was leaning over a younger man, whispering to him and pointing at a computer screen. James sniffed the air: the smell of nervous sweat was still there, but masked by a sweet, feminine perfume. He began to feel sleepy . . .
‘Mr Purdew!’
James opened his eyes, shocked by the loudness with which his name had been shouted. The man at the first desk was staring at him, a mixture of anger and relief on his face.
‘Yes?’
‘Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you for weeks!’
The man was standing now, walking around his desk towards James.
‘But . . . I gave you my mobile number. Why didn’t you call?’
‘You wrote it down wrongly. It was one digit short. Mr Harrison, this is the elusive client I was telling you about.’
The middle-aged man looked up and smiled. ‘So glad you’ve finally made it, Mr Purdew. Shall we step into my office?’ His voice was smooth and northern-accented, like a bingo-caller’s.
Harrison went through a door at the end of the room and held it open for James and the other man. The office was small but plushly furnished. Daylight leaked dimly through a high window. Again James had the disorienting impression that he’d been here before. For some reason there was a picture in his mind of a shelf laden with jars of pills. He sat down in a leather armchair and the two other men smiled at one another.
‘Would you like a drink, Mr Purdew?’
‘No, thanks, I’m fine. Could you tell me-’
‘Your application was accepted by our client within a few days of us sending it, Mr Purdew,’ Harrison explained. He had a large, powerful face. ‘To the great relief of us all. Unfortunately, we were unable to contact you, so the office has been a hive of anxiety for the past few weeks. Mr Crabtree here has been particularly fraught, waiting for you to call or walk in. And, finally, you have. Cigar?’
James shook his head. He couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. His first reaction was not excitement or relief, but irritation and a kind of lurking guilt. All those wasted hours, those pointless nightmares. And all of it his own fault. ‘Are you sure I wrote my number down wrongly?’
Harrison held up a placatory palm. ‘It is of no consequence now, Mr Purdew. What’s past is past. You are here; that is all that matters. Mr Crabtree, would you telephone our client to let him know that we have located his chosen applicant?’ The younger man nodded and slipped out of the office. ‘So, Mr Purdew, I believe you know the basic outline of the deal that my client is offering?’
‘I think so.’
‘Allow me to fill in the details. You will, if you accept his offer, be entitled to a year’s free accommodation in the house, plus the payment of all reasonable living and working expenses, to be listed weekly with receipts and presented to Mr Crabtree, who will reimburse you in cash, immediately. If the work you agree to is completed to my client’s satisfaction within the allowed time, you will be entitled to 50 per cent of the profit from the sale of the house on the open market. You will also receive an unconditional gift of £1,000 in cash, payable upon signature of the contract, in order that you can make yourself comfortable in the house, which is, I should warn you, in need of considerable work.’
All through this monologue, Harrison had been staring at something on the desk. At this point, he paused, and looked up. James thought he saw something tender, almost fatherly in Harrison’s eyes. As soon as he started speaking again, however, they regained their steely glare.
‘Which brings me to your part of the bargain. In signing the contract, you will promise to carry out all necessary repair work, rewiring and repainting in accordance with our client’s clear and detailed instructions, which you will find attached to the contract. You will also promise to carry out all of the work alone, and not to reveal any information about our client or the work you are doing to anyone. There are various other rules and regulations, but you can find out about those by reading the contract. Any questions?’
‘Am I allowed to know the client’s name now?’
A sly smile spread across Harrison’s face. ‘Mr Purdew, even I do not know the client’s real name. If he chooses to reveal any such personal information to you, that is a matter for him, but it is beyond the bounds of the contract. As far as Harrison Lettings is concerned, the client will continue to be referred to as, simply, “the client”. Does that answer your question?’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Is there anything else you would like to know?’
There must be something, James thought, but no questions came to mind. The only thing in his head at that moment was the image of the house, its mouth and eyes wide open, the secrets of his past life waiting to be discovered.
‘Where do I sign?’
On his way back, James went to The Polar Bear and ordered a bottle of champagne. He sat in the corner and drank it, glass by glass. He had an urge to shout his good news to the drinkers in the public bar, but the memory of that strange night with the astrologers put him off, and anyway the terms of the contract forbade it. He drank some more champagne. Happiness was slow in coming, but he was determined to wait until it did.
Then James remembered his mobile phone; he took it out and switched it off and listened to the new silence. No longer tense, but blissful. Silence: who would have thought it could sound so different? You’ve done it, James told himself. You’ve found the key. He put his hand in his trouser pocket, just to make sure. There it was, solid and cold and small. In the other pocket was a wad of £50 notes. James swore to himself that he would not lose either.
Sighing, he held the champagne glass to his eye and gazed through it at the empty lounge. It looked like another world: warm, vast, glamorous, dancing with golden light. In the end James drank so much champagne that he mistook his inebriation for happiness, and left the pub singing and swaying.
Outside it was night-time and he could see more stars than he had ever seen in his life. He walked down Green Avenue and stopped at the Happy Shoppa. From the speakers in the ceiling, Phil Collins was singing something dour and ominous. Fuck you Phil, thought James as he bought wine and chocolate and oranges. The smell of the oranges drove him mad with desire; he couldn’t stop sniffing their fragrant skins.
Lough Street looked magical in the sodium lamplight. At number 21, James stood with his hands on the gate and his eyes caressed the house’s battered face. Soon those wooden eyelids will open, he thought; soon that mouth will speak. He could have crossed the threshold then, but it was dark and the electrics didn’t work. And anyway . . . something held him back. He thought of the man he had followed that morning. Him. Malcolm Trewvey. James shivered at the thought of those all-knowing, all-seeing eyes.
He walked back to Newland Road in the gloom, hurrying a little as he thought he could hear footsteps behind him, and went straight up to his bedroom. He drank some wine and ate an orange, but soon his drunkenness was blurring into fatigue. Too tired to brush his teeth or take an anti-allergy pill, he put on his pyjamas, got in bed and switched off the light. I stayed there for a while, watching his face lose its daytime expressions of hope and fear, suspicion and regret, watching the eyes, mouth, forehead and cheeks as they were wiped clean by the miracle of sleep, and feeling the oddest kind of tenderness. He irritated me, this James Purdew, but I couldn’t help sympathising with him, all the same. I took no pleasure from the thought of all the pain he was going to suffer.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I lifted up the duvet and stared at the familiar contours of his body, the young muscles still enviably taut, cur
led into the unfamiliar shape of a question mark. I had never seen him sleep before. It was a strange experience. I could see the outline of his penis and balls inside the pyjamas, and laughed silently as the penis grew hard and he moaned. I knew what he was dreaming about. I knew who he was dreaming about. And he, even now, didn’t have a clue.
III
THE WRITING IN THE WALL
The next morning, having packed all his possessions into the van, James drove to Lough Street. He parked at the edge of the road, under a chestnut tree, and sat there for some time staring at the house through the side window.
He remembered the long, lonely hours he had spent in the cab of this van, staring, just as he was now, at the familiar, damaged face of that house. Now, all was identical, and all was changed beyond recognition. It was a strange feeling, suddenly to have what he had so desperately, and for so long, desired. James felt nervous, apprehensive. Perhaps he had been wrong to want this? Might not the idea, so inviting, of the house - and the past it contained - be some kind of trap? For a moment he considered the possibility of taking the £1,000 and escaping. It was not too late. The airport beckoned, and beyond it a life of sunshine and freedom. Yet the very fact that the contract allowed this - the gift was ‘unconditional’, it said - made him more reluctant to do it.
When, eventually, he forced himself to move, James felt as if he had walked on to a stage; as though a thousand eyes were secretly watching him. On the doorstep he turned around, but the street was empty and he saw no faces in the windows of other houses. He listened: distant traffic sounds; leaves rustling in the wind; a telephone ringing somewhere. He put the key in the lock and turned.