by Helen Grant
39
THE HOUSE WAS stunning in an idiosyncratic sort of way, if you liked period buildings. It was a large white stucco mansion in the Art Deco style, dating from the 1930s, with curved corner windows and startling blue roof tiles. It was also directly on the main road. There was a reasonable-sized front garden, as you might have expected for such a large house, but there was absolutely no cover. The garden fell away from the front door in steps, and the front wall was low and purely decorative. A couple of metres in front of that was the kerb. The front door was in full view of the road, which was a busy one. To make matters worse, it was now mid-April and the evenings were no longer so dark. It would be completely impossible to enter the house without perhaps a dozen drivers seeing you doing so.
Kris and Veerle stood on the other side of the road by the De Lijn stop. There were overhanging trees here, and anyway, anyone who saw them would think they were waiting for a bus. If they crossed the road, however, that would be quite another matter.
‘That’s it?’ said Veerle incredulously.
‘Uh-huh.’ Kris seemed unconcerned.
‘We’ll be seen.’
He grinned at her. ‘We’ll be seen if we march up the front steps.’
Veerle looked back at the house again. ‘Have you got the keys, or do we have to stand there and pick the lock with everyone watching us?’
‘I’ve got keys,’ Kris told her. He fished them out of his pocket and dangled them before her eyes. ‘Nobody else wants them. This place only tends to get done in the middle of winter when it’s pitch dark, and not often even then.’
‘And apart from the challenge, why are we trying to do it?’
‘Because of who lives there.’ Kris leaned close and whispered the name in a conspiratorial tone.
‘The TV guy?’ Veerle stared at him.
‘Yep.’
‘This is insane.’
‘Insane . . . but worth seeing. You know that actress he used to go out with, the blonde one?’
Veerle nodded.
‘There are matching studio portraits of them, one either side of the living room. Not a stitch on.’
‘Tasteful,’ said Veerle. ‘But not exactly worth getting arrested for.’
Kris laughed. ‘There’s loads of stuff like that – well, not all naked photos. Signed pictures of all these celebrities, and stuff from the shows he did. You know that giant fibreglass horse they had one year for Sinterklaas? That’s in the corner of the dining room.’
‘OK,’ said Veerle drily. ‘That I have to see.’ She studied the front of the house. ‘Is there an alarm?’
‘Normally there is, but it hasn’t been working the last month or so, according to the guy’s dog walker, who’s one of us. He’s getting it fixed but he hasn’t done it yet. Well, I hope he hasn’t because if he gets a new one the number will probably change.’
‘And where’s the dog right now?’
‘Kennels.’
‘OK, well, that’s one less thing to worry about. So are we going to just march up to the front door, then?’
‘That depends on you.’
‘On me?’
Kris nodded. ‘There’s a back garden and that’s much better protected than the front. Trees and a high hedge the whole way round. I guess that’s where he does his nude sunbathing in summer.’
‘Don’t.’
‘There’s a back door there too, but I don’t have a key for that. There is, however, one other way in.’
‘Which is?’
‘First-floor bathroom window. There’s some problem with it . . . I think they put in a fancy jacuzzi or something and he spends so much time in it that the steam did something to the windowframe. It’s antique, dates back seventy or eighty years, so it’s not that easy to get it replaced. It more or less shuts but you can’t latch it.’ He looked at her thoughtfully, as though assessing her. ‘If you can climb up and get in through the window, you can come down and open the back door. There’s normally a key inside it, but the dog walker doesn’t have one.’
‘OK.’ Veerle shot another glance at the house. ‘Let’s go then.’
‘Hang on.’ Kris caught her by the arm. ‘It’s not an easy climb.’
Veerle shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’ She gave him a sly smile.
They walked about a hundred metres down the main road before crossing, then went up a narrow path between two properties and onto a small road parallel to the main one. All the houses here were surrounded by tall hedges or walls and there was little danger of being seen unless anyone actually drove down the street.
After a couple of minutes they found themselves behind the house they were targeting; Veerle glimpsed the distinctive blue roof tiles over the hedge. There was a tall narrow gate between two stout posts, and she could just see the thin grid of a security fence embedded in the thick foliage. The gate did not present much of a problem. Really, thought Veerle as she climbed over, they might as well not have bothered. She jumped down onto a gravelled path and gazed up at the back of the house.
Shit. Kris was right. This is going to be a bitch.
The back door was in the centre of a kind of square pillar that ran right up to the roof, and on either side of that there were round-ended balconies. If I can get far enough up to reach the lip of one of those I’ll be fine. The problem is how to get that high.
The ground-floor windows were large and curving and unshuttered; indeed it was difficult to see how you could fit shutters onto anything that shape. A single slip or accidental swing and you could put a foot straight through one of those glass panes, causing damage that nobody could fail to notice.
I’d probably cut myself to ribbons too, thought Veerle, with an inward shudder.
The windows were about the only architectural feature at ground-floor level, she noticed. Everything else was white stucco, as smooth and featureless as cake icing and about as much use to her.
‘So? What do you think?’ said Kris in her ear.
‘I don’t know,’ said Veerle. She shaded her eyes, staring.
I’m never coming out without my rock shoes ever again. She had on Converse trainers, which were better than the boots she had worn to climb Tante Bernadette’s apartment block, but still nothing like as good as her rock shoes with their high-friction rubber soles.
In the end she just shrugged. ‘OK, I’ll try.’
She walked up the gravel path, taking her time, studying the problem.
‘That’s the bathroom window, the middle one,’ said Kris, pointing, but she had already worked that out; you could tell that the frame wasn’t quite closed – at least you could if you were looking out for it. You could also tell why the owner wasn’t panicking about repairing it; you’d have to be Spider-Man to reach it.
When she got to the ground-floor window, things weren’t much better than expected. Tante Bernadette’s apartment had been a breeze compared to this: all those conveniently worn stone blocks with chunks of mortar missing, creating perfect finger-holds, the railings, that useful metal bracket.
She stood for a while looking at the window, head back, standing close enough to examine every centimetre of the frame. There were plenty of horizontal pieces, although none of them looked terrifically robust. The most difficult bit would be reaching the point where she could stand at full stretch on the top of the window and grasp the lip of the balcony.
There’s not much to hold onto, she thought grimly. If I come off I’ll drop straight onto the gravel below, which is going to be like landing on a cheese-grater.
When it came down to it, though, there were only two options: I can give up, or I can start climbing.
She started climbing. Before she did that, though, she took off her jacket and unwound her scarf from around her neck. She had a bangle on, and she slipped that off too. Then she stepped up to the window and began.
After the first couple of moves she had forgotten Kris, she had forgotten the scene with her mother, and the celebrity and his fibreglass horse. She had
been absorbed into the problem, her entire consciousness focused on questing fingertips and the subtle shift of weight from side to side.
There was a narrow projection running along the top of the window. It was only a couple of centimetres deep but she thought that she could stand on it, if she could get up there. It was a convenient finger-hold too when you started out, but once you got to a certain height you needed something further up the wall. She leaned out and looked upwards.
The wall itself stretched upwards, as featureless as sheet ice. No help there. She could see the underside of the balcony from here though, and there was a small rim running along the edge of it. It would be no use for taking any actual weight – she’d have dropped off it in a second – but she might be able to use it for balance. Once she was standing on the top edge of the window she would be home and dry.
She moved up the windowframe and now she was able to reach out for the bottom of the balcony. She ran her fingers along it, grasped, found her equilibrium, stepped up with her right foot, moved her weight to the right and stood up, feeling her stomach graze the stucco through the fabric of her T-shirt. The next second she was able to grasp the top of the balcony wall.
No point in hanging about there congratulating herself until she dropped off like a coconut plummeting from a palm tree. She scaled the balcony easily, using the horizontal railings set into the top of the wall, and then she slid over the top rail and sank down on the floor.
Thank God, she thought.
Her heart was thumping, and when she wiped her face with her hands she discovered that she was perspiring. She looked over the side of the balcony at the route she had taken up and thought, I’d better not have to climb down this time. She saw Kris staring up at her and gave him a cheerful grin, hoping she looked more nonchalant than she felt.
It was tempting to sit there for a bit, relishing the safety of the balcony and the view of the garden, but she made herself get up and start moving. First, however, she wiped her hands on the thighs of her trousers, ensuring that they were as dry as possible. The next moves didn’t look technically difficult but it was a long drop now if her hands slipped off the holds.
Veerle climbed up onto the balcony wall, and over the railings. It was relatively easy to step out onto the façade; the sill of the nearest window was less than a metre away. There were two windows, of which the left-hand one was the poorly closed bathroom window. Clearly it was impossible to open that window outwards while standing on the sill, so she crossed to the right-hand windowsill. She was very aware now of the open space behind and below her. There was a very gentle breeze, almost imperceptible, and yet it made the hair on her arms stand up.
There was very little to hold onto as she leaned over to try the left-hand window. Standing on the sill and holding onto the windowframe was fine, but leaning over one-handed felt horribly insecure. Veerle had a hot, tight feeling in her chest and her mouth was dry. She had to turn her elbow out and bend her left hand almost backwards to get a grip on the edge of the window. When she managed it, she had to pull, but she was afraid to tug at the frame too violently in case the force of it swinging open pulled her off the windowsill.
Her right arm was beginning to ache with tension. Standing like this with her legs slightly bent was putting a strain on her thighs too. She gave a slightly more assertive tug at the window, and suddenly she felt it move. She let go, let it swing open, then pushed it the rest of the way with her fingertips.
Now she could step back onto the left-hand windowsill and climb in through the bathroom window.
This time Veerle didn’t bother glancing down to give Kris any cheeky grins. It was simply a relief to be inside the house. She climbed down over the lavatory and sat down on the bath mat with her back against the bath, catching her breath, massaging the fingers of her right hand and looking around.
Tacky, she decided. Evidently immense amounts of money and even a feel for period décor didn’t guarantee good taste. The bathroom was done out in black and white geometric designs that almost hurt the eyes. The white suite had been selected for its Art Deco styling but you could tell it was modern; Veerle doubted anyone had had an enormous jacuzzi like that in 1930. All the fittings were gold. Above the tub there was an enormous mirror. When Veerle eventually got to her feet she saw herself in it but she didn’t look for long; the effect of those black and white tiles reflected in the glass was dizzying. She was glad to get out of the room.
She went downstairs to let Kris in. It was difficult not to be distracted on the way downstairs: the wall that followed the curve of the staircase was lined with glossy celebrity photographs. The guy who owned the house was in quite a few of them, Veerle noticed; she wondered whether Barbara Sarafian had minded him putting his arm so familiarly around her shoulders. A couple of steps further down and she found herself face to face with a black-and-white shot of Kevin Janssens.
He’s met everyone, thought Veerle. She was itching to look for the dining room, to see if it was true about the fibreglass horse, but first she had to find the back door and let Kris into the house.
It wasn’t difficult to orient herself; she knew the back door was under the bathroom window. She went through a kitchen that was enormous and expensively equipped but smelled cold and faintly antiseptic; clearly the owner was not an enthusiastic cook. Kris was waiting at the door. The glass was patterned in an old-fashioned style but she could see his dark silhouette, leaning idly against the doorframe.
Veerle unlocked the door and he stepped inside, pulling her into an embrace.
‘Is there anything you can’t climb?’
Veerle grinned delightedly. ‘The Atomium, maybe.’ She put her head on one side. ‘Do you want to leave the same way, like we did when we went to my aunt’s place?’
‘No, thanks.’ Kris sounded amused.
‘This place is amazing,’ Veerle told him. ‘And amazingly tacky. Have you seen the bathroom?’
‘The one that looks like a crossword puzzle?’
‘Yes, that one. I felt dizzier in there than I did climbing up the wall. God knows how he stands sitting in the jacuzzi in there. Anyway,’ she added, ‘I want to see this horse.’
‘We’ll do a tour if you like,’ said Kris. ‘The only thing to remember is, stay away from the front windows and don’t put any lights on. There aren’t any shutters, remember.’
They wandered into the hallway, Kris’s arm comfortably draped around Veerle’s shoulders.
Now that the adrenalin rush of the climb was behind her, Veerle found her mind slipping back to the scene with her mother, the way Claudine had simply thrust the purloined wallet at her, hissed an insult and slammed the kitchen door in her face.
That wasn’t the end of it. I’m going to pay for that later, she thought, although the idea seemed horribly unfair, as though she had been in some foreign country, some alien culture, and was going to be punished for transgressing a law she had not even understood. Claudine had hated not knowing where her daughter was going and with whom; logically, she should have been pleased that Kris had taken the initiative and introduced himself, but the fact remained that she had been first fearful and then furious. She had thrust the wallet at Veerle as if to say, Go to the devil if you like; I wash my hands of you. To Kris she had addressed not one civil word.
Dimly Veerle perceived that her mother was angry about being outmanoeuvred. Veerle could not see the matter resting there. The whole thing made her feel tired. She leaned her head against Kris’s shoulder.
I wish I didn’t have to go home at all.
She remembered once he had asked her if she wanted to spend the night at a house they had visited; it had been the night the two of them had dressed in borrowed evening clothes. She had said no almost instinctively, knowing that it would cause an immense row at home and – if she was honest – not knowing precisely what it would have meant for her and Kris. Now she wished she could stay over somewhere. She would have liked to step out of her old life entirely, shed it
as a butterfly sheds the sticky cocoon in which it has transformed itself.
I wonder if it could be done, she thought dreamily. Are there enough empty houses on the Koekoeken books that we could just go from one to another for ever? She imagined herself and Kris moving from one splendid property to the next, dressing in expensive clothes fresh from the dry cleaner’s wrappers, skimming off a bottle of champagne here and there from overstocked cellars, plundering the stacked contents of enormous chest freezers for food. Bathing in enormous clawfooted tubs or corner baths with golden taps, the steamy air heavy with perfumed salts. Sleeping on Egyptian cotton or raw wild silk. Sleeping each in their own high-ceilinged room in separate wings of the house, or . . . perhaps—
She blinked.
‘There really is a horse.’
40
THE HORSE WAS dappled grey and it stood about two metres tall. Rather unseasonably, it had a snow-white saddle and crimson saddle blanket and a red-and-gold bridle. It also had a long white mane and a rather savage expression. Standing in front of it was distinctly unnerving.
The dining room was very large; it would have been quite possible to seat a party of twelve or fourteen around the enormous polished dinner table without any of them being overshadowed by the horse; indeed, had it been a live one, it could quite easily have cantered around the perimeter of the room without so much as clipping the back of anyone’s chair with a hoof.
Kris and Veerle sat at the far end of the table eating pizza from the TV presenter’s freezer. Kris had reasoned that there were so many in there he would hardly miss one. Veerle’s surmise that very little cooking went on in the extravagant kitchen was evidently correct.
There was no cellar crammed with champagne, but there was a bar in the corner of the living room, stocked with every single type of drink that Veerle had ever heard of, and quite a few she hadn’t. She thought most of them looked toxic. In the end she chose plain iced tea.
Outside, night was falling. A couple of lamps had come on, clearly on a timer, but the light they threw was very soft. The unlit parts of the house would soon be as dark and unnavigable as a catacomb.