by Louise Voss
The Ham and High spoke to another resident of Beulah Mansions, who told us, ‘The young people at the top of the building are always climbing up there. I’ve warned them it’s dangerous, but they never listen.’
There was no suicide note, and Ms Noonan’s parents tell us that they had spoken to their daughter earlier that day and she was in good spirits. The funeral will be held at St. Peter’s Church, Highgate, on Friday 2nd October at 1pm.
Friday
Haven’t written this diary for ages. Two weeks – that’s awful. Haven’t done anything much for two weeks, actually, what with all the crap that’s been going on. I cancelled one writing class out of respect for Kathy – they weren’t very pleased, at the college, but I was in no fit state to teach – and then it was half term. I haven’t felt like writing anything, not even this. But I suppose I should write it all down, otherwise I’ll forget it.
I thought it appropriate that I should go to her funeral. After all, she was a friend – nearly – as well as one of my students. What I didn’t anticipate was how much it would upset me. I suppose I’m lucky, having got to the ripe old age of 35 and having only been to two funerals in my whole life, both of which were for octogenarians; but this one was horrible, in a totally different league of awfulness to Granny’s and Auntie Dot’s. The church was packed with young people, and everyone – including me – was crying. Sobbing, mostly.
I will never forget the desolation on her parents’ faces, a drab looking couple in their sixties, who seemed bewildered, horrified and grateful by turns at the huge gay turnout. I hope for their sakes that they already knew Kathy was gay – I’m sure they must have done. She did like to broadcast it. I remember her so clearly at that first writing class, saying ‘I’m Kathy and I’m gay’, with a really proud, defiant expression on her face like it absolutely was a celebration for her, something she wanted to shout from the rooftops.
Bad choice of expression.
The service was so, so moving. Kathy clearly had a lot of friends, and they were so shocked at her just suddenly… being dead. There was as much disbelief as grief in people’s eyes. I don’t believe it was anything but an accident, and nobody else believed it either… but whenever something like this happens, you can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t an accident. There’s this little voice that says ‘what if she jumped?’ But really, so what if she did? She’s still dead.
The four or five people who stood up to speak, their voices trembling, clearing their throats and swallowing back tears constantly, talked of her lust for life, her adventurous spirit, her desire to excel.
No, there’s no way she’d have thrown herself off her roof.
One woman in particular could barely get the words out at all. Poor thing. She said she and Kathy had been best friends since childhood – I remembered Kathy mentioning her, briefly, in the pub. She was quite pretty, in that rather gummy sort of way. I thought she’d probably look a bit horsy when she smiled – although since I didn’t see her smile, I wouldn’t know for sure. She got about two sentences into her speech and just kind of crumpled. The church was completely silent, a deep heavy intense silence that even people’s quiet sobbing didn’t seem to dent, and we all waited for her to finish, like the agonising seconds spent willing a stammerer to get his words out; but she couldn’t. Her face turned redder and redder and eventually she shook her head, and fled back to her seat. It was awful.
The whole bloody thing was awful.
But there was one little part of me that – and I’d never admit this to anybody – felt oddly jealous. Imagine, being envious of a dead woman! But the love that all her friends felt for her was so completely palpable, and all the wonderful things that they said of her. I suppose everyone says nice things about you once you’re dead, but Kathy clearly was a very special person. It made me wish that I’d had more time to get to know her. It also made me wonder if people would say the same kinds of things about me, if I died?
As we all filed out at the end (family and close friends only were going on to the crematorium), they played ‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself’ by Dusty Springfield, because it had been one of Kathy’s favourite songs. At that moment I think every single person in the church felt the same, that now Kathy was gone, none of us knew what to do with ourselves, and that, even if we hadn’t known her well, nothing would be the same again.
Then I heard a voice at my shoulder. At first I didn’t register that it was Alex from the writing class; I was crying too hard.
‘Isn’t it terrible?’ he said. He looked a state too; really white and red-eyed. I didn’t realize he’d been matey with Kathy. I nodded, trying to get myself together but feeling the corners of my mouth pulling right down for another batch of tears. He handed me a clean tissue, and sort of twitched his fingers, as if he wanted to reach out and comfort me. I was glad he didn’t though – if anyone had touched me then, I think I’d have collapsed entirely.
‘It was nice of you to come,’ I said, then regretted it. It sounded like I was hosting the damn event or something. We stared at each others’ ravaged faces, and suddenly I felt relieved that he was there. I didn’t know anybody else there, and couldn’t face going back to the house for drinks, as her father had hesitantly invited everyone.
‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’ I asked, wiping under my eyes with the tissue and wishing I’d thought to wear waterproof mascara.
‘Thanks,’ he said immediately, not saying where. ‘That would be great.’
Later, in the car, once I’d calmed down enough to drive, Alex said that he and Kathy had had a drink after class a couple of times, and had met for lunch too. I thought it was odd that she hadn’t mentioned it, but I suppose that she probably didn’t really feel it merited a mention, him being a bloke, and all. He seemed edgy, biting his nails and staring out of the window, and then surreptitiously studying me when I was driving, as if he thought I couldn’t see him.
Turns out he lives quite close to me. I hadn’t heard of his street, but he said it was only about ten minutes’ walk away. Before I knew it, I found myself saying, ‘Come in for coffee, if you like.’ I thought that if I went home alone, I’d only sit and cry all afternoon.
He nodded, like one of those toy dogs who sit in the back windows of cars.
‘What happened to your wall?’ he asked, climbing over the pile of rubble to get to my front path. I hadn’t told him which house was mine, but he just headed straight for it, no hesitation. At the time I thought it was strange, but I was too strung out to dwell on it. I should’ve called him on it. I should never have let him into the house. I’m a fool.
So, as weird as I thought it was then, that he knew which house was mine, things started to get even weirder when we got inside. I showed him to the sofa and he sat down on the very edge of it. He still seemed really jumpy, but I put it down to the emotion of the funeral. I made some coffee, and took the mugs into the living room.
There was a long silence. Alex looked so strange then that all these thoughts starting running through my head: if he knew where I lived, was it him who followed me home that time after class? I’d suspected him of sending the card and leaving the flowers, but now I felt more certain. Perhaps he’d only come to the funeral because he guessed I’d be there! Maybe he bought the clothes too – he must have got such a kick out of seeing me wearing the damn things – I wondered why he kept staring at them. I hadn’t meant to wear them, not until I knew where they were from, but when I’d opened my wardrobe to try and find something suitable for a funeral, there they were, just perfect with my black jacket over the top…
I got up from the armchair and went over to lean – casually, I hoped – on the windowsill, willing Mrs. Roberts over the road to be in her usual chair at her own living room window. At least that way if he tried anything, it would have to be in view of Mrs. Roberts’ beady old eye. My hands started shaking, and a splash of coffee spilled out onto the carpet. I was really upset – my pristine carpet! – but I didn’t d
are get up and get a cloth. I didn’t want to leave the safety of the window. I thought longingly of the Stain Devil under the sink, and then almost laughed. This guy is a potential nutter, and I’m worried about a tiny splash of coffee on my carpet? It would take the application of several dozen Stain Devils to get my life blood out of the same carpet, if Alex really did turn out to be a psychopath.
But somehow I thought that, however uneasy he was making me feel at that moment, he probably wasn’t dangerous. Probably. ….Although I was clearly in denial.
And then he said what he said, staring at the stain, not meeting my eyes, muttering almost coyly into his own coffee: ‘I’m glad to see you’re wearing your new clothes.’
My heart almost gave out. Even though I’d suspected him, it was a huge shock to hear him admit it. ‘What?’
‘Those clothes.’ He stopped, and smiled at me then, a big, ingenuous beam of pride, like I was his mother and he was waiting for me to say, ooh, what a clever boy you are. ‘They’re from me. I left them on your washing line as a surprise.’
I lowered my coffee mug onto the windowsill, spilling some more out. Then I reached back and grasped the glossy white sill with both my hands, to steady myself and to try and stop them shaking. I wished I could rip the sill off, and bash him over the head with it, because at that moment I realized that it had all been him: everything - the card, the flowers, the man who’d followed me home, maybe even him who was responsible for the underwear that I thought I’d accidentally ordered myself…
‘Was the underwear from you, too?’ I said, sounding as if I was being strangled.
He nodded proudly, blushing like a schoolboy. I closed my eyes. ‘Then – how – come – it was bought with myowncreditcard?’ The last words came out in a huge rush, because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to hear the answer.
He looked at the floor now, guilty again. ‘I just wanted you to have some nice things,’ he muttered. I noticed the way his eyelashes fell on his cheeks, lazily, softly. I think it was the eyelashes that made him seem like a little boy. And it was that feeling of power, dominance over him, which made me temporarily forget my fear, and allow anger, boiling and acid, to roll up inside me like vomit and spew out all over him. For about ten seconds I no longer cared if he was dangerous, or about the fact that he was five inches taller than me and probably much stronger. Right then, I could’ve crushed him like a bug.
‘Don’t tell me that I paid for these fucking clothes too,’ I hissed, sticking my face into his face, almost spitting at him with fury.
He stood up then, lifting one arm, appearing to tower above me. As quickly as it had risen, my rage vanished and fear washed back over me again.
‘I care about you, Siobhan’, he said, reaching out and drawing a soft line with his index finger down the left side of my face. ‘I want us to be friends. That’s why I sent you the card, and the lilies. I wanted you to know that I like you. I really do. I’m sorry if the card was a bit strong, you know, so soon, but I couldn’t help it. You’re so beautiful.’
I backed away from him, my knees trembling so hard that it took all my strength not to sit down, then and there, on the floor. It felt as if someone had removed my kneecaps.
‘Please leave. Now,’ I managed. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’ He looked scared at that but didn’t move.
‘GET OUT!’ I wanted to push him, but I still had this kneeless problem. We just stood staring at each other, hackles up, tails bushy. Then he seemed to droop.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, almost inaudibly. He turned and walked out of the room, and I heard the front door close quietly behind him.
Chapter 12
Alex
Friday evening
I had been so happy to see Siobhan in her new clothes – and I was right; they did suit her; they made her look like a princess, all in black, a princess of darkness? – that I thought it must be another sign. She had invited me back to her house. She was wearing my clothes. She might even have her new underwear on. I thought this was the silver lining to Kathy’s cloud.
But then…I pictured Siobhan’s angry face. She looked really sexy when she was angry, her neck and face flushed pink, pupils wide, the air around us crackling with tension. Anger is closely related to passion, after all. Oh god, I wonder how long it will take her to calm down.
What if she calls the police, like she threatened?
What if . . ?
Bang bang bang.
It was probably the police. A nice cop and a nasty cop, with suspicious eyes and minds and all sorts of questions.
And how did you come by these credit card details, sir? Where were you the night Kathy Noonan died?
It wasn’t the police. It was a girl, asking for Natalie:
‘Ah, hi. Have I got the right address?’
‘Who are you looking for?’
I wondered for a split-second if she might be a plainclothes policewoman – a honeytrap from the Met, sent to get me to ‘fess up. She was a little overweight to be a honeytrap, perhaps, but she wasn’t unattractive. Her eyes were blue and bright with amusement. She seemed a little flustered too – perhaps she’s one of those people who mirrors the actions of the person they’re talking to.
‘Natalie Sauvage.’
‘Oh no. I mean yes. Natalie does live here – sort of. Her boyfriend, um, does.’ I was having an attack of the Hugh Grants.
The girl smiled at me. Probably a Hugh Grant fan, then. ‘Is she in?’
‘No. She’s at work, I think.’
She looked at her watch. ‘Oh yes, of course. It’s just that I was in Camden and thought… well, anyway, can you tell her Emily called round?’
‘Emily. Okay.’
And she walked away, looking over her shoulder at me and smiling again before I closed the door.
I lay on my bed for a while, waiting for my heart to slow down. When I closed my eyes, Siobhan’s face swam up in front of my eyes.
I wanted to call her, talk to her. I needed to make her understand. I had a knot in my gut, a bubble of dread floating inside me. Had I screwed it all up? Helen had told me that if she was a woman she’d like to receive flowers and undies and so on – exactly as I suspected. I don’t pretend to understand to women but I know that. They like underwear as long as it isn’t scratchy and crotchless; they love all sorts of flowers; and they’re all totally obsessed with clothes. So why was Siobhan so angry? Sigh…maybe I should have sent her chocolates instead.
I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – Siobhan isn’t like other women. She’s unique. Okay, I made her angry. I made some mistakes.
But there has to be some way to make it right. I need to know more about Siobhan, to really get inside her head, her most private spaces. That’s it. Once I’ve seen into her soul, I’ll know exactly how to win her heart.
Later
I’ve just got in after going out with Si and Nat. They came home at about seven this evening; I was asleep. Must have been worn out. Don’t think I dreamt about anything, though. Certainly nothing memorable. Simon knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink.
I said I wasn’t in the mood, but he insisted. ‘It’s time you came out of your bedroom, mate,’ he said. He doesn’t realise that every time I leave my room, something goes wrong. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Plus I had no alcohol left in the house and I needed a drink to quell the tremors that kept running through me.
We went to a pub behind Camden High Street, a favourite haunt of Simon and Natalie. It was a cosy, smoky place, the bar awash with fag ash and foam, the Irish barman’s political sympathies tattooed in green on his forearms.
We sat and drank our pints. I was worried that Si might start asking me how the job hunting was going, so I was tense. Plus I kept thinking about what happened the last time I visited a pub. Somebody died. Luckily though, we chatted about everything but job-hunting: football, telly, music, all the usual stuff that stops us having to talk about anything serious. It’s one of th
e reasons Si and I get on: we don’t ever go near weighty or emotional subjects.
Which was why I was so surprised when Simon started saying how he was worried about me.
‘Why? What do you mean?’
He and Nat exchanged a look.
‘Well, mate, you hardly come out any more, just sit in your room tapping away on the computer. You’ve lost weight, you’re smoking twice as much, you hardly talk to us any more. I was amazed when you said you’d come out tonight.’
‘I haven’t been able to come out because I haven’t got much money. I’ve been worrying about finding a job.’
‘How is that coming along?’ said Nat, but Simon raised a hand for her to shush. (He was quite drunk by now – he wouldn’t have dared shush her if he wasn’t.)
‘I know that, mate. But you were like this before you lost that shitty job. And it was a shitty job, wasn’t it? It used to depress me just seeing you come home after a day there. You’re an intelligent bloke. You should be doing something different, better. I mean look at me…’
He went into a speech about how important and well-paid he is, writing copy for dog food adverts and taglines for tampon commercials. Natalie nodded along. But beneath the waffle, he had a point. I knew that. I’ve spent the last ten years of my life drifting along, from crap job to crap job, going travelling when I could afford it, never having any money in the bank, approaching my thirties without a whiff of a career or a family. Not that I fucking want either of those things. I just want…well, what do I want?. The only answer to that question is ‘Siobhan’. She’s my only desire. Alright, there are other things I want – to write my book, have a little money, to not be so bored all the time. But if Siobhan and I get together, everything else will fall into place. She and I will be able to live together, writing our books, kind of like Iris Murdoch and her husband, but hopefully without the Alzheimer’s. Although if Siobhan did get sick I’d care for her. I’d like that, in fact. And I wouldn’t let anything go wrong like it did with Chips the hamster.