20
I’ve rung Sophie. I’ve spoken to Vero. I called Heather and apologized for the delay in delivering the Playthingz pictures. It’s another day and I’m dealing with life. I’m holding up. But I’m not returning PC Singh’s calls. Whatever she has to tell me can wait. I put the phone down on the kitchen table. Just those few phone calls seem to have sucked out all the energy I had left in me. What if I sit here quietly and wait for something to happen? No, I don’t want anything to happen. Nothing at all. I’ll just sit here until I get so tired I’ll have to rest my head on the table and fall asleep. Perhaps I’ll never wake up.
Pixel pulls me out of my stupor. He keeps nudging me with his nose, purring loudly.
‘What do you want?’
I open a fresh tray of his cat food but he ignores it, weaving in and out around my legs, meowing. I check his water bowl. It’s full.
‘What is it?’
He stares at me with his striking green eyes, twitching his tail.
‘I hate it when you’re so demanding,’ I tell him and playfully ruffle the fur on his back, which I know he dislikes. But he purrs even louder, pushing his head under my hand.
And then I know. He misses Anton. He never behaved like this when Anton was gone for months on end but today he’s grieving over his death because somehow his sixth sense has told him that Anton’s not coming back. I scoop him off the floor and hold him tightly, much too tightly, but he doesn’t mind. He seems tiny, somehow much smaller now than he appears when he’s prowling the loft like a miniature tiger, and I find comfort in holding his delicate, warm body next to my chest. I rock back and forth with the purring bundle in my arms, and for the first time since Anton’s death, I feel pure, absolute grief, unadulterated by the residual anger caused by his betrayal.
Holding up is not that easy after all. Now that Anna has shattered my illusion about organizing a show for Anton, I can’t even throw myself into some displacement activity that would make me feel I’m doing something meaningful. But I know that if I keep sitting on my own in the loft feeling sorry for myself, I will self-destruct, implode with all that grief pent up inside me. I have to do something.
I look at the box of Playthingz sitting abandoned by the lighting stage. Perhaps I could have another go at the Mapplethorpe idea? I put Pixel gently down on the floor and get up heavily. I force myself to look through the contents of the box but nothing grabs my imagination. The toys have lost their sensuous, quirky power, they just look like cheap pieces of PVC, silicone and rubber. It’s not going to work. I was deluding myself when I thought I could breathe some magic into them, create something worthwhile. I will not break onto the art scene by photographing bits of plastic. It’s simply not going to happen.
The sharp sound of the entryphone buzzer interrupts my creative brooding. It’s PC Singh and I buzz her in even though she’s uninvited. I need some distraction. Anything will do, as long as it pulls me out of myself. She arrives at my door short of breath, which makes me wonder about the police fitness requirements.
‘I’m sorry I’ve come unannounced but I did leave a couple of messages on your phone . . . How are you?’
‘Surviving.’
‘I know. It’s hard.’
She looks at me with her sad puppy eyes but this time I don’t fall for her ‘supportive’ act. I shrug and let the silence drag on until she clears her throat.
‘May I?’ She gestures at the kitchen and I nod.
She goes to the kitchen table, pulls out a chair and sits down. She points at the chair opposite. Taken aback but curious, I sit down, facing her.
‘Why are you here, Anu?’
Without a word she reaches down into a big TKMaxx bag she’s brought with her. She pulls a green carrier bag out of it and places it on the table.
‘These are Anton’s possessions. His brother didn’t want them.’
Anu pushes the bag towards me. I stare at it, speechless.
‘His lawyer requested we dispose of them. As far as he knows, we have done just that.’
‘Why are you doing this? Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?’
‘I know you don’t trust me. You feel sidelined, ignored, and you blame me for it. But you’re wrong. I’m on your side. I’m very sorry you’ve lost your boyfriend. I do know what you’re going through.’
She sounds sincere and I believe her. She has managed to break through my defences.
‘Thank you,’ I croak through tears. ‘Thank you for bringing it here.’
She nods. ‘Shall we have a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, tea . . .’
She fills the kettle and turns it on.
‘You know what they call me at work? Teacup to my face and Teabag behind my back. Because I’m always making tea.’ She smiles at me. ‘My mother used to say that a nice cup of tea is the key to good health, happiness and calm. And she was right. There’s plenty of scientific evidence that it reduces the risk of heart attack and lung cancer, helps prevent Alzheimer’s, provides protection from—’
‘I’m sorry I was a bit of an arse earlier. I do appreciate you dropping by.’
‘That’s all right, you’re welcome.’
She places the mug in front of me and sits down.
‘Do you mind if I ask you about Anton?’
I instantly tense up but have no reason to say no.
‘Go on.’
‘Was he prone to mood swings, depression?’
‘Anton?’
‘You said you’d split up . . . he must’ve been upset.’
‘Upset enough to kill himself, is that what you’re saying? Anton was the most resilient, headstrong, gutsy person I’ve ever known. OK, he was a bit volatile, but he’d never take his own life . . . Never.’
‘Men tend to hide these things quite well. They keep ploughing on until they reach breaking point. Statistically, suicide is the biggest cause of death among men under fifty—’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not Anton.’
‘The reason I’m asking is that we’ve checked all the CCTV footage from the building site. As you can imagine, the whole area is pretty well covered and there’s absolutely no evidence of anyone else being there with him.’
‘Of course, Anton always did his recces on his own.’
‘His what?’
‘He was there on a recce, it’s obvious. He’d been offered a street-art project in the area and he was doing his research. You know, taking pictures of the site, measuring the walls. He must’ve had his G15 with him.’
‘G15?’
‘His camera, Canon G15. Similar to this one, just a bit newer.’ I point at my G12 sitting on a bookshelf next to some travel guides. ‘He always carried it with him on a recce.’
‘We didn’t find a camera at the scene. But please, tell me more about his recces.’
‘Well, he’d go to the site in advance to get the feel of the place and to get all the measurements. He had one of those laser measuring things. With paste-ups you have to be precise about the size of the artwork. Every piece gets printed in advance and on the day you just glue it to the wall.’
‘Do you know who offered him the job in King’s Cross?’
‘That I don’t know.’ I pause, trying to remember. ‘He mentioned a regeneration project or partnership, something like that . . .’
‘Yes, there’s a lot of it still going on in the area.’ She finishes her tea and puts the mug down. ‘Oh well, I’d better get back to the station before they run out of tea.’ She smiles at me.
‘Thanks for bringing this over.’ I gesture at the green bag.
‘Don’t mention it.’
She walks to the door, then stops as if she’s remembered something.
‘Oh, one more thing. Was Anton a user?’
‘What, drugs? No. He was a heavy smoker, like most French guys. But that’s it.’
‘They’ve found Ketamine in his system.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘These te
sts are usually quite conclusive.’
‘I’ve never seen him take drugs. Apart from an occasional joint . . .’
‘That’s fine. Forget I asked, it’s nothing to worry about. Take care of yourself, Kristin.’
Anu smiles at me reassuringly and then she’s gone, the front door clicking shut behind her. I sit motionlessly, trying to process everything she’s said. Depression, suicide, drugs – they all contradict the image I’ve always had of Anton. It’s as if she was talking about someone else, a complete stranger, not him. I look at the bag she’s left on the table, with a green PATIENT PROPERTY sign emblazoned on it, and I’m scared to open it. I’m scared of what I’ll find inside.
I get up and wander aimlessly around the loft. I stand for ages by the window, staring at the dark building opposite. Eventually I turn away and look around. It strikes me how chaotic and untidy the loft has become. A stack of unopened mail by the front door, a messy pile of tangled T-shirts by the bed, dirty plates and mugs in the sink, pellets of Pixel’s cat litter crunching underfoot. I sweep the floor and tidy up, stopping short of hoovering the whole place. This will have to do for now. I can’t ignore the plastic bag sitting on the kitchen table any longer.
I pick it up and turn it gently upside down, its contents spilling onto the table with a rattle. I sit down and stare at it, without touching anything.
A black matte Zippo lighter.
A packet of Marlboros.
Blue Powerbeats earphones.
A titanium money clip with three twenty-pound notes.
A half-full blister pack of Nicorette gum.
A Surefire tactical flashlight.
A driving licence.
A Staedtler Pigment Liner.
A Kryptonite bicycle lock key.
A Durex condom in its blue wrapper.
Two one-pound coins.
A strangely shaped thin piece of wood.
That’s it. I double-check the hospital bag but it’s empty. No phone. No camera. No wallet with his cards. Nothing else. My throat constricts with grief and I have to bite on my knuckles to stop myself from crying again. Nothing else is left of Anton. I take a few deep breaths and force myself to go through the objects on the table, one by one, slowly and deliberately.
The lighter: I remember Anton always playing with it, turning it in his fingers. Hands are one of the first things I notice about people and his were exceptionally beautiful, big and strong, with long fingers and neatly trimmed nails. The earphones: I got them for him last Christmas. The flashlight: last year’s birthday present from me. The Staedtler liner: it’s mine, actually. The tiny flat piece of wood: it’s smooth and so thin it’s almost weightless, with elaborate symmetrical shapes cut into it. I raise it against the light, trying to guess its purpose. And then it strikes me; it resembles space invaders, the tiny pixelated baddies from the seventies arcade game. More to the point, it looks just like the street art by Invader, the French urban artist who’d been Anton’s idol and inspiration for years. I remember our first trip to Paris and Anton pointing out a colourful shape made of tiny square ceramic tiles stuck to the facade of a Beaubourg building, while he told me excitedly about the elusive guy who ‘invaded’ cities around the world with his art. I place the tiny wooden shape in the palm of my hand. This must be one of Invader’s pieces of art and it must’ve meant a lot to Anton for him to carry it around in his pocket. I open my wallet and drop it in. There, little guy, you’ll be travelling with me from now on.
I go back to Anton’s things scattered on the table. I choose to ignore the condom and poke at the Nicorette gum. I didn’t know he was trying to quit. Feeling a sudden urge to smoke, I pick up the packet of Marlboros. There are two cigarettes left, and as I pull one out, I notice something else inside the packet. A USB flash drive in a rubberized silicone casing. I grab it and head straight for my Mac. Typical Anton, hiding something like this inside the most disposable of containers. I wonder if the police had found it.
Instant disappointment. The drive is password-protected. You and your bloody passwords, Anton. I try Corto, CortoMaltese and MalteseCorto, getting a ‘wrong password’ message each time. How about Pixel? Wrong again. Savage, his street-art name. Nope. Maybe Invader? The drive does something weird, as if trying to reset itself, but I’m still not getting access to any files. So much for playing the digital detective. I return to the kitchen table and look at the objects.
The bicycle lock key. I pick it up. His bike. I’d completely forgotten about it. Where is it? He hardly ever used public transport so he must’ve cycled to King’s Cross. There is a remote chance that his bicycle is still there, chained to some railing. If it hasn’t been nicked by now that is . . . I turn the key in my fingers. Would I be able to recognize his bike among the hundreds of bicycles that are probably left at King’s Cross every day? Then again, would anyone in their right mind leave their bike in KX? I must find it. I jump up from the table, a woman on a mission.
21
I’m on my bike, pedalling along City Road towards Angel. Normally I’d weave in and out of small streets to avoid the main thoroughfare but today I’m in a hurry. The traffic is surprisingly light and I reach Pentonville Road in record time. Soon the majestic two-arch facade of King’s Cross station is looming in front of me. I go around it, along the side of St Pancras International, spotting a row of bicycle racks on the pavement right by the taxi rank in Battle Bridge Place. I lock my bike, surreptitiously inspecting all the other bicycles parked there. Anton’s Budnitz No. 3 isn’t among them. He loved that bike, with its beautifully engineered frame, all titanium and steel, and large Kojak tyres. I thought he was crazy spending a fortune on such a nickable pair of wheels but he was adamant. He called it his ‘fun machine’ and treated it better than he’d ever treated me.
I look around, seeing the area with fresh eyes. King’s Cross has always seemed like a place you pass through, holding your breath, on the way somewhere else. Now I see it for the first time as a destination. It’s changed. It’s no longer preening itself to attract money. The money has arrived. I look at the elegant building of the Great Northern Hotel with its Plum and Spilt Milk restaurant advertising champagne dinners, the swanky German Gymnasium where instead of losing pounds you can gain them on their Mittel-European dishes, and the ‘industrial chic’ of Vinoteca. As I watch travellers rushing by with their expensive rolling suitcases I wonder when was the last time I bothered to notice the changes. A couple of office girls pass me, one of them talking loudly about her new boyfriend who apparently isn’t used to being in a long-term relationship. What am I doing here? I’ve come chasing Anton’s shadow and now I’m not sure it was such a good idea. But the place has drawn me in and is not letting me go. I cast a glance towards King’s Boulevard. Is this where he went that morning?
I follow the wide pedestrianized alley, cross the canal and reach Granary Square. There are too many people here, tourists, office workers, St Martin’s students, milling around the sun-drenched space, captivated by the choreographed jets of the fountain in the middle. The fountain makes its own sound, resembling the clapping of many hands. But it’s too bright here, too noisy and cheerful. Something pulls me towards the derelict remains of an old warehouse flanking the square from the left, its rickety wall propped up by sleek scaffolding. Just in front of the cavernous Grain Store restaurant on the corner, I spot more bike rails, packed with flashy urban two-wheelers. There is a Budnitz among them but it has a honey-leather saddle and white wheels. It’s not Anton’s.
I walk along a steel fence in Stable Street and soon reach another open space with modern, angular solid wood benches and ridiculously cheerful yellow metal tables and chairs. Obviously the money has reached this corner too. And there they are, the dark steel and green-tinted windows of the new buildings still under construction. I instantly know that this is where he’d come that morning, drawn by these unfinished, huge structures filling the horizon. These are the concrete behemoths that greet the Eurostar passengers just befo
re their train pulls in to the station. This is exactly where Anton would want to put his art up. But there is nothing that would suggest a tragedy has happened here, no police tape, no tarps shielding the scene. The whole site is neat, tidy and well protected. In fact, it strikes me as being too well protected, with a tasteful green fence, bright orange gates and a security booth. How did he manage to get inside? I certainly won’t be able to scale the fence now and I wouldn’t be able to do it at 7 a.m. either. Did someone let him in? Was someone else with him when he died, despite what the CCTV footage seems to suggest? I sit down heavily on a bench, staring at the unreachable construction site sprawling in front of me. I know I will never be able to find the spot where he died, I won’t find his bike, won’t come across even the tiniest trace of Anton. He is gone.
I stagger back towards the station, enclosed in a tight bubble of grief, not seeing the crowds around me. Coming here was a bad idea. It hasn’t helped in any way, it has only made me feel worse. What was I hoping to find anyway? Even if I did manage to come across his bike, what would it tell me?
It’s the beginning of the rush hour and Battle Bridge Place is filled with urban hustle and bustle. I dart out of the noise and heat into the new departures concourse. The semi-circular steel-and-glass structure is stunning and its elegant beauty manages to penetrate my private gloom. The concourse is packed with commuters but there is a strange stillness about them as they all stare at the departure boards. For a moment I’m convinced I’ve stumbled upon a flash mob, but as I walk among them I realize they are simply waiting, their eyes glued to the information boards, ready to make a dash for the right platform. Maybe I could hop on some train, go somewhere, no matter where, just to get away from the here and now? But wouldn’t the ‘here and now’ follow me wherever I go?
Exposure Page 14