Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  All’s forgiven, babe, just let me know you’re OK.

  Maybe, just maybe, it’s his way of telling me he is OK. But he had no way of knowing I’d be here. Even I didn’t know I’d be here until a few hours ago. This is crazy.

  The sound of a door slamming shut gives me a start. A skinny guy in a grey hoodie is crossing the yard, a dirty red rucksack on his back.

  ‘Excuse me!’ I’m up and marching purposefully towards him.

  He ignores me and keeps walking.

  ‘Excuse me, can I ask you a question?’

  He throws me an anxious glance. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you live here?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘This mural.’ I point at the wall. ‘Has it been here long?’

  He looks at the paste-up as if noticing it for the first time.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Please, it’s important . . .’

  ‘Not sure . . . maybe a few weeks.’

  ‘Not days?’

  He shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

  I sigh in exasperation and nod at him. ‘Thanks.’

  I suddenly feel ridiculous, flailing around, accosting strangers. I can’t hang about here forever, I won’t get any answers just staring at the wall. I take a few pictures of the paste-up and leave, throwing one last glance behind me.

  By the time I get back to Hoxton my hopeful elation seems to have evaporated. I realize there is a perfectly logical explanation for how Anton’s mural ended up in the Wick. He could’ve pasted it up after he got back from his travels and before his death. Perhaps he was planning to show it to me in a reconciliatory gesture, a ‘big reveal’, Anton-style.

  I really shouldn’t get my hopes up, I know he’s dead. But a tiny part of me is feeding on doubt now, making me restless and raw. On the train back from Hackney Wick I caught myself scanning people’s faces looking for his familiar features, listening out for his French accent, searching for him. I can feel an obsession take root, and I know that if I’m not careful it’ll monopolize everything I think and do. I have to stop it now, I have to nip it in the bud before it takes over my life.

  Distraction. The best weapon against any obsession is distraction.

  I force myself to turn my computer on and upload the photos I took at the Wick. I quickly run them through Photoshop, cropping and resizing them to a smaller format. I make a folder for Heather, purposefully ignoring the images of Anton’s mural, and email it to her, titled ‘Proposed Shoot Location’. There, job done. I’m just about to check my phone messages when I look at the clock. Damn, I’m supposed to meet Heather at the Union Chapel in half an hour. A quick sprint to a bus stop in New North Road just in time to catch a crowded 271, which gets me to Highbury Corner.

  I make it with five minutes to spare. There is an orderly queue already formed on the pavement in front of the chapel. I walk along it looking for Heather, catching snippets of conversations about Glyndebourne Festival and the Summer Exhibition. I didn’t realize Mr Ewer drew such a posh crowd. I reach the beginning of the queue without finding Heather. On the heavy wooden doors to the chapel there is a board with the running order for tonight’s performance. A quartet called Feather Cerebrum is doing the warm-up act before the main attraction of the evening: the London premiere of Patrick Ewer’s chamber piece.

  It’s called ‘Violin-Land’.

  ‘I’m so sorry I’m late.’ Heather’s voice pulls me out of a shocked daze. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here. The chapel is open, the queue has disappeared and the usher at the door is gesturing for us to hurry up.

  It’s packed inside, but Heather manages to negotiate some space for us in the last pew. Feather Cerebrum are already on stage, tuning their instruments and fiddling with the microphones.

  ‘I can’t wait to hear Patrick’s piece,’ Heather whispers. ‘He’s such a great violinist.’

  I nod, trying to hide the panic building up inside me. A violinist.

  The guy who’s been watching my loft for weeks. The guy who saw Anton being fucked by a stranger in my bed. The guy who caused Anton to get himself arrested. My Peeping Tom is a violinist. And he’s composed ‘Violin-Land’.

  Feather Cerebrum have started playing; melancholy piano riffs overlaid with string cords and delicate percussion fill the neo-Gothic vaulted interior, but I’m unable to enjoy the music. Although it’s hot outside, the chapel seems chilly and damp, making me shiver in my thin T-shirt. I suddenly feel pins and needles in my hands and feet and begin to flex my fingers, drawing a strange look from the man next to me. I’m sweating, despite the chill in the air.

  Peeping Tom is a violinist. What kind of bizarre coincidence is this? Perhaps it’s not a coincidence. Maybe there is a connection between the guy whose victim’s dead body I photographed all those years ago and the man who lives opposite and seems to have a penchant for watching me. But what on earth could they have in common? Why is this happening to me? Why do I keep stumbling upon violinists everywhere? Why is Ewer’s piece called ‘Violin-Land’? What does it all mean?

  I can’t stand being squashed among all these people, I can’t stand the loud music, the oppressive damp smell, the glaring lights. I have to get out of here. I mumble something about the loo to Heather and climb over people’s legs towards the exit. I spot the ‘Toilets’ sign pointing at the transept to the right and trot that way, my head lowered, trying to make myself invisible.

  Thankfully there is no one inside. I lock myself in the furthest cubicle and sit down on the closed loo, ignoring my usual aversion to public toilet germs. The tiny, dingy space feels like a sanctuary. I take a few deep breaths, the smell of bleach cleaner filling my lungs. There, a bit better. Feather Cerebrum’s music trickles in through the closed doors, soothing and gentle.

  I’ll be fine. There’s nothing to be worked up about. Even if there is a sinister side to Mr Ewer, I’m safe here, surrounded by hundreds of people. This is the best place to confront him, to show him I’m not scared. Yes, that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll walk up to him and look him straight in the eye. Challenge him. The boot is on the other foot, Mr Peeping Tom.

  I can hear muted applause – Feather Cerebrum must’ve finished playing. A couple of women come into the toilet, talking loudly about their daughters who have apparently just got into the Camden School for Girls. Good for them. I wait until they leave and open the cubicle door. One more lungful of bleached air and it’s time to face the devil.

  The lights are dimmed in the chapel and the compère is introducing the big star of the evening.

  ‘. . . one of the most popular and prolific London composers, whose distinctive contemporary classical style is recognizable to music fans all over the world. He’s been composing for stage and screen and has received many awards, including the prestigious SOLO Music Award. His brand new album, Violin-Land, will be available for sale in our shop after the concert . . . Ladies and Gentlemen – Patrick Ewer!’

  Applause erupts as a spotlight searches out a tall figure, a narrow electronic violin under his arm, standing in the wings. I recognize my Peeping Tom and my heart begins to pound. What shall I do? Jump on stage and confront him now? Wait until the concert is over? Sit in the front row and glare at him? I edge closer to the empty stage. Why is he making everyone wait? Is he stalling? Perhaps he’s seen me already . . .

  Applause grows stronger as he slowly makes his way up to the stage, accompanied by a slim, blonde woman. She leads him gently towards the music console with its various mixers and keyboards. As I watch him shuffle forward, I take in his stooping, hesitant gait, his self-conscious smile, his dark glasses, and it slowly dawns on me.

  Patrick Ewer is blind.

  27

  I don’t remember much of the concert, apart from the fact that the music was haunting and beautiful. What I do remember is being utterly mortified by my own thick-headedness. How could I have not noticed the man was blind? As I sat there watching Ewer create the most mesmerizing and lyrical sound, my m
ind kept replaying the image of me, hanging off the windowsill completely drunk, flashing my tits and shouting obscenities at him. My self-inflicted humiliation couldn’t be more complete.

  Having excused myself from post-gig drinks with Heather, I half walk, half trot home, wanting to bury myself in the darkest corner of the loft. It is dark there, thanks to the painted-over windows, and before I turn the light on I manage to slip on something lying on the floor by the front door. A small padded envelope. I pick it up, my heart racing, not knowing what to expect. It’s a set of keys with a small grey fob, accompanied by an art nouveau notecard from Liberty.

  Dear Kristin,

  Thank you so much for agreeing to look after Matilda. You are an absolute darling. The fob is for the alarm, which will start bleeping as you open the door. Touch it against the padlock sign on the keyboard and the bleeping will stop. Do the same when leaving and the alarm will arm itself. You’ll have plenty of time to leave and lock the door. Eternally grateful,

  Rupert, Daniel and Matilda

  PS The address is on the back of this card

  I have to put a note about it in Google calendar straight away. I don’t want to have a starved-to-death python on my conscience.

  I power the Mac up, click on Firefox and put Matilda in the diary, a week from today. I add a few exclamation marks to her name and extend the duration of the appointment, so it stretches across half a day. It probably won’t take that long, but it’ll be more difficult to miss it this way.

  My phone vibrates somewhere at the bottom of my bag and I remember I put it on silent before the concert. I fish it out and check the screen. Five new texts and three voicemails. OK, texts first. Rupert lets me know he’s dropped off their keys. Delete. Jason wants me to call him. I have to give it to him, he is persistent. Delete. The next text is from Sophie.

  I need to talk to you.

  Shit. She knows.

  I put the phone down, go to the kitchen and open the drinks cupboard. At the very back of it there is a large bottle of mescal which Anton and I dragged all the way from Oaxaca in Mexico. I shake it to wake up the gusano rojo, the red worm floating at the bottom of it. I need your strength, brother, I think as I take a swig straight from the bottle. Its musty and peaty taste burns my throat and its warmth spreads in my stomach instantly. I take a couple more swigs and put the bottle back in the cupboard. I don’t want to get drunk, I just need liquid courage to deal with what’s unavoidable. I’ll have to speak to Sophie, I can’t keep putting it off any longer.

  While waiting for the mescal to do its job, I pick up the phone again and check the rest of my messages.

  Back in town, fancy a bevvy?

  That’s from Erin and I’m glad she’s got in touch. She’s one of the few people who’d understand what’s going on in my life. And I might need a friendly shoulder to cry on very soon. The last message stops me in my tracks.

  Let’s talk.

  It’s from Marcus.

  I’m in trouble. If both sides of a couple contact you independently wanting to talk, the news is always bad. I find that couples tend to present a united front when they have something positive to announce. But when things go to seed, everyone goes it alone. I’m in trouble, no doubt about it, the question is how big is the trouble? The two independent messages, from Sophie and from Marcus, suggest it’s of titanic proportions.

  To delay the inevitable, I check my voicemail. A message from Vero makes me smile. Apparently Pixel got into some serious mischief right after my departure. It involved Vero’s Kashan rug, but she doesn’t go into details. Anyway, it turns out Fly is allergic to cats and Pixel’s seaside holiday will have to be cut short. Vero and Fly are coming to London tomorrow to a special screening of the Final Cut of Blade Runner (not to be confused with the Director’s Cut) at the NFT and will drop Pixel off before the show. Vero has her own set of keys to the loft, so they’ll let themselves in even if I’m not here. The little fur-ball is coming home.

  The second message is from PC Singh. Through the mescal haze I listen to her reciting the words in a matter-of-fact, professional tone. Coroner’s decision. Inquest not necessary. Death by misadventure. I stare at the phone’s cracked screen in disbelief. And that’s it? Death by misadventure? What about all the unanswered questions? What about the drugs in his system? CCTV footage? His missing laptop and bike? I can’t believe they’ve just swept Anton’s death under some bureaucratic rug! And then it hits me: that scoundrel Lionel and his cold fish of a lawyer. That’s what they wanted all along. No inquest. No scandal. There, done and dusted. As if Anton had never existed . . .

  I bite back the tears as I let the third voice message play out.

  ‘Kris, it’s Sophie, please call me when you get this message. I’m . . . Yeah, just call me, please, doesn’t matter what time, I’ll be waiting.’

  Shit. I take a deep breath and touch Sophie’s name in the Contacts list. She answers on the first ring.

  ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘Right now?’ I glance at the clock on my Mac. It’s 10.30 p.m. ‘Sure . . .’

  ‘I’m at the Four Seasons in Canary Wharf.’

  ‘Canary Wharf?’ What on earth is she doing there? It’s an awkward schlep and I don’t want to drive with mescal in my veins. But going to see her is the least I can do, under the circumstances. ‘Of course, Soph, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  ‘I’ll be at the Quadrato Lounge.’ She disconnects.

  I suppose I deserve short shrift.

  I bring up the Uber app on my phone and am swiftly connected with my driver, Serhan, who’ll take me to Canary Wharf. He is a chatty Turkish chap, who spends the journey telling me in great detail the story of his hip replacement surgery. He shouldn’t be driving yet, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I know exactly what he means. I’m grateful for his amusing monologue that keeps my mind off PC Singh’s revelation. The calculated iciness of Anton’s brother doesn’t bear thinking about. We arrive at the Four Seasons and I get out of the cab, breathing in the damp, slightly musty smell of the Thames. The hotel is perched on the riverside, its warm lights reflected in the water. It could be an idyllic picture, but it’s not.

  It’s time to pay the piper.

  I walk in through the glass door. Sophie is pacing nervously in reception, her hand to her mouth. As I approach her I can see she’s biting her fingernails, a habit she kicked years ago when we were both students. She looks tired and pale and there are dark mascara smudges under her eyes.

  What have I done to her?

  She notices me and she throws me a wan smile.

  ‘You’ve come.’

  I nod, unsure what to say.

  ‘They closed the lounge five minutes ago. Let’s go up to my room.’

  ‘You’re staying here?’

  She shrugs. ‘I have a business account with Four Seasons.’

  ‘You do?’

  She ignores my question as she turns towards the lifts. I trot behind her, trying to understand what’s going on.

  Her room is on the seventh floor. It’s spacious and elegant, in the style Anton called ‘cosy corporate’. Its best feature is a massive window behind which stretches the most magnificent panorama of the Thames with the lights of the City shimmering in the distance.

  Sophie goes straight to the minibar and takes two Johnny Walker Black Label miniature bottles out. She pours the whisky into heavy crystal glasses and hands one of them to me. She takes her glass to the armchair by the window and sits down with a sigh. I perch on the edge of the king-size bed.

  I feel like asking her what’s going on, but I know it would be duplicitous.

  ‘I’ve left Marcus,’ she says at last.

  Oh no, here we go. The pounding of my heart is so loud I’m sure she can hear it.

  ‘I checked in here last night. I’ve given him till the end of the week to move out of the house. I just can’t stand being under the same roof with him . . .’ Her voice catches.

  I should
say something now. I should try to apologize.

  ‘Soph, I’m so sorry, I—’ I break off, unable to find the right words.

  ‘I’ve found a good divorce lawyer. She thinks there might be a slight complication with the division of the company assets, but apart from that it should be pretty straightforward.’

  ‘You’re getting a divorce?’ God, what a mess.

  ‘I can’t imagine spending one more day with him. The lawyer says that, with adultery as grounds, it’s going to be really quick. A clear-cut case, she reckons. He isn’t even denying it.’

  If there was a way of melting into the carpet and dropping down straight to hell, I’d choose it right now.

  ‘Soph, I don’t know what to say . . .’

  She drains her glass in one gulp.

  ‘I mean . . . I’m as mortified by the whole thing as you are . . .’ I cringe at my own words.

  She jumps up from the armchair with a scream and hurls the glass at the wall.

  ‘Fucking idiot!’

  I freeze, not recognizing the Sophie I know. Wild-eyed, she stares at the broken glass, then slumps down to the floor, sobbing.

  ‘Soph?’ I put my glass down and kneel down by her. Cautiously, I touch her arm. ‘Soph?’

  She abruptly turns towards me and for a moment I think she’s going to hit me. Instead, she leans forward and puts her face in the crook of my neck. I put my arms round her and rock her gently until her sobbing subsides.

  Eventually she pushes herself up and goes to the minibar again.

  ‘We’ve run out of whisky. It’ll have to be Jose Cuervo this time.’ She drops a mini-bottle of tequila in my lap.

  This will go down a treat with all that mescal I had earlier.

  She settles back in the armchair and takes a swig straight from the bottle.

  ‘Marcus and his fucking Lust Junction . . .’ She chuckles humourlessly.

  ‘His what?’

  ‘Lust Junk-shion.’ She pronounces it in a slow, exaggerated way.