Tom wastes little time.
He swaps the binoculars for the camera and exits the bed-sit.
Down the stairs two at a time and outside, sucking in cold air, feet slapping the road, up to the apartment entrance, only to find the door locked.
He stands to the side and taps his foot rapidly.
A minute passes. It feels like longer. He nervously checks the street for any sign of the woman’s partner returning. Two minutes of a wait and there is movement from within. A tall, lean man approaches, a gym bag in his hand, seemingly large enough to hold a tread-mill. Tom pretends to play with the camera until the door swings open. He stops the door from closing with his foot and enters.
The hall floor is beige tiles, the walls painted a cool blue, cone-shaped lights draped from the smooth, white ceiling. There is a lift to the left of the entrance, stippled, silver metal doors which give Tom’s reflection an expressionist look to it. Tom doesn’t like lifts. He opts for the stairs, jogging at first. Each floor is a double set of steps and by the third floor his chest feels like it is being crushed from the outside and his legs are resisting the challenge.
Tom slows. His movement becomes part walk and part pull as he uses the handrail for support. There is a sign on each level, the corresponding floor number in yellow against a black background. It is with some relief that he reaches number six. A door leads onto a corridor, grey speckled carpet, the lift entrance nearest to the stairs and a series of apartment doors further along.
Tom stops and thinks. When he had last spotted the grey-eyed woman she was on the balcony at the side nearest the exit. Tom closes his eyes and envisages the location of his own building in relation to these apartments. He works out where the main door would be from this position and figures that her apartment must be the first one on his right-hand side.
The door is white, the number fifty-five in gold digits near the top.
He knocks with a double-rap and readies his camera for a quick shot.
He waits.
There is no answer.
He knocks again. A bit louder this time.
He hears the muffled thump of movement behind the door.
Ready.
Tom places his finger on the button of the camera.
Steady.
His breathing is quick, short breaths.
Ping.
A noise disturbs his preparation. It comes from his right and is quickly followed by a clatter as the lift doors open.
Shit.
Tom inhales sharply, holds his breath.
Don’t be her partner. Don’t be her partner.
A man exits the lift.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
It is him, the partner, reading a newspaper as he walks.
Tom’s instinct is to run.
Where do these corridors lead?
Shit.
A chain rattles against the inside of the door of the apartment. It is followed by a clunking sound and the door opens to reveal a man, sideburns, pompadour hairstyle, big white teeth, clean-shaven. He wears jeans and a white vest. He gives Tom the thumbs-up.
It’s the Fonz from Happy Days, Tom thinks.
What the hell is the Fonz doing in her apartment?
Aaaaaaay Mrs C. Get me the fuck out of here.
‘Let me guess,’ the man says. ‘Cats.’
Tom isn’t sure how to answer. He merely nods his head and the Fonz ducks back into the apartment. Tom moves his frame so he has his back to the man approaching from the lift.
His footsteps are a low steady beat on the carpet.
Closer.
To Tom’s position.
Past him from the rear.
There is intense pressure in Tom’s lungs. He is afraid to breathe out.
But he has to.
Breathe. Breathe, you fool. Breathe.
He does. It is audible and for one horrible moment Tom thinks the man is going to angle his frame around to have a good look at him.
Instead, his footsteps take him away from Tom and away from the opened apartment door.
He stops at the next door up, retrieves his key from his pocket and clumsily unlocks his door while trying to maintain his sight on the newspaper.
Christ, the wrong apartment.
The Fonz appears again. He holds a wooden box in his arms.
‘There’s only two left,’ he says and directs Tom’s attention to two kittens in the box. ‘Which one do you want?’
‘No,’ Tom says. ‘I don’t want a kitten.’
‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ Tom stammers.
‘Do you want a kitten or not?’ The Fonz’s voice is loud. Too loud.
Tom is aware of the second man. He has not entered his apartment yet. He must be looking at us right now, Tom thinks, probably wondering where he recognises the man with the camera from.
I have to get out of here.
‘I’ll take that one,’ Tom says and points to a brown cat with a white patch on its back.
The Fonz takes the cat out and hands it to him. Its underbelly is warm and squidgy in Tom’s hand. Like holding a cooked ham, he thinks.
‘Take good care of him now,’ the Fonz says and closes the door.
Tom holds the cat as far away from his body as possible.
The cat stares at him. One of its eyes is weeping. It lifts a paw outward. Tom hears the Fonz’s voice in his head.
Aaaaaay.
Tom knows that cats predominately land on their feet when they plummet, that they were once worshipped in Egypt, that they are devoured in certain parts of Asia and that they spend a lot of time sleeping. But none of these facts are particularly practical when taking care of a cat, he thinks. And besides, he doesn’t want to own a cat. They are too independent and erratic for his liking. He can barely control his own life without taking on the responsibility of another.
Tom leaves the kitten in a cardboard box in his bed-sit and makes his way to the Manhattan Hotel. For most of the bus journey he is bombarded with the image of the cat clawing its way from the box, scratching his furniture to bits, its eye weeping all over the place. On a number of occasions he stands to get off the bus but each time he convinces himself to stay put. It is only temporary, he thinks, only until he finds an owner.
Fiona is at reception in the hotel.
‘First things first,’ Tom says when he reaches the counter. ‘How do you feel about cats?’
‘I don’t mind them,’ she says. ‘We had one in our house when I was a kid.’
‘So you’d know how to take care of one.’
‘Yeah, I guess so.’
‘Good, because I haven’t got a clue about domestic cats. I’m not even sure what type of cat it is. Does it matter what type it is? Do you treat them the same?’
‘I don’t think it matters that much.’
‘Grand. It’s only a tiny thing so it shouldn’t take up too much space in your place.’
‘Wait,’ she stops him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s in a box in my bed-sit at the moment, on a blanket. You can keep the blanket if you like. If I’m being honest I don’t really want it back. I’m sure the thing is soiling it as we speak.’
‘I don’t want a cat.’
‘You said you like cats.’
‘I said I don’t mind them. You can find someone else to give the cat to.’
‘Who?’
‘Not me,’ she says. ‘The thing would drive Harold mad.’
‘Harold is your partner?’
She begins to laugh. It causes the skin around her eyes to crinkle.
‘Harold is my rat,’ she eventually replies.
‘You have a pet rat?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Fair enough,’ Tom mumbles.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘Rats are great pets. They’re very clean, a lot cleaner than cats and dogs.’
‘I get it. You’r
e happy with Harold.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t want any more pets.’
‘No, just me and Harold,’ she nods her head slowly, stares at the desk, her eyes glazing over. ‘Just me and Harold,’ she repeats.
When Fiona looks up again her hand moves quickly to her brow.
‘Shit, here’s Barry,’ she says. ‘He’s been told that you’ve been harassing staff.’
‘I haven’t harassed anyone,’ Tom says and turns.
Barry approaches the desk. And Tom has this picture of the man swinging on a thick line, smashing his way through the ruins of a wall. A wrecking ball, he thinks, his heavy spherical shape, his dark uniform, his solid-looking mass, the man is designed for demolishing and crushing.
‘Let me guess,’ he says when he spots Tom. ‘It’s about the watch.’
Tom tenses. His gaze moves to the floor.
‘Here, take mine,’ Barry pretends to remove his watch from his thick wrist. ‘Please. Then you might leave us alone.’
‘You think I want to be here?’ Tom says. ‘I’ve better things to be doing with my time.’
‘What could be better than pissing us off every five seconds?’
Tom shakes his head. He turns to Fiona but she looks away. He looks to the revolving door and then to the doors of a lift, which are opening.
A woman is exiting the lift.
Tom’s heart suddenly quickens. His palms sweat.
‘That’s her,’ his voice is low, barely audible. ‘That’s the woman.’
She pushes a trolley and wears a uniform, white blouse and dark trousers, the same uniform that Fiona is wearing. ‘That’s her,’ Tom points. ‘That’s the woman.’
She works here. She actually works here.
He feels a surge of blood to his head.
It drives him to walk. ‘Where are you off to, son?’ Barry follows.
‘That’s the woman from the nightclub,’ Tom says and pushes his legs to move quickly.
He feels charged, a buzzing electricity in his hands and arms.
He needs to talk to her. Just for a minute.
Barry walks quickly at his side.
‘I want you to move back to the counter, son,’ he says.
‘But it’s definitely her.’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ Barry says. ‘You’re going to have to leave.’
He blocks Tom’s pathway with his bulk.
‘I just want to talk to her for a minute,’ Tom pleads.
The security guard’s hand is a weight on Tom’s upper arm. It clamps tightly when he tries to pull away.
‘Just for a minute,’ Tom says.
‘Out,’ Barry orders.
Tom exhales. He looks upwards, to the ceiling tiles and the vents, the square dusty speaker above the lift. A warbling, hissing tune emanates from it. No, not a hiss, Tom thinks. More like a buzzing.
Bzzz
Tom angles his frame so he is looking past the security guard.
‘You were in the nightclub last Friday,’ he says loudly to the woman. ‘Do you remember a man with a watch at the bar?’
The blonde steps backward and begins to squeeze her left hand with her right.
Barry grips Tom’s other arm so he is directly in front of him, face to face.
Barry’s mouth is moving but Tom doesn’t hear his words. He only hears the buzzing, the quick, rapid pulse of wings.
He scrunches his eyes closed.
Not now.
Bzzz
Please!
Tom opens his eyes.
‘I just want to ask her,’ he says and tries to shove past the security guard. ‘Were you talking to my friend Karl?’ he shouts. ‘Have you got my watch? I need to know.’
Tom’s arm is suddenly twisted behind him and pulled upwards. The pain is sudden and intense. ‘Please,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘I just want to ask her about the watch.’
He is dragged toward the exit.
‘Have you seen the watch?’ he shouts. ‘Please. Have you seen the watch?’
From his awkward position Tom catches sight of the reception desk briefly.
And Fiona.
She has her hands up to her face.
She is pale, worried.
Chapter 18
Rossboyne was a damp town just beyond Dublin. It was bumpy fields with random groups of ashen sheep in the distance. Even in August it was all hazy rain and varying shades of grey. And to Tom, it was lavender. He tasted it as soon as he stepped from the cab of the truck. And then he couldn’t stop tasting it, in the water, in the milk, in his breakfast cereal, in the scones that Mrs Ryan made from her kitchen in the rear of the local bar, the car park of which the truck would sit in for weeks after they arrived, the lounge of which his grandfather would spend the majority of his time in. It was an L-shaped pub, Ryan’s bar, with square, classroom type tables, straight-backed hard benches and a long counter. It was located next to a garden centre, a troop of angry-looking gnomes guarding the entrance. His grandfather fell in love with the quaintness of the place, the relaxed attitude. And the pint of course. How could Tom ever forget how much his grandfather loved the pint in that bar? He was certainly never shy about announcing his love for it.
Tom would go for walks in Rossboyne, long walks on roads that seemed as if they were nothing more than hardened clay. The crows would watch his movements with their beady black eyes and they would aim their beaks at him and caw loudly. It seemed to vibrate through his body, that sound, and the abruptness of its disappearance to the seemingly endless fields would make him feel small. The lack of cars got to him too, the quietness reminding him of a Sunday morning in the city. A perpetual Sunday morning, the sleepy, silent time that people rarely think about and are only too happy to ignore.
One of these walks took him away from his normal route. He had been in the place a couple of days. The clouds were low and ominous, the air heavy. A storm was brewing. The dramatic background gave an unreal quality to objects, especially the man-made objects, like the houses in the distance, clumped together, council-type houses with drab, grey pebbledash fronts and short gardens. There were about twelve of them surrounding a green area and behind them were more bumpy fields. Tom eyed each one he passed. The lower windows on the houses were stained with green grime, the curtains gathered behind. Moss partially carpeted the pathways. A dog barked from one of the rear gardens, single barks. The pause between each one was long and filled with a lonely silence.
Beyond the houses a thick-headed cow watched Tom’s approach, slowly rotating its jaw in a chewing motion. The road veered to the left and brought him to detached houses separated by scraggy hedges and wild ditches. Most had some form of stone pillar at the front, decorated differently, perched concrete eagles, orbs or acorns. Unkempt hawthorn bulged onto the roadway in parts, with barely enough room for a car to get past. Tom came across a man at the end of a section of hawthorn. He was skinny and grey, a balding head and an unshaven face. He appeared to be hiding. Tom followed his gaze as he walked. The upper windows of the house beside were slender and without curtains. A woman stood at one of these windows. She was facing in the opposite direction, her naked back in view and the upper part of her behind. Her skin was so white it was almost luminous, smooth and clear. She shifted her angle slightly and Tom caught sight of the side of her left breast. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He was a moth to a flame.
The movement of the man beside him broke his attention, scurrying down the road without looking back once. When Tom returned his sight to the window the woman was facing him, shielded by a towel. She was middle-aged, the sootiness of her roots contrasting with the straw-coloured ends. She had full cheeks and a wide nose that reminded Tom of a boxer. She was a woman that Tom wouldn’t have given a second look before that moment but now that he had seen her naked she was different to any other middle-aged woman he had ever seen.
‘What are you doing down there?’ she shouted, pushing the upstairs window open further.
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Tom looked to the ground while he explained he was just out for a walk.
‘Well walk then,’ she ordered.
And Tom hurried on, caught in a heightened state of confusion, his mind unable to focus on one single thought. He came to the peak of a large hill and discovered that the town stretched for another two miles, a collection of roofs, a spire and at least two more pubs in view.
The storm erupted soon after and he found shelter near one of the pubs. The raindrops were plump and the wind was intimidating. Tom huddled in the doorway of the pub waiting for the worst of it to end.
Tom would sometimes have these daydreams where he felt compacted, as if he was a solid entity, like a wooden block or a round stone. Everything made sense in this daydream. It was as if he could feel his inner core as much as he could feel the world around him. There was security in this daydream, a feeling of completeness and connectivity. When Tom saw the woman naked at that window he could sense this completeness in her. He was compelled to touch every inch of her body, grip his hands around her thighs and just hold them there, rest his fingers on her wrist and feel the beat of her heart, cup his hands at her breasts, lay his hands on her back. He didn’t even want her to respond. He just wanted to feel the completeness of her body, the solidness of her form.
Each flash of the sky flared the image of the pale woman into his head, always the same view of her, always facing away from him. For some reason that image was more exciting than if she had been bearing all in front of him. He did not have the words to explain his attraction, nor did he have the understanding to comment on the artistry of the arc of light and shadow which played on her form. There was a part of him which yearned to speak to her, a part of him which wondered if she was even aware of her appeal.
After the rain abated he walked in a spell for a time and this spell only lifted as the heaviness in the atmosphere lifted. The wetter his feet became the more he began to wonder if he had just imagined the woman at the window. The spell was completely broken when he saw the horsebox in the distance, the sun glistening on its cold wet surface.
Some days later and Tom found a stream about a mile from Ryan’s bar. He kept his distance from it, merely staring into the water, listening to the continuous gurgle in an almost trancelike state. At the time Tom was enduring these irrational fears of the physical world about him, becoming afraid to touch off anything, afraid to interact, even afraid of the insects. He began to dread their tiny pinch on his skin and he would regularly swipe his hands along his neck to ensure there was nothing crawling there. His grandfather noticed this. It was just another tic to comment on, like his habit of stretching his jaw from side to side and his habit of squeezing his eyes shut like a tight blink, sometimes when he was concentrating and sometimes when he was talking to his grandfather.
A Model Partner Page 16