Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

  The digital era makes us expect constant communication, making modern silences louder than those in the past. I’m glad I decided to record my thoughts longhand. This journal has a reassuring physicality. Nonetheless, its shabbiness is a reminder too that paper is vulnerable.

  I’m drawn to the idea of having my story contained in a sturdy binding, whole, neat and orderly. No looseness, no words escaping, no narrative slipping its moorings and coming undone.

  Wednesday 3rd September

  Something’s desperately wrong, and I’m scared. I think Sol’s in trouble. And I think I might be too.

  Today, just after five, a guy walked into The Blue Bar, tall and broad-shouldered, looking like trouble. His dark, silver-threaded hair was swept back in an oriental-style bun, scruffy, silky wisps framing his face. Salt-and-pepper bristles shaded his jaw and neck. Mid-forties but aging well despite the hard look of cynicism on his face. I see a lot of customers. Some strike me, some don’t. I’m always pleased with myself when I remember a previous customer. If someone appears familiar, I’ll usually opt for a friendly, ‘Hi, how are you doing?’ in a tone that suggests I know them but, if they’re newcomers, doesn’t sound too weird.

  I’d never seen this man before. I would have remembered him.

  He wore good, lived-in jeans, and his black T-shirt hinted at the contours of a powerful chest. His arms were athletically strong and his skin had the deep olive tones of someone from a country where it seldom rains. On his feet were dulled army boots and the overall effect was of a guy so brutishly masculine that I had to wonder if The Blue Bar had been recommended in a gay listings magazine.

  He approached the bar, glancing quickly about the empty room, and ordered a bottle of Czech pilsner. His eyes dazzled. They were a deep turquoise-green, of such dark, compact brilliance it felt as if they could cut into you like a laser. Their colour, like the iridescence of petrol and peacocks, wouldn’t quite settle. Bluish-greenish-blackish eyes under jutting brows heavy enough to cast shadows.

  At a guess, I would have said East European. His cheekbones were high, his nose was on the beaky side and his lips, as if in defiance of those angular features, were full and rich, their colour comparable to the ruddy-purple skin of plums. His stubble was heavy, bordering on a beard, and around the chin, greyish, angular patches gave the suggestion of an unkempt goatee. As I flipped the lid from his beer I mused that if he were an actor, he’d always be cast as an alien or a replicant, a creature from other worlds. I practically had to brace myself to look at him again.

  I noticed then, on one side of his face, a scar running near enough parallel to his jaw. The stubble broke apart in a jagged line, giving a glimpse of a seam of shiny, pinkish, puckered skin. Wow, I thought, that’s taking the rough-trade look a little too far.

  Ordinarily, I’d exchange a bit of chit-chat, especially for the first customer of the day when the place was empty, but something told me this guy didn’t do small talk.

  He withdrew a wallet from his back pocket, paid with a note and then, with a slow, precise gesture, placed a pound coin in the silver tip saucer on the bar. He allowed his thumb to press on the coin for a moment too long, fixing me with those glimmering eyes and a cold smile. Then he strolled away onto the balcony with his bottle of beer.

  I couldn’t help but feel insulted.

  He stood between the open wings of the stained-glass doors, glancing up and down the street. His man-bun was loose and artless, strands dangling and tufts sprouting from the knot at the back of his head. The fine silvery tones in his hair were pure and bright, off-white and platinum swirling in soot-black richness. His wide shoulders tapered to slender hips and his jeans hung from a backside I could barely take my eyes off. I told myself I wasn’t being disloyal to Sol; I was simply appreciating a man’s arse as I might do a piece of art. I admired the suggestion of muscularity beneath soft denim, and the carelessness of having one pocket made bulky by the square of his wallet. I fiddled needlessly behind the bar, sliding my eyes towards him or glancing at one of the wall mirrors reflecting the side of his head and the curve of his nose when he turned. Slung on one shoulder was a small rucksack, a cheap nylon affair in black with garish flashes of electric blue, and a nasty, orange, net sidepocket. I figured a gay man wouldn’t be seen dead with a bag like that.

  He stepped fully out onto the ironwork balcony, stood his bottle on the table, and took a pack of cigarettes from a rucksack pocket before dropping the bag on a chair. The packet was gold. Benson and Hedges. He was becoming less gay by the minute. He turned aside, head low, and cupped a hand to the flame of a lighter. An amber-rose reflection lit his profile. On the building across the road, sunlight glinted on the rows of pigeon spikes, making them seem as sinister as prison walls. I wanted to say, ‘Hold it right there, mister,’ so I could whip out my phone camera. He looked iconic, his stance and attitude putting me in mind of Brando’s urban swagger and sexiness.

  He smoked with a leisured pace, standing solidly with his feet apart and gazing out on to the street, sometimes left, sometimes right, sometimes at the redbrick offices opposite. I kept glancing his way and not just because he was hot. He unnerved me. Why was he here? Why come to a cocktail bar for a beer? Was he meeting someone? A woman, perhaps?

  When he’d finished his cigarette, he dropped the end to the balcony floor and briefly rubbed his boot over it. He took a swig of beer and returned indoors, his stride slow and threatening. My heart rate galloped as he approached the blue counter. I had one of my occasional thoughts where I wondered if it was wise for me to staff the bar when I’m alone.

  What had Kat said? ‘Something coiled about him.’ Was this the guy who’d been looking for me?

  He stood his bottle on the bar and perched his cute butt on the edge of a stool. ‘I’m wondering if you can help me,’ he began. ‘I’m looking for a guy who usually drinks here around this time. Russian guy.’

  My heart skipped a beat and sweat stabbed like needles under my arms.

  ‘The chemist?’

  He laughed. ‘Yeah, the chemist.’

  I looked at him, considering how to phrase my reply and where this was leading. His gaze was anchored on me, and I fought the instinct to recoil from his scrutiny. I noted a purplish tint in the shadows beneath his eyes, and how they picked up the deep pigment of his lips. His colouring made it seem as if bruises were beneath his skin, waiting to surface.

  ‘He’s dead,’ I replied.

  The flinch was barely perceptible. He raised his craggy brows. ‘Oh? What happened?’

  My heart was thumping so hard I felt dizzy, my head thick with expanding fire. I cleared my throat. ‘He drowned a few months ago. An accident in a swimming pool.’

  The man nodded to himself and made a ‘how interesting’ sort of pout. Evidently, he wasn’t too upset. He lifted the beer bottle to his lips and drank the remaining liquid. I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his stubble-dark neck. I thought of Sol, and wetness pooled between my thighs but, even now, I can’t say who the desire was for. He placed his empty bottle on the counter and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. He flipped it open and removed a business card.

  ‘Do me a favour, will you?’ he said. ‘If anyone comes in here asking for him, let me know.’

  He set his card on the blue counter. I didn’t pick it up because why would I if he’s not going to give me the courtesy of handing it to me directly? I looked down. The card was blandly minimalist, low on style. It read: Ilya Travis, Consultant.

  I laughed. ‘Consultant what?’

  He gave me a twisted half-smile. ‘Just consultant.’

  With that, he gave the bar a goodbye tap and walked towards the exit, rucksack on one shoulder. I was captivated. I didn’t want him to leave.

  ‘I was with him the night he died,’ I called. I’d hoped to sound casual but I heard my voice, frantic and eager.

  He stopped in his tracks and turned. In the ensuing pause, I wondered if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my l
ife. Sol and I had agreed to put this behind us, to stop playing detective and let Misha rest in peace.

  ‘You knew him?’ he asked.

  God, but my heart wouldn’t regulate. My palms were moist and I was struggling to think straight. ‘Kind of,’ I began. ‘But not really. Initially as a customer here.’

  Ilya Travis took a step closer. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He’d visit every week, every Wednesday.’ I gulped. ‘Then we were at the same party and well, you know, that night…’ I knew what I was about to say, and even though my rational self was begging me to shut up, to say no more, some idiotic compulsion urged me to throw caution to the wind. I wanted to draw this stranger into my world. As far as everyone was concerned, everyone, that is, except Sol, Nicki and Ian, the threesome hadn’t happened. We’d lied to the police, had concealed the fact the three of us had been fucking in my turret room. All I needed to do was perpetuate that lie and I was safe. And Sol was safe with me.

  ‘At the party, before he died,’ I said. ‘I was with him.’

  He nodded contemplatively and strode back to the bar. ‘So you’re one of those?’ He rested his darkly haired forearms on the bar, scanning my face, a slight, smug smile on those plump, dusky lips. The knot of his hair made him seem sinister and cruel; villainous rather than Hollywood hipster.

  I tried to swallow. My mouth was bone dry. My throat was a desert. ‘One of what?’

  ‘One of those women who like to see men crawl.’

  My pulses soared. Jeez, who was this guy? I felt as if he wanted to strip me naked and, worst of all, I wanted to let him. I battled against my nerves and my good sense but maybe it was already too late. I addressed him, my chin tipping in defiance.

  ‘No,’ I said, voice cracked and throaty. ‘I like to do the crawling.’

  His smile broadened and he stood straighter. He gestured to the business card on the counter.

  ‘Then you should definitely call me,’ he said.

  My legs turned to jelly. I gripped the edge of the bar.

  ‘And who knows,’ he continued, ‘if you’re good to me, I might have some news for you about your boyfriend.’

  He hitched his bag onto his shoulder and stepped away.

  ‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘What do you know? Where’s Sol?’

  But he didn’t reply.

  ‘Tell me!’

  Again, silence. He sauntered from the bar without uttering another word. I listened to his boots clanging on the iron staircase spiralling towards the street entrance. I didn’t even have the presence of mind to go onto the balcony to check which direction he took. Instead, I stood behind the bar, clutching the counter for support, shaking and on the verge of tears.

  Something’s happened to Sol, I know it has. It’s three in the morning. I cannot sleep. I’ve triple-checked the doors and windows are locked. I don’t know what I need to do next. I’m trying not to panic. Trying and failing.

  I wish I could swim. Right here and now, I wish I could get out of bed and slip into cool, comforting waters and swim, swim, swim in the middle of the night. Swimming empties out my brain and gives me clarity of thought. It’s as if the thinking takes care of itself, churning away at the subconscious level, while I flow, back and forth, up and down, swimming. I wish I was in the zone, becoming nothing but swimming.

  Oh God, where is he, where is he? Have I said too much?

  Thursday 4th September

  I woke this morning from another restless night, and knew I couldn’t go on like this. Every reasonable explanation I came up with to account for Sol’s apparent disappearance I trashed within seconds. He’s lost his phone. Well, he could email. He’s been too busy. How long does a text take? He can’t get Wi-Fi or a phone signal. He’s in Birmingham, not Antarctica.

  My wilder theories had no answers: he’s been injured, he’s left me, been kidnapped, lost his memory. He’s dead.

  I had two potential points of contact: the building site in Saltbourne where he’d been working (and from there I might be directed to his agency, who might know more about his new job because maybe they’d provided a reference); and Lou, the ex, and her friends, who’d been the reason Sol was at the party at Dravendene in the first place. I could call Zoe, ask her to get Lou’s contact details from Rose, and then drop Lou a line. Would she think I was acting like a needy, possessive girlfriend? Did I care? Supposing he’d gone back to her? No, they were over, I was sure of it. Hooked up with one of her friends, maybe?

  The construction site seemed my wisest starting point. I made my way to Castlegate Plaza after swimming this morning. I’ve been swimming less in recent days because I can’t bear to be away from my phone in case he calls. But today, shivering and dripping wet in the changing rooms once again, I’d retrieved my phone from my bag as soon as I’d opened my locker. And, once again, nothing from Sol or from a hospital or a mortuary.

  I was scared of visiting the building site because it implied he truly was gone and that this was looking serious. I was conducting my own missing person’s enquiry. The temptation to stay in denial was strong. Maybe I could go tomorrow? Just one more day of hoping?

  Now I almost wish I hadn’t gone because I’m even more confused than ever.

  The white hoardings around the site were emblazoned with signs: DANGER KEEP OUT. CAUTION CONSTRUCTION AREA. HARD HAT REQUIRED.

  I had no hard hat. Couldn’t even find an entrance for a while. When I finally spotted a doorway in the hoardings, I entered the site, feeling altogether too feminine and quite the trespasser, even though I was making no attempt to hide. The terrain was alien to me, a noisy, volcanic landscape of scaffolding, bricks, wheelbarrows, rugged yellow vehicles and workmen in reflective jackets. Planks swung from cranes high above and concrete mixers whirred. For the first time, it occurred to me that Sol might still be working here. Maybe the new job was a well-intentioned lie. His stint in manual labour was supposed to be a break from his geeky norm, a chance to kick back and take a breather from the stresses of data analytics. As he’d said, he didn’t need the money so could quit the building work anytime but enjoyed routine and productivity. We’re very similar in that respect.

  Of course, I’d never judge him for his choices, and it was fun to have him acting as my bit of rough, but a steadier, more respectable job might suggest we had future prospects. I’d never said anything but perhaps he guessed at times I was concerned I might be scarcely more than a complement to this casual, temporary lifestyle. Living by the sea, working on a building site, a fuck-ton of inheritance money, knobbing this chick who owned a bar, yeah, that was a great summer, man.

  Was he trying to convince me things were about to change while, in reality, he was still slogging away here? My eye was caught by a guy in protective earmuffs, drilling some distance away, and of a similar build to Sol. My heartbeat ricocheted. Could it be? But the very next second he was nothing remotely like Sol. If it had been, if I saw him here in his hard hat and dusty boots, I’d run to embrace him. I’d tell him I didn’t care what he did, that he didn’t need to lie to me, and there were no problems on earth that we couldn’t work out together.

  Hope can take us to some desperate places.

  I approached three guys in discussion near a heap of lurid, orange sand.

  ‘Hi,’ I called, picking my way across rubble. ‘I wonder if you could help. I’m looking for a guy who worked here recently. Sol Miller.’

  The three men all looked at each other, confused and a touch alarmed.

  ‘What’s she say?’

  ‘Sol Miller,’ I said. ‘Do you know him?’

  Again, they glanced blankly from one to the other. What was the problem? Didn’t they speak Vagina?

  ‘Members of the public shouldn’t be in here, love,’ said one. ‘Not without a hard hat.’

  ‘Well, could you get me a hat?’ I said. ‘Or if I stand outside, can someone help with my question?’

  ‘What’s she want to know?’

  A shrug.

  Were th
ese hard hats translation devices?

  ‘Sol Miller,’ I called. ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ll go and fetch John,’ said one to the other. ‘If you could wait outside, love.’

  I traipsed out and stood by the open, makeshift door in the hoardings until John turned up with a clipboard. No, he told me, no one of that name has ever worked here.

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ I said. ‘He was working here less than two weeks ago.’

  ‘Not this site,’ said John.

  ‘Yes, it was. He told me.’

  John gave me a pitying smile. ‘Maybe he had his reasons.’

  He gave me a card, told me to phone the switchboard and check with Human Resources. ‘But I know who’s on site,’ he said, ‘and we’ve had no one of that name, I guarantee you.’

  Despondent and baffled, I drove home, scouring my brain for an explanation. I had the right site, I knew I had. Castlegate Plaza was getting a facelift and the work was only taking place in one area. Had Sol given a false name? Was it a tax dodge? Theirs was presumably a legit operation so how could he even do that? Had he stolen someone’s NI number? Perhaps he didn’t have a work permit, couldn’t get one for some reason. Was he working cash-in-hand elsewhere in Saltbourne? Had he concealed the truth because he was aiming to trick me into falling in love so we’d marry and he could settle here as a UK citizen?

  My thoughts were a blizzard of increasingly implausible theories. Nothing made sense. I was starting to wonder who Sol was. Previously, I’d thought he might have a kinky secret, a past life he was protecting. I’d thought he might be involved in Misha’s death. Now, I didn’t know what to think.

  I didn’t bother contacting Human Resources, partly because I didn’t want to risk landing Sol in trouble but mainly because I know John was right. Sol had never worked there. Instead, I got in touch with Zoe and tracked down Lou’s contact details. I texted her, explaining who I was, and asked her to give me a call when she was free. I explained I was worried about Sol.