Undone

by Kristina Lloyd

  She phoned when I was sitting at the table in the kitchen adjoining the bar, cashing up takings from the night before.

  ‘Is he OK?’ she asked.

  I gazed at the towers of coins before me and they blurred as my tears welled. I silently reproached myself: For God’s sake, Lana, don’t cry on the phone to his ex.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I blinked, allowing two tears to roll, and flicked them from my face. I briefly moved the phone away and sniffed. ‘He’s gone quiet on me. He’s in Birmingham on a training course and I haven’t heard from him. All my calls go to voicemail. Just wondered, well, if you were still in touch.’

  ‘No, not really. Haven’t even bumped into him for a while. I emailed him about the inquest but he didn’t reply.’

  I was relieved even though that gave me no further clues as to Sol’s whereabouts or his thinking. ‘Do you know anyone who might know?’

  ‘I think he goes out for a beer with Ryan and Eddie sometimes. I could ask.’

  ‘Would you? I’d be so grateful. I just don’t know what to think or what to do.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a simple explanation.’

  I didn’t have her confidence. Unless, of course, the simple explanation was: he’s left you.

  Lou texted an hour later: Ryan says they haven’t seen Sol for weeks. Says he’s spending all his time with a woman in Saltbourne. Good luck! Maybe he’s just having a wobble?

  I was out of options. I needed to stop fooling myself. Whatever was going on was bigger than a relationship wobble. It involved Sol, Ilya, Misha and God knows who else.

  Yesterday, I stashed Ilya’s card in the safe in the kitchen. Tonight I retrieved it at the end of the evening when I was putting the cash box away. It’s here now on my bedside table, still mocking me, still calling.

  Ilya Travis. Consultant.

  It’s too late to phone him now. I’ll do it in the morning. I’ve been wondering whether to leave a message on Sol’s voicemail telling him about Ilya. But what if he’s held hostage somewhere and the message causes problems? The wrong person may hear the wrong name. No, I’ll find out what I can from this Ilya guy before doing anything risky. I’m probably better off keeping a distance, playing the part of the innocent girlfriend.

  I hope I can sleep. I have a large brandy with me. I remember when I started this journal, I’d drink brandy and soda, a mix of darkness and sparkle. I don’t bother with the soda these days. The darkness is plenty.

  Saturday 6th September

  The cliffs along this part of the south-east coast are whiter than their cousins at Dover. I heard they’re sometimes used as a substitute in films because they look more like Dover than Dover does. The chalky cliffs peak and trough for miles, topped by grassland and occasional patches of development. Below, waves of the English Channel crash on narrow shingle beaches where boulders sulk and rock pools glisten. The cliffs are bone white because erosion keeps the surfaces free of plant growth. But not at Dover, where the cliffs are protected. Strange to think these mighty structures are crumbling away, and the very outline of the south-east is mutable.

  Solid as a rock. I’d used that phrase to describe my relationship with Sol when he’d turned up at the bar in his suit. But rock can be deceptive. Rock can be fragile. Rock can crumble to dust.

  The wide cliff-top road follows the coast for the most part. The drive to Ilya’s was westerly, towards Brighton and, therefore, towards Sol’s empty flat. My mind kept tempting me to keep my foot down, to speed past Ilya’s house, beyond all the cliffs and sea and into Brighton’s bustling, narrow streets. I could park in Sol’s road and try to guess which flat was his. I could use the time to clear my head, to work out my best course of action. Should I be going to the police instead of to Ilya’s? No, a foolish thought. We didn’t want police involvement, and anyway what did I have? ’Scuse me, Officer, my boyfriend hasn’t called and he’s usually quite reliable.

  In my car, I was in a cool bubble of aircon but my hands were clammy on the wheel. When my concentration drifted, I felt protected and in control; then I’d remember where I was heading and my stomach would drop. Ilya had information on Sol and I wanted it, be it good or bad. My mind wouldn’t rest. It searched for a reason, constant and frenzied, still churning over a range of theories from ‘he’s dead’ to ‘I’ve been dumped’. In my blackest moments, I’ve had to wonder which of those two extremes I’d prefer. The thought that he might have left me voluntarily, not even caring enough to explain himself, tore my heart to shreds. If silent desertion explained his absence, I’d be forced to re-write the entirety of our past. But, no, I had to keep reminding myself this wasn’t about us. It had something to do with Ilya and Misha. Or was that wishful thinking?

  My desperation to know more had spurred me to contact Ilya. But, I had to confess, I was also motivated by a desire to know more about this brooding, smirking stranger. My imagination had been working overtime ever since he’d pressed that pound coin into the tip saucer at the bar and had given me a look that said, ‘I can turn you inside out and you know it.’ I felt guilty about my curiosity in him but that’s all it was, curiosity. I’d no intention of going anywhere near him, not in that sense. Deliberately, I’d dressed in sober clothes: grey pencil skirt, crisp white shirt. I might have been attending a business meeting.

  Ilya appeared to be a guy who wouldn’t give much away, so meeting at his place seemed to be my only option. When I called him yesterday, he’d mocked my suggestion we sit down and talk, as if sitting down and talking wasn’t something he did; or, at any rate, not with women. He’d talk to men, probably in some smoky poker den until 3 a.m.; whereas women – he’d just fuck them till they were sore. The thought of such casual misogyny aroused me. Yeah, that one again: fucked-up, I know. But some fantasies, like my fantasy of being watched, aren’t made for reality. I’m happy just using them to get off; I don’t want to act them out; nor do I want to endorse some lunkhead’s view of the world by appearing to conform to it.

  I knew my guilty thoughts about Ilya and what he could do to me ought to belong in that category of ‘not for real life’. But the boundaries were blurring already. I was driving along the coastal road to his home, mulling over how I might respond if he came on to me. And he would, wouldn’t he? I reckoned he was luring me to his place with Sol as bait, confident or arrogant enough to know I was also attracted to him. But luring me for what purpose? It had to be more than sex. He didn’t strike me as someone who’d be going short. So what else might he want? He wasn’t going to reveal all about Sol from the goodness of his heart. Was he toying with me? Toying with Sol? Was I being set up? Used?

  When I’d phoned Ilya, he’d claimed to be busy. ‘If you want to know more,’ he’d said, ‘take down this address and drop by at noon tomorrow.’

  My satnav told me to take the next exit on the left, the automated female voice so reassuringly calm I felt as if I had a friend along for the ride, offering moral support and encouragement. I heard my indicator click and realised I’d acted without dithering. I told myself I could still turn around, could return to the main road and head west to Brighton or east to Saltbourne. But it wasn’t happening. I was sailing coastwards through smooth, wide roads of an estate of bungalows; then the estate was behind me, and I could see the sea again, glorious and timeless. The narrow road rose to a cliff-top peak, the angle obscuring the view further along the coast. Ahead of me were three clifftop villas, isolated from one another, bordered by white walls at the rear. Each villa resembled a stack of sugar cubes, as white as the coastline stretching ahead. Deliberately, I hadn’t looked on Google Earth before setting out. Doing so had felt like too much of a commitment. Without the image of my destination, I could pretend to myself I was just taking a leisurely drive along the coast.

  Now I wished I’d checked. Ilya Travis had money, that much was clear, and I was certain the money was dirty. I might have thought more about the wisdom of this trip had I been aware how
ostentatious and isolated his house was. I parked on the narrow road near a pair of ornate black gates opening on to a sweeping gravel drive. When I got out of the car, a smaller side gate opened with smooth slowness. I glanced around, spotting the camera trained on the entrance. He was watching me, waiting. I crunched along the edge of the driveway into a treeless garden.

  The surrounding walls obscured any view of the sea but you knew it was there. I could hear remote waves crashing on the shore far below, and the breeze was fresh, salty and exhilarating. Gulls wheeled overhead, white wings spread as they floated on currents of air. Around me, Ilya’s garden was large, bland and flat, an expanse of patchy, landscaped grass broken up by gravel side paths and stone statues of the kind you might see in a garden centre. The plot seemed well kept but unloved and soulless. I was reminded of holiday lets whose low-maintenance gardens try to offer hints of magnificence, but succeed only in looking bleaker and cheaper for the attempt. I had to wonder if this was his home or just a temporary stay.

  I took a surreptitious photo of the garden on my phone, just in case. In case what? In case it was the last photo I ever took?

  No, people didn’t openly give you their address if they were intending to bump you off. My imagination was getting carried away with itself. With my heart in my throat, I crunched along the final few metres of gravel and rang the bell of a door whose frosted glass panel was decorated with an ironwork grille of swirling leaves. Rude of him, I thought, not to be at the door for me. Presumably, he was the one who’d opened the gate, so he knew I was here. But then he hadn’t struck me as the courteous type.

  A dark blur formed behind the glass panel, growing into a shape too short and bulky to be him. Hell, I wasn’t expecting other people. I must have got the wrong end of the stick. How embarrassing. A stout, middle-aged woman opened the door. She had a large plastic tote bag on one shoulder and a jacket draped over one arm. She was obviously about to leave. She gave me a polite smile and greeted me in a northern accent.

  ‘Mr Travis is waiting for you in the main room,’ she said, beckoning me indoors.

  I entered a white, spacious entrance hall, archways left and right. The floor was tiled in fake sandstone, the buttery yellow gleam lending a warmth to the cavernous whiteness. Ahead, three broad steps rose to a wide corridor, a dun-coloured Persian-style carpet running along its length into the distance. Small display alcoves in the white walls featured vases, plates and vessels in copper and pewter. The woman pointed down the corridor and, with strong, eager hand gestures, directed me to turn left after the third door, through the arch, go down that corridor and take the first door on the right. She hitched her bag on her shoulder and nodded goodbye.

  His staff, I thought, as she closed the door. Maybe his cleaner.

  I stood for a moment in the silence, hesitant to leave the safety of the door. Then I remembered I was doing this for Sol and needed to be brave and selfless. My heels clicked on the shiny tiles of the hallway. I called ‘hello’ but doubted I’d get an answer. I kept walking, heels tapping, until, beyond the steps, the Persian runner softened the sound. Why the drama? Was anyone else here? Couldn’t he have just answered the door like a regular person?

  My blood quickened as I walked deeper into the villa, further away from the safe entrance. Archways gave glimpses of other archways, of pale, glossy floor tiles and polished pine door frames, some empty, some heavily curtained in brocade. Regular wooden doors didn’t seem to feature here. The place was light and airy, its cool minimalist interior studded with objects of rustic texture. High windows and occasional skylights brought the bright, sparkling air of the coast indoors. The whole place looked as if it had been teleported in from the Mediterranean. It would be bitterly cold in a Sussex winter. Did he live here throughout the year? Did he even live here? It didn’t feel like a home; more like a status symbol.

  I could hear the faint crash of the sea, a slow rhythmic pulse as if the house had a heartbeat. The sound grew louder as I neared the arch I’d been directed towards. When I turned the corner, I was feet away from the entrance to the main room. A reflection of water cast silver ripples high on one wall as I walked into an expanse of whiteness. I half expected to find John and Yoko seated at a piano. Three steps, the width of the room, so long they were more akin to rock stratifications than interior architecture, took me up to the main arena. Half a mile ahead, or so it seemed, and beyond a huge stretch of sliding glass doors, was the pale blue sky, puffed with cloud, and the deep, glittering blue of the sea. The doors were open at the centre, and warm briny air had already settled in the room. Standing on an angular, white balcony, gazing out at the horizon, was Ilya, hair drawn up into a messy bun again.

  My adrenaline soared. Heat prickled on the back of my neck and my veins felt tight, as if my blood was trying to surge beyond the confines of its narrow channels. He wore black sweatpants and his nut-brown shoulders were bared in a snug, grey vest, his biceps tautly contoured. The neat wedge of his back, shadowed with the latent strength of muscle at rest, was so beautiful that I couldn’t help but mentally strip him down to a pair of bathing trunks. In my mind, he became one of those arrogant sods I’d encounter in the pool; a spectacular butterfly swimmer who’d hog the fast lane, his big shoulders powering his stroke, blades like wings, stunning to see but a pain to share a lane with.

  He didn’t acknowledge me as I crossed the white room, my heels clicking on the pale gold tiles. Either he was ignoring me or was oblivious to my presence. Our worlds didn’t overlap. I recalled covertly eying his arse when he’d stood on the balcony at The Blue Bar, gazing out at nothing in particular. For a moment, he was a man always staring out of windows, a lonely guy looking for something he’d never find, lost in his own dreams.

  ‘Hi there,’ I called. ‘It’s Lana.’

  He turned around and walked barefoot into the room, smiling faintly and pinning those unusual dark teal eyes on me. The bun and the clothing made it look as if he practised martial arts, the style with flick-knives. Even when he smiled, a cold cynicism remained in that strongly-boned face with its hawkish nose and plum-dark lips. His semi-beard was handsome, greyer than his head and not overly clipped to neatness. I fancied he didn’t need to put much effort into looking good.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got.’ My mouth was dehydrated, my cheeks tacky against my teeth.

  ‘So you found it OK, then?’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’ I laughed nervously. ‘Just needed a satnav once I was indoors.’

  ‘You want a drink?’ He raised his brows.

  I shook my head. ‘Actually, yes. Water would be nice. Tap water’s fine.’

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  He turned towards an archway and jogged down a short flight of steps into a shadowy room. I crossed to drop my handbag on a sofa of chrome and black leather, debating whether to sit down. How do you make yourself at home in a place devoid of homeliness? I glanced around, noting an enormous TV screen on one wall, and a middle-eastern style carpet hanging from a thick wooden pole on another. Anxious not to appear to be scoping out his place, I strode towards the open glass doors, inhaling deeply. I was feeling infinitely more relaxed than I had done a couple of minutes ago. Ilya seemed ordinary, at ease, no longer the sinister stranger with dubious intentions. Perhaps this was just going to be some awkward attempt at a date. But what did he have to tell me about Sol? And how did he know about me and Sol? Had he been watching us? Why?

  I wanted to ask outright but thought it wiser not to push him. I got the impression he liked to be the one running the show and setting the pace, doing his best to keep people on the hop. Well, if that was what he wanted, let him have his fun.

  I stepped beyond the glass doors and laughed from the peculiar joy of being on a cliff. I was on a raised patio bordered by a white wall topped with boxy crenellations, as if this were a modernist castle. A bedraggled potted palm stood in one corner and an onyx ashtray on a ceramic-tiled table was cluttere
d with cigarette ends. The breeze ruffled my hair and the sea roared, the brown palm tree leaves rustling dryly. I thought how pure and clear the light is on the south coast, as if it carries the essence of diamonds, silver and that ancient bright, white chalk. I was grateful I’d moved out of London after my divorce. I might have less money these days but, hey, I lived by the coast, owned my own bar and possibly had a hot, horny boyfriend. I wouldn’t trade back for anything.

  I filled my lungs, gazing down towards a sunken half-garden and the distant cliff edge. To the east, the land dipped and I watched waves smashing chaotically at a rocky outcrop at the base of the chalk-white cliff. Foam leaped and sprayed, water rolling this way and that in glorious, violent swells. A gull flew below the cliff edge, lower than me, and I was reminded of how high up we were, higher than the birds.

  When I heard Ilya approach, I returned indoors. In his hand he carried a shallow bowl. He bent and placed it in the centre of the tiled floor.

  ‘There you go,’ he said, standing.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Your water.’

  I stared at him, lost for words.

  ‘On your knees,’ he said.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’

  ‘Get on the floor,’ he said, ‘and drink.’ His voice was slow with threat, and a sneery antagonism lined his face.

  I swallowed. ‘You know what? I’m suddenly not so thirsty.’

  I moved towards the sofa to retrieve my handbag. Ilya took a sidestep to block my path. I paused and we stood several feet apart, facing each other. I caught sight of that silver-pink scar on his jaw, gleaming through his short, scruffy beard. I thought my heart might explode.

  ‘I want to leave,’ I said.

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘Yes. Coming here was a mistake. I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’