‘Where on earth did you get them?’
‘I … Abe did. He picked them from a client’s garden.’
‘Oh, right. They’ve survived well, haven’t they, since the accident? They look so fresh. Thanks for topping up the water.’
Another beat, then a smile. ‘That’s OK.’
I pour the remains of the champagne into my glass then go to the kitchen for a box of white. I like to have alcohol close to hand, like a security blanket.
‘So, you were talking to Mira earlier,’ she says when I come back to the table. Her face is open and guileless; does she know I was checking out her story?
‘I just wanted to introduce myself.’
‘When that baby arrives it’s going to keep the whole place awake.’ Jody smiles wistfully. Her baby dreams have been dashed along with the marriage ones.
‘They’re Albanian, aren’t they? How come they got to live here?’
‘I think they’re Roma. Roma people get persecuted in some of those countries, don’t they?’
‘I thought Roma didn’t like to stay in one place. Aren’t there supposed to be special sites set aside for them?’
Jody shrugs. ‘I don’t really know. They’re pretty quiet.’
‘What’s he like?’
A look of distaste twists her mouth. ‘I stay out of his way and he’s never around much anyway. He’s a builder I think. Never speaks. I don’t even know if either of them speak English.’
‘She does,’ I say. ‘Quite well, actually. She understood words like depressed and feminist.’ I don’t add that I still can’t work out what possible reason she would have to pretend not to speak English.
Jody’s staring at the flowers. She doesn’t seem interested in her next-door neighbours, or perhaps she’s jealous that I’m meeting new people.
Feeling my gaze she gives an almost imperceptible start.
‘Sorry. It’s the flowers. It’s funny, but I remembered them being yellow.’
I shrug. ‘Maybe they change the longer they bloom or something.’
I have no idea what I’m talking about. The only living thing to grace my terrace in Vegas is a small and boring-looking cactus that was there when I moved in and has never been watered.
Hoping the conversation will become less stilted by a change of subject, I ask whether there’s a park nearby for jogging. Any weight I put on here will be trebled when I get back to the land of size-zero gym bunnies and I must be sinking several thousand extra calories a day on booze. But I daren’t go to bed sober, for fear of what my brain will throw up for me.
‘There’s a square at the end of the high road, but it can be dodgy after dark. I think men use it, gay men, for uh …’
‘I’ll be careful not to slip.’ I smile.
In the time it takes Jody to finish her champagne, I’ve sunk two more glasses of white. When I try to refill her glass she puts her hand over the top, but I talk her into a wine and orange juice. It’ll be good for her to get drunk. Already I can see her loosening up. Her cheeks are pink and there’s a sheen of sweat on her top lip. I’ve turned the heating up to thirty degrees so that I can walk around in my vest and bare feet like I do at home.
‘So, tell me how you met,’ I say. ‘You and Abe.’
She twists the ring on her finger and smiles coyly. ‘Oh, you know, we were neighbours so we used to run into one another.’
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Give me the whole juice. Who made the first move?’
‘Well, he actually saved my life.’
It’s not as dramatic as it sounds. Apparently Abe came and put out a fire she’d managed to start while cooking sausages.
‘Wow,’ I say, when she’s done, ‘I never took Abe for an action hero.’
She doesn’t reply to this and I fear I might have offended her by sounding dismissive of her big love scene.
‘I left home very young,’ I say quickly. ‘We didn’t really get the chance to get to know one another as adults. He must be different now.’
‘That’s so sad,’ she murmurs. Then she says, ‘I grew up in a care home, actually.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘My dad was in the forces. He was killed when I was seven, and then my mum killed herself a year later.’
I am riven with shame at my own self-pity. ‘Jody … I’m so, so sorry.’
‘It’s OK. They loved me, and they loved each other.’
‘Too much, maybe.’
She frowns again. ‘You can’t love someone too much.’
‘Your mother owed it to you to carry on,’ I say, ‘after his death. It wasn’t fair on you to do what she did.’
Jody shakes her head. ‘She was sick.’
I wonder how much of that sickness Jody has inherited. She must be here because of the upbringing in care, but I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s some mental illness at play too. She seems so fragile, though given what has happened to the man she loves, I suppose it must take formidable strength of character even to get up in the morning. Unbidden, Daniel pops into my head. The way he looked when he said goodbye at the hotel, the expression of bewildered hurt. I wish I had been kinder. I find that I’m glad his number is now on my phone.
‘What was it like?’ I say. ‘Growing up in care?’ Looking back, Abe and I would have been better off, but no one would ever have believed us if we’d asked for help. We were on our own and we knew it.
‘I was happy enough.’
She sips her wine with the delicacy of a bird dipping its beak into a flower. I reassess my assumptions about her again. To have survived the death of both parents and an upbringing in care, she must be pretty resilient. I wonder if it was his depression that drew her to my brother, the bird with a broken wing. Classic white-knight syndrome. She wanted to save him because she couldn’t save her mother.
She lays her glass down. ‘My aunt, Helen, was supposed to be my legal guardian. It was in my parents’ will. After they died I moved in with her and her husband for a while, but then they changed their minds. Their son was a drug addict and she said it would be too difficult.’
‘Shit.’ The wine has slowed my thoughts and I can’t think of anything else to say.
She smiles. ‘But let’s not talk about sad things. You wanted to know about Abe and me. Shall I tell you about our first night together?’ Her face is flushed. Christ, she really is pissed.
‘Well, only if you’re … umm …’
‘It was here. On the roof.’
Automatically I glance up at the ceiling. ‘You can get up there?’
‘There’s a door at the end of the landing. Abe took us up to watch the sunset. It was … it was beautiful.’
‘Enough,’ I say, holding up my hand. ‘I think you might be about to give me too much information.’
She giggles. ‘No, I meant the sunset was beautiful. If he …’ She inhales. ‘If he dies I’ll go back up there and wait for him.’
I swallow my mouthful too fast and cough. ‘You mean his ghost?’
She nods guilelessly. ‘If you were going to come back, wouldn’t you come back to the place you were happiest?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t know how that sort of thing works. I thought it was all about unfinished business or … whatever.’
There’s an awkward silence as she gazes down into her wine glass, a half smile on her lips, presumably remembering things I don’t want to imagine.
‘’Scuse me, need a pee.’ Getting up from the table I stagger a little and rebound off the sofa on my way to the bathroom.
It’s cooler in here and, resting my head against the back wall, I close my eyes to test whether the room’s spinning. Not yet. I’m good for another bottle or so. There’s an unpleasant crawling sensation at the back of my head as the condensation dribbling down the wall creeps into my hair, so I get up and flush. My neighbours must be getting to know my toilet habits by now, although I’m careful not to flush in the middle of the night, having been woken myself by the nocturnal squeal of an
cient plumbing a few times.
As I’m washing my hands my eyes are drawn to the shelf of toiletries – there was something important I needed to ask Jody.
She’s staring at the flowers when I emerge, as the smoky-voiced singer croons about lost love.
‘Do you know the name of the antidepressants Abe was on? I haven’t been able to find any.’
If he ran out that could have been the problem. If so, Jody must take some of the blame herself. She could have spotted the signs.
She shakes her head, blinking.
‘Had he been on them long, because some SSRIs have been known to cause suicidal thoughts in young men when they first start taking them.’
Blink. Blink.
‘And have you spoken to his doctor since it all happened? I mean, the guy should have been on top of this. Suicide is the biggest killer of young men. We might be able to make a case for medical negligence, and get some compensation. I know it doesn’t make up for what happened but these bastards shouldn’t be allowed to – oh!’
Jody has spilled her wine all over her dress.
I jump to my feet. ‘Quick, take it off and I’ll rinse it.’
She gets up too, gathering the sopping hem into a ball around her thighs. ‘It’s OK, I’ll go home and do it.’
‘Just get changed and then head back over.’
But she’s already halfway across the room. ‘No, no. It’s getting late. I should go to bed.’ She stumbles then, like she’s walking across the deck of a listing ship, and falls against the bookcase by the inner door. I smile – it’s a feeling I know well – but then my smile slips. As her hands jerked up to save herself, the dress rode up and I saw, just for a moment, the unmistakable white scars of a self-harmer.
I look away quickly as she rights herself and weaves off down the hall to the door. ‘Thanks for dinner,’ she calls back over her shoulder. ‘It was lovely.’
‘That’s OK. Happy birthday!’
She closes the door behind her and her footsteps recede across the landing. Then her door closes, and there’s just silence but for the lilting voice of the bereft lover.
Perhaps it’s not such a big deal. Self-harming is pretty common among teenagers, especially, I imagine, those who have lost both parents and grown up in a care home. Ah, well, like she says, she’s over it all now. Abe saved her.
I sigh and rub my face. See, this is why I don’t have relationships. Even if you’re lucky enough to meet someone you genuinely care about, someone who feels the same and isn’t a complete asshole, as soon as you let your guard down and start to rely on them, then bang! Out of the blue comes some shitty tumour or terrorist attack, or a fall down a stairwell. It’s not worth it. You can’t miss it if it was never there.
Then I remember I’d meant to ask her for his doctor’s name. I’ve got friends in medico-legal. If someone’s fucked up, they will pay. I’ll give the money to a charity or something.
I write a note to remind myself in the morning, then set about getting comatose drunk. I know I’ll have a shitty hangover, but it’s not as if Abe’s going to notice, and I stocked up with painkillers at the Food and Wine for just that contingency.
At midnight I decide to call it a day and stagger to the bathroom to clean the black stains off my teeth before bed. There are two faces in the mirror, the second fainter, revolving around the first. I try to hold the gaze of the ghostly pair of brown eyes looking back at me, but it keeps sliding away from me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper, my voice close in the cramped room. ‘I’m sorry that I left you there. I’m sorry that you ended up with another broken person. I’m sorry you’re going to die.’
I stumble to bed, relieved I had the foresight to put the sheets back on before Jody arrived, and sink heavily onto the mattress. My limbs are leaden, my brain punch drunk, and sleep hurtles towards me like a freight train.
Friday 11 November
12. Mags
I wake up, completely alert.
Isn’t it great the way alcohol kicks you unconscious at midnight only to kick you awake a couple of hours later? A glance at my watch reveals it’s barely 3 a.m. Urgh. Turning onto my back I prepare for the tedious slog to dawn. The radio will help numb my brain, but as I reach for my phone to hit the Radio 4 app, my hand stops mid-air.
A noise, close by.
Next-door going to the toilet? Kids messing around outside?
I hear it again. A soft rustle.
Someone’s in the flat.
Jody must have a second key. Jesus Christ, she can’t keep away. Has she come to dry her tears with his towel or curl up on the sofa they fucked on just to be close to him? I’m seriously not in the mood.
I get out of bed and stride to the door. Fortunately it doesn’t creak as I yank it open to give her a piece of my mind.
Because standing by the table, his broad shape silhouetted against the window, is a man.
My sharp intake of breath is like paper tearing in the silence.
But he doesn’t turn.
I am suddenly aware how short my T-shirt is, how skimpy my knickers. My eyes flick to the hall door. Could I make it before he had the chance to cross the room? But then I would somehow have to get to safety inside one of the other flats, or else run downstairs and out into the night in just my underwear, which doesn’t seem any less dangerous.
He turns and my heart jumps into my throat. But he hasn’t seen me. He’s looking down at something in his hands.
Abe’s pea coat.
He must be going through the pockets.
I can hear his stertorous breathing from here – presumably from the stair climb, which means he can’t be that fit. I am, or at least was, before I came here and hit the bottle. I might be in with a chance. Without taking my eyes off him, I feel my way along the edge of the kitchen countertop, racking my brain trying to remember which is the knife drawer.
He takes something out of Abe’s pocket, his wallet. The guy is big. Not just big – muscular. His torso is a black triangle against the fluorescent sky: broad shoulders, narrow waist, thick neck.
It’s not worth the risk. I’ve seen the youths that hang around this area. They’ve got nothing to lose. He has the wallet – maybe he’ll be happy with that. I should just creep back to bed, call the police once he’s gone.
But as I back away my hand brushes the champagne bottle I left on the counter, making it rock.
Clunk, clunk.
His head turns.
I drop to the floor, just in time – I hope – and crouch there on my haunches. The open hall door is blocking my view of the left side of the room, while the kitchen counter blocks the right-hand view. Is he creeping behind the sofa, about to leap out at me from behind the worktop? But now I hear his quiet footsteps moving around the table. If I try and make it to the hall he’ll certainly see me. My only option is to hide in the bedroom.
The snick of my bare feet on the kitchen lino makes me wince as I retreat back the way I have come.
I spend fruitless seconds trying to squeeze myself under the bed as all the while the soft footsteps come closer and closer. Then they pause. Has he gone into the kitchen? I have a moment. Should I hide in the wardrobe? No, it’s too full. There’s nothing for it but to slither under the covers, lie as flat as possible and hope he’s already got what he came for. Unless he actually wants to rape or kill someone, there’s no reason for him to come in here.
I lie in the darkness, panting.
Where is he?
Standing in the doorway, looking down at my curled body?
My head is at the bottom of the bed and if I lift the duvet slightly I will be able to see the doorway.
I raise it. Through this tiny sliver I can make out the dark oblong of the doorway.
All my senses are on high alert. I can hear the hum of the fridge, a pigeon cooing up on the roof: smell the musty damp blooming on the wall above me.
Little lights are exploding in my strained vision. My heart’s pumping so hard my w
hole body trembles.
Maybe he’ll think the noise was just pigeons. Maybe he’s already gone.
It’s too stifling to breathe and my left leg is buzzing with pins and needles. Can I come out yet? I pull the cover back a little to let in some air.
And then the darkness solidifies and he’s there, in the doorway.
Dropping the duvet I press deeper into the mattress, trying to make myself completely flat. But it’s no good: he knows I’m here. I can tell by his ragged breaths – not exertion as I had first thought, but arousal.
He’s going to rape me.
Should have gone for the knife. Should have gone for the fucking knife.
Will he kill me afterwards?
As my mind contracts to a single point of terror, I realise that I will do anything to stay alive. I will let him do whatever he wants to me. I will beg. I want more life. I’m only half done.
He’s coming into the room.
I hold my breath, wide-eyed in the blackness, waiting for the duvet to be flung back.
I hear him walk up the side of the bed then stop.
My heart jumps with hope. Maybe he’ll just check the drawers and wardrobe and go. I risk lifting the side of the duvet and see a sliver of pale hand. He’s not wearing gloves. Not a professional then. An amateur. In law school they teach you that amateurs are the most dangerous. They’re scared and fear makes them irrational, prone to violence.
Should I scream?
But before I can suck in enough air he sits down on the bed.
I freeze, my heart throwing itself against my ribcage.
Is he going to lie down? Is he high and just looking for a place to sleep? Did he think this place was unoccupied?
His back touches my leg.
We both cry out and he springs to his feet.
Throwing back the duvet I scramble off the other side of the bed, snatching up a glass bottle of aftershave from the shelf. But before I can hurl it he shouts something incomprehensible and stumbles from the room. A moment later I hear footsteps retreating down the hallway, followed by the surprisingly quiet snick of the front door, as if, even after all that, he’s trying not to be heard.
He’s gone.
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