José the building manager arrives, lugging a new mattress, and disappears through the front door, so I guess someone new is going to move into the empty flat on the third floor.
A lonely night stretches ahead of me. At least I should sleep properly. I’ve forced myself to stay awake for the past three nights, in case you play your music again, but all has been quiet.
After throwing away the lasagne and rinsing the fork under the tap, I get into bed and put the radio on. My bedroom window glows pink. The man on the radio says there’s been a sandstorm in the Sahara and for the next few days the sunsets will be beautiful.
I turn my face to the wall and try to sleep.
On Saturday morning I go out looking for you. I try Cosmo and the baker’s and even the Food and Wine where you would sometimes get a newspaper, but it’s as if I was imagining you all along.
I wander up and down the high road until my hands are numb with cold and I can’t feel my feet.
The pharmacist comes out and asks if I’m all right so I have to stay on the other side of the road after that.
The sun starts going down and I get scared then because it’s Saturday. Match day. Buses are backing up along the high road, their windows reflecting the sky. I hurry back to Gordon Terrace and across the waste ground, pausing for a moment at the children’s playground to gaze at the church spire silhouetted against the sky.
The radio was right. It’s going to be the most amazing sunset. The sky is streaked with a million different shades of red. The clouds curl like petals. The wind has dropped. From up there you could look out on the whole city, all pink and glowing like it’s fresh out of a hot bath.
I realise that this is the night I described to Mags. The night you and I spent together on the roof. And then, for a moment, I think I see a figure standing in one of the windows of the spire.
It resolves itself into a block of shadow and I sigh and make my way to the door.
There’s no post for me, as usual, and I’m relieved, having half expected a letter with an American postmark, threatening to sue me. Passing through the inner door all the rich colours of the evening are dulled. The sunset is behind the building so the stained glass is flat and grey.
I stand for a moment, gazing at the tranquil lake of concrete that shows no sign of what it did to you. I can remember the chill hardness of it under my knees as I crouched beside you, whispering that everything would be all right as your blood seeped into my jeans.
You were looking at something far away that I couldn’t see, but then you must have felt my presence because your eyes moved, locking onto mine. We held each other’s gaze for a moment – a minute? An hour? – and then your eyelids fluttered closed and I never saw them open again.
He must have come down behind me, have passed by while I was kneeling beside you, but I never heard his heavy footsteps, or the crash of the door closing. He might have been just a bad dream.
Turning on the light I start climbing the stairs. On the first floor I pass the grumpy man’s flat, and Brenda’s husband’s, and the man who plays the silent organ. When I get to the second floor I walk quickly. Here lives the junkie, who terrifies me because of what I might have been, and the man who is eating himself to death because his mother died. I have just stepped out onto the third floor when the light clicks off and I’m left in darkness.
But not total darkness.
A red light spills down the stairs from above, as if from an emergency generator.
I listen. I can hear a whispering moan. Like the sound you made as you lay dying. But this time it’s just the wind. I feel it on my face, lifting my hair, pushing my skirt between my thighs.
I grip the banister and continue climbing.
When I step out onto the fourth floor – our floor – my heart catches.
The door to the roof is open.
Blood-red sunset spills across the landing. I stand at the edge of the puddle of light, afraid of what will happen if I step inside. Am I finally going mad?
The air smells of your aftershave.
Movement by the door catches my eye. A strand of wool is caught on the latch and blows in the wind.
I have to force myself to cross the landing and unhitch the strand. I run it through my fingers. Cashmere. No one else in this place wears cashmere. Only you. This thread is from the diamond pattern on your cardigan with the big collar.
There’s a footprint in the dust at the bottom of the staircase. The Xs and diamonds of a Converse sole.
The dull grey concrete steps turn shimmering gold as they rise up before me, like a stairway to heaven.
They were wrong. They were all wrong. You did love me, and now you’ve come for me. You’re waiting for me up there in the sunset.
I put my foot on the first step.
37. Mags
I admit I enjoyed it.
From my table at the back of Cosmo I could watch the street. So many times she missed me as she hurried past with her head down, but I only needed one moment. It was busy that day. I’d just sat down at the one remaining table and was glancing over the menu I knew quite well by then when I saw her. A drab figure merging with the dullness of the street, I only noticed her as she moved across the brash window of the bookie’s on the other side of the road.
When she went into the pharmacy I stood up, willing her to see me. And then she did. I held her gaze, wondering how good my disguise was, whether this close she would see that my hair was straighter, my shoulders narrower. But I guessed from her expression that she was taken in and I experienced a shiver of delight as the colour drained from her face.
When she turned to the woman behind the counter I retreated to the toilets at the back of the restaurant to wait until she’d gone. I knew she wouldn’t have the courage to come in.
I’d told Peter Selby that I had to stay on for a week or so to arrange the cremation. But when I explained that being around Abe’s stuff was proving too painful, the sentimental old queen readily agreed to my moving into one of the unoccupied flats.
José met me at the Moon and Sixpence at the far end of the high road to give me the key and we got semi drunk. The new flat smelled of stale alcohol and urine. The alcoholic’s mattress had been destroyed so he went for a new one straightaway, hoping, I suspect, he would have the chance to christen it. I pretended to be busy when he came back, tapping away on my computer, ostentatiously oblivious to his shirt-stripping and sweat-from-brow-wiping as he manoeuvred the mattress into position.
He was halfway out of the door when I called him back. He returned, grinning.
‘Can I borrow the roof key?’
His face fell. ‘Ah, is not safe up there. What you want it for?’
‘There’s been a huge sand storm in the Sahara and apparently it’s going to be a beautiful sunset for the next few days. I thought there’d be a good view from up there.’
‘Sounds fun,’ he said, leaning on the door frame. His aftershave was so strong it gave me the same head rush as alcohol. ‘Like some company?’
I smiled. ‘If I do, I’ll give you a call.’
He slid his hand into the pocket of his low jeans and drew out a key ring.
‘Don’t lose it or I will spank you.’
‘Sod off, José,’ I said good-naturedly, and he swaggered across the foyer and out into the dusk.
After that I just had to lay low and wait for the right moment.
This morning I had my first attack of conscience as I watched Jody cross and recross the end of Gordon Terrace, searching for her phantom lover, and decided that, for better of worse, it would have to be tonight.
As the afternoon wore away I dressed up in Abe’s trousers, shirt and cardigan, gelling my hair into his careful waves in front of the mildewed mirror in the bathroom.
And now I stand here, by a windowsill strewn with dead flies, swigging from a quarter bottle of whisky to calm my nerves while I wait for Jody to come back.
I had wondered, as the barber on the high road cut my n
ew style, whether Daniel would still fancy me with short hair, but it’s an academic point, since I won’t be seeing him again. He and Donna probably have a cosy night planned, with a Netflix boxset, a nice bottle of chardonnay and a takeaway curry, the kids slumbering peacefully upstairs, happy in the knowledge that Mummy and Daddy are back together.
I throw the remains of the bottle down my throat and grimace. Is my contempt just sour grapes? Christ, who knows? I thought I was jealous of Abe and Jody.
The glass stops halfway to the sill.
She’s coming.
Her steps drag down Gordon Terrace, her shadow yawning behind her. I would have spotted her before but her colouring merges with the grey pavement.
She reaches the end of the street and steps onto the grass. At any moment she could look up and see me. A part of me wants her to, wants her to guess what’s going on so I don’t have to go through with any of it. But she doesn’t.
Grabbing Abe’s aftershave and the key from the stained Formica dining table, I let myself out of the flat. I take the stairs two at a time and have made it to the third floor when I hear the creak of the main door opening. Swearing under my breath – I should have moved earlier – I drop to my haunches and crawl up the final flight of steps. But my luck’s in – for some reason she’s lingering downstairs.
I crawl past Abe’s door, then Mira’s and Jody’s, to the other end of the landing. A sliver of grimy wind creeps under the threshold where a semi circle of dust and grit has formed. A stroke of luck.
Awkwardly lifting my knee while trying to keep my head down, I press the sole of Abe’s shoe into the dust, then I slide the key into the Yale lock and turn it with the utmost care. There is the tiniest scrape of metal and then the door unfastens, swinging out towards me. I catch it, and let it out slowly, wincing as it creaks a little. I can hear her coming up the stairs. She must be on the first floor.
Careful not to disturb the footprint, I climb into the stairwell, spritz the aftershave a couple of times, then run lightly up the cement steps to the door at the top.
Opening it I am assaulted by the wind. Fortunately José has thought to leave a chunk of breeze block up here and once I’ve secured it I straighten up to look for a place to conceal myself.
For a split second I forget why I came and simply stare.
The sky is on fire.
Ribbons of gold and scarlet light stream west to east, studded here and there with fireballs of slowly revolving cloud. The buildings are charred black stumps, with an occasional window dazzlingly aflame.
My hands are red, and so are Abe’s Converses, as if I have been paddling in blood.
Behind me faltering footsteps scrape the gritty surface of the cement steps.
She has fallen for it.
Where can I hide?
The church spire lances up into the roiling sky. There are louvred windows on both sides, one set looking out over the high road, the other looking back over endless council estates. A small door in the wall must lead to a staircase. Is this the place from her imagination? Where she and my brother had their first earth-shattering night of passion?
It’s pitiful, laughable. But I don’t feel like laughing any more. I dive across the lead roof and conceal myself behind the spire.
Dead leaves crackle under my feet as I peer around the edge of the wall.
I squint, unable to distinguish her shape from the pink shadows on the wall of the stairwell, until she steps out onto the roof.
Close up she is so frail I fear that the wind will buffet her straight over the edge. Beneath the scarlet wash of the sunset, her face is drained, her eye sockets dark-ringed.
I assume she is blinking because the sun is in her eyes but then the tears spill out, the sun catching them and turning them to livid scratches down her cheeks. Like some kind of martyred saint.
No. I mustn’t allow myself to think she is the victim. I must go through with this. Or I will never know.
She takes a step forward, then another, catching her toe on the edge of the leadwork and stumbling, then righting herself.
‘Abe?’ Her voice trembles.
I step back as her eyes scan the rooftop.
‘Abe, I’m here.’
She walks hesitantly towards the door in the spire; presumably she intends to climb up to the windows. I hear a rattling. The door is locked. Poor Jody. No ghostly lover waiting to enclose her in his cold embrace after all.
I ease myself around the spire to approach her from behind.
Her body is angled away from me so it takes a moment for her to register my presence.
Jerking around she cries out, her hands flying to her face, and I realise, with incredulity, that even now she thinks I’m Abe. It must be the tears clouding her vision – or the pills clouding her mind.
Either way she stands rigid with shock, which gives me enough time to get between her and the steps that lead back down to the fourth floor.
‘Hello, Jody.’
The hands fall from her face. Her eyebrows contract, tilting upwards as her face crumples with disappointment. No, more than disappointment. Anguish. She gives a moaning exhalation, as if she has been kicked in the stomach, and actually bends a little at the waist.
‘You’ve been avoiding me. What was I supposed to do?’
I sound like a Bond villain. If I were watching this tableau on a film, I’d be willing her to snatch up the brick door prop and hurl it into my face before making her escape. I set my jaw. It has to be done.
‘I need to know what happened – and you’re going to tell me.’
Her eyes are dull. Her face has slackened, as if a little bit of her soul has drained away. Even the wariness seems blunted because when I step towards her she makes no attempt to evade me.
‘You’re not getting off this roof until you do.’
Her eyes slide away from mine. It’s the only signal that she is alive or conscious.
I am ready to hurt her. It is the natural progression of my behaviour over the past week – watching her, following her, deliberately setting out to unnerve her. I’ve been stalking her. Murder in slow motion.
‘You’re going to tell me what happened that night. Who pushed my brother over that stairwell?’
She is silent.
Striding up to her I slap her hard enough to make my palm sting.
Her head stays where the blow put it, angled away from me, her wide eyes staring down at the lead.
‘Say something, Jody, or I’m warning you …’
But I’m losing hope already.
She is a broken doll, propped awkwardly on spindle-legs, unstable, liable to collapse like pick-up sticks. I grasp her bony shoulders, my thumbs digging into her clavicles, and give them a sharp shake as if I’m trying to dislodge something that’s sticking. Her head waggles stupidly, the hair falling in front of her face, hiding her eyes from me. I yank it back, hoping to see fear, but they are blank and glassy.
‘You owe me this, Jody. You owe it to Abe.’ I force this attempt at emotional blackmail out through gritted teeth. In a minute I’ll stop trying to keep a lid on my fury. It’s getting dark. Our figures will no longer be silhouetted against a treacherously bright sky. I can do what I like to her and no one will ever know.
No one would care.
No one would believe her.
‘Answer me!’
I count down the seconds: three, two, one.
Time’s up.
And now a part of me doesn’t even want to hear her story, it just wants to hurt her, to punish her for everything that has happened. For Abe, for our shitty childhoods, for the wreck of my emotions, for her own weakness, which has allowed people to hurt and abuse her for her whole pathetic life. She is a rag doll upon whom others can take out their misery and pain. And now it’s my turn.
I drag her to the edge of the roof, where the lead falls away sharply, then kick her legs out from under her. She lands on her back with a grunt and before she can roll to safety I drop down to stradd
le her, my hands around her throat, forcing her head back over the edge. Her hair streams out in the wind.
‘This is what it was like for Abe!’ I snarl. ‘Hanging over that banister, wondering if the person that held him would let him go. Was it you, Jody?’
Thrusting my hips I nudge her forward, and now her shoulders are off the edge. I only manage to stop the inexorable slide of the rest of her by grasping the head of a nearby gargoyle. Its pointed tongue stretches down between its legs and I want to snatch my hand back, but if I do she will fall. Even holding onto it I feel unstable. Perhaps we will both go over.
Somewhere a police siren wails. The vertical wind pummels my chin, all scent of aftershave long gone, replaced by the gritty, musty perfume of the city.
The siren recedes and an eerie quiet descends.
She isn’t screaming or crying or begging me not to hurt her. She doesn’t make a sound. Her eyes simply gaze skywards, like a long-suffering saint seeking deliverance from heaven. Her chest brushes my thighs as it gently rises and falls. She is totally calm.
I ask myself again: who is she protecting?
Whoever it is it seems she’d rather die than betray them.
How far will I have to go to make her tell me?
A gull swoops down in front of us, red-backed. We must be above the bins. Jody’s view, in all these years of living here, has been of people’s rubbish being fought over by gulls and rats and foxes, and the occasional whore turning tricks. The gull swoops up again, a chicken bone between its beak. Eating it’s own kind in its greed or desperation.
And then it hits me.
I have been so stupid.
What was it Daniel said? There’s no such thing as truth. Only the story we choose to tell, to others, and ourselves. Jody is sticking to her story to the bitter end. Sticking to that fantasy in which her life is bearable, in which she is loved and needed, even though it might kill her. Because what on earth is the truth worth to Jody? Nothing. Nothing but pain and despair. But in her parallel universe she is about to follow her darling into eternity.
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