by Lenny Brando
40
Ian changed the booking on the flight to Frankfurt, rescheduled the cab to bring him to Heathrow and fobbed off the office with the truth. Now he paced the kitchen as he waited for the glaziers to finish. The fear of another brick through the window while the house was empty bothered him, but there was little he could do. He comforted himself with the thought perhaps the police were right, the smashed window would be a once off.
When the glaziers left, he called Alice.
“Hey. Just calling to see how you're getting on?”
“Fine,” she said. “Didn’t go out last night. Connie had an emergency and had to cancel. I’m meeting her later.”
“How’s the hotel?”
“It’s nice. Ate in the restaurant, then had a drink at the bar. But I got bored and I, um, looked at Twitter in the room.”
He walked into the lounge and over to the window. “Not a good idea if you’re drinking.”
“I wasn't drinking. And so what if I was?”
“Jeez, Alice. Didn't mean it like that. I meant you shouldn't look at the tweets.”
“But I couldn't help it. Some of the stuff they wrote? I let it get to me, so I deactivated my account, that way I can't look. It’s better not to know.”
“True.”
“Yeah. But still…” She sounded annoyed. “And I had a lot of followers.”
“Where was their support?”
“There wasn't much.”
“The threats still bother you, don't they?” He studied the new window and ran his finger along the ledge. The glaziers had cleaned up well, and without close inspection of the new paint on the putty, no-one would notice.
She let out a long breath. “Of course they do. It’s difficult not to take threats personally.”
“They might give up now you’ve deactivated your account. I think it’s petering out already.”
“I hope.”
“Glad I use a pseudonym on Twitter, else they'd be after me too.”
“It’s different for men. No-one would threaten to rape you.”
“Fair enough.” He ran his eyes over the carpet for any elusive slivers of glass but couldn’t find any. “But you won't access Twitter, will you?”
Alice grunted over the phone, “I told you already. I deactivated it.”
The doorbell rang. “Hang on.” Ian went to the front door, careful to avoid the wet patch on the carpet. He gave the driver the thumbs up.
“You’re at the house?” Alice asked. “I thought you had an early flight?”
“Had to change it. Something came up at the office. Worked from home. Look, I got to go. I’ll call you from the hotel when I get a chance. Say hi to Connie and Lucas.”
*
Ian fiddled with his phone as the taxi crawled towards Hammersmith. He kept thinking about the empty house and the possibility someone would break the window again. But what could he do? At least he hadn’t told Alice. She had enough to be dealing with and being in Copenhagen away from all the crap would do her good. If Alice was off Twitter, then perhaps he could tweet something that would deter wannabe window breakers?
He explored several options in his head and by the time the taxi hit the M4, he formed a suitable tweet. Secure in the knowledge he could hide behind his pseudonym account, he typed:
LOL #champagneterrorist deletes account and flees UK after Twitter pressure!! #SouthKen
41
Later that afternoon, Alice took the Metro to Christianshavn. She walked up the steps and onto the still familiar cobblestones. Her instinct was to turn and run back to the Metro, but she forced herself to keep going, and she walked along the narrow street, taking two left turns onto Prinsessegade.
Her legs trembled as she stood at the intersection. Squinting in the midday sun, she looked down the street. The bar looked the same. But no longer innocent or welcoming. Her pulse quickened, and she took a sharp breath.
She focused her mind and kept walking until she stood outside. It had been over twelve years. The phone told her what she had already known, the bar didn’t open for another 40 minutes. She crossed the street and took a photograph with a trembling hand. Perhaps it would serve as a trophy of progress.
While the bar was one thing, Ved Volden was another. She walked to Torvegade and stood at the crossing. For over a minute she stared across the wide street, over to Ved Volden. When the green pedestrian lit, she ignored it. People brushed by. A woman flashed a scornful look. Still Alice stared. The lights changed and Alice stepped out onto the street. Three cyclists shouted obscenities, and she jumped back.
She grabbed on to the traffic light pole for fear she would stumble and fall.
An elderly man stopped on the pavement. “Are you all right?”
Alice put her free hand up. “Yes. Yes.”
He shrugged and walked off.
Alice felt her heart pounding. Whispers from the past echoed in her ears. The street spun around her. She struggled to breathe. Images from that night 12 years ago flooded back.
My words. “See something you like, Jesper?” My fault.
Thorsten’s words. “You got what you wanted.” My fault.
I didn't say no. My fault.
I didn’t say stop. My fault.
Nobody would have believed me. My fault.
Alice turned and ran along Torvegade to the Metro station. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she barged past the elderly man. She didn’t stop or mumble an apology, she kept running. At the stairs down to the Metro, she paused and looked over her shoulder. Ved Volden was out of sight. As she stared, people with blank faces avoided eye contact while they hurried past. She rubbed her wrist and felt the faint contours of the scars. Then she descended into the chrome underground and hid herself within the milling crowd.
42
The first time Cole woke on Wednesday, he assessed his hangover as serious, and he went back to sleep. The second time he blinked awake, he downgraded the hangover to average, and he got out of bed. After food and a shower, he took out the beer mat from the night before and called the estate agents.
Over an hour later, Cole checked his reflection in the window of a pharmacy on Notting Hill Gate. He adjusted the pork pie hat and straightened his tie. Earlier, he’d bought a pair of tight-fitting gloves and clear glass spectacles, and now, he took them from the shopping bag, popped the glasses on, and slipped his hands into the gloves. He stuffed the empty bag into a bin outside the pharmacy. His shoes shone with polish and he had pressed his only suit that morning. He rehearsed his lines as he entered Beauchamps Estates where he introduced himself as Brian Hailsham and asked for Mark Flanagan in the most refined accent he could without sounding fake.
A young, well dressed guy beamed at him and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you Brian. I’m Mark Flanagan.” He stared at Cole’s gloved hands.
Cole noticed and said, “Skin problem. Same with the head. Need to keep the sun off it.”
“Oh. Sorry.” Flanagan looked sheepish despite an obvious attempt to hide it.
Cole shrugged. “No worries. I’m used to it. Gloves and hat in Summer, eh?”
“Well, it’s a nice hat.” Flanagan looked askew at him. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
Cole shook his head. “Don't think so. Unless you were at Oxford?”
Flanagan laughed. “Out of my league, that. Anyhow, where’s your mum?”
“She couldn't make it. She asked me to go alone. I know what she's looking for and if I like this, she’ll listen.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes. Yes. She’s great. She’s considering another property. But I don't like it. So, if this one looks good, well, there’s a good chance we’ll make an offer.”
“Excellent. There’s a lot of interest in this area. We’re even open on Sundays for the next few weekends.”
“Overtime, eh?”
“I wish. Other perks though.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Mum’s the word there.” F
lanagan winked. “C’mon. Let’s go. We can walk, it’s not far.”
Cole engaged in small talk along the way. There was no problem wheedling information from Flanagan as he could talk for England. Cole soon learned that the boyfriend was away at a conference, and the girl had gone home to Copenhagen for a week, which confirmed what he’d seen on Twitter. Alice had fled from London.
When they turned off Portobello Road onto the Close, Cole asked, “Doesn’t it say on the leaflet the house is on Portobello Road?”
Flanagan shrugged. “Well, it’s right beside it. The address is Portobello Close, Portobello Road. Same thing.”
Cole disagreed, but decided not to press the point. As they approached the house, Cole took out his phone. “Excuse me,” he said. “The office.”
“Go right ahead.”
Flanagan pushed open the gate and walked ahead. Cole ensured the phone was on silent and set the phone’s camera to record video. Manipulating the phone with gloves was awkward, but depending on how future events unfolded, Cole figured it would be best not to leave fingerprints all over the house. Flanagan opened the door and Cole followed with the phone to his ear. A low beeping of an alarm system sounded. Cole spoke into the phone. “Aha… Yes…” Flanagan pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and punched at four numbers on the control panel with his forefinger. Cole angled the phone at the panel while Flanagan disarmed it. The beeping stopped.
“Yeah sure. Later,” Cole said. He kept the phone recording and held it at his side. “Sorry about that, Mark.”
“No problem. Now, let me show you around.” Flanagan set the keys down on the hall table but stuffed the paper with the alarm numbers into his pocket. Cole glanced at the keys and tried to figure out ways to get his hands on them. There were several keys on the bunch, and he knew the front door key was one of two possibilities. He scowled as he realised he’d need impressions of both to be sure he had the correct key. That would take more time.
“Let’s start in the lounge.” Flanagan said. Cole threw another look at the keys and clicked his tongue. Then he followed Flanagan into the lounge. He filmed everything as he pretended to listen to the estate agent talk up the good features.
The large photograph over the mantelpiece fascinated Cole, and he made sure he caught it on video. Alice must like her kinky shit to put up a bondage photo in her lounge. He’d keep that in mind. Then he pulled back the curtains and smiled at the fresh paint covering the putty for the replacement pane.
In the kitchen, Cole opened several cupboards. “Damp. Mum’s paranoid about damp.”
“I think you’ll find the place is tip top. Even here, in the utility room.”
“What about the garden?”
Flanagan went to open the back door. “The keys.”
“I’ll get them,” Cole said. “Hall table, right?” Before Flanagan could protest, Cole hurried out. He took out a tin full of plasticine and flipped open the lid. He picked up the bunch of keys, selected one and pressed it into the tin. Satisfied with the impression, he flipped the key over and pressed the other side down.
“You find them?” Flanagan asked from the kitchen.
“Yeah. Yeah.” Cole went to select the other key, but the bunch slipped from his gloved hand and clattered to the floor.
“Butterfingers, eh?” Flanagan stood in the kitchen doorway. Cole cursed under his breath. He slipped the lid shut on the tin, picked up the keys and tossed them through the air towards Flanagan. “Here you go.”
Flanagan turned the key with a clunk and the back door opened with a loud, grating noise. “Wow,” Cole said. “That door need oil?”
“No. No,” Flanagan said. “Nothing to worry about. In fact, it’s a good thing as it means a tight seal. Keeps the draughts out.”
Cole shook his head. Flanagan was the real estate agent, and Cole held a grudging respect for his professional bullshit. As Cole followed him into the garden, he thought he should take a slice of that bullshit from Flanagan’s plate. Might come in useful.
Outside, Cole surveyed the back of the house, noting the alarm box. He waved his phone in his hand to record it all. Back in the kitchen, he winced as Flanagan squealed the door shut. Then he frowned as he watched the keys slip into Flanagan’s pocket.
Upstairs, they looked at the three bedrooms. “As you can see,” Flanagan said. “They use one as an office, but once you change the furniture, you can turn it back into a bedroom.” He pointed to his left, “That one is larger, also with good wardrobe space and then there’s the main bedroom with an ensuite.”
Cole wandered around the office. A lead ran from beneath the desk to behind the wardrobe. He held the wardrobe door. “May I?”
“Sure.”
Cole opened both the wardrobe doors. Several dresses swung on hangers in an otherwise unused space. “Nice.”
“Yes. It is. Come on. I’ll show you the main bedroom.”
They entered the main bedroom, and a buzz ran through Cole. He smiled and nodded. Flanagan waffled on. “Built in wardrobes, a dresser, a chest of drawers. Full length mirror over there....” His voice faded as Cole surveyed the room. The bed was a metal frame complete with head and tail pieces. Perfect. It didn't take much to imagine Alice Madsen lying on the bed. Vulnerable, naked and his for the taking. Later, he told himself. Later. Need to get the key copied first.
A faint smell of perfume lingered in the ensuite. Cole glanced at the shower cubicle, and again he waved the phone around as if he was pointing things out. Yet all the time, he imagined Alice Madsen in the shower. The hot jet of water caressing her naked body while he watched her…
Cole stopped himself. He was getting carried away. But he couldn't help it. She had bewitched him somehow, and the closer he got to her, the more the urge evolved, and now he wanted more.
The keys jangled in Flanagan’s pocket and he stopped fantasising about Alice and returned to the immediate problem. Supposing he hit Flanagan over the head and took the keys? But he dismissed that as daft. There had to be another way.
“Won't that big bunch of keys ruin your suit? My, er, tailor told me never to do that. Said it distorts the cut.”
“Oh really?” Flanagan took the keys out of his pocket. “Suppose you’ve got a point. Shouldn't put both phone and keys in the pockets.”
“Want me to take them for you?”
“No thanks. I better keep them.”
Flanagan flipped the keys around his fingers as they descended the stairs. Cole scowled at him as he followed. Bastard’s doing this on purpose, he thought. If only he’d trip and fall down the stairs. Cole gauged the possibility of upending Flanagan, but by the time Cole ran through the options, they’d reached the hall.
“So?” Flanagan asked. “What do you think?”
“I like it. I think it’s what we’re looking for. You think they’d take an offer?”
“They might. It’s at 3.2. Not sure they’d go under 3.”
Cole looked around the hall and peered into the lounge. “Mum’s always worried about security. What’s the set up here?”
Flanagan looked surprised, and Cole thought he might have overstepped his role as a potential buyer. Then Flanagan frowned. “Fair point.” He flipped the keys several times. “There’s an intruder alarm as you've seen. Perimeter system, meaning all the windows and doors have sensors.”
Cole followed Flanagan into the kitchen. “Oh yeah? That’s good. Mum would like that.”
Then Flanagan’s phone rang. He set the keys down on the kitchen counter and fished his phone from his pocket. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead. You know what, Mark? I’d like to check the garden features again. That all right?”
Flanagan didn't appear to listen, he nodded and spoke into the phone. “Hello? What? No… I can’t hear you…” He turned to Cole and pointed to the phone and then to the hall. “Reception's not great.”
As soon as Flanagan walked into the hall, Cole picked up the keys.
43
Alice
wandered the streets of Copenhagen until her feet hurt. When she began to limp, she gave up and took a taxi back to the hotel.
In her room, she kicked off her shoes and rubbed her ankles. The skin was grazed and red at her heels, and she winced at the angry blister on one of her toes. A glance at her phone told her she had several hours before she was to meet Connie and her husband.
She sighed and lay on the bed. Later tonight, she hoped for time alone with Connie. Tomorrow was set aside for family, assuming her brother returned her call. When she phoned Kasper’s restaurant, he was too busy to take calls. Instead, she left her UK mobile number and the number of the hotel with the waitress who took the message.
She struggled with thoughts of Ved Volden. Who was at fault? Would there ever be closure? Again, she rubbed the scars on her wrist. A lasting reminder of the wrong attempt at closure. Could someone have come to her rescue? Why couldn't she save herself? The questions had loitered in the background for years, kept silent with bottles of wine, but recent events had stirred them, and now the demand for answers increased in volume and had become harder to drown.
She put her head in her hands and pulled at her hair. Was it too early for a drink? No, she thought, if I start I won’t be able to stop. Instead, she fell into a fitful nap, her sleep broken by the terrible twins of guilt and blame arguing inside her as they searched for a place to settle.
Later, after a long shower and a change of clothing, she put on a pair of comfortable shoes and arranged for a taxi to collect her. Knowing their punctuality, Connie and Lucas would be in the restaurant when she arrived.
*
“Yay,” Connie said. “For a while I thought you weren't coming.”
Alice smiled. “Sorry I’m late. I, um, had to talk to Ian.” She turned to Lucas. “Hi Lucas. Long time, eh?”
Lucas stood and embraced her. “Hi, Alice.” His stubble brushed against her cheek as he stooped to kiss her. Lucas had a disarming smile that showed the result of good dental care. Connie always liked a well-groomed partner. Now Connie linked her arm through Lucas’s and pulled at him.