by Jason Arnopp
“Welcome to my city,” he says. “I’ve alerted the mayor, who’s granted us full use of the keys this evening.”
Travelling light, I only have a backpack, but Scott carries it anyway. He leads me to a road that slopes down beneath the station forecourt itself. After passing through a faintly magical rainbow-lit subway, our short walk to a lovely pub called the Foundry is punctuated by stolen kisses and increasingly keen hands.
Scott surprises me by having booked an astonishing three-course vegan Italian meal, cooked to perfection by chefs Two Wolves. Wow, this all feels very much worth the wait. Mr Palmer’s old-fashioned approach may have its merits after all.
The streets blur as we walk hand in hand to the Basketmakers Arms. Here, we seek out corner seats that allow us to sit as close together as humanly possible. Small but perfectly formed, this place has ancient tobacco tins stuck to the wall. Inside these tins lurk various handwritten messages, left behind by patrons. You never know what you’re going to get. Could be anything from a crudely drawn cock ’n’ balls (sometimes with jizz arcing up from the head, sometimes not – it all depends on each artist’s individual sensibilities) to a deeply profound philosophical statement, most likely committed to paper somewhere around last orders.
Stupid though most of these messages are, something about their physical nature, together with the atmosphere of the night, feels like the true antidote to living inside my phone. More than ever, I’m convinced I was right to embrace the humble Nokia.
Scott pops open one of the tins, then goggles comically at the message inside.
“Well,” he says. “This is new.”
He turns the paper around to show me. Spidery writing announces: You Will Die, accompanied by a badly drawn skull.
We laugh uproariously, what with being four or five drinks down.
“Not exactly the most incredible prediction,” I say. “Technically it’s true.” Oh yes, you can always rely on Kate Collins to infuse any given hot date with a reminder of death’s inevitability.
Scott nods, and rips up the message. “Wouldn’t want anyone else seeing this,” he says. “Might freak them out.” He places his hand over mine on the table. “But even if I did die tonight, I reckon I’d be a happy man.”
“No one’s dying here,” I say, trying to downplay my reaction to his drunkenly romantic gesture. “We’re in the prime of our lives.”
Of course, as we clink our ale jugs, my brain decides to show me a rapid-fire montage of all the people I’ve seen who’ve died in the very prime of their lives.
Scott arches an eyebrow. “So, if I’ve got a few years left in me yet, that means there’s no hurry for us to get back to mine and get more comfortable… right?”
I become the human embodiment of the pondering emoji. “Actually, you do look peaky. Trust me, I’m a paramedic…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
3 October
When I reach Floor Five, the lift stutters to a begrudging halt, as requested. The door makes three abortive attempts to open, as if testing my nerve, before finally giving way.
I scurry outside before the lift changes its mind. Determined to ignore all the foreboding I feel, I yank open the fire door that leads to Flat Twenty-Three. Beyond this door, the darkness forms a solid block until overhead lights auto-flicker on.
During the short walk to Twenty-Three, I pass two silent flats, one of which has an Amazon package propped up against the door. Here in the mid-afternoon, most people are still at work. When I dialled random flat numbers from outside and pretended to be a courier, I was lucky to find one resident who sounded too jaded to argue and buzzed me inside.
Could Scott really be doing the Unbelievably Pathetic Man Thing of holing himself up and hoping I’ll eventually get the message? How could he possibly think that hiding away will work? He knows I’m travelling 265 miles with all my stuff. Yeah, if he really has done the UPMT, then this will plumb new depths of pathetic.
My mouth dries up as the door comes into view. Styled like a wolf, the metal knocker looks stolen from some gothic mansion. A thick ring dangles from the lower jaw.
Remember how cool you thought this was, the first time you saw it?
I grab the metal ring again and bash it against the door, making a sound like a machine gun. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat-tat-TAT.
Hurricane Collins, in the house.
As I wait for a response, I notice the spyhole lens at eye-level. Can’t help imagining Scott tip-toeing up to the door to peer out, and silently mouthing the words Oh fuck. And now he might be frozen there on the other side of the wood, like a Fyre Festival organiser, praying I’ll go away if he simply waits this out.
Not gonna happen, my friend.
What if he seriously is dead in there? What if I’m rat-a-tat-tatting to Scott’s corpse, all twisted up in rigor mortis, having expired the day before yesterday?
My attention drifts down to the letterbox.
Here’s a magic portal, offering me the power to see inside the flat.
My brain wants to look. My heart remains undecided. My stomach is clearly dead set against the idea.
The brain wins. Age-old minor injuries jangle me as I kneel in front of the door and place one hand on either side of the letterbox’s polished silver metal flap. Come on, Kate: pretend you’re on duty. This may as well be any other job.
Only problem is, my hands won’t work. I tell them to lift the flap, but they can’t or won’t. I’m too scared of what I might see inside.
For fuck’s sake. I have nothing to be afraid of. For the last time: the guy’s not dead; he’s almost certainly just a dick.
Dick, not dead.
Fine, not funeral.
Breathe in through the nose, then out through the mouth.
I place one thumb on each side of the metal flap, then hinge it all the way up.
Two keen, bright eyes stare back at me from inside.
Two human eyes. No fucking squirrel.
Somewhere overhead there’s a soft click, then all the lights die.
Rigid with fear, I shove myself hard away from the door.
This loud, harsh clap sounds like the letterbox swinging shut.
This strangled cry seems to be coming from me. Hope so, anyway.
Having fallen back through total darkness, I land on the small of my back. The word coccyx flashes uselessly through my head, even as dull sparks light up my spine.
Fuck. Fuck. Who was that inside? That didn’t look like Scott. And why was this person so ready for me to look through the letterbox? Like they were waiting there…
Hate this darkness, fucking hate it, but I need to get a grip. This is nothing more than a temporary absence of light.
Yes, but it also reminds you of the coma. You’ll never be free of that memory, no matter how hard you try.
Shut up, brain. This is no time to bring up the whole coma thing.
I reach around, trying to find a wall. Something to help me get my bearings. Up above, another soft click heralds the lights flickering back on. This building’s management company must be so hell-bent on cutting costs that their system kills the lights if you don’t move for a certain period of time. Wonderful.
Those looked very much like a woman’s eyes, didn’t they? Well, she’s messing with the wrong stroppy bitch.
Even if she turns out to be Scott’s wife?
Back on my feet, I feel even more stupid than when I arrived. And feeling stupid always makes me angry, so I smash the wolf ring against the door until it dents the wood. Then I get straight back onto my knees, like an actual adult who isn’t scared of what they might see inside, or of the stupid dark that might return.
I do not hesitate in yanking this damn flap all the way up.
Shit! The eyes again. Staring right at me.
I’m about to open my mouth, to say Christ knows what, when those eyes blink at the same time as mine.
Oh.
My.
God.
These eyes blink at the same time
as mine, because they’re my own fucking eyes.
The letterbox consists of two metal flaps, one on either side of the door. The inner flap is still down, and the polished metal reflects my idiot stare right back at me.
This mirror face of mine contorts into a hysterical gurn because I’m actually laughing. Silent, mad, incredulous mirth at how ludicrous I’ve been.
There never was some maniac on their knees on the other side of this door.
Well, actually, there still could be. You haven’t lifted the inner flap yet.
Oh, do fuck right off.
Lift both flaps, then. Go on, I dare you.
I press my forehead up against the outer flap, to keep it hinged upright. Then I shove my fingers through the letterbox and prise open the inner one.
On the other side of the door, no eyes lie in wait for me. So that’s something.
Inside, the lights are off. The hall runs straight ahead, away from this door, and halfway along its right-hand side there’s an ornate archway that leads to the living room. The balcony curtains must be open through there, because the piss-yellow of street lamps drizzles in through this arch to splash the opposite wall. If it wasn’t for this faint external light, I might have seen nothing at all through this letterbox. Beyond the arch, the hall continues all the way to the dimly visible bathroom door, before turning off to the right.
This really does look and feel like no one’s home. But if Scott freaked out, and/or became lost in some personal crisis, and he knew I was coming, he would turn out the lights and curl up in a ball somewhere. Wouldn’t he? Is that something Scott Palmer would do?
I don’t know. You tell me – you’re the one who thought you knew the guy well enough to move in with him, for Christ’s sake.
I study the hallway with intent. Something’s different here, but I can’t put my finger on what.
I scan for any movement at all. Any tiny change in the shadows or the light. Any signs of life.
Oh, the number of times I’ve done this exact thing while on the job. Calling through the letterbox to people who live by themselves. People who’ve phoned us but now aren’t answering their door and have gone worryingly quiet, or—
What was that? What the fuck was that?
Something moved on the left-hand wall. The one facing the sea.
One of those shadows moved. No doubt about that.
Stop shivering! Mostly likely, a seagull swooped past outside and briefly obscured one of the street lamps. I mean, what did you think this was, jackass: one of those spooky ghosts you don’t believe in?
Wow. I’ve barely even thought about ghosts since I was a petrified little kid in my room. When you’re small, the night is alive with possibility and shadows can hide anything. Then you grow old, you become a paramedic and reality chases any thought of the paranormal right out the door. You become less concerned about the shadows in the corners of rooms and worry much more about the shadows in the soul of man.
A new click from above heralds the second death of the lights out here.
I could wave my arms around to turn them back on, but there’s no need. This is only darkness and I do not fear it.
Not sounding nearly as tough as I wanted them to, my words sail through the letterbox and into the gloom of the flat. “Scott? Look, are you in there? It’s… me… obviously.”
Such heroic work. Why don’t you just bleat at him, like the lost lamb you are? Yeah, why don’t you go right ahead and bleat, Please don’t leave me all alone?
Again, I eagle-eye the corridor walls for signs of movement. This time, there’s nothing.
Nothing at all. May as well be calling into a crypt.
Inspiration strikes. I pull out my Nokia, then speed-dial Scott’s number. If he’s hiding inside, his own phone might ring and give him away.
My phone’s crude onscreen animation confirms it’s calling Scott. Dumping the handset on the carpet beside me, I listen intently through the letterbox.
No ringing from inside. Of course, he could have muted his phone.
The harsh hiss of Scott’s voice makes me jump half out of my skin.
Cursing myself for being so skittish, I pick my phone back up from the floor and shove it against my ear. This outgoing voicemail message is one I’ve heard all too many times since Scott went incommunicado. He sounds crisp, professional, generic. Very little like the funny guy I’d planned to spend forever with. I can’t answer the phone right now, but please blah blah blah.
Injecting steel into my voice, I yell through the letterbox. “Scott, I swear to Christ, if you’re hiding in there…”
There follows an intensely silent pause.
I add, “This is your last chance to open the door. You’ve got ten seconds.”
Has he really? What are you going to do, exactly? Kick the door in?
You know what, brain? I fucking will. I don’t consider myself bound by the same rules as I am while working – the rules that forbid us from forcing entry into someone’s home, unless we can physically see someone’s collapsed and breaking in might save their life, or if they stop crying for help, or if we see something like blood through the letterbox.
Those may be my work rules, but this is my life. My boyfriend could be slowly bleeding to death, all over that polished wooden living room floor. His final breath could be imminent. So, however much this act might boost my Stalky Psycho points, it’s entirely possible that breaking into Scott’s flat might be in his best interest.
Stepping back a few paces, I stare at the door as if trying to psyche it out.
I shift my weight back onto my left foot, then slam the heel of my right boot above the lock, just as the lights die again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
28 June
Chock-full of ale and fresh sea air, I feel truly in the moment. As Scott and I approach the super-impressive Van Spencer building, I’m aware of every gull’s cry. Every gust of wind, heavy with the acid reek of vinegar. Every thump of techno from the rainbow-festooned bar next door.
Mindfulness can be achieved post-1980, after all. Certainly, as we pilot the lift up towards Scott’s man-cave, I’m very much mindful that we are finally going to have sex.
Yeah, tonight’s the night. Hopefully not in a Dexter way, though. If I walk into Scott’s flat and see the walls and floor covered in plastic sheeting, I’m straight on the next train back to Leeds. Also: if he turns all old-fashioned on me for a third time and offers to sleep on the sofa, there will be ructions.
Without warning, Scott leans in for a kiss. Pressing me up against the mirrored wall, he breathes hot against my neck and slides one hand down the front of my jeans.
Whoa, that escalated fast. Is he about to pull the movie trick of stopping the lift between floors? Does he actually want to have sex in here?
Do I want to have sex in here?
As great as this hand – and specifically these fingers – might feel, probably not. Apart from any other considerations, this lift hardly offers the most flattering light in which you’d want someone to see you naked for the first time.
We reach the fifth floor, the doors go ping and Scott whips his hand out of my jeans, like we’re about to get caught in the act by a traumatised vicar astride a bicycle.
Keys jangle in his hand as he leads the way to the door to Number Twenty-Three. When I catch up, he’s unlocking the deadbolt. Then he sticks another key into the smooth silver door handle. With his face still flushed from our lift play, he says, “You ready?”
Can’t say I care for him treating me like some wide-eyed Pretty Woman hooker. Okay Scott, I get it, you live in a fancy flat by the sea. But I’m also horny, so I meet his smile and raise him a smirk. “Ready for what?”
A very cool wolf knocker glares at me from the door, as if providing the answer.
Scott opens up to reveal a long corridor punctuated only by a fancy archway and an elegant table that holds an abstract marble sculpture.
Together, we take a right-turn through the
arch, and what I see takes my breath away.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
3 October
I take a right-turn through the arch, and what I see takes my breath away.
Behind me in the hall I’ve busted into, the door hangs open. Must have been on the latch, because it gave way easily and without damage.
So the only thing broken here is my heart.
How am I supposed to process what I’m seeing?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
28 June
The warm night hugs me. I’m wearing only my favourite oversized post-sex T-shirt and my face still prickles warm. The muscles in my legs feel like they barely exist as I drink in the incredible, panoramic view that stole my breath, what, two hours ago now? Who knows, who cares.
Out here on the decking of Scott’s open-air balcony, the volatile sea feels a mere stone’s throw away. A gull flies past, heading over to the far right, where the Palace Pier juts out over the water in all its attention-grabbing glory. Wind hauls the bird off target, aiming it instead towards the far left, where an audience has assembled at a big-screen beach cinema. I can catch enough snippets of the movie to identify it as Jaws. Ha, nice.
Swept backwards but not to be deterred, the gull ends up flying off over the zip-wire tower that sits directly across from this flat. A white spiral staircase corkscrews up to the scarily high platform.
Scott’s balcony comfortably holds a table, two garden chairs and an old barbecue. The ceiling is provided by the underside of the balcony above. The cigarette smoke of Saturday night revellers somehow manages to waft five floors up here from Marine Parade.
Behind me, through a whole row of floor-to-ceiling windows, the flat’s interior continues to impress. Throughout the living room and the adjoining open-plan kitchen, dimmer-switch spotlights make the chrome and marble wink. There’s so much empty space across those wooden floorboards, you could ride a bike around in circles.
A huge slimline TV hangs on the wall. Swish cordless speakers have been stationed around the whole room, for the full 7.1 experience. Strictly curated Perspex racks display favoured Blu-rays and DVDs. A gooseneck lamp cranes over the back of a cream faux leather sofa, as if waiting to spy on the occupant. Every single object in the living room serves a specific purpose, which makes me kind of hate Scott for his organised restraint. He must never ever visit my flat before I’ve carried out a major tidy-up job.
