The Beresford

by Will Carver

  By the time he reached the front door, everybody had gone back inside. He quickly paced to his apartment and threw the bags on the floor inside. He shut his door and rested his back against it, breathing heavily. Relief. Another step forward.

  Once calm, Abe took two bottles of Draino out of one of the bags and replenished the supply cupboard in the communal area.

  ‘Jesus!’ Abe was startled to see his landlady standing behind the cupboard door as he closed it.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Schwartz, it’s just little old me.’

  Neither of them spoke for an uncomfortable moment.

  ‘Is everything okay? I noticed that some of the drain fluid had been used. Something I need to take a look at?’

  Panic. Sweat. Wide eyes.

  ‘No no no no no no no no, it’s fine. Honestly.’ Abe spoke so quickly, the words seemed to morph into one long garble. ‘The water was going down slowly in the bathroom sink but it’s sorted now. Just a little blockage. I’m not sure what it was, but it’s gone now.’ His lips quivered into a shape that was worse than the painful smile he was attempting.

  ‘Little? You used both bottles of drain cleaner.’

  ‘Oh … well … I’m an idiot. I knocked the first one over, so had to come back and grab the other one.’ Mrs May looked at Abe as though trying to remember the right letters to complete her daily crossword. ‘I’m sorry for being so wasteful but I went out early this morning so that I could replenish the store. That’s what I was just doing.’

  Another awkward silence.

  ‘That’s very good of you, Abe. And you’re sure I don’t need to get a plumber in or anything? It’s all cleared?’

  ‘Honestly, it was nothing. It looks like a bigger deal than it was because I spilled that first bottle. It’s fine.’ And he repeated for good measure, ‘It’s fine.’

  Mrs May nodded an acceptance, turned and started to walk back towards her apartment. For such an old lady, her movement did not match her age. She wasn’t hunched over. She didn’t drag her feet. She almost floated. Silently. Softly. The stealthy assassin.

  Before Abe could take a breath, Mrs May had swivelled on her heels.

  ‘Sorry, Abe, I meant to ask, have you seen Sythe recently?’

  He thought he felt his cheeks instantly flush, but Abe had, in fact, turned completely white. Mrs May didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘He’s in and out. I may have seen him around but not even long enough to say hello. You need him for something? Want me to tell him you’re looking for him if I see him?’

  There. That seemed genuine.

  ‘No. It’s nothing in particular. I just feel like he hasn’t been around. You know how he is. Always disappearing for weeks on end. I’m sure he’s just caught up with his work.’

  He watched her scuttle back to her corner of the house. He looked up at Blair’s front door, then down and left to where Sythe once lived. Then went back to his own place, bolted the door shut and, once again, rested his back against it until his heart rate dropped.

  Take two.

  Abe took all his clothes off and put them on the floor at the foot of his bed – there was going to be a lot of blood. He walked over to his shopping bag and took out the saw. The blade was covered by a cardboard sheath, which he ripped off to reveal the sharp teeth of his new tool. An image of Mrs May swept through his mind. She was dancing.

  She didn’t matter.

  She suspected nothing.

  He could forget about her.

  One step at a time, Abe.

  This was phase two: limb removal.

  NINETEEN

  Mr Conroy had woken up with a terrible headache, just as his wife had warned him he would.

  She was always right.

  To look at them, it would seem as though neither had moved an inch throughout the night, both of them hugging the covers around their knees, lying in a ball, facing away from each other. In truth, they had both tossed and turned in their sleep. Mr Conroy had dreamt of the Devil, offering anything the man desired in return for his soul. It was a first and it scared him.

  Mrs Conroy’s mind was not so creative, it went straight to Blair and remained there. Blair’s first day at school. Blair graduating. Blair singing at church. Blair coming home late. Blair getting a boyfriend. Blair moving out. Blair doing drugs. Blair getting into trouble with the police. Blair getting raped. Blair getting killed. Blair killing herself.

  Things spiralled. She woke up several times in different positions, sweating, while her husband snored off the extra glass of whisky she knew was too much for his constitution. Yet, by morning, the Conroys had regressed to the comfort of routine. Waking up back to back.

  Mr Conroy was always first up. He would stroke his wife’s arm affectionately and head straight downstairs to make them both a cup of tea.

  ‘I dreamt ferociously last night.’ Mr Conroy needed to share.

  ‘Well, I dare say it’ll have something to do with all that cheese you polished off.’

  ‘I’m serious. He was in my dreams. He was in my head.’

  ‘And who is He?’

  Mr Conroy looks at his wife for a moment and doesn’t say anything. He’s either embarrassed or frightened or disappointed in himself.

  ‘Him,’ he nods. ‘“Who…”’ there is a pause as Mr Conroy tries to recall something from the book of Peter ‘“…walketh about, seeking whom he may devour”.’ The quote is whispered with shame.

  ‘Oh. Darling, it was not the Devil in you. I don’t believe that for a second. It was the mixture of red wine and dairy.’

  ‘He offered me my heart’s desires in exchange for my soul.’

  ‘And did you accept?’

  ‘Well, no. I don’t believe so. I guess I must have woken up at that point.’

  ‘There you go. You are of God.’ She stands at the table. ‘“Greater is He that is in you”’ – she points at her husband’s chest – ‘“than He that is out in the world”.’

  It is this kind of tender but blind conversation that Blair was so anxious to escape.

  ‘Now, would you like some toast?’ And she is already walking over to the bread before her husband has the opportunity to answer.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, please. I know I’m being a bit crazy. Probably something to do with Blair moving out, too.’ It hangs in the air for a moment. ‘I feel better for getting it out there and being honest.’

  His wife returns a few minutes later with two slices of toast and strawberry jam.

  ‘Enough about me, how did you sleep, dear?’

  School. Graduation. Singing. Church. Boyfriend. Moving. Drugs. Rape. Death.

  Drugs.

  Rape.

  Death.

  ‘Like a log, as always.’ She smiled, like she’d had no dreams. As though her conscience was clear.

  And they overcame him by the blood of the lamb, and by the word of their testimony.

  TWENTY

  Blair’s parents believed in God. They believed that Satan had been defeated but that he would never stop. And, while they waited patiently for Jesus to come around again, the Devil was already here and working hard to ruin things.

  Blair’s own belief was that her parents were deluded, that they may as well believe in mermaids and unicorns because when they spoke of the second coming, when they uttered the words ‘glorious rapture’, they sounded like idiots. She didn’t want to think of them in that way.

  But now she lived at The Beresford, if she wanted she didn’t even have to think about them at all.

  Her phone vibrated.

  She was in the bedroom with a towel wrapped around her and wet hair that she just wanted to dry and straighten after having it tied up for her run.

  Her mother:

  Hello darling. Hope your first night was peaceful and you’re settled in to your new place. Your father and I went out for dinner and drinks last night. Was quite odd to come home to an empty house but I’m sure we’ll get used to it.

  Blair rolled her eyes
and threw the phone onto the bed. It was the same passive-aggressive bullshit her mother always pulled; there had to be some sour subtext to everything she said. Was Blair supposed to feel guilty that her parents would have to ‘get used to it’?

  It buzzed again.

  Blair left it. Probably her mother signing off. ‘God’s grace’ or some other pointless nod towards her Lord. Always cautious that He might be watching, listening in on her calls, tapping her phone, reading her texts. She loved Him and she feared Him.

  The Beresford’s newest tenant blow-dried her hair then straightened it, all the time wondering what to do with her first full day of freedom. She would definitely take full advantage of the quiet and solitude to read for a while. She would unpack her clothes and make a list of items that could add a splash of colour and personality to the place. And she thought about the man downstairs. Abe. She felt it would be a kind gesture to take him for a coffee or drop off a four-pack of beer. Perhaps she could split it with him in the communal area downstairs, get to know him.

  She didn’t necessarily have to ‘love thy neighbour’ as her mother would say, but she could certainly like him.

  Then the music.

  Mrs May’s God-awful melodies. Depending on the time of day, residents were treated to either instrumental flute pieces or whale song or what sounded like Buddhist chanting. It faded into the background for the other tenants or was washed out by traffic noise, but Blair’s apartment was directly above the old lady’s. She had a front-row seat. Even so, she couldn’t quite make out the racket coming from below.

  It was either a vinyl record being played at the wrong speed or somehow being played in reverse. Either way, Blair didn’t want to hear it. She’d slept well, she’d exercised, she was clean. She had purpose.

  Blair grabbed her keys off the drawers and picked her phone up from the bed. She couldn’t resist looking.

  It wasn’t her mother.

  Morning, sweetheart. Hope you’re settling in nicely. I put a little money in your account so you can spruce the new place up a little. Let me know if you need anything specific, though. Love you. Dad.

  She smiled.

  The better parent.

  The better Christian.

  It lifted her spirits so much that Blair could no longer register the din coming from Mrs May’s place. She almost skipped down the hallway and out of the front door, down the stairs and over to Abe’s.

  Five spirited raps on his front door and Blair waited for him to answer.

  This was it. Her new life. Her new freedom. She was independent. She could take care of herself. She could go out for a coffee with a new friend on Saturday and not worry about when to get home. She didn’t even have to worry about coming home at all. She could turn those coffees into wine and shots. She could dance until midnight and lie in bed until noon. Because there was no more church on Sunday.

  Blair had spent twenty-five years existing.

  Now she was ready to live.

  TWENTY–ONE

  That fucking busybody, Abe thought, when he heard the knock at his door.

  ‘Just a second,’ he called out from the bathroom.

  In Abe’s left hand was Sythe’s right arm. Abe had held it over the side of the bath tub so that he could cut it off. At first, he’d stupidly tried to go through the shoulder but there was muscle and cartilage and sternum to work through, so he decided to take a line through the top of the humerus. It meant that there was only one bone to saw through and it was much easier than he had imagined. Such a pro.

  Abe ditched the severed limb and the hacksaw into the tub with the rest of Sythe’s dead body. He wiped the sweat and blood from his face with the bottom of his shirt and went to answer the door, mumbling to himself about how he was just trying to get something done and blah blah…

  He unbolted the door and took the chain off in a way that sounded like he was annoyed at whoever was disturbing his morning of amputation. Then he tried to make his eyes look tired as he opened a five-inch gap in the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s…’ Abe widened his eyes to seem more alert and straightened the collar of his shirt.

  ‘Blair.’

  ‘No, I know it’s you, I just thought it was going to be somebody else. So … er … how are you? All settled in?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. And thank you for your help last night with the boxes.’

  ‘Not a problem.’ Abe smiled the smile of a man who was genuinely pleased to have been able to help, who would do the same for anyone and wouldn’t expect anyone to repay the favour. Good, old, dependable Abe Schwartz. Polite Abe Schwartz.

  Abe sometimes-cuts-up-his-neighbours Schwartz.

  ‘So, I thought maybe you might fancy a coffee?’ Blair pushed her hair behind her right ear as she said this. Abe didn’t notice. He was too busy interrupting.

  ‘Not in here.’

  It was too quick. But Blair took it as awkwardness rather than guilt.

  ‘No. Not in there. I thought you might know somewhere nearby. I could see a little of the area. You know?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course. Sorry. It’s just a mess in here at the moment. Work and books and stuff.’ He waited for a response but nothing came his way. ‘You mean now?’

  ‘No time like the present, as they say. But if you’re working I could find my way around, I’m sure.’ Blair took a step away as if contemplating the idea.

  ‘No, no, no, that’s fine. Great even. I could do with some caffeine. Are you okay to wait over in the communal area for a few minutes while I just freshen up quickly?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll see you shortly.’

  ‘There’s books and chairs over there, if you wanted. I won’t be long.’

  ‘Take your time.’ That country-girl conviviality was second nature to Blair and she wondered whether she would have to lose some of that if she planned to make it in the city.

  Abe shut the door and instinctively locked it, replacing the chain, too. Then he leant his back against it and didn’t even try to stop his face lighting up. It wasn’t a date. He knew that. But it was something. More than he’d had in months.

  He felt light.

  Abe’s mobile phone was on the bed and he danced his way over, unlocking the screen with his thumbprint. He wasn’t scrolling through ideas on decapitation or possible uses for a person’s skull – though liquorice bowl would have been his favourite – he was swiping to his music collection and hitting play on Curtis Mayfield’s ‘Move On Up’.

  He carried the phone into the bathroom and laid it down on the sink. He was whistling along to the parts that were too high to sing.

  ‘Right. Where were we? Ah, yes. The other arm.’

  Steady, honest, blend-into-the-background Abe Schwartz took Sythe’s remaining hand and pulled his still-attached arm over the side of the bathtub. He reached for the hacksaw and pressed its teeth into the artist’s biceps.

  ‘Try to stay still, okay? This won’t hurt.’ He was looking directly at the dead neighbour.

  And started sawing.

  And singing.

  ‘Hush now, child,’ sawing through muscle, ‘and don’t you cry,’ he hits the bone.

  The plan had been to take off all the appendages and soak them in a bath of lye, meanwhile, Abe would burn the fingers and toes in the back garden to see what happened.

  It was day two as a killer, and Abe had already lost focus because a pretty woman had asked him to walk her around town and pick up a coffee somewhere.

  One of the real problems about getting away with murder is that it can make you feel invincible.

  TWENTY–TWO

  The music stops, and Mrs May is out of breath. She’s old but she’s not dead and she can still move, she can still dance, and she can still sing along when she wants to. The only thing she is too old for now is caring what the younger residents of her building think of the way she lives her life.

  She can’t really dance, she just moves around in a circle and, as it’s almost past eleven, she is free to d
rink a glass of red wine as she does so.

  And God help anybody who judges her.

  This is what keeps her alive. This is what she enjoys about living.

  She doesn’t hear Blair in the communal area but she knows that’s where the young girl is hanging around. The Beresford was Mrs May’s building and nothing happened there that she didn’t know about. That’s what she told herself and that’s what she believed.

  Blair is flicking through one of the books on the shelf when Mrs May appears behind her, two mouthfuls of Merlot still in the bottom of her glass. Blair smells the alcohol and turns around; it reminds her of church.

  Blood of Christ.

  ‘You can borrow any of those, dear.’

  ‘Well, I was very surprised to find this among your library, Mrs May.’ Blair holds up a tattered copy of The Anarchist Cookbook.

  Mrs May laughs, her top lip stained purple.

  ‘Oh, the things that have been left by the tenants here over the years will astonish you, I’m sure. I remember finding that underneath a mattress. And let me tell you, it’s probably the least-offensive piece of literature I’ve uncovered in that hiding place.’

  That is Abe’s cue to arrive.

  He looks like he’s made an effort with his appearance. But not too much effort. Something Blair knows can take even more effort. She notices.

  ‘Building a mail bomb?’ he asks, jokingly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The book. Has somebody upset you? Or are you just tired of the way we are all controlled by technology?’

  The Unabomber reference triggers in Blair’s mind.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m thinking of going off the grid entirely.’

  It’s an odd subject to flirt with, but it’s natural and playful and Mrs May can feel the ease with which her young tenants appear to act around each other.

  ‘Have I stumbled upon a book club or something?’ The old lady takes in one of the mouthfuls of wine.