The Beresford

by Will Carver

  Her phone buzzed as she admired the kitchen area.

  It was him. One of his more polite messages:

  Where the absolute fucking hell are you?

  That was it.

  She told herself that he probably didn’t know how to make his own goddamned sandwich, and it almost made her laugh. She was too distracted.

  Gail should not have read the message. Every text or social-media post was a way of worming his way back into her heart and brain. She should have purchased a new phone and dropped that one out of the window as she weaved around the back roads before she hit the city.

  Now she was thinking about him.

  What if he wasn’t okay?

  What if he was so drunk that he fell over and hit his head and ended up in a wheelchair, dribbling over himself and screaming in his mind?

  She was spiralling.

  What if he made himself something to eat and did a Mama Cass?

  Maybe it was too abrupt.

  She should have talked to him and revealed her decision.

  Another text.

  Bitch.

  Gail shook her head and laughed at herself for being so absurd. Why did she still care? What hold did he have over her?

  She rubbed her stomach. She knew. She had to do the test to confirm but she knew. She could feel it. A poison inside her but, at the same time, the most joyous accident of all time.

  Gail wheeled her suitcase into the bedroom. She had emailed Mrs May and told her that she wouldn’t be bringing any furniture with her, and the old lady had agreed to leave Sythe’s bed so there was somewhere to sleep, at least. There were also four pillows and a quilt. Gail had packed one set of covers and cases.

  Once the bed was made, the case was placed on top and everything was taken out. There were two flat, fold-out boxes inside. She filled one with her underwear and the other with the few electrical items she had packed — a hair dryer, straighteners, three phone chargers and her laptop.

  She was looking for the pregnancy test. She’d had it in the kitchen when she was filling a plastic bag with food she wanted to take. It wasn’t in there. It wasn’t underneath.

  Gail pulled her clothes out and dumped them, one by one, onto the boxes she had neatly filled; it may have got caught between two pairs of trousers.

  It hadn’t. The case was empty. And as much as she knew, without the test, that she was definitely pregnant, she was equally sure that she had left her pregnancy test on the kitchen counter for her drunk husband to find.

  SEVEN

  He felt nothing. A whole lot of nothing. Not sadness. And certainly no joy that he could remember. He’d snuffed out any possibility of love when he plunged the scissors deep into Blair’s throat. Abe stared at her and exhaled a sigh. The same kind of sigh another person might give if they dropped a plate and it smashed on the floor. A sigh that says, ‘That’s a waste’, but in a way that is more irritated than contemplating the sheer gravity of a lost human life.

  Abe didn’t smoke weed to numb himself in some way, he did it to open himself up; to experience more of the world than he could with his regular five senses and their dull limitations.

  There was a corner of the garden that was safe from prying eyes, though there was no doubt the neighbours must have noted the distinct aroma. Still, it was more pleasant than the usual burning of oil paintings and human skeletons.

  This was how Abe had first met Sythe and had a real conversation with him. They’d passed one another while entering or exiting their apartments or taking out the rubbish and recycling on a Sunday night, but it was outside in Mrs May’s perfectly handcrafted garden where they became more than passing acquaintances.

  Abe was in his favourite corner, lighting up. He took a long drag and hid it behind his back when he heard footsteps coming toward him. At first, Sythe did not see his neighbour, lurking behind some foliage. He was carrying a large canvas and swearing at himself, ‘It’s a piece of shit. You’re a piece of shit.’ He was heading toward the burn can, breaking the wooden frame of his canvas as he walked.

  There was a movement near the bushes, and Sythe spotted Abe. He was startled. ‘Jesus. What the fuck are you doing in there?’ A little of his Irish accent seeped out. Abe noticed.

  ‘Sorry. It’s just me. Abe. I come out here sometimes when the world gets on top of me, you know?’ He takes his hands from behind his back as though surrendering the evidence. ‘It just chills me out. Calms me down. Please don’t tell Mrs May.’

  Sythe laughed. ‘We’re not in school, Abe. You can eat, drink, smoke and fuck what you want, it’s none of my business. I’m sure the old lady probably knows, anyway. She sees everything that happens in this building.’

  Abe stepped out of the bushes, pulled a tin out of his pocket, opened it and offered it towards Sythe.

  ‘Well, don’t mind if I do. You could probably tell that I am in need of some chill and calm.’ He reached into the tin, took out one of the pre-rolled joints and put it to his lips. Abe produced a lighter and lit it for his co-conspirator.

  ‘What are you doing out here?’ Abe asked.

  ‘As you may know, I’m an artist.’ Abe nodded and took another drag. ‘Well, this thing in my hand. It is not art. And I don’t want it anywhere near me. So I am smashing it up and setting fire to it.’

  ‘Sounds cathartic.’

  They both giggled.

  ‘Oh, it is.’ Sythe pulled the still-wet-with-paint canvas away from the frame and ripped it down the middle. He threw it into the bin, followed by the frame. Mrs May kept a pile of old newspapers and kindling in a cupboard outside. He scrunched the paper into balls, threw them in the bin and tossed in a match. Abe helped by dropping the kindling on top, and they both stared into the glowing can while smoking.

  ‘You’re the literary type then, huh?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Every time I see you, your face is inside a book. And it’s a different one, every time.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I read a lot. Kinda my thing.’

  There was a moment of silence when Sythe wasn’t sure where to take the conversation; he couldn’t remember the last book he had read.

  ‘I need to stop lending books out, though. I gave one to the guy who lived above you for a while and he just upped and left one day without giving it back. I hate that.’

  Sythe went white. And it was nothing to do with drawing too much into his lungs. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t cold. He was thinking about Abe’s unreturned book. He was remembering the housemate who had disappeared, the one who had ‘upped and left’ and never looked back. He was thinking about what that guy would look like now. Because it had been so long since Sythe had killed him. The week after it had happened, Sythe’s career had blown up. He was a success. And he’d forgotten all about that night until Abe brought it up.

  ‘Yeah. You’re right. I hate that, too. People do tend to leave this place quite suddenly, eh? It happens.’

  Abe nodded in agreement.

  Sythe continued. ‘I’ll tell you what, if I ever decide to skip town and move on to somewhere new, feel free to take the books I leave. I’ll leave you a painting, too.’

  EIGHT

  It was the size of a nut. Probably. Or a grape. Or the seed of a grape. She didn’t know. But she knew it was in there. It wasn’t a boy or a girl, or even anything that resembled a person yet. An amoeba. A zygote. Whatever.

  Gail was pregnant.

  Two to four weeks according to that little screen on the test.

  She thought back. It had been about that long. She had managed to keep it staved off for weeks. Maybe five. A record for her. She could concoct an argument before bed that would dampen the mood enough that she would be able to turn her back to him and he wouldn’t try anything on. He could be drunk and she’d screw up the sandwich or bring something up that he didn’t want to discuss or say that he was like his mother. That would always work.

  But it could only last so long. She couldn’t keep him off forever without getting
into a conversation about how she didn’t want to be with him.

  That very thought made her feel young and stupid.

  Gail had let him in. He had climbed into bed and got onto her back. His favourite. She’d shut her eyes and hoped it would end quickly, but near the end he pulled her hips up and knelt behind her. She let it happen. She didn’t know what to do, how to get out of it.

  Was this her forever?

  It couldn’t be. It was the last time. It had to be.

  Of course she was pregnant.

  Stupid Gail.

  Young Gail.

  It wasn’t even really a person. No feelings. No hair or nipples or lungs. If she got rid of whatever was inside her, it wasn’t really a person. She wasn’t killing a human being. She was causing more damage by stepping on an ant or swatting at a fly.

  To ease her mind a little, Gail looked up ‘baby sizes through pregnancy’ online. At forty-one weeks your baby can be the size of a watermelon. At forty-two weeks, the size of a jackfruit. She didn’t even know what a jackfruit was. But there it was, at the bottom, four weeks. The size of a poppy seed.

  A goddamned poppy seed.

  It would be another couple of months before it was even a lime. And at that stage, they can’t have a personality. They don’t know what books they’re into or if the sound of jazz makes them want to cry. They don’t have a political stance or favourite cartoon.

  They’re not real.

  He doesn’t like his steak medium/well done. It’s not because he can’t have solid food yet or that he doesn’t have teeth, it’s because he isn’t even a he. He isn’t a she, either. So Gail could terminate things quite easily. A strong night on the gin might do it. There was probably a pill for something like that. She wouldn’t even know it had gone because it was a poppyseed.

  Nothing more than a poppyseed.

  She could pull the plug on a poppyseed. One made out of fear and hatred. One that had not been produced through calculation of her cycle and ensuring both parties were eating healthily and exercising to give that seed the best opportunity for growth and thriving.

  That stupid, dumb seed was made out of bad maths and worse decisions. The father was drunk and fucking her from behind so neither of them had to look into the other’s eyes. That poor, unknowing seed had come from something cold and senseless and scary.

  And Gail would love it more than anything in the world, and protect it with her life.

  NINE

  In that freshly painted room, all magnolias and off-whites and eggshells, where there was once a swirling mural of chaos, where a lonely woman rubs her stomach that contains a life no bigger than a poppyseed, where once there lived another domestically abused woman, and a carpenter and two accountants and a sportsman who had broken his leg, there lived a struggling artist, who had moved away from Ireland and changed his name in the hope of finding success.

  A new life.

  And in that room where a lonely woman had found out she was going to have a baby, where a carpenter had constructed a bespoke entertainment unit, where one accountant had calculated many a tax return while the other sadly took their own life, where a sportsman ferociously attempted to maintain fitness by performing push-ups while wearing a cast up to his hip, an artist choked his neighbour to death and had no idea how it had come to that point so quickly.

  Something of a blur, as so many first kills attest to being, but Sythe had managed to hook his right arm around his friend’s throat, grasping onto the biceps of his left arm. He squeezed. Tightening his muscles enough to close the airways of his victim. It wasn’t an aggressive strangling, where Sythe pushed his thumbs deep into the sides of his neighbour’s windpipe. It was quiet. Almost loving. Coaxing towards death rather than hurtling.

  His victim tried to break free by throwing a fist behind his head. A couple of good shots caught Sythe on the cheekbone, but muscles require oxygen in the blood and breathing was being slowly cut off.

  When the body went limp, Sythe held on for ten more seconds before releasing his grip and seconds later, his emotions.

  He cried for the man he had become in the hunt for success and recognition. And he cried for the man whose life he took so effortlessly. And he cried because he couldn’t remember how it started. Maybe his critique of Sythe’s work was too harsh. But it wasn’t enough to kill the guy.

  Sythe had no time for reflection. A minute after he had massaged the life out of his critic, the front doorbell rang. He waited, hoping that Mrs May would be past her daytime siesta, but the doorbell rang again and he listened.

  Nothing from across the hall. The bell rang again.

  Sythe pushed the dead body onto its side, marvelling at how heavy it felt for such a slender client. He flicked some water onto his face and towelled it off before heading out into the hallway, hoping to determine the identity of the caller.

  He didn’t recognise the man on the doorstep.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  The man tried to look as though he wasn’t staring at Sythe’s face, spattered with water, eyes red from crying, ashen in disbelief at his cruel act.

  ‘Er, yes, sorry, I’m here to see Mrs May.’

  He was a smartly dressed black man in his late fifties, well spoken. There was something in his eyes, too. A magic. A calmness. Sythe wondered whether there was some romantic connection with the old lady.

  ‘Of course. Come in. She’s usually first to the door, so I’m guessing she must be asleep. Or perhaps she’s in the garden and didn’t hear.’

  ‘That’s okay. Thanks for letting me in. I just need to get my key.’

  ‘You’re moving in?’

  ‘Yes. For a short time.’

  He wasn’t lying. Jonesy stayed for seven weeks. He was pleasant. He played jazz music at an appropriate level. He was considerate and polite and quiet, keeping himself to himself, mostly. He would occasionally dine with Mrs May, and nobody really knows whether there was something going on there. And nobody asked why he stayed for such a short time, though he had mentioned family in the area and the fact that he wasn’t feeling quite as young and healthy as he had, so there was some speculation that he may have even been dying.

  But he did not die at The Beresford. He did not see out his lease, but he did pay for everything up front, and he had very few belongings to take with him when he left.

  He left.

  Walked out that front door as modestly as he had entered.

  He wasn’t killed.

  He didn’t murder somebody else.

  It doesn’t have to be like that.

  That’s not how it works.

  TEN

  Another early-morning trip to the city saw Abe picking up drain cleaner from several different stores. This time he wasn’t going to start with the hands then move on to legs and finally torso; he knew what he was doing.

  He was going to get rid of the flesh in one go.

  The bones he could do in batches, just like before. It would be safer that way. But the quicker he could get rid of the body and the smell, the better chance he stood of getting away with it again.

  Mrs May had seen him leaving early and asked if he’d spoken to Blair.

  ‘Er, no. Not today. Not yet. But I’m guessing she’s not that far behind me for her morning run.’ Abe didn’t wait for a response from the old lady, he didn’t want a conversation. So he pulled his large headphones up over his ears and started walking.

  The old lady was not offended. Abe was her favourite tenant. He always paid on time. He was always courteous and helpful. He had seemingly found love. But something was slightly off. She was worried about him. She wanted the best for the boy.

  As he wandered towards the smog of the city, Mrs May went back inside the house and straight up to Blair’s apartment. She knocked. And waited. And knocked again. And waited more. Perhaps she had gone for an even earlier run and both she and Abe had missed her.

  Coming down the stairs, Mrs May focussed on Abe’s front door. She gripped her k
eys and wondered. What was going on with him? What was happening in his life? Of course, she couldn’t just let herself into people’s apartments on a whim, but if she was worried about them…

  First, she needed to check on her new addition to The Beresford.

  ‘Morning, dear. I just wanted to make sure you’re all settled.’

  Gail looked as though she had been crying. Because she had been crying. And she was distracted by the buzzing of her mobile phone as she received another abusive text from the husband she had left the evening before. She had been reading them as they appeared on her home screen but then so many came through at once, she stupidly opened up her texts to see what she had missed and it had alerted him to the fact that she had read it.

  Stupid Gail.

  Young Gail.

  The messages were getting worse. Spite disguised as worry for her whereabouts. And it was the morning, so he couldn’t hide behind the twelve beers he’d drank the night before. She wouldn’t answer him. She wouldn’t go back. She couldn’t.

  This was who he was now. He was mean. He would hit her.

  Saying those words in her head made Gail feel at once juvenile and free.

  ‘It did not take me long to unpack.’ She faked a laugh.

  ‘And you have everything you need?’

  ‘I’ll need to stock up on food, and I slipped out last night to pick up a few essentials.’

  Essentials like bread, milk, tea bags and a pregnancy test.

  Her phone buzzed again. Both women looked at it.

  ‘You need to get that, dear? Something important?’

  Her ex-husband telling her that she was a piece of useless shit. It could wait.

  Gail shook her head.

  ‘You have the essentials you say? So you have a bag of Blue Mountain coffee beans that you can grind yourself for the freshest, most delicious coffee in the world?’