by Will Carver
He invited her down, said he had something for her and that she doesn’t need to bring anything as it was all taken care of.
Blair arrived at his door to find an envelope hanging from the knocker with her name printed on the front. Inside, she found a ticket that said ‘Admit One Person’. She held it in her hand and knocked on the door with the other.
Abe answered.
‘Ah, Madame, you must be here for tonight’s screening. May I see your ticket, please?’
‘Abe, what are you—?’ He took the ticket out of her hand, ripped it and gave it back.
‘This way, please. You are in row A, seat one.’ He gestured down the hallway. It was dark, but she could see the flicker of light coming from his lounge.
For somebody who was scared of taking that leap from friendship to something more intimate, this was something of a grand gesture from anxious Abe.
He had converted his living room into a cinema. His simple two-seater sofa was the only seat, it faced the largest wall space. On the coffee table in front of the seating there were two boxed pizzas – still warm – and a bucket of salted popcorn that he had also melted butter onto.
‘Abe, this is very cool.’ She was beaming.
‘If you take your seat we shall begin the presentation.’
They took their seats. On the table was a small projector, no bigger than a can of Coke, that shone a bright, white hundred-inch rectangle onto the wall. It was plugged into a new DVD player that was tied in a large red bow. Next to that lay a cellophane-wrapped copy of L’Appartement and a pair of scissors.
‘If you would like to do the honour.’
Blair laughed that genuine laugh of hers that wrinkled her nose in the way that Abe loved. She opened the case and took out the disc, picked up the scissors and ceremonially cut the ribbon on the player. Abe clapped with comic earnestness. He poured some wine and they sat back and watched the film.
The mood was right. The lighting was perfect. The wine was going down, and Abe’s courage was creeping up. He felt full after the pizza so decided to make his move after.
The credits rolled. Gail Castle was checking her phone for the final direction to her new home at The Beresford. She was eight minutes away. Blair turned to Abe to thank him for such a wonderful surprise. She put her hand on the side of his face and told him that it was ‘incredibly sweet’.
That was the moment.
But Abe did not take it.
Blair did.
Her left hand on Abe’s face, she leant in. She kissed him gently on the lips and said thank you. He kissed her back and said that she was very welcome. They kissed again, delicately but with want.
Abe had his green light, he was no longer afraid of the rejection. He wasn’t going to fuck anything up between him and Blair. He could seize the moment.
Abe seized.
And fucked everything up.
He reciprocated Blair’s movement and held her face in his hand as they kissed. Eventually, he moved this down her shoulder, onto her arm, before grazing the side of her breast.
She laughed. Like she always did when she was nervous.
‘Why are you laughing at me?’ He was embarrassed.
‘Oh, no, I’m not laughing at you. Not at all. I just, I don’t know, I wasn’t expecting that. But also, I was. Just nerves. It’s okay. Come here.’
They moved back into position. This time, she didn’t laugh. But she did flinch a little. He felt his way around. But her lips were tightening and she let out another laugh.
‘Don’t laugh at me.’ Embarrassed but angry.
‘I’m not. I’m not. I’m an idiot. Sorry. Look, I just think I’m ticklish. Put your hand here.’ She grabbed his hand forcefully and placed it on her leg, and they tried again.
Blair put her hand on Abe’s leg, too. He could feel himself getting excited but was paralysed by the thought that she might laugh at him again. He wanted her. There, on the sofa, the smell of pizza and popcorn in the air, wine-stained teeth and lips. He wanted her.
Her hand moved up and found how excited he was. She didn’t laugh, and that relaxed Abe again. He started to stroke her leg while she felt her way around a penis for the first time. His hand moved between her legs – a little too soon, that didn’t bode well.
She had to fight hard to keep the laughter in but she managed it, rubbing her hand against him more and more. He did the same to her and she made noises that suggested she liked the way it felt, even though she wasn’t sure that she actually did. (It wasn’t the way she did it.)
And it wasn’t that she had great technique or that there was something wrong with Abe, but he got to the end quicker than he would want. He stopped kissing Blair to open his mouth and make the noise he always made when he came.
‘Wow, I had no idea I had such talent.’ Blair wasn’t bothered. She didn’t care, he could clean up and they could try again in the bedroom. But she shouldn’t have been so bright in her understanding. She should not have kept it light and smiled. But it probably didn’t matter how she reacted, Abe still would have sat forward on the sofa, not looking at her, saying, ‘Don’t laugh at me. Don’t you fucking laugh at me.’
He still would have reached forward onto the coffee table and picked up the ceremonial ribbon-cutting scissors and jabbed them repeatedly into Blair’s virgin neck. Abe would have still continued to stab at her throat while telling her not to laugh, however that sweet country girl had reacted when the idiot shot his second load of the day straight into his pants.
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Abe.
It was somebody else at the start of a series of killings. Everybody coming to The Beresford was now a potential next victim.
The moment Blair got into any kind of relationship with Abe Schwartz, one of them was going to die.
EIGHTEEN
It wasn’t a carbon copy, history wasn’t repeating itself in exactly the same way, Abe wasn’t living one day over and over, but there was too much similarity for it to be classed as coincidence. At least in Abe’s mind, which had a gift for compartmentalising information, it would seem.
He was in the back garden and the burn can was raging. He stood there watching the flames dance around a batch of Blair’s bones while he smoked weed and gazed over the fence at the back of his irate neighbour’s house. It was the same way he had initially bonded with Sythe, although that night it was the artist in charge of the fire.
‘Abe?’ Gail asked timidly as she approached her new friend from behind. She knew not to startle him, that kind of thing always annoyed her husband. He could have explained that sudden movements or sounds reminded him of explosions or gunfire during the war, she would have understood. Instead, he had pushed her aggressively into the corner of the doorframe. The force caused her to crack her head against the wood. She bled and slid down to the floor. Her husband walked off and left her there.
What could she learn from that? It didn’t explain anything about his apparent post-traumatic stress, it told her what she already knew: he was an abusive piece of shit, and she could never get it right. So, she somehow convinced herself that it was maybe her fault that he hit her.
When Abe turned around, he was not threatening or overbearing. He looked happy. He was smoking. She could smell what it was. He offered some, but Gail declined. She didn’t want to stunt the growth of her poppyseed; it would be an apple pip before she knew it.
Gail already thought of herself as a mother, and she would do anything to protect the child she didn’t yet know.
‘What are you burning?’ Gail asked, looking towards the flames.
‘Just some wood and paper and things. I don’t know, there’s just something quite empowering about starting a fire and maintaining it.’
‘It’s very manly.’
They both smiled.
‘It’s comforting to do it at night. Like a hobo, keeping warm. With this wonderfully grand house as a backdrop. It relaxes me.’
Gail nodded, there wasn’t much that she could
add to what he was saying. He seemed to be in his own world. Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe he did feel comforted and manly and all the other words he’d used.
‘Anyway, have you got it? Are you ready to cathart the hell out this?’
‘Cathart?’
‘Yes. Like catharsis. It’ll be cathartic. You are about to cathart. I know it’s not a word, I was trying it out.’ He takes another drag.
‘Oh, well it works. Big time. Let’s cathart this.’ Gail produced her mobile phone from her pocket.
‘Is there anything you want to say before you toss it in?’
Gail took a step towards the hot can, her phone held to her chest in mock ceremony. Her words were inaudible to Abe. Her lips were moving but the sound coming out was nothing but a hum.
‘Damn you, Castle.’
And she threw her phone into the fire.
She wouldn’t have to read or hear his poisonous words again. He couldn’t find her now. He couldn’t hurt her again. He would never see his child.
So it is done.
‘What now?’ Gail had only felt a tremble of catharsis. She was hoping for more.
‘Up to you. You can stay and watch it all melt away, if you like. Or you can walk away and leave it behind.’
‘And what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to stay out here for a while. I can look at the sky and think. I can make sure that phone is nothing but a puddle of plastic by the time I go back inside.’
Gail decided that she’d head back to her place. She tried to use Abe’s made-up word in a sentence, but it made her feel stupid. Then she got awkward. And she left Abe outside alone.
‘Goodnight, Abe.’
‘Night, Gail. Excellent work today.’
He watched for a while as the sides of the phone began to sag and melt. The screen came away from the body, the insides were eventually exposed. The phone lay on a bed of fingers and toes, which would be brittle enough to crush into a fine powder by the time the night was through. Blair’s arms would only be broken into small fragments, but enough that they would be easily disposed of.
Gail had burned her phone and was ready to move on.
Abe had to get rid of Blair completely before he could fully cathart.
NINETEEN
Abe froze. It was him. It was definitely him. He’d only caught a glimpse at the time, but his body was reacting to the stranger’s presence in the same way it had when he was running towards the lift in the other half of The Beresford.
Abe was frightened. All the adrenaline his body could produce had moved into his legs.
Why was he in this part of the building?
Was he looking for the couple in that lift?
Was he looking for Abe and Blair?
They exchanged a look. Abe tried to be brave, give a friendly smile as though bidding a passer-by good evening. The stranger did not reciprocate. He screwed up his eyes, trying hard to focus on the man across the foyer.
Then Mrs May appeared.
She walked straight up to the stranger, put a comforting hand on his back and said something quietly to him, which Abe was both thankful for, because it took the man’s gaze away from him, but was also intrigued by, because he wanted to know what relationship his kind, old landlady had with a man like that.
She ushered him out through the front door. Abe’s door. Gail’s door. The good door. Abe’s legs still couldn’t move. Mrs May turned around to see Abe, but his legs were still stuck in place. The man from the sixth floor gave one final glance through the window, and Abe knew that he’d taken in the image of the guy who hadn’t held the lift for him.
Was he dangerous?
He was from the upper levels. Abe had killed two people, but it wasn’t him, it wasn’t the real Abe. He wasn’t a thug or a gangster. He wouldn’t be able to handle himself against somebody like that. He’d only got the better of Sythe through the element of surprise.
‘Abe? Is everything okay?’
Her words seemed to release him from the spot where he was rooted.
‘Yes. Of course. Good evening, Mrs May. I’ve just been outside, lighting a fire, watching the stars.’
‘Getting to know the new tenant.’
Abe didn’t quite know what she was suggesting.
‘Gail seems very nice. I see you had a visitor…’
They kept their distance. Neither of them moving. Abe was avoiding the window, Mrs May was avoiding walking further than she had to.
‘Ah, yes. Nothing important.’
‘A friend of yours?’
The old lady raised a friendly eyebrow at this line of questioning.
‘No, Abe. Not a friend. He lives in one of the apartments on the upper levels.’
‘Ah. Okay. Just … I’ve never seen anyone come down before, that’s all.’
‘It does happen occasionally. Only when they really want something.’
‘And he … really wanted something?’
She exhaled and nodded her head a few times, slowly.
‘Yes, dear boy. He wants to leave.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
He wasn’t. Part of him hoped he might leave through that sixth-floor window.
‘It’s absolutely fine. I prefer it when people leave the way they arrived. It’s so much better than when they just disappear. Better for them. Better for everybody.’
She walked back towards her apartment, slowly. Sometimes the old lady appeared to have a spring in her step, and others it was like her slippers were filled with gravel. Her movement was inconsistent.
It was one of the gravel nights.
The old lady turned back as she reached the door and bid Abe a good night. He was left alone in the open space between the apartments, and he wondered whether the better thing for everybody was to never leave The Beresford.
WHAT DO YOU WANT?
But that’s not how we do things.
You can hide behind tradition, but that’s not what it is. It’s fear. You watch a film that you have already seen a hundred times, it’s not because you love it – though you clearly do love it – it’s because you know the outcome. It’s safe. There are no surprises. There’s no twist that you didn’t see coming. Nobody you loved will die. It’s predictable.
Get a fucking life.
Try something new.
Maybe you live in one of those towns where everybody knows your name. Still has a bakery on the high street and a pub that everybody goes to. Maybe even an independent bookshop that refuses to go out of business. A place untouched by the ravages of time. The same as it has always been.
So that’s how you are.
You are part of a community. You work better as a whole than as an individual. You come together and support one another and you believe in God. The people around you treat you with kindness, and you do the same to them.
And it’s all very nice. But it’s all very nothing. And you have made your world so incredibly small and insular. You are cut off.
Yes, some of you are old and some are young. There are athletes and there are bookworms. There are sheep and those with some entrepreneurial drive. Black, white, male, female and everything in between. But you are, essentially, the same person.
Your identity is that of your group.
The kicker is, if you buy into it, your life is full. You do not feel as though you are missing out on tall buildings and jazz music and one-night stands and pollution and coffee shops that stay open all day and night. But as soon as you realise that you do not want the small-town life, your world becomes even smaller – but your options are greater. Because there are so many places that you can go, that is not where you are now.
You can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. As soon as you stop dwelling on what you don’t want and focus on what it is that you do want.
What do you want, Blair?
I want to get away. I want my own identity. I want independence. I don’t care if it’s hard, I want to feel hardship. I want to struggle. I w
ant to find me.
You have a clear idea.
I want life.
You need appreciation.
TWENTY
‘Was there ever a Mr May?’
The dinner had progressed swimmingly. Blair had not been around all week, so it was only Abe and Gail who joined Mrs May. Gail had said ‘no’ to alcohol, citing her drunken ex as the reason she wanted to cut down. The hostess didn’t even pause for judgement before offering her guest an alternative.
Then, somewhere along the festivities, she asked Mrs May whether she had ever been married herself.
Abe had almost completely disposed of Blair’s crushed and broken remains. Just some ribs and spine left. The ribs broke down easily, but the spine was as tough as the hips; it was dense, it was a problem. But nothing that he couldn’t handle.
His bathroom was almost back to normal. Another nightmare over. But he was quieter than usual at the dinner, so Gail was doing most of the talking with Mrs May, which is probably why she ended up prying too far and asking her gracious host whether she had ever loved and lost.
For as long as Abe had been at The Beresford, he had never known anybody to ask the question. Many who had dwelled there had ventured guesses: she came with the building; she was born inside The Beresford; she had killed her husband and taken his money, that’s why the rent is so cheap; she was a wrinkly, old virgin – that was one of Sythe’s least flattering notions – and Blair had once suggested that Mrs May seemed very regimental, and perhaps that had something to do with grief. ‘Like Queen Victoria wearing black every day as a widow,’ she had suggested. ‘She seems very together. But that is often the face of someone who is just holding it together. Besides, she’s about eight hundred, so she probably outlived anyone she loved.’
It turned out that Blair was the closest, if you believe what Mrs May said.
‘Ah, my dear, I am not often asked that question.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’
‘No, no. Don’t you worry. It’s absolutely fine. There was a Mr May. He was a wonderful, patient, funny and talkative man. And I miss him dearly.’
