The Beresford

by Will Carver

  The place had been a real boho hangout for decades. Famous comedians would go there late at night and test out ten minutes of something they had been working on to see where it was getting laughs and, more importantly, where it wasn’t working. They had poets and songwriters and performance artists. If you had something you wanted to show, you could get on the stage and give it a shot.

  Some big names had passed through there on their way to the top, and a few had even graced its one-person stage on their way back to the bottom. It had a reputation. It was a giant maker and a dream breaker and it died.

  People don’t have to go out anymore. They don’t have to make small talk or have a conversation that lasts more than 140 characters if they don’t want to. You want to be a comic, you want to make people laugh, you can prop your phone up against that book you’re never going to read and film yourself telling a few jokes or performing a ‘bit’. You can upload that for free and, if more than sixty-two people see it, you’re reaching more people than you ever would on a busy night at The Crowley.

  It’s not the same, though. You can’t feed off the audience. You can’t respond directly, in the room, to the feedback. You can skip a horrible comment online and go on believing you’re the next Dave Chappelle because you only grade your worth on likes and views.

  And that’s why places like The Crowley are dying.

  And comedy is dying.

  And humanity is all but dead.

  But it gave Jordan Irving a ready-made dive-bar club for the film.

  The producers loved it. The director loved it. The actors thought it was authentic. And Irving caught a glimpse into that world he wanted so badly. The producers didn’t want to have to build a set, so they saved money, especially as the rent was so cheap after three years of being vacated. The director was always looking at things artistically, and the actors were always striving for authenticity because they made money pretending to be somebody they were not.

  Jordan Irving imagined himself on that stage, a bright spotlight burning down on his head, sweating, trying not to look nervous as he pitched his idea for a screenplay.

  Maybe someday.

  All of this had kept Irving out of The Beresford. He had found a gym that had some heavy bars he could throw around in the morning, and the showers were always clean. At the other end, he was getting back during unsociable hours, wearing his headphones and ducking his head as he bolted to his apartment to seem even more unapproachable.

  But he couldn’t escape the old lady in the mornings. It’s like she knew when he was going to leave. Whatever time he was heading out the door, she would be up and in the lobby, or with her flowers or just coming out of her apartment.

  As much as Irving didn’t like small talk, he had been raised in a way that told him to respect his elders. He couldn’t be rude to Mrs May. The morning chats started to become a regular thing. He was a creature of habit so he made them part of his daily routine. He even started to leave the building five minutes earlier so they could talk for longer. It didn’t matter what time he left, she was going to catch him, anyway.

  She seemed interested in him and didn’t look at his writing as a pastime. She was encouraging. She told him how she used to have an artist who lived there, started at nothing and became toast of the town. Irving pretended he’d heard of Sythe to be polite, but painting wasn’t really his thing; he was more into the magic of the moving image.

  ‘There’s no reason that can’t happen for you if you want it enough.’

  Nobody ever said things like that to Irving, not with the genuine belief that Mrs May showed him. Of course his mother spoke that way, but he could tell that, deep down, she would prefer it if he were bringing home a cheque every month from work.

  Steady and reliable. Which is exactly what Jordan Irving was, but his career choice was not.

  Day by day, Mrs May learned a little more about the new tenant yet he never found out anything about his landlady. She wasn’t giving anything up. He wasn’t asking the questions. It felt good to talk openly about his passions and not have them shot down.

  He felt heard and he felt interesting. Which is the way most people feel when they do not realise they are being groomed.

  Mrs May always had a favourite.

  THREE

  Mrs May’s ritual remained unchanged.

  You would think that the events that had occurred in her building over those couple of months would have worn her down. She was a thousand years old and still had all her mental faculties and physical mobility. She could have been scared by things. It could have been too much to handle mentally.

  But she still got up early every day. She drank her cup of cold black coffee. She ate her eggs. She walked around the garden. She listened to her music. She danced. She drank wine after noon and slept the first two glasses off.

  She kept being Mrs May.

  Perhaps it was an age thing. She’d lived through a lot. Wars. The death of the man whose soul matched hers. She could take it. It was the generations that followed that would have struggled. Each one growing more and more brittle. More needy. More self-absorbed. More entitled.

  For Mrs May, life went on. It had to.

  So she kept her days the same.

  Coffee, eggs, garden, music, wine, siesta.

  And then she would always pray.

  For weeks, her focus had been on Gail. As with Abe, she called for compassion on the young (almost) mother. She prayed that Gail would level out, and understand who and where she wanted to be. Above all, she prayed for the health of that unborn baby. That it would make its way safely into the horrible world they all lived in.

  The old woman had seen it all before and could tell that Gail was built from tougher stuff. Whether it was anything to do with Mrs May’s daily rituals or Gail just had that mettle, it was clear that she could handle difficulty. Sometimes, the ones who have been constantly beaten down in their lives are the ones who prevail. It should make them weaker, but it does the exact opposite, whether they realise it or not.

  So Mrs May turned her attention elsewhere. To the softly spoken, muscular black giant that now occupied Abe’s pit.

  She prayed for Irving’s success.

  ‘Allow no misfortune to allay his path.’

  She sweated and swore and exhausted herself as she did whenever she delivered her pleas.

  With compassion covered, Mrs May moved on to straight passion. Irving was focussed and driven but too buttoned up. He needed to let loose. Get laid. Get the poison out.

  She howled at the moon for Irving to sweat, to graft, to fuck, to win.

  Pray. Collapse. Freshen up. Drink more wine.

  This wasn’t a new thing for Mrs May. Sythe and Abe, and the trio of women who had perished recently were not a shock to the old lady’s system. This type of thing had been happening since she moved herself into The Beresford. The death and the darkness were part of the routine.

  There were subtle differences but, essentially, it was almost predictable.

  Every day the same.

  Repeat until the end.

  FOUR

  It was difficult to place the aroma.

  Gail had been given some essential oil by Mrs May to go in the aromatherapy diffuser she had placed in each of the apartments at The Beresford. Leammas Root. Gail had never heard of it.

  ‘Also known as Yellow Rock,’ she had said. But Gail was none the wiser.

  Apparently it would take out the scent and the essence of the dead bodies that Gail had gradually disposed of but had started to decompose in her flat in the meantime.

  It was difficult to know which was worse, the death or the scented oil. It wasn’t terrible but it wasn’t appealing. Gail leant into it for a day or so then reverted to her favourite patchouli oil. It smelled like home again.

  The crib had taken forty minutes to erect. There was a section that the instructions said was a two-person job, but Gail had got around that by using the wall and her feet to hold two sides upright as
she screwed in the third.

  It felt real. This was the bed where her son or daughter would rest and, hopefully, sleep. She had read about nesting, but that was supposed to come nearer the time of arrival. Her apartment had hardly been a home since she arrived at The Beresford. Yes, initially, there was some relief to be away from her husband, but the independence was short-lived upon the confirmation that she was pregnant.

  From then it had been a muddle. Holding on to every penny she had saved in her getaway fund, she stocked up on furniture gradually, treating herself to a soft furnishing or candle when she could.

  She thought about the small room opposite hers, the one most residents used for storage or an office, and she pictured decorating it for her baby. It was definitely big enough for a baby.

  Once the bump started growing her clothes became more uncomfortable. She would undoubtedly get to a point where she required some maternity jeans.

  The last few weeks had been hectic. Heinous. She was now a three-time killer, though she preferred to think of herself more as a serial protector. She had kept her baby safe, now she wanted it to feel loved. She wanted that boy or girl to emerge into this world with a crib and a musical mobile and cute baby grows and bobby hats and teddy bears.

  The loose ends had been tied. There was only one other person living at The Beresford, and she hadn’t seen him since the day he walked past her as she sat on two dead bodies, hiding.

  She could not see any trouble in her immediate future, unless a body part was unearthed, or her husband located her. Gail could focus on staying well, eating right and keeping active, to ensure that she gave her baby the best chance.

  Her baby. Her child. That oversized artichoke with no personality. Gail loved it. She couldn’t understand how she could love somebody so much that she had not even met. But she did. And she had shown that. She felt that she had demonstrated that she would do anything for them. She would kill another human being. That is how strong her love was.

  But murder is not the full extent of the effort that one can go to in order to exhibit their undying love for another person.

  No. It can go much further than that.

  To show how much you care, to ensure everything will work out, to guarantee your success, fame or fortune, to get a little extra time with a sick loved one, to be appreciated in your own time, it does not have to involve taking something from others.

  You have to completely give yourself.

  FIVE

  The garden at The Beresford had always been a feature. At least to Mrs May. She kept the flowers pruned and the foliage clipped. She’d provided the burn bin that Sythe and Abe had used so much. The logs that one of the shelters housed were all chopped by her, because she liked to remain active. And it was her idea to install the brick barbecue at a time when The Beresford was occupied by a younger clientele, who liked to stay up late and made her feel like she hardly drank anything in comparison.

  The courtyard was her design, too. A rectangle split into four quadrants of shingle with a stone cross pathway. In the summer there was a wooden table, some benches and a couple of wine barrels that doubled up as drinks tables.

  That night was the first time Jordan Irving had been out there.

  The day had been long. An early-morning gym session after his now customary talk with Mrs May. She’d asked him what Tinseltown had in store for him that day. He’d quietly informed her that it wasn’t that kind of movie. Not a huge blockbuster with an unlimited budget. Those were hard to get onto. It was more of an independent project. But it was still a feature.

  He sounded like he was justifying his efforts, which is what he always did to his friends and family because they thought it was funny to ask him when he was going to get a ‘proper job’. He hated that.

  But that wasn’t Mrs May.

  ‘Well, it sounds like a big deal to me. You must be excited to go into work every single day. That is rare. You should be very proud.’

  He wasn’t. But he wanted to be.

  The old lady had managed to pick him up a little, and he worked the rest out at the gym. He showered and went for a lonely breakfast. That day, he did not have to be at work until after lunch. Most people would think about having a lie-in but Jordan Irving saw time as precious. To him, it was an opportunity. He finished his breakfast and had two hours to work on his screenplay.

  The more he wrote, the more he believed he could do something with it. Yet, somehow, the more he wrote, the less he believed in himself.

  He wanted to be considered an artist.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Three hours later, he had his ten pages. The words had flowed. He’d made some corrections and edits to the previous day’s work.

  Then it was over to the abandoned Crowley club. The director thought it might add something to the read-throughs and rehearsals if they were done in an authentic space. And the club was so integral to their story.

  It was the same thing over and over. A slight tweak here and there. Asking the actors to perform a single line in a different way seven times. To some, it would look laborious. To Irving, it was fascinating.

  He had some time between scenes to speak to the actors. He tried not to look nervous. They were open and honest. They laughed about some of the awful roles they had played and some of the low-paying gigs they’d had in places not too dissimilar to The Crowley. They were hoping the film was a springboard to more work.

  They were just like him.

  Paying their dues.

  They ate take-away Chinese in the theatre and went for drinks afterwards. The director spent a lot of time bitching about the industry. He’d been shit on a couple of times and was having to prove his worth again. The actors didn’t seem to care, but it dragged Irving down. This movie was a huge step up for Irving, and the director was making it sound like the film was a means to an end.

  He walked home in the dark, didn’t feel like the train that night. Without thinking, he opened the door to The Beresford and walked straight past his apartment and into the garden for the first time.

  Maybe he felt like supporting Mrs May. She’d been so good to him, and he knew how proud she was of the outdoor space. He wanted to reciprocate.

  Maybe he was in a daze, deep in contemplation.

  Maybe something else entirely.

  But he was there, standing in the middle of that paved cross. The sky so vast.

  What was out there?

  Was it really opportunity?

  ‘Irving?’ A voice came from behind him. An old-lady voice. She had called him Jordan, and he had said that he preferred using his surname.

  ‘Holy sh— … Mrs May. I’m sorry but you just scared the heck out of me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I tried to be quiet because you looked pensive. Busy day? It’s kind of late.’

  ‘Kind of late for you, too, I’d imagine. What are you doing out here?’

  Cue the lies.

  She told him that it was just about her favourite place to be. Sometimes at night, she came out and looked around, just as he was. She would think about how large the world was out there, and how she never left The Beresford. Because she had travelled far and wide with her husband before his death.

  The sentiment was true, but she was out there because Irving was out there.

  ‘How was work, dear?’

  Irving was just so pleased that she had referred to it as work that he felt obliged to open up to her.

  Mrs May gazed into those beautiful brown eyes and drank in every word he was saying.

  ‘It’s just such a hard slog, you know? I’m hopefully on my way up but I’m passing others who are on their way down. And it makes you realise that you can’t always make it or that you can make it high but not to the top, and even then, there’s always a drop, it’s just a matter of how long that fall is.’

  ‘That’s true of any line of work. I think that people can get lazy and complacent. That’s when the ball drops.’

  �
�Maybe you’re right. I guess I just had it in my head that if I worked harder than everybody else, I’d be in a better position. And I do. I work like a dog almost every day.’ Irving looked out at the stars and they made him feel even more insignificant. The old lady spotted it. For the usually stoic individual, his emotions were written on his face.

  ‘You know what, Irving? There are a couple of things, when it comes to personal success, that people don’t understand. One: you need luck. You could be the greatest writer/painter/guitarist/footballer or whatever in the world, but if you are living in the rainforest, you’re not getting discovered. You’ll need luck. You need your work to land on the right desk at the right time. You need to be heard by the right person in the right place. That is nothing to do with talent. It’s luck.’

  ‘Of course,’ Irving chimed in. He was listening.

  They both nodded in agreement.

  ‘And secondly?’ he asked.

  ‘Secondly, that luck means shit if you aren’t willing to continue working hard. Too many of these lucky bastards get given the golden ticket and they think that’s enough. You can’t just stop. That’s when the real work begins. That’s how you stay at the top. The people who fall back down the ladder are the ones who take it all for granted.’

  ‘You are a wise woman, Mrs May.’

  ‘I’ve been around for twelve hundred years, I’ve seen a thing or two.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Well, rest assured, I’m working hard until that luck comes in, and I’ll keep going if it does. I’m doing everything I can other than selling my soul for success.’ He rubbed his face with one hand. He was tired.

  ‘Okay. But if you ever feel like going that way, I know a guy.’

  They both laughed again, heartily.

  ‘Good night, Mrs May.’

  ‘Good night, Irving. See you in the morning.’

  SIX

  Mrs Conroy had buried her husband. She had to sit in a wheelchair with a black blanket covering her legs because she wanted to hide the pins. The priest had committed Mr Conroy to the ground.