Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  Dawn found me back in my bedroom. I circled the bed, the way an animal might, sniffing the air, trying to spot clues. Clues to what? I didn’t know. Slowly, I drew back the duvet and the top sheet, all too aware of my heart pumping away. This is where Gilbert said he’d slept. What had he been dreaming about? What might he have done? I bent low over the bed, hunting for evidence. The sheets smelled of me, or more properly of Givenchy, a Christmas present from my mother. Heartened, I slipped into the bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin, resolving to bury the incident. I’d no plans to go away again, not for a while at any rate. We’d just pretend that nothing had ever happened.

  I awoke to the trill of the bedside alarm. Rearranging the pillows, I found the audio cassette. It was wrapped in exquisite purple paper. Once again, there was a ribbon and a bow. I looked at it, weighing it in my hand, wondering what on earth to do. However hard I might try and kid myself, Gilbert wasn’t in the business of helping me erase history. He had indeed slept in my bed, and he’d left me a little present to prove it.

  I listened to the cassette over a pot of tea in the kitchen. I kept the door closed and the volume low, instinctive precautions that made me doubly resentful. Already, Gilbert was turning me into a prisoner in my own flat. Was this the precious freedom I’d come to London to find?

  The cassette, on first hearing, was gobbledegook. It featured Gilbert himself, and the moment I recognised his voice I braced myself for something ghastly, like a confession of undying love. Unconsciously, hunting for some explanation of his behaviour, I think I’d settled on the obvious. He didn’t go out much. He was lonely. And so he’d fallen head over heels in love, not with me, not with the person I am, but with the idea of me. Upstairs, in that flat of his, he’d had far too much time to dress me up in whatever fantasy turned him on, and his occupation of my bed had been as close as he could get to the real thing. This interpretation, as crass as it was, at least had the merit of proposing an easy solution. In my experience, a passion like that is easy to deal with. You become very hearty, very boisterous, very straightforward. You busy around, and talk perhaps a little too loudly, and make it very plain that a schoolboy crush is no more significant than an attack of hiccoughs or a passing virus. These things are wholly natural. And like a cold in the head, they simply go away. No bad feelings. No harm done. Back to square one.

  But Gilbert’s cassette wasn’t like that. Indeed, it wasn’t personal at all except, that is, for the opening ten seconds or so. I’m including them here because I’ve got what he said to hand, scribbled on the back of a gas bill, one of the many souvenirs of my fourteen months in Napier Road. I wrote it down at the time, there at the kitchen table, mostly because the words might have made more sense on paper.

  ‘It’s important for us both that you understand,’ Gilbert had begun, and it’s important that you know you’ll be safe. It won’t happen, ever, and I guarantee that. Please believe me. We’ve both got so much to lose.’

  Lose? Safe? Us both? I mulled over the phrases, testing them this way and that, trying to squeeze out a little meaning, a little sense. The cassette, meanwhile, was still playing, Gilbert flagging a path I found almost impossible to follow. He’d plainly done an enormous amount of reading, an odd mix of current affairs, economic theory, and astrological speculation. He seemed completely on top of all the stuff that had always gone way over my head, and when I tell you it included the GATT agreement, the latest twists in Bosnia, the likelihood of an imminent collapse in global stock markets, and the trajectory of something called Shevelov’s Comet, you’ll maybe under- stand what I mean. By the end of the cassette, with some relief, I’d even managed to force a smile. If we were really into pillow talk, surely a girl deserved better than this?

  I took the cassette to work with me, uncertain what to do next. I’d made a couple of good friends at Doubleact and explaining the problem to others was a real temptation. Even Brendan, I thought, might have an idea or two about just how I should conduct this bizarre relationship, but the longer the day went on, the less inclined I was to share my news. It would be only too easy, I told myself, to turn Gilbert into some kind of sad nutter, to make him the week’s office joke, young Julie’s live-in loony. That, most emphatically, I didn’t want. Until last night, Gilbert had been part of a world I’d managed to preserve from the attentions of the showbiz pack. He’d been, ironically enough, my sanity, a kind of sheet anchor that steadied my little boat. Just because he’d got himself into a state about trade agreements and the Bosnian Serbs was no reason to throw him to the wolves. Indeed, the harder I thought about it, the grosser the betrayal became. Gilbert had been kind to me. He obviously cared. We just needed to have a little chat, get one or two things in perspective. Then we could be friends again.

  I got home earlier than usual that night. I’d developed a routine on my return and first stop was always the kitchen. During the day, the cats stayed indoors. They didn’t need to use the sandtray by the fridge and by the time I appeared from work they’d be waiting by the back door, their little legs crossed, eager to get out in the garden. This particular night, though, the kitchen was empty. Puzzled, I searched the flat, hurrying from room to room, looking behind chairs, under the bed, wondering what might have happened. Within minutes, it was obvious that they weren’t around. Somehow or other, they’d been let out.

  The obvious culprit, of course, was Gilbert but this was a conclusion I tried very hard to resist. He’d given me the flat key back. If he’d got in again that could only mean he’d taken duplicate copies. Even the prospect of a break-in - some stranger off the street - was preferable to the thought of that.

  I went out to the back garden, standing in the chilly half-darkness, knowing the cats must be out their somewhere but not having a clue why. After a while, still calling their names, I patrolled up and down my thin little oblong of grass, pausing from time to time, listening very hard for that scrabbling noise - claws on wood - that would signal their return. I kept at it for ten minutes or so, willing them to return from the gloom, but when nothing happened I turned back to the house. As I did so, I caught a flicker of movement in one of the upstairs windows. I peered up, angry now, convinced I could see Gilbert’s thin frame. He was standing several paces back from the window. He had something in his arms, something cat-shaped. He was looking down at me. And I swear he lifted a hand, giving me a little wave, before he turned away.

  Thirty seconds later, angrier still, I was up at his door. I banged hard, waiting for a response. Nothing happened. I banged again, and then again. I called his name, then shouted it, only stopping when the sound of my voice came back to me. I stood there for a full minute, appalled. I like to think I’m extremely even-tempered. My friends tell me I have exceptionally low blood pressure. Yet here I was, semi- demented, wound up by some lunatic who - for whatever reason - had chosen to kidnap my best friend’s cats.

  I knocked again, more gently this time, then gave up. Back in the flat, I double-bolted the front door then sat in the front room for the best part of half an hour, wondering who to phone. What would I tell them? How could I explain? Overhead, I could hear footsteps pacing up and down. Gilbert often passed his time this way, always walking the same pattern, across first, then up and down. The footsteps were often accompanied by mumbling, and little yelps of pleasure or surprise, and to begin with this pantomime had amused me. It went so well with the image I had of the man: the gentle, introspective musician, the wandering solitary, with his furrowed brow and his endless silences and his mysteriously work-free life. The neighbour- hood enigma, I wanted to think. So refreshing after the strutting black youths and sullen white faces that occupied the bulk of Tottenham Green.

  Now, though, the footsteps had become infinitely more sinister. Nikki’s cats were up there. A duplicate set of keys was up there. And just now I couldn’t think of a single good reason why my oh-so-perfect neighbour wouldn’t turn out to be as predatory and single-minded as the
nightmare loners who made the front page of the Sun. I shivered at the thought, hearing him pace his exercise yard, then I retreated to the kitchen where I downed the remains of a half-bottle of whisky. By midnight, savagely drunk, I was lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, searching yet again for an answer. Maybe I should buy a blowup mattress and decamp to Doubleact. But if I did that, I thought grimly, I’d simply be swopping Gilbert’s attentions for Brendan’s. Either way, wouldn’t it be nicer to be left alone?

  Next morning, the cats were in the hall. I heard them when I went to fill the kettle. They were completely unharmed, happy even, and it was several seconds before I realised that their anti-flea collars had changed colour. Yesterday they’d been red. Now they were purple. I picked Pinot up, giving him a cuddle. Why swop collars? What was Gilbert trying to tell me?

  At work, mercifully, there’d been another crisis. The next show we were due to record had been built around a prominent Tory politician, who’d resigned from the government when one of his mistresses went to the News of the World with a lurid tale about an abandoned love child. The politician’s name was Morris Fairweather. He was way out on the right wing of the party, an intimate friend of a couple of cabinet ministers, and what gave the story legs was yet another outbreak of Tory moralising on the sanctity of traditional family values.

  Brendan summoned me to a council of war. Fairweather had just announced he was refusing all further interviews including - catastrophically - his billed appearance on Members Only. A couple of the writers were in Brendan’s office and one of them handed me a draft copy of the script. Most of the gags were hopelessly predictable, schoolboy puns involving Fairweather’s member, but there were one or two deft touches, centred on our new backbencher’s penchant for bananas dipped in yoghurt. Details of the latter had been passed to Doubleact by some hack on the News of the World, though Brendan wasn’t saying how much he’d paid for the material.

  ‘It’s an exclusive,’ he kept saying. ‘They’re holding this stuff back for next week. We’ll be first on the street.’

  I told Brendan he was fantasizing, exactly the wrong thing to say. Deep down, I was beginning to suspect he was as committed and angry as I was, though serious money and a couple of double spreads in TV International had somewhat blunted his socialism.

  He had Fairweather’s address and phone number. He scribbled them both down and handed them across.

  ‘Go and see him. Talk him round. If it’s the fee, you can go up to £1200. If he wants it paid offshore, tell him it’s no problem. Just get him here for the show.’ He paused. ‘If you do that, I’ll be over the fucking moon.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I mean it. Salary bonus. Plus a company T-shirt. And that’s a promise.’

  I gazed at him, grinning. Brendan’s idea of a salary bonus would probably meet Fairweather’s bar bills for a couple of hours but that wasn’t the point. The point was that Gilbert, abruptly, was yesterday’s news. For today, at least, I had something else to sort out.

  Fairweather lived in a big house in Holland Park. When he came to the door, knotting the belt of a terrycloth dressing gown, he looked like a puppy someone had left out in the rain. He was short, fat, and spoke with a broad Lancashire accent.

  ‘Julie? I’m in the shower. Make yourself at home.’

  I’d phoned ahead. He’d said to come for coffee. It was nearly eleven o’clock. I sat on a huge sofa, watching a pair of goldfish circling a tank. Trapped, I thought, trying very hard not to dwell on Gilbert again. At length, a woman appeared at the door. She was my age, maybe younger. She was blonde and tousled. She looked gorgeous.

  ‘Has he offered you coffee?’

  I settled for black, no sugar. Fairweather reappeared, buttoning his shirt and tucking the bottoms into a pair of pinstripe trousers. He was immensely blunt and immensely friendly. He had ten minutes, and then he had to go. I glanced at the woman. With great good humour, she was trying to run a comb through his thin strands of greying hair and to my shame I began to think seriously about what they’d been up to for the previous hour or so. By now, I’d nearly finished my pitch about the programme: how important it was for us to deliver on last week’s big on-screen promotion, how good an opportunity it would be for him to set the record straight.

  ‘We’ve got five million punters waiting to hear your version,’ I suggested, remembering a line of Brendan’s. ‘Surely that can’t be bad?’

  Fairweather was halfway through his second cup of coffee. With his jacket on, the transformation was complete, just another businessman hurrying to work. He kissed the woman and gave her a hug and then threw me a sharp look.

  ‘What’s it to you whether I say yes or not?’ he asked.

  The accent took some of the sting from the question but even so, its directness made me miss a beat or two. I was still flannelling about our precious audience profile when he cut in. He’d heard all this before. He had a doctorate in bullshit. What he really wanted to know about was me. How come someone so young, so freshfaced, so obviously healthy, was working with a bunch of drunken deadbeats like Doubleact?

  I beamed. Freshfaced is a wonderful word. No one had said that about me, ever. I just don’t mix in that kind of company.

  ‘Well?’

  I opened my mouth then closed it again. I felt like one of his goldfish. ‘It’s a start,’ I stammered. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘You like it there?’

  ‘No, if you want the truth.’ I frowned. ‘Actually, it’s getting better. But no, the answer’s still no.’

  ‘And they’ve sent you round? To do the business?’

  ‘Yes, that’s my job.’

  ‘Good.’ He winked at me, before turning for the door. ‘See you at the studio then.’

  ‘You’re coming?’

  ‘Of course I bloody am.’

  I heard him hurrying down the hall. The front door opened and closed and a shadow ducked into the BMW at the kerbside. Seconds later, he’d gone. I looked at the woman. She was piling the coffee cups onto a tray.

  ‘Is he always like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed, ‘ever since I can remember.’ I reached to take the tray, genuinely curious. ‘How long’s that?’

  ‘Twenty-two years, almost to the day,’ she looked up, laughing again when she saw the expression on my face. ‘He’s my dad, in case you were wondering. And you’re right. He’s a lunatic.’

  When I got back to Doubleact, Brendan couldn’t believe it. He’d just had a heavy session with his wife about budget over-runs and the news of Fairweather’s defection had been the last straw. After two hours with the spreadsheet, he looked exhausted.

  ‘He said yes? Just like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I nodded.

  ‘So what did it take?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing? You mean he didn’t want money? Didn’t want… ?’ He looked wildly around for something else of equal value. Not finding it, he settled for me. ‘What did you promise him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I repeated.

  At this point, one of the Assistant Producers stuck his head round the door. There’d been a phone call. For me. ‘Morris Fairweather,’ he mouthed.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He’s talking dinner. Tonight. I said I thought you could make it.’

  Brendan nodded vigorously.

  ‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘She can definitely make it.’

  The AP disappeared, leaving me and Brendan gazing at each other.

  ‘I guess he’s paying, as well,’ he said brightly. ‘Gets better and better, doesn’t it?’

  We had dinner at the Caprice. Unlike most politicians I’d met, Fairweather was genuinely comfortable with small talk. He’d made a fortune in estate agency during the Eighties boom and the money seemed to have freed him from the straitjacket of the Tory machine. He didn’t care wh
at the Whips thought. He was impervious to the lashing he was getting from the tabloid press. All that, he said, was for the birds. More unusually still, Fairweather seemed to have a real interest in the small print of other people’s lives and after the second bottle of Montrachet, I found myself telling him about Gilbert.

  When we’d finished at the Caprice, we went to a club he knew in Frith Street for coffees and brandies. There was a jazz quartet on a small, raised stage but we stayed at the bar, perched on stools, tucked into a corner. We were talking about Gilbert again. Fairweather wanted to know exactly what it was that alarmed me.

  ‘His unpredictability,’ I said. ‘He does strange things. I know him and I don’t know him.’

  ‘Do you trust him?’

  ‘I trust the Gilbert I know.’ I corrected myself, ‘Knew.’

  ‘And now?’

  I shrugged, fingering the huge balloon of brandy. Fairweather was still looking at me, still waiting for an answer.

  ‘I don’t think he’s all there,’ I volunteered at last, using a favourite phrase of my father’s. ‘There’s definitely something odd about him, something missing. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on, not until the weekend anyway, but I recognise it now, definitely.’

  ‘And does it frighten you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you want advice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then move. It’s a free world. No one’s keeping you there.’

  I nodded, acknowledging the logic of what he was saying. Problem was, I didn’t want to move. I liked the house. I liked living at the quiet end of a cul-de-sac. And I still liked Gilbert, as long as he behaved himself.

  Fairweather was pressing me to do as he suggested. He was very black and white, a businessman for whom a personal fortune had solved more or less everything. Gilbert was someone I could live without. Moving house would simply delete him from my life.