Inside my flat, I went straight to the front room. I kept the Yellow Pages beside the phone. I was still hunting for Locksmiths when it occurred to me for the second time in six hours that I wasn’t alone. I looked up. Gilbert was sitting in the armchair in the corner. He was wearing jeans and an old sweater and his thin frame was folded into the chair in a position your average psychiatrist might term ‘defensive’. His chin was down on his chest. His hands were clasped around his knees. He was watching me warily, like a child expecting the worst.
When my pulse had returned to normal I asked him for the duplicate key he must have used to get in.
‘It’s on the kitchen table.’
‘Get it then.’
Gilbert did what he was told. Back in the armchair he settled himself again, waiting for the next question.
‘How do I know you haven’t taken another copy?’
‘I haven’t. I wouldn’t. Not without asking.’
I nodded. My copy of Yellow Pages was still open on the floor and I was determined to phone a locksmith, no matter what Gilbert said. I began to talk about last night, how frightened I’d been, but Gilbert interrupted, one long finger pointing at the window.
‘I called them,’ he said. ‘I called the people.’
‘What people?’
‘The taxi people.’
I stared at him, the first faint glimmer of logic beginning to appear. Gilbert had seen us in the mini-cab. He must indeed have been watching from his top window.
‘And what did they say? The taxi people?’
‘Nothing. They wouldn’t tell me anything.’
‘What did you want to know?’
‘His name.’
‘Why?’
Gilbert shook his head, refusing to answer. After I’d repeated the question to no effect I came at it another way.
‘Who do you think he was?’ I asked him.
‘I don’t know. Your boyfriend?’ He shrugged. T don’t know.’
‘He’s my boss.’
‘Your boss?’ He frowned.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But why? Why does it matter who he is? And even if he is my boyfriend, what’s that got to do with you?’
Gilbert was staring out of the window. The word hurt was invented to describe the expression on his face.
‘He’s my boss,’ I repeated. ‘And his name’s Brendan.’
‘Brendan.’ He nodded, as if he liked the sound of the word. ‘Brendan.’
The smile briefly warmed his face then it went away again. I still had the keys in my hand. I realised I was sweating.
‘What would you have done if Brendan had stayed the night?’
Gilbert thought about the question for a while and looking at his face it was extraordinary to watch it change and then change again as he struggled to come up with an answer. ‘Well?’
Gilbert thought a bit more and then got to his feet. He seemed to have lost weight. His jeans hung loosely around his hips. He looked down at me and I fought the temptation to take some of the sting from this conversation and make friends again. Gilbert owed me, at the very least, an explanation.
‘I didn’t want to see you hurt,’ he said.
‘You were protecting me?’
‘Yes.’
‘By breaking in? In the middle of the night?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘You think so?’
I stared up at him. Dear God, if I wanted confirmation that Gilbert was out of his tree, then this was surely it. I’d asked him a straight question. He’d obliged with an answer that at least made sense. But with that last innocent phrase, he’d wrecked it all. I was dealing with a man who wasn’t at all sure why he did things. Which made my date with the locksmith even more pressing.
Gilbert was standing by the door now. Time, I thought, for some straight talking.
‘I could have you arrested,’ I said, ‘for what you did last night. I could go to the police and tell them what happened and they’d be round here like a shot. Tell them what you like and it wouldn’t make any difference. You trespassed. You broke into my flat. You scared me really badly.’ I paused. ‘Do you want me to go to the police? Do you really want that to happen?’
Gilbert was shaking his head.
‘No,’ he whispered.
‘But you understand why I might do it? Why anyone might?’
‘Yes.’
I waited for him to say something else, increasingly exasperated. I wanted an apology. I wanted a promise that it wouldn’t happen again. Failing that, I wanted - at the very least - an acknowledgement that what he’d done was completely unacceptable.
‘Just tell me why,’ I demanded at last. ‘Tell me why you did it, what the point was. Don’t you like me? Are you trying to frighten me? I’ve been a wreck all day because of you, because of what you did. It’s crazy carrying on like that. It’s a horrible thing to do. Don’t you see that? Gilbert?’ I tried to control myself, tried to keep my voice down, but failed utterly. ‘Another thing,’ I said. ‘Why did you tell me lies about that restaurant the other night? Why did you say you’d been—’
The phone began to ring. We both looked at it, then I picked it up. I recognised the voice at once.
‘Brendan,’ I said flatly. ‘Of course you’re not interrupting anything.’
I listened while Brendan rattled through a list of items he wanted to discuss with me. The most important had to do with payment due to a Cabinet minister who’d appeared on one of last month’s shows. He wanted the cheque made out to his wife. He made me write her name down. Only then did he inquire what I was doing at home.
I glanced up. Gilbert had disappeared.
‘Spot of domestic bother,’ I said as brightly as I could.
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’
‘Not yet.’
‘OK, see you this afternoon.’ He paused. ‘About last night…’
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted you to know I appreciated it. Very much.’
Brendan hung up and I took a deep breath, wondering what had happened to Gilbert. I circled the flat, wandering from room to room, dreading what I might find, but the only evidence he’d left was a rather tired bunch of chrysanthemums on the kitchen table. There was no note or card with them and for a moment I wondered whether they were for me. I was out in the hall, wondering whether or not to go up, when I heard the noise. It sounded, to be frank, slightly animal. Muffled as it was, it definitely signalled distress.
I made my way upstairs. Gilbert’s door was closed. I stood on the landing for a while, listening, trying to put the sounds together. Twice I called his name but there was no response. The sounds went away, then, more distinct, came a gulping noise and it all started again, unmistakeable this time.
I listened for a moment or two longer then made my way downstairs, bewildered and a little guilty, wondering what on earth I’d done to make Gilbert cry.
The big idea for my next move in this strange game came several days later. Work, for once, was going brilliantly. Gilbert, all contrition, had reverted to the model neighbour. And Nikki phoned up from South Africa for a gossip. How were things panning out? How was I doing?
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘How about you?’
She told me about her job. She was working in a fashion house in Cape Town and she’d come up with some promotional ideas that had taken her to Johannesburg for a week. There she’d met a young Afrikaans guy called Henrik and the prospects, in her phrase, were ‘yummy’. Only after she’d given me the full story on their first night together did she enquire about life in N17. How was I getting on at the flat? Was Gilbert as interesting a prospect as he’d seemed? Was he still serenading me through the floorboards? I ducked most of these questions but when she persisted, scenting problems
, I admitted that Gilbert and I had had one or two minor upsets. It was nothing much, I said, nothing too serious, and now we were the best of friends again. Only this morning, he’d volunteered to get me some more cat litter. Being Nikki, she pressed harder still and though I didn’t end up by telling her everything, I did mention the bruise I’d seen on his face. To be frank, I said, I was worried about violence.
‘Check it out then,’ Nikki said at once.
‘Check what out?’
‘The bruise. The incident. Go and find the previous owner. He’d know. Bound to.’
It was a brilliant idea but it wasn’t, of course, that easy. For one thing, the estate agents weren’t keen on releasing his name and it was half a day before it occurred to me that my mother’s solicitors, who’d acted for me in the sale, would have all the details in the transfer documents. Their offices were in Petersfield. The senior partner, an old friend of my mum’s, dug out the relevant bits for me.
‘Kevin Witcher,’ he said, ‘10a Denman’s Hill, Crouch End.’
It was Saturday before I made it to Crouch End. I had a phone number for Mr Witcher but when I tried it I got the unavailable signal so in the end there was no alternative to turning up on his doorstep. The more I thought about the idea, the keener I became, not least because - for once - I was taking the initiative. Gilbert had been making the running for far too long. My turn now.
Crouch End is only a couple of miles from Tottenham and I went over on the bus. I’d located Denman’s Hill on the A-Z, and it was early afternoon when I stepped in through the gate of number 10 and rang the door bell. The houses were similar to Napier Road - street after street of redbrick terraces - but the area felt more cared-for. Judging by the extravagant display of blooms in his window boxes, Mr Witcher knew a thing or two about geraniums.
When he came to the door, he was wearing a scarlet dressing gown. He was medium height, early forties. His hair was receding over an enormous head and his eyes were slightly bulbous, as if he had a problem with his thyroid. He wasn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, good looking.
I was still explaining the reason for my visit when I noticed the plaster cast on his right arm. It was poking out of the sleeve of the dressing gown, and judging by the state of the plaster, the cast must have been on for a while.
‘So what do you want from me?’ he asked when I’d finished.
‘Just a chat, that’s all.’
‘Now?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
He peered at me, uncertain. His toes were curling on the bare lino but there was a nice smell coming from somewhere inside and what little I could see of the hall looked more than interesting. How many people hang glass chandeliers in a shared entry?
With some reluctance, Witcher finally let me in. He led me through to the kitchen. It was neat, spotlessly clean, and extremely chintzy. Amongst the carefully arranged display of cups and saucers on the Welsh dresser was a line of thick ornamental candles, rich blues and reds.
I sat down in a rocking chair beneath a framed black and white poster for a Robert Mapplethorpe exhibition. That was an obvious clue, of course, but I was far too busy trying to put a name to the delicious smells from the casserole pot bubbling on the stove to take much notice.
‘Does your wife do the cooking?’
Witcher was draping a cloth over a small mountain of chopped courgettes.
‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said with a tiny frown of concentration.
It occurred to me then that he must be expecting company but he waved aside my apologies for disturbing his arrangements, turning down the gas under the casserole.
He offered me coffee from a cafetiere and I said yes. The coffee was a bitter roast, absolutely delicious, but when I asked him where he’d got it, he ignored me. He was sitting at the little kitchen table, plucking at the sleeve of his dressing gown.
‘Did he send you? You might as well say.’
‘Did who send me?’
‘Phillips.’
For a moment I wondered who Phillips was. Then I remembered the name on the envelopes that dropped on the mat for Gilbert.
‘God no,’ I said. ‘He has no idea I’m here.’
‘He doesn’t have the address?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘And the new phone number?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Witcher nodded, and I was finally able to put a name to the expression on his face. He was anxious. In fact he was more than that. For some reason, I’d frightened him. Quite badly.
On the doorstep, I’d given him just a hint of the problems I was having with Gilbert. I’d also told him about the bruise I’d noticed, and about Gilbert’s version of events. I’m no expert on violence between males but what I’d seen of Kevin Witcher made me wonder about the billiard cue Gilbert had mentioned.
‘So what happened?’ I ventured. ‘Between the two of you?’
‘I don’t intend to talk about that.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘But was there some kind of fight?’
I told him about Gilbert’s black eye again but he shrugged, reaching for a long, thin, wooden ruler hanging from a hook on the wall. He rolled up his sleeve and inserted the ruler into the plaster cast, sawing back and forth.
‘Bloody thing itches,’ he said. ‘All the damn time.’
I smiled, watching the ruler. He’d rolled up his sleeve and I could see the scrawled signatures mapping the surface of the cast. One of them, much bigger than the rest, was a phone number. 581 7201. I made a mental note.
‘Have you had that thing on long?’
‘Yes, too long.’
‘Is the arm broken?’
‘In three places.’
‘How awful. Have you been off work?’
Once again, he didn’t reply. He’d finished with the ruler now, the relief visible on his face.
‘You’re quite sure about Phillips?’ he said. ‘Not knowing where I live?’
‘Yes, as sure as I can be.’ I paused to sip the coffee. ‘Were you there long? Napier Road?’
‘Five weeks.’
‘Five weeks?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t…’ he frowned,’… quite what I’d expected.’
‘The flat?’
‘Everything. The area, especially. I expect you’ve noticed.’
‘Noticed what?’
‘The blacks. The litter. The state of the place. It’s disgusting. I’d no idea.’ He frowned. ‘Crouch End I find far more acceptable. Have you finished your coffee by any chance? Only I’ve a great deal to get on with.’ He gestured towards the stove and I realised rather belatedly why it was that he’d invited me in. He needed to be sure that Gilbert didn’t know where he’d ended up after his five weeks in Napier Road. Now he had a sort of answer, our little chat was plainly at an end.
I stood up, thanking him for his time, and we were back in the hall before I had a chance to ask him the one question that really mattered.
‘Did Mr Phillips ever do anything…’, I shrugged, ‘… unusual?’
Witcher was standing by the front door. I thought, at first, that he was scowling. Only when he answered did I realise that he was attempting a smile.
‘Unusual?’ he said softly. ‘Are you serious?’
I phoned the number on Witcher’s plaster cast from a call box on Crouch End Hill. The number took a while to answer but when it did it turned out to be a pub. I could hear laughter in the background, and the clink of glasses, and the ker-ching of a cash register. Lost for what to say, I mentioned Kevin Witcher’s name. I said I was phoning on his behalf. It was a lie, of course, but it seemed to do the trick with the woman at the other end.
‘You’ll want Frankie,’ she said. ‘He’s busy just now. Call back la
ter. He’s off at half four.’
She put the phone down and I stood there in the call box for a good minute, wondering just how far I wanted to take this little adventure. I’d sensed that Witcher had a great deal to say about Gilbert, but it was equally obvious that he wouldn’t be confiding in me. I’d done my best to establish that Gilbert and I weren’t on the same team but I don’t think he’d begun to believe me.
I glanced down at the number I’d scrawled on the palm of my hand and checked my watch. Twenty to three. I picked up the phone and dialled the number again. Mercifully, it was a male voice this time.
‘Red Lion?’ I asked.
‘Queen’s, love. Wrong pub.’
‘That’s the Queen’s… ?’
‘In The Broadway. Dunno a Red Lion.’
I thanked him and put the phone down. According to my A-Z, The Broadway was just up the road. I walked slowly in the sunshine, stopping to look in the knick-knack shops. I felt slightly light-headed, as if the power of decision had mysteriously deserted me. A chain of events was unfolding, I told myself, and I had no choice but to be tugged along in their wake. It was a strange feeling, not at all unpleasant, and I marvelled at my compliance. Normally, as you might have gathered, I like to seize life by the lapels and give it a shake or two. I’m not wild about surprises, or losing control. Gilbert,, though, seemed to be changing me. Even in this small respect, he’d somehow got the upper hand.
The Queen’s was cavernous, a big, high-ceilinged pub with fading curtains and worn upholstery. It was still busy for mid-afternoon and there was a heavy Irish contingent at the bar. They were obviously regulars, big-faced men with baggy jeans and wet eyes. It took me a while to sort out Frankie and I only spotted him for certain when I caught one of the Irish guys calling his name.
He was young, much younger than Witcher.. He was wearing black leather trousers and a black shirt and I knew at once that he was gay. You could tell by the way the men treated him, protective, roughly affectionate, and you could tell as well that he didn’t care. At the riper remarks, none of them hostile, he’d turn his back, and wiggle his bum, and then play dainty-dainty with his hands when he circled the bar to collect the empties.
Nocturne Page 7
