Nocturne

by Hurley, Graham

  ‘You were sensational,’ he said. ‘Like something out of a movie.’

  ‘What were you expecting?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I’d never really thought about it. Windsurfing?’ he shrugged. ‘Piece of piss. You just get on and off you go. Like riding a bike.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He nodded ruefully. ‘Some fucking bike.’

  He had the grace to laugh. Overhead, I could hear Gilbert softly running through a series of scales on his flute, and I thought briefly about my conversation with Frankie in the Queen’s. But that, like drowning, seemed to belong to another life. For now, all I wanted was to be warm, and cosy, and talked to.

  Brendan was telling me about what had happened with Sandra. Apparently they’d had an enormous row because Brendan, for once, had answered back. The way he described it, this was a new development in their relationship, the result of advice from his therapist. She’d told him he needed to get back on terms with himself. He needed to stand tall, fight fire with fire. This is exactly what he’d done and Sandra had responded exactly the way his therapist had warned, by moving the goalposts.

  The argument had begun over the loading of the dishwasher. Brendan, in Sandra’s view, was far too cavalier. Brendan had dutifully raised the stakes and within minutes, inflamed, the issue was whether or not the marriage deserved to survive. In Sandra’s view, it most certainly did, but emphatically on her terms. Brendan’s line was a little more radical.

  ‘I told her to stuff it. I said I’d had enough.’

  ‘Enough of what?’

  ‘Enough of everything. Enough of her going on all the time. She’s a fascist, Jules, an absolute nightmare to live with.’ He nodded. ‘And she’s obsessed, too.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘Money. How we can save it. Why we need more of it. How we can chisel out an extra quid or two. Jesus, it’s not like we’re broke, Jules, believe me.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Quite.’ He nodded. ‘You should try it some day.’

  ‘Wealth?’

  ‘Marriage.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  He looked at me over the rim of his glass. He’d never been the slightest bit interested in the small print of my love life but now was obviously the time to start. I tried to let the invitation pass, but he wasn’t having it.

  ‘How about you?’

  I shrugged. A mouthful or two of Rioja had begun to detach my brain from the rest of me. I heard myself talking about university, about my lecturer friend, and about where - in my wildest moments - I’d thought the relationship might lead. I didn’t spare him any of the details, a candour I put down to delayed shock.

  By the time I’d finished, most of the first bottle had gone. Brendan was standing by the stove, stirring the bolognaise.

  ‘You ever see him again?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Never tempted?’

  ‘Of course. But that’s not the point. The point is he ratted, bottled, call it whatever you like. It was there for the taking, what we had, what we’d built, but when it came to the crunch he preferred to go back to his wife. In my book you get one chance, and one chance only. We blew it.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, him and me. Had we been stronger, both of us, it would have happened, I know it would.’

  ‘So how did you feel when he went?’

  ‘Awful. I felt awful.’

  I looked at him, wondering whether to add the bit about the malt whisky and the sleeping tablets, but I knew I had to draw the line somewhere. He was still my boss, for God’s sake. Why should he give office space to someone who’d seriously toyed with ending it all?

  Brendan slopped a little more wine into the bolognaise sauce.

  ‘Did you blame yourself?’

  ‘Mostly. He was the one who would have suffered.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘By losing his wife and kids, by taking that great leap in the dark.’ I bit my lip, hearing Harvey’s voice. Even the night he blew me out, he made a beautiful job of it. ‘He understood how to use language,’ I told Brendan. ‘He understood how powerful it can be. He abused it, like he abused everything else, but he was a hard man to say no to.’

  ‘I can tell.’ Brendan was looking pensive. ‘Did you love him?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘And do you still love him?’

  I thought about the question. Brendan was playing therapist now but I was too drunk, and too tired to care.

  ‘I love the idea of him,’ I ventured at last. ‘I love some of the times we had. I love what I thought we could become. But the guy inside?’ I shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

  Brendan was impressed. He’d even stopped stirring the sauce. ‘That’s fucking honest, if I may say so.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Brendan frowned. ‘This Harvey, has he ever tried to get in touch?’

  ‘Yes, lots of times.’

  ‘Recently?’

  ‘No, not since I’ve moved up here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He can’t. He hasn’t got the address. Or the phone number.’

  ‘But what would happen if he did ? Say he phoned ? Say he suggested a drink? How would you cope with that?’

  ‘I’ve ho idea,’ I said wearily. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘But you might say yes?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  I frowned, trying to concentrate, trying to find the phrase that would bring this conversation to an end. Finally, I realised that the truth was all too simple.

  ‘I don’t want to get hurt any more.’ I closed my eyes. ‘So maybe I’ll just stick to windsurfing.’

  I heard Brendan’s soft laugh.

  ‘You think that’s safe?’

  ‘Safer.’ I yawned. ‘Definitely.’

  Brendan left after we’d eaten. He didn’t push his luck about staying the night and for that I was grateful. The moment I lay down in bed I slipped into a long, dreamless sleep and by the time I awoke it was ten o’clock in the morning. Hours late for work, I ran for the bus.

  Mid-afternoon, my phone rang. It was Brendan. He sounded warm and cheerful, nothing like as hectic as usual. After he’d checked that I was OK, he said he’d forgotten his camera. He’d left it on the side in the kitchen. Could I bring it into work tomorrow?

  I did what he asked. Two days later, we had lunch together at a bistro in Upper Street. He showed no signs of wanting to talk about his marriage and I didn’t inquire further. After we’d resolved most of the morning’s crises on Members Only, he produced one of those photographic print envelopes you get from Boots.

  ‘Take a look.’

  I began to open the envelope. His face gave nothing away. I emptied the prints onto the table. Every one of them was black. No beach. No windsurfer. No jet skis. No Julie. Just black.

  I looked up.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  I frowned, examining one of the prints. ‘Was it the camera?’

  ‘No, I’ve checked it, ran another film through. Everything’s fine.’

  I thought of the lunatics on the jet skis, off the hook now. Might they have interfered somehow? Opened the camera? Exposed the film?

  ‘Definitely not. I put the camera back in my bag. They never went near it.’ He slipped the prints back into the envelope. ‘I’ve phoned the labs. They had a guy look into it. They sent this across.’

  From his pocket he produced the little canister that had once contained the roll of film. I picked it up. Kodak Gold. 24 exposure. Brendan reached out, revolving the cannister until I could see the other side. He tapped the ASA rating.

  ‘100,’ he said.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I loaded
200.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Positive. The weather’s too grim this time of year for 100. I never use it, never take the risk.’

  ‘So what are you saying? They developed the wrong film?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘Though they say that’s impossible. They’re swearing they’ve been through the whole batch. Every fucking one.’

  ‘So what else could it be?’

  There was a long silence. The guys at the next table were awaiting Brendan’s reply with some interest. He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

  ‘It was at your flat all day,’ he said. ‘Before you brought it in.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘In the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does anyone…’ he shrugged,’… have a key at all?’

  Gilbert opened his door to my first knock. One way or another I was determined to get into his flat. He looked down at me, filling the space between the door and the jamb. Behind him, the hall was in darkness.

  ‘I was wondering whether I could borrow your phone,’ I said. ‘Mine’s on the blink.’

  ‘Mine, too,’ he said at once. ‘Must be the line outside. Have you phoned the engineering people ?’

  I shook my head, amazed at how quickly he’d parried my first thrust. Of course I hadn’t phoned the bloody engineers.

  ‘Do you think I might try though?’

  I stepped forward to push past him. He didn’t move an inch. ‘No,’ he said simply.

  I stared at him, trying to read the expression on his face, that pale mask that so seldom slipped. Had he been expecting me? This unannounced visit? On this pathetic little pretext?

  ‘You could try the phone box at the end of the road,’ he was saying. ‘They seem to work these days.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I turned to go, knowing that the mission was hopeless, but then my anger got the better of me. He was still standing in the half-opened doorway, still gazing down at me, expressionless, unfathomable.

  ‘You’ve been in my flat again,’ I said. ‘And you’ve been playing around with a camera. I know you have. There’s no point denying it.’

  A smile ghosted across his face, barely perceptible, and I realised he liked seeing me angry. For some reason, God knows why, it turned him on.

  ‘You’re admitting it? You’ve got the film?’

  The smile had gone now. He didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s not here.’

  ‘But you had it?’

  He didn’t answer. I put the question again, telling him I’d go to the police, reminding him he risked arrest, telling him I was sick of it all. I’d tried very hard to be friends. I’d tried to understand him. I’d put up with all his silly games, his funny ways, because - despite everything - I still trusted him, still thought of him as a good person. But now it had gone beyond a joke. Now it was time for me to stop playing Ms Nice and change the locks and then put the flat on the market. I was serious. I’d had enough. I’d tried and I’d tried and I’d failed. Whatever relationship we’d had was gone. It was time to move out.

  Gilbert followed every word, his head bowed, listening intently, the kind of concentration you bring to a conversation in a foreign language. I’ve done it myself in French street markets. You’re deter- mined to get every last detail. You want to be sure you understand.

  Gilbert understood. I could tell by the way his head came up at the end, by the wild flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

  ‘Well?’ I said finally.

  I could see him trying to reach for an answer but fail to put it into words. At last, he shook his head twice, very deliberate movements, exactly the way he’d nodded at me the night he’d stood at the foot of my bed in the darkness. Then he backed into his flat and closed the door.

  Two days later, testing the deadlock on my new Chubb five-lever, I heard the softest footfall outside my front door. I waited, for several minutes, not daring to move. When Gilbert’s footsteps resumed in the flat above my head, back and forth, I at last opened the door. A big brown envelope lay on the hall carpet. It had my name on it. I recognised the handwriting from the shopping lists Gilbert still left out.

  I opened the envelope in the kitchen. There were twenty-four blow- ups inside, big colour prints. All of them were impressive but two or three were truly outstanding, wonderful studies of the Malibu at full blast, the water feathering back from the board, yours truly horizontal, perfectly balanced, blonde hair streaming out in the wind. I held the prints up one by one, then looked for a note. At the bottom of the envelope, carefully folded, was a carbon copy of the order form Gilbert must have completed. I glanced at the details. In the box marked ‘Number of Sets’, he’d scribbled ‘2’.

  I looked at the prints again, spread across the kitchen table. Including the copy of the order form was deliberate, it had to be. It meant that Gilbert had let himself into the flat, and found the camera, and swopped the film for a roll of his own. The latter he would have exposed - hence the black - but Brendan’s roll he’d taken to be developed. The resulting pictures told the story of our day out at Jaywick, and he’d helped himself to a share of that extraordinary afternoon.

  I picked slowly through the prints until I came to the ones with the jet skis. Brendan hadn’t captured the moment of collision but there were before and after shots and it was slightly eerie to pore over a photograph of two burly youths in wet suits bent over a shape in the water, knowing that the object of their curiosity was me.

  I got up, reaching for the envelope, struck by another thought. How had Gilbert realised the significance of the camera? Why had he swapped the films? I sat down at the table again. A couple of months ago, like most girls my age, I’d had nothing more challenging to think about than a broken heart and zero job prospects. Now, I seemed to spend most of my waking hours trying to get inside the mind of a man who - at best - was seriously disturbed.

  I looked up, peering at the ceiling, wondering just how Gilbert had known about the camera in the first place. The ceiling had been the first bit of the kitchen I’d decorated and as far as I could see the emulsion was intact. I cleared a space on the table and clambered up for a closer look. My new Habitat lampshade hung on a long flex from a central fitting. I moved it to one side, meaning to inspect the bit where the fitting met the ceiling itself, and as I did so I became aware of a small, irregular-shaped hole, about the size of a five-pence coin. It hadn’t been there when I’d painted the ceiling, of that I was absolutely certain, and when I looked harder I saw that there was something inside it, catching the light. I bent for a chair, meaning to get closer still, but then I stopped, quite motionless, realising what it was that I’d just discovered.

  An eye. Watching me.

  Two

  Tottenham Green police station is part of the complex of civic offices just north of Seven Sisters tube station. The taxi dropped me across the road. It was pouring with rain and I was dripping wet by the time I got inside.

  The waiting area was nearly full. There was a counter at one end and the walls were plastered with posters. The one above the remaining empty seat featured a gloved hand reaching through a pane of broken glass. ‘Beware of Uninvited Guests’, it read. ‘Check Your Doors and Windows’.

  I waited nearly forty minutes for my turn at the counter, watching a succession of distraught locals tangling with the police bureaucracy. The one who took the longest was a bent old lady who’d lost her cat to a youth with an air rifle, and by the time she’d finished the desk officer had been joined by a younger man. This younger guy was in uniform as well and he beckoned me forward to the counter. I’m guessing but I’d say he was my age. He was big. He had broad shoulders, and short blond hair, and the coldest eyes I’d ever seen. All he needed at weekends, I remember thinking, was a big fat jet ski.

  I�
��d half-rehearsed what I was going to say but the words came out in the wrong order.

  ‘I’ve got a problem,’ I told him. ‘It’s… I can’t…’ I looked wildly round. The waiting room was filling up again, and two youths nearby were watching me with interest. One of them had a newly stitched wound under his left eye.

  ‘You want to come round the back?’

  The young policeman was indicating a gap in the counter. I stepped through. A door led to the main part of the police station. At the end of a corridor, beside a drinks dispenser, he showed me into a small bare room with a table and three chairs.

  I sat down. My Berghaus was dry now but my jeans were still soaking.

  ‘You want to take that thing off?’ He was nodding at the anorak. I was cold. I shook my head. None of this felt right.

  The young guy searched round for a pad. The drawer in the desk made a hollow metallic clang as he pushed it shut.

  ‘So what can we do you for?’

  He was looking at me. I thought I detected a smile but I could easily have been wrong. I gave him my name and told him where I lived. Then I explained about Gilbert. Trying to be fair meant that the account took much longer than I’d intended. At the end of it, he got up and left the room. Outside, in the corridor, I could hear him feeding coins into the Automat. His face reappeared round the door.

  ‘Sugar?’

  I nodded. I was looking at his pad. Apart from my name and address he hadn’t made a single note. He returned with the teas. He had huge hands and there was a tattoo of an eagle on one forearm. After he’d sat down, he toyed with his pen, watching me.

  ‘You’re saying you lent this guy your key?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t very clever, was it?’

  ‘I… we were friends. I’d no idea. Not then.’

  ‘But six weeks? Isn’t that a bit…’ he tapped the pen softly on the edge of the table, ‘… swift?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Are you always like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘So trusting?’

  I reached for the tea. In truth, it was a question I’d often asked myself, but coming from this hard-eyed young man it sounded infinitely more menacing. Maybe he had a point. Maybe it was crazy taking people at face value.