Apartment 16

by Adam Nevill

  His world had been reduced to a few colours.

  He was inside this place because he had allowed himself to be led there and locked inside. That was all he knew. Beside that, he had vague memories that his family had visited long ago. His mum and dad had come together; his dad had seemed disappointed in him, his mother worried but tried not to show it. Another time, his sister and her husband had come. They had stood at the bottom of the steps and his brother-in-law had cracked jokes to make him feel better. Seth had kept a grin on his face until it began to ache. His sister had said little and seemed frightened of him, as if she didn’t recognize her brother any more.

  He’d told them all he was all right, but was unable to tell anyone what he really felt about his imprisonment in the strange stone chamber; he was unable to explain it to himself. After they passed from sight, a lump had filled his throat. Confused, his memory failing, he had no idea how long he had been inside the stone chamber, or for what specific reason he had been locked inside in the first place, but he did know he would be there for ever; always frozen, always hungry, never able to sit down, just stepping from one foot to the other, fretting.

  THREE

  She might have just boarded a luxury passenger liner, a Titanic or a Lusitania. Inside, Barrington House was like a movie lot designed for a film set on the high seas between the wars, photographed in copper and sepia.

  In a daze, she followed the tall head porter, Stephen, through reception and into the east wing. Along corridors lined with silk wallpaper, illumined golden brown by the lights inside patterned glass shades, and through the peculiar smell of tradition. Not quite churchish, but not far off: wood and metal polish, fresh flowers and the fragrance of precious, preserved things insufficiently ventilated, like an old and private museum never open to the public.

  Stephen talked as he walked ahead of her. ‘We’ve forty apartments spread through the two blocks with the private garden in the middle which draws the light into the rear of the flats. It’s a bit confusing at first. But if you imagine a giant L shape, with the roads along the outside, you soon get your bearings. And there are twenty parking spaces under the building, but I’m afraid your aunt’s flat doesn’t have parking.’

  ‘That’s OK, I don’t have a car. And the novelty of using the subway hasn’t worn off.’

  The head porter smiled. ‘It may do, ma’am. It may do.’

  ‘Apryl. Call me Apryl. Otherwise I sound about a hundred and ninety.’

  ‘And you may live to be that old. Your aunt was eighty-four when she died.’

  ‘Great-aunt. She was my grandmother’s sister.’

  ‘Still, a good age.’ He paused and looked over his shoulder. ‘Though I am truly sorry for your loss . . . Apryl.’

  ‘Thanks. But I never met her. It’s still sad though. She was the last of that generation in my family. We had no idea she was still alive. Or that this place was like . . . Well, like this. I mean, it’s spectacular. We’re not rich. We couldn’t even afford the service charge – it’s about how much I make a year back home. So I won’t be here long.’

  At a guess, when they eventually sold the place, neither she nor her mother would need to work for a long time, if ever again. They’d be rich. Just the word seemed incongruous, even silly, when applied to them. But there was no one else with a claim on the inheritance. Lillian died childless, and Apryl’s mother, like Apryl, was an only child. End of the line. And at twenty-eight, if she didn’t get a move on herself, the Beckford family would vanish with her. The last spinster.

  ‘It’s all a bit of a fairy tale. My mom is just gonna die when I tell her about this place. I mean you porters and everything. I could get used to this.’

  Stephen nodded, his smile polite but stiff. He seemed weary, but also preoccupied by something, though not by the tattoos peeking from under the sleeves of her shirt. Reflected in the mirror of the elevator they looked like the open pages of comic books.

  ‘So you never knew your aunt Lillian?’ he asked warily, as if weighing up something awkward he would have to tell her.

  ‘No. My mom kind of remembers her, but not well. And Lillian wasn’t that close to Granny Marilyn either. They just kind of went their own ways during the war. Which I never got, being an only child. I’d have loved a sister. We just guessed Lillian died years ago. I mean, my grandmother’s been dead for fifteen years. And my mom was too busy raising me to find out about Lillian. I was quite a handful.’ She was rambling, she knew it, but was too excited to care.

  Stephen bit his bottom lip, then sighed. ‘Your aunt wasn’t well, Apryl, I’m afraid. She was a lovely woman. Very kind. And I’m not just saying that. We were all very fond of her here. But she was old and her mental health hadn’t been good for a long time. Not for the ten years I’ve worked here, and my predecessor said as much. A few years ago we arranged to have meals delivered. And a carer visited her every week. The management used to cash her cheques and pay the bills on her behalf.’

  ‘I never knew. Must make us sound terrible.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to suggest anything. It happens all the time in this part of town. People become estranged from their families. Cut off. Money can do that. But Lillian’s state of mind was getting worse. A lot worse in the last few years before she passed away. She shouldn’t have been here really. But this was her home and we all pitched in – the porters and the cleaners – to make it possible for her to stay.’

  ‘That was very kind.’

  ‘Oh, it was nothing really. Just milk and bread and fetching things she needed from the shops. We do try and be helpful. But we were always concerned she might have fallen or’ – he paused to clear his throat – ‘become lost.’

  ‘Didn’t she have any friends?’

  ‘Not that I noticed. Not a single visitor since I’ve been here. You see . . .’ He paused and rubbed at his mouth. ‘She was quite eccentric. That’s the politest way I can put it, and I mean no disrespect.’ He looked uncomfortable as he said it. Even his voice dropped. Crazy he meant.

  But she wanted to know everything about the great-aunt who had left her and her mother a whole bunch of real estate in London. Once it was sold, she’d make sure those who’d made the old lady comfortable toward the end were rewarded in some way. Her mom wouldn’t object. She’d feel guilty too. Just like Apryl did right now. Though neither of them should. It was never wilful neglect on their behalf: Lillian had been a distant relative who lived on the other side of the earth.

  ‘Do you remember her husband? Reginald?’ asked Apryl. ‘I think he was a pilot in the war.’

  Stephen looked away, his pale blue eyes flitting, glancing above and around her head as if he were inspecting the lights in the elevator, which were dim and cast a grubby shadow over the mahogany panels and brass trimmings. ‘Mmm, no. Passed away before my time here. But I would hazard a guess his death affected her greatly.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  But then the elevator stopped with a wheeze followed by a clunk. The doors slid open and Stephen seemed eager to step through them.

  She followed him onto the landing. It was carpeted in dark green, and the walls were decorated in the same restrained tone as the communal corridors downstairs. There was a radiator opposite the elevator, inside an ornamental covering that looked like a Victorian tomb. A broad, gilt-framed mirror glimmered above it and a staircase rose and fell on either side of the elevator shaft. On the walls of the staircase she could see prints in elegant frames. At each end of the landing was a wooden front door, numbered in brass.

  ‘Well, here we are. Number thirty-nine. Right at the top. Unfortunately, the heating isn’t so good up here, so I put portable radiators in Lillian’s bedroom and in the kitchen, the only two rooms I can ever remember her using. At some point I’ll need them back.’

  ‘Sure.’ Apryl watched the back of Stephen’s neat silver head as he rattled the fob to free the right key. Under the shiny grey waistcoat, she could see how strong his shoulders were. He ex
uded ex-military; the kind of authority she imagined was popular with the residents. Her great-aunt must have felt safe with Stephen around.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s quite a mess inside. She didn’t want a maid and wouldn’t let anyone move a thing. I doubt she threw anything away in sixty years. Anyway, here are the keys. We have another set in the safe downstairs – standard practice in case of emergency. I’ll have to dash off now. Contractors are coming to look at the satellite dishes on the roof. But call reception if there is anything you need. Piotr is on the desk until six thirty, and then Seth, the night man, will take over. I’ll be on site pretty much all day, every day. You can call the front desk from the phone in the kitchen. Just lift the handset and it’ll connect you.’

  Stephen looked into her eyes. He could probably guess she didn’t want to be left alone in the apartment. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got your work cut out, Apryl. I doubt it’s been cleaned in years. And it’s the only apartment with the original bathroom still intact. If you are going to sell, it’ll need a lot of work. Maybe a complete renovation to get the right price.’ Stephen left her outside the open door and trotted down the stairs.

  The drapes must have been drawn inside the apartment, for even though Stephen had reached inside the door and turned the hall light on, little was revealed beside a dowdy and cluttered hallway from a different age.

  The very thought of entering made her feel vulnerable and guilty, like she was a trespasser. And the dross of age was reluctant to remain within the confines of its walls. Even outside on the landing the place smelled old. Real old. Like her grandmother’s bedroom in Jersey, which hadn’t altered one bit since the forties either. But this smell was a thousand times stronger. Like the windows had never been opened and everything inside was ancient and faded and dusty. The past contained and reluctant to leave. Like the rest of the place, if she were honest, now the excitement of her first impression had passed. Gloomy stairwells and dim hallways. It was like going back in time. Maybe the residents liked it that way. Traditional ambience or something.

  She poked her head inside the door and felt a foolish urge to call out her aunt’s name. Because, curiously, the place didn’t feel empty.

  The head porter wasn’t kidding: Lillian had been a shut-in. The hallway was choked with bundles of old newspapers, magazines and plastic bags, their shiny sides bulging taut. Apryl peered inside the bag nearest the coat stand. It was full of junk mail, colourful intrusions from the modern world standing no chance in here, but kept for some reason, imprisoned.

  Under the soles of her boots the carpet was crispy. With the dim hall lights on, a host of dead moths visible through their glass shades, she could see how the carpet was worn down to the weave. What had once been a complicated pattern of red and green was now mostly the colour of compressed straw along the middle. Worn down by her great-aunt’s feet.

  The furniture in the long hallway was definitely antique. Dark and shiny wooden legs appeared between bales of yellowing newspaper. Embroidered cushions on the chairs were partially hidden by blanched telephone directories. Elsewhere, carved wood, mother-of-pearl inlays, and frosted glass with intricate decorations peeked out from among the garbage sacks, as if humiliated by their surroundings. Apryl was no historian, but even she knew they’d stopped making cabinets, clocks and chairs like this in the forties. And if it wasn’t for the piles of trash and stained walls the apartment might have looked elegant. Or maybe not.

  The wallpaper had once been a cream silk, with silver stripes running vertically through it, but was now mostly yellow and discoloured by brown clouds where moisture had dried near the dirty wainscoting and above the skirting boards. Beneath her fingertips, the walls felt fuzzy like the worn fur on a stuffed animal.

  In the kitchen there was cracked yellow lino and a perimeter of ancient enamel appliances. Dark wooden cabinets were fixed to walls once painted buttercup but now blemished like ivory. The gas rings on the stove were dry and dusty, the deep sink bone dry. Only the surface of the kitchen table showed signs of use. There were lines made by a knife on the chopping board and crumbs in the bread bin. A solitary chair, with a tartan pattern on its cushion, was tucked beneath the kitchen table.

  The scant evidence of her great-aunt’s domesticity suddenly made her sad, right down to her toes. But it was the sight of the silver teapot on the tray decorated with birds of the British Isles, next to the stub of a packet of lemon cookies on the table, that thickened her throat with emotion. She thought she might cry.

  There was a single china cup beside the teapot, a strainer, a sugar bowl and a tea caddy. The gold rim of the cup was chipped, probably the last of a set. Maybe a wedding gift when she and Reginald were married. Apryl touched the handle, but couldn’t bring herself to raise the fragile vessel. This was Lillian’s cup; she drank tea out of it. Up here on her own in the kitchen, at this little table by the plastic bin with the swing lid, surrounded by the relics of nearly a century on this planet. Apryl sniffed a tear back. She could see why rich people sealed themselves off inside retirement villages in Florida and rode around in golf carts wearing polo shirts. What was the point of being different if you ended up like this?

  She wiped at her eyes. ‘You could have come and lived with us.’

  Inside the cupboards on the walls she found a motley assortment of crockery – three china dinner sets, incomplete and now combined in an incongruous medley of patterns. There were some old pots and pans in the cupboards. She doubted the pots had been used in years, except for the one with a rind of dry milk inside. And besides the three tins of soup and some packets of sweet cookies, there was nothing to eat. Inside the fridge she saw a plastic bottle of lumpy milk. Her great-aunt lived on tea, cookies and soup and made it to eighty-four.

  Stephen said nothing had been touched since Lillian died. And how did she die? Was it in here?

  Apryl dropped her backpack from her shoulder and leant it against the kitchen table. She couldn’t shake the sense of being an intruder in a stranger’s home. Already she was dreading the thought of spending a night here. Would there be clean sheets? Had her aunt died in bed? She suddenly wanted to call Stephen and get him up here and not let him leave until she knew everything.

  With an effort of will she calmed herself. She was tired, excited, her nerves were strung out; she couldn’t possibly have anticipated any of this. She just had to remember this was a great opportunity. Something totally radical and beyond her experience.

  But when she opened the living-room door, her resolve vanished again. She didn’t manage more than two steps inside. Why hadn’t Stephen told her about the flowers? All of the dead flowers. The sloping pile of brown stalks and shrivelled petals that rose from the carpet to the sill of the big window overlooking Lowndes Square. They reminded her of flowers on old graves, left to wither and collapse and to bleach of colour. Seeing so many emaciated stems and dead leaves in the thin, brownish light made a shiver pinprick up her spine and then fizzle at the base of her skull. This must have been going on for years. This pile built one bunch at a time. And all roses, by the look of the few petals on the top that remained as dark as wine. Behind them, the grey drapes with the plaited golden trim were drawn closed.

  She turned the main light on to better investigate the flowers and see the pictures on the walls, but the room was still so shadowy and dim she realized she’d be better off with the drapes open. But when she leant over the flowers and tried to pull them apart she discovered they had been stitched shut. She stepped back quickly from the window and stared at the neat bindings of red thread that joined the drapes in the middle, permanently.

  ‘What the fuck?’

  Alone and crazy, Great-aunt Lillian had sewn her drapes shut with thread, and then mounted before them floral tributes that covered half the room. She turned around to look about her. The room was empty of furniture, the floor still thick with dust, but the corners where the walls met the ceiling were free of cobwebs, so you still could see the photographs. On all of t
he walls, black-and-white photographs in antique frames reached from the height of her waist to the ceiling. And the pictures all featured the same couple. Every single one of them.

  Handsome with a pencil moustache, like Douglas Fairbanks Junior, his hair slick either side of a parting, she saw her great-uncle Reginald for the first time in her life.

  His eyes were dark and intelligent. And smiling. Just looking at him made her grin. Reginald always dressed in a suit and tie or wore silver slacks with a white shirt open at the neck. In one photo a little terrier lay at his feet as he sat in a cane chair. A pipe often featured in his strong left hand. Lillian’s husband: a man she always stood proudly beside, close, either holding his elbow or standing behind him with a hand placed upon his shoulder. Like she couldn’t let him go. Like she loved the man so much being without him would drive her crazy.

  And Lillian had been a beautiful woman. Like a movie star from the forties with big brown eyes and the sharp bone structure you rarely saw these days. Always dressed elegantly in tea frocks, or cocktail dresses to the knee, or ball gowns sweeping around the white toes of her glossy shoes. But it was the way they looked at each other that affected her most. You couldn’t fake that. This sad, brown and mildewed space which Lillian roamed and dreamed in and haunted for sixty years suddenly made more sense. Two people once lived here who should never have parted. And the place was in mourning because the widow was heartbroken. Maybe mad with a grief that never eased. Did hearts still get broken like that?

  Apryl knew Reginald died in the late forties. After serving in the RAF in the war and surviving dangers she couldn’t even begin to comprehend, this happy, handsome man with a beautiful young bride had died suddenly. She didn’t know the details, but her gran had told her mom that he died after the war. That’s all they had to go on. A sketchy oral history passed down from one solitary old woman to another, and so on to her. But glimpses into Lillian’s life hung all around her on the walls, and were packed into those boxes in the hallway, and into whatever else Apryl might find in the three bedrooms and dining room. And hadn’t Stephen said something about a storage cage under the building?