Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  I look down at my knees. Indeed, the left one is a mess.

  ‘That bastard just rammed into you and pedalled away as if nothing happened!’

  ‘I didn’t even see him coming . . .’

  ‘He was tearing down the towpath like a maniac. All Lycra-wrapped, flashy helmet, Oakley sunglasses and one of those Respro face masks that make you look like Hannibal Lecter. Obviously thinks that “Share the Space, Drop the Pace” doesn’t apply to him. You know, the “entitled” kind’ – he makes quotation marks in the air.

  ‘I was actually trying to race you to that bench over there. Oh, my wine . . .’ I remember the expensive glass of Chardonnay. ‘I’ve lost my wine.’

  ‘It went flying into the canal. Don’t worry, we’ll get you another one. What are you drinking?’

  Rupert and Daniel, for these are the names of my hipster rescue duo, turn out to be delightful companions. While Rupert tends to my grazed knee, Daniel plies me with white wine. Rupert is a graphic designer and Daniel works for a cyber security company. They have just moved into one of the Grand Canal Apartments.

  ‘We absolutely love it. Dark wood flooring, semi open-plan kitchen, two luxury bathrooms and of course a private balcony overlooking the canal. This has always been our dream . . .’

  Before I know it, we’re opening a bottle of Prosecco at R&D’s canal-view apartment and I’m getting acquainted with their pet, Matilda. Matilda is a two-foot-long African Python regius, otherwise known as a ball python, the name reflecting its penchant for curling into a ball when stressed or frightened, a habit I can relate to totally. She isn’t any old ball python, Daniel explains, she is a granite ball python, which means her skin is black with beautiful golden linear markings along her back and an intricate dorsal pattern that resembles ancient hieroglyphic writings. I’m told her belly is equally stunning, white with scattered black dots, but I have to take Daniel’s word for it because Matilda is asleep, coiled into a perfect ball, inside her designer vivarium with a thermostat-controlled heating pad under it, and is not to be disturbed.

  ‘Cleopatra used to wear a ball python just like Matilda round her wrist as a bracelet.’ Rupert sounds like a proud father of a particularly gifted child and I know he expects me to be impressed.

  Our conversation smoothly transitions from snakes to ex-boyfriends and I find myself telling them the story of my very short engagement and break-up with Anton.

  ‘You’re probably much better off without him, honey,’ declares Rupert, the one with oversized glasses and a sleeve tattoo of a Hokusai-style wave.

  ‘Come on, give her a break, the girl is still in mourning. We need to support her, offer sympathy . . .’ Daniel is smaller and hairier, with a bushy beard and a discreet septum piercing.

  Their light-hearted banter does help a bit, and when I’m leaving their place a few hours later, I’m melancholy drunk. They insist on walking me back all the way to Hoxton, and having delivered me to my front door, go on for a pint at the George & Dragon in Hackney Road. But by the time I climb the stairs and unlock my door, my heart is pounding. Will he be waiting for me or is he gone?

  The loft is dark and I’m greeted by Pixel, who sniffs at my bandaged knee and does his tail-twitching dance around his empty bowl. I turn the light on and dish out his food. The pile of Anton’s things I’ve left by the door is gone. His set of keys is lying on the kitchen counter next to a rotting apple. How symbolic.

  17

  The sunshine is too bright and it’s already too hot when I wake up, regretting last night’s alcoholic binge. I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of yesterday’s events. I feel devastated by Anton’s betrayal and I know it wouldn’t hurt so much if I hadn’t let my guard down with his stupid proposal. I can’t believe I actually allowed myself to imagine our future together. Silly, silly me. Then I remember ‘Exposure 3’ and my life seems even worse. I drag myself out of bed and spend the next half hour in the shower. My bruised knee is swollen and it stings under the stream of hot water. And there is a red patch on my face where I grazed it against the pavement. I tend to my battered body, wishing it was equally easy to fix a soul.

  Anton’s things are gone, which means he was released by the police almost immediately, probably without charge, and had enough time to come here and gather his stuff before I got back from my drunken evening with Rupert and Daniel. The thought of my new hipster friends cheers me up a little. Meeting them was the only good thing that has come out of yesterday. The ‘Exposure 3’ day. My mind seems to be going round in circles, relentlessly going back to the same two questions: who is doing it and why? I can’t shake off the feeling that someone’s watching me. Am I being paranoid?

  By the time I get out of the shower, there are a couple of texts, a message from Sophie and two missed calls from a number I don’t recognize on my phone. Sophie’s message is ecstatic, congratulating me on my engagement. I’ll have to bite the bullet and ring her today. I’m not looking forward to telling her about the break-up with Anton. Not that she ever gets on the ‘I told you so’ high horse. But admitting yet another defeat in my personal life to someone who seems to have got it right a long time ago is never much fun. She’s always been supportive and understanding but I know that deep down she doubts my ability to sustain lasting relationships. I check the texts. An automated one about my bill being ‘ready to view’ and a short one from Jason:

  Please call me.

  His timing is uncanny. It’s as if he somehow got wind of my break-up. But maybe I’m reading too much into it. I delete his message anyway. I won’t be calling him back straight away.

  A new email catches my eye when I sit down at the computer.

  Dear Kristin,

  Lovely to hear from you.

  I would like to find out more about your Macro Perceptions.

  Please come to see me at the Light Vault Gallery in Leonard Street EC2A. I’m there every day this week 10 am–5 pm.

  Yours,

  Robert B. Stein

  Short and sweet. He doesn’t seem overly excited about my project but hasn’t said ‘no’ either. Not yet, anyway. Macro Perceptions moves to the top of my ‘to do’ list for this week. I’ll need something to show Professor Stein when I go to see him at the gallery. But first things first. Playthingz. I have to have the next batch of photographs ready when I call Heather tomorrow morning. I force myself to set up the lights and start shooting.

  I find the physicality of the shoot cathartic. It makes me concentrate on the technical details, blocking all the other thoughts out. By midday I’m done with most of the strap-ons, minus the one that ended up in the rubbish bag, and move on to bondage Playthingz. Collars and leads prove a bit of a challenge; how do you photograph a loop and a piece of string? I briefly consider using a wire-frame vintage mannequin I keep in storage, but decide against it. It doesn’t have arms so it wouldn’t solve the problem of displaying handcuffs.

  I’m arranging a bondage set on the lighting stage, when the piercing sound of the entryphone buzzer interrupts me. Annoyed, I pick up the receiver. A male voice introduces himself as ‘the police’ and asks if he can come up. The police? On a Sunday? Whatever next? I hesitate briefly, then buzz him in. I hope it’s not some stupid prank. I go to the door and look through the peephole. After a while two figures appear in the fisheye lens. One of them, the taller one, is wearing a police uniform. Let’s give them the benefit of the doubt, I think, as I unlock the door and crack it open.

  ‘Miss Ryder?’ The guy who does the talking has three down-pointed chevrons on his epaulettes and introduces himself as ‘Sergeant Graves’. He does have a grave aura about him. A plain-clothes woman who accompanies him, petite and friendly-looking, is apparently PC Singh. They are both keen to get inside and I open the door wider for them. They do seem genuine.

  I point to the kitchen table, realizing I’m waving a pair of pink leather cuffs with fluffy lining.

  ‘I’m in the middle of a photo shoot,’ I say, aware of h
ow ridiculous it may sound. But Sergeant Graves and PC Singh don’t look amused as we all settle at the table.

  ‘From what we understand, this is the address for Mr Anthony Sauvage.’ Sergeant Graves pronounces his name ‘savage’.

  ‘Yes, Anton Sauvage. What has he done now?’

  ‘And you are his . . . partner?’

  ‘Well, ex-partner. As of yesterday.’

  Sergeant Graves nods solemnly and I’m annoyed by his stiff manner.

  ‘What is it about? The fight yesterday?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident.’

  ‘Oh God, has he hurt someone? Hot-headed idiot . . .’

  ‘Miss Ryder . . .’ Sergeant Graves clears his throat. ‘I’m very sorry to say Mr Sauvage is dead.’

  I stare at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘What do you mean dead?’

  I search for a flicker of a smile, some sign that this is some kind of horrible joke, but his features are set, his eyes stern.

  ‘He can’t be dead.’ I look at the woman. ‘Not Anton. You must be mistaken.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ she says quietly.

  ‘But he was here yesterday . . . He proposed to me . . . We were supposed to get married. In Dubrovnik. He made me a ring—’

  The woman shakes her head. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘No, wait, who are you again? Can I see your ID?’

  They glance at each other and then the woman pulls a warrant card out of her bag and puts it on the table without a word. I look at it, then push it back towards her.

  ‘This doesn’t prove anything.’

  ‘He died at 7 a.m. this morning,’ says Sergeant Graves quietly.

  ‘No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Anton doesn’t even get up that early. How did you find me anyway?’

  ‘He had his identification on him. With this address. And we found your name.’

  ‘Maybe it’s someone else. Maybe his wallet got stolen . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid it is Mr Sauvage.’

  ‘How can you be so sure? How can you fucking sit at my table so flippantly certain . . . ? How can you do this to me . . . ?’

  They say nothing, just stare at me, two quiet harbingers of doom. Their sad determination erodes my denial.

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ the policewoman pipes up and it sounds as if she’s miles away. The surface of the table in front of me is swaying and I drop my hands palms down, trying to steady it.

  ‘Take a few deep breaths, love.’ The policewoman is suddenly beside me, touching my shoulder. I try to do what she tells me but there is no air in the loft. Everything around me goes very dark.

  ‘I’d like you to put your head between your legs for me.’ She is gently pushing me and I lean forward. Gradually my vision comes back and I’m able to breathe. I straighten myself in the chair. There is a mug of tea on the table right in front of me.

  ‘How . . . What happened?’

  ‘He fell from the fifth floor of a building in King’s Cross.’

  ‘King’s Cross? I don’t understand.’

  ‘It appears he fell through a guard rail in the peripheral safety barrier. The building is under construction and there are safety panels on all the floors instead of external walls and windows.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘We’re still establishing all the facts, checking the CCTV footage, interviewing the site security staff . . . The thing is, it’s a restricted access area and he shouldn’t have been there at all.’

  No, I think, he should’ve been home with me. I pick up the mug and notice my hands are shaking.

  ‘Is it OK if I ask you a few questions?’

  I nod, swallowing a sip of tea. It’s hot, milky and very sweet.

  ‘Is there any family . . . apart from you, that is?’

  ‘He has a brother, Lionel.’

  ‘Do you have his contact details?’

  ‘No. I know he lives in New York. But I haven’t met him.’

  Sergeant Graves scribbles something in his little notebook, then looks up at me.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what happened yesterday? You mentioned a fight . . .’

  ‘Oh, that. It was nothing – I mean, it was silly. He got annoyed at someone in the building opposite. Tried to speak to the guy and lost his temper . . . Your colleagues picked him up.’

  How come he doesn’t know about it? I throw Sergeant Graves a suspicious glance but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Did he use to lose his temper a lot?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ I don’t like his tone.

  He clears his throat again. ‘You said he was your ex-partner. May I ask what happened between you?’

  The question hits me right in the stomach. My hand automatically goes up to the bruise on my cheek. I force it down, trying to regain composure.

  ‘We got engaged . . . and . . . and then we split up. And he moved out.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Is that why he’s dead? Tell me! Is that what you think? That he’s dead because I kicked him out?’ I’m shaking and I know I sound hysterical.

  ‘There, love.’ PC Singh puts her hand gently on my shoulder. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ I push her hand off and get up. ‘It’s my fault, isn’t it?’

  I go to the window and put my forehead against the cool glass. I close my eyes, trying to tune out Sergeant Graves’s voice, willing the time to rewind to yesterday. If only I’d stopped him before he stormed out . . .

  ‘No one is suggesting . . . blame . . . need to ask questions . . . understand what happened.’

  My own words ring in my head: I don’t want to see you ever again. The last thing I said to him. I don’t want to see you ever again. Ever again.

  The monotone of Sergeant Graves’s voice has stopped and the sudden silence brings me back to the present. I turn round and see both of them staring at me expectantly.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  For a split second I see impatience in Sergeant Graves’s eyes, then he blinks and repeats what he has just said in a measured voice. ‘We were wondering if we could ask you to formally identify the deceased.’

  The deceased. The word I heard hundreds of times as a forensic photographer cuts to the quick. I swallow hard, trying to get rid of the metallic taste in my mouth. I stagger back to the table and sit down heavily.

  ‘It’s entirely up to you. We’ll understand if you—’

  ‘No, I’ll do it,’ I interrupt him.

  ‘Thank you.’ He sounds relieved. ‘PC Singh here is your FLO.’ He nods almost imperceptibly at her and she takes over.

  ‘Kristin, my name is Anu and, as Sergeant Graves has just said, I’m your Family Liaison Officer. I’ll be looking after you from now on. Is there anyone you’d like us to get in touch with for you? Anyone who could be with you right now?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ There’s genuine concern in her voice. Or perhaps she’s just a better actor than Sergeant Graves.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Just in case you need anything—’ WPC Singh slides a card with her details towards me. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning to pick you up for the identification, if that’s OK with you. Would nine a.m. suit you?’

  I nod, barely listening as she reels off the sympathy mantra.

  I lock the door behind them and go straight to bed. I curl up, holding a pillow in front of me. Am I imagining that it smells of Anton? I inhale the faint scent, a mixture of aftershave, greasy hair and dust, trying to bring back the image of him. But he’s gone and I feel desperately lonely. No, not lonely, alone. I chose to be alone when I told him to go, but this is not how it was supposed to happen. I thought I’d be raging at his betrayal, at his easy desertion. I wanted to despise him. His death has deprived me of all this, of being able to feel hurt and self-righteous. Instead, I feel guilty. Guilty about pushi
ng him away, about being unforgiving.

  Is it possible that he killed himself? The thought goes through my body like an electric current. No, no, no, he wouldn’t have done it. Not him. He would’ve ploughed on, bumbling haplessly forward, always hopeful, always believing that everything was going to be just fine. No, our engagement wasn’t that important to him. He wouldn’t have fucked someone else if I was. I welcome a tiny stab of anger. He betrayed me and I pushed him away. I had every reason to do so.

  An accident, they said. They must know what they are saying. It was an accident. What was he doing at some building site at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning? At King’s Cross? Something stirs in my memory and then I know. He did say someone had emailed him regarding a mural in King’s Cross. Some regeneration project, something-or-other partnership. I wish I’d listened to him more carefully when he was telling me. That’s what he was doing in King’s Cross. I can picture him climbing over a fence, breaking and entering, as he always did when it came to casing places for his paste-ups. ‘Recce’ he called it. Why wait for legal access if you can do it right now, on the sly? I must tell the police this is what he was doing there. I stagger out of bed and pick up PC Singh’s card, looking for my phone. But then I put it down. What difference does it make now? He’s dead and they said it was an accident. He’s dead and it’s not going to change anything. He’s dead. I crawl back to bed and reach for Anton’s pillow again.

  I fall asleep, breathing in his smell. In my dream Anton and I are in a small plane, just like the tiny yellow Piper we once took in Argentina, flying over Iguazu Falls. Anton is in the pilot’s seat, wearing an old-fashioned aviator’s cap and a red scarf, straight from Dastardly and Muttley. Next, I’m holding the control stick, screaming at Anton who is crouching on the wing of the plane, smearing it with wheat-paste glue. He looks up at me, shouting, ‘We’re on a roll, babe!’ I try to grab his leg but can’t reach him without letting go of the controls. He smiles at me and steps off the wing, spreading his arms like a skydiver.