Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  All the ticket barriers are open for some reason and I continue on to the platforms. This has always been my favourite part of any station. The comforting low hum of the train engines greets me as I move along the fronts of the trains, from Platform 8 down to Platform 1 at the other end. The glazed arched roof lets in the warm shades of the afternoon sun, bathing everything that is normally greyish-blue in persimmon reds. I’m drawn to an old clock hanging above Platform 1, and once I reach it, I’m surprised to find one more platform beyond it. Platform 0. It’s empty. How appropriate. A train to Nowhere from Platform Zero, this is what I seem to be catching at the moment.

  I’m about to turn back when I spot a neat bicycle rack further along Platform 1. Despite a security camera perched right above it, there is an official notice advising the owners to lock both frame and wheels to the rack. What are the chances of finding his bike here, I think, as I throw a cursory glance at the rack. And there it is, right in front of me, a graceful Budnitz No. 3 with black Kojak tyres. I reach out and touch its frame. It’s his bike, it must be. It looks so familiar. I fish Anton’s key out of my pocket and bend over towards the lock.

  A sudden touch on the shoulder gives me a jolt. I straighten up, letting out a scream that gets drowned by the rumble of a departing train. There is a man standing behind me, tall and wiry, with a long, weathered face and closely cropped ginger hair.

  ‘I’m sorry if I startled you.’ He grins, showing a gap between his front teeth.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I mumble, willing my heart to slow down.

  ‘I noticed you were admiring my bike.’

  ‘Your bike?’

  ‘My fun machine.’ He points at the Budnitz.

  I stare at the bike as if I’m seeing it for the first time. Why has he called it ‘fun machine’? Why is he using Anton’s expression? He is looking at me with his light-blue eyes, clearly waiting for me to answer.

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ I’m struggling to find something to say. ‘It’s a beauty.’

  ‘Yes, it is. A very expensive beauty.’

  Is he accusing me of trying to steal it? Is this what he’s thinking?

  ‘It’s a Budnitz, isn’t it?’ I’m squeezing the key so hard it cuts into my skin. ‘My boyfriend has one of those.’

  ‘Has he? Good for him.’

  He doesn’t sound friendly any more. He casts a glance towards the front of the platform and I suspect he’s looking for a guard to report an attempted theft. I need to leave, right now.

  ‘Well, I’d better be going.’ I make a move to go but he blocks my way.

  ‘You’re leaving already?’ He sounds sarcastic now. ‘But it’s so nice to meet someone who admires your property.’

  ‘Let me go!’ I scream hysterically and some people at the end of the platform look in our direction. He raises his hands and steps back.

  I run along the platform and don’t slow down until I’m back in the departures concourse, surrounded by the benign indifference of strangers. I quickly make my way out of the station and find my bike chained to the rail at Battle Bridge Place. My hands tremble when I try to unlock it, drops of sweat running down my forehead, stinging my eyes. At last the lock snaps open and two seconds later I’m on my bike, joining the traffic to the irate honking of a cab behind me. My heart hammers away in my chest but no one is chasing me, no one pays attention to my frantic departure.

  I get home shaken and sticky with sweat. I strip my clothes off, dropping them on the floor as I head straight for the shower. It takes half of the Thames to cool me down and make me feel human again. I wrap myself in Anton’s navy towelling robe and lie down on the bed.

  What a complete disaster that was. The whole escapade has only succeeded in making me even more anxious and paranoid. King’s Cross station has morphed into a hostile monstrosity in my head. And that man, that awful man with his vicious grin and his bloody bike. I try to block the memory of the encounter but my thoughts keep going back to it, replaying it as if on a loop. My fun machine, he said. I have never, ever heard anyone use that expression. Except for Anton. It was as if he knew I’d be there looking for Anton’s bike. But how? There is no way he’d know that. Unless . . . Unless he is Anton’s killer.

  I’m covered in cold sweat again. No, no, no, it can’t be true. It’s just a crazy coincidence. There are probably hundreds of Budnitz bicycles in London. Let’s try to think about it logically. A man sees a woman attempting to unlock his very expensive bike. To him it’s obvious she’s trying to steal it. He gets pissed off. Understandably so. He tries to remain civil as he considers his options for catching the thief. In the end he lets her go. There. The most likely scenario. But . . .

  Why did he call it his ‘fun machine’? Is it part of some secret vocabulary used by Budnitz owners? Is this what hipsters call their bikes these days? Or did he hear Anton call his bike just that? A quick Google search convinces me that it isn’t a unique expression, after all. There are plenty of two-wheeled fun machines in the world. But . . .

  I never actually saw the man unlock the bike. As far as I remember he didn’t have a bike-lock key in his hand, he didn’t make a move to claim his property. What if it wasn’t his bike at all? What if he was staking the place out, knowing that sooner or later I’d come looking for Anton’s bike? But why? Why would he do that?

  This is unbearable. I’m trapped in a spiral of endless questions that wind tighter and tighter around me. I feel the familiar throbbing of a stress migraine. I go to the bathroom and rummage through the medicine box until I find what I’ve been looking for. Amitriptyline. The antidepressant I used to take for migraines that plagued me in the Cubic Zirconia days. It’s past its ‘use by’ date but I don’t care. I need something to knock me out, to give me a break, albeit a chemically induced one, from this nightmare. I swallow a tiny tablet with some tap water and return to bed. I lie there with my eyes closed, waiting for blissful heaviness to descend on me. But I know it won’t come for at least another hour.

  I can’t stop thinking about the King’s Cross encounter. The man’s face and his sarcastic grin are flickering under my eyelids, changing colours like Andy Warhol’s Marilyn. I should’ve taken a photo of him. I’m up again, rummaging around for a sketchpad and a soft pencil. I settle back in bed and, leaning the pad against my knees, begin to sketch his face. There was something attractive and at the same time haggard about his features. Tanned, but tired, almost gaunt, with the deep wrinkles of someone who’s spent a lot of time in the sun. Full mouth, gingery stubble, deep-set eyes. Did he have a small scar above his left eyebrow? I’ve never been great at sketching people’s faces but my final drawing does resemble the King’s Cross man. I feel a stab of anxiety looking at the picture. There is something familiar about his features. Was he the cyclist who knocked me over on the towpath by the canal? According to Rupert and Daniel the guy wore sunglasses and a Respro face mask, but it could’ve been him. Would they be able to recognize him? I must show them the picture . . .

  All of a sudden my eyelids feel like lead. A familiar heaviness floods my body. I push the sketchpad off the bed and curl up, hugging Anton’s pillow. A curtain of sleep falls with merciful finality.

  22

  The beauty of Amitriptyline, apart from its amazing ability to combat neuropathic pain, lies in its power to knock you out swiftly and completely, like a skilful executioner. The dark side of it presents itself upon waking up. Or should I say, attempting to wake up.

  My mouth is dry, my body weighs a ton and my limbs are refusing to move. But a tiny, persistent voice keeps drilling into my ears, forcing me to open my eyes. Pixel. He is sitting in his usual spot on my pillow, about two inches from my face, staring at me.

  ‘Hello, Kitster.’ I call him by the name Anton had given him. He stretches and jumps off the bed, probably disgusted by my bad breath. But he’s succeeded in bringing me back to life and I’m up, sort of. I shuffle to the kitchen to dish out his food for him and make a double espresso for myself. Once caffeine
enters my bloodstream, the world becomes a more bearable place. It seems like a nice day outside. The street below looks peaceful and clean, the Peeping Tom’s loft is empty and life’s usual sharp edges feel smooth and curvilinear. It’s also very early, barely past 6.30 a.m.

  ‘Thank you, Pixel.’ I shuffle back to bed, noticing the sketch of the cyclist lying on the floor by the Mac. A shiver runs through me when I look at his face again, handsome but with a cruel streak. I’ll scan the drawing in and email it to Rupert and Daniel. Maybe they’ll recognize him from the towpath incident. But even if they do, then what? It’ll only prove there’s a link between my towpath accident and the KX encounter. But who is he?

  I pick up my Mac, forcing myself to stop thinking about him. As soon as I open my mailbox, everything else is forgotten. There are hundreds of new messages. The only good thing is the absence of any new ‘Exposure’ emails.

  I need to get back to Heather today. And I should finish the Playthingz shoot, ASAP. There is a short message from Jason, asking me to call him. Not now, Jason. Some agency I’ve never heard of is asking me to send them my portfolio. Potential work, good news. A couple of emails from my accountant. It can only be bad news. There is a sweet note from Aunt Vero, simply letting me know that she’s thinking of me. I must visit her soon. Sophie wants me to get in touch. She knows that when she can’t get through on my mobile, the best way to elicit a response from me is an email. Surprisingly, there is also a cryptic message from Marcus, who almost never emails me. Surely they should be better at coordinating their digital communications. Linked-In announces proudly that people are looking at my profile. Good, perhaps someone will give me a job. The rest of it seems to be junk. It takes me a while to weed out all the spam and deal with the genuine messages.

  I force myself to have a go at the Playthingz and by midday I’m done with the next batch. Encouraged by getting things done, I decide to have another go at Macro Perceptions. The result isn’t mind-blowing, but I feel it’s going in the right direction. With Mapplethorpe flowers in mind, I take an extreme close-up of a dildo, avoiding the titillating aspect of its shape and going for a classical, black-and-white look. It’s not bad. And it takes me back to an exhibition I saw with Anton some time ago at the Musée Rodin in Paris. It was a bold and impressive collection, combining sculpture and photography, and two great artists, Rodin and Mapplethorpe. I remember watching Anton, who spent ages at each piece, enthralled and awed, talking to me excitedly about movement, tension and the play of light and shadow within them. It felt pure and erotic at the same time and by the time we left the museum we were both so fired up we barely made it back to our room, ripping the clothes off each other in the hotel lift. It was one of those intense, sensual fucks that leaves you open and vulnerable, and totally in love. Oh well, let’s not get melodramatic again . . . You’ve got some nice momentum going here, Ryder, don’t waste it on histrionics. I dump the new photograph, together with some earlier attempts at Macro Perceptions, on my iPad, and head out of the door. Professor Stein, here I come.

  After the King’s Cross experience I’m dreading going anywhere near my bike. I’ll walk to Leonard Street, it’ll do me good. It has cooled down a little and the afternoon air feels pleasant. As I don’t remember the street number for the gallery, I decide to start at the Great Eastern Street end and walk towards City Road. As far as I know, most of the galleries are clustered on that side anyway. I pass Pure Evil and ICN galleries and get a whiff of real-smelling coffee from the Book Club cafe. There is some impressive street art on the derelict buildings on the right and it instantly makes me think of Anton. I resist the temptation of stopping by at Westland London, an amazing antique dealers’ warehouse in the former Church of St Michael’s. It’s a dangerous place that convinces you suavely you’re in desperate need of an antique fire basket or a nineteenth-century Italian gilt bronze chandelier, even if you have to remortgage the house they’re meant for to get them. I push on, stopping briefly at the junction with Paul Street, by an ugly building with a beautiful name, Telephone House. A bit further on, Whitefield’s Tabernacle at the corner of Tabernacle Street offers some needed respite from the boredom of casual modernity. And that’s it, I emerge onto City Road, right by Pret a Manger. Where the hell is the Light Vault Gallery? Have I missed it? I retrace my steps, studying every doorway and peeking into each window display. Nothing. No one at Pure Evil or ICN has heard of the Light Vault either. Maybe it’s one of the pop-up places further on, suggests a friendly Australian at the Book Club. I turn back, angry with myself for not double-checking the address with the professor. He did say Leonard Street in his email, didn’t he? When I reach City Road again I’m convinced the gallery isn’t there. This is bizarre.

  Perplexed, I cross the road and turn towards Bunhill Fields cemetery, a tiny scrap of peace and quiet in the middle of urban commotion. Have I got the address wrong? Is the whole Light Vault thing a ruse? Is it possible that Professor Stein is going senile? Or is there something more sinister behind all this? Oh God, please no. A shiver runs through me as I cross the gate to the cemetery. Please, please, let it not be another hoax email. I don’t think I could bear another ‘Exposure’. Propelled by the anxiety building up inside me, I walk briskly along the narrow, long pathway, heading towards the wide paved alley in the middle of the grounds. Perhaps one of the wooden benches there will be free and I can gather my thoughts in the company of Bunyan, Defoe and Blake. Is it possible that someone has been impersonating Professor Stein and sending me on a wild goose chase in Leonard Street? But what would be the purpose of it? I can’t think of any, except perhaps damaging my already fragile artistic ego. This seems far too subtle to be the work of some cyber troll. The name ‘troll’ conjures up an image of a grunting, hairy beast, slobbering over a sticky, dirty keyboard. Not someone who could effortlessly imitate Professor Stein’s lofty style.

  I jump at a noise behind me. I turn and see a flash of movement. A cyclist is hurtling by. A blur of face, blue helmet, sunglasses, Respro mask. The King’s Cross man – the split-second thought flashes through my brain. On an impulse I reach out and grab hold of the hi-vis rucksack on his back. His impetus pulls me behind him as he loses balance and hits the ground with a grunt, the bike scraping the pavement. I fall on top of him. The bike’s handlebar hits my ribs, knocking the breath out of me. I bounce back, landing heavily against the pathway’s iron railing. As soon as I get my breath back I’m on my feet, lunging myself at the prostrate cyclist.

  ‘You fucking bastard, LEAVE ME ALONE!’

  I lean over him and grab his Respro mask, trying to pull it off his face.

  ‘Show me your face, you coward!’

  He pushes me off him, makes a move to get up. I reach for his mask again.

  ‘Oi, lady, cool it!’

  I turn round, furious at the interruption. The man who stands behind me is short and skinny, with the battered face of a wino and a shiny, scarred bald scalp.

  ‘What was that for?’ He shakes his head in disapproval and crouches down by the cyclist, a distinct whiff of unwashed clothes and stale urine hitting me as he moves.

  ‘You all right, mate?’

  The cyclist mumbles something as he slowly pulls his mask off.

  It’s not the man I saw at King’s Cross.

  The other guy was tall, sinewy, with a ginger complexion. This one is stocky, with pale olive skin and dark hair. He looks nothing like him. I’m sure I’ve never seen him before.

  ‘You need a doctor?’ asks the wino.

  ‘No, thanks. I think I’ll be fine.’ The cyclist touches his shoulder with his gloved hand and winces.

  I feel a pang of guilt as I watch the wino help the cyclist pick up his bike.

  ‘I saw her push you, mate. You wanna call the cops?’

  Now, wait a minute. I’m a victim here as well!

  ‘You were going too fast.’ My voice is trembling.

  They both turn and look at me. The wino shakes his head reproachfully. ‘You�
��re lucky the gentleman here is OK. Otherwise you’d be in trouble.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be riding here. Cycling is not permitted on these grounds.’ I know I sound like a stuck-up cow. The long and the short of it is I pushed him.

  They keep staring at me, and after a brief pause, the wino snorts. ‘Just clear off, bitch.’ He waves me away dismissively.

  Humiliated by his contempt, I turn on my heel and walk quickly back towards the gate.

  Once in City Road, I remember to breathe. I draw in a lungful of heavy city air and double up in pain. The whole right side of my ribcage is on fire. Someone stops by me, asking if I’m OK, and I raise my hand in a reassuring gesture. Gradually the pain subsides enough for me to draw in a few shallow breaths. I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine, I keep repeating to myself, as long as I can get home.

  The short walk back to Hoxton takes ages. I have to stop every few steps just to breathe. Climbing up the stairs is a monumental struggle. Once in the loft, I pull off my dirty jeans and crawl into bed. I lie on my left side, hoping it’s just a bad bruise and my ribs aren’t broken. I feel like crying but have to stifle the sobs because of the pain. I probably should take some painkillers but the thought of moving off the bed, of moving at all, is too much to even consider. I think I need help.

  I slowly reach down to my bag which I dropped by the bed and fish out my phone. I speed-dial Sophie. The call goes straight to voicemail. I hang up and put the phone down. Marcus. I wouldn’t normally ring him – I’ve always communicated with Sophie, Marcus hovering on the peripheries of our friendship – but he did send me that email this morning, asking me to call him.

  He answers on the first ring.

  ‘Kristin! I’m so sorry about Anton.’

  ‘Marcus, I’ve tried calling Sophie—’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes . . . no, actually.’ I’m holding back the tears. ‘I’ve had an accident.’

  ‘Oh my God, what happened? Where are you?’ He sounds over the top in his concern.