by Phil Hogan
Had I forgotten something? It wasn’t until I came downstairs and saw a vet’s leaflet among others on a chair by the phone – ‘National Flea Month’ – that I realized what it was. Where was the dog? There was no sign of it: no bowl out in the kitchen, no dog lead or rubber chew or other doggy paraphernalia. And, come to think of it – I sniffed the air – no doggy smell.
I opened the side door that led to the utility room and then another door to the garage. I switched on the light. Here was a chic pale-blue car, a stepladder, a golf club, shears, a lawnmower, a tree-saw hanging on the wall. The car would be Judith’s. The mower and shears, judging by the state of the garden – both back and front – were not often used.
I turned off the light, washed and dried my teacup and left the house as I found it: frustrated. Strangely – or strangely for me – the more I knew about Sharp, the more I wanted to know about the girl. And, of course, the more I wanted to see her again.
AT MIDDAY I DROVE to the flat in Raistrick Road. What else could I do? No one showed up. I sat in the car watching for signs of life – a window opening, a shadow behind the curtains – but there was no one there. I returned to the office only when Katya called to remind me that we had a meeting at six with O’Deay’s, a firm of developers with a gated estate of retirement bungalows coming to market. I nodded my way through the meeting, allowing Katya to steer proceedings. Afterwards she suggested a drink, perhaps a bite to eat; we had other items of business to discuss, not least a proactive new strategy for the Cooksons. ‘They’re going to the Seychelles for ten days. We could get some buyers in while they’re away,’ she said.
I shook my head. ‘They won’t do it. They’re afraid that we’ll walk dead leaves into the house. They think we won’t be able to switch their burglar alarm on and off. Anyway, selling isn’t their problem.’
I pleaded tiredness and raced in desperation back to Raistrick Road. My heart leapt when I saw that a downstairs light was on. But there was no cycle chained to the railings. Perhaps they had taken it indoors. I took out my opera glasses and hunkered down in the car. Some time after eight a pizza delivery man arrived, his moped throbbing at the kerb as he mounted the steps with a box and rang the bell. At last. I rolled my car window down. A light went on in the hall and the door opened. The pizza man was in my line of vision as business was transacted but I distinctly heard a female voice and laughter as the box disappeared into the house and the door closed again. I waited. I felt nauseous as I imagined the two of them on the sofa sharing supper. At 10.35 the light went out. Then a landing light appeared, followed by a lamp in the bedroom. It wasn’t a flat then, as I’d thought, but a house. It somehow made things worse. The curtains glowed a deep red. But seconds later the place was in darkness. I wondered what excuse Sharp had given his wife. An educational conference? A sick friend?
And the girl? All I could do now was return early in the morning, then follow her home – or, more likely, to her place of work.
I drove home and started copying the images I’d captured at the Sharps’ on to my computer. What puzzled me was that if the Raistrick Road property was not a flat conversion but a house – a three-storey townhouse offering leafy views and riverside walks – how could a part-time lecturer afford to rent it? Or rather, I thought, how did he disguise the expenditure? I ran through the couple’s bank statement. There were no outlandish cash withdrawals – the mortgage was the single biggest outgoing, followed by a monthly instalment for Sharp’s white 4×4, courtesy of Judith’s substantial salary as HR director of a City insurance firm.
One thing I could do was find out who owned the property. I logged on to a land registry search, paid the fee and keyed in the address. It would take a few hours to come through, probably mid-morning. Now I looked at the DVDs I’d copied on to my memory stick. I set the first film going. It showed some event – heads bobbing, glasses chinking – held at Warninck’s, an independent bookshop near the arts cinema. The event looked well attended, bright-faced people milling around with wine amid light chatter and expectant mirth. Then Sharp himself came on to a small stage with a microphone and introduced a guest author, J. L. Forssinger. Sharp was quite the host, suavely interviewing Juliet, as he called her, as they sat facing each other in striped armchairs. Afterwards she put on glasses and read an extract that was followed by questions from the audience. And now here was red-haired Judith – planted by Sharp, no doubt, to get the ball rolling – asking Juliet when she’d first had the idea that she might one day become a crime writer.
The next video produced a similar scenario. This time after the reading Sharp moved among the audience with the microphone. Judith was there again, volunteering with the inaugural question, followed by one or two others. Then, miraculously – almost as if I’d dreamed her into the film – there she was … a lovely young woman in the crowd, speaking into Sharp’s microphone, her bushy hair tied back. It was the moment they met. It had to be. As she made her contribution I watched him regarding her, smiling with a narrow-eyed, undisguised animal longing.
How my heart soared for her. How I hated him. Was this love?
I took a fresh scalpel from my box and sharpened my coloured pencils while I watched. ‘The theme of loneliness is very strong in all of your books, Mr Gates,’ she said. ‘Where does that come from?’
I wondered whether Sharp even remembered now that this occasion was on film, this fine literary evening with his older wife fading into the throng of laughter, replaced by this fresh new blossom. The camera moved away to another questioner and I fast-forwarded the video for further glimpses of her, but there were none. I rewound and replayed the moment over and over. The girl’s cheeks had the beginning of a pink glow. Her voice was more confident and resonant than I’d imagined (and, believe me, I had imagined) – a voice accustomed to speaking out, in a classroom, a debating chamber, a public arena. Far from being cowed by the proximity of minor celebrity, she seemed merely to be acceding to the assembled will to make a success of the evening, expressing solidarity with this town event using nothing more forceful than good humour and clear intelligence. I’d been looking for her all day and now, as if heralded by the stars and the planets themselves, she had come to me.
I left her image on screen and watched her, mid-question, from my couch until the screensaver kicked in. Even then, I felt her presence in the room. She seemed, at least for this moment, to belong here. I don’t have the conventional comforts – I rarely watch TV, for example, and own only the most basic furnishings. But this is the place I sleep, surrounded by my keys, of course – shimmering on every wall under the dimmed lights like gold and silver, each opening a lock in a portal to pleasure and adventure. I go to sleep counting sometimes. I have no idea how many hundreds or thousands there are – randomly scattered, you might think, some out on their own, others hanging in twos or threes on their little hooks – though together they are a collage of the town, every pendent shadow a house and a way of life.
I lay down for a moment, closed my eyes and saw her again.
SOMETIMES YOU’RE JUST LOOKING at things upside down. It can happen when things are moving fast. I’m not perfect, though I realize that in the service of brevity I might have given the impression of super-efficiency, of one thing following rather too easily on the heels of another. Needless to say (though here I am saying it), I have edited out the hours of preparation, or even the hours of not doing something – of not jumping to the next ledge in a high wind; of beating an undignified retreat. Or, as I say, of just not seeing what is in front of me. I’m just saying, bear it in mind.
There I was next morning, waking fully dressed, my mind slow to free itself from a dream in which I was being pursued by assassins along twisting corridors of falling books. Light streamed through a crack in the curtains and I reached for my phone. It was 9.17. There was – aha! – an automated message in my email. The house in Raistrick Road last changed hands in 1976 and was owned by Giles (deceased) and Agnes Rice. There was no mortgage held a
gainst the property. It sounded like a renter.
I took a shower and put on fresh clothes, then pondered my way to one of my favourite breakfast spots: the Wilsons’ place, a detached flat-roofed house that stood above the railway line overlooking the sports centre and surrounding sports fields on the other side. I’d hardly eaten the previous day, so I made some eggs and toast (the Wilsons and their four children lived in the sort of homely chaos you could hold a wrestling tournament and hog roast in without making any discernible difference) and called the office to tell them I would be in later.
I had missed my dawn vigil at Raistrick Road, but today was Tuesday – Sharp was free all day, so the chances were he was still in bed. If his wife was at work and thought he was out of town with some legitimate excuse, he would be unlikely to return too early and risk being seen by a neighbour. More likely was that he would stay at Raistrick, perhaps waiting for the girl to visit during her lunch break. Oh, where was she now? Presumably she worked in town – hence her bike ride along the Common and riverbank last Friday. None of this helped. I sat at the Wilsons’ big window and munched my way through breakfast, leafing through the local paper. In the property pullout were our multiple spreads of ads, with photographs of Katya and Zoe explaining the ‘Heming Pledge’ and our discount on all sales from now till Easter. Zoe in particular was an asset in the paper with her unforced smile and trendy looks, Katya more serious, but the two of them putting out a combined message that was friendly and professional, perhaps even a little sexy. Nice contrast: traditional, modern. Heming’s.
I prefer to keep my own face out of the advertorials. Practically no one in town knows me, despite the fact that I attend many public events, concerts, black-tie fundraisers, quizzes and fêtes. I have learned the skill of being likeable without being memorable. I wear no cologne. Where some stand out, I stand back; remote from the performance, I am part of the applause. Events such as these are meat and drink to a local paper, of course. Here were typical ones – a cancer fun-run, a jumble of pictures from last week’s folk and blues festival held at the arts centre.
And then a thought struck me. I finished my second coffee, washed my dishes and cleared them away. Warninck’s was only ten minutes away, in the old part of town. It occupied the old corner Co-op – a large premises for an independent bookseller’s but resourceful in the way it drew business in. Even this early on a dull weekday there were customers, one or two sitting with a coffee in the rear of the shop. I could see now that this raised area, with its comfy seats pushed back, formed the stage area for their literary events.
I approached a woman wearing a manager’s badge.
‘I’m looking for a book,’ I said.
‘Well,’ she beamed, ‘you’ve come to the right place.’
‘The author did a reading here?’
‘Our evenings are very popular. Was it travel? We had Moira McLarrily in November. She was marvellous.’
‘No, this was a novel.’
‘Barrington Gates? Suit of Coins? He was excellent.’
‘That’s the man!’
‘He is popular. I think we might even have a signed copy, let me see …’ She led me into the fiction aisle. ‘E, F, Fleming, Gaskell … Oh,’ she said, her eyes re-scanning the shelf, ‘he’s more popular than I thought. I’m afraid we’re out of stock. Can I order you a copy?’
‘No, don’t worry. It was just a recommendation from someone. You must have done too good a job with your literary evening.’
‘Have you been along to one yet? It’s quite jolly. And of course there’s always a glass of wine thrown in, so to speak.’
‘So I gather. And who’s the chap who does the interviews?’
‘Oh, that’s Doctor Sharp. Douglas. We’re very lucky to have him. He lectures at Cambridge, no less, but he lives locally. It was his terrific idea to bring these events into Warninck’s. They used to have them in the library from time to time, but not with a great deal of success. We have a better position here. More footfall, I think he said. I’m sure I have his card here somewhere …’ She went behind the counter and rummaged through a box. ‘Yes, here he is,’ she said, holding the card to the level of her tinted bifocals and announcing his name and college.
I didn’t need to go to the library at all but as if to follow the woman’s cue – as if knowing what I really wanted – my feet took me there. I didn’t usually need a book to ground me here; I preferred to browse, move around. But I was drawn now to Barrington Gates. What was the theme that had inspired her question … loneliness? I found a hardback copy on the shelf and read the blurb: the redemptive tale of a self-made millionaire who returns to the village of his birth following the accidental death of his brother by drowning. I found a quiet place to sit, and was soon absorbed, though not for long.
It was her laughter I heard first – abrupt against the general quiet but quickly curtailed as if she couldn’t help herself. Then I heard her speaking close by, in local history – discussing something with a colleague, Margaret, her voice still full of stifled gaiety. I knew, even before I stole a sideways glance at her profile and the dark wavy hair that made her look like an English wartime film starlet, that it was her. This was why Sharp had come here the previous Friday – to let her know he was free and to urge her to join him at the house as soon as she could. I wondered now about her hours. Maybe she worked part-time herself, or was able to take a couple of afternoons off in lieu of weekend shifts. But how long had she been working here at the library? It couldn’t have been a month since I’d last been in, perhaps two.
I kept my head down, but watched as she moved happily to and fro, her skirt swinging lazily as she walked, offering a glimpse of knee above her black boots. I inhaled the fragrance she trailed as she passed the back of my chair and I shadowed her on adjacent aisles when she left the desk with a trolley of books to replace on the shelves. I could hear her humming to herself as she worked. I could hear her breathing. At the desk, she wore glasses to check finer print and turned on a sunny smile for customers as she hit her computer keys. There was a beauty in her method and efficiency. Even the way she sat down or rose from a chair in a single movement was something to admire.
But now she glanced at her phone from time to time, and the reason for her buoyant mood became evident. Sharp arrived, hovering at the swing doors until he caught her eye. I saw his raised eyebrows and her embarrassed smile in reply. Then he left. She murmured something to Margaret and ducked into the room marked ‘Private’ for her coat. On the way back she took off the lanyard she wore round her neck and left it on the counter. She had put on a little lipstick. I abandoned my post and hurried out after her. Sharp was not far ahead, swinging his keys like a 1970s playboy, his trousers unnecessarily snug, I would say, for a man in his late thirties. He was heading for the car park. I paused in the concrete shadow of the entrance. I could get my own car in five minutes, but that would be four minutes too late, and there was no taxi rank between here and the high street. There was nothing I could do except wait – and then watch as they passed moments later in Sharp’s hideous white 4×4 with the darkened windows. Dr Shark, charlatan.
Feeling the chill spring breeze now, I realized I’d left my scarf in the library and I retraced my steps. I could see it still hanging on the chair, the book open on the table. Why the car, I wondered? Perhaps he was taking her out somewhere. But at least I had found her.
I pushed through the revolving door of the library. As I passed the front desk, I saw her lanyard with its laminated name-tag coiled on the counter where she’d left it in her eagerness to leave. Margaret was busy in the aisles. I retrieved my scarf, and on the way out again scooped the lanyard into my pocket. I didn’t look back, just kept walking. I reached the corner that would take me into the town square and the office. I felt the cord and the plastic card. My step quickened. I was impatient to know her name, but I also wanted to savour the moment.
But when I walked into the office I was immediately beset by Zoe and Katya
, both of whom had been trying to reach me.
‘Ah, apologies,’ I said, checking my phone. ‘I turned it off while I was with the Curries.’
‘But it was the Curries who just called, wanting to speak to you.’
‘Did I say Curries?’ I shook my head. ‘Cooksons. I meant the Cooksons.’
Katya looked even more puzzled. ‘You’ve been to see the Cooksons? Are they back on track? What did they say?’
‘Oh, you know, the usual. I think they said they had plans for a spring break.’
‘I told you that yesterday.’
‘Indeed. And you were right.’ I beamed at her. ‘I suggested your idea of lining up some buyers while they’re away in …’
‘The Seychelles.’
‘Indeed. They seemed, well … cordial.’
‘Cordial? Does that mean they’ll let us in?’
I was saved from Katya by a call from the Curries, which took some time to deal with. After that, Zoe ambushed me with her own anxieties, not least of which was the tale of a tenant from one of our riverside studios who had disappeared owing a month’s rent.
‘That’s one of the Damato flats?’
She nodded.
‘Just arrange to have it cleaned. I’ll deal with it.’
At last, in the privacy of the small back office, I took out the lanyard, its orange cord wrapped around the white laminated ID. I flipped the card. Her name was Abigail. Abigail Rice. I sounded the name under my breath.
And then it clicked. Rice. I almost laughed out loud. The house wasn’t Sharp’s at all. It was hers.
