The cab stops by the sidewalk under a flickering streetlamp.
“Twenty-three fifty, love.”
I hand over the unfamiliar notes, and without waiting for change, I get out. A concrete path crosses an expanse of patchy grass, which seems mainly to be used as a dog toilet. It is hemmed in on all sides by a chain-link fence with buildings pressing close on the other side. On the left-hand side of the path, shadowed by a nearby high-rise, is a playground. The sole occupant, a boy of eight or nine, looks up from his swing.
It’s colder here, much colder than in the city center, and a gritty wind snatches at my jacket as I trundle the case down the path. My progress is impeded by annoying ridges in the path, like speed bumps or buried tree roots. Along the top of each ridge, the pavement is cracked like a loaf cake, exposing the black glittering crystals beneath. Soil seeps from the tear.
A moment later, I am swallowed by the jagged shadow of the church.
It’s constructed of gray brick in that austere Victorian style designed to intimidate, to make you feel small.
I straighten my back and stare at the two empty arches at the base of the spire, but they gaze impassively out across the shops and tower blocks.
The central section of the building is flanked by a wing on either side with their own small arched windows, the lower of which are covered by security grilles.
From this side, the stained-glass panel above the door is just a sliver of gray, but I feel the eyes of the ghostly figures watching my approach, the case rumbling along behind me, announcing my presence.
And then this sense of being watched grows suddenly more powerful, and I stop on the path, my heart thudding.
My head snaps around, but I’m too late to catch any more than the flutter of a net curtain.
Someone was watching me from the first-floor window of the left wing.
I stay where I am for a moment to see if they will return to the window, but the curtain is still, the unlit room beyond giving nothing away.
The trill of my phone makes me jump. It’s Constable Derbyshire, asking when she can come and drop off Abe’s belongings. I suggest it might be more appropriate for them to go to Jody, but evidently, as his next of kin, I must sign for them.
As I hang up, it’s just starting to rain, that ice-cold drizzle Britain specializes in, creeping down the collar of my raincoat, chilling my hands, and soaking through my canvas shoes. I pick up the case and run the rest of the way to the door.
The security panel glows green, and next to button 10 is a label with Abe’s and my surname, written in pen. I buzz flat 12, Currie, and a moment later, the door clicks open. It’s heavy and gives a loud creak that reverberates across the open ground as I pass through to a dingy foyer with a table piled with mail. It all seems to be takeout menus and flyers.
I go through the inner door into darkness.
A glowing button at eye level must be the light switch. I press it, and a wall lamp stammers into life.
I am standing at the bottom of the stairwell.
Though the light is too weak to reach past the first landing, I can feel the weight of the air above my head. It presses on my ears, setting off a high-pitched whine of tinnitus.
I breathe deeply, half expecting to see a spiderweb crack in the polished concrete, some sign of the calamity that occurred here. But there is nothing. Not a single speck of blood on the banisters. The air smells of dust and the ghost of incense.
Leaving the case by the door, I walk forward, the rubber soles of my shoes sending out whispering echoes. Now I’m in the center of the well, staircases rising dimly up on either side of me. In the shadows beneath them, there are other doors: presumably flats 1, 2, and 3. I was being watched, I am sure, by someone in flat 1, and I’m tempted to knock on the door. For what reason, I’m not really sure myself; the occupant is probably just nosy, or lonely, or looking out for a visitor.
My nerves are on edge. I’m standing where my brother fell—to his death. I can face that fact even if Jody can’t.
The room turns scarlet.
If it weren’t for my black shadow looming before me, I would think something had gone wrong with my vision. Then I remember the stained-glass window.
I turn.
Long time no see, Jesus.
The sun must have come out from behind a cloud, because his crimson cloak is casting a strong red wash over everything.
And then the sun goes in again, and I’m plunged into gloom. The light has gone off too. It must be on a timer.
I flinch as a door clicks open somewhere above, half expecting a body to come hurtling down through the darkness. Then a wall lamp on an upper floor comes on, and the full height of the building is revealed.
I inhale sharply. It is so far. So far to fall. It must have taken long, long seconds.
Soft footsteps on the stairs. At first, I think it’s Jody come to meet me, but the figure that descends wears a headscarf. A young woman, dressed in a loose, black abaya. A Muslim, but her face is pale, so perhaps she is Eastern European.
I have been too quiet. When she steps out onto the first floor, she starts and I apologize. There is a flicker of a smile, then she dips her head and moves past me toward the foyer.
Jody is waiting for me on the fourth floor. She’s still in her nightdress, covered with a pale-pink hoodie. As I step out onto the landing, breathless from the climb, I have to grip the banister, dizzied by proximity to the long drop into darkness. Now that the only light is on this floor, it has become bottomless. The rail is about waist height. Could Abe have leaned on it to catch his breath, then overbalanced?
“It was here that he fell?” I ask.
“Yes. That’s where he jumped.”
I walk across to the rail and close my fingers around the slim metal bar. As I lean into it, I feel it give a little. Such a fragile barrier between life and death. But I’m leaning too far—my heels are coming off the floor—and I pull myself back.
“Nobody saw him?”
“No.”
“Where were you?”
“In his flat.” She points behind me to a door marked with a metal 10. It’s as faceless as all the others I’ve passed on the way up, painted a dreary gray-blue, presumably designed not to excite the spirits of the fragile inhabitants.
“You came out and…” I pause to take a breath, as if the air is thinner up here. “And you saw him. Lying down there, on the concrete?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice echoing down the column of darkness. “I saw him, and I ran down to him. I held his hand until the ambulance came. He wasn’t alone.”
“You said that you screamed. Didn’t anyone hear and come out?”
“I don’t know. Sorry. I was paying attention to Abe.”
I want her to tell me something different—that someone saw him climb over the banisters or saw him overbalance—but, of course, she can’t. She can only tell me what she knows.
“Do you want me to show you around the flat?” she asks.
“I’m sure I can manage.”
The small sound of the key sliding into the lock echoes through the stairwell: the acoustics of the original church haven’t been entirely dampened by the renovations. Unless they’ve bothered with the expense of soundproofing the flats, you must be able to hear every TV theme tune, sharp word, or intimate murmur of your neighbors. I’m glad I brought the earplugs from the flight bag.
The door swings open, and I step into a darkened hallway. Pictures gleam at me from the shadows. My hand tightens on the handle of the case—someone is standing at the end of the corridor.
But flipping on the light, I see it’s just a navy-blue parka dangling from a coat hook. Leaving the case propped against the wall, I go up to it and run my hand across the shiny fabric. With its fur hood and bright-orange lining, it reminds me of the coats the boys used to wear in our scho
ol playground. We were never allowed one—far too common. It looks warm, though, and I’ve underestimated how cold a British November can be.
At a noise behind me, I spin around. Jody is silhouetted against the doorway. I hide my flash of anger. What now?
“S-sorry. Shall I bring you a cup of tea?”
“I’m sure Abe has a kettle.”
“Yes, but he only drinks herbal.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thanks. If I need one, I’ll know where to come.”
“OK, well…I’ll leave you to it. I hope I’ve left it tidy enough for you. I’ve been sleeping here a few times to try to…you know…get closer to…”
“OK,” I say. “Thank you.”
When Jody softly shuts the door, I feel guilty. This is her home far more than it can ever be mine. It was good of her even to relinquish the keys. Still, I walk back and check it’s properly closed. I don’t want her sneaking up on me again, especially as I’m not sure how I’ll feel walking into Abe’s domain.
I go up to the inner door.
His whole flat is the size of my master bedroom. At one end is a poky galley kitchen with a worktop separating it from the living area. A shabby leather sofa is positioned in front of a small TV, a gray throw folded on its back. Next to the TV is an electric fire, one of those where pretend flames made of fabric ripple in the glass window when you turn it on. There’s a sticker on the side saying when it was last serviced, so it must come with the flat.
At the other end of the room, a pine dining table sits by the window, which is part of the stained-glass window I saw in the foyer, bisected by the inner wall of the flat and truncated by the floor. It looks out over the bumpy path and the street where the taxi dropped me.
Even though all the walls are white, the colored glass gives the room an air of oppression. Through the blue-cloaked upper torso of some bearded apostle, I can see the children’s playground below. A Staffordshire bull terrier is shitting on the rubber matting surrounding the roundabout, no master in sight. I rap on the window, but it pays no attention.
On the back of one of the dining chairs hangs a dark-gray pea coat. I check the pockets for a spare set of keys so I can give Jody’s back, but there aren’t any. However, I do find a wallet, Abe’s phone—dead—and some loose change. In the wallet is a measly collection of cards, two five-pound notes, and a receipt for a new pair of Gap jeans. His Oyster public transit card is in there too, and slipped into the other pocket of the Oyster card wallet is a photo ID card for his job.
I stare at the photograph for several minutes, my brain adjusting to this new, decade-older little brother. His eyes are still puppy-dog large and dark brown like mine. They peer out almost seductively from his floppy bangs. I see for the first time that there’s something attractive about his slenderness. I used to think it was wimpy, but now I recognize something Bowie-esque about his elegant neck, the sharp shoulders under his leather jacket, the high cheekbones. His lips are shapely and full. I wonder if the stubble is an attempt to add a little masculinity.
I slip the Oyster card wallet into my pocket. The taxi driver said it would be hard to get cabs around here and I’d be better off with buses.
A door leads off to a bathroom, musty smelling with mildew-spotted grout and a mirror eaten away at the edges by damp. Male toiletries are lined up neatly on the glass shelf, alongside a single tub of woman’s moisturizer. There’s no sign of any depression medications.
The only other door leads off from the kitchen area.
I stand on the threshold surveying a tiny bedroom, double bed crammed up against the window on one side and just enough room to open the cupboards on the other. A patch of damp blooms like an overblown rose in the corner of the room, and a few specks of plaster lie like dandruff on the dark-blue carpet.
I experience a twist of guilt. The place is a dump. I could have given him the deposit for a flat of his own or money to rent something better than this. The bed is made, but I’ll have to change the sheets—if only to rinse out Jody’s tears from the pillow.
There’s a full-length mirror in the corner and more toiletries on the shelf beside it. I smile. So my brother was vain.
Picking my way down the side of the bed, I open the cupboard. Slim, tailored trousers and dark cotton shirts, all facing the same way, all perfectly suited to his long, lean frame. A hanger full of tasteful ties in navies and purples, a couple of cashmere-mix cardigans, and in a rack below, brogues, Chelsea boots, and a pair of grubby white sneakers that are the twin of the pair I’m wearing.
There’s just room for a bedside table. On it is a photograph of him and Jody and a drinking tumbler of fresh flowers: a single stalk with a dense head of white blossoms, so I guess handpicked rather than shop-bought. It must be Jody’s doing. How far would she have had to travel from this grotty neighborhood to find wildflowers? I’m touched again by her devotion.
There’s also a phone charger and a pulp thriller I’d been intending to read myself. The corner of a page near the end is bent all the way across to the gutter. I do that too.
I’m struck by this and other parallels between us: the taste in books, in clothes, in the colors and textures of our homes. The only mystery is Jody. I just can’t see what he saw in such a wet blanket. Was she always like this, or has she been broken by grief? I suppose it’s my problem to find out. I must try harder with her if I want to get to know Abe. I find that I want to feel…yes, I want to feel closer to him. Before the end.
I open the drawer of the bedside table and step back. Then I laugh.
Way to go, Jody, you dark horse.
Handcuffs. And now I can see the rub marks on the rungs of the bedhead.
I really must wash the sheets. But first, an herbal tea. Three green tea bags might give me a halfhearted kick of caffeine.
At a glance, the gleaming white kitchenette had looked promising, but walking into it, I see that the counters are laminate and the doors particleboard, their edges swollen with damp. But he has done his best with cheap materials, and everything is scrupulously clean. The cupboards contain jars of olives and sundried tomatoes; different kinds of oil in slim, elegant bottles; pesto and artichokes and a pack of bake-at-home French bread, still in date. Food I would have chosen myself.
There are the herbal teas Jody warned me about, but there’s also a shelf full of hard liquor and—joy of joys—the same brand of knock-your-head-off coffee I drink at home.
In the corner of the worktop is a basic coffee machine, and ten minutes later, I’m leaning against the countertop, eyes closed, inhaling the scent of home. It makes my eyes prick in a way that seeing his body lying in the hospital couldn’t.
I sip my coffee and survey the tiny flat.
Three rooms.
Was he ever happy here? I couldn’t be, but whatever the surface similarities, we are very different people. He was a caregiver. And he loved Jody. At least he found love. If it wasn’t for her and the obvious happiness they shared, I couldn’t forgive myself for abandoning my baby brother. She’s saved me from that guilt, and I should be on my knees in gratitude. So why aren’t I? Because I’m a self-centered bitch, probably.
“I promise to try harder, Abe,” I murmur, knocking back the last bitter grinds.
Then I hear a loud buzz. There’s an entry panel by the front door, and on the little screen, I make out the distorted face of Constable Derbyshire. I try the button marked with a speaker and tell her to come up, then press the one marked with a key. A moment later, there’s the distant creak of the main door opening, followed by the slam as it closes and then footsteps on the stairs. I hear the scrape of shoes against concrete, the ting of metal against the banister rail—a wedding ring perhaps—the chime of a text message coming through.
How it is possible that no one heard Abe fall?
I sit down at the table by the window with Derbyshire and he
r pasty underling.
“Did she set your mind at rest?” Derbyshire asks, laying out various forms I have to sign before they can release the stuff. “Miss Currie?”
I repeat what Jody said about them coming home half-drunk. “I suppose it might have affected his balance, and the rail is quite low. It could have been accidental rather than suicide.”
“There was no alcohol in his bloodstream,” the policewoman says, gathering the signed forms. “Though he might have had one glass that was already metabolized before we tested him.”
I frown. Was one glass enough to throw his balance off so fatally? He’s pretty slim, so I guess it’s possible that he really couldn’t handle his drink.
She hands the forms to the underling, who tucks them into his man bag. “Did Miss Currie mention how they had been getting along? Any relationship problems?”
“No. They sounded very in love. Why do you ask?”
“There was bruising to Miss Currie’s mouth on the night of the fall. She told us she slipped. On the blood.”
I stare at her. Then I say, “If you’re implying that Abe might have hit her, I don’t think my brother was like that.” As I say it, I realize I have no idea what he’s like, but it’s too late to backtrack, because they’re getting up to go.
They leave me with a clear shopping bag containing Abe’s personal effects. I tip the clothes out onto the carpet, unfolding the parts that are stiff with blood, until I have something vaguely man-shaped.
So this was my brother.
A pair of brogues, slim black jeans, a dark-purple shirt, and a cardigan—neat and elegant. Beneath the metallic scent of blood, I can smell aftershave. I dimly recognize the complex and spicy undertones, which means I must have slept with someone who wore it, which means it’s probably expensive. I like it that Abe chose to spend the little spare money he had on luxuries.
Then I notice that one of the shirtsleeves is torn at the shoulder seam.
The Girlfriend Page 6
