The Girlfriend

by Sarah Naughton

  “I was just wondering,” I begin slowly, “if you’d heard anything the night my brother fell. Any raised voices? My brother shouting, perhaps?”

  Her face closes up at once. I kick myself. If there was anything to reveal, she won’t tell me now.

  “Sorry, but English not good. Do not understand.”

  Like hell you don’t.

  I try turning on the waterworks, screwing up my face and looking away. “It was such a shock. I just want to know what happened. For our parents’ sakes.”

  This usually works with Europeans, who worship at the altar of the family.

  “I very sorry but I not hear anything.”

  So your English isn’t all that bad, then.

  “Didn’t you go out of the flat to see what was going on?”

  She hesitates.

  “It’s just that someone saw you,” I hazard. “From downstairs. They thought you might have seen what happened.”

  Her eyes flash with something. Could it be fear? Has she come from a country where you are always being watched, and if someone reports you, you might be taken away and never seen again?

  “Maybe they were mistaken,” I add.

  “There was no one else. Just your brother and the girl.”

  “Jody.”

  She nods.

  “What made you go outside? Did you hear something?”

  “The girl screaming.”

  “Jody?”

  Another nod.

  “You didn’t hear any shouting before that? Any sounds of an argument?”

  As she shakes her head, her eyes slide away from mine, but I cannot think of a reason why this woman would lie for Jody. Evidently, she doesn’t even know her name.

  “What about your husband? Could he have seen something?”

  “He is at the gym then pub. All night. He sees nothing.”

  “What gym?”

  “Stone’s Boxing Club.”

  She seems tired, and as she leans back against the wall, her robe settles against her stomach. She’s pregnant. No wonder she was scared when I pushed past her. I shouldn’t have come.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “to barge in like this.”

  “It’s OK. You are upset about your brother.”

  “I think he was depressed.”

  “Yes. It must be that. He seemed always very sad.”

  “I’ll leave you to rest.”

  I pass back along the darkened hallway and pause at the front door. “What are you hoping for?” I gesture to the bump.

  “A boy, of course,” she says. “Like everybody.”

  “Not me,” I say. “I’d want a girl. I’m a feminist.”

  As she laughs, her faces alters, like the sun coming out. “Not many of these in Albania.”

  As Mira closes the door, I walk to the banister and try to imagine what she would have seen as she emerged from her flat that night. Jody running down the stairs, screaming for help, my brother splayed out on the concrete far below, in a halo of blood.

  An overweight woman is puffing up the stairs, carrying a glittery gift bag that sparkles in the light from the third-floor lamp. I head for Abe’s flat and am just turning the latch when the woman puffs out onto the landing. Before I can go inside, Jody’s door opens.

  “Hello, darling,” the woman says warmly. “I’ve come to give you your birthday present!” As she waggles the bag, the light goes off and we are plunged into the habitual red-stained gloom.

  I pause at the door to see if Jody will introduce us before she invites the woman in. She does neither. In fact, she says nothing and doesn’t even reach to take the proffered bag.

  “There’s a cake that Tyra made. Chocolate and orange. She reckons it’s her signature dish!” The woman gives a bubbly laugh, seemingly unfazed by Jody’s taciturnity.

  I retreat into the flat and close the door, though I can still hear the conversation that follows perfectly clearly.

  “How is everything?”

  “Fine,” Jody says.

  I wait to hear if she will elaborate, tell her friend about Abe’s prognosis, but either she has already told the woman or doesn’t want to.

  “You’re eating OK?”

  “Yes.” There’s a spike of irritation in Jody’s voice that I haven’t heard before.

  “Everything in the flat working?”

  Presumably, Jody nods.

  “Can I come in?”

  “It’s a bit of a mess,” Jody says. “Another time.”

  There’s a silence, then the woman says, “You’ve lost weight. Are you taking your pills?”

  “I don’t need them anymore.”

  Another silence. I imagine the woman sighing unhappily. She seems very maternal, an aunt by marriage perhaps. What pills was Jody taking? I wonder.

  “Is there anyone you can spend the evening with, so you’re not on your own on your birthday?”

  “I’m fine,” Jody says.

  “Why don’t you come around to our house for supper? Kieran’s got a friend over, but the more the merrier. We’ll all squeeze in somehow.”

  “I’m fine. Honestly. I’ll just have an early night.”

  “Well, OK. You pamper yourself tonight then, sweetie. You deserve it. And call me if you need anything.”

  “OK.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.” She sounds so sad. “Thanks for the present.”

  “It was a pleasure.” There’s a whispering rustle, as if the woman has leaned to kiss Jody, and then the door closes and the woman’s footsteps descend the stairs, faster on the way down than they were on the way up.

  I head for the kitchen and unplug Abe’s phone.

  Even though I’d expected it, I’m disappointed to find a lock code. I try a few numbers—his birthday, Jody’s and his flat numbers—but eventually, it locks me out completely. Because it’s an iPhone, it’ll probably be encrypted, so I won’t even be able to get the dodgy shop on the main street to have a look at it. Texts between Abe and Jody might have revealed if there were any problems in their relationship.

  Tossing the phone in a drawer, I make myself a coffee, then sit by the window and watch the children playing outside. The sun is starting to go down, and I can feel the cold seeping through the glass. Gradually, each child peels away, until one little boy is left alone on the roundabout. He looks Somalian and can be no more than four or five. The roundabout revolves slowly, casting his long shadow onto the scrubby grass. Then some youths climb over the low railing that keeps out the dogs and go right up to him. Their hoods are pulled up, and smoke coils around their heads from the joint they’re passing back and forth. I’m too far away to see his expression. Is he scared? Should I go down there? Call the police? I knock back the last dregs of coffee. Perhaps if I just come out of the building, it will make them leave him alone.

  But I’m too late. One of the youths stretches his arm out. The boy takes it and is pulled to his feet. They move toward the railing, with him trapped between them. But he has left his jacket on the roundabout. Suddenly, he breaks away, running back the way he had come. The youth that pulled him up turns to go after him. It is a Somali girl. The boy retrieves his jacket from the roundabout, then runs back to the group. The girl pulls him up on her hip, and he lets his head settle on her shoulder, then they pass out of my sight.

  It was just his sister come to collect him. I’m letting my imagination run away with me. It must be stress. I go into the kitchen and look through Abe’s booze collection for something to calm me down. As well as a four-pack of lager and some hard spirits—I’m not at that stage yet—there are a few bottles of red wine. I open a store-brand Beaujolais and pour myself a glass.

  As I drink, the last rays of the sunset throw an amber wash over the grass and the terrace beyond.

  It’s Jody’s
birthday, and her fiancé lies in the hospital at the edge of death.

  How could I have imagined she had pushed him over the banister? She’s so slight, even Abe could have fought her off. Abe, who never in our whole childhood laid a finger on—or even raised his voice—to anyone. Mira heard no sounds of an argument, just the screams of my brother’s lover as she ran down to try to put the pieces of his head back together.

  Damn.

  I promised myself I’d make more of an effort.

  Jody takes so long to come to the door, I think she must have gone out or fallen asleep, but finally, when I have started down the stairs, she opens it.

  “Oh, hey,” I say. “I was just popping out for groceries, and I wondered if you were doing anything tonight.”

  Her face is in shadow. I thought I could manage without hitting the light switch, but now I wish I had.

  “It’s just that I couldn’t help hearing that it’s your birthday.”

  I wait for a response. Eventually, she takes a great inhalation of breath, as if she hasn’t breathed for hours. “Yes,” she says. “Twenty-five. What a granny, eh?”

  “Would you like to come around to my flat—well, to Abe’s—for dinner? I’d love some company.”

  “Are you sure?” It’s too dark to see her expression.

  “Of course. I’m a pretty shit cook, but I might be able to rustle up pasta and pesto.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “OK, great. What color do you drink?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Wine. Red or white. Or pink?”

  “Oh, I don’t really drink much.”

  So I was wrong about the drunken row.

  “Champagne, then. Tonight, we’re going to forget our troubles and celebrate, OK?”

  She gives a breathy laugh. “OK, but it’ll go right to my head.”

  “Excellent. I love a cheap date.”

  We arrange for her to come around at eight, and I head down the stairs and out of the building. The wind has dropped, but the door still slams shut when I let it go. Experimentally, I open it again and this time, I hold it as it closes, slowing the momentum right down, until the latch is touching the edge of the door. But when I let go, it shunts into place at once. Unless someone’s fixed it since the accident, there would never be any need to check this door was closed properly. And yet Abe managed to convince Jody that this was exactly what he was going down to do.

  I sigh and zip my coat up. Not every tragedy is a crime. And maybe a sudden death always leaves unanswered questions. Abe told her he was going to check the door to get her out of the way. So she didn’t think to question him about that. She’s not a lawyer, and what the hell does it matter now anyway?

  As soon as I step out of the shelter of the building, I wish I had worn more layers. It very rarely hits freezing in Vegas, but here, it must be a few degrees below. I walk quickly to warm myself up, stumbling over the bumps on the path. Beyond the path of light formed by St. Jerome’s security light meeting the flickering streetlamps of Gordon Terrace, all is darkness.

  The wind has dropped, so I hear the rustle quite clearly.

  It could be a cat. Or a fox, or a rat.

  I think of the gangs Derbyshire mentioned and quicken my steps. I’ve just reached the relative safety of the terrace that leads onto the main street when my phone rings. A British number, so it can’t be the office. Could it be the police? I frown, let it ring, then on the last ring before it goes to voicemail, I pick up.

  “Mags?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Daniel.”

  I stop. A man is coming out of one of the nearby houses, so I feel safe enough to pause here. The traffic on the main street will be too noisy to hear him properly. “How did you get my number?”

  “The hotel. But don’t blame them; I was pretty sly wheedling it out of them. I just…I wanted to say hi and find out how your brother is.” He continues quickly, “I figured you might not have a chance to call me, and I thought I’d probably get your voicemail actually and was just going to leave a message. Sorry if it’s a bad time.”

  This is brave of him, considering how I treated him at the hotel. It deserves some courtesy.

  “It’s fine. It’s good to hear from you. I’m just on my way to the shops. I’ve moved into my brother’s flat.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Not great.” I pause as a souped-up turquoise Ford Escort with a spoiler starts up opposite me. The pasty-faced guy at the wheel gives me a leering smirk, then pulls away at ridiculous speed only to come to a jarring halt at the junction.

  “There’s been a lot of damage to the cerebral cortex. He’s basically brain-dead.”

  He inhales. “Mags, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s fine. Really. I mean, not for his girlfriend. She’s really cut up about it, but I hardly knew him—as an adult—so I can’t pretend to be, you know…”

  “You’d be surprised. It might hit you later. I only started grieving properly for my dad in my twenties, and he died when I was twelve.”

  “I would be surprised. I’m sorry about your dad, but this is different. We were never close. I can’t pretend to have feelings just because I’m supposed to.”

  There is an awkward silence, which I’m about to break by saying goodbye, when he says, “If you want to talk about it over a drink sometime, this is my number.”

  The guy has serious balls, or else he’s too stupid to know when he’s on to a bad thing.

  “I might do that.”

  He laughs, knowing full well that I’m just feeding him a line, which makes me laugh too. “No, really. I might. Before I head back home.”

  “I’ll be waiting by the phone.”

  “You do that. See you real soon.”

  He laughs at my comedy Vegas drawl, then hangs up. I’m still smiling as I go into the Food and Wine.

  It’s even darker by the time I make my way back, and I find myself wishing I’d just brought my cash card rather than the entire wallet bulging out of my jeans pocket. Several of the streetlights on Gordon Terrace are out of order, and the weeds in the front gardens are dense enough to conceal an adult male. Most of the windows are dark, and those that aren’t radiate a cold glare from eco-friendly lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. No luxuries like mood lighting here. It’s almost a relief to reach the end of the street, but then the waste ground opens up before me, the path a bridge of light across a sea of darkness.

  I take out my phone and shine the flashlight app into the gloom. Its pathetically weak beam just manages to pick up the weave of the metal fence, then a pair of yellow eyes flash from the darkness.

  I start back, ready to bolt.

  But it’s just a cat. With impossible agility, it claws its way up and over the fence and disappears.

  Can it really have been sitting there all that time?

  Without pausing to ponder this, I hurry down the path toward St. Jerome’s, now a jagged black shape cut out of the light-polluted sky.

  There are lights in a couple of the windows, including flat 1, and as I approach the main door, I’m sure I can make out a face behind the veil of netting. Despite the bitter wind racing around the building, I stop and stare.

  A hand reaches forward and pulls the curtain aside.

  She must be in her eighties or nineties. Her face is a ruin, folds of sagging, wrinkled flesh clogged with thick makeup, like a horror film clown. I wonder if this is a joke—kids trying to scare the newbie—but then the red slash of a mouth curves into a smile, and the clawed fingers bend. She’s waving at me.

  I can’t help it—I run the last few feet to the door.

  Thoroughly on edge, I can’t even wait for the door to shut by itself and pull it closed with a bang that echoes around the building. The stretch of grass outside the little wire-mesh window is so
black, I wouldn’t see anyone’s approach until their face loomed up against the glass. I hammer the light switch, and my own scared face jumps into the window.

  Forcing myself to turn away (Calm the fuck down, Mags), I blindly go through the mail on the table. The banality of this activity eventually tricks my brain into thinking all is well. My heart settles back to its usual rhythm. I stuff the few bits of direct mail for Abe into the grocery bag and pass through the inner door to the stairwell.

  10.

  Jody

  Why did I say yes?

  I crouch by the door after she’s gone downstairs, trying to pluck up the courage to run out and call after her that I’ve changed my mind, that I’m sick or tired, but then the front door slams and it’s too late.

  Maybe it won’t be so bad. The card upset me, but thinking about you made me feel better, and it might be nice to have some company on my birthday. I get so lonely without you, Abe.

  I remember my last birthday, in the rooming house. The girl next door tried to get me to take drugs with her. It was kind of her, really, because she had to do all sorts of horrible things to get the money for her own habit. That’s why I’ve never taken drugs, even though sometimes, I want that oblivion so much. I know what it costs.

  I don’t drink much either. The smell of alcohol brings back horrible memories. Plus, it makes you say things you wouldn’t otherwise. It makes you give things away that you shouldn’t.

  It will be so good to be back in your flat again. I can stand your sister’s sharp eyes and loaded words for a while, just to be close to your things again. Perhaps I can bring home another memento.

  She might be nicer, now that the shock is subsiding. I want her to like me, Abe. Of course I do. She’s part of you. I’ll bring her something. A present. That’s what people do when they go to someone’s house for dinner, isn’t it? Chocolates or wine. But I don’t want to go out again now that it’s getting dark.

  When the front door gives its characteristic squeak and slam, I get to my feet and creep to the spyhole.

  A minute later, she comes trudging up the stairs with a clanking grocery bag. She looks pale and drawn. At the top of the stairs, she pauses, gazing down the stairwell as the lights on each floor click off one by one. Then suddenly, she looks right at me, and I am pinned to the spot by your dark eyes.