The Girlfriend

by Sarah Naughton

  Another wave of guilt crashes over me. He had no one to talk to. Could trying to deal with it alone have been enough to push him over the edge?

  But this is just guesswork.

  I think about calling Jody, but surely, she would have told me if she knew. And if not me, then the doctors at the hospital.

  At a loss, I call the number on the letterhead. There are several options, but none of them allows me to speak to a real human being. I won’t be able to make an appointment without filling in wads of paperwork, so I end the call, put on my jacket, and head out to the bus stop.

  The clinic is in a characterless brick building a few minutes from the Tube station. Myriad signs on the way up the stairs tell me to sanitize my hands, to turn off my cell phone, to call the suicide hotline. I do the first two, then pass through the double doors into the fullest clinic I’ve ever seen.

  The reception desk is manned by a harassed-looking West Indian woman whose neat bun is beginning to unravel, tight black curls pinging out at every angle. When it’s my turn, I say I’d like to see Dr. Indoe. She tells me Dr. Indoe’s schedule is full for the day and I should make an appointment online. I thank her, then while she’s distracted with the next person in line, I slip around the corner to the seats at the end of a corridor of treatment rooms.

  When the doctor comes out to call someone through, I’ll nab her. It’s only a quick question after all: What was Abe being tested for, and what were the results?

  A well-preserved man in his fifties shuffles up to let me sit down. I thank him, but he doesn’t give me a second glance.

  Every twenty minutes or so, a doctor emerges to summon someone. They’re dressed in normal clothes, with just an ID badge to distinguish them from the patients. After about forty minutes, a short, curvy woman of around thirty emerges from a consulting room. She’s subtly made-up, her suit trousers and dark-green blouse unobtrusively stylish. I wait until I can read her ID badge, then stand to block her path before she can call her patient.

  For a moment, her eyes are fixed on her paperwork, and I wait for her to look up. When she does, she gives a little start and tries to get past me. “Excuse me.”

  I block her path. “My name is Mags Mackenzie. My brother was a patient of yours. Abraham.”

  She frowns. Then I remember the photo card in the Oyster wallet. I get it out, show her, and have time to see recognition flash across her face before it’s replaced by a guarded blankness.

  “He had some tests recently,” I say, slipping the card back into my pocket. “I’d like to know what they were for.”

  “That’s confidential, I’m afraid. I would be in breach of our code of ethics. I advise you to speak to your brother—”

  “My brother’s in a coma.”

  The hubbub of the reception area dies away as people realize what’s happening. Dr. Indoe’s eyes flick to the desk. The West Indian woman looks back at her.

  “He tried to kill himself, Dr. Indoe.” I decide to go on the attack, to try to intimidate her into telling me. “You had a duty of care toward him. Where was the counseling and the support? Where I come from, that’s called medical negligence.”

  Her eyes never leave mine, but she makes no attempt to answer me, and now I can hear footsteps echoing up the concrete stairs behind me. Shit. She’s called security. I’m running out of time.

  “Please,” I say urgently as the doors bang open. “Please tell me what was wrong with him. Was it cancer?”

  Her brow furrows for a moment, then she makes up her mind. “Look around you, Miss Mackenzie. Does this look like a cancer ward?”

  I turn. I was so busy watching out for her arrival, I didn’t pay any attention to my surroundings. Now I see the brightly painted walls are lined with posters. One says Keep calm and carry cONdoms. Another features a close-up of a woman’s panties printed with the slogan, I’ve Got Gonorrhea. A third depicts two men kissing and the line Time You Tested. The well-preserved man glares up at me from a copy of Heat.

  I am in a sexual health clinic.

  Two burly men stride across the room and position themselves, one on each side of me. “Time to leave, miss.”

  I hold my ground, not taking my eyes from Dr. Indoe’s face. “Please tell me. I’m his sister.”

  They’re about to drag me away when she places a hand on one of their thick forearms. Then she comes very close to me, until I can smell the medicinal freshness of her breath. “Your brother asked for an HIV test,” she says softly. “It was negative.”

  I am escorted down the stairs and out of the building.

  Back in the flat, I sit at the table drinking coffee and working my way through a bar of supermarket chocolate I found in a cupboard.

  Oh, Abe, what have you been up to? Is it as simple and grubby as an affair? Or worse? Have you been visiting prostitutes? Mainlining drugs?

  Fuck.

  I thought he’d be OK. That he’d get out relatively unscathed, like me. If I’d known… If I’d known, then what? I’d have given up my shiny new life to come over here and drag him out of whatever shitty mire he’d gotten stuck in? No. No, I wouldn’t. And I wouldn’t have expected him to do that for me.

  But as I sit there, something niggles at me.

  When I was as low as I ever got—in the second year of university—my digs were as squalid as a crack house. I had no motivation or energy to keep the place clean. Rubbish stacked up, food rotted in the fridge. The floor was littered with empty booze bottles.

  Abe’s flat is spotlessly clean and tidy (although that could be Jody’s influence) and well stocked with healthy food and the odd luxury. Alcohol too, but not the strong liquor of a depressive. Reasonable wines and the odd bottle of artisan beer.

  And then there are his clothes. The ones in the wardrobe and those the police returned to me.

  At my worst, I didn’t bother with my appearance at all. The clothes I had went unwashed, and I certainly didn’t buy any new ones. I’d never have thought to apply perfume. Abe was wearing aftershave when he died, and apart from the blood, his clothes looked clean, the combinations of colors and textures put together carefully.

  And what about the medical evidence? Where are the sleeping pills, the SSRIs, the doctor’s appointments?

  I’m sure Jody means well—she’s just trying to make sense of what seems like a senseless tragedy—but she never actually saw what happened with her own eyes.

  I don’t know, but it feels to me as if he wasn’t depressed. Which leaves me with two options: either he fell by accident, or someone pushed him. And if someone did come in after him and attack him when Jody had gone into the flat, then surely, someone here must have heard something.

  There’s nothing for it. It’s time to introduce myself to the occupants of St. Jerome’s.

  The place is completely silent as I head out onto the landing. I glance at my watch. Midday. I suppose some of them must be at work. But then again, many of them won’t be capable of holding down a steady job.

  My footsteps are wincingly loud on the steps as I pass down the three flights to the first floor. I have to steel myself to knock at the door of flat 1, whose occupant has been watching me from the moment I arrived. Standing in the shadows, waiting for an answer, I make out quiet sounds all around me, strands of pop music interwoven with the burble of radios, an odd rhythmic tapping, a flushing toilet, the hum of the washing machines beneath my feet.

  When there’s no reply after a few minutes, I move on to flat 2, which is opened eventually by a harassed-looking woman with an inch of white at the roots of her hair.

  I introduce myself and ask if she saw anything the night of Abe’s fall. She says that she was away that evening because her son was on a residential course. I see what has caused the black lines that run all the way down the walls when a disabled boy bumps his wheelchair through the door at the end and scrapes his way down the
too-narrow corridor toward his mother.

  “Wait a minute, Dale!” she snaps. “I’m talking.”

  “It’s all right. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

  She is closing the door when she sees I am making for flat 3 and calls after me. “He was committed two months ago. I think they’re going to re-lease the flat.”

  I thank her and start up the stairs to the second floor.

  The occupant of flat 4 takes a long time to answer, and when he does, it is with an explosion of indignation.

  “I work nights! I cannot bear these constant disturbances!”

  I can’t imagine what night-job vacancies there are for powdered, middle-aged queens in silk pajamas, but when I ask whether he saw anything, he practically spits at me.

  “Of course I didn’t! I was trying to get some sleep.”

  “May I suggest earplugs?” I say, but he slams the door in my face.

  There’s no answer at flat 5, though I think that’s where the tapping noise is coming from. I move on to flat 6 and, at my knock, am surprised to hear the yap of a dog. A moment later, the door is opened by an old man in a shirt and tie. A Yorkshire terrier the size of a kitten scampers around our feet, and I lean over to pat its bouncing head.

  “Well, hello! And who might you be?”

  When I introduce myself as Abe’s sister, he takes my hand and squeezes it in his warm, dry palms.

  “He seemed like a lovely boy. Always had a smile for people. Kept himself nice and smart, not like most of the slobs you get around here.”

  I ask if he saw or heard anything.

  “I’m afraid not. I was at the nursing home, and by the time I got back, the paramedics were here, and that poor girl, crying her heart out.”

  “Jody?”

  “Sweet thing, isn’t she? Brings my mail up for me and takes Tessy out when I’m visiting Brenda. That’s my wife. Fit as a flea physically, but her poor mind…” His voice trembles.

  “Ah well, thanks anyway.”

  “You won’t get much out of him next door.” He nods toward the door of flat 5. “He just plays his organ all day with his headphones on. The queer chap complained when he played out loud, which is a shame, really. I liked it. Can you hear his foot tapping?”

  He clearly wants to talk, but I thank him and pass on up to the third floor.

  The door of flat 7 is ajar. This is where the pop music was coming from.

  “Hello?” I call down the corridor.

  “Yeah?” a voice screeches from the depths of the flat.

  “Oh hi,” I call. “I live upstairs. Can I speak to you?”

  “Come in, then.” The voice is shrill and irritable.

  I step across the threshold and recoil from the smell of rubbish and unflushed toilets.

  A woman is sitting on the sofa, smoking. She is skeletally thin, and her skin is almost as yellow as her hair. She could be anywhere from twenty-five to sixty, and she makes no attempt to hide the track marks on her arms.

  I am immediately on my guard. Are we alone in here? If not, will someone attack or rob me? The man who broke in last night? Could he be this woman’s pimp? As she bends to stub the cigarette out onto a pockmarked coffee table, I dart a glance around the flat. It’s filthy but seemingly deserted. On the wall is a single picture: of a smiling baby in a blue onesie. Embossed into the mount is the name Tyler-James and two dates, separated by an achingly short number of months. No wonder she’s a junkie.

  A terrible thought occurs to me. Beneath the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks is a ghost of the attractive young woman she must once have been.

  Could my brother have been screwing her?

  Was that the reason for his HIV test?

  “What did you wanna talk about? Not the radio again? If I turn it any lower, I won’t hear it, will I?”

  “I’ve just moved in upstairs. Did you know my brother, Abe? The man who fell down the stairwell.”

  She lights another cigarette and sucks it hard, making the end flare. Her fingertips are brown and cracked. “Yeah, I knew him.”

  As the smoke streams out through her nostrils, I try to read some meaning into her words. I know not to push too hard. People like her will clam up unless they think they’ll get something by cooperating.

  The silence stretches.

  “I don’t suppose you saw anything,” I say as lightly as possible. “The night he fell?”

  She picks at a scab on her bony knee. Her greasy blond hair has an inch of black-and-gray roots. “Weren’t even here. Couldn’t even get into the building. They thought I was gonna rob stuff. Almost got arrested until that old bag from downstairs came out and spoke up for me.”

  “So you didn’t hear anything either?”

  “What did I just say?” Her head snaps up, then her eyes narrow slyly. “Is there a reward or something?”

  A pause.

  “If there was?”

  She looks at me for a moment, then she gives a cackle of laughter. “I still weren’t here!”

  I get up, resisting the urge to brush the filth from her sofa off my trousers. “OK. Well, thanks anyway.”

  I’d prepared myself for disappointment, but it’s getting me down anyway.

  Flat 8 is answered by a swarthy man with a missing arm. Iraqi, perhaps, or Syrian. His eyes are bright, and he seems desperate to understand me during our attempts at conversation, but in the end, I resort to miming.

  I roll my arms for the tumble from the floor above, clap my hand to indicate the impact. The sudden splaying of my fingers at the back of my head, to indicate the head injury, makes him flinch.

  I place a palm on my heart. My brother.

  This, he understands. His eyes well with tears, and he pulls me into an embrace that reeks of stale sweat and nicotine.

  Just as quickly, he pulls away again.

  “Sorry, I sorry…” Evidently, he has learned that emotional expression is forbidden in the UK.

  I point to him, to my eyes, to the stairwell. Did you see?

  “Blood,” he says. “I see blood.” That, at least, is a word he knows.

  I thank him and move on.

  The other flat seems empty, so I go back upstairs.

  Gazing out the window at the bleak view, I think about the woman in flat 7. Like all junkies, she is bound to be a liar. Was she having a relationship with Abe? Did her pimp have a problem with it and decide he needed to give Abe a warning? A warning that went wrong?

  I rub my face and let out a growl of frustration. I’m not getting anywhere. Perhaps there’s nowhere to get. Perhaps it’s all just as Jody said it was.

  But there’s one thing I’m sure she’s wrong about. Abe wasn’t depressed. Not properly, not like I was at university. He might have been tired, or pissed off, or hating his job, but from what I know of my brother, Abe wasn’t the type to do something stupid on impulse just because he was feeling down. Something else happened that night. Something that maybe Jody didn’t know anything about. Or someone.

  Either way, it’s something Derbyshire should be on to.

  15.

  Mira

  She is speaking to the police.

  I have to put my ear to the bathroom wall to hear properly.

  “I don’t think Abe had depression,” she says. “I don’t think he jumped.”

  There is a silence as she listens. We both listen.

  “But he had no symptoms. You’re only going by what Jody told you.”

  She moves deeper into the flat, and I hurry out to the living room and press my ear against the wall behind the television.

  “I spoke to his line manager. She said he hadn’t complained.”

  She listens. I hope the police officer is reassuring her that it was an accident, nothing more.

  Then she says, “What if someone else is involved?
”

  My bladder loosens.

  There is another pause, and she says, “What makes you think they’d say if they had seen anything? You can’t trust any of them. They’re all crazy.” She gives a mirthless laugh. “You know what? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was one of them.”

  My legs go so weak, I have to lean against the wall to stop me falling. The child starts to kick, and I stroke his foot to calm him. It’s all right. It will be all right. I will not let her find out what Daddy did.

  16.

  Mags

  When Derbyshire asks me how Abe is, I say, “Much the same.” The truth is I have no idea. I haven’t been back to see him, even though the hospital is barely a mile from St. Jerome’s. I haven’t even bothered to phone to find out if there’s been any change in his condition, like a normal sister would do.

  Jody, I assume, is there all day, every day. She’s never asked me to accompany her. I guess she still considers this intimate time with her fiancé. Or maybe she just doesn’t like me. I can’t say I’m surprised.

  The wind is howling around the building, so I put on Abe’s parka before I head out.

  At the door, I pass a woman coming in. I assume she’s one of the other tenants, but when I introduce myself, she replies, in a strong Polish accent, that she’s just a caregiver, for a Mr. Griffin on the third floor.

  “Ah,” I say. “I wanted to speak to him, actually. I wondered if he had seen anything the night my brother fell down the stairwell. Did you hear about that?”

  She nods.

  “Is Mr. Griffin with it enough, you know, in his head, to be able to tell me if he heard or saw something?”

  “Is not his head is problem,” she says with a sigh. “Mr. Griffin morbidly obese. Is in bed all time. Cannot get out. If he hears, and this not likely with television—very loud all day, all day—he cannot get up to see what is happen.”

  I thank her with a little grimace, and she passes through the foyer into the darkness beyond, a pair of latex gloves waggling at me from her handbag.