The Other Side of the Door

by Nicci French

  ‘You want a glass of wine?’

  ‘I’d better not.’

  ‘I’m having one.’

  Liza walked through to the kitchen and came back with a bottle, two glasses and a large bag of pistachio nuts. ‘I insist,’ she said.

  ‘Just a bit.’

  She poured more than just a bit into both glasses and handed me one. ‘What I really meant was, how is the music going?’ She deftly shelled several pistachios and popped them into her mouth. ‘Are you nearly ready for the wedding?’

  I took a gulp of wine. ‘We’ve only got together a couple of times. It’s not until the middle of September.’

  ‘It’s brave of you to take it on. I didn’t think you would.’

  ‘I’ve got this habit of acting without thinking,’ I said, ‘and by the time I discover why I shouldn’t have done something, it’s too late.’

  ‘You’ve got the old gang together?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Neal’s doing it. And Amos and Sonia. I’ve roped in a pupil of mine. Well, an ex-pupil. And his father. And this other guy.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard about him already,’ said Liza.

  ‘News travels fast! Who told you?’

  ‘Amos, as a matter of fact. A real musician. What’s he called?’

  The mention of him set something off in me, a sense memory. Suddenly I could smell him, feel the texture of his skin, his hair. ‘Hayden. Hayden Booth. I think he just found himself with some free time.’

  ‘Bit of a handful, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A real musician playing with a group of amateurs. It sounds like a recipe for conflict.’

  ‘There’s not going to be any conflict. Except the normal kind.’ I forced a smile. ‘Honestly, it’s a bit crazy. I just hope we can fake it on the night.’

  There was a pause. Liza took a gulp of her wine and threw a few nuts after it. ‘I don’t just want to gossip about musicians, pleasurable as it is. You know I said I was going away?’

  ‘India.’

  ‘Close,’ said Liza. ‘Well, not very close. Thailand and Vietnam. Anyway, that’s irrelevant. What I wanted to say, or to ask, is that since, according to research I’ve conducted, you live closer to me than anybody else I know, I just wondered whether you could pop in every day, or every other day – every day would be much better – and water the plants, check the place isn’t burning down. Please, please, please, please. I’d be so grateful. I’d do anything for you in return.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘No problem at all.’

  ‘If you know anyone who’d like to stay here, that would be fine too.’

  ‘I’ll have a think.’

  ‘I’d have sorted it out myself but I never got around to it. Well, it’s an option. You’ll have the key.’

  ‘Just show me where the plants are and I’ll do it.’

  ‘And maybe stack any mail up there.’ She gestured to the pine table against the wall. On its surface stood a vase of flowers and a green tortoise pen-holder.

  ‘OK, will do.’

  ‘You could stay here yourself.’

  ‘I do actually have my own flat.’

  ‘You could stay here while it’s being done up.’

  ‘I’m doing it up myself.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’

  ‘Liza, it’ll be fine. Your plants will be loved and cared for.’

  After

  ‘That’ll do for today,’ I said.

  ‘You reckon?’ said Amos.

  ‘Is something wrong with that?’

  ‘I don’t think we got it right.’

  ‘Maybe we’re not in the right mood,’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t work without Hayden,’ said Joakim. ‘That song’s built around his part.’

  ‘Where the bloody hell is he?’ said Guy. ‘Did he say anything to you, Bonnie?’

  I hadn’t prepared myself properly for this. How much was I supposed to know? How angry was I supposed to be? I was the one who organized the rehearsals, who made sure everyone was available. Should I be baffled? Did I need to act hurt?

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I suppose something came up.’

  ‘Maybe he just forgot,’ said Amos. ‘I don’t think we’re particularly high on his list of priorities.’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘If he’s got some other project,’ said Guy, ‘it would be worth finding out and then we can get someone to replace him.’

  ‘Nobody can replace him,’ said Joakim.

  ‘Anybody can be replaced.’

  ‘We’d have to start again.’

  ‘We don’t have to think about that now,’ I said. ‘I’ll ring him and find out what’s going on.’

  ‘Do it now,’ said Amos.

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I mean right now.’

  I took out my mobile and scrolled down to a number that I knew wasn’t operational and would never be operational again. I made a call to a phone that was now scattered in pieces in various parts of north London.

  ‘Hayden,’ I said. Was my voice trembling? This felt worse than almost anything, nearly worse than when the body had slid beneath the surface of the water. ‘Hayden. It’s Bonnie here, but where are you? We missed you at the rehearsal. Give me a call, OK?’

  I snapped the phone shut.

  ‘Well, that’s not much use,’ said Guy.

  ‘He’ll call back,’ I said.

  ‘You should have been more assertive,’ said Amos.

  As the instruments were put away, Sonia and I collected the mugs and took them through to the kitchen to wash up. I turned on the tap and faced her. She didn’t respond and I didn’t trust myself to speak. Then I felt a presence behind me, eyes burning into my back, and looked around. It was Neal.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he said quietly, leaning towards me.

  I took a step backwards. ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘What about you? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m rather tired,’ he said, and he did look it, as if his skin was stretched tighter than usual. In spite of everything, I felt a spasm of guilty tenderness pass through me. He gave a small shrug. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said uselessly.

  ‘It wasn’t the best rehearsal, was it?’

  I looked at Sonia, who said bravely: ‘Things will get better, when Hayden’s back.’

  ‘Yes. Of course.’ Neal gave me an intense stare. ‘But remember, as Guy said, nobody’s irreplaceable.’

  Neal left before anyone else and I watched him lope down the road, his head bowed. Then Guy and Joakim went off together, Joakim pasty and sullen, Guy still grim. Sonia asked if I wanted to go for a drink with her and Amos, but – unable to meet her eyes – I said I couldn’t. Sally rang me and said she’d love it if I could come round for an hour or so to look after Lola while she popped out on an errand. I told her I couldn’t: there was something I needed to do, and it was true. It had been sitting in my brain like an itch through the afternoon, growing more and more ungovernable as the rehearsal went on, so that by the end I thought I’d have to make an excuse to the rest of them and rush from the house.

  I made myself wait until everyone had gone and then I double-locked the front door and posted the key back into the house. I walked, half jogging, to the Underground, pain jolting through my body with each step, then had to wait for twelve minutes on the platform, pacing up and down with impatience, before the next train arrived.

  When I got to Kentish Town I tried to behave normally but I couldn’t suppress a sense that people were watching me, that eyes were following every move I made. Perhaps I wasn’t behaving normally. I went into a chemist’s and bought a pack of plastic gloves. We had thrown away the ones we’d used before.

  I turned down the little lane, casting glances over my shoulder to make sure nobody I knew was near me. The garage was open today, a car on the courtyard raised on a ramp with a man in a dirty vest lying underneath it.
I strode past and made it to the front door. It was impossible to tell if the young man on the first floor was in or not, and I slid the key into the lock and turned it carefully, trying to make no sound as I pushed the door open and stepped into the communal hall. Quiet and empty. This time yesterday nothing had happened. But twelve hours ago, Sonia and I had been pushing Hayden’s body into the dark waters of the reservoir and watching the waters close over him. I extracted a pair of gloves from the packet and pulled them on with a snap.

  The door to Liza’s flat swung open with a creak that made me wince, and I stepped inside, closing the door slowly behind me. For a moment I thought he would be there, his arms flung out, the dark blood. But there was just a space, a great nothing. He was gone.

  The idea that I had left something behind had been buzzing in my head: did I actually take the scarf? (Of course I had – I’d wrapped it around my head at the airport.) Did I really pick up the Hank Williams CD? (I knew I had, but what if I hadn’t?) Had I wiped the door handles properly? What had I forgotten, what detail had I overlooked? And above all of this, under it all, where was my satchel? Why hadn’t I found it? Perhaps in my terror I hadn’t looked properly. That must be the answer. It was bound to be somewhere, under the bed or at the back of a cupboard, and I had to get it before someone else found it. Yet I remembered where I’d left it, carelessly on the floor by the sofa. I could see it.

  Sonia and I had wiped away our fingerprints yesterday evening. Why had we done that? It was just an act of paranoid stupidity. In fact, if anyone ever checked, it would seem very suspicious indeed if I hadn’t left fingerprints everywhere. After all, I was Liza’s friend: I had spent many hours in this flat and, what was more, I had watered her plants and collected her mail for the first few days of her holiday. I paced around the room, putting my hands on shelves, on the little table and the backs of chairs, conscious that I wasn’t making matters any better but unable to stop myself.

  We had cleared up the spilled tulips and righted the chair, but we had left the mail scattered on the carpet, so I gathered it up and put it in a neat pile on the table. Hayden’s beloved guitar was still lying on the floor, with its smashed body. I picked it up and cradled it in my arms for a moment. I could see his face as he played it, the way he lost himself in music, his face both dreamy and rapt. Perhaps, I thought, that had been his true face – not charming and boisterous, not angry or contemptuous or watchful, but peacefully self-forgetful, in a world where he had nothing to prove and nothing to lose.

  I put the guitar in its case and zipped it up, then started to look for the satchel again. I searched everywhere I had searched before. I searched places I knew it couldn’t be (under the bedclothes, and I couldn’t prevent myself from putting my head on the pillow where his had been, smelling his smell); in the bathroom cupboard that housed the boiler; under the sink where Liza kept cleaning stuff – and, anyway, we’d been through that yesterday when we were scrubbing away evidence. It wasn’t anywhere. I sat on the sofa and put my throbbing head into my sweating hands. What now?

  I had to leave and never come back. Even as I thought this I heard noises above me, someone’s footfall in the upstairs flat, and then I saw the red light flashing on the answering-machine. What messages had been left on it? Was my voice there, for instance? I couldn’t think – and neither could I work out if it mattered or not. I stood up slowly, like an old woman, and shuffled towards the door. Then stopped: there was something I’d forgotten, after all. In the kitchen I filled the miniature watering can and went from plant to plant, letting small streams of water trickle onto the drying soil of Liza’s plants until it was moist and spongy. I had a memory – so sharp I felt that if I turned quickly enough he would be there – of standing with this can in my hand and Hayden taking it from me, putting it down on the kitchen surface, pulling me towards him by my belt, never smiling but just gazing at me as if he was about to say something urgent. He didn’t speak, though. He wasn’t one for fine words, really – neither of us was. He had once promised to write a song for me, but he never had.

  I emptied the last of the water out of the can and put it back in its place with a tiny click. Then I took a final look around – at the bed where we’d lain together, the sofa where I had pushed him back and kissed him hard on his lovely mouth, the floor where his body had ended up – and left as quietly as I’d come.

  Before

  Hayden didn’t call me and I didn’t call him. Neal rang several times and I made excuses. I waited, uneasy with a dread that settled in my stomach. I waited and hated myself for waiting. I made a half-hearted start on my flat – which mostly involved pulling things out of drawers and off shelves and then not sorting them. When a group of friends invited me to go to a new three-day music festival in the Dales with them, I looked around my flat, with its half-peeled walls and boxes full of chipped plates, assorted glasses and unwanted gadgets, and didn’t hesitate.

  I sent a text to everyone in the band saying the rehearsal that week was cancelled and I’d be in touch about the next one. The only person who seemed bothered was Sally, who seemed to love having us play in her house. I realized with a pang how lonely and Lola-centred her life had become. I packed boots and shorts, a sleeping-bag and a mouldy little two-man tent that let in rain, and met them at the station. My spirits rose and my despondency dropped away.

  For three hot, grubby, sleep-deprived and music-filled days I didn’t think of Neal, or Hayden, or paint colours, or upcoming weddings. I ate noodles and tofu burgers and cheese crackers and drank warm beer and bad coffee and danced and lay in the sun, burning my shoulders and the tip of my nose. It was summer. I was on holiday. I was going to enjoy myself.

  When I got home, I felt full of new energy. I threw away almost all my clothes, and painted the wooden floor of my bedroom white, though streaks kept showing through and it didn’t look the way I’d expected. I threw away old magazines, bags I never used, shoes I didn’t wear, pens that didn’t work, music I didn’t play, food I would never cook, photos I didn’t want to look at, letters that reminded me of times I wanted to forget. I went out and bought several pots of paint. I didn’t know if the energy coursing through me was euphoria or rage. I thought of getting a tattoo done – a small one on my shoulder, maybe – but I’m scared of needles. Then the phone rang and it was Neal. He wasn’t reproachful, he simply said would I please, please come round. I imagined his handsome face: those wide-set eyes and the way he smiled when he saw me.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll come now.’

  In the hallway he kissed my shoulder and my mouth. In the living room he took off my shoes, untying the laces carefully and placing them neatly side by side. On the way up the stairs, he put a warm hand on my back to guide me. In the bedroom he unbuttoned my shirt and then, holding my chin in his hand so I couldn’t look away, he said, ‘Why didn’t I see how lovely you were all those years ago?’

  But as he laid me on the bed, I said, ‘Neal, there’s something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You mustn’t get involved with me.’ I heard Hayden’s voice as I spoke. ‘Really you mustn’t.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’ He thought I was joking, and I didn’t know yet whether he was right or not. My thoughts clouded under the intensity of his gaze and the heat of his touch. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference between being desired and being desiring. I took his face in my hands, kissed him and heard him sigh.

  When I woke at dawn, a thick golden light shining in through the open window, I turned and looked at him sleeping, his lips puffing slightly with each deep breath. I laid my hand on his hip. I told myself I would forget about Hayden, just as he had already forgotten about me. What had happened was a bizarre but meaningless slip, a wrong turn that I had quickly corrected. No one would ever have to know.

  After

  I woke with a start and lay, for a moment, rigid under my sheet and covered with sweat, my heart beating too fast. I tried to shake myself free of my dream, but i
t had been about Hayden, his face disappearing under the water, gaping head and eyes still open. I sat up and breathed deeply, in and out, shuddering, feeling the sweat dry on my forehead until I was cold and clammy. What had I done? What had I done? I crept out of bed in the darkness, made it to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. I washed my face and cleaned my teeth, then lay down again, waiting for dawn.

  The doorbell rang and I blundered out of bed, pulled on a towelling robe over my T-shirt and knickers and ran down to the communal hall.

  ‘Bonnie Graham?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Special delivery.’

  I signed the form he held out on a clipboard and then he handed over a squashy parcel wrapped in brown paper, my name written across it in bold capitals.

  I put it on the table and made myself a cup of tea, then discovered I didn’t have any milk. I sipped it anyway, and started to open the parcel. But halfway through, I stopped: what was this? I sat still, staring at the package, then took a deep breath and ripped off the last of the paper. There it was.

  My satchel. The satchel I’d been searching for in Liza’s flat. The one I’d left there. I licked my dry lips and put out a hand to touch it. There was no doubt about it. This was my satchel. It had been in Liza’s flat. Someone had found it there and sent it back to me. Why? Who? Was it a message? A warning? Also, it seemed fatter than I remembered, as if it was stuffed full of things.

  The buckles were securely fastened, although I knew I had left them undone. I unfastened them now, but hesitated before opening the satchel. Then I thought: What could be worse than I’ve already seen?

  I opened it and just found my own belongings: the book I had been reading, a few unopened bills I had stuffed in there and forgotten about, a magazine, my small diary, a purse containing a five-pound note and a handful of coins, a few pens without their tops and a piece of sheet music. But it was odder than that, because my apron was in there too, rolled up neatly, and my cookery book, my T-shirt and flannel shorts, the shirt he’d ripped off me and I’d left lying on the floor. I lifted it out and held it up, pressing it against my face to see if I could smell him on it. Deodorant, razor, body lotion. Everything I had left behind. Also, at the bottom, a small velvet bag that contained, when I undid the drawstring around its neck and eased it open, a thin silver necklace I didn’t recognize. I slipped its cool smoothness between my fingers.