by Karen Perry
‘No, wait,’ she calls, getting to her feet.
‘I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll leave you be,’ he says, mustering his dignity in a way that makes her feel remorseful.
‘Anton,’ she says, coming forward and putting one foot on the step, looking up at him. ‘I wondered if I might have those pieces after all – the nocturnes?’
He begins to smile now and, after a moment’s hesitation, he holds out a hand to her, and as she presses her foot to the step and starts to climb towards him, she briefly wonders what spark of misplaced intuition had made her so reluctant and nervous. There’s no harm in him.
He stands back and opens the door so she can go in.
10
Anton
He’s in the sitting room, eating rashers and eggs in front of the TV, when she comes. On the screen, some scantily clad idiots, their faces impastoed with make-up, foxtrot and tango to the delight of the baying crowd. This is what passes for entertainment, these days. Charlotte would have liked it, he thinks. Anton remembers her rigid schedule of soap operas, her Changing Rooms fixation. ‘If it was up to you it would be David bloody Attenborough night after night,’ she’d sneered at him once. Accusations of cultural snobbery while she leafed through one of her magazines, the trashy ones she liked, with lurid headlines over the featured articles: Sex-mad Monster Raped Me In Front of Kids!; Stepdad Ran Off With Babysitter, Leaving Me With His 100k Debt! She’d sit at the kitchen table, a cigarette smouldering in the ashtray by her coffee, casually perusing these barbarous accounts, her face blank. ‘My little indulgence, Anton,’ she’d tell him, whenever he tackled her over it. ‘Not doing anyone any harm, is it? My one little weakness.’
A lie, that. There were other weaknesses. He remembers.
He watches the TV with the volume down, and when he hears the scrape of the French windows over the patio paving downstairs, he rises slowly and crosses to the door, taking his time, the negative feelings receding at the prospect of what’s to come.
For a moment he stands there, looking down on her as she reads, enjoying this stolen glance at her, before moving backwards with deliberate noise, attracting her attention.
‘Anton?’ she says, and a thrill goes through him at the sound of his name coming from her lips.
When she asks about the nocturnes, he cannot keep the smirk of satisfaction from rising. And when she steps past him into his house, he breathes in the scent of her, the movement of warm air as she passes, feels the weird impulse to gulp it in.
He keeps the door to the garden open so as not to alarm her. The last thing he needs is for her to feel trapped. She steps into the living room, and he hastily clears away his plate, switches off the telly.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he calls, as he carries the plate into the kitchen.
When he comes back into the room, she is gazing around her, eyes drawn up to the lofty ceilings, the cornicing lacy with cobwebs. She runs her hands up and down her upper arms, a mindless gesture of comfort, and offers him a nervous smile.
‘I’ve been wondering about these rooms,’ she admits, ‘what they looked like. They’re very grand, aren’t they?’
Her eyes cast upwards again, and it is true that the dimensions are imposing, but he looks at the faded wallpaper, the pall of dust on the wall-sconces, and can think only of how shabby it must all seem.
‘I’m afraid I’ve rather let things go.’
She smiles but doesn’t contradict him.
‘It’s a bit too big for me, to be honest. A single man rattling around in this big old place. These houses were built for families with servants.’
She nods, and he feels awkward, as if suggesting that, living in the servants’ quarters, she’s beneath him in more ways than one. He could tell her the real truth – that the space makes him uneasy. That he cannot relax in it. Years spent in a cell, his whole life shrunk to an area less than half the size of this room, has made it impossible for him now to feel comfortable within his cavernous house. The way it catches sounds. The gloom of shadows that slide along the wall and clot in corners. And always Charlotte’s voice brushing against him. Even now, he can hear her: ‘Up to your old tricks again, Anton? Naughty boy!’
He doesn’t want to tell her about his years in a cell although he knows he should – that she will find out in the end. In the park, when he’d suggested the nocturnes, he’d seen the flash of fear in her eyes and, for one horrible moment, he’d felt sure she’d discovered the truth about his past. But now, watching as she steps towards the mantelpiece, raising a hand to touch the candle-holders – Waterford Crystal, dull with dust – he realizes she doesn’t know anything of what happened. For the time being, he is safe.
‘My wife’s,’ he explains. ‘She was quite a fan.’
He’d bought them for Charlotte – he cannot remember the occasion. A birthday or anniversary, or a gift to say he was sorry.
Behind Leah, in a corner of the room, a glass-fronted cabinet displays the collection of cut glass – the decanters and glasses, the jugs and bowls. Some he’d won in golf tournaments; others had been wedding gifts. He watches Leah studying them now.
‘They remind me of home,’ she says.
‘Oh?’
‘My mother shares your wife’s taste.’
‘And where is home?’
She tells him, and he nods, picturing the small midlands town with its single main street dotted with pubs and betting shops, a church rising severely at one end. One of those depressingly grim places where everyone knows everyone else’s business; a place you’d drive through with a groan of relief that you didn’t have to live there.
‘When did you leave?’ he asks.
He is surprised when she says: ‘I was fifteen. I moved up to Dublin. The schools were better here. I lived with my aunt.’
Something in the way she says it makes him study her closely – her answer feels too practised. And he cannot help but think of his own children. Like Leah, shipped out to an aunt to be brought up. The thought is painful and he pushes it aside.
‘And your family?’
‘My parents are still there. My father retired some years back – his health’s not great. My mother is still active, though. She helps out in the local nursing home, a member of the bridge club, that kind of thing.’
‘Brothers and sisters?’
‘No. Just me.’
‘An only child, like myself.’
He might have guessed as much. Something in her solitary nature. The quietness she carries around with her. A beloved only child.
He wonders at how they let her go so young. What was it that drove her away? ‘It must have been hard for them, losing you at that age.’
She shrugs, rubs her arms again, this time more vigorously. A nerve touched, he can tell.
‘I went to boarding school,’ he tells her. ‘Sent away when I was twelve. For the first few years I was desperately unhappy but I felt I couldn’t show it. That it would be letting my parents down. It was a good school and they’d sacrificed so much to send me there. How could I tell them I was unhappy?’
‘What did you do?’
‘I kept my head down and got on with it. And by the end, I was happy enough.’ He smiles at her with sympathy. ‘Not always easy, is it?’
‘No,’ she says, in that quiet, cautious manner, her eyes sliding back towards the mantelpiece.
‘Who’s this?’ she asks, plucking a photograph of Cassandra from behind one of the candlesticks.
‘My daughter,’ he tells her. ‘One of her baby snaps.’
‘She’s cute,’ Leah says, and he nods.
‘Lives in Australia now. She’s a nurse, I believe.’
‘You believe?’
He shrugs, looks down bashfully. ‘I’m afraid my Cassandra is not one for keeping in touch with her old man.’
When he looks up, she is giving him a thoughtful stare, as if considering whether or not to press him on the subject. Then, as if deeming it too delicate, she says:
‘Cassandra. That’s an unusual name.’
‘After the Trojan princess. Actually, when she was born, I wanted to call her Iphigenia, but Charlotte would have none of that.’
Her smile is quizzical, confused, so he explains: ‘Iphigenia was the daughter of King Agamemnon and Queen Clytemnestra. She appears as the Greeks prepare for war with Troy. A sacred deer, accidentally killed, enrages the goddess Artemis, who demands that Agamemnon sacrifice Iphigenia to make amends.’
‘And does he?’
‘In some accounts, yes, to the abiding murderous rage of her mother. In other accounts, she is spared and becomes the goddess Hecate. Others again report her to survive and be awarded in marriage to the great hero, Achilles.’
‘Quite different fates,’ she remarks, ‘depending on which is true.’
‘Which you believe,’ he corrects her. ‘So often in life, everything hangs on what you choose to believe.’
He has spoken with too much conviction, allowing his personal feelings to creep into his voice. Now is not the time, he thinks. Instead, he brightens, and says: ‘So, the nocturnes?’
He pulls back the dividing doors, hears the clunk and roll of the ancient mechanism creaking to life, and reveals the front room, with its marble fireplace, the walnut dining-table and chairs, the glazed bookcases with their antique volumes bound in leather and, in the bay window, the piano.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she says, with genuine feeling, and she moves past him into the room, her eyes fixed on the instrument.
He watches as she goes to it, touches it tentatively, then trails her hand along it, caressing it. He feels a shimmer of nerves run up and down his spine, as if it were his tired body the hand was stroking. All this time, he’s been telling himself that it’s her companionship he craves. But this reaction surprises him. For the first time his hopes seem to extend beyond friendship, the glimmer of an old want stirring to life.
‘I used to dream of having a piano like this,’ she admits, her voice still dreamy, her gaze on the instrument, not on him. ‘I used to love playing in competitions, because it meant I got to play on a grand piano. I remember how magical it felt.’
‘You played competitively?’
‘When I was younger, I used to think one day I might be a professional musician.’ She flashes him an embarrassed smile. ‘Pretty naive, hmm?’
‘Not at all. I’m sure you’re very talented.’
She shakes her head in vigorous dismissal. ‘I’m not. And even if I was …’
‘What?’
‘It takes a sort of courage to pursue a career like that. To be able to put yourself out there … And I just don’t have it. I lack the bravery, the drive.’
‘You’re shy,’ he says softly, and is gratified by the blush it brings to her cheeks. ‘Why don’t you try it out?’ he asks, indicating the piano, witnessing her hesitation, but alive to the desire within her, the temptation.
‘No. I couldn’t.’
‘Please,’ he says, more forcefully. ‘I insist.’
He comes to her, draws out the spindly-legged piano stool, and taking hold of Leah’s shoulders he guides her into place. It’s a risk, touching her like this, but she doesn’t object and he feels a little tic of pleasure, a flare of optimism.
When her hands go to the piano, he watches, taking in the long pale fingers, the narrow wrists. The skin on her upper arms is slightly mottled, and it endears her to him, makes her flesh seem more real, more alive. He remains standing behind her so he cannot see the expression on her face as she begins to play, his eyes remaining fixed on the bend of her neck beneath the dark hair that she has tied up. Slender. The stem of a flower.
The music that comes from the piano is simple and slow, an old folk tune, a ballad – melodic and plain. A sweet sound, but she is right about her lack of talent. Nothing showy or bravura about her performance. Her reticence comes through in her playing, and yet for him it is perfect. It is what he needs. A salve to all he has endured.
He closes his eyes, gives himself over to the music. He thinks of the lie he had told about the nocturnes. Charlotte wouldn’t have been caught dead playing such pieces. The only tunes she ever played came straight from the Andrew Lloyd Webber songbook – bashing out ‘Memory’ day after day just to torment him. But this …
To have her in his home, to hear music filling this room after all the silence, the emptiness … He opens his eyes now, looks at the darkness of her hair piled loosely at her crown, so close now he can see the soft down on the back of her neck, the nub of bone at the top of her spine. If he put out his hand, he could touch it.
A crash from below.
The music stops.
‘What was that?’ she asks.
He holds his breath, startled, confused.
She gasps. ‘Matthew!’ she cries, and she’s off the stool, racing towards the door.
He stands there, leaning against the piano, feeling the weight of his flesh, his fast-beating heart, while from outside comes a hammering, her voice raised in alarm. Slowly, he moves to the back of the house, warily takes a step outside.
She’s down on the patio, banging against the glass panes with the flat of her hand, shouting the boy’s name over and over.
‘Please, Mattie, come to the door. Please let me in.’
Desperation in her voice.
She looks up and sees Anton, her face drawn and tight with anxiety.
‘He’s locked me out,’ she explains, with urgency. ‘Do you have a spare key?’
‘I might. Let me look.’
He goes back inside, stands in his kitchen for a moment, thinking. His dinner plate is still in the sink. Slowly, he scrapes it into the bin, slots it into the dishwasher, considers the options while the banging goes on outside. When she comes up the steps and into the house, he adopts an expression of concern.
‘I’ve looked through the drawers for a key, Leah. I’m so sorry, but I cannot find one anywhere.’
The hopeful look on her face falls, replaced by deep anxiety.
‘Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure it’s just a little game he’s playing. He’ll let you back in soon.’
‘What if something happens to him? I’m supposed to be minding him.’
Her hand goes to her head, and she stares around unseeing.
‘He’ll be fine.’
‘What if he’s not? What if he hurts himself? Children do.’
‘If you’re worried, why don’t you call Jake? I’m sure he’d come back and –’
‘No, you don’t understand. He trusted me with the boy when he shouldn’t have. I should have told him. I should have explained.’
He makes soothing noises, but inside his interest has sparked to life. Something she’s been keeping from the boyfriend – a secret.
All her grace is gone, in its stead this rigid panic. She is pacing the room now, mumbling something about being unreliable, incapable. Bad luck follows her, she mutters. It wasn’t safe, she knew it wasn’t. Her guard was down, she says, otherwise she would never have agreed –
She stops then, points to the door beneath the stairs, which stands ajar.
‘That door,’ she says, alighting on the word with new hope. ‘Does it lead downstairs?’
‘Yes, but –’
She hurries into the hallway, Anton following. He sees her pause, a moment’s hesitation, before she pulls the door back and plunges down the steps into the darkness. He can hear her down there, banging at the inner door, fiddling with the lock, calling the boy’s name over and over. Slowly now, he comes to stand in the doorway, watching.
He can hear voices in his head.
Mark: ‘You will watch yourself, won’t you, Dad? You won’t do anything … stupid?’
Nigel, when they parted ways at the hotel: ‘Stay out of trouble, Anton. You don’t want to end up back here.’
Jim Buckley, his parole officer: ‘Be good now.’
But there she is, at the bottom of the stairs, dimly lit, frightened. He could close the d
oor now and she would be trapped, like a butterfly in a jar. For a moment he stands there, wavering, horrified by the thoughts that have come to him, that he might become the monster they always claimed him to be.
But then she turns her face up to him, and something inside him falters.
When she comes up the steps towards him, his knuckles whiten, his grip on the door tightening. A split-second decision, and he catches the look in her eye – the brief realization of all the danger he poses. At the last second he stands aside so she can hurry past. Powered by an urgency he can attribute only to fear, she flings wide the door and then she’s outside, down the front steps, lost to him.
His heart is a trapped bird in his chest, fluttering wildly against his ribs. He sinks back against the wall, feeling faint and light-headed. All these years – the caution that has held him in check, abandoned in a fleeting instance.
Through the open front door, sunlight falls on to the carpet, too bright, searing against the headache that has roared to life. There are voices outside, and the sound of a dog barking. Impelled by some confusion inside him, he moves towards the sounds, hears them grow louder.
Outside the sunlight burns his eyeballs. He looks down over the iron railing that flanks the steps, sees the swish of a dog’s tail. Two women are standing in the small clearing by the door, working at the lock. Feeling his shadow cast over them, they look up.
Two faces. Both familiar. His heart kicks with sudden fright.
‘It’s all right, Anton,’ Leah tells him. ‘We’ve found the key.’
But Anton is not looking at her. He’s looking at the other face turned up to him, feels the shake start in his hands, the surge in agitation. All this time. All these years. Hair brightly coloured. The angle of her head, poised and still. Those pale eyes fixed and steady, avid yet imperious, gazing up at him like a cat.
Hilary.
Her voice cracks through the white noise that fills his head. ‘Hello, Anton,’ she says.
11
Hilary
Hilary waits until she is past the railings before breaking into a run. The dog, confused by the sudden change in tempo, reacts with enthusiasm, bounding forward, pulling Hilary with her. Crossing the road, her heart pounding high in her chest, she feels the breath catching in her throat as she reaches her house. Her hand shakes as she presses the key into the lock.
