Looking Down

by Fyfield, Frances

  Hanging from a padded silk hanger there was a frothy concoction of a silk dressing gown of oyster white, edged at the neck and sleeves with similarly dyed ostrich feathers, matched with a nightdress of thin-strapped simplicity, adorned only with a single diamante button at the V of the cleavage. Definitely honeymoon stuff. In another mood, she would have laughed at its silliness, because those damn feathers would shed everywhere in a clinch, or get all over the bathroom when you washed your face, and the whole ensemble would spend most of its life in the dry cleaners. And besides all that, Richard detested feathers as much as frills and pastel colours, preferred her in red or black, slinky but unadorned, with a distinct preference for nothing at all. She stood by the side of it, not exactly wondering if she had a mind of her own, but peculiarly enraged by something she could not define, and because she knew he would loathe it, she bought the negligee anyway. It was wrapped with a great deal of tissue paper and fuss, which had her stamping her heels with an impatience she did not show. It might never be unwrapped, which made the wrapping a particular waste of time, for something bought as a gesture that already felt futile.

  And then what? Home to a message from him, that he loved her and hoped she was having fun, would be back tomorrow. What had they ever done together? What did she know about him? He painted obscenities. He ignored her. She surrounded him with too many things, and made him too safe.

  Later, she put on the ensemble. It had a certain old-fashioned, ridiculous glamour, making her imagine her name was Gina, or Gloria, or Bardot, or at least Juliet or Nicole. She wafted round the flat in it with a glass of champagne, swigging it carefully so as not to spill. In the bathroom, entirely according to her predictions, a couple of the feathers flew off while she set her blonde hair on heated rollers and played with the look of the unutterably seductive vamp with coiled locks, somewhere between Art Nouveau slenderness and a nineteen-fifties film star with a bosom and a breathy voice. She got well into the role, waltzing round to the right kind of music in the reception room, admiring her own work in all respects. Beautiful room, just as the bathroom was, in its own way, beautiful. An impressive row of invitations on the mantelpiece, including galleries, which she liked, and one to a Buckingham Palace garden party, which was very satisfying, even though she didn’t much care for the Queen. Everything state of the art and everything on the walls hers. Except the glass in the kitchen, which he no longer wanted.

  So, all right, then, why did he not want her any more? Oh, but he did. Surely he did. If only she didn’t want him. There was a sudden panic. What would she do on her own?

  You make him too comfortable.

  Then she was angry. She went into the daylight room to make herself even angrier. Why did he hide in here when he had so much else from which to choose? A draught blew from the window. The painting on the easel was only a small thing, but it caught the eye and made her want to be sick. Lilian slammed the door behind her, went back to the kitchen and refuelled on champagne. This was no way for a girl to spend an evening, dressed like this. She could go out; she didn’t want to go out. She could find a girlfriend and sit in a bar, but she had never really liked doing that. Never gone for clubs and dancing, except in her teens, when it had quickly palled. She enjoyed turning heads but preferred the quieter environment where she could be noticed; she had always wanted exclusive attention. Perhaps this made her ideal for the older man. She had felt so safe as the younger woman. Her feelings for him might alter, but his, never: he was the lucky one.

  Too comfortable. He enjoyed comfort and beautiful things, didn’t he? Well, she could certainly do something about that.

  Another phrase echoed through her mind. That old cliché Get a life. She dismissed that. She had the life she wanted, what else was there to get?

  Missing him was like having toothache.

  Perhaps if she changed everything here, that would change the balance of things. She walked down the long corridor, circled the reception room, once, twice, three times. And finally, dizzy with her own circular thoughts, lay on her sumptuous bed, still wearing the now creased negligee. The designer had been right. Ostrich feathers felt soft against the face, and the sheer sensation of silk could lull a person to sleep.

  Two hours after midnight, in total silence, Steven began climbing. The well of the building had been beautifully designed for his purpose: the drainpipes were ancient and fat, with solid brackets anchoring them to the wall, the window ledges thoughtfully placed, and there were even small balconies jutting out from the kitchens and the remnants of an old, disused pulley system which had once been used to remove rubbish. He supposed, as he climbed, slowly and silently, keeping control of his breath, that in the heyday of this building there might have been a restaurant below, delivering meals to the apartments by a similar system. Those were the days when people really did live in style in apartments created to provide every service, and he was grateful for that kind of history as he clung to the metal stanchion of the old lift and paused for strength. Grateful for the fact that no one had ever cared about the well of the building, so that when new drainpipes had been included down one wall or another, none of the old had been taken away. It was a mess of foot- and handholds, because no one cared what it looked like and all the money would, of course, go on the front.

  He worked upwards, to that open window. There were other open windows, but that was the one he wanted. Past the floor where Sarah lived, with windows closed, and on to the next. Convenient windows, too, big and old, with efficient sash cords, so that he could slip one open easily and swing himself inside. No burglar alarms at the back. They felt so safe in here.

  Nothing much in this room. The torch showed a cluttered studio, as he remembered. He moved to the door and set off down a long corridor. How kind they were to him: even the floorboards did not creak. He toured the big room at the end, picking out the details. The curtains hid him from the silent street; every light was on. Someone had gone negligently to bed. He knew someone was there, he could smell it, but he did so prefer burglary with the occupants in residence. It seemed fairer somehow, and was more of a challenge. He liked to think how long it would take them to notice that something might have gone while they were asleep.

  He went back down the corridor and tried three closed doors in turn. Boring bathrooms, etc. The last door, next to the studio door, was half open, a dim light beyond it. He pushed it open further.

  Oh my God. Zing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Steven stepped back out of the room, holding on to the door handle without relinquishing or closing it. There was a small vestibule which led to the three doors at the turn of the long corridor and with his back to the bedroom door he was facing a mirror, cunningly placed to maximise minimal light. He had retreated out of the room in order to go back in, but the sight in the mirror prevented him. He saw a smallish, skinny-hipped man with prominent thigh muscles, clad in black from neck to toe, with pale, chalk-stained hands, broad torso, and the heavy belt at his waist. He noticed the contours of too much muscle, normally invisible inside his usual loose clothes, and the ridiculous additional feature of a black rubber skullcap over his sandy hair. Left alone, that lighter hair would grow with the same unruly thickness as his sister’s, but it was cropped, and his skull beneath appeared as a series of bumps and lumps belonging to some mutant beast. An erection strained the Lycra. There was no noise from the sleeping beauty in the room. He counted to fifteen, a random number slowly intoned under his breath, breathed deeply and quietly. Then went back inside.

  Zing. He took another breath and tried a familiar trick. Compared the composition of her to The Nude Maja in the National Gallery, a painting he particularly remembered because it had been vandalised and repaired, and he had studied it closely. Here goes: a perfect composition, with her lying on one side, nicely centralised in the bed, with her visible eye central to the portrait. He took a deep breath and intoned to himself. The eye of the onlooker is led first to the breast, half covered by the arm, and the
n to the profile, and then to the brilliant, dizzy curls of the hair, and then travels back, via the shoulder . . . and then took another, similar excursion, this time noticing the peripheral details. A few, floating feathers on the pillow, the hand supporting the head, and then back down to the feet, via the knees, demurely together under the gown so tightly secured round the waist. Oyster white against purple, he noticed. A fantastic harmony of brilliant colours, deliberately enhancing the pale skin tones. He approached and touched the nightgown. Always did love fabrics. He wondered what the title would be, nothing pretentious or allegorical he hoped. Something simple, like Woman Sleeping.

  She stirred and moved, while he did not. Turned a full half circle to lie on the other side, revealing more of her face. Now it was the right eye that was central, and more of the calf revealed, and the slipper shoe stayed on the same foot, but as for composition, still excellent. Beautiful light in here, softening already soft contours, accentuating shape. The only thing bothering him were the feathers on the pillow. That was slightly contrived, giving an unnecessary hint of conflict and decay, although otherwise the tableau was fucking stunning. He was disturbed by those feathers, hated it when the artist overdid it, but he was moved by the visible trace of a tear on her cheek.

  One more time, then, just to get it again. Out of the room; breathe, count, and then back in, the way he did it with paintings. They had an aura, and if that did not work more than once, the critical faculty went into overdrive and the zing died. You did not want to look at them again. Somewhere in this apartment there was something to steal and rescue, but it was only this scene he wanted: shamed himself for wanting to rape and punish her for having this violent effect on him, wanting to possess and admire and then kill her, so that she would never move. It was his own reflection in the mirror that made him pause, but it did not stop that terrible beating of the heart, which pounded in his head, louder than a deafening electric drill. He wanted her to remain perfect. After a longer pause, he pushed open the door, waiting and aching for zing.

  The room was empty. There was the stirring of a diaphanous curtain at an open window, a single slipper on the floor, but she was not there – she simply wasn’t there. He was exposed in a room, facing rumpled bed covers, with feathers on the pillow, and she was not there. Shit. He was losing it, losing everything to an illusion. He stumbled towards the window.

  ‘You cunt.’

  The voice hissed from behind his back. He felt the cold shock of a sharp blade digging into his buttock. ‘You bastard.’

  Steven stood very very still. He was so inclined; it came naturally. Everything about him shrivelled.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she said. ‘Wrong bastard.’

  The way she removed the knife hurt. Not that it had penetrated far, but it still hurt. It would bleed inside the Lycra and stick it to his leg. He regarded the tableau of the empty bed and continued to stay very very still, and slowly raised his arms above his head, pausing to pull the skullcap further over his forehead. It made a slight, snapping sound. She heard it and he felt the point of a blade in the small of his back. The erection died completely. This time the blade felt dangerously close to the base of his spine; he tried not to squirm.

  ‘Don’t move. Put your hands on your head. It’s a very sharp knife.’

  The voice was harsh and calm, increasing his fear.

  ‘Sit on the bed. No, don’t, you might bleed. Sit on the window ledge. Slowly. Go on.’

  He felt as if he was in a film; it was not a role he relished, and for all his fear there was a bewildering disappointment that he could not see her and the feeling of zing, dependent on seeing her, had temporarily gone. He turned and sat on the window ledge. The large sash window behind him was wide open and the material of the curtain tickled his hands. Sitting there with his hands above his head, unable to support himself, felt precarious. He tried to visualise the street below and knew it was a long way down. He was balanced on his small, muscular buttocks, one of them bleeding.

  ‘Keep your back straight. Don’t move your hands. Just don’t.’

  He kept his eyes shut to assist his balance, holding his spine stiff, and then opened his eyes.

  The sash of the gown was still knotted tight, but the gown itself was skewed sideways. The hair was a glorious mess. She held the knife in one hand, extended outwards, with her other hand gripping the elbow to keep her wrist steady. The knife was only a do-it-yourself Stanley knife with a tiny, triangular blade. They were indeed sharp but she couldn’t do much harm with that, although she could certainly hurt and scar. He felt marginally better, until he remembered how easy it would be to fall out of the window if she stuck it in him. She moved closer to him and he felt worse.

  ‘What do you want?’

  You. I want you . . . ZING.

  He could not speak.

  ‘What do you want before, before I cut your nose off?’

  His voice emerged as a strangled whisper.

  ‘I’m only a burglar.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Climbed through the window at the back.’

  The high falsetto was part nerves, part disguise. He hoped it made him seem harmless.

  ‘Through the studio?’

  ‘If that’s what it is, yes.’

  She started to laugh. It was a rich chuckle and did not go on long enough before it stopped and she adjusted her hold on the knife.

  ‘A burglar? Just what I need.’

  She moved dangerously close, waving the knife with a steady hand.

  ‘A bloody burglar, hmm. How timely. Perhaps you were sent from heaven. Look, why don’t you just take it all and save me the trouble? Richard needs shaking up. I just don’t want the bastard being so comfy, OK? And I thought you were him, sneaking back for a quick poke to make everything all right. Take it all, and maybe we can start all over again. How soon can you move it?’

  He was still trying to expel his own breath, and it felt like umphh, and he let it out, slower than slow.

  ‘Take everything? Oh, whenever.’

  She adjusted the robe, tightened the sash, and was all business. With an hysterical gleam in the eye which showed she wasn’t. She was suddenly very pale with sculptured white cheekbones, vulnerable and lovely, even with the knife.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ she said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Never could take drink. Lousy with it. Feel sick. Look, just take that sodding picture, for now, come back another time with a van, and we’ll forget the whole business. Just take the picture and get out.’

  ‘Which picture?’

  ‘The one on the easel, of course.’

  She was a bit mad, and looking ill, and admitting weakness: now was the time. Steven braced himself, ready to spring, already planning the route out, thinking, I know what’s happened, she’s fallen asleep drunk, might not have set an alarm, might not have locked up, don’t want to hit her. She moved faster, dropping the knife and punching him hard in the stomach. His back sagged back through the window and he screamed, arms flailing and grabbing for the side of the window, feeling himself move out into space, carrying the scream with him. Then he felt his right arm grabbed. His head banged hard against the frame and he was hauled back just as he thought he was gone, was pushing himself forward until he was a crumpled heap on the floor. He did not know how he had got there. The sound of frightened, stertorous breathing filled the room. Steven no longer cared about the knife. He sat up, shakily, flexing the damaged hand. She was sitting back on the bed, panting, gazing at the hand.

  ‘Oh my God, I didn’t do that, did I?’

  ‘What, kill me?’

  ‘It wasn’t me took off your finger with this knife. was it? Did I do that?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s been … like … that … since I was four.’

  Perhaps it was relief made him smile. Or just the sight of her, which made it all come back with alarming force. Another perfect composition, the same colours, the same force field. Woman S
itting . . . Zing. He had been going to plead with her, threaten her, and what he said in his usual, pleasantly deep voice was: ‘You are absolutely one hundred per cent, drop-dead gorgeous.’

  A profound silence fell. He could hear the ticking of the alarm clock by the bed. She looked at him, quite the most fearless woman he had ever encountered, increasingly lovely and inviolate. He would have gone to prison for life rather than strike her. She sniffed, then eyed him up and down, the grin spreading over her face, and that chuckle beginning in her throat. The roving eye took in the shape of him and ended with the skullcap, which covered his head and furrowed his forehead, pushed his eyebrows together, making him squint.

  ‘And you look completely silly. Oh, bugger, wait a minute.’

  She raced from the bed with her hand over her mouth into the en-suite bathroom. There was the sound of retching, of taps running, and groaning. Steven walked over to the window and shut it halfway down. She would need air, but not that much. By the time she came back into the room she was less pale, with pink patches appearing on her cheeks. She did a double-take when she saw him sitting on the window ledge, and her eyes went straight to the floor, where he had left the Stanley knife untouched, exactly where it had fallen. She sat back on the bed.