Looking Down Page 19

  There was a sudden clattering noise from the well of the building, audible through the open window of the daylight room. He put down the brush, flung the window wide and looked out, gripping the sill and pushing his head and shoulders through. It was always gloomy out here, even on a sunny afternoon. Turned his head upwards and felt rather than saw a washing line flick against his face. Craning further, he saw a face staring down from the balcony above. The face disappeared. Richard looked down. The floor of the well was littered with clothes.

  It was the first time he had ever heard noise from here, and it made him angry. Wanting company did not mean wanting noise.

  He moved from the daylight room to the kitchen, looking for food to soothe the irritation. Always eat when you are hungry . . . You must always look out for the effects of low blood sugar, the doctor had told him, and it was a long time since breakfast. Lack of blood sugar will be death to creativity, and to memory. Standing there, chewing on a piece of bread, staring at the display of glass he had once created, lovingly, in the days when he cared about things and which now inspired nothing but indifference, wondering why it looked lopsided, he had the sudden sensation of something else being wrong. It was noise, a vague, intermittent thumping from upstairs, when there had only ever been silence: not loud noise, but the noise of objects being moved. Destructive noise, subtly disturbing, added to his anger, made him put down the bread, grab the keys and make for the front door.

  In the hallway he paused. Here, silence resumed. The first instinct was to go upstairs, remonstrate and tell them to shut up, but he remembered what little he knew of them, namely horrible, unfriendly people, who all looked the same and kept Minty locked up. And all the other things Fritz had told him. Better tackle this in the more official manner: go downstairs and enlist either Sarah or Fritz. Richard padded down in his stockinged feet. He could never wear shoes when he was trying to paint in the daylight room.

  The place was like a ghost town in the middle of the day, no reply from Sarah, and everyone out. You could do anything here, he reflected, as long as you chose the middle of the day or the middle of the night. Be a tart, or a trader, or a money launderer, or an artist, anything without raising an eyebrow. Such was the character of a respectable block, full of strangers. He wanted to whistle to make a noise, so strong was the silence. As he approached the last flight of stairs down into the lobby, he felt it again, the sensation of something being wrong, and found himself going slower. Then he saw them in the mirror, at the same time as he heard Fritz sobbing. Richard stood by the bend of the stairs, one hand on the cold banister, watched.

  In the mirror, he could see reflected the geometric pattern of the carpet and the backs of two men, who faced Fritz over his desk. Fritz was whimpering, without it being immediately apparent why. Richard saw through the mirror how one small man had hold of Fritz’s tie, pulled his face over the desk and held a knife to his throat. The other stood by. There was a conversational hiss. They were all small men. All bad men, Fritz had said. Never mind, as long as they leave us alone. He retreated a few steps, and then came down the last stairs slowly, whistling very loudly.

  The group had slightly re-formed as he came into sight of them all. Glancing at the mirror, he saw the one with the knife now held it behind his back.

  ‘Afternoon,’ Richard boomed. They all looked at him, blankly.

  ‘What on earth’s this?’ he went on, in his best hectoring voice. ‘Is this a hold-up, or what? Ha ha! Are we playing games here? What’s going on? Fritz, old chap, have you seen my wife?’

  Fritz shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, as he gazed at Fritz, looking for a clue and seeing nothing but terror, Richard saw the man with the knife move round behind the desk and stand so close to Fritz the cloth of their jackets brushed. Fritz flinched, gazed at him appealingly.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Richard asked with loud geniality, turning to the man on his left. ‘Can I help? Fritz here isn’t always very helpful, are you, Fritz? Anything I can do?’

  The man on the left shrugged and pointed at Fritz.

  ‘You tell him.’

  ‘Where’s your wife, Fritz?’ Richard said, gently.

  ‘They . . . she’s out.’

  ‘That’s all right then. What do they want?’

  The man beside him nudged him.

  ‘They say someone in here, someone in one of the flats, has stolen something from them. They want to find it.’ He trembled with his own, nervous rage. ‘They call it it. Bastards. They means she. I thinks they lost a she.’ He faltered. ‘They very angry.’

  Richard turned to the man on his left with a wide, amazed smile.

  ‘How absolutely ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Who on earth here would want to steal anything from anyone? Who do you think would do such a thing?’

  The man said, ‘Maybe you.’

  Fritz spoke up.

  ‘They think maybe thing stolen from their flat, this it, is in your flat, because of rope hanging down. Then maybe they think is in Miss Fortune’s flat, because she has window open. They want keys to look.’

  ‘Do you have Sarah’s keys?’

  ‘Yes. Gottem here. She always lose keys, she leave spare with me.’

  Richard opened his arms in an expansive gesture, embraced them all with another broad smile. He really did mean it: he really did not care.

  ‘Well, what’s the problem, then? We can’t possibly have these gentlemen imagining that my flat or Miss Fortune’s contains anything stolen, can we? I’m sure Sarah won’t mind. I certainly don’t.’ He placed his own door keys on the desk noisily. ‘I do believe I left it open, anyway. Give the gentleman Sarah’s, Fritz, there’s a good boy.’

  Fritz reached into his pocket and produced a single key. Richard took it from him and handed it to the man on his left, winking, as if to say, Servants, dear boy, so slow on the uptake. He was the perfect personification of a stupid Englishman, ready to oblige. Age helped the impression: he was a genial buffoon, condescending to a foreigner he might otherwise have referred to as a wog.

  ‘There you are, gentlemen, do go and look. Can’t have you thinking the worst, can we?’

  They were confused and undecided, overwhelmed, but cautious.

  ‘Take him with you, I would,’ Richard said. ‘But bring him back safely. But I say, chaps, wouldn’t it be easier to call the police?’

  All three shook their heads emphatically, Fritz more than the other two.

  ‘So what are you waiting for?’ Richard demanded. ‘Go and look, for Godsakes.’

  It was their failure to speak more than a word at a time which made them sinister, as well as the little matter of the knife. They acted as if they had a single mind. The man with the knife behind his back came out from behind the desk, pushing Fritz ahead of him. The second man gestured to Richard to take Fritz’s place behind the desk.

  ‘Oh, I see, you want me to wait, do you? Jolly good. I’m retired, you know. Got plenty of time.’

  He took the seat behind the desk as if he did the same thing every afternoon, hoping he was doing right. The second man leant against the wall next to him; Fritz and the man with the knife went upstairs. Silence fell again.

  Richard flashed a grin at the man on his left, to no response, and pretended to read a magazine. He had no doubt of the presence of another knife.

  Silence fell again. Then there was the whirr of the lift. The Chinese woman appeared, with an enormous suitcase, passed the desk with a venomous glance in his direction, exited the front door and hailed a taxi. As the door opened and closed behind her, there was a sudden burst of traffic noise. It was odd to be sitting still, whistling as if he had not a care in the world, all to aid an impression of innocent foolishness, looking out through the glass doors and knowing he could not move. Watching the traffic go past, seeing the nonchalant progress of people walking by, and knowing nothing could help. If he had been strong enough to deal with the small man standing next to him, adroit enough to evade a knife, nimble enough
to run for the door, it would be different, but he knew he was none of those things. Once, but not now. He was an old man, who knew the determination of thieves with knives, knew an enemy when he saw one, as well as a friend, and knew his own limitations. Resourcefulness and patience were the best defences for age, he thought. You have to play games rather than rely on the brute strength which would never again work. Shame, he would have preferred to fight. He did not feel afraid for himself, but oddly contemplative, which was, he supposed, another advantage of age. Or maybe the discipline of painting had made him so. You learned to hide the adrenaline, or convert it into something else, such as patience. His mind had not felt this clear in weeks. He was afraid he had a short-term lease on his mind.

  There was the one recurrent anxiety that one of the women of whom he had always been protective, in his way, would come back: Lilian, Mrs Fritz, Sarah. That could be tricky. He willed them to stay away.

  Fritz had told him about the Chinese. More than he had told anyone else. He knew to take them seriously. Bad people, Fritz had said, not wanting to say it to a woman. They trade. They launder money. Get money from bad trade, drugs, maybe. Turn it into other stuff. Loadsa money.

  Speaking for myself, he had said to Fritz, I doubt if I ever turned an honest penny in finance: let them be. Don’t tell. But keeping a slave was beyond the pale. Had to help Minty. Sweet girl, better for being not pretty.

  He was not afraid. His mind was dying and there was nothing else to be afraid of. He mourned his lack of strength, briefly.

  He had wanted company, although not of this kind. The sunlight struck through the glass door, revealing smears and creating a shaft of futile light on the geometric carpet, the way it did this time of the afternoon. Into the silence, as the man next to him shifted, ominously, there came the awful punch of memory, about a day when he had not wanted company because the light was so good. Minty. The path beneath the overhang of the cliff, where he would never have gone, except to be alone. If he had wanted any company at all, that day, it would have been a man. Not some bloody woman. A man would say hello and go away.

  Feeling unwell, the lost feeling, when he had difficulty in remembering the route, or why, but his fingers were tingling to sketch and he wanted to be nowhere else in the world than under that enormous sky. And like a fly buzzing round his head there had been someone dogging his footsteps, hiding and yet trying to get his attention. Someone he had spoken to; he spoke to everyone, but someone who was like girls are, thinking that if you do them a favour, they own you, or you own them, like his children thought. Minty. He had seen her on the train, or someone like her, not wanting to know. And then, there she was, or someone in a silly dress, running towards him on the cliff path. Not pursuing, but running as if she did not see him, running towards the man with the scarf who was coming in the other direction, the girl coming into sight as he began to get to his feet from his resting place behind the hawthorn. She was still some way off, coming from the car park and carrying a bag, and he was irritated with her for not wearing enough clothes for the weather, as if she had been his own daughter, and he did not want to see her and be bothered. He wanted no one, not when the light was good. He had helped her, surely that was enough. Go away.

  So he shambled across the main path, seeing where the other path dipped out of sight near the cliff edge, forgetting vertigo, forgetting where he was in the desire to be alone, scrabbled down any old dry path, found that broad, dry, safe ledge, and sat again, feeling pleased with himself. Suddenly faced with the breathtaking view of the sea he had never seen before, forgetting everything else. Proud to have found this pinnacle, master of all he surveyed.

  Oh poor bitch. As she sailed over his head, she became an IT.

  There was the sound of footsteps coming down the last flight of stairs. Richard looked towards the mirror, which gave him the view of the stairs, the lift and the front door. They were heavy steps. Fritz came into sight, via the mirror, struggling along with a colossal suitcase. OK, Fritz, it’s better to be a packhorse than dead. While he had waited, two other men had exited, swift and fully laden. He had never realised how quiet and deserted the place was in the afternoon.

  His eyes went back to the door. Late afternoon sun. Lilian was on the other side of the heavy plate glass, inserting the key. He could see her, caught in the light, which blinded her from seeing him. He thought he had never seen her more dishevelled or lovely, tousled and gorgeous and uncertain, as imperfect as any painting, and wished he had ever been able to paint her. She looked vibrant, incredible, happy. He knew why. It was only a matter of time. He was on his feet, shouting, No, no, nooo . . . go away.

  The man by his side hit him, once, a solid punch to the stomach.

  Fritz handed the suitcase to the second man. A third had joined them, equally burdened and inscrutable. Lilian opened the heavy plate-glass door with a sigh of relief. The posse pushed past her roughly to where the taxi stood outside, so that she was forced to stand, holding the door open for them. A young man stood hovering behind her, as if uncertain whether to go further.

  ‘How bloody rude,’ Lilian said as she wiped her feet on the carpet, checking the heels of her shoes. She looked up.

  ‘What are you doing down here, Richard? Bored again, are you, darling? RICHARD, RICH, RICHARD.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Do not attempt to capture wild animals

  John had needed company, but only of a particular kind. He had fretted away the morning, cleaning the bloody car, for God’s sake, tidying the house and hanging out washing, like a good, fussy, widowed bourgeois, conscious of the neighbours. Re-exerting control over his environment, tending his garden, deploying all the displacement activities he knew were appropriate for an indecisive coward. But when Sarah finally phoned he was pleased he had done all that because he would have been ashamed of a dirty house.

  She had phoned from the train, and although John loathed the tyranny of mobile phones, this afternoon he could have kissed it. For the next hour, he imagined her here, inside his plain living room, and found it difficult. The room was so plain, he picked pansies from the garden and placed them in a vase. The overnight wind and rain had freshened everything, and he was wondering if it was that which had also cleansed his mind and made him realise that he was mortally afraid to go to the cliffs alone, and he was postponing, waiting for the strength that might occur when there was absolutely nothing else left to do. When her taxi arrived at his house (her choice: she refused to be met), he was mightily glad to see her, and shy. That had not lasted. They looked at the picture, best in the afternoon light, and he had told her what was inside it. And about Edwin.

  Now they were on the cliff path, and she was entirely the right kind of company. She was allowing him to feel superior and in charge, which indeed, in this setting, he was. It was his territory and he was leader. She did not say much; even the purpose of the expedition was ill defined, but she walked smartly and let him talk. He felt he had known her for ever. The wind had died and the sea was gloriously calm, murmuring sweet nothings. It isn’t usually like this, he told her. Her clothing amused him: the town person’s version of country clothes, immaculate cord trousers, shiny boots more suitable for pavements than muddy paths, more like slippers with laces, and a broad belt around the waist. He found time to admire her waist; if she slipped and fell, he would hold her up by the belt. The black rainproof with the red lining she wore would be useless in a storm, but all the same, she walked like an athlete with a dancer’s figure and step, and he had the uneasy feeling she could outpace him whenever she wanted. Yes, she was entirely the right kind of company. She encouraged him to explain what was on his mind by not prompting, and whatever was there tidied itself into lines.

  The cliff paths seemed deserted most of the time, so that a single figure stood out, but John knew that was an illusion. There were multitudes of people, he told her, hidden in the folds of the land, lost in the size and scale of it. They hid off the path; they sat out of sight; t
hey became sticklike insects in the distance, but they moved, they crawled, they explored, because it was there. The warmth of the last few days and the lessening of the wind brought them out. It was only the dream of the preoccupied, lone walker that no one else inhabited his domain. This was not unexplored territory, only felt as if it was because most people kept to the paths.

  John had woken that morning with a fixed idea in his head, which had taken root before he went to sleep, when he heard the wind howl round his bare, snug, book-filled house.

  ‘I don’t think Edwin’s ravens could remain a secret,’ he told her. ‘I don’t see how they can. Not from predators.’

  He had gone to bed clutching a book on the subject of Corvus corax.

  ‘What, in particular, could harm them?’

  Oh why did he love giving explanations? Should have been a teacher rather than a doctor.

  ‘They only nest once, far earlier in the year than other birds, even other crows. Lay eggs in March, when the others are only thinking about it. They’ve a single chance of raising progeny in a year, so they build an elaborate nest and take time over it. And because they build so early, they don’t compete for territory, like other birds. They have a choice. Especially here. But when the chicks hatch and grow, they’re far more liable to attack from a larger predator, like a falcon, perhaps, because he’s in search of good protein to fuel his own mating and breeding.’

  He paused for breath, thinking out loud.

  ‘Then again, the dearth of birds on these cliffs means a dearth of that kind of predator. Maybe why the ravens chose their spot.’

  ‘So they’re fairly safe. What else could harm them?’

  ‘Gapeworm, perhaps. A parasite, breeds in the throat. Asphyxiation from wire or something they’ve gathered to fortify the nest. Act of God, wind or storms, lightning strikes on the exposed edifice of a big, clumsy nest.’

  The wind had yelled in the middle of the night, but he knew the degree of it. A noisy, fussy wind, which would churn the sea into protest, not gale-force and not really trying. An undestructive wind, in a mild spring. He went on, as much for his own benefit as hers.