Nocturne (14 page)

‘
How do I know yo
u haven
’
t taken another copy?
’

‘
I
haven
’
t. I wouldn
’
t. Not without asking.
’

I nodded.
My copy of
Yellow
Pages
was still open on the floor and I was
determined to phone a locksmith, no matter what Gilbert said. I began
to talk about last night, how frightened I
’
d been, but Gilbert inter
rupted, one long finger pointing at the window.

‘
I called them,
’
he said.
‘
I
called the people.
’

‘
What people?
’

‘
The taxi people.
’

I stared at him, the first faint glimmer of logic beginning to appear.
Gilbert had seen us in the mini-cab. He must indeed have been
watching from his top window.

‘
And what did they say? The taxi people?
’

‘
Nothing. They wouldn
’
t tell me anything.
’

‘
What did you want to know?
’

‘
His name.
’

‘
Why?
’

Gilbert shook his head, refusing to answer.
After I
’
d repeated the
question to no effect I came at it another way.

‘
Who do you think he was?
’
I asked him.

‘
I don
’
t know. Your boyfriend?
’
He shrugged. T don
’
t know.
’

‘
He
’
s my boss.
’

‘
Your boss?
’
He frowned.

‘
You don
’
t believe me?
’

‘
I
don
’
t know.
’

‘
But why? Why does it matter who he is? And even if he is my
boyfriend,
what
’
s that got to do with you?
’

Gilbert was staring out of the window. The word hurt was invented
to describe the expression on his face.

‘
He
’
s my boss,
’
I repeated.
‘
And his name
’
s Brendan.
’

‘
Brendan.
’
He nodded, as if he liked the sound of the word.
‘
Brendan.
’

The smile briefly warmed his face then it went away again. I still had
the keys in my hand. I realised I was sweating.

‘
What would you have done if Brendan had stayed the night?
’

Gilbert thought about the question for a while and looking at his face
it was extraordinary to watch it change and then change again as he
struggled
to come up with an answer.
‘
Well?
’

Gilbert thought a bit more and then got to his feet. He seemed to
have lost weight. His jeans hung loosely around his hips. He looked
down at me and I fought the temptation to take
some of
the sting from this
conversation and make friends again. Gilbert owed me, at the very
least, an explanation.

‘
I
didn
’
t want to see you hurt,
’
he said.

‘
You were
protecting
me?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
By breaking in? In the middle of the night?
’

‘
Yes, I think so.
’

‘
You
think
so?
’

I stared up at him. Dear God, if I wanted confirmation that Gilbert
was out of his tree, then this was surely it. I
’
d asked him a straight
question. He
’
d obliged with an answer that at least made sense. But
with that last innocent phrase, he
’
d wrecked it all. I was dealing with
a man who wasn
’
t at all sure why he did things. Which made my date
with the locksmith even more pressing.

Gilbert was standing by the door now. Time, I thought, for some
straight talking.

‘
I
could have you arrested,
’
I said,
‘
for what you did last night. I
could go to the police and tell them what happened and they
’
d be
round here like a shot. Tell them what you like and it wouldn
’
t make
any difference. You trespassed. You broke into my flat. You scared
me really badly.
’
I paused.
‘
Do you want me to go to the police? Do
you really want that to happen?
’

Gilbert was shaking his head.

‘
No,
’
he whispered.

‘
But you understand why I might do it? Why anyone might?
’

‘
Yes.
’

I waited for him to say something else, increasingly exasperated. I
wanted an apology. I wanted a promise that it wouldn
’
t happen
again. Failing that, I wanted - at the very least - an acknow
ledge
ment that what he
’
d done was completely unacceptable.

‘
Just tell me why,
’
I demanded at last.
‘
Tell me why you did it,
what the point was. Don
’
t you like me? Are you
trying
to frighten
me? I
’
ve been a wreck all day because of you, because of what you
did. It
’
s crazy carrying on like that. It
’
s a horrible thing to do. Don
’
t
you see that? Gilbert?
’
I tried to control myself, tried to keep my
voice down, but failed utterly.
‘
Another thing,
’
I said.
‘
Why did you
tell me lies about that restaurant the other night? Why did you say
you
’
d been—
’

The phone began to ring. We both looked at it, then I picked it up. I
recognised the voice at once.

‘
Brendan,
’
I said flatly.
‘
Of course you
’
re not interrupting anything.
’

I listened while Brendan rattled through a list of items he wanted to
discuss with me. The most important had to do with payment due to a
Cabinet minister who
’
d appeared on one of last month
’
s shows. He
wanted the cheque made out to his wife. He made me write her name
down.
Only then did he inquire what I was doing at home.

I glanced up. Gilbert had disappeared.

‘
Spot of domestic bother,
’
I said as brightly as I could.

‘
Nothing serious, I hope?
’

‘
Not yet.
’

‘
OK, see you this afternoon.
’
He paused.
‘
About last night
…
’

‘
Yes?
’

‘
I just wanted you to know I appreciated it. Very much.
’

Brendan hung up and I took a deep breath, wondering what had
happened to Gilbert.
I circled the flat, wandering from room to room,
dreading what I might find, but the only evidence he
’
d left was a rather
tired bunch of chrysanthemums on the kitchen table. There was no
note or card with them and for a moment I wonder
ed whether they
were for m
e. I was out in the hall, wondering whether or not to go up,
when I heard the noise. It sounded, to be frank, slightly animal.
Muffled as it was, it definitely signalled distress.

I made my way upstairs. Gilbert
’
s door was closed. I stood on the
landing for a while, listening, trying to put the sounds together. Twice
I called his name but there was no response. The sounds went away,
then, more distinct, came a gulping noise and it all started again,
unmistakeable this time.

I listened for a moment or two longer then made my way
downstairs, bewildered and a little guilty, wondering what on earth
I
’
d done to make Gilbert cry.

The big idea for my next move in this strange game came several days
later. Work, for once, was going brilliantly. Gilbert, all contrition, had
reverted to the model neighbour. And Nikki phoned up from South
Africa for a gossip. How were things panning out? How was I doing?

‘
Fine,
’
I said.
‘
How about you?
’

She told me about her job. She was working in a fashion house in
Cape Town and she
’
d come up with some promotional ideas that had
taken her to Johannesburg for a week. There she
’
d met a young
Afrikaans guy called Henrik and the prospects, in her phrase, were
‘
yummy
’
. Only after she
’
d given me the full story on their first night
together did she enquire about life in
N17.
How was I getting on at the
flat? Was Gilbert as interesting a prospect as he
’
d seemed? Was he still
serenading me through the floorboards? I ducked most of these
questions but when she persisted, scenting problems, I admitted that
Gilbert and I had had one or two minor upsets. It was nothing much, I
said, nothing too serious, and now we were the best of friends again.
Only this morning, he
’
d volunteered to get me some more cat litter.
Being Nikki, she pressed harder still and though I didn
’
t end up by
telling her everything, I did mention the bruise I
’
d seen on his face. To
be frank, I said, I was worried about violence.

‘
Check it out then,
’
Nikki said at once.

‘
Check what out?
’

‘
The bruise. The incident. Go and find the previous owner. He
’
d
know. Bound to.
’

It was a brilliant idea but it wasn
’
t, of course, that easy. For one
thing, the estate agents weren
’
t keen on releasing his name and it was
half a day before it occurred to me that my mother
’
s solicitors, who
’
d
acted for me in the sale, would have all the details in the transfer
documents. Their offices were in Petersfield. The senior partner, an old
friend of my mum
’
s, dug out the relevant bits for me.