Nocturne (13 page)

Brendan shook his head.

‘
No,
’
he said,
‘
I
’
ve
got a problem. But I
’
ve talked about it and you
were nice enough to listen. For which, many thanks.
’

‘
You mean that
’
s it?
’
I was staring at him.
‘
You
’
re better? You
’
re
cured?
’

‘
Of course not, but it
’
s not hole-in-the-wall any more. I
’
m not
creeping around trying to hide it, disguise it, pretend it never
happened.
’

‘
You
’
re right,
’
I said dryly.
‘
But is that enough?
’

‘
For now, yes.
’

‘
What does that mean?
’

‘
It means I love you, and it means you
’
re guest researcher on the
show. I suggest we give it a month, see how it goes. Christ, you might
be terrible. Who knows?
’

I studied him while he got to his feet, saying nothing. Then I reached
down for the compact. It closed with a snap.

‘
No chance,
’
I smiled at him.
‘
Terrible is the last thing I
’
ll be.
’

After Brendan had gone, I did a little dance around the kitchen and
then demolished the last of
the
gin. Against the odds, a tacky evening
had turned out OK. I
’
d resisted most of the obvious traps and might
even have turned an obsession into the beginnings of a friendship.
Best of all, I
’
d hung on to my new job on terms that were moderately
honourable, and as long as I didn
’
t trip over the small print, I saw no
reason why I shouldn
’
t go from strength to strength. Beyond guest
researcher lay the jobs that really interested me - directing and
producing - and I was still fantasizing about the series that would
take me to the BAFTA awards when I took one last gulp of Gordons,
reached for the bedside light switch and drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to a noise. It was pitch black. I lay still, scarcely daring to
breathe. I had a pounding headache and the moment I moved it got
worse. After a second or two I could make out the shape of the door.
The door was open. When I
’
d come to bed, and turned off the light, I
thought the door had been closed. The noise again, the creak of a
floorboard, someone moving, someone very close. Was I imagining
this? Was it a nightmare? Too much Gordons?

My mouth was dry. I tried to swallow but nothing happened. By
now, just, I could make out another shape, something solid, standing
absolutely still. I closed my eyes, trying to will the shape away.
Definitely a dream, I told myself, making a mental note to go easy on
the booze. I opened my eyes again. The shape was still there,
anything but spectral. Very slowly, my hand found the light switch. I
had no choice. I couldn
’
t just lie there. I had to find out.

The light flicked on and I screamed. Gilbert was standing at the
foot of the bed.
He had a
plaid
blanket ar
ound his shoulders and a pair of
pyjama bottoms on underneath. He stared down at me, motionless.
‘
Are you al
l right?
’
,
he said.
I nodded, terrified.
‘
I
’
m
fine.
’

‘
He
’
s gone?
’

‘
Who?
’

‘
Your friend?
’

‘
Yes.
’
I swallowed hard. I wanted to throw up.
‘
Yes, he went hours
ago.
’

‘
And he didn
’
t hurt you?
’

‘
Hurt
me?
I
stared up at Gilbert, lost for words.

A smile ghosted across his face. Then he nodded twice and began to
shuffle backwards towards the door, disappearing into the little hall
outside. I heard my front door open and close. Half a minute later
there were footsteps overhead, then the lilt of the flute, a reedy jig,
celebratory, and the footsteps again, much louder this time, thudding
in time to the music, round and round the room, directly over my bed.
Gilbert dancing, I thought numbly, crawling out of bed and making it
to the bathroom in time to vomit.

An hour later, I was still sitting in the front room, shrouded in the
duvet, staring at the phone. I
’
d double bolted my front door, and
wedged the sofa against the door that led to the hall, but no matter
what I did the image of Gilbert hung before me. What had brought him
downstairs like that? What right had he got to watch over my private
life? To make assumptions about the people I chose to come home
with?
And what, most important of all, might he do next?

The more I thought about it, the more alarming it became. This
lunatic, with his recorded messages about approaching doom, had
become my self-appointed keeper. He was standing guard over me. He
was watching the street outside. Christ, he might even be keeping a
record of my movements, counting me in, logging me out. There was
still no sign of violence, no definite physical threat, but he plainly had
no qualms about trespass, about letting himself into my flat in the
middle of the night and scaring me witless in the process.

I tried to calm myself, to tell myself that I was unharmed, un-
touched, just a bit shaken up, but the truth was that Gilbert had
slipped a noose around my life and each time he stepped out of line and
did something like this,
the noose tightened.
Where all this
might lead
terrified me, but trying to work out what steps to take was far from
easy.

Changing the locks was an obvious move and tomorrow I vowed to
do just that. Phoning the police was another option, but the harder I
thought about it, the less certain I became. Would they arrest him?
Cart him off somewhere and lock him in a cell? Was that what I really
wanted? I closed my eyes, trying to stop myself shivering, trying to
imagine the inevitable scene, me trying to explain to some hard-faced
cop that Gilbert was harmless really, just a bit odd, a bit funny. Where
would that conversation take us? Would they really listen if I
suggested they just had a little chat with my nocturnal visitor? Told
him to behave himself? Told him to act normal?

I shook my head, knowing it was useless even attempting to explain.
The one person who would have listened and would have understood
was Nikki, but just now she was on the other side of the world, which
left me pretty much on my own. I had other friends, of course - mates
from university days, people from work, numbers I could phone - but
inviting them into my claustrophobic little world, the on-off saga of
me and Gilbert, wasn
’
t a prospect I relished. They
’
d want to get
involved. They
’
d batter me with advice and good intentions. And just
now, all I wanted to do was stop thinking about it. If Gilbert was a
headache, please God for a bottle of Nurofen.

Full-length on the sofa, huddled under the duvet, I drifted off to
sleep. Dawn brought the cough of a car starting in the street outside.
Upstairs, I could hear nothing and, after the car had gone, I shifted the
sofa and began to creep around the flat, moving very stealthily, the
way you might behave if you found yourself locked up with a wild
animal. The image was all too apt and I thought about it while I waited
for the kettle to boil. It wasn
’
t Gilbert exactly, not the Gilbert I knew
and trusted. It was someone else in there, someone I
’
d never met,
wholly unpredictable, wholly strange, and wholly capable - as I now
knew - of terrifying me. Who was this man who
’
d broken into my flat,
and into my bedroom? Who was this man who
’
d stood by my bed
knowing, yes
knowing
,
the effect it would have on me? What was his
name? And - more to the point - what on earth would he do next?

I went to work. Brendan, sweet irony, was practically invisible. No
surprise meetings outside the cubby hole that served as a kitchen. No
chance collisions on the staircase or in the corridor.
Not a single phone
call about something I might - just by chance - have forgotten to
do. By midday, dizzy with exhaustion, I went up to his office. He
was sitting behind his desk, Sandra at his shoulder. They were
going through some budget or other. I stood in the open doorway,
staring at them. I hadn
’
t even bothered to co
nfect an excuse for my
visit.

Sandra was frowning.

‘
Yes?
’

I muttered something about one of next week
’
s
Members
Only
guests, turned and fled. I had to get on top of this. I knew I had. No one
else would help me. No one could. It was down to me. My problem.

I took a cab home. In the hall, fumbling with the key, I looked up to
see the message scrawled on my door. The message had been daubed in
purple crayon. It read
‘
Sorry
,
sorry
,
sorry
.
Please
change
the
locks
.’
I
stared at it a moment, relieved and angry at the same time. This wasn
’
t
crazy at all. This made sense. I ran up the stairs to Gilbert
’
s flat. After
knocking for the fourth time and calling his name, I gave up. Whether
he was in there or not no longer bothered me. I knew exactly what I
wanted to say and sooner or later I
’
d find the time and the place to say
it.

Inside my flat, I went straight to the front room. I kept the
Yellow
Pages
beside the phone. I was still hunting for Locksmiths when it
occurred to me for the second time in six hours that I wasn
’
t alone. I
looked up. Gilbert was sitting in the armchair in the corner. He was
wearing jeans and an old sweater and his thin frame was folded into
the chair in a position your average psychiatrist might term
‘
defen
sive
’
. His chin was down on his chest. His hands were clasped around
his knees. He was watching me warily, like a child expecting the
worst.

When my pulse had returned to normal I asked him for the duplicate
key he must have used to get in.

‘
It
’
s on the kitchen table.
’

‘
Get it then.
’

Gilbert did what he was told. Back in the armchair he settled himself
again, waiting for the next question.