Authors: Graham Hurley
‘
When we go public,
’
he told me,
‘
I
’
ll be worth nearly three million
quid. I
’
ve done the sums. It
’
s kosher. No bullshit. Three million quid.
’
‘
So when does that happen?
’
‘
It won
’
t. Not if I
’
ve got anything to do with it.
’
‘
Why not?
’
‘
Because then we
’
d be together all the time. It would be like early
retirement, only worse. Can you imagine?
’
To be frank, I couldn
’
t, and I told him so. It was a symptom of the
kind of company Sandra Merricks ran that everyone, including her
husband, put her in the same category as Saddam Hussein or bowel
cancer.
‘
Wait for the three million,
’
I suggested.
‘
Then leave her.
’
‘
It
’
s not that simple.
’
‘
Why not?
’
He shook his head, refusing to elaborate, and for weeks afterwards,
in those milliseconds when I wasn
’
t doing anything else at Doubleact,
I
’
d try and work out exactly what it was that she had on him. Was it
great sex? Some amazing kink of his that only she could unfold? Or
was it something altogether more prosaic? Like the fact that he was
too terrified of reprisals to even contemplate digging the tunnel? Either
way, bottom line, I didn
’
t much care, and although the pressures at
Doubleact were crippling there were parts of me - terrible confession -
that were beginning to thrive on eighteen-hour days and a non-stop
succession of crises that no one else seemed able to sort out.
Thus it was, for week after week, that I
’
d get back to Napier Road
the wrong side of midnight only to disappear again for nine o
’
clock
next morning. And thus it was that I began to depend on the dozens of
little kindness
that my neighbour upstairs extended to me.
By now, I knew his name. According to the post that landed on our
shared mat every morning, he was a Mr G. Phillips. G. could have
meant anything, of course, but the second time we met he introduced
himself as Gilbert, extending a hand and offering the lightest touch of
flesh on flesh. It was on this occasion that he suggested he might field
my milk for me, an offer I was only too happy to accept. The milkman
delivered daily, mid-morning, by which time I
’
d been bent over a
Doubleact keyboard for several long hours,
but Gilbert retrieved my
two
pints from the doorstep, keeping it in his fridge upstairs, then leaving it
outside my door an hour or so before I returned.
After the milk, he took it upon himself to do the odd bit of shopping
- cat food especially - leaving me a list in the hall to which I
’
d add any
little items I might be needing. We
’
d settle up afterwards, often days
afterwards, and I took to inviting him in for coffee while I tried to find
the right change. He was very easy to have around - polite, interested,
gently amusing - and what I especially liked about him at this stage
was the way he preserved the distance between us. Having a neighbour
on top of you all the time can be a real pain but it seemed to me that
Gilbert had a rare talent for discretion. Almost to the inch, he sensed
the exact limits of the friendship we both wanted to establish. He never
crowded me. He never intruded. Yet he was always there with those
tiny delicate touches on the domestic tiller that can make so much
difference. A new brand of Colombian coffee he
’
d spotted in the
delicatessen. A flier for an antiques fair he thought might tickle my
fancy. A warning not to bother shopping in Highbury when Arsenal
were playing at home.
Little things, but so, so important.
The more we meshed our domestic routines in this way, the more
intrigued I became about his background. It was the obvious things,
really, like work, and money, and family, and friends. How did he
make ends meet? How come he never seemed to have a job? How
come no one seemed to visit at weekends? I put the questions in a
disguised form one Saturday morning. We were drinking coffee in the
front room after I
’
d hung a new pair of curtains.
‘
I
t must be hard getting work as a musician,
’
I mused.
‘
I know how
tough the competition can be.
’
‘
Work?
’
Gilbert savoured the word, as if it belonged to a language
he didn
’
t entirely understand.
‘
Yes. I thought you must play for a living.
’
‘
No, not at all.
In fac
t never.
’
I waited for him to elaborate. When nothing happened, I tried
another tack.
‘
Did you learn as a child? Were you taught, you know, properly?
’
‘
Of course.
’
‘
With a view to
…
’
I shrugged,
’
.
…
playing in an orchestra? Or a
jazz band? Or by yourself, as a soloist?
’
‘
By myself.
’
He nodded.
‘
Yes.
’
There was a long silence. I
’
d noticed that this was a habit of his,
pausing a conversation at a place that intrigued him, or made him
think, or perhaps even puzzled him. He seemed totally unembarrassed
by silence, and that I rather liked. After the clamour and madness of
another week at Doubleact, silence was a godsend.
Finally, he asked whether his playing bothered me. I told him it
didn
’
t. On the contrary, I liked it very much.
‘
Even late at night? After you
’
ve got in?
’
‘
Even then.
’
‘
You don
’
t mind?
’
‘
Not at all.
’
He was studying me carefully.
‘
Some people hate it,
’
he said.
‘
Your predecessor, for instance.
’
‘
The man who used to live here?
’
‘
Yes.
’
‘
Did he . .
‘
I
shrugged,
‘
…
. protest?
’
‘
Worse than that.
’
‘
You had words?
’
‘
Worse still.
’
I watched his long, bony fingers stray to his face, and I remembered
the fading bruise I
’
d noticed when we first met.
‘
You
’
re telling me he hit you?
’
‘
Yes.
’
He lowered his voice, describing the encounter. There
’
d been
trouble before. The man used to hammer on his ceiling with the end of
a billiard cue, the slightest noise, anything. Playing the flute had been
the last straw. The attack, when it came, had been unprovoked.
They
’
d met in the hall.
He
’
d been carrying the billiard cue.
‘
Smack.
’
Gilbert nodded, pale and wide-eyed, driving his fist into his open
palm. Then he did it again, and his shoulders sagged at the memory,
and his head went down, and for a moment I really thought he was
crying. I moved closer to him, meaning to help, but he reached out,
fending me off.
Like this, vulnerable, he looked about twelve.
‘
I
’
m sorry,
’
I murmured.
‘
It must have been terrible.
’
He nodded, his fingertips back on his face, tracing the ridge of bone
beneath his eye.
‘
Did you go to the police?
’
‘
I…
couldn
’
t.
’
‘
Why not?
’
‘
He told me…
’
he began
to blink, then shook his head,
‘
…
he
frightened me,
Julie.
’
He
’
d never used my name like that before. I patted his hand. It felt
cold to the touch.
‘
It doesn
’
t matter,
’
I told him.
‘
He
’
s gone now.
’
‘
And you really like the music?
’
‘
Of course.
’
He left shortly afterwards, and the music - when it came - was
sweeter than ever.
My mother
’
s birthday is February 4th. Spending it alone, after my
father
’
s death, would have been miserable and so my brother and I
arranged a surprise weekend for her. My brother runs a pub on the
Isle
of Wight. On the Friday night, I arranged to take the train down to
Petersfield. On the Saturday, mum and I would drive to Portsmouth
and ship across to the island. On the Sunday, her birthday, we
’
d
celebrate.
The only problem was what to do about the cats. My mother
’
s
allergic to them and my brother keeps a huge Alsatian. For most of the
previous week I
’
d wondered about boarding them out while I was
away but doing that seemed a shame, especially since they
’
d both
finally settled in the flat. I was still no closer to a solution when I heard
a tap on the door. It was Thursday morning. For once, thanks to a
mid-series
’
production lull, I didn
’
t have to be at Doubleact until half
past ten.
I opened the door. Gilbert was standing in the hall, holding a white
paper sack. Some days he seemed more cheerful, more together, than
usual. Today, he was radiant.
‘
It
’
s called Science Diet,
’
he said.
I peered at the sack. Science Diet is hi-tech cat food. Gilbert had
happened across the stuff at the local pet shop. I was to see what Pinot
and Noir would make of it.
I thanked him, taking the sack. Then the obvious occurred to me.
‘
I
’
m going away this weekend. It
’
s my mother
’
s birthday.
’
I told him about the arrangements,
then
I
mentioned the cats.