Authors: Graham Hurley
If I gave
hi
m the keys to the flat, might he pop in and see they had enough to
eat? Change their water? All that?
He nodded.
‘
Of course,
’
he said.
‘
Of course I will.
’
The weekend, apart from the weather, was a huge success. My
mother, who hates getting her feet wet, even deigned to pull on an old
duffle coat and a pair of wellies and tramp the path across Tennyson
Down to the Needles. By Sunday night, very late, I was back in
London, glowing with fresh air and alcohol.
Next morning, early, I was on the bus to work. After the usual
succession of crises, I returned to Napier Road, stopping at an off-
licence to pick up a bottle of chilled Chablis. From what little I
’
d seen,
the cats were in wonderful nick. I owed Gilbert, and maybe the Science
Diet, a big thank you.
Gilbert was even quieter than usual. We sat in the kitchen with the
bottle between us while I told him how my brother
’
s kids had got
together and bought their granny an enormous box of fudge. Their
present, I
’
m convinced, had been the highspot of her weekend.
‘
She was speechless,
’
I said,
‘
for once.
’
I picked up the bottle and emptied the remains into Gilbert
’
s glass. I
could tell from the slightly absent expression on his face that he hadn
’
t
been listening. He toyed with the glass, lifting it in a silent toast when I.
thanked him again for looking after the cats. I was saying something
nonsensical about the Science Diet when - unusually - he interrupted.
He
’
d produced my flat keys from the pocket of his jeans, laying them
carefully beside my glass.
‘
I
hope you don
’
t mind,
’
he said matter-of-factly,
‘
but over the
weekend, I slept in your bed.
’
I stared at him, chilled to the bone, not believing what I
’
d just heard.
‘
You did what?
’
‘
I
slept in your bed.
’
He smiled reflectively.
‘
And it was lovely.
’
I spent that night on a mattress on the floor in the front room, dreading
the footsteps that
might
descend from the flat upstairs, trying to sort
out exactly how I felt about Gilbert
’
s little bombshell. At first, more in
hope than expectation, I thought I must have misunderstood him, but
after he
’
d commented on how nice and soft my
new
pillows were,
and what
an unusual pattern I
’
d chosen for the bottom sheet, I knew he hadn
’
t
made it up. At the very least, he
’
d been poking around my bedroom,
and that - in itself - was sinister enough.
Gilbert, on the other hand, seemed completely untroubled by what
he
’
d done, as if it were utterly routine to borrow a stranger
’
s bed, and
the more I thought about it, the more
inclined I was to give him the
benefit of the doubt. We
’
d been alone together more times than I could
count yet not once had he made a move on me. On the contrary, he
’
d
been an absolutely model neighbour, k
ind, thoughtful, forever inquir
ing whether there was anything he could do to help. In these and so
many other ways, he
’
d tucked me in and made me feel at home, and if
the fault lay anywhere, then maybe it lay with me. I
’
d been over-
friendly, over-trusting. I hadn
’
t realised quite how ambiguous some of
my gestures had been. In this light, giving him the keys to the flat might
have seemed like an open invitation. Share my life. Make yourself
comfortable. Help yourself to everything. Whatever.
Dawn found me back in my bedroom. I circled the bed, the way an
animal might, sniffing the air, tryin
g to spot clues. Clues to what?
I
didn
’
t know. Slowly, I drew back the duvet and the top sheet, all too
aware of my heart pumping away. This is where Gilbert said he
’
d
slept. What had he been dreaming about? What might he have done? I
bent low over the bed, hunting for evidence. The sheets smelled of me,
or more properly of Givenchy, a Christmas present from my mother.
Heartened, I slipped into the bed, pulling the duvet up to my chin,
resolving to bury the incident. I
’
d no plans to go away again, not for a
while at any rate. We
’
d just pretend that nothing had ever happened.
I awoke to the trill of the bedside alarm. Rearranging the pillows, I
found the audio cassette. It was wrapped in exquisite purple paper.
Once again, there was a ribbon and a bow. I looked at it, weighing it in
my hand, wondering what on earth to do. However hard I might try
and kid myself, Gilbert wasn
’
t in the business of helping me erase
history. He had indeed slept in my bed, and he
’
d left me a little present
to prove it.
I listened to the cassette over a pot of tea in the kitchen. I kept the
door closed and the volume low, instinctive precautions that made me
doubly resentful. Already, Gilbert was turning me into a prisoner in
my own flat. Was this the precious freedom I
’
d come to London to
find?
The cassette, on first hearing, was gobbledegook. It featured Gilbert
himself, and the moment I recognised his voice I braced myself for
something ghastly, like a confession of undying love. Unconsciously,
hunting for some explanation of his behaviour, I think I
’
d settled on
the obvious. He didn
’
t go out much. He was lonely. And so he
’
d fallen
head over heels in love, not with me, not with the person I am, but with
the idea of me. Upstairs, in that flat of his, he
’
d had far too much time
to dress me up in whatever fantasy turned him on, and his occupation
of my bed had been as close as he could get to the real thing. This
interpretation, as crass as it was, at least had the merit of proposing an
easy solution. In my experience, a passion like that is easy to deal with.
You become very hearty, very boisterous, very straightforward. You
busy around, and talk perhaps a little too loudly, and make it very
plain that a schoolboy crush is no more significant than an attack of
hiccoughs or a passing virus. These things are wholly natural. And like
a cold in the head, they simply go away. No bad feelings. No harm
done. Back to square one.
But Gilbert
’
s cassette wasn
’
t like that. Indeed, it wasn
’
t personal at
all except, that is, for the opening ten seconds or so. I
’
m including them
here because I
’
ve got what he said to hand, scribbled on the back of a
gas bill, one of the many souvenirs of my fourteen months in Napier
Road. I wrote it down at the time, there at the kitchen table, mostly
because the words might have made more sense on paper.
‘
It
’
s
important
for
us
both
that
you
understand
,’
Gilbert had begun,
and
it
’
s
important
that
you
know
you
’
ll
be
safe
.
It
won
’
t
happen
,
ever
,
and
I
guarantee
that
.
Please
believe
me
.
We
’
ve
both
got
so
much
to
lose
.’
Lose
?
Safe
?
Us
both
?
I mulled over the phrases, testing them this
way and that, trying to squeeze out a little meaning, a little sense. The
cassette, meanwhile, was still playing, Gilbert flagging a path I found
almost impossible to follow. He
’
d plainly done an enormous amount
of reading, an odd mix of current affairs, economic theory, and
astrological speculation. He seemed completely on top of all the stuff
that had always gone way over my head, and when I tell you it
included the GATT agreement, the latest twists in Bosnia, the
likelihood of an imminent collapse in global stock markets, and the
trajectory of something called Shevelov
’
s Comet, you
’
ll may
be under-
stand what I mean. By
the
end of the cassette,
with some relief
,
I
’
d
even
managed to force a smile. If we were really into pillow talk, surely a
girl deserved better than this?
I took the cassette to work with me, uncertain what to do next. I
’
d
made a couple of good friends at Doubleact and explaining the
problem to others was a real temptation. Even Brendan, I thought,
might have an
idea or two about just how I should conduct this bizarre
relationship, but the longer the day went on, the less inclined I was to
share my news. It would be only too easy, I told myself, to turn Gilbert
into some kind of sad nutter, to make him the week
’
s office joke,
young Julie
’
s live-in loony. That, most emphatically, I didn
’
t want.
Until last night, Gilbert had been part of a world I
’
d managed to
preserve from the attentions of the showbiz pack. He
’
d been,
ironically enough, my sanity, a kind of sheet anchor that steadied my
little boat. Just because he
’
d got himself into a state about trade
agreements and the Bosnian Serbs was no reason to throw him to the
wolves. Indeed, the harder I thought about it, the grosser the betrayal
became. Gilbert had been kind to me. He obviously cared. We just
needed to have a little chat, get one or two things in perspective. Then
we could be friends again.
I got home earlier than usual that night. I
’
d developed a routine on
my return and first stop was always the kitchen. During the day, the
cats stayed indoors. They didn
’
t need to use the sandtray by the fridge
and by the time I appeared from work they
’
d be waiting by the back
door, their little legs crossed, eager to get out in the garden. This
particular night, though, the kitchen was empty. Puzzled, I searched
the flat, hurrying from room to room, looking behind chairs, under the
bed, wondering what might have happened. Within minutes, it was
obvious that they weren
’
t around. Somehow or other, they
’
d been let
out.