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36. SUMMER 2013

Even without looking at the numbers Catherine guesses which house is his. It’s the house you’d love to walk right past without stopping, but this house meets Catherine’s eye and calls to her, like the phlegmy growl of a homeless drunk on the Charing Cross Road.

This house is blind, its windows thick with dirt. The paintwork, so new and pleasing on the houses on either side, is scabby and peeling. The garden is being strangled by bindweed, but there’s one valiant rosebush, blushing pink, rebellious, which Catherine can smell as she walks up the path — its sweet scent defying the savagery around it. Her knock echoes down the street. There’s no answer and there’s no bell so she bangs again, harder this time. She crouches down and pushes the letter box. Its flap stays open, no metal basket on the other side to catch letters, just a straight view through to the house. She sees a pair of shoes near the door, scuffed and dirty, and a coat hanging over the back of a chair.

“Hello. Mr. Brigstocke. Please open the door. It’s Catherine Ravenscroft.”

She is determined and yet she hears a tremor in her voice. She tries again.

“Please. I know you’re there. Open the door. We must talk about what happened.” The house stays exactly where it is and so does Catherine, watching for the slightest movement. He has poisoned Robert against her — driven her from her home. The least he can do is look her in the eye and listen to what she has to tell him.

“Mr. Brigstocke. Please open the door. Nothing you do to me is going to bring Jonathan back. Please. I have a right to be heard.”

But the door stays closed. She calls the number Kim had given her. She hears the phone ring inside. A voice answers. “Hello, we’re sorry we’re not here…” A woman’s voice. Nancy Brigstocke. She can’t leave a message with a dead woman. She needs to see him, needs to make him listen, needs to make him stop. She is sure he is in there. She crouches down, pushing her arm through the letter box as far as it can go. It is slender, so up to her elbow. She twists it, trying to reach the latch, but she can’t and withdraws it. She puts her face to the letter box again:

“I know you have my number. Call me — speak this time. I want to talk about Jonathan. I deserve to be heard, Mr. Brigstocke.” She stays on all fours, her forehead resting against the door. She hears the tinny distortion of a radio coming from further up the street and glances round to see a parked van, windows wound down, two builders sitting eating their lunch. She turns back to the door and decides that perhaps he isn’t in after all, so dials the number again, and this time leaves a message.