I Know What I Saw

11 Thursday

It is 03:11 according to the clock. The warmth of the car and the smoothness of the ride cajole me into sleep, but I can’t let go yet. I look across to Seb who holds the wheel with confidence. His sleeves are crisp, cufflinks glinting gently in the street lights as they pass. He stares straight ahead at the road in concentration, though the traffic is light on Crystal Palace Road. It seems as if he’s keeping his eyes occupied just to avoid me.

We go over some speed bumps and then pull off to the right and down a row of smart terraced houses. Memories rush in but in no kind of order. I know this place. The car draws smoothly to a halt and a button is pressed for a handbrake. When did this happen to cars?

‘This is us,’ he says and steps out. He looks the same, still handsome, greyer. He’s a touch more drawn around the cheek but something gets us all. I climb out and follow him to his door and wait while he unlocks it. He presses a switch to flood the hall with soft amber light. The walls are painted in muted shades but the light dances off the polished wood handrails and antique sideboard.

‘Come in,’ he says, waiting.

‘I can go,’ I say, looking at the dirt on my hands. ‘I won’t stay.’ The cold drops over me and irritatingly I shiver.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘Come. You’re letting the weather in.’

I shiver again in these thin police-issue clothes, and suddenly whatever power there was in my legs has gone. My knees buckle and I’m falling against the door, but he catches me just in time. Everything becomes murky and then there is nothing.

I wake up and gather fragments of memory. There’s Seb half-dragging me inside his house, up the stairs – soft cream runners against dark, polished wood. Me, stumbling, being ushered like a drunkard to a bed and the sensation of my ‘cell’ clothes sticking to my skin as they are pulled away. The smell as the garments come away and how it stains the air. A towel is laid out on a chair through patches of vision. Then I feel warm air slowly wrapping my limbs. Then darkness and oblivion and finally sleep.

When morning tears open my eyes, I stall for a few moments, trying to remember where I am. My head is throbbing. I get up out of bed and partially draw the curtain across the low morning sun. From the clock on the bedside table, I see it’s just after eight. I open my eyes and listen for sounds because I don’t know anything about the life of the man whose home I’m in. I don’t know if there are any children in the house, or a partner, or friends.

There’s some distant clinking, like the sound of breakfast being laid. I look for the tracksuit I’d been given but I can’t see it anywhere. Seb must have taken it away for washing. He’s left me a change of clothes, laid on top of a white towel. Dark red trousers, blue-checked shirt, some new underpants still in the box, socks and a crew-neck sweater. These are his clothes, clothes in current use – not spares. I take the pants from the box. They are pristine in my stained hands. It has been years since I’ve worn pants; they aren’t necessary. The whiteness of the cotton stares out at me. I can’t wear his clothes without a bath.

I wrap the towel around my hips and walk along the corridor, taking in the bookshelves crammed with books. The mix of French literary fiction and pulp is disconcerting until I remember I left the French books here long ago and Nina always loved cheap and easy thrillers. I also remember now, randomly, that she smelled of roses. I wonder if she’s still with Seb. The bathroom door has been left ajar as an invitation. I go in and stare at the polished bath. It’s been so long since I’ve been in one. I reach across to the taps but hesitate. It feels like an intrusion, but in his house, his clothes, it also feels like the least I can do. A few minutes later I am lying in the water and watching the dirt as it runs off my body and sinks to the bottom. I find a nail brush and scrub away what I can without losing my mind. Then the hair. Not until I soak it do I become aware of how long it is. Finally, I scrub my face until it feels as if it is pink again. When I drain the bath I’m shocked by the grime lining the bottom.

When I walk out I catch sight of someone in the mirror. Someone from a nightmare. Of course, it’s me, but the face staring back at me is running with blood. I realise with a dull ache that I have scrubbed away my stitches. I sigh and clamp the towel to my face until I find plasters with cartoon pigs on them. So he has children? I manage to staunch the flow with three of them overlaid one across the other and take a last look in the mirror. I look clean but faintly ridiculous.

‘Oh. You found the plasters,’ he says with a smile when I walk into the kitchen. They tingle a little on my forehead. ‘Nieces. There are eggs and bacon there.’ He points to a covered plate. ‘And fresh coffee in the pot.’ He is wearing a grey suit with a Prince of Wales check, a pale blue shirt and a crimson tie with tiny elephant motifs on it. He takes me in, dressed in his checked shirt and red trousers, and smiles. Then he stands and gathers his keys from the table. The smell of bacon turns my stomach on and off again. But I need to eat.

‘Thanks,’ I say, sitting down. He looks at me as if he is about to say something but changes his mind.

‘Listen, I have to go to work,’ he says, looking at his watch. It’s a Rolex Milgauss. I had one once – because it was named after the mathematician.

‘We can talk when I get back. Should be back around six. Help yourself to whatever you want,’ he says. He pauses when he sees the agitation in my expression. ‘It’s fine, it’s just me in the house.’

‘Thanks, Seb,’ I say. ‘But I’ll get out of your hair. And I’ll get these back to you if you can show me where you put my other clothes.’

He stops in the doorway and turns to face me. His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

‘Xander. No. Please. Just stay.’

‘I don’t know. I find being indoors – it’s hard for me.’

He stops and then fumbles around in his pocket until his wallet appears in his hands. I recoil but he isn’t giving me money.

‘Then take a walk. Jump on a bus, get some air. Here, take my old Oyster. There’s thirty quid or something on it. But stay – at least till I get back,’ he says.

I nod, but I am sure I’ll be gone for good when he returns. Besides, he hasn’t given me a key.

Once he’s gone I sit and shovel food into my mouth. I pour some coffee and take a deep draught. The caffeine circulates warmly through my body until cell by cell my body shakes itself free from sleep. As the energy returns to my muscles, I go into the living room which is pale and bright. Polished surfaces wink at me from every sharp edge. All this new furniture but I know this room, this house – I know its bones, even if the flesh is new. I look for more signs of Nina, but find none. What happened to her?

A television set the size of a Rothko decorates one wall, a set of stereo equipment with tubular speakers lies beneath. I find just one picture of Seb on the mantel. In it he’s twenty-two maybe, his cheeks pink against an azure sky. There’s just the faintest impression of a college building in the background. And there at the front is Nina, and next to her, Grace.

I think I remember some of this day. I was there during this picture, I am sure of it, though I am not in it. Maybe I’m behind the lens. The odd thing is that in my memory of this picture, I am in it. I can visualise the expression I held, impatience I think it was, because I didn’t want to be in it.

Seb looks the same. Perhaps he’s rounder in the cheek in the picture than now, and less grey. But the eyes are the same shade of blue. And although it shouldn’t, this surprises me. The hands, they’re the same too. And he, above all, is the same. There’s still this current of beauty.

The sofa gives way under the weight of my body. I am sinking into it and the sensation is foreign and alarming. I get up quickly and lie instead on the carpet. The moment my head touches the twisted wool, pain erupts, images of that night cascade. The man is standing over her, pressing his weight on her as she kicks and struggles. I can see it from where I am on the floor, but fear or cowardice binds my hands and mouth.

If I had stood up, then what?

The edge of her face flashes before my eyes in the dying light of the fire. Her skin is already flat, pale. The red stain on her shirt is still spreading. It travels until it reaches her neck and then it spills over, pooling in the dips created by her throat. And then it rises and rises until it is up to her chin. It brims over her lips for a second and then her eyes snap open. She screams as the blood fills her mouth.

I open my eyes and catch the ceiling as it begins to drop on to my head. The walls begin to move, too. I have to get out of here.

Once opened, the front door lets in a wave of cold air that forces me to shut it again. I can’t leave in this weather without better clothes and shoes. I go up to the bedroom I slept in and root around the wardrobe there. A few old suits hang from the rail along with a few white and some pastel-coloured shirts. There are some polished Oxfords and Monks at the bottom but nothing you could wear for long in the cold and the wet. There are some brand new walking shoes with the labels still on but I leave them there and try his room instead.

Seb’s room, softly lit, is laced with the scent of lime and basil. I flick the hangers along, looking guiltily for a coat. There are new cashmere and wool ones, but I take a heavy wool one instead. I try it on and find that it fits nicely enough even though he is a little thicker and shorter than me. His clothes, all those chinos and pale shirts, haven’t changed a bit, either. His life has cocooned him.

I worry about taking them but he has more clothes than he can wear. It’s fine. I look down at the brogues and keep tight hold of the thirty pounds of Oyster. At the end of everything, I know he is my friend. Or was my friend. But friends, real ones, like siblings, can’t be lost through the effluxion of time. They are stars, still in their places, whether you look at them or not.

I walk quickly down the stairs and pause at a mirror by the front door. I peel away the plaster from my face. In less than a day, I have become reborn. Almost thirty years of living have been wiped out with cotton and wool and a bath. Except inside, where I know the layers are tougher and the marks run more deeply.