I Know What I Saw

25 Monday

By the time I walk inside the library, the day has begun to cool. I shiver and make straight for the armchairs.

I shut my eyes to summon the memory of that room, and before long I am there again, the flames licking long shadows on to the walls. I am on the floor, squinting at the scene at the far end of the room, and she is there, bent backwards over the table. There’s something about this scene that I’m missing. My head knows it but my heart stalls each time it draws near. What is it? The music drifts in waves over me.

For a second, I fall asleep and I have the sensation of remembering something important. I am caught between sleep and wakefulness and in that twilight some memory has hardened but just as soon as I wake, it evaporates.

‘Xander.’

My eyes open and I see a face that I know. Long black hair hanging down over brown eyes. The smile is soft.

I take a moment to put the world the right way up.

‘Amit,’ I say.

‘Xander. Where have you been?’ he asks with concern. ‘I was, I don’t know, worried about you? Looked for you a bit on the streets.’

‘Worried why?’ I say, sitting up.

‘Just,’ he says and then after a pause, ‘you didn’t seem right. Like you’d forgotten – stuff. I asked some guys about you. They told me I should stay away from you.’

‘Oh,’ I say, touched. ‘Just had a bit of concussion. But you shouldn’t go looking for me, Amit. It’s not safe.’

‘You’re telling me,’ he says with a grin.

I think about why I am here. ‘You couldn’t help me out, could you?’ I say conspiratorially.

‘Of course, Xander. I’ll never forget, you know. What you did.’

I stare at him in confusion and then in a panic because of what that means for my head.

‘When I was being robbed. By those lads?’ he says.

And now, with that nudge, the memory comes back. It wasn’t far from here, just around the back of this library. I remember seeing two young men – early twenties, maybe a bit older – bothering a schoolkid I had seen earlier in the magazine section. When I got near it was obvious that they were mugging him.

‘Oi, you, piss off,’ I had said, walking up to them. They were skinny, more mouth than muscle.

They turned and one instantly shoved a knife in my direction. I took a quick look and saw that he was holding it like you would hold a wand, with the blade pointing down. I slapped his hand away and watched the knife fly into the road.

‘You’re fucking dead,’ he said and started to hit me in the face and body. The punches stung but I could feel the pain was soft. Even as I put my hands up, all I could think was they hurt, but not as much as the one I’m about to hit him with. And then I squeezed my fist tight, drew my arm back and punched him hard. His face burst like a plum and he went down. The other one looked at me for a second, took in my size, and then ran.

‘Oh, that? Anyone would have done the same,’ I say.

He pulls a wallet from his blazer pocket. ‘No way would they.’

‘No, not money,’ I say, waving it away. ‘I need to find someone.’

‘Okay,’ he says, stretching the word. He smooths his school uniform after returning his wallet to his blazer pocket. Everything is neat on him. The tie is tightly tied, the blazer looks as if it has been brushed. Only his hair is free, long, tousled.

‘How do I find a person? On that?’ I say, taking him to the computers off to the left.

He looks at me as if I have gone mad. I haven’t used a computer since I used to code. Of course, I’ve seen them, but I don’t know how to use them without drawing attention to myself. I don’t want a librarian fussing around me with passcodes or whatever I need to access the web.

‘I need to access the World Wide Web.’

‘You mean Google?’ he says.

Of course, Google. ‘Can you just show me the basics?’ I say.

‘I can get you to their homepage,’ he says and then sits at one of the screens and types quickly on the keys. Within a couple of seconds, the computer has shifted to a white page. Under the Google name is the search box.

‘Christ, that was quick,’ I say. ‘Is the modem always connected?’

‘The what?’

‘The modem,’ I say, to a continuing blank expression. ‘Never mind. Am I online?’

He nods. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘A missing person. Is there a way of getting to a missing persons list somewhere?’

‘I don’t really know,’ he says, pulling a chair over for me. ‘Who are you looking for? You could just type the name into the box here,’ he says, pointing the cursor to the search space.

‘I don’t know her name,’ I say.

‘Erm. Well, that’s going to make it hard to find her,’ he says. There is a smile on his lips as if this is some kind of playful diversion.

‘Girlfriend?’ he laughs.

‘No. Look, is there a missing persons page?’ I say seriously, wishing I could do this by myself.

He types missing persons list UK and hits return. Immediately a list of sites appears at the top of which is one that says ‘UK Missing Persons Unit’. He clicks it and we are taken to a page with a kind of form on it.

‘Gender female,’ he says to himself as he fills in the lines. ‘Age when last seen?’

‘I don’t know, late twenties,’ I say, watching him type.

‘I’ll put twenty-five to thirty,’ he says. ‘Ethnicity?’

‘White?’ I say, not sure what the form wants to know exactly.

‘White European,’ he says, and then presses a button that says search. I hold my breath without knowing why.

A moment later the results are displayed.

‘Only one,’ he says. ‘Do you want case details?’

I nod as he presses the button.

‘Oh. She’s been found. Found at the roadside. Eyes: blue. Clothes: waterproof jacket. Possessions: an Oyster card and some cash. And jewellery.’

I stare at the photofit that appears on the screen and realise that I don’t actually know what the woman looks like. All I can see is her dark hair and her body as it is bent back over the table. I remember her bloodstained shirt. No, wine-stained.

‘Not her,’ I say to Amit. ‘Thanks anyway.’

‘We’d have more luck with a name,’ he says then. ‘I know you don’t know it but we might be able to find it.’

This shocks me a little.

‘What? How?’ I say.

‘Well. Who is she, this woman? Where do you know her from? Where does she work?’

I shake my head at every question.

‘Where does she live?’ he says, running a hand through his hair.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Wait – if you know the address, can you find out on the computer who lives there?’

‘Probably,’ he says nonchalantly.

‘How?’

‘Just,’ he says, and then looks at me as I wait for more. Finally, he waves his hands in the air and says, ‘World Wide Web magic.’

‘42B Farm Street, Mayfair,’ I say. ‘Type that.’

We sit at the computer for the next few minutes as Amit slips effortlessly from one website to the next. He has the ability to flick back and forth between lists and sites before I’ve even registered what is on them.

Finally, he looks up and says, ‘I can tell you when it was bought. But that’s all I’ve got.’

‘The flat? Really?’ I say, surprised.

‘Yep. It was bought in May 2017 for – wow, 7.2 million pounds.’

The number makes me blink. ‘Does it say who by?’

‘No. But you could find out by looking at the electoral register, apparently,’ he says after a few more clicks.

‘Can I do that online?’

He taps away for a moment before turning to me. ‘You can either go to Westminster Council and look at it. Or you can buy it.’

‘Buy it?’

‘Yep. But it looks expensive,’ he says. ‘I think it’s for companies, really. Credit cards or whatever.’ He taps away some more and then looks up, his face brighter. ‘Or the Land Registry has a thing, look. You can buy a title register for three pounds. Not sure what that is though.’

There aren’t three pounds on my person but I need the information. ‘The title register will tell us who owns it. Amit, I can pay you back, do you think you could?’ I say, but before I can finish the request, he has already completed the form and typed a bank card number into it. Within seconds the title information comes back.

‘Summary of title, address,’ he says, scrolling down. ‘There it is, owner: Arathorn Industries Limited.’

I sigh but muster the energy to thank him.

‘No probs,’ he says but continues to tap away. ‘Yeah. No good. Can’t get any details of the directors or anything.’

The screen shows that the company is registered offshore. ‘Don’t worry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry, Amit. I think I’ve wasted about an hour and a half at least of your study time.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says. ‘I was going to do French. Can’t stand it. Who is she, by the way – the woman?’

‘I don’t know. But something happened to her and I need her name so I can ask the police if she’s missing.’ Even as I am saying it, I realise I’m not making much sense. ‘I have to go,’ I say. ‘What time is it?’

He points the cursor at the screen again. ‘18:58.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

He nods, and I get up and leave.

Once outside I weigh up what I know. An expensive flat. No more than that. A spectacularly expensive flat. A place for a millionaire, even a millionaire tied up in enough illicit wealth that he can call on fixers to fix his mistakes. Maybe this wasn’t even his first murder. A person like that who can click his fingers and have people emerge from the shadows to clean away his messes could develop a taste for mess.

The cold makes me huddle into myself and then from nowhere, the side of her face blooms into view, framed by dark mahogany curls. I couldn’t save her. I correct myself: I could have saved her but I didn’t. And now I can’t even find her. How many people might be looking for her? How long could she go before being missed? That website that Amit happened upon, documenting the thousands of people who go missing, showed me that most people go missing quietly. A person or two notices. The police don’t have time to devote much effort to them. And then, months later, they are found – dead in a field, by a road. Just dead. Is this what will happen to her? Will she die without a body or a funeral?

I can’t let that be what happens.

At Rory’s funeral there was nobody from home. Everybody, except me and Grace, was from his new life – work colleagues, mainly. A few friends from Cambridge who went on, like him, to live and work in London. All these young men and women stood at the graveside, their faces in ruin but their clothes immaculate. Funeral chic. The women cried, the men nodded quietly. Afterwards a few came to pay their respects, and offered me their hands to shake.

‘They didn’t know him,’ I said to Grace.

‘But they loved him anyway,’ she replied. She looked into the sky as it began to spit. I looked at her and saw that she was like them. Her face was blanched with grief but her dress was new and looked fashionable. Her golden hair, frivolous against the funeral blacks.

‘Thanks for coming,’ I said to her. ‘Even though we’re not—’

She held my arm in both hands. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I loved him. And you too.’ She gazed into the sky as if searching for a speck of light in the steel clouds.

‘Just not enough,’ I said and she released my arm.

‘Xander. Not here. Please.’ Her face pleaded with me.

‘I’m sorry about your loss.’ I looked up to see a young woman with a short black bob, her fringe brushing her eyes. ‘I’m Taz. I worked with Rory.’

Nodding away her condolences, I waited for her to leave. But she lingered.

‘I – um. How did it happen? He seemed such a calm person,’ she said then, pulling her scarf closer to her body against the weather.

I looked at her hard. ‘I killed him,’ I said. My mouth filled with something metallic from the air. I’d had a lifetime to absorb, reconstitute, reinvent whatever had happened to me. The pain had turned my cells inside out, but I’d adapted over time. Rory, though, was too old when he found out, too brittle, for the onslaught of pain. And above all, I’d known it.

If I could have stopped him, or spoken to him in the moments before he jumped, I might have told him that. I might have told him how proud he’d be of himself if he could see himself as I’d done.

‘He’s – he doesn’t know what he’s saying,’ Grace said quickly, turning me around and leading me back towards her car. She clicked along on her heels, pulling me, glancing occasionally into the sky. The threatening rain would ruin her hair.

It is only when Amit taps me on the shoulder that I realise that I have been crying. I look up and wipe my face with the back of a hand. His breath comes out misty in the cold air.

‘Amit?’ I say.

He sits next to me for a moment but his legs dance so much that he has to stand up. ‘Listen,’ he says, then thinks better of it whatever it might have been. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Really.’

‘Okay,’ he says, weighing up whether to say what is on his mind. ‘That woman.’

‘Yes?’ I say, wondering whether he might have carried on searching after I left.

‘You know that Farm Street is just around the corner. I saw it on Maps.’

‘Yes. I know it is.’

‘Well, if she lives there, can’t you just knock on the door?’

I consider what he has said and try to assemble into some order what I can say to him in reply. I don’t want to alarm him unnecessarily.

‘She doesn’t live there exactly. That’s where she went missing from.’

‘I don’t get it. So, did she live there and now she’s gone?’ he says confused.

‘Kind of.’

‘Does anyone live there now?’

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Can’t you speak to them? Or have you already?’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I think he’s the reason she’s missing,’ I say, and then realise what I have said too late.

‘Shit. Do you think he killed her?’

I say nothing but have an urge to confide in him, this boy, who won’t find it hard to believe me.

‘Yes,’ I say at last.

He looks at me wide-eyed. ‘Shit. That’s dark.’

‘Yes,’ I say, and then I tell him what happened, in desperation, glad to have someone to share it.

He stares at me the whole time as if he cannot believe his luck at being included in my confidence. I have to keep reminding myself that he is still a child but I can’t help seeing him as I see Rory at that age. Fully grown. Almost.

As soon as I have finished telling him, the remorse sets in.

‘Amit,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘I’m sorry. I should not be telling you this. Look, I am obviously just a crazy homeless guy. You know that, right? Just forget it all.’

‘So, she could still be there? It’s not even a week ago,’ he says, bouncing a little on his heels.

‘This was a mistake.’ I get up and begin to walk down the road.

‘No, wait. We should go round there.’

‘Really, should we?’ I say. ‘Does that sound like something we should do?’ The tone in my voice isn’t one I recognise. I’ve never liked sarcasm.

‘Yes. We should. If she’s dead we could definitely find out whether she’s still there.’

‘How?’ I say, stopping.

‘The smell,’ he says. ‘Six days rotting – we did this in biology. That place will be stinking.’ He scrunches his nose.

‘She’s not in there. I think some men came by and took the body.’

‘Then at least let’s see if we can find her name out,’ he says.

‘How?’ I say. ‘I can’t go anywhere near the place.’

‘Trust me,’ he says. ‘I’ll do it. You wouldn’t even have to be there.’

‘No. It’s too dangerous,’ I say, and hold him by the shoulders to underline the point.

He turns on his heel and faces the other way. ‘I’m going anyway,’ he says. ‘42B, isn’t it?’

Before I can answer, he has jogged away.

When I catch up with him he is already on Farm Street, scanning the doors for numbers. I reach him just as he is about to walk through the gate to the main house.

‘Amit, no,’ I say to him in a heavy whisper. The darkness bathing the house disguises his expression so I don’t know how he has reacted.

‘Okay,’ he says at last, and follows me back to the pavement.

‘Xander?’ he says after a moment.

‘Yes?’

‘If I were you …’

‘If you were me what?’

‘I’d hide.’ Before I can stop him he has run back to the house and has pointed a finger at the bell. He turns towards me in the darkness and waves me away with his other hand. Then before I can react, he presses.

I have time only to notice that there is a second new lock on the door. A legacy from hearing about my second attempted visit from the police, no doubt. Amit has now turned to the door, and panic grips me as I scramble for a place to hide. I hurry across the road and find a car I can crouch behind. I reach it and quickly duck out of view. My heart is racing. I peek my head up over the bonnet and make out Amit still waiting at the door. I hope nobody is in.

My heart counts the seconds as they thud by. With each passing one, I begin to relax. Ebadi must be out. Then I see a crack of light outline the doorway, growing until it has turned Amit into silhouette.

I cannot make out at this distance what is being said, but Amit is gesticulating with his hands to a figure in the doorway. It must be Ebadi. After a minute Amit seems to turn to go but is stopped by something Ebadi has said. Ebadi steps back into the house and just as I think that the door is going to shut safely between them, Amit follows him inside.