I Know What I Saw

4 Tuesday

I left my life to be alone. When I think of it, phrased in that way, I feel like an idiot. To be alone. The idea that I once thought I could find solitude on the streets! When the drunks don’t piss on you and the police don’t move you on and the people don’t look through you in that way, there’s still the sky. For you the sky is freedom. It’s your endless, unconfined self. But for me the sky is a shroud. It wraps me. It binds my eyes and mouth so that I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe. My eyes are wide now as I force myself to connect my body to my surroundings. From behind the chesterfield I can see nothing but parts of myself. The dirt under my fingernails, the grime burned into the skin of my hands, the sleeves of my jumper, baggy and bobbled with pilling. I’ve made the mistake of holding on to my breath for fear of being noticed. And now that I am safe and hidden and I can breathe again, I have held on for too long. I lower my head so the coat-shoe bundle is tight to my face and breathe out into it.

‘There’s a bottle under that cupboard,’ the woman says. ‘You open that up and I’ll put on a record.’

I track the sound of their bodies as they separate and bustle in different ends of the room. My heart is still beating too quickly and I worry that I am going to hyperventilate.

‘This Gamay?’ he asks, his words muffled but he stretches out the vowels just as my father used to.

From the sound of his voice, he is at the far end of the room by the dining table. There must be a cupboard there. His voice is low, on its knees. I concentrate on the words so that I can control my breathing and stave off the claustrophobia that threatens.

‘Or shall I get the champagne?’ he asks, his tone oily.

‘Champagne?’ she calls out. ‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, to the sound of glass kissing from being handled. ‘Just, you know, there is the money.’

She laughs but there’s uncertainty in her voice.

‘I’m kidding,’ he says and then to fill in the space, he adds, ‘The Gamay then.’

‘Any of the reds will do.’ Her tone is rich and velvety. Loud. She’s near. Then her voice drops and becomes shaded as if she too has crouched down. ‘What about Jack T?’ she asks.

‘Bit bluesy,’ the man says, his voice getting louder now as he walks back towards her. There is a clink of glass and then silence. A hiss, then suddenly the room fills with sound, in stereo.

The music masks my presence here which is good for all kinds of reasons, not least that I need to move. My thighs are beginning to burn from crouching so long, so I wait till the music builds to a chorus and then I shift to lie flat, wedged in. I stare at a ceiling that is now bathed in light. The bass beats through the floorboards into my flesh. And then as the sound of their voices murmuring through the music filters down to me, I begin to relax. They are close to one another. Their voices are soft and intimate.

At least they are not on this sofa.

The album continues to play.

Then that same hiss, like waves throwing up surf. Every few minutes a spray of words reaches me, distinct before ebbing away.

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Let me flip it over. Still haven’t worked out where that smell’s coming from.’

A few seconds of silence. I hold my breath before the music comes again and I can breathe again. That smell – does she mean me?

Another song plays but now gives me a rush of memory. From before. Grace.

We were in the bowl of a boat. It was dark but there was warmth in the air. It was summer and we had found a small rowing boat on the edge of the Thames as we were walking back from somewhere near Kingston. Laughing, we dipped the boat gently into the water and kicked off from the bank quietly. She had a half-drunk bottle of rosé in her hand and giggled at the idea that we were in someone else’s boat. Stealing, she said. We weren’t stealing but borrowing, I told her as seriously I could. And she sang it then, that song.

‘Your train is ready to depart, ma’am,’ I said, mock-bowing.

I close my eyes and the rhythm rocks and lulls me back and forth. I weave between flashes of what might be dreams or some long-gone reality until I drift further and further away. When I open my eyes again, the couple are still murmuring but the light has now dimmed to an orange flicker across the ceiling. A warmth begins to rise over me and I realise that somebody has lit a fire.

All I can do is wait this out. At some point soon, the couple will leave. Then I can slip out of the door, along the hall and out again into the air.

This song. It’s that song I think. The one that has something to do with a film we watched once. The one she liked. Her face now comes into my mind but I clench my eyes to shut her out. Not now, I can’t indulge this now. I need my wits about me. I have to be ready to move.

The record has ended and is hissing in its orbit. As soon as they go, I’ll go.

‘Not again,’ he says when, after a pause, the music starts up once more.

‘So grouchy!’ she says and laughs. In my imagination, she is young and blonde and is nestled under his arm.

‘Not again, I said,’ says the man. There’s an undercurrent of something, bristling.

‘Just once more,’ she replies and her laugh tinkles under the bristle.

A beat.

‘It’s like you deliberately ignore me,’ he says. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Then a scrape as the record is wrenched from the player.

‘Careful! You know how much—’

‘How much what?’ The wine is in evidence in his vowels.

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

There is a sharp snapping sound and a light thud.

‘What did you do?’ she exclaims. Her voice is shrill. Indignant.

‘Accident,’ he says bitterly.

‘You broke it!’ She shifts on the sofa. ‘You broke it. Idiot!’

‘I’m an idiot? It’s a fucking record. Get over it. I’ll get you another one.’

‘Yes, but it wouldn’t be that record,’ she says, her voice dropping at the end.

‘What? You mean it wouldn’t be his?’

She sighs, deflating as if she is tired of this.

‘Oh, just forget it,’ she says, and as she does her voice trails off, as if she’s moved across to the dining area. She seems disembodied without the sound of her feet to tether her voice.

‘No, no, no. Not forget it,’ he says, his voice pursuing her, breathy and urgent.

‘Get off me.’ Her voice is distant. She is deep in the other end of the double room, from the sound of it.

I roll quietly on to my side so that I can look out into the room beyond the edge of the leather sofa. The area at the far end is in shade. The dying light from the fire can’t reach it but I can still make out their legs. He’s wearing suit trousers. She’s in stockings or tights. I look up but the dining table is still obscuring a lot of what would be visible. I strain until I can see flickers of movement.

He’s holding her by the wrist but she is tugging it away. There’s no fear in her demeanour. She knows him. She’s safe.

‘Precious fucking boyfriend record,’ he says. Some of what he is saying doesn’t reach me. ‘Knew all that time – keeping – the things in there – quiet just like—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she retorts. ‘You’re drunk.’

I blink away spots appearing before me. She says other things that I don’t catch.

Her voice is sharp and rises to the ceiling and then scatters around me like fallen glass.

‘You know how I feel about – getting my father – and at this time – when …’ His voice rising and falling, makes its way to me in incomplete packets. If I could only hear more.

‘If you sorted out your issues, maybe you wouldn’t—’

Then more noise.

I crane my neck for a better view. I see a cloud of dark hair.

‘Shut. Up,’ he says.

He has leaned her back over the table, and is covering her mouth with his hand. I can see her struggling, fighting to get upright, fighting to get his weight off her body. Fighting to get his hand off her mouth.

My heart starts to race but I am paralysed. Stop now! I say under my breath. Enough.

Her legs kick out but reach only air.

Don’t! She can’t breathe.

Her voice is trying to escape from her lungs but he smothers it, pressing his hands on her face. I have to get up now and do something, but I am rooted to my place. I’m not supposed to be here. I’ve convinced even myself I am not here. And yet I am. I have to get up. I have to run and pull him off before …

I take a breath and force myself to my knees. From here I can see that she is failing. Her face and her neck are changing colour. Her hair falls softly around her face but something about it is grotesque. I will some movement into my legs but they are stuck.

I cough. It distracts him but then, just as he turns around to look, I drop back behind the sofa, unable to hold my ground. I am terrified of being found here in this house, but she has to be more important than that and I am furious that I can’t control my instincts. But I see that he’s released her now. He turns back towards her, then the shock of what he has done – is doing – seems to hit him. She gasps, clutching her throat, and levers herself off the table, breathing hard.

He seems to have forgotten what distracted him and is now holding her gently by the forearms.

‘I’m so sorry, darling. I’m so … I’m drunk. And you just – you know how much I hate being compared to him. If you hadn’t—’

‘Me?’ she exclaims. ‘Me? You nearly killed me! What the hell’s wrong with you—’

I peer round the edge of the leather sofa in time to see her spin around and launch a flat hand at his face. As soon as the blow lands, almost before the sound ripples to my ears, he reacts, as if bound by the laws of physics – every force has an equal and opposite reaction. The moment her hand whips his skin, he swings his fist into her face. They are like two table tennis players who play just one shot each. It is that quick.

Her head snaps back with a crack. She freezes then. Her face is a pale, perfectly still surprise. My heart stops. My head pounds, and in that gap when all things still remain possible, my life flashes before me in a kaleidoscope.

Bright light moments. Heavy sadness. Regrets, mainly.

My mind gathers as many strands of my life as it can in that divided infinite sub-second, like it’s fleeing from a burning building. My last possessions.

The woman’s knees buckle as if the bones in her legs have vaporised. She drops. Then there is another dull crack as her body pulls the back of her head down hard on the edge of the table. And then, finally, another thud as she lands scattered on the floor.

I can’t believe what has happened. I’m cemented in place, supine, like her, the air trapped in my lungs. He is stuck in his frame too, the man. He stands over her body, holding a hand to his mouth. A heartbeat, maybe two and then he’s moving again. He falls to his knees and appears to be whispering her name. I can’t hear clearly from here and all I can think is shit, what just happened? This can’t be happening. I start to pat myself down, getting ready to move but then I realise I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off him and what he’s doing. He’s stroking her cheek gently and calling what must be her name over and over, desperately. Chelle, Chelle, Chelle. And then he is tapping her cheek harder with his palm, but her head lolls. He looms over her for a second before he puts the side of his head to her mouth, listening for breath. Five, six, seven seconds he is there, searching, before he’s up again. Then his hands cloak his face as he lets out a scream.

A beat and then he moves.

I see him from my place and he is frantic. His arms and eyes dart out as far as they can reach. His movements are erratic, random almost. He rushes back into my part of the room and swipes up his shoes before returning to the dining room to pick up something that chinks. Keys, maybe. Now he’s back, rummaging, and all the while I want him to just leave so that this can be over. He has a jacket in his arms. He runs back into the dining area before circling round again where I see him stoop out of view. Then he loops back to the far end of the room, with a glass which he then manages to drop. It shatters and he swears before gathering the pieces up with his hands into his jacket. I see it all from the leather-edge of my hiding place.

A panic seizes me. I should stop him. But it’s too late now. The police should be called. I turn on to my front, preparing to get up but something keeps stopping me. I don’t know this man. How can I know what he is capable of? I cut off the thought at its roots. It’s me I’m terrified of. I know what I am capable of. And yet I have not moved.

He stands over the woman, his head dropped on to his chest. He is muttering something but I can’t make it out. Then his head snaps up. He pulls a handkerchief out and begins to wipe a bottle that is now in his hand. When he finishes he places it carefully on the table, studying it for a second before changing his mind and picking it up again. He considers for a moment and then pours some of the contents over the woman’s body before crouching next to her and putting the neck of the bottle in her hand. He straightens again and looks critically at the scene. His frantic quality has gone now and in its place a kind of coldness has descended.

He steps back. Looks. Then takes another step back. Looks again. He leaves. The door at the end of the corridor slams. As it does, at last, I too am slammed, back into existence.

I am here in this room with a woman who is dead.