Midnight is a Lonely Place

LIV

Jon opened the door of his flat and peered in. It smelt stale; unlived in. Cyrus, he had heard only yesterday before he flew out of Kennedy, had stayed there just two days before having a massive fight with the sponsors of his London visit, and flying back to the States.

Dropping his bag on the floor, Jon pushed the front door closed behind him with his foot and stooped to pick up his mail. Wearily he walked across to the table and threw it down. On the windowsill a vase of dead flowers stood in a circle of sticky yellow pollen. He went to pick it up and carried it through to the kitchen, wrinkling his nose at the stench from the stale water. On the worktop was a set of keys. Turning on the tap so it ran into the vase, flushing away the slimy green deposits which clung to the rough porcelain he picked up the keys and looked at the tag. A small black cat. Kate’s keys. He smacked them down on the counter. Two days! Two lousy days Cyrus had stayed and he had as good as thrown her out for that! Well, he had paid back the first half of her money now, at least.

Going back to the living room, he flung himself down on the sofa and reached onto the table beside him to punch the answer machine. The calls went on and on. He listened wearily, his eyes closed. The procession of voices through the cold half light of the afternoon was like a review of his life. ‘Hi Jon. Call me when you get back’… ‘Jon, if you’re there around the 18th we’re having a get together…’ ‘Jon, don’t forget, twelve thirty on the 23rd at the Groucho…’ ‘Jon…’ ‘Jon…’ ‘Jon…’

He stood up and went to pour himself a Scotch. The bottle – all the bottles on the tray, he noticed wryly – were empty.

‘Shit!’

‘Jon. This is Bill. Just to let you know all the phones down at Redall seem to be out of commission. I’m going down this morning – it’s about ten on Saturday morning now – to see what’s going on.’

Jon switched off the machine. Reaching for the phone he dialled Bill’s number. It rang on in the silence. He redialled – Bill’s cottage this time. ‘Come on, answer.’ Jon drummed his fingers on his knee. Abruptly he cut the connection. He tried the Redall Cottage number. The line was still dead. Swearing under his breath, he dialled the Lindseys’. That, too was silent. He slammed down the receiver and stood up. What the hell was going on up there?

Turning to his bags, he found the bottle of duty free Talisker he had picked up at the airport. Uncapping it he poured himself a slug.

Why the hell did he care so much anyway? Kate was part of history. They had not got on. The affair was over. Finished. Kaput. There was nothing left to rekindle. She wasn’t interested in him any more, however friendly she had been on the phone. That was just politeness; typical Kate, not wanting to hurt anyone’s feelings. He would probably never see her again.

He drained his glass and poured some more. Outside the window with its veil of sooty net the London street grew dark. A steady wet sleet had begun to fall. Setting down his glass Jon went to switch on the tall, chrome lamp in the corner. Then he reached for the road map.