The Paris Apartment

Jess

For Christ’s sake, Ben. Answer your phone. I’m freezing my tits off out here. My Eurostar was two hours late leaving London; I should have arrived at ten-thirty but it’s just gone midnight. And it’s cold tonight, even colder here in Paris than it was in London. It’s only the end of October but my breath smokes in the air and my toes are numb in my boots. Crazy to think there was a heatwave only a few weeks ago. I need a proper coat. But there’s always been a lot of things I need that I’m never going to get.

I’ve probably called Ben ten times now: as my Eurostar pulled in, on the half hour walk here from Gare du Nord. No answer. And he hasn't replied to any of my texts. Thanks for nothing, big bro.

He said he’d be here to let me in. “Just ring the buzzer. I’ll be up waiting for you—”

Well, I’m here. Here being a dimly lit, cobblestoned cul-de-sac in what appears to be a seriously posh neighborhood. The apartment building in front of me closes off this end, standing all on its own.

I glance back down the empty street. Beside a parked car, about twenty feet away, I think I see the shadows shift. I step to the side, to try and get a better look. There’s . . . I squint, trying to make out the shape. I could swear there’s someone there, crouched behind the car.

I jump as a siren blares a few streets away, loud in the silence. Listen as the sound fades away into the night. It’s different from the ones at home—“nee-naw, nee-naw,” like a child’s impression—but it still makes my heart beat a little faster.

I glance back at the shadowy area behind the parked car. Now I can’t make out any movement, can’t even see the shape I thought I glimpsed before. Maybe it was just a trick of the light, after all.

I look back up at the building. The others on this street are beautiful, but this one knocks spots off them all. It’s set back from the road behind a big gate with a high wall on either side, concealing what must be some sort of garden or courtyard. Five or six stories, huge windows, all with wrought-iron balconies. A big sprawl of ivy growing all over the front of it which looks like a creeping dark stain. If I crane my neck I can see what might be a roof garden on the top, the spiky shapes of the trees and shrubs black cut-outs against the night sky.

I double-check the address. Number twelve, Rue des Amants. I’ve definitely got it right. I still can’t quite believe this swanky apartment building is where Ben’s been living. He said a mate helped sort him out with it, someone he knew from his student days. But then Ben’s always managed to fall on his feet. I suppose it only makes sense that he’s charmed his way into a place like this. And charm must have done it. I know journalists probably earn more than bartenders, but not by this much.

The metal gate in front of me has a brass lion’s head knocker: the fat metal ring held between snarling teeth. Along the top of the gate, I notice, is a bristle of anti-climb spikes. And all along the high wall either side of the gate are embedded shards of glass. These security measures feel kind of at odds with the elegance of the building.

I lift up the knocker, cold and heavy in my hand, let it drop. The clang of it bounces off the cobblestones, so much louder than expected in the silence. In fact, it’s so quiet and dark here that it’s hard to imagine it’s part of the same city I’ve trundled across this evening from Gare du Nord: all the bright lights and crowds, people spilling in and out of restaurants and bars. I think of the area around that huge cathedral lit up on the hill, the Sacré-Coeur, which I passed beneath only twenty minutes ago: throngs of tourists out taking selfies and dodgy-looking guys in puffer jackets sharking between them, ready to nick a wallet or two. And the streets that I walked through with the neon signs, the blaring music, the all-night food, the crowds spilling out of bars, the queues for clubs. This is a different universe. I look back down the street behind me: not another person in sight. The only real sound comes from a scurry of dead ivy across the cobblestones. I can hear the roar of traffic at a distance, the honking of car horns—but even that seems muffled, like it wouldn’t dare intrude on this elegant, hushed world.

I didn’t stop to think much, pulling my case across town from the station. I was mainly concentrating on not getting mugged, or letting the broken wheel of my suitcase stick and throw me off balance. But now, for the first time, it sinks in: I’m here, in Paris. A different city, a different country. I’ve made it. I’ve left my old life behind.

A light snaps on in one of the windows up above. I glance up and there’s a dark figure standing there, head and shoulders in silhouette. Ben? If it were him, though, he’d wave down at me, surely. I know I must be lit up by the nearby streetlamp. But the figure at the window is as still as a statue. I can’t make out any features or even whether they’re male or female. But they’re watching me. They must be. I suppose I must look pretty shabby and out of place with my broken old suitcase trying to bust open despite the bungee cord wrapped around it. A strange feeling, knowing they can see me but I can’t see them properly. I drop my eyes.

Aha. To the right of the gate I spot a little panel of buttons for the different apartments with a lens set into it. The big lion’s head knocker must just be for show. I step forward and press the one for the third floor, for Ben’s place. I wait for his voice to crackle through the intercom.

No answer.

Sophie

Someone is knocking on the front door to the building. Loud enough for Benoit, my silver whippet, to leap to his feet and let out a volley of barks.

“Arrête ça!” I shout. “Stop that.”

Benoit whimpers, then goes quiet. He looks up at me, confusion in his dark eyes. I can hear the change in my voice as well—too shrill, too loud. And I can hear my own breathing in the silence that follows, rough and shallow.

No one ever uses the door knocker. Certainly, no one familiar with this building. I go to the windows on this side of the apartment, which look down into the courtyard. I can’t see onto the street from here, but the front door from the street leads into the courtyard, so if anyone had come in I would see them there. But no one has entered and it must have been a few minutes since the knocking. Clearly it’s not someone the concierge thinks should be admitted. Fine. Good. I haven’t always liked that woman, but I know I can trust her in this at least.

In Paris you can live in the most luxurious apartment and the scum of the city will still wash up at your door on occasion. The drug addicts, the vagrants. The whores. Pigalle, the red-light district, lies just a little way away, clinging to the coattails of Montmartre. Up here, in this multi-million-euro fortress with its views out over the city’s rooftops, all the way to the Tour Eiffel, I have always felt comparatively safe. I can ignore the grime beneath the gilt. I am good at turning a blind eye. Usually. But tonight is . . . different.

I go to check my reflection in the mirror that hangs in the hallway. I pay close attention to what I see in the glass. Not so bad for fifty. It is partly due to the fact that I have adopted the French way when it comes to maintaining my forme. Which essentially means always being hungry. I know that even at this hour I will be looking immaculate. My lipstick is flawless. I never leave the apartment without it. Chanel, “La Somptueuse”: my signature color. A bluish, regal color that says: “stand back,” not “come hither.” My hair is a shining black bob cut every six weeks by David Mallet at Notre Dame des Victoires. The shape perfected, any silver painstakingly concealed. Jacques, my husband, made it quite clear once that he abhors women who allow themselves to go gray. Even if he hasn’t always been here to admire it.

I am wearing what I consider my uniform. My armor. Silk Equipment shirt, exquisitely-cut dark slim trousers. A scarf—brightly patterned Hermès silk—around my neck, which is excellent for concealing the ravages of time to the delicate skin there. A recent gift from Jacques, with his love of beautiful things. Like this apartment. Like me, as I was before I had the bad grace to age.

Perfect. As ever. As expected. But I feel dirty. Sullied by what I have had to do this evening. In the glass my eyes glitter. The only sign. Though my face is a little gaunt, too—if you were to look closely. I am even thinner than usual. Recently I have not had to watch my diet, to carefully mark each glass of wine or morsel of croissant. I couldn’t tell you what I ate for breakfast this morning; whether I remembered to eat at all. Each day my waistband hangs looser, the bones of my sternum protrude more sharply.

I undo the knot of my scarf. I can tie a scarf as well as any born and bred Parisian. By it you know me for one of them, those chic moneyed women with their small dogs and their excellent breeding.

I look at the text message I sent to Jacques last night. Bonne nuit, mon amour. Tout va bien ici. Good night, my love. Everything is fine here.

Everything is fine here. HA.

I don’t know how it has come to this. But I do know that it started with him coming here. Moving into the third floor. Benjamin Daniels. He destroyed everything.

Jess

I pull out my phone. Last time I checked Ben hadn’t replied to any of my messages. One on the Eurostar: On my way! And then: At Gare du Nord! Do you have an Uber account?!!! Just in case, you know, he suddenly felt generous enough to send a cab to collect me. Seemed worth a shot.

There is a new message on my phone. Only it’s not from Ben.

You stupid little bitch. Think you can get away with what you’ve done?

Shit. I swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat. Then I delete it. Block the number.

As I say, it was all a bit last minute, coming here. Ben didn’t sound that thrilled when I called him earlier and told him I was on my way. True, I didn’t give him much time to get used to the idea. But then it’s always felt like the bond between us is more important to me than it is to my half brother. I suggested we hang out last Christmas, but he said he was busy. “Skiing,” he said. Didn’t even know he could ski. Sometimes it even feels like I’m an embarrassment to him. I represent the past, and he’d rather be cut loose from all that.

I had to explain I was desperate. “Hopefully it’ll only be for a month or two, and I’ll pay my way,” I said. “Just as soon as I get on my feet. I’ll get a job.” Yeah. One where they don’t ask too many questions. That’s how you end up in the places I’ve worked at—there aren’t that many that will take you when your references are such a shitshow.

Up until this afternoon I was gainfully employed at the Copacabana bar in Brighton. The odd massive tip made up for it. A load of wanker bankers, say, down from London celebrating some Dick or Harry or Tobias’ upcoming nuptials and too pissed to count the notes out right—or maybe to guys like that it’s just so much loose change anyway. But, as of today, I’m unemployed. Again.

I press the buzzer a second time. No answer. All the building’s windows are dark again—even the one that lit up before. Christ’s sake. He couldn’t have turned in for the night and totally forgotten about me . . . could he?

Below all the other buzzers there’s a separate one: Concierge, it reads in curly script. Like something in a hotel: further proof that this place is seriously upmarket. I press the button, wait. No answer. But I can’t help imagining someone looking at the little video image of me, assessing, then deciding not to open up.

I lift up the heavy knocker again and slam it several times against the wood. The sound echoes down the street: someone must hear it. I can just make out a dog barking, from somewhere deep inside the building.

I wait five minutes. No one comes.

Shit.

I can’t afford a hotel. I don’t have enough for a return journey to London—and even if I did there’s no way I’m going back. I consider my options. Go to a bar . . . wait it out?

I hear footsteps behind me, ringing out on the cobblestones. Ben? I spin round, ready for him to apologize, tell me he just popped out to get some ciggies or something. But the figure walking toward me isn’t my brother. He’s too tall, too broad, a parka hood with a fur rim up over his head. He’s moving quickly and there’s something purposeful about his walk. I grip the handle of my suitcase a little tighter. Literally everything I own is in here.

He’s only a few meters away now, close enough that by the light of the streetlamp I can make out the gleam of his eyes under the hood. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulling his hand back out. Something makes me take a step backward. And now I see it. Something sharp and metallic, gleaming in his hand.

Concierge

I watch her on the intercom screen, the stranger at the gate. What can she be doing here? She rings the buzzer again. She must be lost. I know, just from looking at her, that she has no business being here. Except she seems certain that this is the place she wants, so determined. Now she looks into the lens. I will not let her in. I cannot.

I am the gatekeeper of this building. Sitting here in my loge: a tiny cabin in the corner of the courtyard, which would fit maybe twenty times into the apartments above me. But it is mine, at least. My private space. My home. Most people wouldn’t consider it worthy of the name. If I sit on the pull-down bed, I can touch nearly all the corners of the room at once. There is damp spreading from the ground and down from the roof and the windows don’t keep out the cold. But there are four walls. There is a place for me to put my photographs with their echoes of a life once lived, the little relics I have collected and which I hold onto when I feel most alone; the flowers I pick from the courtyard garden every other morning so there is something fresh and alive in here. This place, for all its shortcomings, represents security. Without it I have nothing.

I look again at the face on the intercom screen. As the light catches her just so I see a familiarity: the sharp line of the nose and jaw. But more than her appearance it is something about the way she moves, looks around her. A hungry, vulpine quality that reminds me of another. All the more reason not to let her in. I don’t like strangers. I don’t like change. Change has always been dangerous for me. He proved that: coming here with his questions, his charm. The man who came to live in the third-floor apartment: Benjamin Daniels. After he came here, everything changed.

Jess

He’s coming straight for me, the guy in the parka. He’s lifting his arm. The metal of the blade gleams again. Shit. I’m about to turn and run—get a few yards on him at least—

But wait, no, no . . . I can see now that the thing in his hand isn’t a blade. It’s an iPhone, in a metallic case. I let out the breath I’ve been holding and lean against my bag, hit by a sudden wave of tiredness. I’ve been wired all day, no wonder I’m spooking at shadows.

I watch as the guy makes a call. I can make out a tinny little voice at the other end; a woman’s voice, I think. Then he begins to talk, over her, louder and louder, until he’s shouting into his handset. I have no idea what the words mean exactly but I don’t need to know much French to understand this isn’t a polite or friendly chat.

After he’s got his long, angry speech off his chest he hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket. Then he spits out a single word: “Putain.”

I know that one. I got a D in my French GCSE but I did look up all the swear words once and I’m good at remembering the stuff that interests me. Whore: that’s what it means.

Now he turns and starts walking in my direction again. And I see, quite clearly, that he just wants to use the gate to this building. I step aside, feeling a total idiot for having got so keyed up over nothing. But it makes sense; I spent the whole Eurostar journey looking over my shoulder. You know, just in case.

“Bonsoir,” I say in my best accent, flashing my most winning smile. Maybe this guy will let me in and I can go up to the third floor and hammer on Ben’s apartment door. Maybe his buzzer’s simply not working or something.

The guy doesn’t reply. He just turns to the keypad next to the gate and punches in a series of numbers. Finally he gives me a quick glance over his shoulder. It’s not the most friendly glance. I catch a waft of booze, stale and sour. Same breath as most of the punters in the Copacabana.

I smile again. “Er . . . excuse moi? Please, ah—I need some help, I’m looking for my brother, Ben. Benjamin Daniels—”

I wish I had a bit more of Ben’s flair, his charm. “Benjamin Silver-Tongue,” Mum called him. He’s always had this way of getting anyone to do what he wants. Maybe that’s why he ended up a journalist in Paris while I’ve been working for a bloke affectionately known as The Pervert in a shithole bar in Brighton serving stag dos at the weekends and local lowlifes in the week.

The guy turns back to face me, slowly. “Benjamin Daniels,” he says. Not a question: just the name, repeated. I see something: anger, or maybe fear. He knows who I’m talking about. “Benjamin Daniels is not here.”

“What do you mean, he’s not here?” I ask. “This is the address he gave me. He’s up on the third floor. I can’t get hold of him.”

The man turns his back on me. I watch as he pulls open the gate. Finally he turns round to face me a third time and I think: maybe he is going to help me, after all. Then, in accented English, very slowly and loudly, he says: “Fuck off, little girl.”

Before I even have time to reply there’s a clang of metal and I jump backward. He’s slammed the gate shut, right in my face. As the ringing fades from my ears I’m left with just the sound of my breathing, fast and loud.

But he’s helped me, even though he doesn’t know it. I wait a moment, take a quick look back down the street. Then I lift my hand to the keypad and punch in the same numbers I watched him use only a few seconds ago: 7561. Bingo: the little light flickers green and I hear the mechanism of the gate click open. Dragging my case after me, I slip inside.

Mimi

Merde.

I just heard his name, out there in the night. I lift my head, listening. For some reason I’m on top of the covers, not under them. My hair feels damp, the pillow cold and soggy. I shiver.

Am I hearing things? Did I imagine it? His name . . . following me everywhere?

No: I’m sure it was real. A woman’s voice, drifting up through the open window of my bedroom. Somehow I heard it four stories up. Somehow I heard it through the roar of white noise inside my head.

Who is she? Why is she asking about him?

I sit up, pulling my bony knees tight against my chest, and reach for my childhood doudou, Monsieur Gus, a scraggy old penguin stuffed animal toy I still keep beside my pillow. I press him against my face, try to comfort myself with the feel of his hard little head, the soft, shifting scrunch of the beans inside his body, the musty smell of him. Just like I did as a little girl when I’d had a bad dream. You’re not a little girl any longer, Mimi. He said that. Ben.

The moon is so bright that my whole room is filled with a cold blue light. Nearly a full moon. In the corner I can make out my record player, the case of vinyls next to it. I painted the walls in here such a dark blackish-blue that they don’t reflect any light at all but the poster hanging opposite me seems to glow. It’s a Cindy Sherman; I went to her show at the Pompidou last year. I got completely obsessed with how raw and freaky and intense her work is: the kind of thing I try to do with my painting. In the poster, one of the Untitled Film Stills, she’s wearing a short black wig and she stares out at you like she’s possessed, or like she might be about to eat your soul. “Putain!” my flatmate Camille laughed, when she saw it. “What happens if you bring some guy back? He’s gonna have to look at that angry bitch while you’re screwing? That’ll put him off his rhythm.” As if, I thought at the time. Nineteen years old and still a virgin. Worse. A convent-school-educated virgin.

I stare at Cindy, the black bruise-like shadows around her eyes, the jagged line of her hair which is kind of like my own, since I took a pair of scissors to it. It feels like looking in a mirror.

I turn to the window, look down into the courtyard. The lights are on in the concierge’s cabin. Of course: that nosy old bitch never misses a trick. Creeping out from shadowy corners. Always watching, always there. Looking at you like she knows all your secrets.

This building is a U-shape around the courtyard. My bedroom is at one end of the U, so if I peer diagonally downward I can see into his apartment. Nearly every evening for the last two months he sat there at his desk working late into the night, the lights on. For just a moment I let myself look. The shutters are open but the lights are off and the space behind the desk looks more than empty, or like the emptiness itself has a kind of depth and weight. I glance away.

I slide down from my bed and tiptoe out into the main part of the apartment, trying not to trip over all the stuff Camille leaves scattered around like it’s an extension of her bedroom: magazines and dropped sweaters, dirty coffee cups, nail varnish pots, lacy bras. From the big windows in here I’ve got a direct view of the front entrance. As I watch, the gate opens. A shadowy figure slips through the gap. As she comes forward into the light I can make her out: a woman I have never seen before. No, I say silently. No no no no no. Go away. The roar in my head grows louder.

“Did you hear that knocking?”

I spin around. Putain. Camille’s lounging there on the couch, cigarette glowing in her hand, boots up on the armrest: faux-snakeskin with five-inch heels. When did she get in? How long has she been lurking there in the dark?

“I thought you were out,” I say. Normally, if she goes clubbing, she stays till dawn.

“Oui.” She shrugs, takes a drag on her cigarette. “I’ve only been back twenty minutes.” Even in the gloom I see how her eyes slide away from mine. Normally she’d be straight into some story about the crazy new club she’s been at, or the guy whose bed she’s just left, including an overly detailed description of his dick or exactly how skilled he was at using it. I’ve often felt like I’m living vicariously through Camille. Grateful someone like her would choose to hang out with me. When we met at the Sorbonne she told me she likes collecting people, that I interested her because I have this “intense energy.” But when I’ve felt worse about myself I’ve suspected this apartment probably has more to do with it.

“Where have you been?” I ask, trying to sound halfway normal.

She shrugs. “Just around.”

I feel like there’s something going on with her, something she’s not telling me. But right now I can’t think about Camille. The roaring in my head suddenly feels like it’s drowning out all my thoughts.

There’s just one thing I know. Everything that has happened here happened because of him: Benjamin Daniels.

Jess

I’m standing in a small, dark courtyard. The apartment building proper wraps around it on three sides. The ivy has gone crazy here, winding up almost to the fourth floor, surrounding all the windows, swallowing drainpipes, a couple of satellite dishes. Ahead a short path winds between flowerbeds planted with dark shrubs and trees. I can smell the sweetish scent of dead leaves, fresh-turned earth. To my right there’s a sort of cabin structure, only a bit bigger than a garden shed. The two windows seem to be shuttered. On one side a tiny chink of light shows through a crack.

In the opposite corner I make out a door, which seems to lead into the main part of the building. I head that way along the path. As I do a pale face looms suddenly out of the darkness on my right. I stop short. But it’s the statue of a nude woman, life-size, her body wound about with more black ivy, her eyes staring and blank.

The door in the corner of the courtyard has another passcode, but it clicks open with the same set of numbers, thank God. I step through it into a dark, echoing space. A stairwell winds upward into deeper darkness. I find the little orange glow of a light switch on the wall, flick it. The lights hum on, dimly. A ticking sound: some sort of energy-saving timer maybe. I can see now that there’s a dark reddish carpet beneath my feet, covering a stone floor then climbing up the polished wooden staircase. Above me the bannister coils around on itself and inside the staircase there’s a lift shaft—a tiny, ancient, rickety-looking capsule that might be as old as the apartment itself, so ancient-looking I wonder if it’s actually still in use. There’s a trace of stale cigarette smoke on the air. Still, all pretty posh, all a long, long way from the place I’ve been crashing at in Brighton.

There’s a door to the left of me: Cave, it says. I’ve never let a closed door stay closed for long: I suppose you could say that’s my main problem in life. I give it a push, see a flight of steps leading down. I’m hit by a waft of cold underground air, damp and musty.

I hear a noise then, somewhere above me. The creak of wood. I let the door swing shut and glance up. Something moves along the wall several flights up. I wait to see someone appear around the corner, in the gaps between the bannisters. But the shadow stops, as though waiting for something. And then suddenly everything goes dark: the timer must have run out. I reach over, flick it back on.

The shadow’s gone.

I walk over to the lift in its metal cage. It’s definitely on the antique side, but I’m too exhausted to even think about lugging my stuff up those stairs. There’s barely room for me and the suitcase inside. I close the little door, press the button for the third floor, put a hand against the structure to steady myself. It gives under the pressure of my palm; I hastily pull my hand away. There’s a bit of a shudder as the lift sets off; I catch my breath.

Up I go: each floor has one door, marked with a brass number. Is there only one apartment per floor? They must be pretty big. I imagine the sleeping presence of strangers behind those doors. I wonder who lives in them, what Ben’s neighbors are like. And I find myself wondering which apartment the dickhead I met at the gate lives in.

The lift judders to a halt on the third floor. I step out onto the landing and drag my suitcase after me. Here it is: Ben’s apartment, with its brass number 3.

I give it a couple of loud knocks.

No answer.

I crouch down and look at the keyhole. It’s the old-fashioned kind, easiest in the world to pick. Needs must. I take out my hoop earrings and bend them out of shape—the convenience of cheap jewelry—leaving me with two long, thin pieces of metal. I make my rake and my pick. Ben actually taught me this when we were little so he can hardly complain. I got so good at it I can unpick a simple pin tumbler mechanism in less than a minute.

I wiggle the earrings back and forth in the lock until there’s a click, then turn the handle. Yes—the door begins to open. I pause. Something about this doesn’t feel right. I’ve had to rely on my instincts quite a lot over the years. And I’ve also been here before. Hand clasped around the door handle. Not knowing what I’m going to find on the other side—

Deep breath. For a moment it feels like the air contracts around me. I find myself gripping the pendant of my necklace. It’s a St. Christopher: Mum gave us both one, to keep us safe—even if that was her job, not something to be outsourced to a little metal saint. I’m not religious and I’m not sure Mum was either. All the same, I can’t imagine ever being parted with mine.

With my other hand I push the handle down. I can’t stop myself from squeezing my eyes shut tight as I step into the space.

It’s pitch-black inside.

“Ben?” I call out.

No answer.

I step farther inside, grope about for a light switch. As the lights come on the apartment reveals itself. My first thought is: Christ, it’s huge. Bigger even than I expected. Grander. High-ceilinged. Dark wooden beams up above, polished floorboards below, huge windows facing down onto the courtyard.

I take another step into the room. As I do something lands across my shoulders: a blunt, heavy blow. Then the sting of something sharp, tearing into my flesh.

Concierge

A few minutes after the knocking I watched through the windows of my lodge as the first figure entered the courtyard, his hood pulled up. Then I saw a second figure appear. The newcomer, the girl. Clattering that huge suitcase across the cobbles of the courtyard, making enough noise to wake the dead.

I watched her on the intercom screen until the buzzer stopped ringing.

I am good at watching. I sweep the residents’ hallways, I collect their post, I answer the door. But also, I watch. I see everything. And it gives me a strange kind of power, even if I’m the only one who’s aware of it. The residents forget about me. It’s convenient for them to do so. To imagine that I’m nothing more than an extension of this building, just a moving element of a large machine, like the lift that takes them up to their beautiful apartments. In a way I have become part of this place. It has certainly left its mark on me. I am sure the years of living in this tiny cabin have caused me to shrink, hunching into myself, while the hours spent sweeping and scrubbing the corridors and stairs of the apartment building have winnowed my flesh. Perhaps in another life I would have grown plump in my old age. I have not had that luxury. I am sinew and bone. Stronger than I look.

I suppose I could have gone and stopped her. Should have done. But confrontation is not my style. I have learned that watching is the more powerful weapon. And it had a feeling of inevitability, her being here. I could see her determination. She would somehow have found her way in, no matter what I did to try and prevent her.

Stupid girl. It would have been far, far better if she’d turned and left this place and never returned. But it’s too late now. So be it.

Jess

My heart is beating double-time, my muscles tensed.

I look down at the cat as it weaves its way between my legs, purring, a blur of movement. Slinky, black, a white ruff. I put a hand down the back of my top. My fingers come away with a sheen of blood. Ouch.

The cat must have jumped onto my back from the counter next to the door, digging its claws in for grip when I fell forward. It looks up at me now through narrowed green eyes and gives a squawk, as though asking me what the hell I think I’m doing here.

A cat! Jesus Christ. I start laughing and then stop, quickly, because of the strange way the sound echoes around the high space.

I didn’t know Ben had a cat. Does he even like cats? It suddenly seems crazy that I don’t know this. But I suppose there’s not all that much I do know about his life here.

“Ben?” I call out. Again the sound of my voice bounces back at me. No answer. I don’t think I expected one: it feels too silent, too empty. There’s a strange smell, too. Something chemical.

I suddenly really need a drink. I wander into the little kitchen area to my right and start raiding the cupboards. First things first. I come up with half a bottle of red wine. I’d prefer something with more of a kick, but beggars can’t be choosers and that might as well be the motto for my whole bloody life. I slosh some into a glass. There’s a pack of cigarettes on the side too, a bright blue box: Gitanes. I didn’t know Ben still smoked. Typical of him to favor some fancy French brand. I fish one out, light up, inhale, and cough like I did the first time a fellow foster kid gave me a drag: it’s strong, spicy, unfiltered. I’m not sure I like it. Still, I push the rest of the pack into the back pocket of my jeans—he owes me—and take my first proper look around the place.

I’m . . . surprised, to say the least. I’m not sure what I imagined, but this isn’t it. Ben’s a bit creative, a bit cool (not that I’d ever describe him that way to his face), and in contrast this whole apartment is covered in antique-looking old-lady wallpaper, silvery with a floral pattern. When I put out a hand and touch the nearest wall I realize it’s not paper after all: it’s a very faded silk. I see brighter spots where there were clearly once pictures hanging, small rusty age spots on the fabric. From the high ceiling hangs a chandelier, curls of metal holding the bulbs. A long strand of cobweb swings lazily back and forth—there must be a breeze coming from somewhere. And maybe there were once curtains behind those window shutters: I see an empty curtain rail up above, the brass rings still in place. A desk plumb in front of the windows. A shelf holding a few ivory-colored books, a big navy French dictionary.

In the near corner there’s a coat stand with an old khaki jacket on it; I’m sure I’ve seen Ben wearing it before. Maybe even the last time I saw him, about a year ago, when he came down to Brighton and bought me lunch before disappearing back out of my life again without a backward glance. I reach into the pockets and draw out a set of keys and a brown leather wallet.

Is it a bit strange that Ben’s gone but left these behind?

I open the wallet: the back pocket’s stuffed with a few euro notes. I take a twenty and then, for good measure, a couple of tens. I’d have asked to borrow some money if he was here anyway. I’ll pay it back . . . sometime.

A business card is stuffed into the front of the section that holds credit cards. It reads: Theo Mendelson. Paris editor, Guardian. And scribbled on it, in what looks like Ben’s handwriting (sometimes he remembers to send me a birthday card): PITCH STORY TO HIM!

I look at the keys next. One of them’s for a Vespa, which is odd as last time I saw him he was driving an old eighties Mercedes soft top. The other’s a large antique-looking thing that looks like it might be for this place. I go to the door and try it: the lock clicks.

The uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach grows. But he might have another set of keys. These could be spares, the set he’s going to lend me. He probably has another key for the Vespa, too: he might even have gone off on it somewhere. As for the wallet, he’s probably just carrying cash.

I find the bathroom, next. Nothing much to report here, other than the fact that Ben doesn’t appear to own any towels at all, which seems bizarre. I step back out into the main room. The bedroom must be through the closed pair of French double doors. I walk toward them, the cat following, pressing close as a shadow. Just for a moment, I hesitate.

The cat squawks at me again as if to ask: what are you waiting for? I take another long slug of wine. Deep breath. Push open the doors. Another breath. Open my eyes. Empty bed. Empty room. No one here. Breathe out.

OK. I mean, I didn’t really think I was going to find anything like that. That’s not Ben. Ben’s sorted; I’m the fuck-up. But when it’s happened to you once—

I drain the dregs from my glass, then go through the cupboards in the bedroom. Not much by way of clues except that most of my brother’s clothes seem to come from places called Acne (why would you wear clothes named after a skin condition?) and A.P.C.

Back out in the main room I pour the remainder of the bottle into the glass and neck it back. Drift over to the desk by the large windows, which look down onto the courtyard. There’s nothing on the desk beyond a ratty-looking pen. No laptop. Ben seemed surgically attached to it when he took me for lunch that time, getting it out and typing something while we waited for our order. I suppose he must have it with him, wherever he is.

All at once I have the definite feeling that I’m not alone, that I’m being watched. A prickle down the back of my neck. I spin around. No one there except the cat, which is sitting on the kitchen counter. Perhaps that’s all it was.

The cat gazes at me for a few moments, then turns its head on one side like it’s asking a question. It’s the first time I’ve seen it sit still like this. Then it raises a paw to its mouth and licks. This is when I notice that both the paw and the white ruff at its throat are smeared with blood.

Jess

I’ve gone cold. What the—

I reach out to the cat to try to get a closer look, but it slinks out from under my hand. Maybe it’s just caught a mouse or something? One of the families I fostered with had a cat, Suki. Even though she was small she could take down a whole pigeon: she came back once covered in blood like something out of a horror film and my foster parent Karen found the headless body later that morning. I’m sure there’s some small dead creature lying around the apartment, just waiting for me to step on it. Or maybe it killed something out there in the courtyard—the windows are open a crack, which must be how it gets in and out of this place, walking along the guttering or something.

Still. It gave me a bit of a jolt. When I saw it for a moment I thought—

No. I’m just tired. I should try and get some sleep.

Ben will turn up in the morning, explain where he’s been, I’ll tell him he’s a dick for leaving me to basically break in and it’ll be like old times, the old old times, before he went to live with his shiny rich new family and got a whole new way of speaking and perspective on the world and I got bounced around the care system until I was old enough to fend for myself. I’m sure he’s fine. Bad stuff doesn’t happen to Ben. He’s the lucky one.

I shrug off my jacket, throw it onto the sofa. I should probably take a shower—I’m pretty sure I stink. A bit of B.O. but mainly of vinegar: you can’t work at the Copacabana and not reek of the stuff, it’s what we use to sluice the bar down after every shift. But I’m too tired to wash. I think Ben might have mentioned something about a camp bed, but I don’t see any sign of one. So I take a throw from the sofa and lie down in the bedroom on top of the covers in all my clothes. I give the pillows some thumps to try and rearrange them. As I do something slithers out of the bed onto the floor.

A pair of women’s knickers: black silk, lacy, expensive-looking. Ew. Christ, Ben. I don’t want to think about how those got here. I don’t even know if Ben has a girlfriend. I feel a little pang of sadness, in spite of myself. He’s all I’ve got and I don’t even know this much about him.

I’m too tired to do much more than kick the knickers away, out of sight. Tomorrow I’ll sleep on the sofa.

Jess

A shout rips through the silence. A man’s voice. Then another voice, a woman’s.

I sit up in bed listening hard, heart kicking against my ribs. It takes a second for me to work out that the sounds are coming from the courtyard, filtering through the windows in the main room. I check the alarm clock next to Ben’s bed. 5 a.m.: morning, just, but still dark.

The man is shouting again. He sounds slurred, like he’s been drinking.

I creep across the main room to the windows and crouch down. The cat pushes its face into my thigh, mewing. “Shh,” I tell it—but I quite like the feel of its warm, solid body against mine.

I peer into the courtyard. Two figures stand down there: one tall, one much smaller. The guy is dark-haired and she’s blonde, the long fall of her hair silver in the cool light of the courtyard’s one lamp. He’s wearing a parka with a fur rim that looks familiar, and I realize it’s the guy I “met” outside the gate last night.

Their voices get louder—they’re shouting over one another now. I’m pretty sure I hear her say the word “police.” At this his voice changes—I don’t understand the words but there’s a new hardness, a threat, to his tone. I see him take a couple of steps toward her.

“Laisse-moi!” she shouts, sounding different now, too—scared rather than angry. He takes another step closer. I realize I’m pressed so close to the window that my breath has misted up the glass. I can’t just sit here, listening, watching. He raises a hand. He’s so much taller than her.

A sudden memory. Mum, sobbing. I’m sorry, I’m sorry: over and over, like the words to a prayer.

I lift my hand to the window and slam it against the glass. I want to distract him for a few seconds, give her a chance to move away. I see both of them glance up in confusion, their attention caught by the sound. I duck down, out of sight.

When I look back out again it’s just in time to see him pick something up from the ground, something big and bulky and rectangular. With a big petulant shove he throws it toward her—at her. She steps back and it explodes at her feet: I see it’s a suitcase, spilling clothes everywhere.

Then he looks straight up at me. There’s no time to crouch down. I understand what his look means. I’ve seen you. I want you to know that.

Yeah, I think, looking right back. And I see you, dickhead. I know your sort. You don’t scare me. Except all the hairs on the back of my neck are standing to attention and the blood’s thumping in my ears.

I watch as he walks over to the statue and shoves it viciously off its plinth, so that it topples to the ground with a crash. Then he makes for the door that leads back into the apartment building. I hear the slam echoing up the stairwell.

The woman is left on her knees in the courtyard, scrabbling around for the things that have fallen out of the suitcase. Another memory: Mum, on her knees in the hallway. Begging . . .

Where are the other neighbors? I can’t be the only one who heard the commotion. It’s not a choice to go down and help: it’s something I have to do. I snatch up the keys, run down the couple of flights of stairs and out into the courtyard.

The woman starts as she spots me. She’s still on her hands and knees and I see that her eye make-up has run where she’s been crying. “Hey,” I say softly. “Are you OK?”

In answer she holds up what looks like a silk shirt; it’s stained with dirt from the ground. Then, shakily, in heavily accented English: “I came to get my things. I tell him it’s over, for good. And this—this is what he does. He’s a . . . a son-of-a-bitch. I never should have married him.”

Jesus, I think. This is why I know I’m better off single. Mum had exceptionally terrible taste in men. My dad was the worst of all of them though. Supposedly a good guy. A real fucking bastard. Would have been better if he’d disappeared off into the night like Ben’s dad did before he was born.

The woman’s muttering under her breath as she shovels clothes into the suitcase. Anger seems to have taken over from fear. I go over and crouch down, help her pick up her things. High heels with long foreign names printed inside, a black silk, lacy bra, a little orange sweater made out of the softest fabric I’ve ever felt. “Merci,” she says, absent-mindedly. Then she frowns. “Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I’m meant to be staying with my brother, Ben.”

“Ben,” she says, drawing out his name. She looks me up and down, taking in my jeans, my old sweater. “He’s your brother? Before him I thought all Englishmen were sunburnt, no elegance, bad teeth. I did not know they could be so . . . so beautiful, so charmant, so soigné.” Apparently there aren’t enough words in English for how wonderful my brother is. She continues shoveling clothes into the suitcase, a violence to her movements, scowling every so often at the door into the apartment building. “Is it so strange I got bored of being with a stupid fucking . . . loser alcoolique? That I wanted a little flirtation? And, d’accord, maybe I wanted to make Antoine jealous. Care about something other than himself. Is it such a surprise I started to look elsewhere?”

She tosses her hair over her shoulder in a shining curtain. It’s quite impressive, being able to do that while crouched down picking your lacy underwear out of a gravel path.

She looks toward the building and raises her voice, almost as though she wants her husband to hear. “He says I only care about him because of his money. Of course I only care about him because of his money. It was the only thing that made it—how do you say—worthwhile? But now . . .” she shrugs, “it’s not worth it.”

I pass her a silky, electric blue dress, a baby pink bucket hat with JACQUEMUS printed across the front. “Have you seen Ben recently?” I ask.

“Non,” she says, raising an eyebrow at me like I might be insinuating something. “Pour quoi? Why do you ask?”

“He was meant to be here last night, to let me in, but he wasn’t—and he hasn’t been answering my messages.”

Her eyes widen. And then, under her breath, she murmurs something. I make out: “Antoine . . . non. Ce n’est pas possible . . .”

“What did you say?”

“Oh—rien, nothing.” But I catch the glance she shoots toward the apartment building—fearful, suspicious, even—and wonder what it means.

Now she’s trying to clip shut her bulging suitcase—brown leather with some sort of logo printed all over it—but I see that her hands are trembling, making her fingers clumsy.

“Merde.” Finally it snaps closed.

“Hey,” I say. “Do you want to come inside? Call a cab?”

“No way,” she says, fiercely. “I’m never going back in there. I have an Uber coming . . .” As if on cue, her phone pings. She checks it and gives what sounds like a sigh of relief. “Merci. Putain, he’s here. I have to go.” Then she turns and looks up at the apartment building. “You know what? Fuck this evil place.” Then her expression softens and she blows a kiss toward the windows above us. “But at least one good thing happened to me here.”

She pulls up the handle of the little case then turns and begins stalking toward the gate.

I hurry after her. “What do you mean, evil?”

She glances at me and shakes her head, mimes zippering her lips. “I want my money, from the divorce.”

Then she’s out onto the street and climbing into the cab. As it pulls away, off into the night, I realize I never managed to ask whether what she had with my brother was ever more than a flirtation.

I turn back toward the courtyard and nearly jump out of my skin. Jesus Christ. There’s an old woman standing there, looking at me. She seems to glow with a cold white light, like something off Most Haunted. But after I’ve caught my breath, I realize it’s because she’s standing beneath the outdoor lamp. Where the hell did she appear from?

“Excuse-moi?” I say. “Madame?” I’m not even sure what I want to ask her. Who are you, maybe? What are you doing here?

She doesn’t answer. She simply shakes her head at me, very slowly. Then she’s retreating backward, toward that cabin in the corner of the courtyard. I watch as she disappears inside. As the shutters—which I see now must have been open—are quickly drawn closed.