I followed him to the parking lot. He took out a key, pressed a switch and a black Ford Fiesta beeped. In the car, the radio was on, filling the empty silence between us. It was a silly thought, but I felt as if he was going to take me away from all the city’s nonsense and transport me into a new world. Where was he taking me? I started to doze on and off, opening my eyes to see where we were going until the familiarity was gone. I didn’t recognise the streets anymore. The Smiths were playing as he drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his head, deep in thought. We drove into Croydon. He stopped the car in a narrow road, then smiled and told me we have arrived.
‘Where?’ I asked, flummoxed.
He took a bag with him containing his camera. I trailed after him. He opened his bag and took out an expensive-looking camera. I watched with fascination as he took a couple of shots. I glance up to see what he was shooting and my mouth drops. It is one of the saddest sights I have ever seen. Nothing could explain why, from all the locations he could photograph, he chose this particular joint. It was a house, a large one made of red bricks. Once it belonged to someone, a home that was loved and cherished. I pictured a couple living there with their children and a dog. Funny how the brain works; when we picture a couple, we picture them with two perfect children and a dog. The shutter of the camera sang in my ears, all those Christmases, birthdays, and anniversaries spent in this house.
Click.
All that was left were the echoes of this family: a faded photograph. What it stood for or what was left of it was a sad and lonely demolished house.
Click.
It was beyond repair; part of the front wall of the second floor had fallen away, and a pile of bricks stood like a tiny mountain on the ground.
Click.
Part of the roof was destroyed; this house must have been vacant for years.
Click.
The windows were broken.
Click.
It stood there begging and crying for someone to love it again, to become a home, to serve as a barrier of safety and protection, not obsolete, worn down, inhabited.
Click.
Click.
Click.
‘Can you turn the sound off?’ I asked.
Davian had a strange look upon his face.
‘Sure,’ he said, making his way to the house.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked, the panic rising in my voice.
He looked back at me. ‘In.’
‘But...‘ I stared up at the house that now has grown bigger, ‘it’s dangerous,’ I said.
‘Come, it will be fine.’
He held his hand as if he were a prince leading me to his castle.
I surveyed the house once more, a chill running down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold. He led the way. The front door was off by its hinges and lay broken on the pavement. I covered my nose with my hand. The house smelt of boiled eggs combined with an overpowering smell of decay and burned wood. I felt the croissant making its way up and I tried to prevent myself from being sick. There were old newspapers, torn pages from magazines and old books scattered all over the wooden floors. There was a chair without a seat, a large hole in a wall. A fireplace, a real one. One side of a wall was black. This house was devastated; someone set it on fire. I felt ill.
‘Why have you brought me here?’
He was going up the stairs.
‘Davian!’ I yelled.
He stopped and sighed. ‘Come up, I’ll explain.’
The wood creaked under my shoes as I climbed the stairs. There were more books and old newspapers. He stood by the wall taking pictures. Why this house?
‘Don’t go in the middle,’ he warned. ‘The floors are not safe.’
‘I want to go home,’ I cried.
He looked at me tenderly. ‘This house is going to be taken down soon. That’s why I’m taking photos of it.’
‘Not for the sake of art?’ I ask.
He looks down at his shoes. ‘No.’ His eyes flew to me. ‘Go to the edge.’
‘What?’
‘Go to the edge. I want to take a picture of you walking over there.’
***
Where is this house, anyway, in Croydon? She filmed this a year ago; the house might have been taken down by now. What if this house is another hoax? If it’s true, if they did go to the house and Davian had taken pictures of it, wouldn’t he have copies? How could I ask him about it without exposing myself?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I ring the bell at Davian’s apartment. No answer. I try again. I tap my feet on the pavement; maybe he’s at his parents. Why haven’t I thought about it before? As I’m about to turn and leave, the buzzer goes off. Davian’s immaculate appearance has dissolved into one of unwashed messed-up hair, dark circles under his eyes and blemished skin. He looks like shit, but these past few weeks haven’t been easy on him, and it shows.
‘Good for you to come,’ he said.
‘It’s not a problem. This what friends are for.’
He shrugs as he sits on the sofa and puts a cigarette in his mouth. He offers me the packet. I take it and light a cigarette myself. We smoke in silence.
‘So, you’re out,’ I said.
‘Yeah, for the time being,’ he says, not looking at me.
‘Oh.’
‘They found something that might change the course of the case,’ he says.
‘What?’ I ask.
I get a glare as a reply. He stands and paces the room.
‘The bitch set me up.’
‘Who? Lottie?’
He stops pacing. ‘Yeah, they found my clothes in her apartment.’
‘Well... were you at her apartment?’
‘I don’t even know where she lived!’
I stand. ‘Okay, calm down.’
He sinks down on the floor, grabbing bits of his dirty hair.
‘She stole them and placed them there,’ he says.
I blink at him. ‘How could she?’
He breaks eye contact.
‘Davian, did you or didn’t you have an affair with Lottie?’
He glances up at me, his small blue eyes watering. I wait, trying to be calm although it seems impossible. I look for traces of Melissa, but there are none. She’s gone. Davian is alone. No one believes him. He’s on his own. But he’s not. I’ll be there for him.
‘I don’t know why women like me. I told you this before, for the life of me, I don’t know. I had girls writing me love letters, which made their way to the bin, girls throwing themselves at me. I dismissed them all, but I never encountered anyone as persistent as Lottie.’ He looks up at me with puppy dog eyes. ‘She was obsessed. I think she took my clothes from my office.’
He’s avoiding the question.
‘The police found two of my ties at the apartment and a shirt.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question; did you sleep with her?’
I get another icy cold glare. ‘No, I didn’t. She was making up stuff about me.’
‘But Giselle said you took Lottie to her apartment in Chelsea.’
‘I didn’t. The police looked on the CCTV and they never found any footage of Lottie going in the apartment.’
He stands. His shoulders relax a little.
‘You have no idea what I have been through these past few days; I had everything I needed, a job, a girlfriend, and my reputation intact. Now, I have nothing. I turned Lottie down repeatedly. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. So she started spreading lies, but I never thought it would amount to this.’