‘I was drunk. I invited her back to my place. I guess, I was a little crude.’ He blinks at me sadly. ‘I didn’t mean any of it, you know. I wish I could take it back.’
32
Angel Face
I’m standing at the bay window, peering through the curtains. People are coming and going along the road. Children being walked to school. A street-sweeper with a barrow and a broom. A postman with a trolley.
I’m on my third can of lemonade since breakfast and the sugar rush feels good. Why so many? Because I can. I could have had a beer if I wanted. I could pour myself a Scotch. I thought about it but gagged when I cracked the lid and took a sniff.
When Cyrus left this morning, I opened the front door and stepped outside. Twice.
Outside.
Inside.
Outside.
Inside.
Then I immediately locked the door, latched the chain and went through the rest of the house, securing every window. I drew the curtains and closed the blinds. I studied the eaves and cornices, making sure that Cyrus hadn’t been lying when he told me there weren’t any cameras.
Opening a packet of chocolate biscuits, I start exploring the house properly, starting in the basement, where Cyrus has his weight-room. His towel is still damp from last night. I run my fingers along the bar and try to lift it from the cradle, using both hands, but it won’t budge. I try raising one side. It still doesn’t move.
In the sitting room, I turn on the TV and pick up the remote. Where are all the channels? Doesn’t he have satellite or cable? The next room is the library. Why does anybody need so many books? Has he read them all? I pick out a heavy volume bound in brown leather, spelling out the word Britannica on the spine. It has columns and drawings – like a dictionary with pictures.
I open a page and read, sounding out the words.
Annie Oakley, original name Phoebe Ann Mosey (born Aug. 13, 1860, Darke county, Ohio, US—died Nov. 3, 1926, Greenville, Ohio), American markswoman who starred in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, where she was often called ‘Little Sure Shot’.
I turn to another page.
George M. Pullman, in full George Mortimer Pullman (born March 3, 1831, Brocton, New York, US—died October 19, 1897, Chicago), American industrialist and inventor of the Pullman sleeping car, a luxurious railroad coach designed for overnight travel.
There are so many volumes of the Britannica that I wonder if everybody has something written about them. I look up other names: Cyrus Haven, Adam Guthrie, Terry Boland, but none of them are mentioned.
The library has a polished wooden desk with drawers on either side and a lamp that curls over the top. The leather chair creaks under my weight. Picking up a pen, I click it open and closed with my thumb. There is a pile of invoices awaiting payment. Electricity. Gas. Internet. According to a bank statement, Cyrus has £1,262 in his current account. He also has a double-barrelled surname, Haven-Sykes, but only uses one of his names.
I pick up a padded envelope and shake the contents onto the desk. There are six DVDs in plastic cases, each of them stamped with the words Nottinghamshire Police. Opening one of them, I read the label. It has a number, a date and a name: Craig Farley. I glance at the DVD player in the corner before putting everything back where I found it.
Having searched the ground floor, I climb the stairs and go to the main bedroom, where the bedclothes are rumpled and thrown haphazardly back into place. I imagine Cyrus lying in the bed with one hand resting on his chest and the other shielding his eyes. I want to ask him about each of his tattoos. What they mean – did they hurt? – does he like pain?
I open his wardrobe. He has four pairs of jeans, half a dozen shirts, two jumpers, a vest, a blue blazer and a black suit in dry-cleaning plastic. One of the shirts is denim with studs for buttons. I put it on and roll up the sleeves. It looks good on me – almost like a jacket.
Cyrus has a drawer for his socks and another for T-shirts and running shorts. He has four pairs of shoes, including hiking boots. I put them on, feeling like a child wearing my father’s shoes, although I can’t remember if I ever did that. I have almost no memories of my father – a man in an armchair by the fire. Sitting on his knee. Listening to him read. ‘Have you brushed your hair and combed your teeth?’ he’d ask, making the same joke every night, rubbing his stubbly jaw against my cheek. My mother is clearer, but even those memories are beginning to fade, or fray at the edges, losing colour and detail like the old rug on Cyrus’s floor.
I have one memento – a tortoiseshell button. It came from her favourite coat, which was bright red with a fur-lined collar and she wore it on special occasions. She was wearing it when I last saw her. I wouldn’t let go. I clung to her and the button came away in my hand. I screamed for her then. I wish for her now. I hold that button in my fist, believing it might bring her back if I have enough faith.
Putting the room back in order, I go to the bathroom and search the cabinet above the sink. Opening jars and bottles, I sniff at the contents. There are no pills or medications, but Cyrus has condoms – a whole box, unopened. I close the cabinet and look in the mirror. I hate what I see. I hate my lank hair. I hate my downturned mouth. I hate my fat bottom lip. I hate the freckles on my nose. I hate my sticky-out ears. I hate my skinny legs.
The doorbell rings. My heart jumps.
I go downstairs and wait in the hallway. The bell rings again. I look through the spyhole. There are two young men in cheap suits. They look no older than me. I open the door a few inches.
‘Hello, how are you today?’ one of them says brightly. ‘What a lovely old house.’ There’s no hint of sarcasm. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘No.’
‘What do you believe in?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Do you know much about Jesus Christ?’
‘Who are you?’
‘We’re from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and we’re here to share the message of Jesus Christ. My name is Elder Grimshaw and this is Elder Green.’
‘Doesn’t that get confusing?’ I ask. ‘Both being called Elder.’
‘We’re missionaries.’
‘I thought missionaries were supposed to work in poor countries.’ ‘No, we’re everywhere. We share our experiences because we believe in helping others to find peace and fulfilment in the love of Jesus Christ. Would you like to learn more?’
‘No.’
‘We’re here to share.’
‘You want to change my mind, that’s not sharing.’
The two Mormons look at each other. I have my foot braced against the door, ready to slam it closed. The quieter of the two is waiting for his partner to take the lead.
I look at him. ‘Do you truly believe that God exists?’
‘With all my heart.’
‘No. I think your mate does, but you’re not so sure. Come back when you are.’
I shut the door and go back upstairs, continuing my search of the house. The upper-floor rooms are supposed to be off-limits, according to Cyrus. That was a mistake. Who is going to ignore a challenge like that?
Most of the rooms are full of old furniture and rolled-up rugs and boxes of magazines and sheet music and photographs. I wonder how many generations of people have lived here. How many have died.