‘I don’t.’
‘Ah,’ Frankie says. There is the click of a lighter and a long, slow exhalation.
‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
‘I smoke when I drink and when I have sex. So I’m a – heh – I’m a forty-a-day man.’
I smile weakly.
‘I didn’t see you in there.’
‘I was at the bar. I saw you. I saw Marco.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ I say.
Another inhale.
‘Nope.’
He continues to look flatly at me, one hand stroking his beard thoughtfully. I realise he is drunk, just a little. He has reached what I think of as the tipping point. I drag sharply on my cigarette.
‘Why did you lie about Mr Kennecker, Frankie? That’s why you lost your job, not because of Marco. Don’t blame him.’
‘Mr Kennecker didn’t want to do that job because Mr Kennecker doesn’t want to work at that house any more. Mr Kennecker doesn’t want to work for your boyfriend – sorry, sorry, fiancé – anymore. He’s afraid of him.’
‘It’s still a lie. You could have told me the truth. I thought we were friends.’
‘Yup. I lied because I’m an asshole. But unlike Marco, I don’t try to hide it. I don’t make people do things they don’t want to do.’
I blink at him. I am getting angry.
‘Do you mean me? You know nothing about me and what I want to do.’
‘No, I don’t. But I’ve got him pretty square though, haven’t I? So my question remains. Why do you stand for it, Stella?’
He is standing in front of me now, arms folded.
‘You’re drunk.’
‘Ah, come on. I just told you I was an asshole, what did you expect? For what it’s worth I’m sorry I lost my job too. Mostly I’m sorry we won’t get to hang out anymore.’
I blink back sudden, frustrated tears.
He throws his cigarette away in a shower of amber sparks, walking back into the pub. Before he reaches the door he turns back to me.
‘I’ve been digging on your fiancé, Stella. It isn’t nice. He’s going to sink you like a stone.’
Chapter 25
It is the dead of night, and I am awake. My sleep recently has been like tumbling down stairs; fits and jolts and breathlessness. When I wake up I don’t know where I am. Marco is asleep beside me, his breathing steady. I swing my legs out of bed and creep across the room. I do not want him to wake up. I have to see it again.
Downstairs in the darkness I turn on the computer. Alice had emailed me earlier, a brief, concise message – Hope this is what you are looking for – with the picture attached.
I open up the first image, full-screen. My ears are pricked up, listening, alert to Marco stirring or Jackie creeping down the stairs.
The photo is the one I’d seen on the slideshow that day in the office, a day that feels like a thousand years ago. It shows Marco, tanned and handsome, standing in front of a fountain, his arms around a woman. He is smiling, his hair slightly longer than I recognise and a few days’ worth of stubble built up on his jaw. It doesn’t look too old although it’s hard to place his age. Maybe five, six years ago.
The woman is only half in the picture, as though she had turned away at the last moment to look over her shoulder. Her profile is visible though, and her slim shoulders. I check the darkened stairwell but the night is very still and quiet.
I hold the photograph of the beaten woman up next to the screen. Alongside each other the comparison is clear. It’s her. I’m sure of it. I can just make out Marco’s hand around her tiny waist. I swallow, massaging my throat. The second message arrived tonight while we were at the pub. Another photo, one I haven’t seen before. There is a little postscript from Alice: P.S Thought this one would interest you too.
The photo is definitely older. Marco I recognise right away. Even in school uniform with his dated Flock of Seagulls haircut and the slightly oversized blazer. He looks exactly as I would have pictured him. Cocky. Knowing. That smirk which lifted just one corner of his mouth. Next to him is another boy about the same age, same navy uniform, a straw boater tipped back on his head. It’s the smile that gets me, the lifted, defiant chin. It’s Doctor Wilson.
I’m frowning in the glow of the screen. They went to school together? That means they’ve known each other – I’m working it out on my fingers – over thirty years. Why hadn’t he told me? I am seized with the idea of going upstairs and shaking him awake, demanding to know why he kept this information from me, but I am gripped by a horrible certainty that his answer will be: ‘I did tell you, Stella. Don’t you remember?’
And weirdly then it isn’t Marco I think of, it’s Frankie. I remember the night we had dinner and talked and talked and how happy I had been – how substantial I had felt, how real – and then I remember how he’d lied about Jim Kennecker, the nasty way he’d talked to me outside the pub – and my heart sinks.
A sound then in the kitchen. Through the dark doorway behind me, a low scratching as though of claws on wood.
Mice, I think. No. Too big for mice. Rats then. I listen as I hear it again, a scratching, louder this time, and closer. I slowly walk across the kitchen.
Now there is a clicking sound, and I think immediately (and horribly) of bones knitting together. When I reach the pantry on the far side of the kitchen it stops. I put my ear to the closed door. The pantry is a windowless, narrow room in perpetual shadow. Frankie had told me with naked admiration that it was probably ‘the oldest, most authentic thing about this building’. I had gone in there once and been struck by the dank chill, sour and ancient, the stone walls clammy to the touch. I had not gone back in there again. I stand there awhile, but there is no further sound, so I cross to the sink and pour a glass of water. When I glance back I see the pantry door is standing open.
I am acutely aware of the feeling in the room, a buzz like electricity, enough to lift the hairs on my arms. The pantry has a heavy oak door, the handle blackened with age. It has swung inwards about nine inches, exposing a thick slice of darkness.
I feel a horrible certainty that something is moving in there. Something is inside, looking out. There is a flash of movement and what appears to be the impression of a face peering out from the darkness. Pale and translucent like a jellyfish. In my chest something cold shifts, like ice falling from an Arctic shelf. Slowly, I put down my glass. I can hear more scuffling and have a horrifying mental image of a shrouded figure, stooped with decay, long, horny toenails yellowed with age. As I approach I feel the draught coming through the gap in the doorway. It is cold and smells stagnant. There is something moving in the darkness, just behind the door. Then, unmistakably, a wet sigh, like someone at the end of a long pneumonic illness. From within the pantry a dripping noise, a burst pipe leaking, a sound like pattering rain. I reach out a hand and grip the door handle. As I do so there is a whisper from inside, so close to me that I gasp and grip the handle with both hands.
‘Pay Attention!’
I find my strength and pull hard at the door. An inch or so before it closes I meet with some resistance, as though it is being pulled open from the other side. I groan and redouble my efforts, arms trembling with the strain. I tilt my head back and shriek for help. Suddenly the door slams shut. I back away, expecting at any moment to see the handle begin to jitter and tremble as bloodless fingers manipulate it from that dark, airless space. The door shudders in the frame, just once, and I watch and I wait. My fingers are in my hair, and I am sweating. Behind me, a clatter on the stairs as Jackie comes at a run. Marco’s voice down the hallway asking what time is it, what’s the problem?