Nocturne (29 page)

I checked the car. No parking warden. No ticket.

‘
You might as well be honest,
’
Mark said.
‘
What
’
s the score with the
bloke upstairs?
’

I fought the urge to lie. What would be the point?

‘
He
’
s a bit odd,
’
I admitted.
‘
You
’
ve had problems?
’

‘
One or two.
’

‘
That ca
t? You think he might have
…
’
Mark was looking at me.

I nodded glumly. I
’
d buried Pinot in the one corner of the back
garden that Gilbert
’
s windows didn
’
t overlook. God knows how I was
going to explain any of this to Nikki but it gave me a dogged
satisfaction to deny Gilbert the sight of the grave.

‘
So what happens next?
’
I asked.
‘
Are you giving up?
’

‘
Course not. Just wondered if you could have a word, that
’
s all.
’

‘
Who with?
’

‘
This geezer upstairs. Tell him he
’
s out of order. Tell him whatever
you like. But get him to back off, eh?
’

I folded the Law Society form and slipped it into my pocket. The
notion of facing Gilbert, of having a quiet word - so logical, so
obvious - brought a smile to my face. Mark was shepherding me
towards the door.

‘
And another thing you might try is getting in touch with the
freeholder. Geezer starts chucking tiles around, that
’
s gotta be against
the lease, hasn
’
t it?
’
He smiled at me, opening the door.
‘
Just a
thought.
’

Gilbert had the paintbrush out, minutes later, when I drove up
Napier Road to feed the cat. The sight of him stooped in the porch
made me pull the car to a halt several houses short of the end of the
cul-de-sac. I
’
d felt sick all day on and off, and the nausea suddenly
gusted upwards, making me swallow hard. I didn
’
t want to confront
him.
It was difficult just getting out of the car.

I was at the front gate before he turned round. He was wearing an
old denim smock, scabbed with paint. His eyes were shadowed with the
kind of deep exhaustion my father had before the stroke took his life.

I gestured at the brush. There were big splashes of paint all over the
doorstep.

‘
Why mauve?
’
I said.

‘
I
happen to like it.
’

‘
But why didn
’
t you mention it? I live here too.
’

‘
Do you?
’

He stared down at me. On some days, like today, I
’
d noticed an air
of defeat about him, or perhaps bewilderment. Here was a man, I
thought, who
’
d set out on a journey but kept losing the map.

I fingered the catch on the gate, flicking it back and fort
h, giving
away my nervousness.

‘
What about the tiles?
’
I said, changing the subject.

‘
What tiles?
’

‘
All those grey slate
tiles you
’
ve been knocking off the roof.
’
I
looked down at the pavement. There was no sign of any tiles so I
stepped back into the road, studying the roof. As far as I could see it
was intact. By the time I got back to the porch, Gilbert was painting
again. The conversation was becoming surreal. Nothing new, I
thought bitterly, as far as Gilbert was concerned.

‘
You killed my cat,
’
I said heatedly.
‘
You
’
ll deny it but I know it was
you. That was a terrible thing to do. Terrible. I thought you liked cats.
’

‘
I love cats.
’

He didn
’
t stop painting. Big mauve stripes,
up and down.
‘
So why kill it?
’

‘
I
didn
’
t kill it.
’

He broke off and looked round. The paint was dripping onto his
jeans. I didn
’
t bother to point it out. Instead I told him about Gaynor.
Gaynor was a policewoman, a detective. One phone call from me and
she
’
d be round. If she didn
’
t get an answer at his door, she
’
d be
summoning help. One way or another, she
’
d get inside the flat.
There
’
d be traces in the freezer. Bound to be.

‘
Traces of what?
’

‘
Pinot. The cat.
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
You
’
re admitting it?
’

‘
Yes, absolutely, of course I am.
’

I frowned, not knowing quite where to go next. Insanity, I thought,
is a tricky thing to argue with.

‘
You killed my cat,
’
I said slowly.
‘
And then you put him in your
freezer.
’

Gilbert was looking down the road. The sight of the Mercedes
seemed to send a physical shiver down his thin frame.

‘
He
was in the road,
’
he muttered.
‘
I
found him in the road.
’

‘
Dead?
’

‘
Yes. I brought him back. I put him in the freezer. I wanted you to
have him.
’

I tried to remember the state of the cat. To be honest, I hadn
’
t taken
a proper look before I
’
d buried him. There was just a chance, I
supposed, that Gilbert was telling the truth but I rather doubted it. A
passing car, at the end of a cul-de-sac, sounded like yet another of his
fantasies.

‘
How can I be sure?
’
I asked.

‘
Sure of what?
’

‘
Sure about what you
’
re telling me. Anything could have happened.
’

‘
Of course,
’
Gilbert recharged his brush.
‘
But then you wouldn
’
t
know, would you?
’

‘
Why not?
’

He paused a moment, turning his back to me, then he jabbed
viciously at the door, a heavy mauve daub that began to run at once.

‘
Why not?
’
he echoed softly.
‘
Because you
’
re never here.
’

I went to the doctor two days later. I hadn
’
t bothered to sign on at a
practice and in the end I took Brendan
’
s advice and went along to the
local health centre. A harassed middle-aged lady GP listened to my
symptoms and mused aloud about stomach upsets. There was always
a bug of some description around and this week
’
s gave you diarrhoea
and vomiting. She typed a message into her computer and the printer
alongside produced a prescription. As an afterthought, as I was
leaving the consulting room, she asked me if I
’
d missed any periods. As
it happened, I had. Twice.

‘
Is that unusual? With you?
’

‘
Not especially. It
’
s happened before.
’

‘
Might you be pregnant? Have you thought of that?
’

I had
n
’
t. Apart from that first time,
I
’
d taken careful precautions.
The doctor nodded, tapping her pencil on her teeth, listening. The
practice nurse occupied a room down the corridor. I had the test result
within an hour.
It was positive.

I spent most of that evening with a friend in a pub off Upper Street
around the corner from the office. I hadn
’
t seen Michelle for nearly a
year which, oddly enough, made her the perfect confidante. We
’
d been
very
good friends on the course down in Bournemouth and she
’
d been one
of the few third-years to share my passion for documentary. One of
the reasons she
’
d phoned was to tap me for contacts. Where could
she write
to
that she hadn
’
t tried already? Did I have any particular
names? How was I getting on?

Against my instincts, I spared her the news about
Home
Run
,
partly because it seemed unnecessarily tactless - compounding her
frustration - and partly because I didn
’
t altogether believe the thing
would ever fly. Television is full of false starts, and though I knew
Brendan was totally sincere in handing me my big, big challenge,
there was still a zillion miles to go before we could start spending
serious money. Big money is the acid test in television. Once you
’
re
past your first
£25,000,
it
’
s stick back, wheels up, and away. To date,
though, thanks to some extremely creative accounting and a
judicious dip or two into other Doubleact budgets, we were barely
into four figures.

But as far as Michelle was concerned,
Members
Only
was fame
enough, and I spent a good part of the evening sharing some of the
raunchier gossip. Nearly all of it featured politicians, some of them
extremely prominent. Her father, whom I happened to know, took
the
Telegraph
daily and lived in the never-never world of squeaky-
clean Tory politicians. Once Michelle got home and rang him with
the news, he was clearly in for a shock.

Later, past ten o
’
clock, we got into the personal bits. How was I
doing? Had I found anyone interesting? Was I making out? I
’
d
braced myself for these questions all evening, not because I wasn
’
t
happy - I most certainly was - but because my session with the
practice nurse had affected me so deeply. Already, in the most
fundamental way, I felt there were two of us. I was no expert on pre-
natal development, but I was absolutely positive that the read-out
from the test she
’
d given me represented a face, and a body, and a
pair of the most exquisite little hands. I was no longer alone. For as
long as I could possibly imagine I
’
d always have someone who
’
d need
to rely on me, someone who
’
d be my friend.