What You Make It (25 page)

‘Bit early for you, isn't it?’ she said, which seemed a good
compromise between remaining silent and not giving an inch.

‘Yes, I know. My boyfriend's got us tickets to see Les Mis.’ The door opened and they walked across the foyer. ‘Have you seen it?’

‘No,’ said Jane. Camilla smiled smugly, not realizing that wild horses couldn't have dragged Jane anywhere near Les bloody Mis. Outside, Jane was about to walk off when Camilla stopped. ‘I'm sorry if I messed up your work,’ she said, ‘I'm a butterfingers really. Don't know what I'm doing.’

The insincerity with which she spoke was a clear taunt, and Jane thought, right: I don't have to put up with that.

‘I think you know exactly what you're doing,’ she replied, and walked away.

As she hurriedly squeezed the teabag in her mug Jane reached across for a brownie, humming. A programme Lucy had worked on was about to start, and she didn't want to miss the beginning. She was still feeling chipper at having called Camilla's bluff. Best of all, she didn't have to go to FreeDot the next day. Apart from the meeting on Friday, this week's time had been sold.

With the brownie an inch from her lips, she stopped. There was a bite missing. Surprised, she stared at it, trying to remember when she might have done that. Last night she'd eaten three, but finished them all. Not this morning, surely.

Still pondering, a small frown on her face, she settled onto the sofa. The adverts finished and a programme started, but it wasn't Lucy's. Confused, she looked up at the filing cabinet to check the time.

The clock wasn't there.

Still chewing slowly, Jane looked around the room, and found the clock. It was on the bookcase. She stared at it for a long time. She thought she remembered putting it back on the filing cabinet.

Suddenly she felt frightened, in a vague, formless way, as if some infinitely deep bedrock had shifted. On impulse she got
up and sat at her desk. She pressed a button on the phone and waited for it to connect.

‘Oh, hi…’ she said, unsure of what to say, just needing some contact, something to tie her back down.

‘… sorry but I'm not here at the moment. If you leave a message I'll – ’ A pause, as if Andrew had been distracted by something. ‘ – I'll get back to you. It's going to beep any second.’

Jane pressed the pips down and dialled again. This time she heard it more clearly. Andrew had paused because someone was making him laugh. If you listened carefully you could hear him saying, ‘Shh,’ and the sound of female laughter.

In the hallway she reached out for the lock, preparing to go through the ritual again and seal herself safely in, but then stopped.

No, she thought, I'm not going to do that. I know what's done this to me, and I'm not going to let it. She reached out and simply pushed the catch down.

As she lay in bed, drowsily awakened once more, Jane heard creaking from the hallway again. She closed her eyes, determined to ignore it, but the creak came once more, much louder this time. Then there was a series of quieter creaks, as there had been the night before. Jane breathed deeply, vowing irritably not to get out into the cold to check it again.

Then there was another sound, and her eyes swivelled quickly. That creak hadn't come from the hallway. It sounded as if it came from the boards in the living room. Through the noise of rushing in her ears she heard it again, and this time there was no doubt. It was a board in the living room which had creaked.

Quietly, Jane slipped out of bed.

The hallway looked the same as it had the night before, dark with blue light seeping out from the bathroom doorway. Tonight there was something else, a slight flickering quality to the light. Feeling silly, but knowing she had to check for her own peace of mind, she padded silently down the hall towards the bathroom.
Just before she got there she realized that the flickering was reflected on the wall opposite the living room door, and she turned to glance in. Her television was on.

Her computer was also on, and there was a man sitting at her desk.

He wasn't looking at the computer but sitting side on, legs outstretched, watching the television with the sound turned down. He was drinking coffee out of one of the flat's mugs.

Feeling the tiny hairs on the back of her neck rise in swathes, Jane stared at him. She swallowed, too astounded to be more than very, very frightened.

‘What do you think you're doing?’

The man turned slowly to face her. In his late thirties, he was of medium build and had short dark hair slicked back. There was something odd about his face.

‘Watching television,’ he said, and then turned back to the screen. Jane took a small step into the living room.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ she said, and was glad to hear that her voice carried anger as well as fear. The man turned his head back towards her, but kept his eyes on the screen.

‘The owner,’ he said.

‘What?’

He flicked his eyes lazily towards her. They were calm, unremarkable. ‘The owner,’ he repeated.

‘The hell you are. The owner … Mr Gillack is in Belgium. On business. This is not your flat.’ The man shrugged, and went back to watching the television. ‘How did you get in?’

‘Through the door,’ he said. Jane was trying to remember if she'd put the catch down when suddenly she noticed something by the side of the desk. It was the champagne bottle with the pampas grass in it.

‘What the hell is that doing there?’

‘I put it there,’ said the man, reaching for something on the desk. He picked it up and took a bite. ‘Good brownies. Not home made, I assume.’

Jane was confused, and afraid, but the brownies gave her
something to hold onto. Whoever he was, those were her brownies, which she'd paid for, and he had no right to be eating them. ‘Get out!’ she shouted.

‘I'm the owner,’ the man said.

Jane took another step into the room. ‘I don't give a toss. Those are my brownies. And neither you or anyone else has any right to come in here without my permission.’

The man looked at her mildly, sipping his coffee.

‘Get out!’ she screamed. ‘Get out!’

After a pause he raised his eyebrows and slowly got up. Jane stepped backwards into the hall, and shrank into the bathroom as he passed. The man reached out and slid the catch up before opening the door. He took one step out and then turned, standing facing back in, hands behind his back. Jane leapt to the door and slammed it in his face. She jammed the catch back down and then feverishly lunged for the small bookcase in the hall, pulling it round to wedge it against the door, spilling books that were not hers all over the floor.

She slid down the wall, sobbing quietly, to land in a heap by the door, her leg poked painfully by a book. She snatched the book up and ripped it, pulling the covers off and mangling it, and then hurled it at the wall. She toppled slowly over to the floor to tuck herself up into a foetal position, hugging her legs and crying.

Next morning found her striding up the Pentonville Road at ten o'clock. It was light, it was daytime, and she was furious.

Alex, the second half of Klass 1 Accommodation, stood up with some trepidation when Jane swept into their office. He was much shorter than the pony-tailed Victor, and Greek rather than Indian, but just as courtly. ‘Er,’ he said. ‘Oh, Jane, isn't it? St Augustine's Road?’

‘Yes,’ she said curtly.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Yes. There is a problem.’

‘Some coffee, I think,’ said Victor, rising to assume command. Alex set about wielding the kettle.

‘What exactly …?’ Victor started to ask, but Jane cut him off.

‘I want to know what the hell the owner was doing in my flat.’

Victor and Alex looked at each other, and then at Jane. ‘I'm sorry?’ they said, simultaneously.

‘I woke up last night,’ she said, ‘to find Mr Gillack in my living room.’

‘What was he doing?’ asked Alex.

‘Watching television,’ Jane snapped.

Victor held out his hand to forestall further questions from Alex. ‘Mr Gillack is in Belgium at the moment, on business. He isn't due to return until two weeks after your lease runs out.’

‘He was in my living room! He has no right to come into the flat. Not without my permission, and certainly not in the middle of the night.’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Victor. ‘You're sure this, uh, person, was Mr Gillack?’

‘Yes. He said he was the owner. He said it several times. The only way he could have got in was with a key.’

‘True. Well, this is very irregular. Alex, do we have a number for Mr Gillack?’

‘I think so,’ his colleague said, turning to hunt through a chaotic filebox.

‘He's not in Belgium. He's here.’

‘Jane,’ said Victor calmly and seriously. ‘The only means Alex and I have of contacting Mr Gillack is at his office in Belgium. So we must try that first.’

Alex triumphantly produced the right card, and Jane watched stonily as Victor dialled the number.

‘Good morning,’ he said after a while, enunciating clearly. ‘Could I speak with Mr Gillack please?’

‘Is he there?’ asked Alex in the pause, and Victor shrugged.

‘Is that Mr Gillack? Ah. This is Victor here, from Klass 1. Oh
no, everything's fine.’ Victor looked around for inspiration, and caught sight of a Post-it note. ‘Just a message. American Express rang for you. Could you call them? No problem. Goodbye.’ He put the phone down. ‘That was Mr Gillack. He is in Belgium.’

Jane felt confused, but adamant. ‘He was in my flat last night eating my brownies.’ Victor held his hands up apologetically. ‘Belgium isn't exactly Mars,’ she added. ‘He could have gone back this morning, or last night. You didn't ask him if he'd been there all the time, did you?’

‘It would have been rather difficult.’

‘Great. So what am I supposed to do?’

‘Well, if it happens again…’

‘What, if I wake up in the middle of the night to find a man in my flat again, you mean?’

‘Yes, call the police. Make sure you lock up securely at night.’

‘I do,’ Jane shouted. If they only knew how bloody securely. Then she stopped short. Had she checked the lock last night? She couldn't remember. She remembered thinking about her ritual earlier on in the evening, but what had she done when she went to bed?

‘Also,’ concluded Victor, ‘you have our number. Call us if there is the slightest cause for concern.’

‘I should have spoken to him on the phone,’ she said, her mind elsewhere. Maybe she hadn't checked it. But she had definitely pushed the catch down. Hadn't she? ‘I would have recognized his voice.’

‘The fact that he said he was the owner,’ offered Alex, ‘that could have been untrue.’

‘No. He sat there as if he owned the place, and …’ Suddenly she went cold, putting something together that she should have realized some time ago, should have known immediately. He'd been in her room. ‘The bloody champagne bottle was back in the living room, and I put it in the cupboard.’

Victor and Alex looked at her like a pair of bemused cats. They had no idea what she was talking about.

‘Why would anyone except the owner do that, hmm?’

‘Jane …’

‘I know, I know. He was in Belgium. Well, thank you anyway. And yes, you can rest assured that if it happens again you'll know all about it.’

The two men watched her sweep out, and then breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Some more coffee, I think,’ said Victor.

Jane was still fuming when she got to St Augustine's Road. She was glad to still be angry. If she stopped feeling angry she might have to think about the logistics of what had happened, and she didn't want to do that. She knew what she'd seen. She could remember it clearly. She didn't want to call her memory into question again.

The man in overalls was back, fiddling with a fusebox or something attached to the side of the building's stairs. In the house hallway was a pile of mail, sorted into flats. All the mail for Flat 8 was for Mr Gillack. Jane grabbed it furiously and spun it out into the street, slamming the door after it. She stomped upstairs and opened the door as viciously as she could. The light on the answering machine was on again and she slapped the button.

‘Could Mr Gillack call – ’

‘Fuck off!’ she shouted. A little frightened at herself she put her hands to her ears to blot out the sound of the message and walked jerkily out of the room. Suddenly a thought struck her, and she trotted back outside the house and leaned out over the banister.

‘Do you do locks, by any chance?’ she said.

An hour-and-a-half of loud banging later, the man stuck his head into Jane's living room, where she was supergluing the clock to the filing cabinet and humming.

‘Miss, I've finished,’ he said.

In the hallway she inspected the lock. It looked even more solid than the last one, and the catch went down with an irrevocable clunk. She flicked it up again, and then pushed it down.

‘That's your set of keys, and the spares,’ the man said, jangling them at her. He nodded approvingly at the door. ‘Good lock that. British.’

‘Have you got the old one?’ Jane asked, flicking the catch up again. The man nodded out into the hallway. ‘Do you mind if I keep it?’

Slightly surprised, he picked it up and gave it to her. ‘It's your lock.’

‘Nope,’ she replied, pushing the catch down again, counting to eight silently in her head. ‘This is my lock.’

The afternoon passed slowly. She stayed in, nothing to go out for, with the catch down and a chair wedged behind the door. The light changed outside the window and it got dark. She sat in front of her computer listening to the whirring sound it made, staring blankly at the FreeDot brochure on the screen. When she looked at the clock on the filing cabinet it said eight o'clock.

Then she looked again and it said nine. She got up and wandered into the kitchen, barely hearing the floorboards creak. When she reached into the cabinet above the sink she caught her hand on one of the other mugs, and hers fell out and smashed in the sink.

Instantly, her face crumpled and she found herself crying. The blurred mugs in the cabinet all belonged to the owner. The mug Andrew had given her, her mug, was in the sink. It was in the sink and it was broken. She didn't have another mug. None of the others were hers. Her mug was in the sink and it was broken.