There’s a door to the left of me: Cave, it says. I’ve never let a closed door stay closed for long: I suppose you could say that’s my main problem in life. I give it a push, see a flight of steps leading down. I’m hit by a waft of cold underground air, damp and musty.
I hear a noise then, somewhere above me. The creak of wood. I let the door swing shut and glance up. Something moves along the wall several flights up. I wait to see someone appear around the corner, in the gaps between the bannisters. But the shadow stops, as though waiting for something. And then suddenly everything goes dark: the timer must have run out. I reach over, flick it back on.
The shadow’s gone.
I walk over to the lift in its metal cage. It’s definitely on the antique side, but I’m too exhausted to even think about lugging my stuff up those stairs. There’s barely room for me and the suitcase inside. I close the little door, press the button for the third floor, put a hand against the structure to steady myself. It gives under the pressure of my palm; I hastily pull my hand away. There’s a bit of a shudder as the lift sets off; I catch my breath.
Up I go: each floor has one door, marked with a brass number. Is there only one apartment per floor? They must be pretty big. I imagine the sleeping presence of strangers behind those doors. I wonder who lives in them, what Ben’s neighbors are like. And I find myself wondering which apartment the dickhead I met at the gate lives in.
The lift judders to a halt on the third floor. I step out onto the landing and drag my suitcase after me. Here it is: Ben’s apartment, with its brass number 3.
I give it a couple of loud knocks.
No answer.
I crouch down and look at the keyhole. It’s the old-fashioned kind, easiest in the world to pick. Needs must. I take out my hoop earrings and bend them out of shape—the convenience of cheap jewelry—leaving me with two long, thin pieces of metal. I make my rake and my pick. Ben actually taught me this when we were little so he can hardly complain. I got so good at it I can unpick a simple pin tumbler mechanism in less than a minute.
I wiggle the earrings back and forth in the lock until there’s a click, then turn the handle. Yes—the door begins to open. I pause. Something about this doesn’t feel right. I’ve had to rely on my instincts quite a lot over the years. And I’ve also been here before. Hand clasped around the door handle. Not knowing what I’m going to find on the other side—
Deep breath. For a moment it feels like the air contracts around me. I find myself gripping the pendant of my necklace. It’s a St. Christopher: Mum gave us both one, to keep us safe—even if that was her job, not something to be outsourced to a little metal saint. I’m not religious and I’m not sure Mum was either. All the same, I can’t imagine ever being parted with mine.
With my other hand I push the handle down. I can’t stop myself from squeezing my eyes shut tight as I step into the space.
It’s pitch-black inside.
“Ben?” I call out.
No answer.
I step farther inside, grope about for a light switch. As the lights come on the apartment reveals itself. My first thought is: Christ, it’s huge. Bigger even than I expected. Grander. High-ceilinged. Dark wooden beams up above, polished floorboards below, huge windows facing down onto the courtyard.
I take another step into the room. As I do something lands across my shoulders: a blunt, heavy blow. Then the sting of something sharp, tearing into my flesh.
Concierge
A few minutes after the knocking I watched through the windows of my lodge as the first figure entered the courtyard, his hood pulled up. Then I saw a second figure appear. The newcomer, the girl. Clattering that huge suitcase across the cobbles of the courtyard, making enough noise to wake the dead.
I watched her on the intercom screen until the buzzer stopped ringing.
I am good at watching. I sweep the residents’ hallways, I collect their post, I answer the door. But also, I watch. I see everything. And it gives me a strange kind of power, even if I’m the only one who’s aware of it. The residents forget about me. It’s convenient for them to do so. To imagine that I’m nothing more than an extension of this building, just a moving element of a large machine, like the lift that takes them up to their beautiful apartments. In a way I have become part of this place. It has certainly left its mark on me. I am sure the years of living in this tiny cabin have caused me to shrink, hunching into myself, while the hours spent sweeping and scrubbing the corridors and stairs of the apartment building have winnowed my flesh. Perhaps in another life I would have grown plump in my old age. I have not had that luxury. I am sinew and bone. Stronger than I look.
I suppose I could have gone and stopped her. Should have done. But confrontation is not my style. I have learned that watching is the more powerful weapon. And it had a feeling of inevitability, her being here. I could see her determination. She would somehow have found her way in, no matter what I did to try and prevent her.
Stupid girl. It would have been far, far better if she’d turned and left this place and never returned. But it’s too late now. So be it.
Jess
My heart is beating double-time, my muscles tensed.
I look down at the cat as it weaves its way between my legs, purring, a blur of movement. Slinky, black, a white ruff. I put a hand down the back of my top. My fingers come away with a sheen of blood. Ouch.
The cat must have jumped onto my back from the counter next to the door, digging its claws in for grip when I fell forward. It looks up at me now through narrowed green eyes and gives a squawk, as though asking me what the hell I think I’m doing here.
A cat! Jesus Christ. I start laughing and then stop, quickly, because of the strange way the sound echoes around the high space.
I didn’t know Ben had a cat. Does he even like cats? It suddenly seems crazy that I don’t know this. But I suppose there’s not all that much I do know about his life here.
“Ben?” I call out. Again the sound of my voice bounces back at me. No answer. I don’t think I expected one: it feels too silent, too empty. There’s a strange smell, too. Something chemical.
I suddenly really need a drink. I wander into the little kitchen area to my right and start raiding the cupboards. First things first. I come up with half a bottle of red wine. I’d prefer something with more of a kick, but beggars can’t be choosers and that might as well be the motto for my whole bloody life. I slosh some into a glass. There’s a pack of cigarettes on the side too, a bright blue box: Gitanes. I didn’t know Ben still smoked. Typical of him to favor some fancy French brand. I fish one out, light up, inhale, and cough like I did the first time a fellow foster kid gave me a drag: it’s strong, spicy, unfiltered. I’m not sure I like it. Still, I push the rest of the pack into the back pocket of my jeans—he owes me—and take my first proper look around the place.
I’m . . . surprised, to say the least. I’m not sure what I imagined, but this isn’t it. Ben’s a bit creative, a bit cool (not that I’d ever describe him that way to his face), and in contrast this whole apartment is covered in antique-looking old-lady wallpaper, silvery with a floral pattern. When I put out a hand and touch the nearest wall I realize it’s not paper after alclass="underline" it’s a very faded silk. I see brighter spots where there were clearly once pictures hanging, small rusty age spots on the fabric. From the high ceiling hangs a chandelier, curls of metal holding the bulbs. A long strand of cobweb swings lazily back and forth—there must be a breeze coming from somewhere. And maybe there were once curtains behind those window shutters: I see an empty curtain rail up above, the brass rings still in place. A desk plumb in front of the windows. A shelf holding a few ivory-colored books, a big navy French dictionary.