he’d heard enough. I could see that look in his eyes, the one I’d seen in Caroline’s eyes earlier. It wasn’t disbelief, thankfully. It was just—horror.
I knew that this was enough for now and that I couldn’t tell him the rest of it. I couldn’t tell him about seeing Lee today. It was all getting just a bit too much, as though the nightmares he saw every day at work were suddenly starting to invade his life at home.
“Look,” I said, putting the bottle back on the bedside table, “I am better, Stuart. Look at me.”
He looked.
Even in the half-light, my scars everywhere were visible, a pattern of destruction on my skin.
“I’m not bleeding now. I’m not hurting anymore. It’s over, all right? We can’t change what happened, but we can change what happens from now on. You’ve taught me such a lot about that, about healing. It’s only good things from now on.”
He reached out a hand and ran his fingers down my body, from my shoulder, across my breast, down my stomach. I moved closer, close enough that his mouth could follow the path that his fingers had taken.
There was nothing more to be said.
Sunday 13 April 2008
I caught the bus to Herne Hill.
It was the first really warm day of the year, and I was regretting bringing my jacket. When I’d set out this morning, the sun hadn’t gotten above the rooftops and it had been chilly. Now I was holding it under my arm and it was getting to be a pain.
I took a long walk to the house, although I knew where it was—I’d studied the A to Z before I’d left home. The streets were empty, London surprisingly peaceful, as though everybody had gone away to the seaside and left the urban sprawl just for me.
By the time I stood in front of the house, I’d managed to work myself up into a fervent indignation, which I hoped was going to be enough.
The house was a lot like ours: a big Victorian terrace, matching the others row upon row in this street, the next, the one after that. There was a basement flat with a separate entrance; a set of little winding stone steps down to a bright red front door. Then an elegant stone staircase leading up to a black front door, sadly in need of a lick of paint, and a row of five doorbells indicating the flats inside. I climbed the steps to the main door. Flat 2, the application form had said. There was no name on the doorbell, although all the others had them. Flat 1—Leibowicz. Flat 4a—Ola Henriksen. Flat 4b—Lewis. Flat 5—Smith & Roberts. What happened to Flat 3, I wondered?
I pressed the bell for Flat 2 and waited.
There was no reply.
I debated going home again, and sat for a moment on the top step, feeling the sunshine warm on my face. Then I turned to look at the door, stood, gave it a little push. It opened immediately, and a hallway opened up beyond, complete with the original black-and-white checkboard floor tiles.
Flat 2 was at the back of the house, on the ground floor. The door to the flat was a plain hardboard one with a single Yale lock. I knocked on it sharply and waited.
I heard steps from within and someone muttering.
Then the door opened, abruptly, and there stood Sylvia, a towel wrapped around her head, another towel draped loosely around her body.
“Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”
“It’s me. Can I come in?”
“What for?” She was wearing her petulant expression, one I’d seen her offer to other people—waitresses, bar staff, members of the public, officials—but never to me.
“I’d like to talk to you.”
She took her hand away from the door and walked back into the flat, leaving it wide open for me to enter.
“I’m going out soon,” she said.
“I’m not planning on staying long, don’t worry,” I said.
While I waited for her to get dressed I wandered into her living room, taking in the typical Sylvia clutter—the huge art posters on the walls, overwhelming the tiny space; the sofa draped with several different brightly colored throws; the kitchenette that had probably never been used for anything more enterprising than chilling bottles of sauvignon blanc.
There was no sign of Lee. I’d been half expecting to see some of his clothes, shoes, a bag—something. Maybe even a photograph of him. But it was as though he’d never been in here.
Behind some huge, heavy terra-cotta curtains that were several inches