who’s been waiting behind me when a Chinese lady steps out from behind the large metal refrigerator.
‘Back door!’ she shouts into my face.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know where the—’
‘My kitchen. Not Jim.’
I point at the Chinese man and try to explain that he sent me this way, feeling terrible for passing the blame, getting the poor guy into trouble. It’s too late, though. The lady has stomped over to him and is yelling at him in Chinese. They both continue to serve the customers whilst arguing, so I go on ahead past the kitchen. I find myself with nowhere to go other than through a back door or up a staircase.
I leave my suitcase at the bottom, making sure it’s pushed against the wall safely.
Up I go.
Pieces of mismatching carpet sit frayed on most steps. On others, the wooden floorboards peep through. The walls drip with grease from the deep fat fryers downstairs and there’s no light bulb hanging from the single wire dangling from the ceiling. At the top of the stairs are two doors. One is covered in paper decorations with gold Chinese symbols, red tassels hanging from the frame. The other is painted black, in the middle is a single brass ‘1’.
Is this it? The end of my journey? Please, let this be the end.
I knock.
The second time, I knock so hard that I realise the door is already open.
‘Hello?’ I call out, taking a small step inside.
The TV is on and I can hear signs of life, fidgeting, readjusting on what sounds like a leather chair. My heart is racing, pumping blood to my cheeks, my head, every inch of me feeling so alive I think I might explode. This is so intense. I’ve finally arrived. Every step I take into Jim’s flat, this tiny, yet – wow – neat flat, is taken with caution, with a calm breath, because perhaps this will be one of those moments to cherish forever.
Four doors branch from the miniature hall, with just enough space to hang a mirror and a poster of Pulp Fiction in a clip frame on the wall. All doors are open wide, displaying a clear view of each small room. Nothing is out of place; everything is in order. It’s obvious where the sounds are coming from now, so I edge towards the lounge.
Some cartoon is blaring from the TV. I’m greeted by not one, not two, but three shocked faces, all wary of this strange woman towering over them. The faces belong to the children of, I suspect, the Chinese couple downstairs serving food. There are two boys, both of a similar sort of age, both protectively grabbing tight hold of the younger sister. With slippers on their feet and wearing what looks like pyjamas, these kids aren’t unfamiliar with their surroundings. I must have made a mistake. I’m in the wrong flat.
‘Hey!’ I say, giving a double wave with the enthusiasm of a kids’ TV presenter.
The three children don’t respond, barely blink. The boys squeeze the girl tighter.
‘I’m looking for Jim?’
The oldest-looking boy jumps up from sitting to his feet in one fast move. He points the remote at the TV, switching it off. As silence bolts the room, the children all scurry past me like mice. By the time I turn around, the front door has slammed shut and they’re gone.
Okay. So this is Jim’s flat.
The film posters, the vinyl; do these portray an image of Jim Glover? I’m not sure. But the bookshelves, filled with creased-up books that have definitely been read and aren’t placed there for show; yes, they must be Jim’s. God, there are so many; a whole wall covered in bookshelves, so many paperbacks crammed in tight. He always has a book with him, that’s what he told me. Always.
I can sense him.
A smell. Nothing bad – or good, even – but an aroma. Familiar.
‘Jim?’
I go into the kitchen and notice the photo collage on the wall. Jim’s face is featured multiple times, along with the faces of the boys in that photo in Richard Griffin’s study, and a striking girl, woman, her hair shocking red, sometimes ginger. Helen. A microwave sits on top of the refrigerator, which is covered with postcards – mainly from Florida – all lined up neatly in rows. The kettle stands beside a gas cooker, a mug tree with six mismatching striped mugs hanging to its right. A long red roller blind with an oriental pattern hangs from a sash window; a