Nocturne (19 page)

‘
Definitely not. I put the camera back in my bag. They never went
near it.
’
He slipped the prints back into the envelope.
‘
I
’
ve phoned the
labs. They had a guy look into it. They sent this across.
’

From his pocket he produced the little canister that had once
contained the roll of film. I picked it up. Kodak Gold.
24
exposure.
Brendan reached out, revolving the cannister until I could see the other
side. He tapped the ASA rating.

‘
100,
’
he said.

‘
So?
’

‘
I
loaded
200.
’

‘
You
’
re sure?
’

‘
Positive. The weather
’
s too grim this time of year for
100.
I never
use it,
never take the risk.
’

‘
So what are you saying? They developed the wrong film?
’

‘
Yeah,
’
he nodded.
‘
Though they say that
’
s impossible. They
’
re
swear
ing
they
’
ve been through the whole batch. Every fucking one.
’

‘
So what else could it be?
’

There was a long silence. The guys at the next table were awaiting
Brendan
’
s reply with some interest.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice.

‘
It was at your flat all day,
’
he said.
‘
Before you brought it in.
’

‘
That
’
s right.
’

‘
In the kitchen?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Does anyone
…
’
he shrugged,
’
…
have a key at all?
’

Gilbert opened his door to my first knock. One way or another I was
determined to get into his
flat
. He looked down at me, filling the
space between the door and the jamb. Behind him, the hall was in
darkness.

‘
I
was wondering whether I could borrow your phone,
’
I said.
‘
Mine
’
s on the blink.
’

‘
Mine, too,
’
he said at once.
‘
Must be the line outside. Have you
phoned the engineering people ?
’

I shook my head, amazed at how quickly he
’
d parried my first
thrust. Of course I hadn
’
t phoned the bloody engineers.

‘
Do you think I might try though?
’

I stepped forward to push past him. He didn
’
t move an inch.
‘
No,
’
he said simply.

I stared at him, trying to read the expression on his face, that pale
mask that so seldom slipped. Had he been expecti
ng me? This
unannounced visit?
On t
his pathetic little pretext?

‘
You could try the phone box at the end of the road,
’
he was
saying.
‘
They seem to work these days.
’

‘
Of course.
’

I turned to go, knowing that the mission was hopeless, but then my
anger got the better of me. He was still standing in the half-opened
doorway, still gazing down at me, expressionless, unfathomable.

‘
You
’
ve been in my flat again,
’
I said.
‘
And you
’
ve bee
n playing
around with a camera.
I
know you have. There
’
s no point denying it.
’

A smile ghosted across his face, barely perceptible, and I realised he
liked seeing me angry. For some reason, God knows why, it turned
him on.

‘
You
’
re admitting it? You
’
ve got the film?
’

The smile had gone now. He didn
’
t move a muscle.

‘
Where is it?
’

‘
It
’
s not here.
’

‘
But you had it?
’

He didn
’
t answer. I put the question again, telling him I
’
d go to the
police, reminding him he risked arrest, telling him I was sick of it all.
I
’
d tried very hard to be friends. I
’
d tried to understand him. I
’
d put up
with all his silly games, his funny ways, because - despite everything -
I still trusted him, still thought of him as a good person. But now it had
gone beyond a joke. Now it was time for me to stop playing Ms Nice
and change the locks and then put the flat on the market. I was serious.
I
’
d had enough. I
’
d tried and I
’
d tried and I
’
d failed. Whatever
relationship we
’
d had was gone. It was time to move out.

Gilbert followed every word, his head bowed, listening intently, the
kind of concentration you bring to a conversation in a foreign
language. I
’
ve done it myself in French street markets. You
’
re deter-
mined to get every last detail. You want to be sure you understand.

Gilbert understood. I could tell by the way his head came up at the
end, by the wild flicker of anxiety in his eyes.

‘
Well?
’
I
said finally.

I could see him trying to reach for an answer but fail to put it into
words. At last, he shook his head twice, very deliberate movements,
exactly the way he
’
d nodded at me the night he
’
d stood at the foot of
my bed in the darkness. Then he backed into his flat and closed the
door.

Two days later, testing the deadlock on my new Chubb five-lever, I
heard the softest footfall outside my front door. I waited, for several
minutes, not daring to move. When Gilbert
’
s footsteps resumed in the
flat above my head, back and forth, I at last opened the door. A big
brown envelope lay on the hall carpet. It had my name on it. I
recognised the handwriting from the shopping lists Gilbert still left
out.

I opened the envelope in the kitchen. There were twenty-four blow-
ups inside, big colour prints. All of them were impressive but two or
three were truly outstanding, wonderful studies of the Malibu at full
blast, the water feathering back from the board, yours truly
horizontal, perfectly balanced, blonde hair streaming out in the wind.
I held the prints up one by one, then looked for a note. At the bottom of
the envelope, carefully folded, was a carbon copy of the order form
Gilbert must have completed. I glanced at the details. In the box
marked
‘
Number of Sets
’
,
he
’
d scribbled
‘
2
’
.

I looked at the prints again, spread across the kitchen table.
Including the copy of the order form was deliberate, it had to be. It
meant that Gilbert had let himself into the flat, and found the camera,
and swopped the film for a roll of his own. The latter he would have
exposed - hence the black - but Brendan
’
s roll he
’
d taken to be
developed. The resulting pictures told the story of our day out at
Jaywick, and he
’
d helped himself to a share of that extraordinary
afternoon.

I picked slowly through the prints until I came to the ones with the
jet skis. Brendan hadn
’
t captured the moment of collision but there
were before and after shots and it was slightly eerie to pore over a
photograph of two burly youths in wet suits bent over a shape in the
water, knowing that the object of their curiosity was me.

I got up, reaching for the envelope, struck by another thought. How
had Gilbert realised the significance of the camera? Why had he
swapped the films? I sat down at the table again. A couple of months
ago, like most girls my age, I
’
d had nothing more challenging to think
about than a broken heart and zero job prospects. Now, I seemed to
spend most of my waking hours trying
to get inside the mind of a man
who - at best - was seriously disturbed.

I looked up, peering at the ceiling, wondering just how Gilbert had
known about the camera in the first place. The ceiling had been the
first bit of the kitchen I
’
d decorated and as far as I could see the
emulsion was intact. I cleared a space on the table and clambered up
for a closer look. My new Habitat lampshade hung on a long flex from
a central fitting. I moved it to one side, meaning to inspect the bit
where the fitting met the ceiling itself, and as I did so I became aware of
a small, irregular-shaped hole, about
the size of a five-pence coin. It
ha
dn
’
t been there when I
’
d painted the ceiling
,
of that I was
absolutely
certain, and
when I looked harder I saw that there was something inside it, catching
the light. I bent for a chair, meaning to get closer still, but then I
stopped, quite motionless, realising what it was that I
’
d just discov
ered.

An eye. Watching me.

Two

Tottenham Green police station is part of the complex of civic offices
just north of Seven Sisters tube station. The taxi dropped me across the
road. It was pouring with rain and I was dripping wet by the time I got
inside.

The waiting area was nearly full. There was a counter at one end and
the walls were plastered with posters. The one above the remaining
empty seat featured a gloved hand reaching through a pane of broken
glass.
‘
Beware
of
Uninvited
Guests
’,
it read.
‘
Check
Your
Doors
and
Windows
’.

I waited nearly forty minutes for my turn at the counter, watching a
succession of distraught locals tangling with the police bureaucracy.
The one who took the longest was a bent old lady who
’
d lost her cat to
a youth with an air rifle, and by the time she
’
d finished the desk officer
had been joined by a younger man. This younger guy was in uniform
as well and he beckoned me forward to the counter. I
’
m guessing but
I
’
d say he was my age. He was big. He had broad shoulders, and short
blond hair, and the coldest eyes I
’
d ever seen. All he needed at
weekends, I remember thinking, was a big fat jet ski.