I’m standing in a small, dark courtyard. The apartment building proper wraps around it on three sides. The ivy has gone crazy here, winding up almost to the fourth floor, surrounding all the windows, swallowing drainpipes, a couple of satellite dishes. Ahead a short path winds between flowerbeds planted with dark shrubs and trees. I can smell the sweetish scent of dead leaves, fresh-turned earth. To my right there’s a sort of cabin structure, only a bit bigger than a garden shed. The two windows seem to be shuttered. On one side a tiny chink of light shows through a crack.
In the opposite corner I make out a door, which seems to lead into the main part of the building. I head that way along the path. As I do a pale face looms suddenly out of the darkness on my right. I stop short. But it’s the statue of a nude woman, life-size, her body wound about with more black ivy, her eyes staring and blank.
The door in the corner of the courtyard has another passcode, but it clicks open with the same set of numbers, thank God. I step through it into a dark, echoing space. A stairwell winds upward into deeper darkness. I find the little orange glow of a light switch on the wall, flick it. The lights hum on, dimly. A ticking sound: some sort of energy-saving timer maybe. I can see now that there’s a dark reddish carpet beneath my feet, covering a stone floor then climbing up the polished wooden staircase. Above me the bannister coils around on itself and inside the staircase there’s a lift shaft—a tiny, ancient, rickety-looking capsule that might be as old as the apartment itself, so ancient-looking I wonder if it’s actually still in use. There’s a trace of stale cigarette smoke on the air. Still, all pretty posh, all a long, long way from the place I’ve been crashing at in Brighton.
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
The Loge
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.