I Know What I Saw

‘This is us,’ he says and steps out. He looks the same, still handsome, greyer. He’s a touch more drawn around the cheek but something gets us all. I climb out and follow him to his door and wait while he unlocks it. He presses a switch to flood the hall with soft amber light. The walls are painted in muted shades but the light dances off the polished wood handrails and antique sideboard.

‘Come in,’ he says, waiting.

‘I can go,’ I say, looking at the dirt on my hands. ‘I won’t stay.’ The cold drops over me and irritatingly I shiver.

‘Don’t be silly,’ he says. ‘Come. You’re letting the weather in.’

I shiver again in these thin police-issue clothes, and suddenly whatever power there was in my legs has gone. My knees buckle and I’m falling against the door, but he catches me just in time. Everything becomes murky and then there is nothing.

I wake up and gather fragments of memory. There’s Seb half-dragging me inside his house, up the stairs – soft cream runners against dark, polished wood. Me, stumbling, being ushered like a drunkard to a bed and the sensation of my ‘cell’ clothes sticking to my skin as they are pulled away. The smell as the garments come away and how it stains the air. A towel is laid out on a chair through patches of vision. Then I feel warm air slowly wrapping my limbs. Then darkness and oblivion and finally sleep.

When morning tears open my eyes, I stall for a few moments, trying to remember where I am. My head is throbbing. I get up out of bed and partially draw the curtain across the low morning sun. From the clock on the bedside table, I see it’s just after eight. I open my eyes and listen for sounds because I don’t know anything about the life of the man whose home I’m in. I don’t know if there are any children in the house, or a partner, or friends.

There’s some distant clinking, like the sound of breakfast being laid. I look for the tracksuit I’d been given but I can’t see it anywhere. Seb must have taken it away for washing. He’s left me a change of clothes, laid on top of a white towel. Dark red trousers, blue-checked shirt, some new underpants still in the box, socks and a crew-neck sweater. These are his clothes, clothes in current use – not spares. I take the pants from the box. They are pristine in my stained hands. It has been years since I’ve worn pants; they aren’t necessary. The whiteness of the cotton stares out at me. I can’t wear his clothes without a bath.

I wrap the towel around my hips and walk along the corridor, taking in the bookshelves crammed with books. The mix of French literary fiction and pulp is disconcerting until I remember I left the French books here long ago and Nina always loved cheap and easy thrillers. I also remember now, randomly, that she smelled of roses. I wonder if she’s still with Seb. The bathroom door has been left ajar as an invitation. I go in and stare at the polished bath. It’s been so long since I’ve been in one. I reach across to the taps but hesitate. It feels like an intrusion, but in his house, his clothes, it also feels like the least I can do. A few minutes later I am lying in the water and watching the dirt as it runs off my body and sinks to the bottom. I find a nail brush and scrub away what I can without losing my mind. Then the hair. Not until I soak it do I become aware of how long it is. Finally, I scrub my face until it feels as if it is pink again. When I drain the bath I’m shocked by the grime lining the bottom.

When I walk out I catch sight of someone in the mirror. Someone from a nightmare. Of course, it’s me, but the face staring back at me is running with blood. I realise with a dull ache that I have scrubbed away my stitches. I sigh and clamp the towel to my face until I find plasters with cartoon pigs on them. So he has children? I manage to staunch the flow with three of them overlaid one across the other and take a last look in the mirror. I look clean but faintly ridiculous.

‘Oh. You found the plasters,’ he says with a smile when I walk into the kitchen. They tingle a little on my forehead. ‘Nieces. There are eggs and bacon there.’ He points to a covered plate. ‘And fresh coffee in the pot.’ He is wearing a grey suit with a Prince of Wales check, a pale blue shirt and a crimson tie with tiny elephant motifs on it. He takes me in, dressed in his checked shirt and red trousers, and smiles. Then he stands and gathers his keys from the table. The smell of bacon turns my stomach on and off again. But I need to eat.

‘Thanks,’ I say, sitting down. He looks at me as if he is about to say something but changes his mind.

‘Listen, I have to go to work,’ he says, looking at his watch. It’s a Rolex Milgauss. I had one once – because it was named after the mathematician.

‘We can talk when I get back. Should be back around six. Help yourself to whatever you want,’ he says. He pauses when he sees the agitation in my expression. ‘It’s fine, it’s just me in the house.’