I Know What I Saw

For some reason I had expected there to be a party, in full flow. Girls in gold dresses and spiked heels, men with rolled sleeves gesticulating in the air. I expected the balcony looking out on to the street below to be crammed with laughing and smoking. I expected it to live up to my vision of his life as a high-flying hedge fund guy. Instead I walked in to this vale of silence perforated only by muted jazz weeping from a pair of Wharfedale Diamonds.

‘Rory,’ I said and hugged him awkwardly, a bottle of champagne in one hand. ‘Congratulations on the new place.’

‘Thanks, Xand,’ he said, and waved me in. ‘No Grace?’

‘Oh, you know Grace, she wanted to come, but double-booked herself as usual. Some Ayurvedic thing.’

‘Drink?’ he said, slipping away into an open-plan kitchen.

‘Go on then,’ I said. ‘It’s still cold.’ I held out the bottle.

The flat was just as it should have been for Rory. Polished parquet ran the length and breadth of the place. Rugs were laid artfully here and there. A few had even climbed on to the walls. The windows were impressive: floor to ceiling, with views across London. I stood at one and slid it open.

‘I like the windows,’ I said. ‘Beginning to wish that we’d got something like this. All this light.’

‘Yes,’ he said, emerging from a glass wall. ‘The light’s good.’

The champagne he passed me tasted sharp and fresh.

‘So, seen much of Dad?’ he asked, taking a hand through his copper hair.

‘No. Busy house-hunting,’ I said and leaned out into the view below.

He nodded and breathed it in with me.

‘If you get a chance, you should. He’d like to see you,’ he said, turning his face away.

There was an edge to the comment, or I felt one.

‘It’s you he likes to see,’ I said.

The air was warm, summery. Up at this height all the heat and moisture had gone from it, so the breeze when it came, came with a cool undertow.

‘Look, Xander, whatever you think about him, now is not the time to hang on to it. He’s fading. It won’t be that long now.’

I looked across at him and saw the same childhood face. Eyes like smudges. Hair tousled as if fresh from sleep.

‘I’ll go and see him next week. Take a bottle of that Macallan that he likes,’ I said at last.

When I turned I saw that Rory had walked back inside. The atmosphere began slowly to fizz in a familiar but unsettling way. I went in and saw Rory’s silhouette behind the glass wall of the open kitchen.

‘What?’ I said, rounding the partition.

‘I didn’t say anything.’ He busied himself with some dishes that didn’t need the attention.

‘No, but you meant something,’ I said, staring at him.

‘Look, if you’re pissed off about the drinking, don’t take him a bottle. You don’t have to be an arse about it.’

I didn’t know whether I was still pissed off about the drinking, or something else. They both drank. Mum and Dad. But the words come loose from nowhere.

‘You didn’t have to put up with him when he was drunk,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ he said, looking up at me.

‘You didn’t have him, reeking of—’ and then I stopped, letting the words founder. In the silence that followed, I saw the realisation dawning.

‘What are you saying, Xander?’ he said after a minute.

‘Forget it.’ I headed towards the front door.

‘No, Xander. This is important,’ he said, coming after me. ‘If you’ve got something to say—’

‘See you, Rory. I have to go,’ I said, harassing the locks to work the latch.

He stood, arms folded, behind me. ‘Well? Have you got anything to say?’

‘Mr Shute? Have you got anything to say?’

The screen blinks at me, strobing between the paused frames. I am back in the police station. The video plays on in my head. The number 42B, in brass against the black door. My brain is whirring, making and unmaking connections when they don’t fit. I am familiar with this process. It is, even in the teeth of this madness, comforting having my mind untangling the puzzle.

I know how this resolves itself. Soon, the solution will crystallise and emerge whole. I know my mind will get there: it’s slower than Rory’s, but still good.

I stare at the screen which just looks back. I cast my eyes away and shut them tight.

Untangle it.

The dryness in my throat won’t be swallowed away. I can’t make sense of it. The familiar warmth of resolution doesn’t arrive. My head thuds and the room begins to close in on me.

In every solution, time is a constant. So, what is the answer to this? What can the answer be to this? My heart begins to pick up pace as the realisation descends to its perfect end.

I am finished.

I stare at the screen.

The floor – the Victorian tile – is gone. In its place is smooth, pale grey marble, threaded through with darker veins. The walls are no longer painted cream but one side is entirely mirrored in what looks like a single glazed panel. Reflected against it, the opposite wall is decorated in tiny mosaic tiles. Tiny spots of starlight shine from the ceiling.

My mouth is open but there is nothing to say.