seemed merely to be acceding to the assembled will to make a success of the evening, expressing solidarity with this town event using nothing more forceful than good humour and clear intelligence. I’d been looking for her all day and now, as if heralded by the stars and the planets themselves, she had come to me.
I left her image on screen and watched her, mid-question, from my couch until the screensaver kicked in. Even then, I felt her presence in the room. She seemed, at least for this moment, to belong here. I don’t have the conventional comforts – I rarely watch TV, for example, and own only the most basic furnishings. But this is the place I sleep, surrounded by my keys, of course – shimmering on every wall under the dimmed lights like gold and silver, each opening a lock in a portal to pleasure and adventure. I go to sleep counting sometimes. I have no idea how many hundreds or thousands there are – randomly scattered, you might think, some out on their own, others hanging in twos or threes on their little hooks – though together they are a collage of the town, every pendent shadow a house and a way of life.
I lay down for a moment, closed my eyes and saw her again.
S OMETIMES YOU ’ RE JUST LOOKING at things upside down. It can happen when things are moving fast. I’m not perfect, though I realize that in the service of brevity I might have given the impression of super-efficiency, of one thing following rather too easily on the heels of another. Needless to say (though here I am saying it), I have edited out the hours of preparation, or even the hours of
not
doing something – of
not
jumping to the next ledge in a high wind; of beating an undignified retreat. Or, as I say, of just not seeing what is in front of me. I’m just saying, bear it in mind.
There I was next morning, waking fully dressed, my mind slow to free itself from a dream in which I was being pursued by assassins along twisting corridors of falling books. Light streamed through a crack in the curtains and I reached for my phone. It was 9.17. There was – aha! – an automated message in my email. The house in Raistrick Road last changed hands in 1976 and was owned by Giles (deceased) and Agnes Rice. There was no mortgage held against the property. It sounded like a renter.
I took a shower and put on fresh clothes, then pondered myway to one of my favourite breakfast spots: the Wilsons’ place, a detached flat-roofed house that stood above the railway line overlooking the sports centre and surrounding sports fields on the other side. I’d hardly eaten the previous day, so I made some eggs and toast (the Wilsons and their four children lived in the sort of homely chaos you could hold a wrestling tournament and hog roast in without making any discernible difference) and called the office to tell them I would be in later.
I had missed my dawn vigil at Raistrick Road, but today was Tuesday – Sharp was free all day, so the chances were he was still in bed. If his wife was at work and thought he was out of town with some legitimate excuse, he would be unlikely to return too early and risk being seen by a neighbour. More likely was that he would stay at Raistrick, perhaps waiting for the girl to visit during her lunch break. Oh, where was she now? Presumably she worked in town – hence her bike ride along the Common and riverbank last Friday. None of this helped. I sat at the Wilsons’ big window and munched my way through breakfast, leafing through the local paper. In the property pullout were our multiple spreads of ads, with photographs of Katya and Zoe explaining the ‘Heming Pledge’ and our discount on all sales from now till Easter. Zoe in particular was an asset in the paper with her unforced smile and trendy looks, Katya more serious, but the two of them putting out a combined message that was friendly and professional, perhaps even a little sexy. Nice contrast: traditional, modern. Heming’s.
I prefer to keep my own
I left her image on screen and watched her, mid-question, from my couch until the screensaver kicked in. Even then, I felt her presence in the room. She seemed, at least for this moment, to belong here. I don’t have the conventional comforts – I rarely watch TV, for example, and own only the most basic furnishings. But this is the place I sleep, surrounded by my keys, of course – shimmering on every wall under the dimmed lights like gold and silver, each opening a lock in a portal to pleasure and adventure. I go to sleep counting sometimes. I have no idea how many hundreds or thousands there are – randomly scattered, you might think, some out on their own, others hanging in twos or threes on their little hooks – though together they are a collage of the town, every pendent shadow a house and a way of life.
I lay down for a moment, closed my eyes and saw her again.
S OMETIMES YOU ’ RE JUST LOOKING at things upside down. It can happen when things are moving fast. I’m not perfect, though I realize that in the service of brevity I might have given the impression of super-efficiency, of one thing following rather too easily on the heels of another. Needless to say (though here I am saying it), I have edited out the hours of preparation, or even the hours of
not
doing something – of
not
jumping to the next ledge in a high wind; of beating an undignified retreat. Or, as I say, of just not seeing what is in front of me. I’m just saying, bear it in mind.
There I was next morning, waking fully dressed, my mind slow to free itself from a dream in which I was being pursued by assassins along twisting corridors of falling books. Light streamed through a crack in the curtains and I reached for my phone. It was 9.17. There was – aha! – an automated message in my email. The house in Raistrick Road last changed hands in 1976 and was owned by Giles (deceased) and Agnes Rice. There was no mortgage held against the property. It sounded like a renter.
I took a shower and put on fresh clothes, then pondered myway to one of my favourite breakfast spots: the Wilsons’ place, a detached flat-roofed house that stood above the railway line overlooking the sports centre and surrounding sports fields on the other side. I’d hardly eaten the previous day, so I made some eggs and toast (the Wilsons and their four children lived in the sort of homely chaos you could hold a wrestling tournament and hog roast in without making any discernible difference) and called the office to tell them I would be in later.
I had missed my dawn vigil at Raistrick Road, but today was Tuesday – Sharp was free all day, so the chances were he was still in bed. If his wife was at work and thought he was out of town with some legitimate excuse, he would be unlikely to return too early and risk being seen by a neighbour. More likely was that he would stay at Raistrick, perhaps waiting for the girl to visit during her lunch break. Oh, where was she now? Presumably she worked in town – hence her bike ride along the Common and riverbank last Friday. None of this helped. I sat at the Wilsons’ big window and munched my way through breakfast, leafing through the local paper. In the property pullout were our multiple spreads of ads, with photographs of Katya and Zoe explaining the ‘Heming Pledge’ and our discount on all sales from now till Easter. Zoe in particular was an asset in the paper with her unforced smile and trendy looks, Katya more serious, but the two of them putting out a combined message that was friendly and professional, perhaps even a little sexy. Nice contrast: traditional, modern. Heming’s.
I prefer to keep my own
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