The Resident, page 13
‘I don’t really know what you do all day.’
He shrugged. ‘I have people to see.’
Nice.
Thank you. I thought so.
‘You have friends, then?’
‘Kind of.’
‘Oh. That’s good. Although . . .’
‘What?’
‘I just think it would be lovely if you could spend a bit more time here, with your old mother.’
‘You see a lot more of me now than you have for years.’
‘Yes. Yes, I know. I’m sorry, am I being selfish?’
Brogan put down his knife and fork. He reached out a hand and placed it across Elsie’s cold bony fingers.
‘Not selfish at all. I’ll keep coming back here. Every night, if that’s okay with you.’
She stared at him with wet eyes. Nodded. ‘That would be wonderful. Everything is better now you’re with me again. The house seems less empty.’
Brogan smiled. It wasn’t often he smiled at anything that wasn’t at somebody else’s expense.
‘I’m not very well, you know,’ she said.
‘Yes. I know.’
‘I think . . . I think that if you ever went away again, I’d have nothing left to live for.’
Brogan patted her hand. ‘Now, now. Don’t talk like that.’
You should put the old dear out of her misery. Look at her. She’s at death’s door as it is.
‘Tell you what,’ said Brogan. ‘Why not start getting that sponge ready? I’m nearly done with the main course.’
‘Of course, son. Anything for you.’
WEDNESDAY 12 JUNE, 10.10 AM
Secrets.
Brogan liked secrets.
Other people’s secrets, that is. The kind of thing a woman would keep even from her husband, or a man from his wife. Tales of infidelity, of past shame, of current loathing. Brogan always delighted in the reveal – the shock on the partner’s face on being confronted by a truth they were never meant to hear.
There were such secrets in this house. They were contained in that small wooden jewellery box.
Brogan slid open the bottom drawer once more and lifted out the box. He stared at it for a full minute. Then, almost as an afterthought, he attempted to lift the lid. It didn’t budge.
He looked across the room in the direction that Colette had walked when fetching the key. Against the far wall was the large triple wardrobe, with drawers along its bottom. One of the doors was slightly ajar. He pushed it closed, and was sure that the click it made was exactly like the one he had heard the previous evening. He pulled it open again, swung the door wide.
No creak.
Yesterday he had definitely heard a creak prior to the click.
He moved on to the adjoining door. Same result. A satisfying click, but no preceding squeal.
So, one more door to try. He pulled it wide in one swift motion. The shrill complaint was like fingernails on a blackboard. This was the door that Colette had opened.
Brogan took a longer look at the array of clothes on their hangers. Tucked away on the very left, as though hiding its glamour and expense from its more workaday peers, was Colette’s wedding dress, sheathed in protective plastic. Brogan wondered if she’d ever worn it since her big day. Wondered, too, whether it differed significantly from the one in which she had imagined getting hitched to Jeremy.
Brogan flicked through the rest of the clothes. They were mostly dresses and a few jackets. Despite the paucity of pockets in women’s garments, he didn’t relish the prospect of rummaging through them.
He turned his attention to the items stuffed into the space below the hanging clothes. Shoes, mainly, but also a collection of bags of varying sizes. One of them, a clutch bag, was protruding slightly. Brogan pulled it out for inspection. Its outer material was iridescent and scaled like snakeskin. He opened it up and began searching through its multitude of internal compartments.
Bingo!
Yup. This is the key.
Doesn’t look much. I hope the thing it’s safeguarding is more impressive.
Brogan tossed the bag onto the bed, then moved back to the wooden box. He inserted the key and turned it. The lock mechanism’s answer was smooth and decisive. Brogan raised the lid.
The contents were minimal. A ring and a few scraps of paper. Brogan recognised the ring as being the one on Colette’s engagement finger in the photographs with Jeremy.
Brogan unfolded the first piece of paper. It was immaculately handwritten in blue ink. He speed-read it to grasp the gist, but the gist decided it would be more fun to leap up and strike him with the force of a sledgehammer.
Fuck me! It’s the guy’s suicide note!
Brogan read it again, more carefully this time.
My dearest Colette,
This is so difficult for me to write, but it has to be done. It would be unfair of me to leave without some parting words.
I can’t carry on like this. It’s too painful. Every day I see the look of optimism on your face, and it tears me up inside.
I wish I could talk to you face to face about this, and I feel so cowardly for not doing so. You would try to talk me out of it. You might even succeed. But it would be for only a short while. The pain would return, and sooner or later I would have to end it.
I’m sorry it has come to this. You deserve so much better. You deserve a future. But it has to be a future without me in it. I hope you understand.
J. xx
Brogan turned his attention to the other bits of paper. They were all cuttings from newspapers. One of them showed a close-up photograph of Jeremy alongside a headline that announced the ‘Tragic Death of Holidaymaker on Welsh Coast’.
Dyfed-Powys Police have released the identity of a body recovered on Tuesday from the rocks below the coastal path just outside St David’s in Pembrokeshire, South Wales.
Jeremy Dawsbrook, 27, a schoolteacher from Nottingham, had been staying at a nearby holiday cottage with his fiancée, Colette Lamb. He left the cottage early in the morning, saying he was going for a walk, but never returned. Ms Lamb reported him missing when she found a note left on the mantelpiece. Police and coastal rescue services launched a search, and an RNLI lifeboat spotted the body of Mr Dawsbrook within hours of the alert.
Access to the cliff edge is unrestricted at many points along the Pembrokeshire coastal path, and police have said that foul play is not suspected.
Brogan looked through the other newspaper reports, written at later dates. Some of them described the effects on Jeremy’s school colleagues and pupils. Another contained the passage:
Evidence discussed at the coroner’s inquest included a note found at the cottage where Mr Dawsbrook had been holidaying with Ms Lamb, and post-mortem toxicology reports that indicated a significant quantity of anti-depressants in the deceased’s bloodstream. Pembrokeshire coroner Geraint Owens recorded a verdict of death due to suicide.
Brogan looked again at the newspaper photograph of Jeremy, and wondered if it was one of the last ever taken of him, perhaps by Colette herself. Now that he knew the full story, he thought he could perceive in Jeremy’s eyes a hint of the darkness that had weighed so heavily upon him. Brogan could easily imagine this man to have lost his appetite for life. He had seen that look in other eyes – where, having glimpsed a world absent of pain, they resigned themselves to making it their final destination.
Why’d she keep all this shit?
Why not? These and the photos are all she has left of him.
Maybe. But this is pretty morbid stuff, don’t you think? God knows what Martyn thinks of it.
That’s probably why she keeps it locked away. Maybe he doesn’t even know what she keeps in this box.
You think? Because if that’s the case . . .
Yeah. Exactly what I was thinking.
WEDNESDAY 12 JUNE, 5.45 PM
He had been looking forward to this all day.
He wanted to experience the tension all over again. The cold shoulders, the shallow conversation. It would be such a delight.
That’s what Brogan had anticipated.
It’s not what he got.
Six o’clock came and went. Then seven. Then eight. Nobody came home.
Anger began to crawl around inside Brogan. He could feel its heat as it moved around his body.
Where are they?
How the hell should I know?
They’re pissing me off. They are so going to regret this.
Brogan had to keep leaving his sentry post so that he could move around in the small loft space, relieving the pain that was building up in his muscles and joints. The last thing he wanted was to get cramp while trying to observe the happenings below.
But it was beginning to look as though tonight might be a washout.
Shit. Maybe we should get down there.
And do what, exactly? They have to come home at some point.
And then Brogan heard the noises.
A car pulling up outside. Sounding like Martyn’s car.
The front door opening. Voices. Laughter.
Laughter? They’re laughing? Why are they laughing?
Brogan’s stomach sank.
Surely not. They can’t have patched things up.
But the distant voices continued, and although Brogan couldn’t hear what was being said, he could tell it was proper conversation, full of warmth and emotion and happiness and all those detestable things.
And, worst of all, the laughing. Each explosion of humour carried up the stairs and punched Brogan in the gut.
I knew you should have gone down there. You need to put a stop to this. They’re ruining everything. They’re laughing at you.
It went quiet.
Brogan put his ear to the hole. Nothing.
He waited. Tried to imagine what could possibly—
And then it started up again. It was getting louder, because—
They’re coming up the stairs!
Giggling now. Naughty, throaty, heat-filled giggling.
Brogan watched. He saw.
He saw the door being thrown open. The couple staggering into the room, clearly the worse for alcohol, even though Martyn had just driven home. They were clutching at each other, kissing, panting, circling as they danced clumsily towards the bed. They reached for buttons, for zips, for clasps, and the clothes came off. The mattress pinged in surprise as it was thumped by the weight of the two naked bodies landing on it.
Brogan’s eye grew wider and wider. He watched the contortions, the jiggling flesh, the stimulation, the arousal, the raw lust. He listened to the slurping and the slapping and the wetness and the cries and the gasping and the swearing and the yearning calls for more, God, more. He remained transfixed as rhythms speeded up and slowed down, as passions increased, as new positions were sought and found and adapted. And then he tensed for the final moments, as the heat from below grew to boiling point, only for everything suddenly to burst apart in a frenzy of spasmodic, breathless writhing.
And as Martyn rolled away and onto his back, his chest rising and falling as though it feared never to be able to inhale oxygen again, Brogan was able to get a much better look at the object of the man’s ardour.
She glowed. Her cheeks, her body, her eyes – they all shone up at Brogan.
He spoke her name soundlessly.
‘Gabrielle.’
WEDNESDAY 12 JUNE, 9.26 PM
Brogan’s smile was as wide as it had ever been. This was delicious. A turn of events worthy of celebratory fireworks.
Gabrielle.
She was a stunner, all right. Splayed out directly below Brogan, she possessed a topology of undulating curves that commanded his eyes to rove back and forth across them. Whatever fault lines lurked beneath them in her personality were worth the journey.
Gabrielle, though!
That was the point. She was not Colette. She was the very antithesis of Colette. She represented Colette’s worst fears and anxieties about her relationship with her husband. Well, other than what she thought he was doing to drive her insane over Jeremy.
And, Martyn, you sly dog! What has got into you? Why are you even taking this risk?
‘This is so bad.’
Gabrielle turned to Martyn as she said this, her fingers plucking at his chest hair.
‘Really? I quite enjoyed it.’
She flicked his left nipple, making him wince. ‘I mean it’s wicked. We shouldn’t have . . . I mean, don’t you think . . . ?’
‘It’s fine. Colette will never know. She’s giving a presentation up in Edinburgh.’
‘Okay, but even so . . .’
Martyn leaned in and stroked her breast with the backs of his fingers. ‘Wasn’t it worth it?’
‘For me, yes. I like the excitement. For you, though? Why couldn’t we have gone to a hotel like we usually do?’
‘Because I have an empty house tonight. I’ve got a comfy bed, wine, food . . .’
‘You mean it’s cheaper.’
‘That’s not what I said. If you had your own place, instead of living with your sister—’
‘She wouldn’t say anything. What happens in our flat stays in our flat.’
‘I’m not taking any chances. Louise knows me, don’t forget. All it would take is for her to say the wrong thing to the wrong person—’
‘She wouldn’t do that. Anyway, I don’t think that’s the real reason.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘For bringing me here. You did it because it turns you on to have me in your wife’s bed.’
‘Rubbish.’
She poked him in the ribs with a gaudy false fingernail. ‘Go on, admit it.’
‘No.’
‘I’m right, aren’t I? The only reason I’m here is because you like the idea of rubbing Colette’s nose in it. That’s a metaphor, by the way, so no dirty comments, please.’
‘Who, me?’ He paused. ‘All right, I confess. Maybe it does give me a thrill. But I’ve got to get my kicks where I can at the moment.’
‘Oh? Colette putting you on rations, then?’
‘More of a starvation diet, really.’
‘Really?’ Gabrielle sounded too pleased with the revelation.
‘Well, it’s not like it’s been going on for ages, but she’s suddenly gone all cold on me.’
‘Why? What brought that on?’
‘Dunno. She’s been acting really weird. Keeps going on about her ex.’
‘What, the guy who topped himself ?’
‘Yeah. And whatever you do, don’t mention him to Colette when you next see her.’
‘Right, because I’m likely to do that, aren’t I? I’m going to say, “Hey, Colette. Why don’t you tell me about that boyfriend of yours who committed suicide?”’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘So . . . why is she talking about him? Doesn’t seem very diplomatic.’
Martyn pushed his hair away from his forehead. ‘It’s not just the fact that she mentions him. She’s been getting his photographs out and putting them in her drawers.’
Gabrielle laughed, then put a hand over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. You mean her clothes drawers, right?’
Martyn gave her a disapproving look. ‘Yes, I mean her clothes drawers. But the really freaky thing is that she forgets she does it, and then she blames me for it.’
‘What? Is she losing the plot?’
‘I have no idea. I think she needs to see a doctor, but if I suggest anything like that it’ll be like a red rag to a bull.’
‘Sounds like you need to start taking precautions.’
‘What kind of precautions?’
‘Oh, like strapping her into bed at night in case she goes sleepwalking and comes at you with a rolling pin.’
‘Very funny. She’s not batshit crazy. She’s just . . .’
‘Off her head?’
Another stern look from Martyn. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Colette. That’s not why I brought you here.’
‘We’ve already discussed why you brought me here. But right now I think I should be going.’
She started to roll out of bed, but Martyn put his hand on her hip.
‘Already? I thought we could—’
‘I think we’ve taken enough of a risk tonight. You have the nosiest neighbours in the world. I saw the curtains twitching across the road when we pulled up.’
‘It’s called community spirit. We look out for each other.’
‘And talk about each other, too, no doubt. I don’t want to become the subject of this week’s gossip, Martyn. Call me a taxi while I get some clothes on.’
She climbed off the bed and pulled on her underwear while Martyn got on the phone. When he hung up, she said, ‘Oh, and when I’m gone, wash these sheets.’
‘What?’
‘She’ll know, Martyn.’
‘She won’t know. How will she know?’
‘Trust me, she’ll know. Women are good at things like that.’
Martyn frowned, but Brogan could see the worry on his face.
The taxi came within five minutes. Martyn threw on jogging pants and a sweater and saw Gabrielle to the door. When the taxi departed, he came back upstairs and stared at the bed. Making a sudden decision, he started pulling off the sheets and pillowcases.
Brogan continued to watch. This had been quite a spectacle. Not at all what he had been expecting.
Despite Martyn’s precautions, Colette would get to learn about this little escapade. And it would come straight out of Martyn’s mouth.
Brogan would make sure of it.
WEDNESDAY 12 JUNE, 11.57 PM
A promise is a promise. And besides, he was hungry.
Elsie prepared him a full English: bacon, sausages, eggs, beans and toast. She didn’t have any black pudding, but he didn’t want it anyway. The idea of eating something made with blood repulsed him.
‘Why do you only come here at night?’ Elsie asked.
Brogan swallowed a mouthful of bacon dripping with egg yolk. He liked his eggs runny. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ he said.
‘Could you try?’
