The Resident, page 17
Are we going in? I think we should go in.
Brogan pushed the door open a couple of feet, then slipped inside.
It was much darker than it was on the landing, and he had to wait for a minute or two while his eyes struggled to adjust. It was as he was doing this that he felt a sudden stab of pain in his skull, and for a few seconds he thought he was going to pass out.
You okay?
I’m fine.
You really got a whack with that pan, didn’t you?
I’m okay.
Good, because look . . .
He could see them now, dimly lit by the glow of the alarm clock. Martyn was on his side, his face turned away from Brogan. Colette was on her back, only half-covered by the duvet. Her snoring had become more of a gentle purr now, and her eyelids fluttered as though caught in the soft breeze she was creating. Her full lips were slightly parted, inviting the tender pressure of a kiss. The one leg that Brogan could see was bent slightly at the knee, and her nightie had ridden up over her hip.
Brogan stood in wonder, marvelling at the curves, the shadows, the prominences and indentations, the visible and the invisible. She excited him beyond measure, and not just because of what he could see, but also because of what he could envision.
He shifted nearer to the bed.
Careful.
He began with her foot. He put his hand out, brought it to within a millimetre of her flawless skin. So close he could feel the heat rising from it.
He moved his hand, brought it up the incline of her shin, letting it hover for a while at her knee before taking it on the descent across the expanse of her naked thigh. He sailed his palm over the roundness of her hip, stopping when it brushed against the material of her nightie.
He turned to her head, then. He reached out and touched her hair. It felt so incredibly soft, like down. He feathered his fingers over her forehead, then the bump of her nose, then her lips. He paused there for a while, savouring the heat of her breath, then continued on to her throat, her shoulder, the mound of her breast.
The movement was too rapid for him to react.
Colette took a sudden intake of breath as she arched her back and stretched out her arm. Her breast pressed into his palm before he had a chance to withdraw it. She groaned, and for an instant he thought she would wake up. But she simply turned onto her side and lay unmoving again.
We should go.
What’s that?
Come on. I think we’ve taken enough risks for one night, don’t you?
Yes. Okay, yes.
He left the room in a daze. Later, when he was back in the spare room, he found it difficult to remember how he had got there. He knew he must have taken his time to retrace his steps, but the journey was already barely a shadow in his memory.
What he did remember – oh so vividly – was what came before that. The way Colette had opened her eyes and smiled at him. The way she had deliberately pushed her breast into his cupped hand and groaned at the pleasure of his touch. The way she had mouthed the words, ‘Come to me.’
He refused to listen to the suggestions of his fractured brain that it was a fiction, a corruption of the reality.
He wanted it to be the indelible, undeniable truth. And so it was.
FRIDAY 14 JUNE, 6.45 AM
He slept in the middle of the carpeted floor, making sure to squeeze back under the bed before the Fairbrights got up.
He heard the alarm go off, then listened to the trips to the bathroom, the washing, the dressing. Oh, and the occasional and brief exchange of words.
He listened to the clatter of bowls and mugs, a brief episode of happy radio music presented by an even happier DJ. He heard the front door being opened and shut, the starting and revving of engines and their fading into the distance.
And then, finally, he was alone. He was free.
But for how long?
Brogan wriggled out from under the bed and went to the front window. There was no van next door. He checked his watch. If they were coming again today then he probably didn’t have long.
He went out to the landing. Grabbing the pole, he pushed open the hatch and unfolded the ladder, then stared up into the black void above him.
It’d be funny if he’s gone.
Who?
The burglar. Imagine if he’s not there anymore.
That’s not funny. Why would you think that’s funny?
It would be like the start of a murder mystery. I think it would make a great story, don’t you?
No, I don’t. Anyway, why would he be gone?
Any number of reasons. The workmen took him. Or maybe—
Why would the workmen take him?
Who knows? Maybe they have a thing for dead people. Maybe they’re cannibals. Maybe they plan to blackmail the Fairbrights. Use your imagination.
I don’t want to use my imagination. I just want to find out what they were doing up there.
So then my other theory is that he wasn’t dead. He woke up and he escaped with the help of the workmen. Or he could be hiding up there, waiting to smack you with a pan again.
Will you shut up for a minute?
He started up the ladder. Pushed his shoulders through the hatch. He could see nothing. Hear nothing except for the tapping of birds on the roof tiles. And yet those sounds were different, somehow.
‘Hello,’ he said. The word sounded muffled. The air seemed to circulate less freely.
Try not to crap yourself if somebody answers.
I’m testing the sound. It’s not the same.
If you’ll forgive the pun, I’d like to suggest that using the torch would be more illuminating.
Brogan pulled the torch from his pocket and turned it on.
The suitcases, the crates, the bags – they were all in exactly the same places as before. The body was still covered in carpet and cardboard boxes.
But it was clear what the workmen had been doing. They had extended the brick wall. Built it right up to the roofline. Brogan was now permanently cut off from the other houses.
FRIDAY 14 JUNE, 8.32 AM
Brogan stood in front of the new partition. He reached out and ran his fingers across it, almost in the hope that it would dissolve at his touch. But the bricks were cold and unrelenting. They made Brogan feel feeble and without control.
So that’s it, then.
That’s what?
The decision has been made for us. Today is our last one here. And the last day on earth for Colette and Martyn.
Does it have to be?
Of course it does. We can’t go back the way we came. Our only way out now is through one of the doors of this house.
But why today? Why can’t we stay up in the attic?
What are you talking about? We have no food, remember. We can’t get to Elsie.
Oh, shit. Elsie!
Yes, Elsie. Our provider. We have to face up to reality now. This charade is over.
Brogan cast his mind back a few hours to that precious moment with Colette. Standing over her bed. Touching her. Remembering the recent tender touch of another young woman.
No.
No? What do you mean, no?
We don’t have to end it yet.
Really? And how the hell is that going to be possible?
We can come up here. Even if the workmen turn up again next door, they can’t see us. We can hide again.
And food? What do we do about that?
I’ll think of something.
Of course you will. What are you going to do? Eat the burglar?
Don’t be ridiculous.
Then what? We can’t live off a slice of bread and a handful of cereal a day.
Stop whining. I’ll handle it, okay?
Fine, then. I’ll leave it in your capable hands. And what about our friend here?
The burglar?
Yes, the burglar. If we’re moving back up here, where is he going?
Nowhere. He stays here.
With us?
Yes.
You do know what happens to bodies after death, don’t you? I mean, you haven’t forgotten about that aspect of our activities?
Brogan closed down the conversation. He moved closer to the mound against the wall. He pulled away the boxes, and then the carpet.
He was not shocked by what he saw. To him it had always been a marvel that flies were able to locate a corpse so quickly, and from such great distances. He had on many occasions been impressed at their ability to find a route through seemingly impenetrable barriers to get to their prey.
The flies were here now. They buzzed gently around the cadaver, flashing green in the torchlight. They landed and they ate and they laid their eggs, and they cared not a jot that this was once a human life. Tiny maggots were already crawling out of the man’s nose and his mouth and his eyes and his ears.
Almost twenty-four hours had elapsed since this man had died. A full day in a warm, enclosed chamber. Brogan was fully aware that decomposition would be rapid in this environment, and that things were going to become substantially more unpleasant.
For Brogan, it was the moments leading up to death that were of interest. What fascinated him was how people reacted to pain, both mental and physical, and how they faced up to their final moments. There were endless variations on that theme to entertain him. What happened after life was extinguished didn’t entice him in the slightest.
He was going to have to do something to make his time up here a little more bearable.
He climbed down the ladder and went to the kitchen. He scavenged a roll of bin bags, some parcel tape and scissors, then carried his haul back up to the attic.
He switched his torch on again, then wedged it into one of the rafters above his head. Its light didn’t exactly fill the space, but it was enough for him to see what he was doing.
He ripped a bag from the roll and pulled it over the burglar’s head and shoulders, then another for his feet and legs. He wrapped a couple more around the centre of the body, then used the parcel tape to hold them all together and seal any gaps. Feeling the need to play safe, he added another bag to each end of the corpse.
What are you going to do now? Put a stamp on it and take it to the post office?
Brogan grabbed the body and dragged it to the far end of the boarded half of the attic, pushing it as far under the eaves as he could.
Are you going to sleep up here with that thing?
That’s the plan.
Well, I hope you’ve got a strong stomach. On which note . . .
What?
What’s for breakfast?
FRIDAY 14 JUNE, 9.07 AM
The workmen had returned and started up again next door. More hammering and drilling and sawing. Brogan was glad to return to the relative peace of the kitchen.
Who knows? We may get another burglar today. We could start building a collection.
Brogan opened the fridge and studied the contents. He wondered if he could get away with stealing an egg, some cheese and some mushrooms. Maybe an omelette?
You know what would be great? A real show-stopper?
What?
Put the burglar’s head in the fridge. Can you imagine that? Colette finding a human head in there next to her low-fat yoghurt and cottage cheese? That would be awesome.
Yeah. Remind me when the time comes. It might be nice to involve our burglar friend in the fun and games.
We could get them to play spin the bottle. Whoever it points to has to French-kiss the dead guy. Or maybe give him a blow job.
Brogan laughed out loud while he investigated the freezer.
‘Yes!’ he said out loud.
What?
He held up a Tupperware dish.
Leftovers. The curry from last night. Put this with a little rice . . .
Won’t they notice?
I doubt it. They’re not going to want curry again for at least a week, so why would they even go looking for it?
Fine. Go for it. Curry for breakfast is a weird choice, but right anything looks delicious.
Brogan boiled a pan of water on the hob and dropped half a cup of rice into it. While that cooked, he microwaved the curry. When he was finally seated at the table, he was almost afraid to disturb the utter perfection of the steaming meal in front of him. But then the spicy aroma snaked into his stomach and twisted it into submission, and within seconds he was throwing the food down his gullet.
When he was done, he sat back and burped.
Damn, that was a good curry.
He washed up, put everything away, sat down again for a few minutes. He was aware of the pungent odour of curry in the room, but he reasoned that it would fade by the end of the working day, and the Fairbrights would just assume it had lingered since the previous night.
What now?
Now? Now I do what I said I’d do.
Brogan went upstairs to the bedroom. He found Colette’s key and used it to open the jewellery box in the chest of drawers. He stared at its contents.
That’s a nice ring. Expensive-looking.
Yeah. But I think she keeps it more for its sentimental value. It must be her closest connection to Jeremy.
So are you thinking what I’m thinking?
I’d be amazed if I wasn’t.
FRIDAY 14 JUNE, 6.45 PM
Martyn had been the last to leave this morning, and the first one to come home. Brogan liked that. It left open the possibility that Colette could blame her husband for what she was about to discover.
Colette came up to shower and change before her evening meal. Brogan heard the shower start up.
He waited.
The shower was a brief one. Colette came thundering back into the bedroom. She was wearing a bathrobe and carrying a towel. She balled up the towel and threw it across the room.
‘Bastard!’ she said.
She jumped on the bed. Kneeling there, she pummelled Martyn’s pillow with her fists for what seemed like a full minute.
When her energy was spent, she moved to the edge of the bed and sat there with her face in her hands.
It was obvious she had read the message on the mirror:
WHY DON’T YOU WEAR MY RING?
She thinks Martyn is trying to screw up her mind again. She’s getting her anger out so she won’t give him the satisfaction.
Brogan had figured it would go this way.
But he had also reasoned that this wouldn’t be the end of it.
You think it’s going to click with her?
Wait for it . . . Wait for it . . .
Colette suddenly lowered her hands. She sniffed back her tears.
Now. There it is.
Colette walked over to the chest of drawers. She took out the jewellery box.
That’s it, Colette. I know what you’re thinking. You’re wondering how Martyn could know about the ring.
The fact that she kept the ring hidden away under lock and key had suggested to Brogan that she had probably never mentioned its existence to Martyn. Brogan had taken a gamble on that, and now it was paying off.
Colette pulled on the lid, confirming that it was locked. She went across to the wardrobe to retrieve the key, then came back into Brogan’s field of view. She inserted the key and unlocked the box.
‘Where is it?’ she said.
She pulled out the bits of paper, tipped the box upside down.
‘WHERE IS IT?’
Martyn appeared in the doorway then. His timing couldn’t have been better.
‘Where’s what, Col?’ he asked.
She turned her face towards him. ‘Where is it?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘You know damn well what I’m talking about. What have you done with it?’
‘Col, I really don’t know what—’
‘Yes, you do. Don’t lie to me. You’ve gone too far this time, Martyn. Where the hell is my ring?’
‘What ring?’
‘My fucking engagement ring! Where is it?’
Martyn sighed as if the answer was absurdly easy. ‘It’s still on your finger. You haven’t taken it off. You never take it off.’
Colette’s voice became a shriek. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot! I’m not crazy, all right? I’ve had enough of your games. Give it back to me.’
‘Honestly, love, I don’t know what you want me to—’
‘The ring! The engagement ring that Jeremy gave to me. You’ve taken it.’
Martyn stiffened. His expression of sympathy changed to one of annoyance.
‘Jeremy’s engagement ring? You’ve still got that?’
‘I did have until you stole it from me.’
Martyn shook his head. ‘Well, that’s just fucking great, isn’t it? Are you seriously telling me you’ve been keeping Jeremy’s ring? What other goodies of his have you got in that box?’
Colette held up the scraps of paper. ‘Newspaper cuttings and his suicide note. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I, now that you’ve snooped around? How did you find the key, anyway? Have you been spying on me? Going through all my stuff ? Is that what you were doing while I was in Edinburgh?’
Martyn threw his hands up in despair. ‘Until now, I didn’t even know there was a fucking key. I’m not interested in your private things, Col. What I would like to know, however, is why you’ve kept this from me. Why couldn’t you have told me you had all these mementos?’
‘Precisely because I knew how you’d react. I knew you’d accuse me of loving Jeremy more than I love you, just like you did the other day. Anyway, we’re getting off the point. I want my ring back, Martyn. Right now!’
‘I haven’t got it. Why would I take it?’
‘Why would you do any of the things you’ve been doing? Why did you move the photos?’
‘Oh, Christ, not that again. I thought we’d sorted that out.’
Colette pointed towards the bathroom. ‘And the creepy messages you’ve been leaving me. What about those?’
‘What messages?’
‘On the mirror in the bathroom. Pretending they’re from Jeremy.’
