paper, but his eyes skipped over the words. He left two papers for the builders and stuffed the other two in the book-sized pocket of his jacket. He lit a cigarette. The nicotine nauseated him and made him giddy. He walked home.
The door to the flat looked blankly at him. He felt like a burglar.
This was Sara's place. He wondered what he'd do about finding another place to live.
At 3 p.m., when the sun grew low in the sky and dazzling, he scuttled round the flat turning on the lights. He turned on the television and watched it without seeing until it was time to go to work.
He took a second shower, more hurried than the first. He left the shower curtain open, fearing whoever might be standing there, waiting, when he opened it again.
When he'd dried himself, he didn't feel clean. He could smell his own breath, the smell of truffle, or tumour. He tried to clean his teeth and retched until luminous fish darted and wriggled in his peripheral vision. He dressed in his work clothes and the plaid jacket. He found his beanie and his wallet. From habit, he put a paperback book in his pocket. And then, as he did every weekday at the same time, he stepped out and caught the bus to work.
As he signed in at the desk, the security guard gave him a strange look.
He caught the lift to the second floor and walked to the studio.
Howard was making a cup of tea in the narrow kitchen; there were cold, squashed teabags dotted all over the glittery Formica.
Mark Derbyshire was in the tiny, shared office. Most of the lights were off. Mark's screen saver scrolled unread across his monitor, its beige casing smeared with inky fingerprints.
Stubble sprouted in the normally contoured beard that Mark believed made him look a bit less like a beaver. He was sitting at his desk, looking down into his cup of tea; his cuffs were loose, exposing his hairy forearms and gold identity bracelet.
Nathan rapped on the door. Mark looked up.
'You've got some fucking nerve, sunshine.'
'Are you going to sack me?'
'Oh, fuck. I don't know. Probably. Whatever.'
'Mark. What's wrong?'
'A friend of mine. Graham. He lost his daughter.'
Nathan wanted to sit down. He shifted his weight so it was borne by the doorway.
'What?'
Mark's scalp was naked, but for some baby-like fluff that sometimes caught the light and made him look simple and surprised, like a gigantic duckling.
'My friend, Graham. His girl. Elise. She's gone.'
'Gone where?'
'That's the thing, mate. Nobody knows. She was at the party.'
'What -- your party?'
'Yes -- my party. Then . . .' He made a fluttering, bird-like motion with his hand. 'She was gone.'
Nathan pulled up a moulded plastic chair. He hoped the gesture looked intimate and concerned. He could no longer stand.
'Where'd she go?'
'Nobody knows. That's the point.'
Howard arrived.
'Kettle's boiled.'
'Yeah,' said Nathan. 'Cheers. Has somebody called the police?'
'Graham's got friends on the force,' said Mark. 'They're already on it. None of this "missing for twenty-four hours" bollocks. They were round my place by Sunday evening. I was still in bed.'
'Well. That's great. That's good news.'
Mark knuckled at his raw eyes. 'You really are a little prick, aren't you?'
Nathan looked at Howard. Howard raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
Mark said, 'Unless she turns up, and soon, the show's fucked. I've already been interviewed by the police. How long do you think it'll be before the tabloids get hold of that?'
'I see,' said Nathan. 'Right.'
'Right.'
There was no show that evening - they'd be playing a 'best of compilation, one of several they kept behind for illness and other emergencies. Howard and Mark had turned up simply from habit, to sit in the half-lit offices, drinking coffee. Neither was married. Not any more.
Nathan said, 'I'm sorry. For Saturday night. Trying to hit you and that.'
Mark waved it away. They could hear the late-night traffic outside.
Nathan
felt insubstantial.
He said, 'I thought she was going to sleep
The door to the flat looked blankly at him. He felt like a burglar.
This was Sara's place. He wondered what he'd do about finding another place to live.
At 3 p.m., when the sun grew low in the sky and dazzling, he scuttled round the flat turning on the lights. He turned on the television and watched it without seeing until it was time to go to work.
He took a second shower, more hurried than the first. He left the shower curtain open, fearing whoever might be standing there, waiting, when he opened it again.
When he'd dried himself, he didn't feel clean. He could smell his own breath, the smell of truffle, or tumour. He tried to clean his teeth and retched until luminous fish darted and wriggled in his peripheral vision. He dressed in his work clothes and the plaid jacket. He found his beanie and his wallet. From habit, he put a paperback book in his pocket. And then, as he did every weekday at the same time, he stepped out and caught the bus to work.
As he signed in at the desk, the security guard gave him a strange look.
He caught the lift to the second floor and walked to the studio.
Howard was making a cup of tea in the narrow kitchen; there were cold, squashed teabags dotted all over the glittery Formica.
Mark Derbyshire was in the tiny, shared office. Most of the lights were off. Mark's screen saver scrolled unread across his monitor, its beige casing smeared with inky fingerprints.
Stubble sprouted in the normally contoured beard that Mark believed made him look a bit less like a beaver. He was sitting at his desk, looking down into his cup of tea; his cuffs were loose, exposing his hairy forearms and gold identity bracelet.
Nathan rapped on the door. Mark looked up.
'You've got some fucking nerve, sunshine.'
'Are you going to sack me?'
'Oh, fuck. I don't know. Probably. Whatever.'
'Mark. What's wrong?'
'A friend of mine. Graham. He lost his daughter.'
Nathan wanted to sit down. He shifted his weight so it was borne by the doorway.
'What?'
Mark's scalp was naked, but for some baby-like fluff that sometimes caught the light and made him look simple and surprised, like a gigantic duckling.
'My friend, Graham. His girl. Elise. She's gone.'
'Gone where?'
'That's the thing, mate. Nobody knows. She was at the party.'
'What -- your party?'
'Yes -- my party. Then . . .' He made a fluttering, bird-like motion with his hand. 'She was gone.'
Nathan pulled up a moulded plastic chair. He hoped the gesture looked intimate and concerned. He could no longer stand.
'Where'd she go?'
'Nobody knows. That's the point.'
Howard arrived.
'Kettle's boiled.'
'Yeah,' said Nathan. 'Cheers. Has somebody called the police?'
'Graham's got friends on the force,' said Mark. 'They're already on it. None of this "missing for twenty-four hours" bollocks. They were round my place by Sunday evening. I was still in bed.'
'Well. That's great. That's good news.'
Mark knuckled at his raw eyes. 'You really are a little prick, aren't you?'
Nathan looked at Howard. Howard raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
Mark said, 'Unless she turns up, and soon, the show's fucked. I've already been interviewed by the police. How long do you think it'll be before the tabloids get hold of that?'
'I see,' said Nathan. 'Right.'
'Right.'
There was no show that evening - they'd be playing a 'best of compilation, one of several they kept behind for illness and other emergencies. Howard and Mark had turned up simply from habit, to sit in the half-lit offices, drinking coffee. Neither was married. Not any more.
Nathan said, 'I'm sorry. For Saturday night. Trying to hit you and that.'
Mark waved it away. They could hear the late-night traffic outside.
Nathan
felt insubstantial.
He said, 'I thought she was going to sleep
Similar Books
