Nocturne by Graham Hurley Page A

was away. ’
    I watched my hand reaching for the gin bottle. I couldn ’ t remember finishing my last glass. Gilbert was looking shamefaced. For a moment or two I thought he was going to apologise but he didn ’ t. He still had the flute, in his lap and he lifted it to his lips and blew a long, melancholic note.
    ‘ What does that mean? ’
    He shook his head, putting the flute down. Then, abruptly, he changed the subject. He was looking down at Pinot, sprawled at my feet.
    ‘ It ’ s clever, ’ he said, ‘ how cats find their way to the fridge. It must be something to do with the frequency of the motor. They must sense it. Like bats, really. ’
    ‘ That ’ s another thing, ’ I said gently.
    ‘ What ’ s another thing?
    ‘ Taking my cats like that. ’
    ‘ I didn ’ t take them. They came. ’
    ‘ But you must have let them out, opened the door for them. ’
    ‘ Of course. ’
    ‘ Then you must have the keys. ’
    ‘ Yes. ’ He was frowning now, still studying Pinot.
    ‘ You took copies of the keys? ’
    ‘ Yes, I thought I mentioned it. I thought we talked about it. ’
    ‘ Never. ’ I shook my head. ‘ Why should we? Why should I want you to have a copy of my keys? ’
    At this point, as if I ’ d touched a nerve, he suddenly looked up. ‘ The dark, ’ he said.
    He left an hour and a half later, his gin and tonic barely touched, and as I shepherded him into our shared hall, I felt flooded with relief. It wouldn ’ t, after all, be necessary to change the locks or bar the windows or supplement Pinor and Noir with a Rottweiler. Gilbert was a little simple, certainly, and a little mixed up about one or two things, but at heart he was still the man I thought I ’ d befriended, the gentle, considerate, neighbourly soul upstairs.
    If he had a fault, I thought, then it was the instinct to be over- protective. He was concerned about the world. In fact he was terrified at the direction events were taking. Not just on planet Earth but way out in what I suspect he meant by ‘ The Dark ’ . The signs weren ’ t good, he kept telling me. He read all the latest scientific magazines, and it was perfectly obvious that we were facing an impending catastrophe. Quite what he could do to protect me from this kind of disaster wasn ’ t at all clear but listening to him trying to explain it, I had absolutely no doubt about his sincerity.
    This man, poor soul, had suffered some kind of ghastly trauma. It had demolished more or less all the personal defences we take so much for granted and as a direct result he was convinced he was in tune with the future, a helpless savant cursed with a knowledge of the horrors to come. These horrors were numberless and beyond description but they were also in some strange way avoidable, and the fact that he counted me amongst those worth saving I took as a compliment.
    I watched Gilbert until he disappeared into his flat upstairs and later, lying in bed, I could hear him walking up and down again, mumbling to himself, patrolling the battlements he ’ d thrown up around our little house. At worst, I told myself, Gilbert was simply harmless. At best, once I ’ d learned to cope with his funny little ways, he ’ d be the perfect antidote to the infinitely less benign lunatics with whom I worked.
    A couple of days later, Brendan cornered me on the stairs at Doubleact. He was more determined than ever to drag me out to dinner and my new promotion had given him fresh leverage.
    ‘ We need to discuss things, ’ he said. ‘ Away from the office. ’
    He left the choice of restaurant to me and out of curiosity I booked a table at Colcannon ’ s, the place in Stoke Newington where Gilbert had performed. It was a Wednesday evening. Incoming fire at Doubleact had been light to non-existent all day and offhand I couldn ’ t think of anything really pressing that Brendan and I could possibly have to talk about. The last thing I expected was an in-depth ana lysis of my documentary