racist term. ‘St Lucian.’
‘Right.’
‘Used to curl up on the sofa, prowl round when he thought I was asleep. I get up one morning, the TV’s gone. He’s back later like butter wouldn’t melt. “Wasn’t me,” he says. “Honest.” Honest! That’s a word in the dictionary, that is.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘And how’m I suppose to watch the cricket with no telly?’
She followed him into the sitting room, whose sofa and upright chair were aimed at the vacancy in the corner. It would have been cruel but neat if there’d been a dust-free area the shape of a TV set on the table there. Instead there was a plastic spray of wildflowers in a small vase. It was dim in here too, but Zoë didn’t want the light bulb discussion again.
‘What will happen now?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What will happen?’
‘To Wensley. To his . . . remains.’
‘I expect,’ said Zoë, ‘there’ll be an inquest. I mean, I know there will be. There’ll have to be.’
‘To find out why he did it?’
She looked at him and saw now, clearly despite the grey-stained light, that what she’d taken as a surface slackening, a loosening of the skin that was all that was holding a beaten spirit together, was more immediate than that; was the product, not only of years gone by, but of grief and puzzlement now. And she’d taken at face value his devil from hell s, his often as he deserved s . . . It wasn’t that he’d hidden his sorrow well, it was that she’d lacked the emotional talent to read it; a talent she’d once had, but had boarded away in some internal chamber made up of the unused spaces the rest of her life had produced. And he was still looking at her, Joseph Deepman. It was more than just his flat he’d wanted light cast on. ‘Why he did it?’ she repeated, and it came out a whisper.
‘It’s what they’re saying.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Who?’
‘Everyone.’
That was too many people to argue with. She’d already met some of them.
‘A policeman,’ he said.
‘A policeman told you that?’
‘He wasn’t talking to me. But . . . you hear stuff. What gets said.’
‘Is that what you think happened?’
‘How’m I suppose to know?’
‘I’m sure,’ she began, and stopped. She wasn’t sure of anything. ‘Mr Deepman. I’m sorry about what happened. Wensley . . . when we met, it wasn’t great. You weren’t wrong. But nobody wanted this. I’m sorry.’
‘I stopped touching him,’ said Deepman. ‘Not since he was a mite. Never touched him after that.’
Zoë looked at him.
‘Cuddling an’ that,’ said Deepman. ‘You don’t, do you? Not when it’s a boy. You don’t hug them or pet them. Don’t want them turning out soft, do you?’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’
He looked at her, then through her, briefly, as if she’d opened into a window. He didn’t seem to enjoy the view. ‘Not like it comes with a choice, is it? Who you blame.’
‘Mr Deepman –’
‘I need a lie down, now.’
She could have done with one herself. He left without further word, stepping back into the hall and through a door the other side of it. She waited a while, but he made no noise. So there she was standing in his dark living room, fourteen levels up, all the furniture concentrated on something that wasn’t there any more. But then, her whole day had been like that: Wensley Deepman, Caroline Daniels . . . There was nothing Zoë could do for the old man, and nothing she was obliged to try. She picked a figurine from a shelf, and studied it for no special reason: a small shepherdess; a reminder of a world that used to exist somewhere else, though never as cleanly or as prettily frocked as this. She put it back. Wensley might have lifted it once himself, she thought; maybe sized up its value, then – evidently – put it back. And this filled her with disgust, not Wensley’s action but her own baseless imagining of it. She left the flat, careful to pull the door to behind her. What
‘Right.’
‘Used to curl up on the sofa, prowl round when he thought I was asleep. I get up one morning, the TV’s gone. He’s back later like butter wouldn’t melt. “Wasn’t me,” he says. “Honest.” Honest! That’s a word in the dictionary, that is.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘And how’m I suppose to watch the cricket with no telly?’
She followed him into the sitting room, whose sofa and upright chair were aimed at the vacancy in the corner. It would have been cruel but neat if there’d been a dust-free area the shape of a TV set on the table there. Instead there was a plastic spray of wildflowers in a small vase. It was dim in here too, but Zoë didn’t want the light bulb discussion again.
‘What will happen now?’ he asked suddenly.
‘What will happen?’
‘To Wensley. To his . . . remains.’
‘I expect,’ said Zoë, ‘there’ll be an inquest. I mean, I know there will be. There’ll have to be.’
‘To find out why he did it?’
She looked at him and saw now, clearly despite the grey-stained light, that what she’d taken as a surface slackening, a loosening of the skin that was all that was holding a beaten spirit together, was more immediate than that; was the product, not only of years gone by, but of grief and puzzlement now. And she’d taken at face value his devil from hell s, his often as he deserved s . . . It wasn’t that he’d hidden his sorrow well, it was that she’d lacked the emotional talent to read it; a talent she’d once had, but had boarded away in some internal chamber made up of the unused spaces the rest of her life had produced. And he was still looking at her, Joseph Deepman. It was more than just his flat he’d wanted light cast on. ‘Why he did it?’ she repeated, and it came out a whisper.
‘It’s what they’re saying.’
She cleared her throat. ‘Who?’
‘Everyone.’
That was too many people to argue with. She’d already met some of them.
‘A policeman,’ he said.
‘A policeman told you that?’
‘He wasn’t talking to me. But . . . you hear stuff. What gets said.’
‘Is that what you think happened?’
‘How’m I suppose to know?’
‘I’m sure,’ she began, and stopped. She wasn’t sure of anything. ‘Mr Deepman. I’m sorry about what happened. Wensley . . . when we met, it wasn’t great. You weren’t wrong. But nobody wanted this. I’m sorry.’
‘I stopped touching him,’ said Deepman. ‘Not since he was a mite. Never touched him after that.’
Zoë looked at him.
‘Cuddling an’ that,’ said Deepman. ‘You don’t, do you? Not when it’s a boy. You don’t hug them or pet them. Don’t want them turning out soft, do you?’
‘You shouldn’t blame yourself.’
He looked at her, then through her, briefly, as if she’d opened into a window. He didn’t seem to enjoy the view. ‘Not like it comes with a choice, is it? Who you blame.’
‘Mr Deepman –’
‘I need a lie down, now.’
She could have done with one herself. He left without further word, stepping back into the hall and through a door the other side of it. She waited a while, but he made no noise. So there she was standing in his dark living room, fourteen levels up, all the furniture concentrated on something that wasn’t there any more. But then, her whole day had been like that: Wensley Deepman, Caroline Daniels . . . There was nothing Zoë could do for the old man, and nothing she was obliged to try. She picked a figurine from a shelf, and studied it for no special reason: a small shepherdess; a reminder of a world that used to exist somewhere else, though never as cleanly or as prettily frocked as this. She put it back. Wensley might have lifted it once himself, she thought; maybe sized up its value, then – evidently – put it back. And this filled her with disgust, not Wensley’s action but her own baseless imagining of it. She left the flat, careful to pull the door to behind her. What
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