You had this way of walking that made you easy to follow in a crowd. I’d be taking some air or just crossing the road minding my own business and there you were, like static between threads, how they entwine and spiral around each other. Sometimes I wondered whether you did it on purpose, if you knew I was watching – when you made that trip up to Highgate, strolling your cat on his yellow lead. I was feeding pigeons as I do after a night shift and I had the simple pleasure of studying you on a bench for a whole half-hour. You remember? That book you had? The one with the young girl on the cover? I bought myself a copy that very afternoon. Solidarity as it were, so we’d have something else in common.
I realise what people said, the police, the newspapers etcetera, how I'd planned it from the beginning and had it all worked out, but it was never like that; I'm not the sort. Even after the accident it was just notes. The Old Parr’s Head pretending to slam buttons on the fruit machine while I made my observations. I was very discreet. You never looked at me, you never spoke to me, but that was okay. It was just an idea at the time. Like when I'm working on a design, dreaming up the colours and the setting and how it should fit together. The creative part before I thread the needle.
I suppose it's difficult stitching it all together now, exactly how I came to be looking after you. I mean here I am back on these streets, my old rounds, my old haunts, but I can't see it happening again. Even when I spot ones that remind me of you it’s not the same, the way they pull at their hair or stop in the middle of the pavement or whatever, your kind of strong gentle look. It can be the oddest thing, like a ghost almost. Mostly they're not my type at all. That one for instance on the corner now with her mobile, you can tell she's not worth it. Briefcase and business suit and too much make-up, dolling herself before a shop window like she owns it. It’s scarcely worth approaching her. Besides, I’d only draw attention, people tend to stop and stare and I don't like that -“They’re watching, Gideon,” Moth would say, “they’re watching.”
They should give you a certificate when you’re released, safe to re-enter the community or something, or something.
The traffic’s stopped for her, the business type, her big eyes and preening and ‘look at me’, all high heel totter and briefcase in hand. She’s at the lights now, touching distance. Wait just behind her, press the button and wait, wait for it Gideon, wait for it…
Cross. Dib dib dib.
Shuffle home.
They say household dust nearly all consist of skin. Eighty per cent is human skin, that’s what they say. A shock I can tell you when I first let myself in, nobody here for ten years, not even a burglar or a squatter and it was caked, I mean the state of the place. Where does the other twenty percent come from, that’s what I'd like to know.
They’d given it a right going-over, I can tell you, the walls stripped, police paw marks still on the paint work. My photos were gone, my snaps in storage and case closed. Which was a shame. They were nice those pictures, probably not professional standard but they did capture you. I thought so anyway. Sort of innocent and natural. Wrapped up now, I should imagine - Exhibit 12, sealed in cellophane by the men in blue. Not that I hold grudges. They were only doing their job, and they made good. They hung the front door back on its hinges.
Feels like yesterday somehow, their sirens and radio support:
“Mr Day?”
“Yes.”
“Are you the owner of a white Vauxhall van, registration number…”
Then the clicking of handcuffs and the leading away.
An afternoon much like this one. That afternoon of grey rain and grey clouds. You never saw the dress I bought you, canary yellow and lovingly pressed in its presentation box, you never had the chance. Something to cheer you up after all our time together. I stitched the rose myself, silk blue over the left breast. I stood by the window and watched you go – your bloodied hands, the panic as you rushed from me. You gave me no warning, there was no opportunity to rein you in again, just your head bent as you scrambled through the rose bushes.
It’s a long time, ten years.
Ten years gone and home from jail to a house of filth. Took me days to clean the place – the dampness as much as anything, the smell hitting me as soon as I opened the door. I had to give it a proper airing. My tea cup still in the sink, china stained dry green, like a pebble almost, like a pebble on a beach. What a party the mould must have had, spores feasting on rotten milk, rising to the cup's brim and no further. I hate dirt, there’s no excuse for it.
You'd imagine there'd be some kind of help, wouldn’t you? Someone to pop in and give it a once over when you’re inside, but they don't work like that the authorities, there's no thought as to what you'll return to. Everything was just as I’d left it: A Night At The Opera waiting on the turntable for one more play, Moth’s blanket, the snapped wishbone; even Beryl’s footsteps. Her shuffling feet the first thing I heard when I came in, Beryl pacing in the flat upstairs just like she always did. Not that she remembers anymore, Beryl can’t even remember yesterday anymore, let alone 1993. Beryl's memories have crystallised now, frozen back in World War II. She believes in fairies these days, angels who bring her groceries, look after her, make sure the sun shines each morning and the flowers bloom in spring. Twice a week I leave groceries outside her door. The sun shines, flowers bloom, but I doubt she realises it’s me.
Ten years and staring again out of my window.
Bit daft in a way.
I know you’re not there.