Looking Down (3 page)

‘You absolute sod,’ she said, in a voice of icy calm which went with her luminous eyes, lamplights from the depths of her chair. ‘You complete bastard.’

He hung his head, and looked at his feet. He had long, prehensile toes, which he wriggled, restoring circulation to his cramped feet.

‘Explain to me,’ she said, ‘why you abuse the woman who knows you best? Why you torment me, envy me, disturb me, ruin my sleep and make my life unbearable? What have I ever done to
you to deserve this? For the first time in my life I’m feeling safe, and then you come along and wreck it. You come and go as you want, whenever you’re sick of your own miserable places, though you won’t make the effort to find anything better. All talk, you. You litter the place with your stuff and let me wash it. I don’t mind that. But this is my
home.
I live
here
and what do you do? You crawl up the sodding drainpipe and burgle my sodding neighbours’ flat, and then mine. Are we expecting the police to share this wine? Did anyone see? I wouldn’t mind so much if there was any
need.’

‘I said, I needed the practice.’

‘You were late and drunk. You still are. You could have fallen.’

‘I don’t fall,’ he said with dignity.

‘You will. Then you’ll be a corpse or a casualty, and although I might be mightily relieved, how would I explain it? I’m quite sure there’s something forbidding
that
in the lease. You wouldn’t shit on your own doorstep, but you’ve done it on mine, you selfish swine. I live here.’

‘Well, so do I sometimes. When I’m allowed to share your precious luck. And you always leave windows open.’

‘Oh, come on, Steven. Am I hearing that hint of self-pity again? You haven’t done so badly for luck. You turn your back on it. You spit on it.’

‘
I
haven’t been given a flat, free gratis and for nothing.’

Definitely a jibe. She sighed in exasperation.

‘It wasn’t for
nothing.
It was a gesture of affection, thoroughly reciprocated over several years.’

‘A very big thank you, from a man you slept with. He dies and leaves it to you. You’re a tart, Sarah.’

She swiped the hair upwards from her face again, took off the glasses. He was sure she could turn that into a devastating gesture.

‘Yes, surely, my dear, I’m practically an old lady and I’ve slept
with a lot of men – what’s wrong with that? Although it’s a bit dramatic to give my particular form of therapy such a common and over-romantic description. Nothing wrong with it anyway. Don’t be so pompous. I’m ten years older than you. Too old for criticism and too shocked to be angry. I want a
peaceful
life.’

‘And still quite lovely in your dotage.’

‘It’s in the eye of the beholder, dear. And you, on the other hand, are a thief. I don’t approve of that either.’

‘Now who’s being pompous? What moral high ground do you live on? Don’t you dare criticise me.’

She shoved the glasses back. She should have been a teacher with that low, smooth, persuasive voice.

‘I’ve been gainfully and respectably employed for most of my life, Steven, and I’ve always given
value,
given
something,
in whatever I have done, while all you do is
take.
I don’t go where I’m not wanted. I specialise in improving lives, in my own particular way, while you wreck them. There’s that malice in you I don’t understand.’

He moved to sit on the floor, with his skinny spine resting against her legs. She put down her wine and began to knead the back of his powerful shoulders. It was strange how, even in the midst of a quarrel, they were content to touch one another, and how even with the undertones of envy and occasional dislike the protective affection endured. In appearance he was a most insignificant-looking man, small, pale and sandy-haired, looking as if he never saw daylight, which was more or less true. Nobody ever remembered Steven, except to recall a harmless and reliable face, and perhaps his handshake, from which they recoiled. Sarah had often wondered if his insignificance was cultivated in response to the handshake, or purely a natural result of his overall appearance and the sort of muddy colouring which melded with brick walls.

‘I’m sorry you think of it like that. What if I told you I thought
that my kind of occasional, discriminating thieving is an honourable profession, or at least no more dishonourable than working for a bank, where we play around with people’s money and take more than our fair share.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘What if I were to say that thieves like myself have the greatest respect for property? Far greater respect than those who own it. I
liberate
beautiful paintings from owners who have no idea of their value or importance, and then I pass them on, in due course, to a truly appreciative owner at a bargain price. For small, humbler items, the owner might be myself. Haven’t got the right home for anything else. And I don’t believe I have wrecked a single life for longer than five minutes. That’s the advantage in stealing from the vulgarly rich, because they don’t know what they’ve got and it’s all eminently replaceable. I just want stuff to be appreciated.’

‘Rubbish. You don’t know how your victims feel, any more than you know where what you sell on finally goes, unless you keep it. The rich have feelings as well as needs. They aren’t any different and the world needs them. Would you steal from a rich philanthropist who was nurturing his possessions to give to charity? Of course you would. Perhaps I now count as rich, therefore a non-person in your eyes. Existing to be stolen from. Knocked down to size.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘absolutely not. I love you, even when you criticise and trivialise my passions and talents, even when you share some of them. At least it’s work. I’m not taking the easy way out. No simple, clean-hands, risk-free computer crime. I have to plan and scheme and climb and keep fit, accept challenges, and take risks, quite apart from mastering new technology. It’s tough, and it’s highly discriminating.’

‘There’s nothing new about being a cat burglar. It’s ridiculously old fashioned.’

‘My point exactly. Old-fashioned, sweated labour.’

‘To add to a perfectly respectable salary.’

‘Well, so was yours.’

‘I suppose so.’

He looked at the large oil painting on her wall, fondly.

‘You’ve got a good eye, Sarah. I love that painting. It still gives me
zing.
I love it. You react to paintings like I do.’

‘Yes, but I don’t steal them. You live by
zing.
You’ve never fallen in love. You get
zing
from paintings alone, you sad man. I get it from people.’

They sat, companionably. Night was day and day night in this household. The fury had died, but she felt heavy-hearted. There was a chronic difference between them which she could not cure, namely his loneliness, and her lack of it: his shunning of friends, her welcoming of them; her knowledge of loving and being loved, his denial that anyone ever did, would or could. He demanded a degree of total acceptance, even when he put himself beyond it, and he always had something to blame. If only he could secure the love of a good woman, it might mitigate the cancer within him, although the love of a bad woman might be better. If only he didn’t put them on a pedestal and carry a torch for some hopeless, glamorous image, like a Gloria Swanson or a Marilyn Monroe, like the posters he once had on his walls. He shuffled up to sit beside her and put his hand on her knee.

‘That colour does suit you.’ He thumped his hand up and down, unromantically. ‘Do you think I still blame
this?’

It was a pale hand that reminded her of the colour of white fish, disfigured by scars.

‘I know you do,’ she said sadly. ‘You have to have something to blame, give you reasons, excuses. You’ve got into the habit of it. Which flat was it exactly that you got into?’

He yawned. ‘The one above this dark den of yours. Almost at the top. I just got carried away. I think that would make it number fourteen.’

Oh no.
She counted on her fingers. There were two flats of different sizes on each floor, she was 12, so that sounded about right. She remembered the rain which had lulled her into that distant sleep, thought of the polished brick in the central well of the building, shuddered and then remembered that if it still rained as hard as it had there would be no trace of his progress, no footprints on walls. If it hadn’t been raining, he might not have done it. Not enough of a challenge, but also a disguise: rain masked sound, delayed curiosity, washed away traces, but what a half-drunk idiot. The mere sound of breathing would become an echo in that well. Sarah tried to harden her heart because he was such a fool, but it was always the destructive, lonely fools who attracted her most.

‘Get much business these days, do you?’ he asked.

‘Just a few regulars. I get referrals from a massage therapist, and old friends. The more liberated and nicer of my men might refer me to the next. There’s a civilised network. Enough. Don’t ruin my luck. If you should think of going back up there another night to burgle the Beaumonts – nice people by the way, I know them both – I shall phone the police, deny knowledge of you, and then, should you ever get bail, kill you, slowly. First by poison, then by neglect, and in your long sojourn in prison, never once bring you a food parcel. Nor will you ever darken my door again. Do you hear?’

‘She has curtains of silk damask, the woman in that flat,’ he murmured. ‘She probably has everything. Some paintings in a room . . . And did I tell you I’ve seen the most wonderful drawing I’ve ever seen in my life? Seen it three times now, same zing. Oh, sis, I forgot . . . what happened about Minty? The girl upstairs with the Chinese?’

‘You don’t care,’ she said.

And then he was asleep.

Sarah put a cushion behind his head and walked down her
long corridor for a blanket. Her brother could sleep on a board. She tucked the blanket round him and put the alarm clock next to his ear, considered the romanticised photographs of their parents on their wedding day that stood on a side table and wondered if a woman were ever more vulnerable to a man than to the one who was her baby brother. Or whether it was something in their genes that made them both essentially antisocial and ever so slightly corrupted by anyone else’s standards of behaviour. She could spell violence, had suffered it and could never inflict it. He was different: there were no limits to what he might do.

She was anarchic, maybe, antisocial but sociable, and although she understood malice she had none of it in her. She had a definite if highly adaptable code of conduct and a fluid sense of moral values, while Steven had none, and no redeeming loyalties. There was always the horrible feeling with Steven that he was capable of the extreme, the knife in the back, the long, slow torture, pleasure in pain, laughter at suffering, potential perversions at odds with the rest. And to cap it all he was a naive romantic, terrified of women and hopelessly obsessed with art, which he used as a replacement for sex. She could not cure him.

It was 3 a.m. She made a decision and left him a note. ‘Steven, you must leave. Find the home you talk about, leave the spare clothes, but don’t come back for a month. I’ve told you I just don’t want involvement in other people’s pain, not even yours.’

At 8 a.m. Richard Beaumont let himself into No. 14, put his luggage into the room marked
Do not disturb,
showered and shaved and got into bed beside his wife. He held her face between his hands, told her he had missed her and slowly, luxuriously, made love to her, and she to him. Then held her, as she held him, rolling softly together in the sumptuous bed, talking of nothing. She dared not and neither did he; this was enough, this was heaven. And then he ruined it later, after mid-morning coffee so
good it stunned his palette, and he remembered. Left her in the kitchen and went to the daylight room and shut the door.

And she thought, Is that it? Was that really me who was loved like that? Or is it what he thought I needed, a good screw after three days’ absence and then I won’t ask? Am I that easy? Does he think I need nothing else? What am I good at? What am I good for?

Then she remembered the click of the bedroom door at around 2.25 in the morning. Ah, that explained it. She had not been his priority at all. He had come in, gone straight to his lair and remained there until he imagined she might be receptive. She was only another thoroughbred cow, mollified by an activity associated with breeding. The ghastly painting came first. And he had not noticed the holes in the antique glass display, any more than he had really noticed her.

He painted; she wept.

The body had been with her, but she was not sure about the mind.

Dr John Armstrong had found the reference that morning in his library at home by delving into the section that dealt with birds. He rarely looked at it now.

A two-century-old description of a bird, known as the chough, now almost extinct. There were other descriptions.
Acrobatic and overfriendly. Soothsayer. Omen of Hope.
He thought of all of these
descriptions now. The wind blew and the sun shone. Good April weather, suitable for stilted conversation on the cliffs.

‘Nobody knows who she is.’

‘I think you mean “was”.’

‘“Was” then. But we still have a body, which is.’