The narrow alleyway ran between two four-storey houses with shop fronts, situated in the most rundown part of town. She headed down the alley past boxes of old garbage from both of the shops, and found a peeling door marked 48. As it was ajar, Lorraine pushed it open.
The hallway was narrow, cluttered with bits of broken furniture and a mattress was propped up against a door. A girl of about nine was sitting on the stairs, whose bare boards were dusty and well worn.
‘Hi, I’m looking for someone called Nick. Do you know which floor?’
The child wiped her nose with the back of her grubby hand. ‘Up, number eight,’ she said, and held out her hand. Lorraine opened her purse and gave her a dollar, and the little girl ran out, squealing with pleasure.
Lorraine tidied her hair, then tapped on the door. She could hear a male voice talking and laughing, so rapped again louder, then hit the door with the flat of her hand.
A chain was removed, and the door opened an inch. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Lorraine Page — I called earlier.’
‘Oh, yes, one moment.’ A dark-haired woman unhooked the chain and opened the door wide, stepping back almost to hide behind it. ‘Come in.’
Lorraine followed her into the apartment. The cramped hallway was dark, with coloured shawls tacked to the wall. A fishing net was draped over a doorway, and a large papier-mâché sun hung above a stripped pine door, which stood open.
Lorraine was surprised — the room was large, and very bright. The sloping ceiling and walls were painted white, while the bare floorboards had been stripped and stained, then varnished to a gleaming finish. All four windows were bare of curtains, as the room was obviously used as a studio, and the light was important. Paintings were displayed on easels, and stacks of canvases lined the walls, propped against one another.
The woman, who had still not introduced herself, moved with a lovely fluid grace from window to window, drawing down blinds for much-needed shade: the room was unbearably hot. ‘We don’t have air-conditioning,’ she said.
Lorraine recognized her vaguely from Harry Nathan’s funeral. She was pale, almost unhealthy-looking, with large brown eyes, quite a prominent nose, and a rather tight mouth with buck teeth. She was not unattractive, but there was a plainness about her, and her straight dark hair, swept away from her face with two ugly hair-grips, needed washing. She wore leather sandals and a loose-fitting print dress, which left her arms bare, and she held her hands loosely in front of her.
‘Do you want some coffee?’ Her voice was thin, and she kept her head inclined slightly downwards, as though she didn’t want to meet Lorraine’s eyes.
‘Yes, please, black, no sugar — but if you have some honey...’
‘Sure.’
She started to walk out, but stopped and performed a sort of pirouette when Lorraine asked if she was Nick’s wife. ‘I suppose so — I’m Alison. Please look around. He won’t be long — he’s just on the phone.’
As the door closed Lorraine smiled. She began to look first at the half-finished work on the easel, a portrait of a dark-haired man with finely cut features, but full, sensual lips, apparently looking through water, with flowers resting against his cheek and the lips slightly parted, as if he were gasping for air. The painting was unnerving, because Lorraine was sure the subject was Harry Nathan. She didn’t like it, not that the work wasn’t good, for it was, but it had a childish, almost careless quality. She turned her attention to some of the bigger canvases on the walls, all of which had a similar wash of pale colour in the background, and featured the same man from different angles and in a variety of poses — hidden by ferns, screaming and, in one, with a sports shoe carefully painted on top of his head.
Other canvases were traversed by a series of palmprints, or featured pieces of fabric and leaves, but all appeared half-finished, as if the artist had grown bored mid-way and moved on to something else. Lorraine looked closely at a painting on the wall furthest from the door, which showed a group of tall trees with some scrawled writing superimposed on them.
She turned as Alison reappeared with a large chipped mug, and held it out to her. ‘Coffee.’ Lorraine took it, and the woman remained standing nearby, her head still bowed.
‘Are you a painter?’ Lorraine asked, with false brightness: there was a servile quality about Alison that made her skin crawl, as if she were afraid of something.
‘No.’
She was tough to make conversation with.
‘Have you lived here long?’
‘Awhile.’
Alison straightened up and flexed her shoulder. She began to massage the nape of her neck, then gave a faint smile and left the room.
Lorraine could hear what they were saying in the next room.
‘I’m going out now — I’ve got a class.’
‘Okay, see you.’
She moved closer to the open door: Alison was standing in the doorway opposite and the conversation continued in audible whispers.
‘Is she looking at them?’
‘Yes, she was when I took her coffee in.’
‘I’ll give her a few minutes, then. What’s her name again?’
Alison replied, but Lorraine couldn’t hear what she said, nor could she see the man she presumed was Nick. A phone rang, and Alison turned to cross to the front door, but waited a minute listening. Nick said hello to the caller, and Alison left.
Lorraine finished her coffee. She was becoming irritated — the call went on and on. She set the mug down on the floor and started to detach some of the canvases from the stack — all of the same man. She moved to the next group. These were much better, stronger. She found one she liked a lot and pulled it out. It was a crude, but powerful, life-sized portrait — not, for once, of the dark man but of an Indian brave in feathered headdress. She put it to one side, planning to ask the price — it would make a nice present for Jake. She was about to move to the next group of canvases when she heard a loud shriek, sustained for some time. She ran over to the open door.
‘It says what? Go on! How old does it say he was?’
The cries continued. Lorraine stepped into the hallway and made her way to the doorway at the end of the passage. She stood just outside the kitchen.
Nick Nathan had his back to her and was leaning against the side of a table talking on a wall-mounted phone. His dark, slightly greying hair was pulled back, as it has been at the funeral, with a rubber band. He was barefoot and wore torn, dirty jeans and a paint-stained cotton shirt, whose sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular arms, one wrist encircled by a heavy silver bracelet, and a similar ring on the third finger of his other hand.
‘Vallance shot himself? You’re kidding me.’
He listened, then shrieked again in the same high-pitched fashion. He was almost bent double, and Lorraine realized suddenly that he was laughing. And whoever was on the other end of the line was telling him about the suicide of Raymond Vallance.
The call continued for another ten minutes. Lorraine returned to the studio, wishing there was somewhere to sit down. She lit a cigarette, and had smoked half of it when the shrieking stopped.
Finally Lorraine heard the receiver banged down. She hoped that Nick Nathan would finally come in and greet her, but then heard the clatter of dishes, and his voice calling the cat. At last the man came in like a whirlwind. ‘Hi — sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Nick.’
He danced across to her, and pumped her hand up and down. His eyes had a manic look, and he was sweating profusely, his thinning hair sticking to his scalp. He darted close to her, then moved just as rapidly away, looking pointedly at the cigarette and opening a window.
‘I’m sorry.’ She gestured to her cigarette, but Nick shrugged.