The only other words: Glascote Cemetery—Tamworth.
Andrew had so many questions. Had the drawing been intended for someone specific to see, or purely for the first person who found it? How many years after this man had drawn where he wanted to be buried had he sat waiting for death?
Andrew wanted to think that Trevor Anderson had lived a life of glorious hedonism. That this little piece of admin was a rare moment of practical planning in among the chaotic fun. Looking around at the grimy flat, Andrew realized this was a desperately optimistic assessment. The reality would be that in the last few years Trevor would have opened his eyes each morning, checked for sure that he wasn’t dead, and gotten up. Until one day he didn’t.
It was the waiting, that was the worst part—when the days were exclusively about eating enough food and drinking enough water to keep yourself alive. Maintenance. That was all it was. Andrew suddenly thought of Keith’s dull eyes the moment before he crashed to the ground. Christ, what had he done? At some point he’d have to face the consequences. And then there was Carl. How was he to deal with that? He could simply fold and transfer the money. But would that really be the end of it? Carl seemed so angry and bitter . . . What was to stop him from flipping at any moment and picking up the phone to Meredith? The waiting. It would be torture. He could never truly think about being happy with that hanging over him. And then there was Peggy. He thought of that afternoon in Northumberland. At the time he’d felt so full of possibility, convinced that everything was going to change. How wrong he had been. There was no way he could expect Peggy to understand his lies, not after he’d refused to help her when she’d needed him most.
There was, of course, one very simple way to fix everything. It was a thought that had occurred to him a long time ago, now. Not in some moment of crisis, but simply registering itself as a possibility, as he went about his business. He had been waiting in line somewhere. A supermarket checkout perhaps, or maybe the bank. As soon as he’d acknowledged the thought, it was with him permanently. It had been like a stone hitting a windscreen, leaving a tiny crack in the glass. A permanent reminder that, at any time, the whole sheet of glass could smash. And now, he realized, it made complete and utter sense. Not only did he have a way out, but, for once in his life, he would be in complete and total control.
He looked at himself in the mirror, his face partially obscured by a streak of dirt. He set the ticket down carefully on top of the book and got slowly to his feet, standing still for a moment, listening to the gentle hum of the estate—canned laughter from a television next door, gospel music coming from the flat below. He could feel his shoulders slacken. Decades of tension were beginning to lift. Everything was going to be fine. The opening bars of Ella’s “Isn’t This a Lovely Day?” came into his head. There was a renewed flash of pain in his foot. But this time he barely registered it. It didn’t really matter. Not now. Nothing did.
In the kitchen, the freezer buzzed into life for a few moments, shuddered, then clicked off.
—
He made one final pass of Trevor’s flat and e-mailed a report to the office. Hopefully he’d given enough information for someone to make the funeral arrangements.
He took the bus home, standing with one leg raised like a flamingo, feeling liberated at how little of a shit he gave about the way people were looking at him. As soon as he was home he went straight to the bathroom and ran a bath. As he waited for it to fill he limped to the kitchen and, almost as if trying to hoodwink himself, reached into a drawer without looking until his hand touched what he was after. He ran his fingers against the scarred plastic handle of the knife, feeling oddly comforted by its familiarity. He ran it under the tap, supposing it should be clean, though it didn’t really matter. He started toward the kitchen but stopped and turned back. This wasn’t going to change anything, he told himself, but it felt like he should check, just in case. He opened the drawer and pulled out his phone. It seemed to take an age to turn on. When it vibrated, Andrew nearly dropped it in surprise. But then he saw that the message was from Carl. Is the money with you yet? You better not be having second thoughts. He shook his head, slowly. Of course Peggy hadn’t messaged him. He was already dead to her. He threw his phone onto the countertop, where it skidded along.
He flicked through his Ella records and decided what he was going to play. Normally, it would be on instinct. But for this, he felt the need to find the album that encapsulated everything he loved about her. In the end he decided on Ella in Berlin—the reissued import version. He lowered the needle and listened to the volume fade up on the crowd, their excited applause sounding like rain on a windowpane. He undressed where he stood, halfheartedly folding his clothes and leaving them on the arm of a chair. He thought perhaps he should write a note, but only because that’s what people did. What was the point if you didn’t have anyone to say anything to? It would just be another piece of paper waiting for the litter picker’s pincers.
By the time he’d lowered himself into the bath, gasping with pain as the hot water stung his foot, applause was ringing out again at the end of “That Old Black Magic,” and the gentle double bass and piano of “Our Love Is Here to Stay” filled the air.
He’d intended to drink the rest of the wine but had forgotten to bring the bottle from the kitchen. It was better this way, he decided. To be completely lucid. In control.
The rumbling thud of the bass drum and the rushed coda from the piano signaled the end of the song, and Ella thanked the crowd. Andrew always thought she sounded so genuine when she did that; it was never forced, never false.
He was beginning to feel woozy. He hadn’t eaten for hours and steam was fogging the room and his senses. He tapped his fingers on his thighs under the water and felt the ripples go back and forth. He closed his eyes and imagined he was floating down a languid river somewhere on the other side of the world.
More applause, and now they were on to “Mack the Knife.” This was where Ella forgot the words. Maybe this time it would be different, Andrew thought, feeling along the side of the bath until he found the plastic handle, gripping it tightly. But no, there was the hesitation, then the breathless, audacious reference to wrecking her own song, and now the cheeky improvisation where her voice morphed into Louie Armstrong’s rasp, the roar of the crowd. They were with her, cheering her on.
He lowered his hand into the water. Tightened his grip. There was barely time to pause for breath before the urgent drums of “How High the Moon” and Ella launching into her scat-singing. The music chased after her words, but she was always too quick, always too quick. He twisted his arm and clenched his fist. He felt the sharpness of the metal, his skin straining against it, about to give way. But then there was another noise, cutting through the music, vying for his attention. It was his phone ringing, he realized, opening his eyes, his fingers unclenching from around the knife’s handle.
— CHAPTER 28 —
It was Peggy.
“You’re in the shit for not being here. Cameron’s properly fuming, and he’s taking it out on the rest of us. Where the hell are you?”
She sounded angry. Glad, perhaps, to have an excuse to call and vent at him without explicitly mentioning the other night.
He’d managed to crawl to the bedroom, where he was now sitting on the floor, naked, exhausted. It felt like he’d just woken from an intense dream. He had a sudden vision of blooms of scarlet muddying the clear bathwater and had to grip his knees to stop the sensation that he was falling. Was he still here? Was this still real?
“I’m at home,” he said, his voice thick and unfamiliar.