I Know What I Saw

‘This Gamay?’ he asks, his words muffled but he stretches out the vowels just as my father used to.

From the sound of his voice, he is at the far end of the room by the dining table. There must be a cupboard there. His voice is low, on its knees. I concentrate on the words so that I can control my breathing and stave off the claustrophobia that threatens.

‘Or shall I get the champagne?’ he asks, his tone oily.

‘Champagne?’ she calls out. ‘What are we celebrating?’

‘Nothing,’ he says, to the sound of glass kissing from being handled. ‘Just, you know, there is the money.’

She laughs but there’s uncertainty in her voice.

‘I’m kidding,’ he says and then to fill in the space, he adds, ‘The Gamay then.’

‘Any of the reds will do.’ Her tone is rich and velvety. Loud. She’s near. Then her voice drops and becomes shaded as if she too has crouched down. ‘What about Jack T?’ she asks.

‘Bit bluesy,’ the man says, his voice getting louder now as he walks back towards her. There is a clink of glass and then silence. A hiss, then suddenly the room fills with sound, in stereo.

Then came the night they came
That was the night they took you …

The music masks my presence here which is good for all kinds of reasons, not least that I need to move. My thighs are beginning to burn from crouching so long, so I wait till the music builds to a chorus and then I shift to lie flat, wedged in. I stare at a ceiling that is now bathed in light. The bass beats through the floorboards into my flesh. And then as the sound of their voices murmuring through the music filters down to me, I begin to relax. They are close to one another. Their voices are soft and intimate.

At least they are not on this sofa.

The album continues to play.

Naming birds in our tree
When you were with me
Listing all the things they’d see …

Then that same hiss, like waves throwing up surf. Every few minutes a spray of words reaches me, distinct before ebbing away.

‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Let me flip it over. Still haven’t worked out where that smell’s coming from.’

A few seconds of silence. I hold my breath before the music comes again and I can breathe again. That smell – does she mean me?

Another song plays but now gives me a rush of memory. From before. Grace.

We were in the bowl of a boat. It was dark but there was warmth in the air. It was summer and we had found a small rowing boat on the edge of the Thames as we were walking back from somewhere near Kingston. Laughing, we dipped the boat gently into the water and kicked off from the bank quietly. She had a half-drunk bottle of rosé in her hand and giggled at the idea that we were in someone else’s boat. Stealing, she said. We weren’t stealing but borrowing, I told her as seriously I could. And she sang it then, that song.

There’s trouble on the uptrack
And trouble going back
And quite clearly not one train will move today …

‘Your train is ready to depart, ma’am,’ I said, mock-bowing.

I close my eyes and the rhythm rocks and lulls me back and forth. I weave between flashes of what might be dreams or some long-gone reality until I drift further and further away. When I open my eyes again, the couple are still murmuring but the light has now dimmed to an orange flicker across the ceiling. A warmth begins to rise over me and I realise that somebody has lit a fire.

All I can do is wait this out. At some point soon, the couple will leave. Then I can slip out of the door, along the hall and out again into the air.

This song. It’s that song I think. The one that has something to do with a film we watched once. The one she liked. Her face now comes into my mind but I clench my eyes to shut her out. Not now, I can’t indulge this now. I need my wits about me. I have to be ready to move.

The record has ended and is hissing in its orbit. As soon as they go, I’ll go.

‘Not again,’ he says when, after a pause, the music starts up once more.

‘So grouchy!’ she says and laughs. In my imagination, she is young and blonde and is nestled under his arm.

‘Not again, I said,’ says the man. There’s an undercurrent of something, bristling.

‘Just once more,’ she replies and her laugh tinkles under the bristle.

A beat.

‘It’s like you deliberately ignore me,’ he says. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ Then a scrape as the record is wrenched from the player.

‘Careful! You know how much—’

‘How much what?’ The wine is in evidence in his vowels.

‘Nothing. Forget it.’

There is a sharp snapping sound and a light thud.

‘What did you do?’ she exclaims. Her voice is shrill. Indignant.

‘Accident,’ he says bitterly.

‘You broke it!’ She shifts on the sofa. ‘You broke it. Idiot!’

‘I’m an idiot? It’s a fucking record. Get over it. I’ll get you another one.’

‘Yes, but it wouldn’t be that record,’ she says, her voice dropping at the end.

‘What? You mean it wouldn’t be his?’

She sighs, deflating as if she is tired of this.

‘Oh, just forget it,’ she says, and as she does her voice trails off, as if she’s moved across to the dining area. She seems disembodied without the sound of her feet to tether her voice.

‘No, no, no. Not forget it,’ he says, his voice pursuing her, breathy and urgent.

‘Get off me.’ Her voice is distant. She is deep in the other end of the double room, from the sound of it.

I roll quietly on to my side so that I can look out into the room beyond the edge of the leather sofa. The area at the far end is in shade. The dying light from the fire can’t reach it but I can still make out their legs. He’s wearing suit trousers. She’s in stockings or tights. I look up but the dining table is still obscuring a lot of what would be visible. I strain until I can see flickers of movement.

He’s holding her by the wrist but she is tugging it away. There’s no fear in her demeanour. She knows him. She’s safe.

‘Precious fucking boyfriend record,’ he says. Some of what he is saying doesn’t reach me. ‘Knew all that time – keeping – the things in there – quiet just like—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she retorts. ‘You’re drunk.’

I blink away spots appearing before me. She says other things that I don’t catch.

Her voice is sharp and rises to the ceiling and then scatters around me like fallen glass.

‘You know how I feel about – getting my father – and at this time – when …’ His voice rising and falling, makes its way to me in incomplete packets. If I could only hear more.

‘If you sorted out your issues, maybe you wouldn’t—’

Then more noise.

I crane my neck for a better view. I see a cloud of dark hair.

‘Shut. Up,’ he says.

He has leaned her back over the table, and is covering her mouth with his hand. I can see her struggling, fighting to get upright, fighting to get his weight off her body. Fighting to get his hand off her mouth.

My heart starts to race but I am paralysed. Stop now! I say under my breath. Enough.

Her legs kick out but reach only air.