Don’t! She can’t breathe.
Her voice is trying to escape from her lungs but he smothers it, pressing his hands on her face. I have to get up now and do something, but I am rooted to my place. I’m not supposed to be here. I’ve convinced even myself I am not here. And yet I am. I have to get up. I have to run and pull him off before …
I take a breath and force myself to my knees. From here I can see that she is failing. Her face and her neck are changing colour. Her hair falls softly around her face but something about it is grotesque. I will some movement into my legs but they are stuck.
I cough. It distracts him but then, just as he turns around to look, I drop back behind the sofa, unable to hold my ground. I am terrified of being found here in this house, but she has to be more important than that and I am furious that I can’t control my instincts. But I see that he’s released her now. He turns back towards her, then the shock of what he has done – is doing – seems to hit him. She gasps, clutching her throat, and levers herself off the table, breathing hard.
He seems to have forgotten what distracted him and is now holding her gently by the forearms.
‘I’m so sorry, darling. I’m so … I’m drunk. And you just – you know how much I hate being compared to him. If you hadn’t—’
‘Me?’ she exclaims. ‘Me? You nearly killed me! What the hell’s wrong with you—’
I peer round the edge of the leather sofa in time to see her spin around and launch a flat hand at his face. As soon as the blow lands, almost before the sound ripples to my ears, he reacts, as if bound by the laws of physics – every force has an equal and opposite reaction. The moment her hand whips his skin, he swings his fist into her face. They are like two table tennis players who play just one shot each. It is that quick.
Her head snaps back with a crack. She freezes then. Her face is a pale, perfectly still surprise. My heart stops. My head pounds, and in that gap when all things still remain possible, my life flashes before me in a kaleidoscope.
Bright light moments. Heavy sadness. Regrets, mainly.
My mind gathers as many strands of my life as it can in that divided infinite sub-second, like it’s fleeing from a burning building. My last possessions.
The woman’s knees buckle as if the bones in her legs have vaporised. She drops. Then there is another dull crack as her body pulls the back of her head down hard on the edge of the table. And then, finally, another thud as she lands scattered on the floor.
I can’t believe what has happened. I’m cemented in place, supine, like her, the air trapped in my lungs. He is stuck in his frame too, the man. He stands over her body, holding a hand to his mouth. A heartbeat, maybe two and then he’s moving again. He falls to his knees and appears to be whispering her name. I can’t hear clearly from here and all I can think is shit, what just happened? This can’t be happening. I start to pat myself down, getting ready to move but then I realise I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off him and what he’s doing. He’s stroking her cheek gently and calling what must be her name over and over, desperately. Chelle, Chelle, Chelle. And then he is tapping her cheek harder with his palm, but her head lolls. He looms over her for a second before he puts the side of his head to her mouth, listening for breath. Five, six, seven seconds he is there, searching, before he’s up again. Then his hands cloak his face as he lets out a scream.
A beat and then he moves.
I see him from my place and he is frantic. His arms and eyes dart out as far as they can reach. His movements are erratic, random almost. He rushes back into my part of the room and swipes up his shoes before returning to the dining room to pick up something that chinks. Keys, maybe. Now he’s back, rummaging, and all the while I want him to just leave so that this can be over. He has a jacket in his arms. He runs back into the dining area before circling round again where I see him stoop out of view. Then he loops back to the far end of the room, with a glass which he then manages to drop. It shatters and he swears before gathering the pieces up with his hands into his jacket. I see it all from the leather-edge of my hiding place.
A panic seizes me. I should stop him. But it’s too late now. The police should be called. I turn on to my front, preparing to get up but something keeps stopping me. I don’t know this man. How can I know what he is capable of? I cut off the thought at its roots. It’s me I’m terrified of. I know what I am capable of. And yet I have not moved.
He stands over the woman, his head dropped on to his chest. He is muttering something but I can’t make it out. Then his head snaps up. He pulls a handkerchief out and begins to wipe a bottle that is now in his hand. When he finishes he places it carefully on the table, studying it for a second before changing his mind and picking it up again. He considers for a moment and then pours some of the contents over the woman’s body before crouching next to her and putting the neck of the bottle in her hand. He straightens again and looks critically at the scene. His frantic quality has gone now and in its place a kind of coldness has descended.
He steps back. Looks. Then takes another step back. Looks again. He leaves. The door at the end of the corridor slams. As it does, at last, I too am slammed, back into existence.
I am here in this room with a woman who is dead.
5
Tuesday
The blood flows back into my legs as I step out from behind the chesterfield. The room seems different. A tableau altered by two or three brushstrokes. There on the other sofa is a pale, soft pink jacket, draped across the backrest. A record sleeve is laid carefully on the floor and not five feet away is the record itself, split in two. The record player is hissing determinedly, as if crying for attention.
The pounding starts again in my head and with it my heart begins to thud. I run over to the woman and reach for her neck, hoping for a tiny beat of life. The skin is still warm under my fingertips but despite that I know as soon as I touch her that she is dead. I should leave because this is now a crime scene, a murder scene, but something about her holds me back. I stand to look at her. Her mahogany hair makes her seem alive, the way it covers her face with curls. Her white shirt is spattered in places, making a map in red wine. I want to neaten her up, straighten her skirt – twisted, like her legs.
The silence in the room begins to make itself heavy. I have to leave. I look around, just as the man did, and suddenly I am in his loop, riven with his urgency and guilt. I have to escape. I cannot be here with a dead body. I mean, look at me, I’m a homeless man, I’m an easy person to point fingers at. I run back to the sofa and pick up my coat and shoes. I look around desperately for anything else I might have left. But I have nothing, just this, what I stand in and what I have in my hands. I almost step on something and bend to pick it up but I mustn’t disturb the scene.
I take a last look her. She is, was, beautiful from what I can see of her face, shrouded as it is in reddish-brown curls. As I turn to the door, my eyes fill and I don’t know what to do. The tears run down my cheeks. I didn’t know her but I could have. I might have liked her.
I race through the hallway, surprising myself once again at the mirror. Me, still. But changed somehow. Younger? No, less distinct, perhaps. I pause and then run back into the room to wipe down the things that I have touched. The handle, the sofa. There’s nothing else that I can remember so I shut the door behind me and wipe that handle down too, all with the edge of my damp coat.
My heart skitters as I stand on the cold tiles in my bare feet. The police, I think, if the guy calls the police, and I am found here in this state, I will be undone. I’m sure I can hear a siren in the distance. I must move.