So how about a follow-up? Any ideas? Something on a related topic would be ideal, but don’t feel constrained. We can give you a lot of freedom on the subject matter: life, death, sex, general cultural commentary – you name it. Very keen for you to write something else for us, though. There could even be a regular column in this.
Let me know.
Jess
I supposed this was good news. It was hard to tell because I didn’t have any emotions at the moment. People talk about dark moods, black moods, all the time. But depression isn’t a dark mood. It’s an ash-grey mood, or possibly some type of beige.
There was too much information to process in Jess’s email. I didn’t reply at once. I opened a new tab, found the Simon article and started reading through some of the comments.
TheodoraEdison: Is this for real? It reads like fiction. Another frustrated wannabe writer?
EastofJava: Hate it. HATE it. What’s the world coming to?
0100011101000101: @ EastofJava: Totally agree. I hate this so much I had to read it twice. Can’t believe it.
JamesWoliphaunt: This comment was removed by a moderator because it didn’t abide by our community standards.
Doctoroctopussy: Did anyone else find the part where she smoked the dead guy’s cigarettes ever so slightly sexy?
ExistentialSam: What’s the point of this?
I stopped reading. At least Doctoroctopussy found some merit in my work. He was clearly a pervert, but, right then, I was willing to take whatever praise I was given.
I reopened my email and concentrated very hard.
To: jessica.pearle@observer.co.uk
From: abbywilliams1847@hotmail.co.uk
Date: Mon, 3 June 2013, 2:58 PM
Subject: RE: More, please!
Hello Jess
I may have a follow-up. It’s about monkeys. Actually, the monkeys are incidental. It’s about how we’re not designed to live in cities. Give me a few days.
Abby
It seemed a reasonable response.
I finished my cake without really tasting it, then went back to the Co-op to buy more cottage cheese.
I felt watched again, all the way home. I knew it was just paranoia, the fact that my brain was not working properly, but knowing this didn’t change a thing. I still felt watched.
I plugged myself into my iPod, listened to some Tori Amos and tried to block out most of the external world.
It didn’t work.
When I got back to our building, I was as tense as a tightrope. I hadn’t been back to the launderette yet; I wanted to drop my laptop back home first so that I had less to carry.
I knew something was off as soon as I stepped in from the street. There was a draught carrying voices down the stairwell, but I couldn’t make out what was being said. I removed my earphones, waited for a few indecisive moments, then crept up the stairs.
Simon’s door was open. In the gloom of his hallway I could see two men and a woman.
‘. . . you come this way, we have a modern, open-plan living area. Very low maintenance. Ideal for . . .’
The man stopped speaking and looked at me. I stood staring, just outside the door. He was wearing a suit, despite the fact it was a hot, muggy day. The other man and the woman were casually dressed, in a T-shirt and shorts and a skirt and a camisole respectively.
‘Hello,’ I said. It was only the second time I’d spoken that day. My voice was as flat as a pancake.
‘Hello?’ the suited man repeated. He said it like a question.
I looked at the woman. ‘Are you moving in?’
‘Er, just looking at the moment. Do you live here?’
‘Yes, next door.’
‘Oh, how nice. We might be neighbours.’ She giggled nervously.
‘We might be.’ I couldn’t think of any other response.
There was a silence.
The estate agent cleared his throat. ‘Erm, was there something you wanted?’
‘No. I just saw the door was open and . . .’ I tried to think how to end this sentence. The estate agent stared at me. ‘I guess I was a little creeped out. I was the one who found the body.’
‘The . . . body?’ This was the other man. I noticed the woman had taken hold of his hand.
I didn’t really want to continue this conversation, but there wasn’t much choice.
‘Simon,’ I explained. ‘The guy who used to live here. He died.’ I gestured at the interior doorway that the estate agent was standing in. ‘Through there.’
‘That’s . . .’ The man looked at his wife. I assumed it was his wife. She looked like a wife. ‘Actually, I don’t know what that is.’
‘No, me neither.’
The estate agent shot me a look that I couldn’t decipher.
‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘I have some laundry to collect.’
Back in my flat, I put my laptop down, then pressed my ear to the front door and waited for them to leave. I waited another five minutes after I’d heard their footsteps descending the stairs, just to be sure, then went back to the launderette.
When I returned to the flat for the final time, I saw that a note had been pushed under the door.
YOU NEED HELP
I reread it a couple of times, then folded it and put it in my purse, next to Beck’s note from earlier.
After that, I lit a cigarette and sat down in the spotless living area. I listened to Johnny Cash’s cover of ‘Hurt’ on loop while reading some more of my online hate mail. I must have listened to it six or seven times. I knew I was self-flagellating, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to stop and pick up the phone and call Dr Barbara. That would have been the sensible thing to do. But I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face any more talking.
I smoked another cigarette and closed my eyes and waited for the evening to come.
8
SKYPE
Fran Skyped me that evening. If it had been left to me, I wouldn’t have answered. I’d already switched my mobile to silent, as soon as Beck got home, and had no intention of talking to anyone else. It was hard enough as it was, trying to act normal. But I’d decided, earlier, that Beck didn’t need to know how awful I was feeling. After all, it was mostly my own fault – I’d engineered this situation – and it wasn’t as if either of us could do anything to make it better. This slump, I knew, was purely chemical in its origin, and if I ate enough cottage cheese it would pass. Of course, Beck realized that I wasn’t one hundred per cent, but I’d managed to imply that this was largely a matter of overtiredness. If I seemed distant, that was the reason.
The water pressure had returned, so I’d had a long, burning-hot shower, thinking this might help me.
It hadn’t.
I was drying my hair in the bedroom when Beck came in and told me that Fran wanted to talk to me. If I’d been more quick-witted, I’d have refused – said I was just about to go to sleep or something. But I was caught off guard, and instead found myself waiting dumbly while Beck brought the laptop through.
Francesca was in her kitchen. From what I could make out of the background, she might have been standing in her kitchen. But I didn’t bother to ask if or why this was the case. Probably another trick she’d learned at work, projecting a strong self-image or some such bullshit. You could bet that Fran’s work was full of people who habitually stood up for Skype calls.
‘I was checking my email and I saw that you were online,’ she told me.
‘I wasn’t online,’ I replied. ‘I forgot to turn my laptop off.’ My voice was still devoid of emotion, but I think Fran interpreted this as hostility.
‘You’re busy?’
‘No.’ I couldn’t lie. I didn’t have the brainpower. ‘I’m just not really up to this right now.’