I'd paused at the top of the stairs, straightening my tie and smoothing my lapels, filled with a nervous sort of energy, a frisson, the thrill of expectation, as if I were about to touch her for the very first time. The heavy, dull weariness that had been my constant companion these past few weeks simply evaporated. I felt taller, stronger and more alert with even my wits returning, and apparently rapier sharp. And, god almighty, the desire, the need to recapture everything that we'd had, to experience everything that she was. Lying in that narrow on-call bed, restless and full of regret, I'd even attempted to calculate. But the weeks had merged hopelessly together, days, nights, dark, light; it might have been a month since I'd made love to her but it felt more like a year.
Of course of I was acutely conscious of the noise, even vaguely annoyed I suppose, as I reached deep into my trouser pocket for my keys. The Georgian panelling seemed to squeak in protest as it throbbed in time with the thunderous beat, and even the heavily framed paintings seemed to bounce as vibrations rippled up the walls. Yet, looking back, none of it even seemed to register but even if it had, nothing could have prepared me for the percussive assault that hit me as I opened the door. It was like a flurry of uppercuts to the depths of my diaphragm, a cricket bat to the side of the head.
Dear god, Louisa I think to myself, as the speakers hiss with audible distortion, this is not music, this is excruciating, this is noise as a weapon of torture!
I know I was concerned about her damaging her hearing, because to disregard a bone as sensitive and irreparable as the cochlea is, frankly, inexcusable. But, if I deemed her behaviour inconsiderate and rather anti-social as well, it didn't seem to find a foothold in my mind. In hindsight, perhaps I wasn't quite as shrewd as I thought I was, recalling only that I had resigned myself to an impending visit from the Royal Borough Environmental Inspector, and the imposition of a hefty Statutory Nuisance fine.
Clearing my throat, I'd thrust open the door, just as the so-called vocalist had shrieked with eye-watering gusto, and I'd found myself frozen momentarily to the spot. With the volume inside the room at purgatorial levels, I'd fought an odd, breathless panic, closing my eyes and breathing deeply until the reflexive urge to press my hands to my ears had passed. And I do recall a moment of aggravation, having spent most of my life avoiding the utter torment of pointless and inescapable noise, now apparently to be deafened and rendered almost senseless in my very own flat. As I stood there, attempting to compose myself, the reverberation of the bass pummelled my chest as if I were subjected to a violent onslaught of precordial thumps, administered by inaccurate and over zealous med students. It really was a vivid reminder of why I find raucous events and popular music both utterly abhorrent. Wincing, I'd forced myself to take a reluctant forward step but something soft is underfoot. My shoe becomes entangled and I swear with frustration, hopping inelegantly as I attempt to shake myself free.
Bloody hell, Louisa, it's like a jumble sale in here
My ears ring painfully, and I can't seem to make sense of what is going on. A potentially dangerous trip hazard right beside the door, the floor littered with discarded clothing, piled haphazardly, as if the wearers had been in a frenzy to free themselves of all apparel; coats, scarves and, appallingly, even undergarments too.
I scan the flat and, as everything comes into focus, it's clear that something is very amiss. Curtains flap at open windows and the balcony door swings in the breeze. Soiled plates, dirty glasses and empty bottles litter every surface, and scattered piles of records fan out across the floor. Shock sucks the air from my lungs as I gaze about in horror, my tidy, tranquil home transformed into a filthy, stinking squat, all foetid air, delinquency, and licentious behaviour.
My breath catches and I cough. The atmosphere in the flat is unpleasantly tainted, a bitter, smoky odour that is quite caustic and a sickly-sweet scent that irritates my throat. My nose twitches like a laboratory rabbit as I stride across the room, contemptuous as I identify the chemical composition; cheap synthetic fragrance and isopropyl alcohol, phthalates and formaldehyde; the distasteful, cloying stench of liberally-applied, bargain bin aftershave. Disgusted, I step over a bowl of crisps, upturned and ground into the carpet, jabbing my index finger at the power button on the amplifier and, just like that, silence is restored.
Turning around however, my brief sense of calm is obliterated instantly. It is if someone has turned on a stroboscopic lamp, and everything around me appears exaggerated, jerky and uneven like a disconcerting sort of time lapse. From within this pulsating distortion, a figure materialises before me; a repugnant, feckless stranger, one who not only reclines brazenly on my sofa, but outrageously occupies our spot. Louisa's and mine; the very place where she has stripped me so successfully of so many inhibitions, the exact location I've been fixated on for most of the last half hour, the actual position that I'd been longing for her to lead me to when, moments ago, I forced my key so enthusiastically into the front door lock!
How dare you sit there and smirk at me like that, shamelessly shirtless, like you belong here, like you couldn't care less? How dare you press your sweaty, clammy flesh to my furniture, lying around half naked like this was some sort of public gymnasium or insalubrious hotel?
Months of fury, frustration and disappointment endured and now it is this sorry, objectionable layabout that stands between Louisa and me. I feel almost overcome with hostility, roaring at him, as belligerent and aggressive as I've ever felt.
"Who the bloody hell are you?!"
An odour of stale perspiration wafts toward me as he scrambles jerkily to his feet, moving like a puppet, grimacing nervously, uttering what sounds implausibly like a little girl's giggle. I watch, disgusted, as he wipes his palm on his trousers vigorously, before stretching his arm out toward me in what is, outrageously, a bloody presumptuous greeting. Glancing down at his hand disdainfully, I keep my arms folded firmly across my chest.
"Steady on…." he replies a little shakily, thrusting both hands into his pockets now, before changing his mind and angling a pale slim arm self consciously across his naked torso. "I'm a friend of Louisa's…"
A friend of Louisa's. If that's not enough to make me despise him on sight, then his cheekbones, confidence and floppy fringe certainly are. And where is she in all this disarray? Is this Louisa's idea of teaching me a lesson, turning the place upside down by hosting some sort of awful student party in order to make her point, punishing me for my neglect like a petulant teenager? I glower at him as I attempt to shrug off the pain of disappointment.
"Are you?" I growl, as my upper lip curls into a sneer.
He fidgets, like a child waiting outside the headmaster's office for a dose of corporal punishment, and his eyes dart around the room, shifty and on edge. When he speaks, his face twists into a rather superior smirk.
"Yes, actually. In fact, for a time, we were rather close…"
I swallow hard, glowering at him as I crumple inside, comprehending in full the implications of that vague and platitudinous expression. Rather close? I can hear my carotid pulse thundering in my ear and the room seems to ripple around me, as if I were inside a mirage.
"Good for you." I growl at him threateningly, through a grimly clenched jaw. "Now, get out of my house."
A second, snake-like arm slowly entwines itself with its twin, as if it has a life of its own, as if his limbs are made if rubber. I notice the bracelet then, thin strips of woven leather hanging loosely about the bones of his bony wrists, and the fact that his ears are smaller than a child's. The longer I look at him, the more his bravado seems to desert him, but his nervous and uncomfortable demeanour only seems to fan the flames of my ever-growing fear. I take half a step toward him and he moistens his lips, as if he is carefully weighing up his options.
"Right…yes….well…let's all just calm down a bit, shall we?" He says quickly, his voice rising an octave. "I mean, fair's fair, old man, I can hardly leave without my shirt now, can I? Louisa's just cleaning up…she just had to…you know…I'm sure she won't be much longer…"
It only takes a split second for cognisance to grip my throat like the hand of a strangler; I see the look in his eye and the reality of it nearly asphyxiates me, his words echo in my head like the most jeering of schoolboy chants. Of course there is no party, Ellingham, you absolute bloody fool. There is just this man, with his insolence, his lean, athlete's body and his pin-up-boy good looks. Here he is, the personification of every deep seated fear that has gnawed away at you since the moment you first laid eyes on her in that restaurant, since that exquisite moment of madness when first you dared allow yourself to hope.
I notice a tissue box then, empty and discarded having completely disgorged its contents; an erratically folded wad draped over the back of the sofa like a Victorian anti-Macassar, and crumpled balls crushed and discarded about the repugnant tosser's feet. I stare at him, my expression thunderous as, piece by piece, the evidence seems to mount up. And in return, he continues to glance at me furtively, wide-eyed and wary, stuffing handfuls of bloodied tissues into the pockets of his trousers.
I feel like I am plummeting from a high cliff, as everything seems to fall horrendously into place. Undeniably, it is Louisa's underwear that lies scattered about the hallway. How many times I have watched her, my breathing shallow, as she wanders about, casual and oblivious, clad only in that distinctive bra, and a pair of her idiosyncratic, colourfully mismatched knickers. It must be hers, I tell myself miserably, as familiar with the fabric as I am with the soft curves that are usually contained within it. It must be hers, my mind concurs with miserable unanimity, what other reason could there possibly be?
For a moment, it is as if I have been winded. My limbs are weighty and unresponsive, and the smoke irritates my eyes, leaving them stinging, and watery, and blinking uncontrollably. As much as I simply cannot believe Louisa capable of such behaviour, and I try desperately to reassure myself of that fact, he continues to twitch and wriggle in front of me, pale and perspiring, picking at the pilling on his ill-fitting polyester trousers, and appearing for all the world as if he definitely has something to hide. That idle smile, that gleaming eye, that carefully concealed euphoria; my throat burns with bile as a possibility occurs to me. Was he, too, sitting incredulous and light-headed on the sofa, catching his breath and adjusting his clothing, having just watched Louisa glide away?
Acid reflux now adds miserably to my torment and I fight the urge to retch. My god, if my suspicions are correct, how shameless they both must be, how smug, how bold, how without conscience. As much as I abhor violence, I could so easily swing for him now as he gazes over my shoulder, apparently transfixed by the painting above the fireplace, tapping his fingers on his bare abdomen as if he were practicing Chopin's Fantaisie Impromptu. As my own hands flex involuntarily, I allow myself to imagine how it would feel to drive my fist into that self-satisfied face. Clenching my jaw, I clasp my wrists firmly behind my back, barely able to contain my desire to manhandle him out of the door, and hurl him bodily down the stairs.
"I said: get out." I snarl, my lip curling, my tone low and menacing.
His head flies up, and he shrinks away from me rapidly, his expression now rather alarmed as he staggers backwards and collapses onto the sofa, almost bouncing on the deeply-buttoned leather as he hits it with such force.
He grimaces, wild eyed, holding up his hands as if to defend himself, as I advance and loom over him. "Please, I really don't want any bother. I just want my shirt, that's all, and I'll get right out of your hair…"
And that's when I really notice his eyes; bloodshot and cyclopegic, and utterly devoid of life. I lean forward, peering at him more closely, and then it all starts to make a horrible sort of sense; the mildly dilated pupils, the agitation, the overexcitement; good god, I think he's even got residue visible in one flared and overprivileged nostril.
"Louisa!" I hear myself bellow, as adrenaline turns my legs to jelly, and he flattens himself against the back of the seat, throwing up his forearms in front of his face.
I feel an urgent need to look for her while grappling with being more upset with her than I've ever been before. I call her name again, walking a few steps toward the bedroom, hoping that she appears before me, terrified that she might have done something stupid, led astray by the unutterable cretin who writhes and chatters behind me. Though I can't bear the thought of anything they may have been up to, the idea of them taking drugs, under my roof, frankly, it's outrageous. I can't believe that Louisa would be so stupid as to abuse illegal substances, I can't believe she'd let herself be influenced in such a recklessly dangerous manner. But what other explanation could there possibly be when the only thing that is crystal clear is that he is only in the flat because she invited him in.
"Louisa!" I call out again, more insistently, and this time even I can hear the fear in my voice.
"Yes Martin!" I hear her reply behind me, breathlessly, and I spin around, watching her emerge from the kitchen holding what appears to be his shirt, and leaving a fine trickle of water on the floor as she walks toward me.
"What the hell is going on?" I demand angrily, folding my arms and frowning as she looks at me uncomfortably, trembling like a guilty thing surprised.
"Well…he had a nosebleed and…" she replies hesitantly, flashing a nervous grimace in my direction.
"Of course he did!" I interrupt impatiently. "No doubt he's well on the way to nasal ischemia and macronecrosis leading to a perforated septum! What I mean is, what's he doing here, Louisa?"
"Umm…perhaps if I could just have my shirt…" I hear him say behind me, and he punctuates his sentence with another burst of irritating, infantile laughter.
"Shut up!" I bark at him over my shoulder. "Louisa…?!"
"Yes, right…I think I got the worst of it out …" she says, addressing him directly as she turns and holds the discoloured garment out at arms length toward him.
"Louisa!" I repeat sharply, and she glances across at me, narrowing her eyes at me as she gives a tiny shake of her head.
"But it's still really wet I'm afraid…" she continues, almost apologetically as he takes it from her.
Then, she nods encouragingly, bestowing her sweet, hopeful smile on him and it is like an ice cold metal spike driven through my heart. As I watch them together, that I have already lost her becomes an unbearable probability, and I have no one to blame but myself. She tried to tell me that she felt abandoned and I dismissed her, it was me that forced her to seek comfort in the convenient arms of what appears to be old flame. I watch as she reaches up to grasp her ponytail and, as she pulls it around her jaw, in that instant I know how it feels to fear your heart might actually break.
"I didn't want to wring it out in case I creased it…" she explains gently, her Cornish burr so calming and so soft.
I have long understood that she is too lovely for anyone as clumsy and undeserving as I am, I have always known that she is too spirited and vivacious for someone as dour and unlikeable as me. But to lose her to this man is just so bloody galling, it's humiliating and devastating and utterly beyond the pale. He is a shambles, the sort to wear an off-white, polyester business shirt, greyish-yellow around the collar, and noticeably fraying about the single-buttoned cuffs. He is clearly a charlatan, indubitably a rogue, definitely a drug user, a necromancer, a person of low habits and insufficient personal hygiene. He is patently so far beneath her that I'm struggling to comprehend.
"Put it on, and get out!" I spit at him, my tone almost savage, interrupting her kind hearted ministrations before they can torment me any further.
For the next minute, it's almost farcical watching him dress, wrestling with wet fabric that clings to his bony rib cage and refuses to slide easily over his pale and freckled skin. Maliciously, I hope for the arrival of a bone chilling evening breeze, a wind chill factor that will wipe the contented smirk from his chiselled features as he waits for a bus, or ventures into the Underground. A few feet away, Louisa stands silent and self conscious, as he fumbles with his buttons, steadfastly refusing to look at either of us as she chews tellingly on her lip. I inform him then, my tone priggish and disapproving, that I've noted his drug use, and that if he ever comes within a hundred yards of this flat again, I will report him to the police. That gets her attention, her head jerking around violently as she gapes at me in horror, as if she really thought I wouldn't notice; god, what an utterly offensive suggestion, the addition of insult to injury is really the last straw.
In the dumbfounded, guilt-ridden silence that ensues, it seems that I finally have the upper hand. His shirt is transparent, everything about his anatomy is on display; his plastered down chest hair, deeply pock-marked shoulders and sun-scarred freckling disgracefully obvious as he holds his arms awkwardly away from his body, the clamminess of his damp clothing beginning to take effect. I can't help but feel triumphant as she passes him his tie and he ties it unevenly with the shame of a schoolboy knot.
"You appear to be an drug addict and, as a doctor, I advise you to seek professional help." I tell him, glowering him imperiously as he ducks past me at speed and lunges for the front door.
I follow him to the landing, listening to his footsteps clatter wildly as he rapidly descends the stairs. I grip the railing on the landing until long after he is out of sight and I don't move until I hear the resounding thud as the front door slams, and then there is silence. I walk back into the flat with as much dignity as I can muster, closing the door quietly behind me, the object of all my fury having bolted like a fox pursued like a furious and well-armed farmer. Pausing in the entry hall, I watch as she attempts to gather her clothing from the floor, self-conscious and uncomfortable as she lays her coat over the back of the sofa, and stuffs the bra awkwardly into her pocket.
"I'm sorry Martin." She says hesitantly, turning toward me and looking up at me from under her eyelashes. "I really am."
I shrug, making no attempt to conceal my misery, my mouth salty as she retrieves her discarded stockings, winding them around her hand with infinite care, smoothing them flat and laying them gently atop her coat. Sorry. It seems such a incredibly feeble word, so insufficient, so trite, and I am suddenly catatonic with exhaustion, as defeated and as empty as I think I've ever felt. My eyes smart, my throat burns and I need water, beyond that, everything seems to blur into a dreadful, all-compassing nothingness, an oblivion simply too awful to comprehend.
"Yes." I mutter grimly, and our unhappy glances lock together briefly as I pass.
Even after all this her beauty has the capacity to move me. Her face is pale, her eyes appearing dark green and enormous, and she shakes her head at me, helplessly, as if all of this is as immense a mystery to her as Quantum Theory, dark matter, or the Great Pyramids. As much as I want desperately not to believe ill of her, all around me my home lies in fetid ruins, and there seems no innocent explanation for why she would invite that contemptible, stinking swine into my flat. I am too tired for discretion, too broken-hearted to care whether I humiliate myself any further. I stop, and turn to face her again.
"Louisa, why did you bring him here?"
She grimaces, pulling a face at me like I'm some sort of imbecile, laughing as she feigns an air of disbelief.
"What? I didn't…I…"
"I suppose you did threaten to find someone else to take you to that concert." I interrupt, unable to hide the bitterness in my voice. "I'm just surprised at the urgency, and the rigour, of your search."
I walk away from her then, my gait stiff and stilted, and I have gone several strides before she calls after me, her tone now noticeably sharper. "Umm…sorry….what?"
But I am in no mind to explain myself. Every step feels like quicksand, every breath feels like barbed wire is tightening around my chest. And to twist the knife even further, I am now greeted by such an appalling mess in the kitchen that I actually recoil. It's as if we've been ransacked by particularly vindictive vandals; drawers hang open, the contents of cupboards spill to the floor, not a surface remains unsullied, the floor is a filthy pigsty and the sink an utter disgrace. An overturned chair lies abandoned against the refrigerator, spilled wine pools in sticky puddles on the table and my state of utter despondency immediately turns to anger. How could she treat my home with such disrespect, how could she treat my views on the importance of hygiene and cleanliness with total and utter contempt?
Is this another immature and deliberate thumbing of her nose at my firmly held beliefs or was she, as usual, distracted by something else that was going on? One glance at the contents of the sink tell me that her attention was so completely elsewhere that she nearly set the flat ablaze, and what that might have been brings several unpleasant scenarios to mind. I swallow hard, almost all of them unthinkable. How could you, Louisa, when I've loved you more than anything I ever thought myself capable of?
"Did you take drugs with him Louisa?" I demand of her coldly, turning to face her as she approaches, glowering at her as she stops a few feet away from me, as if she purposely maintains a telling distance.
"What? No! Of course I didn't…" she counters vigorously, flexing her jaw as her hands go to her hips. "What are you sayin'?"
"Well, what did you do, exactly?" I reply tersely, the state of the kitchen filling me with abject disgust. "Because Louisa, even by your standards, this flat is a disgrace. I mean, clearly, something caused you considerable distraction and…"
"Martin! I don't believe this….just what the hell are you accusing me of?" She cries angrily, and I watch her as she walks determinedly toward me, her eyes flashing indignantly, her expression now as unhappy as my own
Don't be so beautiful, Louisa, don't show me all your spirit now.
"Do you want me to spell it out?" I answer, my tone becoming even colder as I struggle for breath.
"Yes! Spell it out for me, Martin, please…"
"You. And that…man…" I spit derogatively, "Did you…?"
"What? Did we what?" She snaps furiously. "Do drugs…is that what you think? That we did drugs?"
"Did you sleep with him?" I interrupt sharply and as soon as I've said it, I'm filled with the most sickening sense of dread.
I'm sure he's spontaneous, I'm sure reticence, shyness and circumspection aren't even in his vocabulary.
The anger drains from her face, her mouth falls open and she stares at me, her expression a mix of despair and disbelief.
"What?"
"I think you heard me."
"Martin…." She says helplessly, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. "Please…I…"
"It's a fairly straight forward question, Louisa. You either did, or you didn't…"
"Wow..." she says, her tone incredulous as she stares at me, shaking her head again. "So that's what this is…you don't trust me…."
I narrow my eyes and hold her gaze for a moment. My head throbs and, for a split second, I have a strange, disconcerting sensation, like someone has pulled a loose thread and I am unravelling, spinning and flailing helplessly as I plummet to the ground. Later, when I lie awake alone, I will blame sleep deprivation for my reaction. I will blame exhaustion, and fear, and a growing realisation that I have clung to a dream that would inevitably run its course. And I will recall, with far too much clarity, all the moments in my life when, previously, I was made to look a fool. I will see those thin red lips, and hear that haughty, sneering laugh and I will remember how it felt then, knowing the truth, yet allowing myself to be convinced everything was just my imagination.
"As a matter of fact, I did trust you Louisa, I trusted you implicitly." I point out, my voice strangled by despair. "I welcomed you into my home, trusting that you would not compromise my professional reputation by entertaining drug addicts in my living room. I trusted that you would not leave my flat looking like the aftermath of a Bacchanalian feast. And I trusted that you would not incinerate the kitchen nor fail to lift a finger to clean up the subsequent mess. But, most of all I t…."
"Martin, oh my god! you're talking to me as if I'm a child!" She cries indignantly
"Precisely because you're behaving like one…"
"Am I? Am I really?" She retorts and her eyes flash again, black with indignation.
So beautiful, so very, very beautiful. Don't toss your hair like that Louisa, I feel as if I am dying inside.
Stomping over to the table, and muttering under her breath, she stands the empty wine bottle upright and picks up the dirty glasses, one in each tightly clenched fist, glowering at me darkly.
"And that's so much worse than acting like a miserable old codger, twice your age is it? Hm?…Of course, you'd think it's far better to be a card-carrying member of the Fun Police, always raining on everyone's parades, making everyone feel guilty for just trying to enjoy themselves, isn't that right Martin?…any sort of normal, youthful behaviour is viewed by you as a slippery slope to depravity…"
"Did you take drugs with him, Louisa?" She parrots, imitating me in the most pompous tone imaginable. "Is he your lover? Because, by the way Louisa, I'm allowed to ask you who you've been to bed with but heaven forbid you should ever ask that same sodding question of me!"
I feel each blow as she intended, fierce and well aimed, but I have no intention of ever allowing it to show. My dignity is all I have left and, despite everything, my heart will not let me forget how much I love her, as much as my logical brain reminds me that it was never going to last. She is not the first woman to point out that I am dreary, dull and hopelessly old-fashioned. She is not the first woman to be lured away by the excitement of someone new.
I half fill a glass with water, and attempt to drink it calmly, hiding the fact that swallowing seems almost impossible. After rinsing it and placing it upside down on the draining board, I fetch my overcoat from the utility room, Louisa following at a distance, standing like a infuriated statue as I slip my arms into the sleeves and shrug it up onto my shoulders. I pop the heavy woollen collar, and drape my muffler around my neck, tucking it neatly beneath my lapels, hoping she doesn't notice the unsteadiness of my hands as I attempt to fasten the buttons.
"What do you think you're doing?" She demands angrily.
I turn my back on her, fumbling in my pocket for my gloves, squeezing my eyes shut and inhaling deeply. I can't discuss anything any longer, I can barely think at all.
I am drowning Louisa, can't you see I'm about to go under the waves?
"I need some exercise. I need to stretch my legs.
"Martin! Don't you dare walk away. If you're accusing me of something, then at least have the decency to accuse me to my face…"
I stop for a moment as I pass but I can't look at her now. Though I am only inches away, the gulf between us seems enormous. I could reach out my hand and cup her jaw, I could pull her to me and cover her mouth with mine. I could tell her that none of it mattered if she'd only come back, that I would try to be anyone she wanted if only she'd stay with me. For one divine moment I can taste her sweetness, she is like sugar water and I am a dying bee. Our lips might only just touch, but the pressure was always enough and my body would turn to steel. Kiss me back with that hunger that dismantles all my shyness, Louisa, please, kiss me back so I abandon all my self-restraint.
And then I see his face. His aquiline nose and his perfect white teeth. I hear his voice. We were very close. And I remember that she is no longer mine to touch.
Don't think about them together. Don't think about what they did in your flat this afternoon. Don't think about what she said about you, how they laughed at you, how she thought so little of you that she did not even seem to care that much that they'd been discovered.
"Please don't lecture me on decency, Louisa." I tell her, as my grief almost brings me to tears. "Because you really don't have a leg to stand on…"
I walk stiffly away and I don't look back. A few angry recriminations follow me down the hall but they no longer register for my mind is now completely numb. The door slams behind me, the sound echoing down the stairwell, and my breath condenses as I make my way along the street, having no destination in mind other than anywhere at a distance. In the end, I walk around Kensington Park twice, oblivious to everything around me except the sound of my own rapid footfall. There is an odd sort of synchronicity to it really; the furious beat of my heart, the pointless haste of leather soled shoes on crisp pea metal, and the headache that pounds inside my head with such intensity that several times I've been close to vomiting into a bin. As the scotch mist rolls in, it brings with it a bone-weary exhaustion that sees me take refuge on a bench, the cold enveloping damp obliterating everything around me, an apt sort of companion to my own fog of utter despair.
I am not conscious of exactly how long I sit there, looking down vacantly at my folded arms, lost in the symmetry of the fabric, focusing on the unwavering regularity of the pinstripes, and the way each white line is dissected at a perfect forty five degree angle by the subtle shading of the weave. It is a tiny incidence of order in a world that seems devastated and chaotic and, even when dusk descends, I do not raise my head. In fact, I do not move at all for the reality is I have nowhere else to go. For the first time in my life, my mind has no safe haven, there is no refuge to be found in medicine, and no physical sanctuary to be sought in the privacy of my flat. Nothing is undefiled, nothing is as it seems and, even as a man averse to violence, I'm shocked at how easy it would have been to toss that human detritus off the balcony and watch him plummet headfirst to the street below.
As it usually does, my mind returns to medicine. I think about the smell of a gangrenous leg as one prepares for amputation, the grim sight of a stage five wet necrosis in a neuroischaemic foot, and I even find myself recalling an afternoon of sheer pandemonium when, freshly embarked on my A&E rotation, I found myself one of those triaging countless victims of the Harrods bombing. Yet none of that had ever affected my composure like the unfathomable chaos I'd just discovered in my flat. Why hadn't she denied it? Why hadn't she rejected my accusations, when all I'd wanted to hear was that I couldn't be more wrong?
She can't deny it, because it's tue. Wake up Ellingham! He was in the flat because she wanted him to be.
It doesn't matter that I believed it wouldn't last, it doesn't matter that I never felt as if I deserved her, I am sitting alone in the dark in Kensington Gardens, moisture collecting in my hair and trickling dismally down the side of my face, more miserable than I believed it possible to feel. I won't deny that she has become everything to me, an antidote to my own defects, always a sliver of light, a glimpse of golden warmth beneath a heavy door, a fillip of encouragement to a man who exists in that cold and darkened room. She was always the promise of something better, of joy and of hope, and the realisation that perhaps it didn't have to be solitary Martin Ellingham taking on the entire world alone.
Louisa, how could you? I whisper to myself then, in disbelief, over and over again until even the very sentence itself ceases to make any sense at all.
When, eventually, the temperature plummets, I'm forced to rouse myself and walk homeward in a daze. The creeping mist dulls the glow of the lights and casts a strange yellow pall over the dismal street and the Miserable Old Git making his way along it; a curmudgeon, a killjoy, an apparently young man known for being the most sodden of wet blankets. I can't think what to say to her, I can't think what it is that might make all of this desperate unhappiness go away. Everything she accused me of is true, but I can't change anything, I can't go back, all I can do now is grieve for the enormity of what I have lost.
You knew this day would come. You knew she'd see the real you.
I let myself in, climbing the stairs lethargically and I realise that dull ache inside of me is at least partly attributable to hunger. My head swims and my thoughts are lost in some sort of turgid soup, unable to remember even when I last ate, or even what it was. Truthfully, I don't mind if she hasn't cleaned up, it might be easier on both of us if she has flounced off to bed and shut the bedroom door. Any more quarrelling tonight would be nothing short of pointless and I have a sudden pathological need to sleep. As if to reiterate the depths of my deprivation, I see the cat again, on the landing, and I'm half way down the path to outrage when I remember that the blasted thing isn't really there at all.
Please be waiting, please tell me it was all a misunderstanding, Louisa. Take my trembling hand and lead me to the haven of your bed. Wrap your soft warm limbs around my exhausted body and run your fingers through my hair until I fall asleep.
As quietly as my cold hands allow, I unlock the front door and slip inside. The flat is in darkness and I discard my gloves and fumble tentatively for the switch, making my way toward the kitchen with bated breath. In the half light I notice that a perfunctory attempt has been made to restore the flat to its previous levels of order and cleanliness, and the realisation provides me with the strangest sense of despair. I hang up up my coat, and fill my glass, realising despondently that tonight is just a short respite; tomorrow I will need to face the horror of what has happened. Perhaps with some rest, things might be a little clearer, perhaps the morning might provide some sort of hope, a lessening of this ferocious pain, a path out of this dreadful darkness.
I will always love you, Louisa, this doesn't change that. It just makes your inevitable loss so much more unbearable.
But, as I pass the table, I see it and, even without even having to open it, I know instinctively what it will say. No one leaves a letter on a table, sealed in an envelope, do they, if they have merely had an early night? I stare at it for a moment and then I pick it up, pressing it into my suit coat pocket, before walking slowly and tautly through the flat. Our bedroom door is open but, with the bed illuminated from the hall light, it's clear that she's not there. Holding my breath, I make my way cautiously toward the spare room but I know in my heart I won't discover her either. In the morning, I will notice my suitcase missing, and I will gaze forlornly at the empty hangers in the wardrobe. Her things will be gone, too, from the en suite and I will weep, feeling like an amputee, a man with a void that can never be filled. Crumbs and stains and odd socks will become bitterly sentimental as I prowl in anguish around the empty flat. But, for now, with the contents of her note unknown to me, I crawl into bed and fall into a restless sleep, a man not quite destroyed as still he clings to the flimsiest of hopes.