He went up the ladder first, and I reckoned I would leave it to him. But when somehow Mr C, standing on that ladder some fifty-five to sixty feet over the back gardens, both hands employed in screwdrivering access through the skylight, had raised the window and it was open, and he leaned inside, looked back down and spoke to me, I knew that I too wished very badly to see into the place above. I wore trainers. I put one foot on the lowest rung and hauled myself up quite efficiently, ignoring the idea of the distance to the ground. I felt different in my 666 role, shaven headed, in jeans and T-shirt and trainers. I felt unencumbered. I felt I too could climb the dangerous ladder. And climb it I had. When I got into the attic room above Sej’s flat, both Mr C and I paused, looking round. I was nonplussed, although I quickly saw he could not be. Given his wide experience surprise would be rare, and then no doubt only associated with types of extreme violence.
He had already informed me no one was in residence. He had checked every corner of the long, wide space, and opened the single door to reveal a long narrow bathroom.
“Well, it’s an eagle’s nest but he does himself proud,” said Mr C. He sounded more amused than intolerant. “Not like the lower quarters, is it?”
Decidedly it wasn’t.
The attic room, a sort of English loft apartment, began under the slope of the roof, where even I couldn’t stand upright. But after a few crouching steps someone of six and a half feet could have done so with ease. At the centre the spine of the roof allowed standing room of at least twelve feet. This area extended for maybe twenty feet square. Even where the tapering down began, the roof sloped gradually. Once one was fully inside there was no sense at all of constriction.
The beams and joists were on view, but clean and varnished. Above them, a high plasterboard ceiling. It was painted a pale creamy blue. The brickwork of the walls behind the wood was also closed in plasterboard and painted, this a very light apple green.
On the whole floor-space lay a blue carpet, immaculate and with a deep pile. Furniture was set here and there, armchairs, tables, two large couches that Mr C told me were what we used to call put-you-ups – able to be converted into large double beds. Everything not plain wood was upholstered, sky blue or light royal blue, or various greens.
Bookcases, six of them, ranged along the edges of the room, crammed with books. There were two wooden cabinets. One had cutlery and dark green plates and mugs, and long straight blue glasses. The other cabinet contained cleaning materials, a Dyson. Above on shelves packets of tea, coffee, canned goods, matches. Towards the back of the room was a large piano, lid raised, and a guitar and a mandolin hanging from two hooks in the beams. A music centre rose behind the piano. Several carousels below revealed CDs of many classical composers. A lot of it was piano music. There was some jazz too, and R and B.
No radio or TV were visible.
The lighting consisted solely of table-lamps with parchment-coloured shades. Mr C had turned them all on.
Set back in one wall was a small kitchen annexe, that had a stalk-thin fridge-freezer, a small expensive-looking washing machine, a microwave oven, a miniature electric oven with two gas hobs, and a toy-size sink and drainer.
In the narrow bathroom, which was white and very clean, as the whole upper space appeared to be, were a long bath on lion’s paws, a lavatory, a bidet, and two washbasins under a wide mirror. An ultra-modern shower cubicle filled one corner. From rails hung clean crisp towels, all of them white. White soaps, still in plastic wrappers, lay by basins, bath and shower. Another cabinet revealed several Lilliputian shampoos of the type found in hotels, a selection of chemist counter painkillers, such as aspirin and paracetamol, elastoplast and tubigrip, and a large plastic container of hydrogen peroxide.
There were also two hampers in the bathroom. One was empty. One held more clean white towels, white sheets, pillow-slips and blankets, all neatly folded.
“What’s in the fridge, I wonder?” said Mr C.
He undid the door and we looked in.
There wasn’t much. Some black truffles in a box, some strong cheddar in white paper. The wine rack held one bottle of Dom Perignon, one of red wine, (French) and a single bottle of Dutch geneva. A couple of two litre bottles of Volvic occupied the lower shelf.
In the freezer compartments were bread, pork sausages, steaks, chicken breasts and chunks of free range salmon. And a big carton of chocolate ice cream. None of these items had been opened.
Neither Mr C nor I were apparently tempted. Though sealed, it could all have been poisoned after all.
“That skylight is definitely polarised glass. Bullet-proof too, I’d say. But the lock…” He sneered and snapped his fingers.
The apartment was quite dark, or had been until he switched on the lamps.
“What do you think?” he asked me.
“He lives here.”
“I would entirely conclude he does. Or it’s his HQ. Basic nutrition, doctor supplies, hygiene, sleeping facilities. Not bad, for an amateur.”
Below us even now we could hear the mindless blundering of flat No 5’s music. It was much fainter, but still intrusive. Sound rises, like scum.
“Have you seen enough, Mr Phillips?”
“I – yes, I suppose so.”
“Do you want me to do anything?”
I thought he meant smash it all up, unplug the fridge-freezer, score the CDs and tear up the books – God knows. I said inanely, “I’m baffled.”
“Are you?” said Mr C. “I’m not. Your man’s a nutcase.” Then he reverted to his alternate accent. “A total nutter, our Sejjy. And that sort – I’d wipe ’em off the arse of the world.”