One thing I’ve finally learnt at the tender age of twenty-nine is to love every minute that you have. Enjoy everything, even if it’s shit, because a shit moment is a hell of a lot better than being dead. Ask Hershey. He’ll tell you that. If he could. But more of that in a moment.
I’m standing — more accurately, swaying — outside Hershey’s house. I’m not an architect, but I can appreciate fine buildings and this is certainly grand. It’s tall, narrow and elegant with stone steps up to the front door. It has a basement flat below street level (I can see the tops of the windows) and three more floors above it with sash windows to allow plenty of light in. Very nice, just the sort of place I’d like to live in myself one day.
I’d thrown down a lot of alcohol on the train into London, keeping myself topped up. Dutch courage, you ask? No, not at all. I’ve grown to like the feeling of being numb, of everything being slow, to like it that thoughts have to push through a rubbery gauze to make it into my mind. However the downside is when I’m thinking about the best way to gain access to Hershey’s place, because my pickled brain fucks it up. Ultimately, now I’m faced with Hershey’s front door, I can only settle upon the direct route, so I simply stagger up the steps and ring the bell. I figure that everyone answers the door, so when he lets me in we’ll talk and eventually I’ll kill him, although at this stage I haven’t considered the difficult question: How? I don’t know. I’m just utterly certain that I will murder the bastard, and the drink is convincing me I’ll be successful.
But there’s already one fatal flaw in my grand plan. Hershey doesn’t answer. I stand impotently on the top step waiting. I ring the bell again, knock. Nothing. But I’m sure I hear movement inside. I press my ear to the door and then knock again. An old woman walking a rat on a leash looks at me quizzically as she idles past. I ignore her, but I know I can’t stand here forever, and I’m not leaving. Consequently I’m in a difficult position. So I try the door handle. Against all expectations it’s unlocked and swings open easily. I glance over my shoulder as I enter; the woman is looking at me through narrowed eyes. I close the door on her and her stupid fucking dog.
I find myself in a gloomy hall. The sound of the outside world is gone. Excellent insulation. Once my eyes adjust I can see indistinct shadows of furniture. The house is deceptively large. There are several closed doors, a set of stairs down and a set of stairs up. A red light blinks to my right on a cabinet beside the front door. I pick up Hershey’s horribly flashy phone. If this is here, he certainly is. As I replace the Blackberry I think I hear a noise above me. I cock my head and listen, but there’s nothing. Perhaps I imagined it.
I decide to descend first. I like the idea of basements, seeing people’s feet as they walk by, oblivious to me looking up. Two worlds close by but disconnected. The steep steps lead down to a wooden door, which is closed. I feel the temperature drop slightly. I listen at the door. Nothing. I fumble for the catch, lift it and push the door open, heart in my mouth. The door swings into a decent space — whitewashed walls, a sofa, hi-fi and a large fireplace. The curtains are wide open and there’s sudden brightness in the stairwell. It’s obviously an area for relaxing, but there’s no one taking it easy. I go back up the stairs, leaving the door open for a bit of light. Once back in the corridor I walk along it as stealthily as I can (which isn’t saying much) trying each door in turn. None give when I twist the handle and push. All locked up then. Hershey must have a perversely introverted sense of security, but maybe that’s because he’s American.
The same is true on the first floor and on most of the second until I reach what is clearly the formal living area. It’s very different to the basement, like the house had two interior designers on a reality TV show — one casual and understated, the other utterly over the top and a pure reflection of status and money. This room, dimly lit because the curtains are drawn, reflects the latter. There’s a huge plasma screen and home cinema system, leather sofa, Bose hi-fi, expensive pieces of furniture, rich mahogany flooring with a thick, probably Persian rug on top, a chandelier.
And a body.