‘Are you there? I have to do this. Don’t know why,’ he says to nobody but the wind and the memory, not expecting a response. He needs strong tea, and something to eat. There is honey somewhere here. He scoops it up with his little finger and sucks, loving the sweet hit. She’s not out there now. He hears the door opening down below and the sound of her boots on the stairs. Right then. Right.
‘Up here.’
This slender, angular woman stands slightly stooped, coat wrapped tight around her, her posture an apology for existence. I am sorry that I am here. And yet he also feels obliged to apologize, looking at the chaos of the lounge-to-be and the only slightly less chaotic kitchen space. ‘It’s a mess. Look, here, this is comfortable.’
The old red leather armchair in which he listens to the piano at night is saggy, but the best he has. She lowers herself into it like a gymnast coming down off the bars, and tucks her knees up to her chest, arms around them. Defensive, he thinks. Fair enough. He feels more secure here, in his home. His tower. More able to talk to her. ‘The kettle’s boiled. Tea? I’ve got builder’s or Lapsang. Coffee maybe?’
The woman says nothing, so he settles for an ordinary teabag to match his own. She is remarkably still in the armchair, tucked up, eyes on the view.
‘Milk? No sugar, sorry. I do have honey, though.’
He gives her milk and puts the honey jar on the floor beside the chair, with a teaspoon sticking out. He clears a pile of unsorted books from a kitchen chair, turns it round and sits down astride it, mug in hand.
‘Well.’
Well, indeed.
‘So then. Music?’
He finds a remote, and the small black stereo blinks back into life, the first notes of a Gymnopédie beginning to fall among the boxes and chairs. His knee is jumping. What is he doing? Trying to help. First, find out who she is.
‘You didn’t say your name.’
She’s not going to now, either. Cupping the tea in both hands, with the steam twisting up into her face – a sharp face with high arched eyebrows, a long nose, a rosebud mouth with the corners dragged down by sorrow or fear, a gap in her front teeth, a dimple on the left cheek but not the right, her eyes almost closed – she seems oblivious. Could she even be deaf?
‘Sarah?’
She looks startled by the sound of her name, clumps the mug down on the stone floor, spilling tea, and starts to get up, to leave.
‘Wait. It’s okay. Really. Sit down.’
Sarah stares, alarmed and puzzled, trying to work something out. Her eyes are wide, bright. Frightened.
‘Lucky guess. I heard someone of that name was missing. That’s all. Honest.’
After a moment, she does let herself sit. Best not mention Jack, or the police.
‘Don’t let the tea go cold. I’m . . .’ Is he going to say his name? Self-protection says he shouldn’t. If he doesn’t tell anyone, he can’t be called back to that life. He can stay here, in the tower, with Rí. ‘The Keeper’ will do. But he can’t say that out loud; it’s weird, isn’t it? He can’t say that to this woman, when he needs to know her secrets in order to help her, so maybe he should give her his. Okay then.
‘My name is Gabe.’
That’s it. A relief. Big moment; not that she has even noticed. ‘Gabriel, really, obviously, but Gabe is better. If you like. You’re safe. There’s nothing in the tea,’ he says, but the thought had obviously not occurred to her until now, because she looks down, frowning. Oh God, he sounds creepy. ‘You can get up and walk out, it’s fine. Go, if you like. I won’t tell anyone – you obviously don’t want them to know where you are. It’s okay. I understand. Why do you think I live in a place like this? Everybody’s got to get away sometimes.’
‘Why do you think I live in a place like this?’ What are you talking about?
Rí’s voice, suddenly close, causes a shudder.
I’m sorry.
You should be. Who is this anyway? She’s pretty.
‘I found her . . .’
Did he say that out loud? Sarah seems not to have heard as she ponders her tea. He needs to get out of here, go upstairs, get his head right. ‘Excuse me . . .’
The lantern room is a rainforest shower of light. It’s a bright, sharp morning, the storm blown away. Out on the balcony, on his own, he grips the red iron railing, knuckles whitening. ‘She was out there, she fell—’
I know.
‘She needs help.’
So you only help the pretty ones?
‘No, listen, I’m not . . .’ He tries to speak quietly, for fear of being heard below, but he knows he’s getting agitated, getting louder. ‘She’s not . . . for God’s sake, Rí. For God’s sake.’
Nobody else has been here.
‘Please. Rí. Don’t do this.’
Nobody.
‘Give me a break.’
Why her?
‘Why can’t you just bloody leave me alone?’
It’s hard to know how long he is on the floor of the lantern room, or which of the anguished, animal noises he makes can be heard below. The grief exhausts itself, eventually. He lies there in the bright morning light, coming back to his senses, suddenly craving a shower and some proper clothes, but not wanting to face Sarah again. When he does descend the stairs at last, she has gone.