Daniel James
The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled418
I woke inside an envelope of light. The morning sun bled through the fabric of the duvet and infused my whole world with a warm glow. I closed my eyes and curled my body into a ball, trying to disappear into the material. Everything would be fine if I stayed here. I tried to will myself back to sleep, back to the dream I had been having, but it was too late. I was awake.
When I finally emerged, rays of light were streaming through the bedroom window, making visible tiny dust motes floating through the air. The world was full of things we couldn’t see all around us, whole universes, dense with invisible life. I pulled on the faded Wonder Woman t-shirt Isabella had loaned me and headed downstairs. She wore denim shorts and a white shirt knotted around her waist. She was half Peruvian and had inherited her mother’s jet-black hair, dark brown eyes, and tan skin. When she saw me in the ill-fitting top, she burst out laughing. I pulled a face.
‘This is seriously all you have that I can wear?’ I asked.
‘C’mon, it suits you,’ she said, grinning.
I half-smiled, half-mumbled a complaint in her direction and took a seat at the dining table.
‘Sam left another message,’ she said. ‘He sounds worried about you.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Briefly. I told him I had no idea where you were and that maybe he should try one of your other girlfriends.’
‘I bet that shut him up.’
‘I could almost feel him going red over the phone. He also said your publisher is going crazy because they can’t find you. Maybe you should think about checking in?’
‘They can wait.’
‘Is that wise? They pay your bills after all.’
‘I can’t hand over the book yet, Isabella. I need to finish it…’
I had contacted her the day before and we’d arranged to meet on the South Bank at the Dandelyan cocktail bar,419 in the Mondrian London at Sea Containers Hotel.420 By the time we left, day had turned into night. The neon red glow of the OXO tower sign shimmered on the surface of the Thames as we walked hand in hand, beneath fairy lights strung along the branches of the trees along the South Bank. We gazed across the river at the illuminated dome of St Paul’s as darkness gathered round us like a blanket.
I had been running on empty, washed out and exhausted, and she knew it instinctively. When we got back to her place, I lay down on her bed and fell asleep in my clothes almost instantly. I was only vaguely aware of her undressing me sometime later and climbing into bed alongside me. It was only last night, but it felt like days ago, now, standing in her kitchen, bathed in the late morning sun.
I cooked us a breakfast of poached eggs, bacon, and sourdough toast as a small thank you for taking me in and we sat together on her balcony overlooking the river. Neil Young’s Midnight on the Bay was playing as the sun danced on the water below and a cargo trawler glided by. After we had finished eating, Isabella lay her hand over mine.
‘Hey,’ she said. ‘What happened to you over there?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve barely looked me in the eye since you got back. It’s like you’re scared I’ll see what’s inside your head.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You turn up like a stray cat after a year and I don’t even get an explanation?’
‘You know where I’ve been.’
‘Working on the book, I suppose. But where are you now?’
‘Inside…’ I replied. ‘I saw things, Isabella…I…’
‘You can tell me.’
‘I can’t…’ I replied. ‘It’s not safe…I wouldn’t even be here if I had another choice.’
‘And here I thought you missed me…’ Isabella said it like a joke, but there was hurt in her voice. She picked up the plates and carried them through to the kitchen. I followed her inside.
‘I wouldn’t have come,’ I said, ‘because I didn’t want to put someone else I care about in danger.’
I came up behind her, pushed her dark hair to one side and began to kiss the nape of her neck, gently. She murmured and tilted her head back. Putting my arms around her waist, I pressed myself against her, cupping her breast with one hand and sliding the other inside the waistband of her denim shorts.
‘Is this your way of saying sorry?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. Is it working?’
‘Mmm, I’ll tell you later,’ she smiled.
* * *
A blistering hot shower helped cleanse my body, which still felt weary after the events of the last weeks and months. When I came out of the bathroom, I found my suit and shirt carefully laid out on her bed. As I began to dress, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and almost didn’t recognise the man looking back. My face was pale and gaunt, dark around the eyes, my beard had grown in thick, and dark, and there were tiny flecks of silver at my temples. I felt like I had aged a decade since that night I took the phone call. But as I slipped the black shirt over my shoulders and began to button it, a change came over me, a calmness. I was stepping into character once more, free from worry and doubt, ready for whatever came next, even if I was nearing the end.
When I came downstairs, Isabella was sat waiting for me in a chair by the window.
‘You’re too good to me, Isabella,’ I said. ‘You always were.’
‘What can I say? I’m a sucker for dark-haired literary types.’
I smiled and picked up my bag from the hall.
‘You could stay,’ she added.
‘I need to keep moving. There are people looking for me and I don’t want to lead them here.’
‘What kind of people?’
‘The police…and maybe worse.’
‘Jesus, Dan.’
‘An old friend was found dead the other day. I was the last person to see him alive.’
‘Oh my god.’
‘I don’t know what happened, but I’m going to find out.’
‘It’s all connected to the book, isn’t it?’
‘The less you know the better.’
‘So what do I say if someone comes looking for you?’
‘The truth,’ I replied. ‘I was never here.’
I picked up my brown leather messenger bag. As I opened the front door to leave, Isabella grabbed my hand, pulled me towards her, and kissed me deeply.
‘Where will you go?’ she asked, as I stepped into the hall.
‘The only place left…North.’
END
Notes
418. Art critic John Berger, Ways of Seeing.
419. Where cocktails are created by renowned mixologist Mr Lyan.
420. A boutique hotel on the South Bank designed in the style of 1920s cruise glamour, with a giant copper clad wall running through a cross section of the hotel interior like the exposed hull of an ocean liner.