twenty–five

I watched Juliette fall asleep, from nervous and sexual exhaustion; on the floor between a three-legged cane chair and a bag of golf clubs. In the dark she looked like just another mannequin. I wondered where to begin looking. The sheer multiplicity of objects in the room seemed to mock me, as if daring me to examine each miscellaneous object in turn, for the rest of my life. I was also reluctant to turn the light on in case I woke her.

I decided to try another room first. Coming out into the corridor, a line of doors on either side faced me, as in Alice in Wonderland. The first door I tried was locked, but the second opened slightly and then stuck. Shouldering the door, I shoved hard and the door opened to the sound of books crashing to the floor. A bookshelf had been propped up against the door. Inside manuscripts and books covered the floor and a single bed stood in the corner. A stuffed raven, its feathers oiled black, was perched on the mantelpiece, next to a half-full coffee cup. This was Juliette’s bedroom.

I tried the tall-boy first – the drawers were filled with pastel, silk lingerie, clothing I would never have associated with Juliette. It was late and I felt tired and hadn’t eaten for hours. I was also beginning to feel inexplicably nervous as I searched through Juliette’s things, as if I were on the edge of some kind of disaster. A disaster that my search would directly instigate. This did not stop me looking, only made me the more determined to find something quickly, that would have to disturb me.

When I did find what I was looking for, I almost passed it by. Having unearthed a child’s scrapbook from beneath a layer of frothy negligée, I unthinkingly flung it on to the ground. Only when the book fell face up, and open, did it catch my attention. It was a catalogue of photographs, stuck neatly in columns on to the coloured pages. Each photograph depicted an explicit sex scene between two lovers, obviously taken without their knowledge. Through each photograph a knife had been drawn in red ink on to the Polaroid snap that dissected their bodies in half. The words ‘Jack and Justine’ had been printed clearly above each photograph. I noticed that Justine had moles in the star shape of the plough across her torso.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ Juliette’s voice sounded cold behind me.

Luckily, as my back was turned to her, my body was blocking her view of what I was looking at. I slipped the scrapbook under the bed and turned round. She looked terrible – rings, like huge bruises, hung under her eyes.

‘I’m looking for clues.’

‘Clues to where you might find Justine?’ She laughed mockingly, ‘You won’t find them in this room. They’re all up here.’ And she tapped her head.