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Also by Diana Wilkinson

4 Riverside Close

A Perfect Circle

I formed a perfect circle using my thumb and forefinger, pushing the tips together and then let my other fingers spiral round the outside. I slotted my left eye neatly inside the rounded shape and closed my right. Although light oozed through the crack running down the hinged edge of the door frame, I wanted the familiar comfort of a circular aperture. Old habits die hard. I watched and waited.

The Target arrived on cue, their eyes immediately drawn towards the ragged shards of broken crockery strewn across the floor. A current of excitement coursed through my body as I stared, motionless, at my prey. Like a wolf in tune with nature, I recognised the smell of fear, as the rancid stench of body odours filled the room.

I gripped the baseball bat in my right hand and finally lowered my left hand away from my face, freeing the bulging eye from its confines. I emerged slowly from the shadows, smiling triumphantly as the Target turned towards me. There was an almighty crack as the bat smashed down onto his skull. After years of impotent silence, I was never going to be content with one hit. Death was not enough.

As I pummelled the head repeatedly, I knew only total decimation would suffice. No hint of worth would remain.

New Year 2005

Long lost first love lies buried

under thick layers of life…

A haunting presence

teasing with illusions

of how things might have been.

Like death’s finality

not quite believed.

1

Rebecca

Perhaps acceptance is all there is. Desire had lain dormant for what seemed a lifetime. As we shuffled along, excusing ourselves as we nudged and squeezed past the hotbed of sweaty bodies reclining in anticipation, a gentle wave of contentment took me by surprise.

Arthur managed to upturn a half-empty popcorn container which stuck out from under an empty seat; a stark reminder of his gaucheness. The heat, fuelled by the recumbent masses, was overwhelming. My scarf was knotted so tightly I could hardly breathe.

Arthur’s hand was clammy. He wasn’t hot or cold. He lacked definition. Arthur was just there; a rock, a foundation tethering my dormant passions to his steadfastness. He didn’t complain, of course, about the heat or our unfavourable vantage point behind an exceedingly tall couple. Arthur didn’t do complaining.

We slouched down and peeled off our winter layers. Arthur kissed the tips of my frozen ears as he snuggled up close. Momentary claustrophobia engulfed me as I frantically loosened my scarf. Arthur, oblivious to the panic, unfolded my seat and ran a cursory hand across the pad. I struggled to catch my breath, closed my eyes tightly and willed my heart to calm.

Gone with the Wind was made for the big screen. When I first met Arthur, we swapped anecdotal tales about our likes and dislikes. I told him Rhett Butler epitomised my ideal partner; mean and moody with a sexual magnetism to melt the coldest heart. Arthur had laughed, pulled me close and assured me he was more than willing to take on the role.

Arthur just sort of happened, his persistence wore me down. He became an incidental companion. Maturity, people told me; I was growing up. Uninvited barbs casually linked the wild visceral passion of youth to immaturity. I’d finally made a wise and safe choice.

My companion had smuggled in a couple of small bottles of dry white wine which he decanted into plastic containers. The salted peanuts were difficult to eat quietly and we giggled as the crackling bags drew audible ‘tuts’ from our neighbours. At the interval the lights went up and Arthur disappeared into the foyer for a top-up.

One glass of wine is never enough; it now dulls the pain of boredom where it had once heightened the ecstasies of passion. In the past it anaesthetised the hurt and fear but now added sheen to a dull humdrum existence. Arthur returned with a Coca-Cola for himself. He always drives on a Saturday night and would never risk more than one glass.

It was only when the lights were dimmed once more and the dark smoky atmosphere re-enveloped us that I let my gaze wander round the crowded cinema. My eyes watered as they worked their way through dust particles dancing in the beam of moving images.

My mood, mellowed by alcohol, and my body had both momentarily stopped battling inner demons. I was at last breathing deeply and a rogue smile settled on my lips, hinting at toxic contentment. Scarlett skittishly fought her lovesick battles while Arthur gripped my hand.

A slow-moving film reel, one frame at a time, was set in motion. The lazy scan stuck as I rewound the last still and held it firm. Surrounded by dark maroon hues of cinema chenille, the image was vague. An indistinct shape of the head; unkempt curly strands of hair unwittingly flicked back every now and then by a stray finger; a certain slump of the shoulders churned up memories from the recesses of my mind.

Arthur kissed me as my body tensed. ‘Quite frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.’ As Arthur pulled me close, he brushed the top of my head with eager lips.

I stared, a hawk transfixed, at the silhouette sitting three rows back from the front of the big screen. I knew then, in one fleeting moment, that my ten-year search was over.

WINTER 1994

2

Rebecca

Looking back, it’s hard to see whether youth afforded me arrogance or stupidity or if the two were inexplicably linked. Love had swallowed me whole and while arrogance had unwittingly snared my prize, stupidity was threatening to derail the wagon.

I banged on the door, and kept banging. I didn’t care that it was after midnight nor that I was freezing to death in my short skirt and stockings. The front step was icy as I skated around in high heels, using the iron railings to steady myself. The knowledge that desire was better fuelled by mystery had not yet been afforded to me by life’s knocks.

‘Let me in. It’s freezing out here.’ My voice screeched through the night air, wine fuelling the ‘devil may care’, making me reckless.

The curtain on the second floor landing was peeled back and I knew that Mr Perkins would be getting more and more irate by my drunken shenanigans. He prised open the sash window, and leant down to yell through the crack.

‘Oops.’ I slipped down the top two steps. ‘Please. Can you open the door? I think Mitch must be asleep. It’s bloody freezing out here.’ As I managed to right myself, my head started to spin. The mix of vodka and wine was playing havoc with my balance.

‘No. Go home. Sleep it off, for Christ’s sake.’ Mr Perkins heaved the window open a bit further and secured it by lodging a couple of books between the frame and windowsill.

‘Come on, Scrooge. It’s nearly Christmas. Just this once, please?’

The full moon lit the night sky, casting voodoo magic all around. My head spun and the frost seeped into my bones. The alcoholic anaesthetic couldn’t stop my knees knocking or the involuntary tremor of my upper body.

‘Shit.’ I noticed a ladder had run the full length of one of my stockings as I rearranged my skirt. By the time Mr Perkins made it to the front door I was upright again, smiling superciliously through frozen lips.

‘Good evening, Mr Perkins. Thanks. You’re a star.’ I leant in to kiss him on the cheek, leaving a smear of plum-coloured lipstick below his left ear as he recoiled. I started to unbutton my coat and push my way towards the warmth of the hallway, but he didn’t budge.

‘This is the last time I’m letting you in. Don’t do this ever again. Phone your boyfriend first or next time I’ll call the police.’ As he turned to go back upstairs, I tried to sound contrite.

‘I promise. Sorry, Mr Perkins.’ But he was gone.

The house was subdivided into a series of studio and one-bedroom flats made more rentable by plywood stud walls. Love doesn’t notice décor. The squalor of Mr Perkins’ cash cow passed right over my head. If Mitch had been sleeping rough in Marble Arch I’d have found something to love about the urine-stained pavements and cardboard covers. Love has a one-track mind.

Outside my boyfriend’s flat, I took out the door key from the bottom of my bulging handbag. First, however, I turned to the cracked mirror hanging on the wall across from the apartment entrance.

The floral green and pink wallpaper was ripped in places and I tugged loose a stray slither of green flowery border and watched it flutter to the floor. Black damp patches gaped through the walls like an invasive disease. But the only appearance that mattered in those days was my own.

The reflection from the rusting mottled glass was of a beautiful woman, but the image could have belonged to someone else; such were my insecurities. I reapplied a thin layer of lipstick and touched up my mascara. Bending over, I shook free my long hair then, right way up, undid the top button of my blouse before I tapped gently on the door.

There was no response. I knew Mitch would be asleep or at least pretending to be and would only grunt as I slipped in beside him. However, in case he was awake I wanted to look my best.

The key stuck. I took it out and tried again. I gripped the stair banister as I momentarily feared I was going to throw up. In my drunken stupor, I thought it must be the wrong key and proceeded to stick another one attached to the same key ring into the opening. Three different keys later, I reinserted the original. The door wouldn’t open. I rapped loudly, with increasing panic and persistence.

‘Mitch? Are you there?’ I whispered at first but soon started to call out more loudly. ‘Yoo hoo. Mitch? It’s only me.’

At the time my doubts were all-consuming and I assumed Mitch had changed the locks to put distance between us. I was too scared to know the reason, so didn’t ask. It was a long time later before I learnt the truth.

Mr Perkins yelled at me to close the front door on my way out and not to come back. Of course there would be an explanation. There always was. I was like a sponge, sopping up white lies and fabricated storylines.

As I staggered away, the moon lit my path, illuminating the weeds which peeked through the cracked paving stones. I jumped backwards when a black cat squealed and dashed in front of me, away from the squalid rubbish bags stacked against the wall.

The iron gate was rusty, leaning heavily on its hinges. It creaked open. Small splinters of rust attached to my frozen fingers, almost blue from frost, and as I wiped away unbidden tears, some of the brown rotten granules scratched a way into my eyes. I found momentary solace from the pain, blinking hard to clear my vision, and forgot for a few seconds my sense of desolation.

3

Arthur

Snow flurries fell like confetti, soft and celebratory. The wet fluff settled around my head, forming soft water droplets on my face. Christmas this year was going to be my time. I hummed ‘Good King Wenceslas’ as I slithered across the pavement. Every few steps I slid through the slush, with carefully controlled but risqué manoeuvres.

Queues of traffic snaked up the Finchley Road and the blast of horns drowned out Christmas cheer with their din. I passed tawdry little premises which were open late, trying to tempt impulse buyers with their wares.

I got there early. I wasn’t going to be late. I’d already waited two long months for the rendezvous. Candles flickered through the restaurant window and a brightly decorated tree twinkled in the corner.

I peered in, half expecting to see her already seated at our table. Perhaps she intended to be fashionably late, keep me waiting before telling me how devastatingly lonely the last two months had been. Two months, one day and fifteen hours. The trial separation had been torture for her.

‘Good evening, Arthur. Come in. Let me take your coat.’ Roberto shook my hand with professional aplomb and not a little familiarity before he draped his arm across my shoulders. A foolish flush of pride seeped through my bones as the maître d’ led the way.

‘Your usual, sir.’

There was an elderly couple at the next table, clinking glasses of red wine, relaxed and at ease with one another. That would be us in a few years’ time, growing old as one; a couple who did everything together. Age would not dim our passion.

There was a small clock over the bar whose hand determinedly clunked forward. It was a sharp defined movement which was mesmerising through the mellowing haze of the Chianti. Eight o’clock came and went and the two glasses for Dutch courage soon became three.

‘Some olives, sir? A little garlic bread perhaps?’

My left eye twitched as the sycophantic waiter hovered.

Twenty minutes past eight and the hand was about to jerk forward one more notch when I saw her. A red woollen hat matched the scarf. The hat sat at a jaunty angle and framed her beautiful face.

Roberto, rather too quickly, threw open the doors and bent to kiss her; on each cheek, side to side. My scarlet lady of the night shook her wispy hair loose and tucked the red beret into her pocket. I got up.

‘Amber,’ was all I said. I knew the word spoke volumes. I’d practised the word, over and over to myself.

‘Hi, Arthur. Good to see you.’ She stood on tiptoe and pecked me on the cheek.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said, smoothing down her black skirt neatly with both hands as she sat down; coquettishly, I thought.

‘You look wonderful,’ I gushed.

Amber picked up the menu and glanced through the Christmas specials.

‘Wine? It’s your favourite,’ I said and leant across and poured her a glass. I wouldn’t accept her reticence at a full glass. After all, this was a celebration.

‘I’m trying to be sensible. Everyone goes mad just because it’s Christmas,’ she said as we chinked glasses. Piped music from ‘Carmen’ provided the backdrop to our unfolding drama.

‘Have you missed me?’ There, I’d asked it.

‘Of course, but I’ve been really busy moving into the flat.’

‘Will I be allowed to come and visit?’

A travelling guitar player, accompanied by a gaudily dressed lady handing out roses, stopped at our table. I hid my irritation and scrabbled around for loose change. Amber took the rose and laid it neatly alongside her bread knife.

‘Yes, of course you can. You don’t need to ask,’ she said.

Did I notice flippancy? It was hard to tell. The mellow mood brought on by the Chianti was morphing into irritation.

‘Do you want me to come round? Perhaps like before, a couple of nights a week at first?’ I asked.

In the kitchen behind us, a pile of plates smashed to the ground and Italian obscenities brought embarrassed smiles from the diners.

‘Arthur, I told you before, I’m not ready to settle down. I’m too young and not ready for a commitment.’

The ring was still in its box, the hard square package accused me of failure as it poked against my trouser pocket.

We finished our meal promptly after that. I hid my misery, played the game and kept up meaningless chit-chat.

I walked her back to the new flat but turned down the offer to have a look around.

‘No. Don’t worry. I can see you’re tired,’ I lied.

If she guessed this was a churlish refusal in light of her rejection, she didn’t show it. She leant across and kissed me on the cheek, no hint of passion. ‘Another time, Arthur.’

She smelt of rose petals, the sort my mother grew in the back garden. I didn’t hug Amber but instead swept away the large snowflakes that had settled on her face. I purposefully held back.

‘I’d love to come round for coffee. As friends.’ I winked, batting back the humiliation.

Once she’d gone inside, I glanced round, furtively, before I pulled a small black woollen hat from my pocket and pushed it over my lanky locks. I then wound a bright tartan scarf round my neck. If she looked out from her upstairs window I wouldn’t be recognised.

I waited fifteen minutes under the small covered porch at the entrance to Amber’s flat before I crept back across the road and scurried down the side passage of number twenty-one. By the time I turned the key in the lock and let myself in, it was eleven o’clock.

In the dark half-light, I picked up my binoculars and peered across the road. Amber had already pulled her curtains shut; like she did every night.

4

Rebecca

Such was my obsession with Mitch that I occasionally allowed masochistic notions to invade my thoughts. Death had become an irrational fear. Not my own death, but that of my lover. A policeman would knock at the door and gently persuade me to take a seat. In subdued tones, he would tell me of a car crash or a robbery gone wrong. A fog would suffocate me while the world came to an end. Death was the only fear greater than being cast aside, no longer the vital lock for another’s key.

I think if my job had been more fulfilling I wouldn’t have spent so much time and energy consumed by my doomed relationship. I caught the tube to the gallery in Knightsbridge every day, and for the thirty-minute journey I melted into the hot sweaty pot of commuters. I used to be eager to reach my destination, excited and intrigued by the world of antiques and fine art, but my working relationship with my boss Roger Pennington’s only other employee had become uncomfortable. Oliver Moreton had once been Mitch’s so-called best friend.

Mitch was always going to be my first choice after Oliver introduced us. If Oliver had hoped to earmark me as his partner by right when he’d invited me along to the rugby club, he had both underestimated his best friend’s loyalty and my inherent attraction to more-silent bastards.

Mitch had stood aloof at the bar when we’d arrived. Oliver, large and proud, had circled my waist with generous fingers and propelled me towards my eventual fate. The two men shook hands and Mitch stared at me, sealing our future with a wink as the evening came to a close. When my escort went to bring the car round, chivalrous in the pelting rain, his best friend kissed me gently on the cheek and whispered goodbye.

‘For now.’

As he walked away, swaying his hips in measured style, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. He turned and mouthed silently, ‘See you soon.’

After Mitch appeared on the scene, Oliver never stood a chance. His muscular rugby-playing physique, with mandatory broken nose and misshapen but mildly endearing cauliflower ears, had enticed me as a willing companion to the rugby club but I never really considered him as more than a friend. Three years down the line, Oliver still seemed to believe a ‘happy ever after’ might be possible.

I peeked through the window, jumping back when I saw Oliver’s gargantuan outline hovering inside near the glass. He was hanging Christmas lighting round the wooden frames and muscled aside as I tentatively pushed open the door.

He beamed when he saw me. ‘Hi. Thought we ought to make an effort, seeing as Roger’s coming in. He’s asked us for lunch by the way.’

‘You’re early. I thought you weren’t coming in till later.’ I peeled off my gloves, stuffed them in my coat and hung it on the wooden stand in the corner.

‘You sound disappointed,’ Oliver said. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me? Here, hand me up the white lights. They’re in the box by the desk.’

He perched precariously on a small wooden stool and wobbled in theatrical delight as he stretched out his left arm and pointed towards the tawdry decorations.

It took an hour to liven up the dimly lit studio. Oliver flirted tirelessly, proffering lively quips and innuendoes about Santa Claus and stocking tops. He less than subtly made sure our hands brushed each time we hung up another string of lights. Recently I’d begun to find something darkly repellent about the thick black hairs on the back of his hands and also those that crept up from his chest like ivy creepers, clinging savagely to his thick neck.

I should have been flattered by the attention but I felt uneasy. Oliver knew I was still with Mitch, or did he? Perhaps Mitch had hinted that something was wrong, that our relationship was cooling off. It crossed my mind that Oliver might have Mitch’s blessing to take the prize.

Roger arrived around midday, donned in a velvet-collared great coat, carrying a weathered Gucci briefcase. His softly greying hair was drizzled with snowflakes. As he took off the layers, he invited Oliver and me into his private office to talk business. This never took long as Roger always seemed satisfied by our efforts.

It wasn’t only the moneyed background that endeared us to our boss but Oliver and I were both from backgrounds that had taught us to respect our elders and we automatically treated Roger with the deference that his forty-two years demanded. However, his recent attempts at using his authority to inveigle inclusion into some of our more riotous social outings left me feeling slightly unnerved.

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