Fiona has been kind and helpful. Great with the boys. She is attractive too. Not a knockout, like Leigh, who is one of those rare, lucky women who continue to get more beautiful the older they get. Mark is now a bit shamefaced to admit that when he first met Fiona, he’d noted she was a redhead and wore a sort of perma-angry face but didn’t really give her much more consideration than that. He’d secretly dubbed her “Ferocious Fiona.” She had softened since then. He hadn’t notice exactly when that had happened, but she seemed to have found her style and stride.
Looking at a person sleeping is undoubtedly incredibly intimate, even if that person is just asleep next to you on the train. Mouths gape open, words are muttered under breath, undignified drool slips and glistens on the chin. Sleep is an act of trust. He can’t understand why Fiona never married; she’d make a great wife and mother, although the chance of being a mother is slim for her now, he supposes. Fiona moves in her sleep, twitches, maybe she has sensed him in the room. He doesn’t want her to find him towering over her—it would be weird—so he silently backs away. Yes, she is sweet and caring. He hopes she’ll stay in his life, even though Leigh is out of it now. Especially because of that.
But what he has to do next has nothing to do with Fiona.
He catches the tube. It’s unusually quiet, ghostly. The city is awash with a sinister sense of dread and fear. When he arrives at the apartment, he finds it is not quite as sleek and swish as he was expecting; there is a slight air of neglect and desertion, only just perceptible, better disguised than in less affluent areas but Mark can identify it. There’s no one about; he imagines the residents have all scurried away to their homes in the country or even abroad by now. If London closes and theatres, shops, restaurants are boarded up, its lure is muted. He steps over a pile of rubble and debris on the pavement outside the luxury building. His first thought is to wonder if there have been any lootings or break-ins, but glancing about he can’t see any other sign of a disturbance so assumes the mess is a result of a burst bin bag or careless dumping. The smaller pieces of plasterboard catch on the wind and are lifted, scattered along the street.
Inside the building, Mark finds the concierge clearing out the drawers behind his reception desk. The man looks agitated and although Mark doesn’t ask, he confides, “Been sent home. Got an email from the residents’ committee. They are saying it’s because of the pandemic. Most residents have cleared off and they are saying it’s better for my health. But—” He stops himself, draws in his mouth as though someone has sewn up his lips. He shrugs. It is clear he wants to say more. Maybe confide something, have a bit of a grumble as though they are old friends. Mark isn’t in the mood; he is polar opposite of being in the mood. “The cleaners haven’t come in,” adds the concierge with a sigh. Mark glances at the marble floor and concedes it is perhaps not as shiny as expected, the endless glass walls are a little smeared with hand and nose prints from where people outside have pushed their faces against the glass and peered in. Mark is glad. He wants Daan Janssen to feel the pinch of neglect and desertion. At least that. A pinch. Actually, he wants him to feel the knockout punch. Mark concentrates on his breathing, not allowing it to become shallow and panicked, not allowing it to appear too deep and menacing. He has to seem normal. Calm. Although what the fuck is that anymore? Normal. His normal is insanity.
He isn’t sure if Janssen will agree to see him. But he has to be curious, doesn’t he? The concierge makes a call, announces him; Mark is relieved when he receives a nod and is pointed toward the lifts. “I know where I’m going,” says Mark, gruffly.
The lift doors glide open with a whisper. The air-conditioning is brutal. Mark shivers, which he regrets as he finds himself toe to toe with Daan Janssen, and he doesn’t want to look as though he is quaking in his shoes. To meet Janssen’s eye, Mark needs to look up and he hates that this man is looking down on him. Hates it. He wants to thump him. Feel the force of his first smash into that chiseled jaw that she must have caressed, must have kissed. One swift punch wouldn’t satisfy him. Mark wants to bash away the handsomeness of his face. Ruin him. Punish him. Vent his fury and frustration. His instinct is to drop blow after blow on Janssen’s stomach, chest, head. He wants the man to drop to his knees and even that wouldn’t be enough; he wants him to collapse, crawl into a ball. Then Mark would stand over him and kick the shit out of him. Kick him in the shins, the back, the balls. Blood, spittle, cries to stop, stop would sputter all over the dark wooden floor. The violence creeps through his veins like a pervasive weed. Poisoning him. He clenches his fist. Janssen’s eyes flicker for less than a fraction of a second to the readied hand and then back to Mark’s face. Mark can see the dare in Janssen’s eyes, the desire for a punch to be thrown. Mark breathes out. Slowly. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath.
He has to fight the fury. Keep it under lock and key. He’s not here to beat up Janssen.
Neither man offers a hand to shake. It would be ludicrous. Janssen does offer, “Drink?”
“No.”
“Sure? Water? Coffee? Vodka?” Mark shakes his head. He could do with a water, his throat is dry and swollen, he could do with a stiff drink but he’s not going to accept a thing off this man, considering everything he’s already taken. Janssen shrugs. “Well, I want one.”
Mark follows Janssen through to the kitchen, where Janssen pours himself a vodka and drinks it back, a fast shot. That’s when Mark notices Janssen’s eyes are bloodshot, his skin has a filmy gray sheen to it, symptomatic of a lack of sleep. He’s not a well-looking man. How could he be? It’s only 10:00 a.m. and he’s drinking vodka. Mark doesn’t care if the man drinks himself to death, he just wishes he’d done so five years ago, before he met Leigh.
Disappointingly, inside the apartment there is none of the neglect Mark identified in the communal areas; obviously the cleaners are still letting themselves in. It is so tidy and neat that Mark struggles to find something to rest his eyes on. He needs a photo—although that might break his heart—bookshelves, a print hung on the wall—something to distract. He forces himself to focus and notes that there are these things, not crammed, higgledy-piggledy in every nook and cranny like in their home, but artfully displayed on spacious shelves and walls. Restful, deliberate. He concentrates on a print of a black woman wearing enormous glasses and a green coat. It’s a hip, powerful picture; he is glad of it. He latches on to it and counts the model’s eyelashes.
“So, you want to look around?” asks Janssen. Mark nods. Ashamed that he wants anything at all from Janssen; he doesn’t want to be in his debt, but he craves to look around, see where they lived. How they lived. He can’t pretend otherwise. He needs it. “Go ahead.” Janssen waves his hand that is holding his glass, expansively. A man with nothing to hide.
Mark wants to stride purposefully, show he is not daunted or uncomfortable, but he finds himself mooching, creeping because he is both. He moves from room to room, opening cupboards, looking behind doors. There are a lot of cupboards, Mark assumes it is the only way to keep the place looking so minimalist. Hide everything away. Janssen doesn’t ask him what he’s searching for, nor does he stop him opening cupboards, looking behind doors. It’s a big place. Mark tries to imagine Leigh sitting on the large cream leather corner sofa, no doubt it’s a designer brand that would mean something to people who care about brands. Mark doesn’t; he cares about herbaceous plants and soil drainage. He tries to imagine her in the industrial-looking kitchen, at the sleek dining-room table, perched on one of the bar stools. He can’t. He can only see her tied up in an empty room. That is the only way he sees her now.