Taylor studied her appearance in the bathroom mirror, unhappy at the mess in front of her. She’d tried to calm down after Arthur had left, had taken great gulps of air into her lungs and exhaled slowly. That had helped a little, but her hands continued to tremble when she raised them in front of her. ‘Damn it!’ she hissed and turned away. She wasn’t going to re-apply any cosmetics in the state she was in: she’d neither the inclination nor the capacity, even if she did feel naked without it.
Waiting for Arthur to return wasn’t easy. Taylor flitted about his house, unable to concentrate on anything. The place was too large somehow, too quiet. She’d found the TV and radio irritating and switched them both off soon after turning them on. She’d sought out the photo of her and Arthur winning the singing contest, the one she’d been carrying all day, and which she’d left on his kitchen bench, and positioned it upon the coffee table in the centre of the room. It represented a moment of calm, a memory of something solid and happy that had happened before the storm of Manny’s release. She lifted the picture again and attempted to focus on it, willing herself back to the moment it was taken. It had been a lovely gesture of Arthur’s to get the photo for her, but the pleasure the image reflected to her was soon lost amid her concern for his safety. ‘Christ, you better come home safe, Arthur Corbie,’ she muttered. Absently, she replaced the photo on the table and wandered to the kitchen to make coffee.
As the kettle warmed, she considered whether she would have been better inviting herself into the Forrests’ when she’d dropped her kids off. She’d deposited them there not long after Arthur had departed, apologising to Iris Forrest for the inconvenience. Leaving them had been such a hard thing to do, and she hoped her decision was the right one. Francesca had already asked her what was going on several times and Taylor was running out of ways to tell her that everything was okay.
Besides, asking Iris for that sort of favour was never going to be a problem. Taylor had babysat Molly enough times to know it wouldn’t be an issue. Nevertheless, Taylor had dreaded making the request. Iris had picked up on Taylor’s dishevelment as soon as she’d set eyes on her, and had pressed for its reasons. For all that Taylor liked the woman, she was unwilling to tell her about her ransacked home, or about the probable culprit. As far as Taylor was concerned, the fewer people who knew what was going on, the better. Instead, she’d excused herself, leaving Francesca and Michelle to play with Molly and her collection of dolls, which made it impossible for Iris to pursue the matter further. Still, Iris’s company would have been welcome. Taylor craved someone to chat with. Arthur was taking a worryingly long time, and Iris’s idle gossip would have distracted her from watching the minutes tick passed.
‘You did the right thing,’ she told herself. ‘The girls weren’t upset with you leaving them playing, so you did the right thing.’ She’d managed to hold it together, more or less, until Arthur had left. Before then, she’d been calm, stoic, almost. She’d got them to Arthur’s and told them to play in his spare room amid all his childhood junk. It was a treat they threw themselves at. Arthur kept so much rubbish from his childhood: old comic books, games, puzzles. The girls loved rummaging through it. ‘Yeah, the right thing…’ She wasn’t convinced. She was aware that her kids knew something bad had happened. After all, they’d been with her when she’d discovered her broken front door and understood at least part of the implications to that. At the time Taylor had made a lame excuse for the debris on the lobby floor and had ordered the two of them to wait in the corridor while she’d gone inside. She was glad she’d made that decision. The chaos would have freaked them out. It had freaked her out.
When Arthur had left to fetch her things, she’d gone to pieces. Their conversation hadn’t helped, she knew, but it was something about the silence of his house more than anything that had made her fold, as if the stillness had swept away her shock and left trauma in its wake. She’d sobbed and sobbed until she was sore with it. Then, suddenly aware of how she’d appear to her daughters should they walk in on her, she’d rushed to the washroom, splashed her face with water, and got them out of the house for a while. With luck, having a friend to play with should distract them enough to forget their mom’s strange behaviour.
Yes, she was really grateful Andy and Iris had taken them in. When things settled, she’d buy the two of them a thank you gift, a token of gratitude. She was lucky to have found friends who were prepared to help her even when it was obvious she was keeping secrets from them.
A flicker of a smile tried its luck across her face but its effort was rewarded only by a wave of anxiety. Her shoulders sagged. Until the letter had arrived informing her of Manny’s impending release, she’d never been happier, or her girls more settled. Naively, she’d assumed it would be years before he’d be back on the streets – his trial judge had described him as a vicious thug who was a danger to society, after all – but clearly other authorities had reconsidered this judgement. The idea that Manny was safe in any society made Taylor snort. Manny was habitually violent and above reform. His livelihood depended on using violence to his advantage. Involuntarily, she rubbed her hip where a blow had once left a particularly nasty bruise.
‘Christ, I can’t go through all that again. I just can’t…’ Her life with him had been so painful she wanted nothing more than to forget it. All those years cowering in his shadow, fearful of his temper, afraid to raise her voice; all that wasted time; all that wasted life. It was the reason why she’d taken her kids and fled the moment he was incarcerated, with only her parents given her forwarding address with strict instruction not to divulge it to anyone.
She shivered as the kettle boiled.
There was a forceful knock at the door and she flinched at its abruptness. The outside buzzer hadn’t been pressed. Someone had let a visitor into the building. But who was outside Arthur’s home? Manny? No… He hadn’t discovered her whereabouts that quickly. That wasn’t possible. Not unless… ‘Shit! He must have seen me leave my house, or he’s done something to Arthur! Oh God, please tell me he ain’t done anything to Arthur…’
Most likely it was her own fault. She’d been reckless. In a state of shock, she hadn’t had the wits to check whether she was being followed. She’d just ushered her kids out the apartment block’s back door and gotten across town fast. Manny must have been waiting outside, knowing she’d go home sometime. He must have been there, savouring the moment he would get even.
Her mouth turned dry.
The visitor struck the door again, making it shudder.
‘Who is it?’ she asked, her voice weak. Again, another knock. ‘Alright. Alright. Hang on…’ Arthur’s door had a security chain attached to it. She hooked it to its counterpart on the doorframe and edged the entrance open a little. To her relief no sudden force barged its way inside, no Manny grabbed for her.
Instead an authoritative voice, with a slight accent, informed her, ‘Ma’am, I’m with the police. Is this the residence of Arthur Corbie?’
Shit! A goddamn cop! she thought. What did he want? Her hand hovered over the door chain while questions jostled in her mind. Was Arthur okay? Had he gone and told the cops about the break-in at her home? Was the officer here because of something Arthur’s women passengers had done? Whatever the reason, the cop was the last person Taylor wanted to speak to. ‘Maybe,’ she replied, cagily. ‘But he ain’t here right now so you might as well come back later, okay?’
‘Ma’am, that will not be convenient.’
Arthur guarded his privacy, and she wasn’t about to let a cop violate it.
When she didn’t reply, the voice spoke again. ‘Ma’am?’
‘Have you a warrant?’ she asked and he snorted a response. ‘You can’t come in here without a warrant.’
‘You will let me in.’
Her hand folded around the chain, began to slip it out of the lock, but she stopped herself. ‘He ain’t in trouble, is he?’
‘Not to my knowledge. However, your behaviour makes me think that maybe he has been up to something. Now, you will let me in. I need to chat about an incident that happened some time ago.’
The chain clanged against the door to swung gently in the air as she dropped it from the lock, and the door widened to reveal a man seemingly intent on the content of the apartment behind her. ‘Thank you. I will not take up much of your time. You have other worries troubling you.’
Taylor nodded in affirmation. ‘Say, who let you into the building?’ she asked, trying to be casual about it.
The man smiled. ‘A lady who lives on the second floor… Barbara, I think she called herself. She was heading out when I arrived. Please?’
Barbara. Taylor cringed, contemplating the inevitability of this news, and hating the woman for the deed. ‘What? Oh yes, come in.’ She stepped aside to allow him to enter.
She regarded the olive-skinned man as he strode passed her. His eyes were so dark they almost had no pupils. His tightly curled hair had grey streaks through its blackness, and his suit was sharp and too extravagant for an ordinary cop’s. He’s doing well for himself, she thought, cynically. Obviously, he’s on the take somewhere, operating a few scams to supplement his police salary. Clothing like that doesn’t come cheap.
The man thanked her as he stopped in the middle of the living room and she gulped, nervous. ‘Are you a plain-clothes guy?’
‘Plain clothes?’ He asked, confused by her question.
She’d avoided any contact with the cops since the court case when Manny was sent down. There’d been plenty of cops before then, though. Sleazy, bent, stinking cops. All of them. ‘Yeah. You know. A cop who doesn’t wear a uniform. Under. Cover.’
‘Ah. Yes. Plain clothes. I see. Yes, I am undercover. In disguise, if you will.’
There was an awkward silence as he appraised the room, shuffling around in a slow circle to observe it in its entirety. There was something about the man that put her on edge, more on edge. ‘Would you care for a seat?’ she asked.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Please, sit down.’ She waved him to a chair next to the coffee table, hoping to put him at ease, reasoning that if she was hospitable the visit would go more easily than it otherwise might. The man obliged, leisurely taking up a space on the chair, but not before he’d completed his survey. Taylor sighed and wished he would hurry up with whatever it was he’d come to do. Still, politeness cost nothing: ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee maybe? I was just making one.’
He adjusted himself on his seat, made himself comfortable, ‘No, coffee won’t be necessary, thank you. Your name, please?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Can I ask who you are?’
‘Ah…’ There was no point in lying, she supposed: ‘I’m Taylor Friedman. Arthur’s partner.’
The officer picked up the photo of the two of them winning their award, pressing it close to his face to examine it as if his eyesight was poor. ‘And you live here with him?’
That made her smile, fleetingly. ‘Sometimes. Not often enough.’
‘Sometimes… So, not all the time?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Sometimes. Just not always.’
‘But you are close to him?
She smiled. ‘Yeah, we’re close. Look, what’s this about?’
‘Oh, nothing that need concern you. Do you happen to know whether he has lived here long?’
She wished she knew where the cop was going with the questions: not knowing was making her nervous. ‘Most of his life, I think. Why?’
He ignored her question. ‘Most of his life you say… Did he stay here with his parents?’
She shook her head. ‘No, with his aunt and uncle. His parents died a long time ago.’
He placed the picture back on the table and picked up one that sat beside it, scrutinising it the same way he had the other. ‘This photo, is it of Arthur?’
‘Yeah, he told me it was taken on holiday somewhere in Europe. I can’t recall where. Germany or somewhere. But please, be careful with it. It’s real precious to him.’
He withdrew the picture from close to his face, casually placing it back where he found it. ‘Careful. Of course. I can see why he would treasure it. Images of one’s parents are sentimental trophies and good for the heart.
‘But, that place is not Germany. It is Hellas.’
‘I’m sorry?’
His gaze was disparaging. Evidently, she should know the word Hellas. ‘That was where the photograph was taken, Miss Friedman. Greece.’ He stood up in a way that suggested he’d found what he was searching for. ‘It is him,’ he half-whispered, ‘I remember.’
‘I’m sorry, but what do you mean? How can you remember that? And how can you say it’s Greece, anyway?’ She lifted the photograph herself, examined it for clues that might give its location away. ‘There’s nothing here that would tell anyone where it was taken.’
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, causing her to freeze in sudden panic as the cop tilted his head sideways as if listening to a distant sound. Next, he crossed to the living room window and separated some slats in the venetian blind to peer onto the street outside. The view angered him. He spun away from the window with a hissed ‘Koráki!’ and marched towards the door.
His behaviour was so odd Taylor began to doubt that he was a cop at all. ‘Hey!’ she called, prepared to challenge him.
He stopped as she hoped he might, but she didn’t get a chance to quiz him. Instead, he offered her a slick smile, his composure returned. ‘That was very useful ma’am, thank you. I shall be in contact again.’ She shook her head as the door closed behind him. She’d never experienced anything so strange in her life. ‘Never trust a cop,’ she said. ‘Cheats and crooks, the lot of them. And madmen now, too. Mostly madmen, today.’ Bewilderment drove fatigue through her. She was so tired thinking didn’t come straight. ‘Coffee,’ she murmured. ‘I need coffee. And Arthur. I need Arthur, too.’
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