The Inside Out Man Page 17

“I have lied,” I say. His expression seems to soften, and I explain, “But I’m not a liar.”

  “Me, I’m a giver,” he asserts. “My family, we like big dishes on big tables. Mess us around, steal from us even once, and you don’t get another seat with us. Ever. You understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What about having a place to stay?”

  “I’m getting kicked out of the flat soon.”

  “And so you need a job.”

  “I do.”

  “To survive.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “And?”

  “What else?”

  I sort my thoughts. “What else what?”

  “Well, you’re clearly talented. And you’re not the ugliest bastard in the world. Or the dumbest. This can’t be it, surely? What else do you want out of life?”

  I’ve never been asked this. I jut out my bottom lip and just shake my head.

  “Nothing?” he says. “No big dreams? No picture of where you want to be in five, ten years? Anything like that?”

  “No. Nothing that comes to mind.”

  “Okay,” says the man, his backside against a table. “Let’s try this. What don’t you want?”

  “I don’t want to need anyone,” I blurt.

  “Really?” He smiles. “But at some point you’re likely to. I mean, you need someone right now, don’t you? You need this job. A bit of cash. That’s a need, isn’t it?”

  I don’t have an answer. I wish I could give him one, but I have nothing. I look to the piano as if it’s about to help me out, riff a response or two, but it’s just a box of strings waiting to be played.

  “I tell you what,” the man says. “I’m looking for waiters and a barman, but something tells me that schlepping around pints would be a misappropriation of your talents. So let me get to the point.” He straightens, leans towards me and slowly says, “I like the way you play.” After a brief pause, he continues, “I’ve got a bit of a farewell party planned this coming weekend, right here, a get-together with a few close friends, and I’d very much like you to stick around and play for them. Friday to Sunday.”

  “The whole weekend?”

  “That’s right. You know more than one song, right?”

  “I guess,” I mutter. “I, well, I improvise.”

  “Really?” He’s clearly impressed. “So you just … make it up as you go along?”

  I nod.

  “And how long can you keep that going?”

  “I dunno,” I say. “Indefinitely?”

  “All right. Let’s see what you’ve got. I’ll pay you per hour. Do a decent job and we’ll talk about keeping you on. Maybe we get you Mondays and Tuesdays. My quiet nights. Better a gig than pouring drinks and changing ashtrays, yes?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “One thing, though,” he says, assessing my outfit: a baggy brown hoodie and khaki cargoes. Scuffed trainers. Grubby laces. “You’ll need a suit. Black. Not navy, not grey, and definitely not beige. Make sure it’s black. And a white shirt. No tie, though. We like it casual-ish. Think you can handle that?”

  I still have the get-up from my mother’s burial. The black jacket and black pants. Black school shoes that need a good polish. I’m not sure about the shirt. I’ll have to check.

  “I can do that,” I say.

  “Of course you can.”

  The big man walks up to me. I take a step or two back as he runs a hand over the piano top. Then he checks his index finger (dust comprises ninety per cent dead skin, I’ve read), and rubs it away with his thumb. He turns to look at me, stares into my eyes.

  “That was a helluva good tune, you know. Been a long time since I heard this old thing played like that. I used to play a bit myself, but nothing as good as you. I have big hands, like Rachmaninov. Thought that might help, but it didn’t. Long fingers aren’t enough, apparently.” He sits down on the piano stool, pokes a couple of the high notes. The sounds have legs in this big empty room, and heels that kick off the walls. “Be honest, though … I’ll pay you anyway … it wasn’t really you, was it?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The man smiles, laying the strip of felt neatly over the keys before closing the lid. “Just saying, chief. The way you played, it sounded a lot more like the devil.”

  55.

  It was the knocks at the door that got me up.

  In that space between sleep and wakefulness, however, they weren’t knocks at all. They were boulders bouncing down a mountain slope—three, four, five of them—about to wipe out everything. Flatten houses. And people. And parks and schools and coffee shops. Colossal rocks that kept coming, crashing across the earth, demolishing every last thing in their way. Without motive. Without awareness.

  When I did eventually open my eyes, the reality of the sound set in: someone beating on a wooden door. My first thought was Leonard—having a final desperate crack at being rescued, perhaps. But no, that’d be impossible. It couldn’t be coming from his room. He hadn’t made a sound in days.

  Leonard was good and well dead.

  As a doorknob, they like to say.

  And the last few noises hadn’t been anything near as emphatic as a fist against wood. Just wheezing and scratching and a long, high-pitched whining, and coughing, and scratching, and mumbling and whimpering, until finally, for the sake of the world over, indifferent to any of it and worn of all patience, the sounds subsided into silence.

  I hadn’t left the estate in weeks—in fact, I’d barely left the house, mainly to stop a recurrence of my peculiar mental episodes brought on by absences from the house, as if the house itself was refusing to let me leave. They’d been getting stronger. More insistent. Overwhelming, in fact. So it was best to stay put. Shut the windows. Draw the blinds. Lock the doors. Wait it out for a while. And the days and nights that followed the realisation that Leonard had died became one long slithering snake of time. Hisses of dark and light. Uncharmable.

  Until the morning of the knocking.

  It could only be the groundsman. I tried to ignore the knocking—he could go solve his problem somewhere else—but it went on and on and on, just like the thudding boulders.

  I sat up, stepped over my scattered clothing, grabbed a robe hanging over the back of a chair and went downstairs. Everything was in near-darkness, even though the sun was out. For weeks now, night and day, the doors and windows had been locked and the curtains drawn to prevent the gazer in the yard from looking in.

  I stood in front of the door. Unlocked, unlatched, and opened up.

  The sunlight assaulted me.

  So you do exist, said a man’s voice, followed by a hatted figure carrying a large bag in his right hand. My vision adjusted, and details came in like the morning news. Early twenties, I guessed. Younger, perhaps. Just a weekly shave needed to stay baby-belly smooth. It was his dark eyes, however, that seemed to betray him: knowing.

  Who are you? I asked.

  He took off his hat and held it to his chest.

  My name is Howard, he said with a smirk. Howard Fry.

  He waited for me to respond. I didn’t. I gave him a once-over. The bulky leather travel bag. The long black coat and the narrow-brimmed fedora. Was this him? The person outside the window, watching from afar, vanishing behind walls? The face hidden by the shadows of trees and hard falling rain?

  How did you get in? I asked.

  Tipping his head, he put his hat back on. It looked idiotic on him, that hat, beyond anachronistic, as if he’d arrived through some kind of portal linked to the first part of the last century.

  The groundsman, he said. He was on his way out.

  He just let you in?

  No reason why he shouldn’t. It is my house, after all … well, my father’s house. But what’s a generation or two between proprietors?

  Your father? I struggled to control my voice.

  Yes. Your employer.

  I’d done such a fine job of wiping Leonard from realit
y that the guy came across as a lunatic claiming to be the relative of some fictitious character. Dracula’s nephew. Bastard son of Scrooge McDuck.

  You’re Leonard’s son?

  That’s me.

  And you’ve just arrived?

  That’s right.

  Right now?

  Right now.

  Through the front gate?

  He didn’t answer. The interrogation, he’d decided, was over. He locked his eyes on mine, gave one slow blink. His leer slithered across his cheeks.

  I can see, he said, that this won’t be smooth. But it will at least be interesting.

  What will?

  You. Me. The house. He tilted his chin and gazed around. It’s a scorcher out here, isn’t it? How about we take this all inside?

  I glanced behind me, into the darkness. Actually, now’s not a good time—

  What’s your name?

  Excuse me?

  He waited, refusing to ask again.

  I submitted, simply said, Bent.

  Well, Bent. I’m afraid this’ll have to be it—as good a time as any. Didn’t my father tell you?

  Tell me what?

  Man, it was months ago that he called. Said I should fly in and come stay here. Just till he gets back. He told me someone would be waiting—I’m assuming this person is you? I’m not speaking to an intruder, some kind of vagrant, am I? It is you, isn’t it?

  Me what?

  He gave a laugh. Too loud and deliberate, as if he’d gone for laughter lessons at some late stage of his life. Academic instruction after a childhood of having never quite figured it out.

  You. The house-sitter, he sniggered.

  Listen. He said nothing to me about anyone coming round. I’m not sure about this. He’d have told me.

  Yes, well. Though clearly impatient, Howard held on to his smile as if it were the last one left. Here’s what we’re going to do. You’ll step away from the door. I’ll come inside. And then we’ll pour ourselves a couple of nice cold drinks. And while you tell me a bit about yourself, I’ll smile and nod and do my best to pretend you haven’t just kept me waiting on the porch of my own house after a two-hour drive and a twelve-hour flight from Prague. And we’ll use that as the new starting point. Because, frankly—Bent, is it?—right now it looks like that’s as good as it’s likely to get for us. A chilly pause. For you.

  His words hit me from nowhere, as if I’d just slammed into a glass door. There was nothing I could say to counter him, or his artful threat. After a good half-minute, I slid over to the side. With a gracious nod, he stepped past me with his bag.

  Doesn’t seem you were chosen for your housekeeping skills, he said, looking around. It’s so dark. You aren’t a vampire, are you?

  What, I began, closing the door, what can I do for you?

  How about that drink, for starters? Lime and soda, with a twist of lemon. Or real lime—I’ll make allowances.

  There aren’t any lemons.

  Pint of blood, then? He cackled. Virgin. An uncomfortable silence as he amused his audience-of-one. Don’t bother, Bent. Tap water’s fine.

  He flicked a switch and the chandelier shimmered to life. I walked from the hallway to the kitchen, where I grabbed a highball glass and turned on the tap, waiting for the water to run cold. His story had to be a lie. It was him in the rain. He was the guy under the tree by the pool. I was sure of this. Anyway, Prague story or not, he couldn’t stay. I had to get him out. I filled the glass, downed it, then refilled and returned to the hallway, spilling along the way.

  I handed him the glass, he emptied it and said, Thank you kindly.

  Adjusting my robe, I began, Look, I still don’t know what you’re doing here—

  He held up and hand and said, Here’s an idea, Bent. You let me find my room so I can freshen up, then maybe I’ll grab something to eat. And then, after all that, you and I can have one another’s full attention. How’s that for you?

  It would be no good arguing with him. He was getting his way at each and every turn. I had one main objective, though: to prevent him going upstairs.

  That’s fine, I said. But just so you know, the upstairs rooms haven’t been done in a while. Downstairs is fine, though.

  He looked at me with a smile of false appreciation.

  Well then, he said. Thanks for letting me know.

  I could tell he wasn’t really buying it, but he played along anyway—and right then, that’s all that mattered. He grabbed his bag and ambled along the corridor, opening each of the guest rooms, deciding which would suit him best.

  Hours later, Howard still hadn’t come out of his room. I’d stayed close by, occupying an armchair in the corner of the library that gave me a view of the corridor. I did a bit of reading, but, if questioned, I’d be unable to recall a single word of what I’d read. Mostly, I was doing my best to figure out my new situation with what little info I had.

  For one, I remembered Leonard’s mention of my unwanted guest. This was after Jolene had come and gone, just short of a million mornings ago. Mr. Phase Two: someone who’d pull all the pieces together, he’d said—or words to that effect. But what did that mean? And why hadn’t he mentioned this before? If Howard had been sent to keep an eye on me, then why’d he trusted me in the first place?

  But there was a bigger problem.

  I had a body upstairs. Locked inside a room. Cooking in the heat—one full day of it after another. I’d been putting off the removal, to the point where I was now faced with a new dilemma: sit it out as the reek of rot worked its way down, or go up and dispose of the body right under Howard’s nose.

  I stood up, walked along the corridor until I reached Howard’s door. It was closed. I put my ear to it, but heard nothing. Then I made my way to the kitchen, where I put the kettle on for a cup of coffee. I hooked a finger into the wooden blinds and spied on the day. From what I could tell, there was nothing out there spying. Not any more.

  All eyes were now indoors.

  56.

  Howard remained in his room for the rest of the day, and all through the night. I considered carting the body into the backyard in the dark, but was convinced Howard would wake up as I hauled the corpse down the stairs. I would never have guessed he’d be in there so long, not having had a thing to eat or a shit to take; he was in his room most of the next day, too.

  I was about to think he’d hanged himself in the closet, when, thirty hours on, he suddenly emerged, like a bear from its winter cave. He was wearing a grey shirt, a waistcoat and a tie. His eyes were bright, his face rested. His grin was fresh, too—washed, rinsed, and hung to dry in the sun of his new disposition.

  I must have needed that, he said breezily as he came into the kitchen.

  He made himself a cup of tea, spent a minute or two dunking the bag, then held a teaspoon under it as he carried it to the bin. Flipping the lid with a press of the foot pedal, he dropped it in. All the while, I watched him from my stool at the counter, sipping at my coffee. He smiled as he brought over his tea cup, pulled up a stool, and sat down opposite me. His movements were so slight and economical, it was as if he had a finite number for the day.

  You were here first, he said between sips. You’ve settled yourself in, probably had plans for … a bit of solitude? Well, I can respect that. Still, I’m sure it’d be helpful to ask a few questions?

  At first I thought this was rhetorical, but he waited for an answer—his body frozen, his stare locked on me. I mumbled something in agreement, and that was enough for him as he immediately loosened up with a smile.

  Now, I won’t agree to answer all of them, but would you like to begin anyway?

  Begin? My mind was racing in all directions, mainly along the corridor.

  With a question.

  My mug was halfway to my lips, but I stopped, held it there a moment, then put it back on the counter.

  Right. I took the plunge. Bit the bullet. So, your father asked you to come here?

  I’ve already answered that one.


  When?

  When what?

  When did he ask you?

  He looked up at the ceiling—a deliberate pose, I thought. And then he said: Mid-Feb.

  This year?

  Correct.

  That was a good three months before our agreement.

  And it wasn’t you? I narrowed my eyes.

  Wasn’t me what?

  That guy in the garden. He stared at me, and I elaborated. A couple of months ago. I looked out the window, it was a rainy day … and then again, that day at the pool …

  I stopped, hoping he’d fill in, but his expression was blank. Howard seemed to have no idea what I was talking about. Genuine or not, I couldn’t say.

  After taking a sip of my coffee, I waited a second or two. Then I switched subjects. I’ve heard Prague’s a beautiful place.

  It is. One of the few European cities not to be bombed in the war, he said. It’s the architecture—intact, unchanged for centuries. And it’s obvious. No matter how well you restore a thing, no matter how close it is to the original, something inevitably gets lost. Even if it’s some kind of missing aura.

  I mulled over this a while, rotating my coffee cup on the counter. And then I said, What were you doing there?

  Last leg of a pretty exhausting tour, he said.

  A tour?

  I’m a pianist.

  For some reason, instead of creating a sense of camaraderie, this disclosure only widened the gulf between us, as if he’d somehow stolen my vocation from me.

  Jeez, let me think now. He elaborated, First, there was Munich, then Berlin. London, Freiburg—and Prague. Five, six gigs in each. In Prague alone there was the Clementinum. And the Rudolfinum … with the Czech Philharmonic. The National Theatre. St. George’s Basilica. Anyway, you get the point. Like I said, exhausting.

  Was he just being frank, or was he boasting? If the latter, it wasn’t tacky or forgivably overt, like the harmless attention-seeking of a child. It was somehow craftier. Underhanded. Foundational.

  I asked him what he played, and he replied, Mostly my own compositions, but of course you need your Schubert. Your Brahms. Your—he mimed a conductor, waving his fingers like a baton—Beethoven. And, of course, you can’t play Prague without at least a bit of Mozart … not that I’ve ever been the biggest of fans.