CHAPTER 26

  CHARLES

  I tried, I really fucking tried. Because a forest green voice inside my head whispered that my mother’s way out wasn’t the only way. That I should keep taking my tablets, even if they did leave me with a metallic taste in my mouth, ruining what little appetite I had. The voice also suggested I take a break every now and then, even though every time I did, Marcus piled another sheaf of irresistible figures on my desk. And they were irresistible, they were like fucking crack cocaine, because when the bold black numbers aligned on my flat white screen? When the columns and rows added up to a neat strip of noughts, and the clients printed their names on the dotted line underneath? When the train flashed past at the speed of light? Then, like a night sky backlit with a trillion tiny stars, my head exploded with the most fucking awesome navy blue ever. Whoo-whooo!

  To the exclusion of green, silver, buttery fucking yellow and everything other wishy-washy shade trying to tell me I didn’t know what was good for me.

  My three a.m. demons torpedoed my dreams every single fucking night now. They’d found voices too. Not navy voices, nor green ones. But steely dark growls, slithering like serpents around my mind, reminding me with their silky hisses that my mother was at peace. That her clever mind was rid of ugly purple monsters forever. Urging me to take the pills, to swallow them all, so I could drift in a lush green haze until the end of time, navy too if I liked. Disappear to a world where sleep didn’t matter, where people, sums, Marcus, and work didn’t matter.

  In those shadowy hours, when my heart pumped feebly and my lungs choked, my timid green whispered I should talk to Florian. Made my sweaty fingers hover over my phone, urging me to listen to his voice and let his silver wrap around me, soothing me from the horrors. But nobody phoned friends in the middle of the night; he’d think someone had died or something. The time I’d done it by accident, he’d asked me all those questions I hadn’t wanted to answer; he’d sliced through my tissue-thin veneer of sanity like a knife through butter.

  And I could never let him see me broken like this. Could I? Best he remembered me as I was, with a brush in my hand, or in his arms and stealing kisses in a sunny garden. With hearts and flowers on my cheeks and sex-drunk eyes chock full of love.

  My God, I was tired. So fucking tired. But if I stayed awake, the nightmares couldn’t hurt me, right? If I forced my eyes open, then the greys couldn’t reach me, tempting me with their poisoned fruit. If I focused on the black numbers and kept the floor spotless, then the greys would stay hidden behind the skirting board or under the bed.

  Soon enough, shrouded in ugly charcoal, the greys came anyhow. Scuttling from under the bed, shuttling across the floor. Reminding me I had a choice. It had worked for my mother. Why not me? Who are you kidding Charles? they whispered. We’re home, we’re not going away. Orange moved in, too. Signed a long-term tenancy. Navy milled in and out, feigning disinterest. Charcoal drenched everything.

  I almost missed Florian’s message. He’d stopped texting, which was probably for the best because then I didn’t have to lie about the project after this one, and then the project after that. But maybe when that one was done, I’d squeeze in a trip to see him if I made it out alive. I could surprise him at L’Escale. He’d glance up and find me, hovering in the doorway, and smile his slow, knowing smile. And I’d feel awkward, and out-of-place, like I always did amongst his handsome, cool friends, but it wouldn’t matter because Florian would saunter over to me in that sexy way he had, with silver flames erupting from his hair and streaming down his shoulders. Like the best fucking dream I ever had.

  Disapproving of my thoughts meandering down this path, orange rippled in anger. Moody navy pretended not to care either way, as long as the sums got finished. Grey however, detested it.

  I flinched at a beeping sound. An excuse to turn on the light and reach for my phone, occupy my hands and my mind from grabbing too many pills.

  We did it Charles! Florian wrote. His words leapt from the screen in bold black and white. Singing out to me, even though they lacked the rhythm of my numbers. And they sang with Florian’s voice. We did it, mon chéri! The count was close – we beat them by only three votes! I couldn’t have won without you. Can you believe it? Credibility, logic, and emotion! It worked! We were a great team, non?

  For a sliver of a second, a bright star of dazzling silver burst behind my eyes, shimmering amongst the navy, orange, and grey. Tugging my forest green along by the hand. Clutching the phone, I read the message over and over, until my salty tears blurred the screen. My wonderful little French revolutionary. My perfectly, perfect Florian.

  We were a great team, non? Once more, deep in the burbling soup of my brain, a glimmer of goodness sparked silver. That goodness had a name, a pretty name to match his pretty face. I texted back.

  Well done, Florian! (God, I wish you were here with me.)

  Hey, Charles, you know it wasn’t just me. We did it together.

  You must be thrilled, I hope you’re having a fantastic celebration. (Be happy, my love, you deserve all the happiness.)

  Putain, yes. It will be one hell of a party in L’Escale tonight!

  I’ll raise a glass to you. (Several. To wash down all the pills.)

  Phone later, yeah? XX

  I miss you too. (Sorry, my love.)

  We were a great team. We were a great team. We were a great team.

  Somehow, I would never know how, those words stopped me swallowing the pills.

  The therapist from the last time; I’d forgotten her name. A short grey woman, with a peculiar otherness about her, squinty myopic eyes always focusing over my left shoulder, as if she could see shadowy creatures that weren’t real, too. Or, if I suddenly shouted ‘boo!’, she’d be joining me on this side of the desk. Nonetheless, do one small thing that calms you, she would advise in her urgent breathy manner, as if my imaginary shadows might overhear. When the mist descends, Charles, when the panic takes root. Make a cup of tea. Take a shower. Phone a friend.

  The cup of tea only worsened the shaking. The caffeine buzz set my mind in motion so that the shower became an orgy of scrubbing until my skin screamed and my pores bled. I soaped the tiled walls until they were too slippery for bugs to stick; after that, I jammed the plughole with the rest of the bar of soap so the buggers couldn’t climb up it. Just in case, I huddled half-naked against the bath, poised to catch them if they tried. Then after that, reaching the end of her sage advice, I phoned a friend.

  CHAPTER 27

  FLORIAN

  “Nico, I’m flying to England. Tonight.”

  “What the hell? I thought we were going out to celebrate? I could have sworn the newly crowned head of the biggest independent salt cooperative in France promised to buy his best friends a drink or five!”

  “I can’t. You need to stay at my house until I get back. To look after Papi.”

  My tone’s urgency and undercurrent of fear cut off Nico’s droll reply, replaced by a heavy drawn-out sigh.

  “It’s to do with him, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it’s to do with him. And I know what you said. I heard you. I listened and took note, but this is important. He’s sick, Nico.”

  I played Charles’s rambling voicemail message to him down the phone. Whimpering sounds for the most part—I couldn’t work out who the fuck it was at first, especially with the background noise of seventy-plus members of the cooperative thinking they all had the most important piece of advice to impart to their new, democratically elected Chair. When he’d calmed down enough to form real words, they were an incoherent mess of black shadows and insects, trains and galloping sharp navy and fuck knew what else. But all of it dark. So dreadfully, heartbreakingly dark. I didn’t hang around to decipher it; by then I was out the door and running home.

  After four minutes, the voicemail cut out; I couldn’t bear to listen a second time with Nico. Once had been enough to scar me for life, imagining Charles crouched on the bathroom floor, or huddled under the covers of that big, lonely bed, shaking with fear, fighting imaginary demons crowding his apartment. When in reality, his worst enemy was living in the fucked-up space between his two ears. Nico gave another deep sigh down the phone line, but this time when he spoke, his tone was gentle.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me to come with you?”

  God, how much I’d have liked to say yes. Even if he had no more of an idea what to do than me, Nico would be calm. His legs wouldn’t be trembling, nor would his heart be pounding out of his chest with fear.

  “No, I need you to look after Papi. One less thing for me to worry about.”

  “Are you sure you should go? Hasn’t Charles got anyone whose number you can call, someone nearby who can pop over and check him out?”

  I’d already thought of that. I had the name of his business; I had the company’s phone number. Whoever answered could put me through to Marcus, assuming they understood my shit English. Or I might get to London to find Marcus already had everything in hand, a recipient of a similar phone call himself. But there were too many mights and ifs and maybes in that scenario, whilst a very sick man who still owned my heart was cowering in his bathroom letting a living nightmare wrap itself around his soul. And in the middle of that nightmare, he’d reached out to me. Oh fucking merde, how could I not respond to that?

  After abandoning Nico’s beaten-up Citroën in airport parking as though it had been joyridden and dumped, I managed to catch the evening flight from Bordeaux into London. The mass of people and the tedium of the seatbelts, safety warnings, and queues at passport control reminded me why I lived on a sparsely populated island and how much I wished I could take Charles back there with me, smother him in my arms and never let go. But he was very sick, and the cure wasn’t my warm body or walks on the beach or painting flowers on faces or tumbling into bed, but medicines and doctors and therapists and perhaps grief counselling and whatever the fuck happened when paranoid delusions invaded and conquered a fragile brain.

  A taxi into the middle of London was an expense I could ill afford, but the spaghetti map of train, bus, and Tube lines defeated me. Measured against Charles’s safety, I’d have paid five times as much. Central London at night was a smorgasbord of flashing lights, screeching horns, wailing sirens, and chaotic traffic systems. Foolishly, I’d dreamed that one day Charles would be my guide navigating it. Hand-in-hand, we’d have roamed the streets and cafés; he’d have indulged my whim to ride the top deck of one of the bright red double-decker buses and taken me to Buckingham Palace for the changing of the guard. Instead, a tired cabbie dropped me off outside a smart, white column of apartments set back from a bustling city square. Charles occupied the penthouse; I knew that much.

  I charged up the stone steps and hammered the buzzer. Then buzzed again and again, pressing even harder and for longer. No answer. I hadn’t expected one. Squinting up, I saw the top floor was cloaked in darkness. Perhaps Marcus had already rescued him—perhaps Charles was no longer alone at all, but in a secure place and being given the treatment he needed. Pulling out my phone, I thumbed his number. And thank God, on the fifth ring, he answered.

  “Mon chèri, c’est moi. It’s me. Pressing on the buzzer. Are you going to let me in?”

  “You shouldn’t come in, Florian! They’ll get you too! They’re everywhere!”

  Oh fucking merde. He gabbled at three times normal rate, words tumbling over each other, that brilliant brain working in overdrive. Where had his paranoid mind taken him? Fucking merde, I needed to see him.

  “Try and stay calm, Charles. Let me in.”

  “I can’t! You’re not listening! They’ll get you too! They’re everywhere!”

  My poor, poor man. I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. “Not all your thoughts are true, Charles. You have to trust me on that.”

  Putain, what the fuck was the right thing to say? “Can I come up and give you a hug? I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Sshh, they’ll hear you,” he hissed. “They can’t get into the bathroom though. Not yet. It’s too slippery and I’ve locked the door.”

  Mon dieu, he sounded utterly petrified. “That’s good, mon chèri, so good. So you are safe, yes?”

  “Yes. Until they work out how to get under the door.”

  His teeth chattered, sounding eerie as hell down a phone line, a sort of droning in between his shaky words. I heard shuffling noises and then a pained whimper.

  “Listen. Charles,” I said urgently. “If you let me in, I’ll come and hide with you. Then I’ll be safe too. We can fight them together. Just the two of us. Please?”

  “We were a good team, weren’t we, Florian?”

  Two women walked past, their heels clicking on the pavement. One of them turned around to stare at the distraught scruffy French guy pleading with a metal buzzer. Probably imagining a lover’s tiff. If only.

  “Putain, yes. The best team mon chéri. And we can be again. You must be very scared, Charles. I can’t imagine how scared. Please let me in to help.”

  Some more shuffling around followed a long pause. Another whimpering sound and then quiet. For a horrible moment, I thought he’d hung up. And then he spoke, in a fearful whisper.

  “How can I trust it’s you, Florian? You could be one of them. How do I know you’re not tricking me?”

  Oh, fucking merde. My poor, beautiful summer lover. I banged my fist on the wall with frustration, my eyes flooded with tears. “It’s me, mon chéri, I promise you. We’re silver and green, remember? Can you remember that? The shadows—the creatures—they don’t know our colours. It was our special secret.”

  “I’ve never told anyone your colour.”

  Mon dieu, so childlike. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. A man passed by, head down, and hurrying. I wound my fingers through my hair, wondering whether I should call the police or ask a passer-by for help.

  “Why don’t you text me the code for the door? Instead of saying it? And then they won’t hear.”

  “Sshh! You must talk quietly. I’m worried they’re going to get you, too.”

  “Then can I come and hide in the bathroom with you? So I can be safe too? We can be a team again? Please Charles? I’d really like that.” Please say yes, please say yes.

  Pause. “I’d like that too.”

  Oh putain. My heart clenched. “So can you text the code? Please, chéri? Just for me?”

  Why were lifts never waiting at the level you wanted them to be? Why did smacking the button again and again never speed them up? And why did the doors take fucking forever to close?

  Thank God, he sent me both codes, one to the outside security door and the other to his penthouse. Not that getting inside his home was straightforward, because a towel was wedged up against the other side of the heavy apartment door, sealing the crack underneath. And the handle covered in slippery soap. And then, once I’d located the light switch, I found the rest of the obstacle course to negotiate.

  The penthouse opened straight into a vast sitting room, with floor-to-ceiling windows at one end leading out to a balcony, showcasing spectacular views over the London skyline. Not that I gave a shit. The smell hit me first—mon dieu—as if he’d hurled a few litres of neat bleach across the floor. I bunched my coat up over my nose, my eyes already stinging.

  If it hadn’t been full of so much crap, the place would have been a sophisticated bachelor’s wet dream At some point over the last few days, Charles’s crazy warped mind had told him to build a barrier, I guessed, or a fort in which to crawl and hide. Either that or he’d been burgled. A sofa had been tilted on its side and a coffee table leaned up against it, then sheets and cushions piled up over both. Books and papers covered every available surface. Coffee cups, spilled or growing mould, were scattered across the polished wood floor. Pills in different shapes, sizes, and colours thrown like marbles around the room, abandoned empty blister packs carelessly discarded.

  And the paintings. Mon dieu, the paintings. Graffitied straight onto the white walls. I couldn’t bear look at those.

  The rooms beyond lay in darkness. I recognised the master bedroom from the photos he’d sent, although only just, given the state of it. Two doors led off—the first stood ajar, revealing a dressing room, the second shut tight. I crept up to it, and gave a gentle tap.

  “Charles, c’est moi. Florian. Your silver.”

  A beat went by. Nothing.

  “Let me in, mon trésor. Please.”

  Another beat. And then another. My heart stopped.

  And then I heard the dull click of a lock drawing back. I was in.

  My suave summer lover had vanished. Or rather, he was unrecognisable. Unkempt and gaunt, God knew how long it had been since he’d showered. Ten kilos thinner too; when had he last bothered to eat? Snot caked his nose, the skin around it dry and flaky. As soon as he opened up, he dragged me in before dropping into a crouch on the floor. He wedged a towel up against the door before shrinking into the farthest corner, hugging his knees to his chest.

  But hey, he was still alive. So there was that.

  I squatted next to him, almost scared to touch in case he suddenly lashed out, like a cornered wild animal. “Hey, my sweet,” I crooned. “It’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

  “Missed you too,” he whispered back. His voice trembled. “I haven’t been doing so good, Florian, I’m afraid. Sorry. I’ve… I seem to have lost myself.”

  “That’s okay. Because I’ve found you.”

  His fingers picked shakily at a thread on the seam of his trousers. Untrusting slate grey eyes flicked up at me before dropping back to his task. “Lost myself somewhere bad, I think. Can’t get back.”

  Carefully, cautiously, I placed my hand on his bony shoulder. “You’re still in there, Charles. I can still see the real you.” Fractured, shattered, but still there. “And we’ll find a way back together. I promise.”