I Know Who You Are(78)
I take exactly the same route I always have—running past the pub on the corner, past the fish-and-chips shop and through the graveyard, until I reach Portobello Road. Along the way I pick up a thought or two about what happens next, and carry them with me for a while. I decide that I don’t like them much, so put them back down and run on, without looking back, hoping they’ll stay where I left them. As I reach the start of a long line of antique shops, I slow down a little, allowing myself the pleasure of longingly staring at the window displays. Ben always knew that I preferred older furniture to modern pieces with no personality, but he didn’t listen to me, and I let myself be silenced. There were times I would have done almost anything to keep him happy, and try to convince him that we should have a child together, but I’ll never let anyone control and manipulate me like that again.
I come to a halt, my brain taking a little while to process what my eyes think they have just seen. I turn back, retracing my last few steps, to peer inside the shop window I just passed. I’m no longer in any doubt about what I am looking at.
It’s Ben. Or at least a photo of him as a child.
The black-and-white image I always hated.
The only picture of him I could find after he disappeared.
It doesn’t make any sense. What is it doing here? I haven’t touched any of his belongings yet, haven’t removed a thing from the house we shared, masquerading as husband and wife. The thought stings a little, and I feel the need to defend us from it. I’m sure ours wasn’t the only marriage that unraveled into separate lives, lived together out of habit or convenience. We each spin our own intricate web of lies, then get stuck and tangled inside them, unable to find a way out.
I bang on the shop door, but nobody answers.
It starts to rain, fast, fat drops falling from the sky without warning, soaking my clothes and skin, filling the network of veins on the paved street with dirty-looking water. I stare back at the picture, my vision a little blurred, but still sure of what I see.
I carry on down the road, retreating, as though a black-and-white photo of a child might come to life, smash through the glass of the shop window, and hurt me. I don’t get far. The window of the next antique shop contains a different frame, but it’s the same face staring out at me. I start to shiver. I walk to the next shop, and he is there again, malevolent eyes glaring in my direction.
I look up and down the street, suddenly in fear of being watched. But there is nobody there. All I see is an empty pink-and-white-striped paper bag—the kind I used to get sweets in when I was a little girl—blowing along the pavement in the wind. I can see lights on inside the final shop, but when I try the handle, the door is locked. I bang on the glass, and eventually an elderly man comes to open it.
“I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a question about a picture in your window.” I realize how crazy I must sound and feel a little surprised when he beckons me inside, my rain-soaked clothes dripping on the tiled floor.
The shop is overly warm and smells of toast and age. The man in front of me is at least eighty, perhaps older. His back is a little hunched and his clothes are too big for him, as though the years have caused him to shrink. It looks as if his smart tartan trousers might fall down altogether, without the help of the red braces holding them up, and the bow tie beneath his chin looks expertly hand-tied. His hair is white, but thick, and his eyes are smiling even though his mouth is not, as though glad of any form of company.
“You’ll have to speak up, dear.”
I walk to the window display and reach for the frame, careful not to knock anything over. “This picture, I wonder if you could tell me where you got it?”
He scratches his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.” He looks almost as troubled by the sight of it as I feel.
“Is there someone else who might know?” I ask, trying not to sound impatient.
“No, it’s just me now. I had a delivery from a supplier yesterday. She helped me bring the bits I wanted in from the van. I don’t remember the frame, but it can only have come from her.”
“Who is she? Who did you buy it from?”
“It’s not stolen.” He takes a small step back.
“I didn’t say that it was. I just need to know how it got here.”
“It got here the same way most of these goods do … dead people.”
The hot room seems to cool a little. “What?”
“House clearance. People’s unwanted things after they’ve gone. You can’t take it with you.”
I think for a moment. “And this woman, she runs a house-clearance company?”
“That’s right. All legit. Nothing illegal about it. She brings in some good pieces, too, knows her stuff.”
“Who? Who is she?”
“I’m not so good with names. I have her card here somewhere.” He shuffles behind a small desk. I can see that despite his dapper appearance, he is still wearing his slippers. “Here you go, I’m happy to recommend her, she’s very good.”
I stare down at the card he has put in my hands, not able to stop them from shaking as I read the name printed on it.
Maggie O’Neil.
It can’t be.
“Can I buy this picture?” I can’t hide the tremor in my voice.
“Of course,” he says with a grin. I give him my credit card, not caring how much he plans to charge me, and remove the photo from the frame before I’ve even left the shop. I turn it over, unable to take another step when I read what is written on the back of it in a childlike scrawl: