Gazpacho

1.

There was a knock on the door. A long, assertive knock. A sound that seemed amplified by its very unfamiliarity. The man on the sofa paused, a spoonful of cereal suspended in mid air. Slowly he put the spoon back in the bowl and placed the bowl on the glass table. He glanced at the digital clock. It was 9.48. He looked out through the tall sashes of the bay window, across the small balcony, through the peeling black ironwork, onto the street below. Two large terracotta pots formed sentries at each end of the balcony, filled with red geraniums in the last stages of bloom. A breeze stirred the calm room air where a bottom sash was raised. Dust danced in the light. It was a bright Saturday morning, late August. It had rained early morning and the worn stone balcony dried slowly. Dark patches pitted its pale surface. The scent of clinging dampness was still faint in the air.

The knock repeated, exactly the same as before. The large man rose slowly, reluctantly and stretched his shoulders. He still wore the faded t-shirt and shorts he had slept in. His right hand reached for the remote. The tall silver speakers were gradually muted. Only the faint whine of an electric guitar remained. Into this aural space came the sound of the traffic outside. The man moved languidly from the rug. His bare feet surprisingly light on the pale wooden floor. He paused in the dim hallway. Stared at the front door. Solid wood, four panelled, painted white but dull now. A long time since he had decorated. The man moved towards the door again, with a mixture of apathy and curiosity.

2.

Colin Porter was 38. Over six feet tall and broad shouldered. With gangly arms and large hands. His hair was thick, blond and unruly. He had large, docile eyes. His face, unshaven now, was pale. He had once been described as lugubrious. But never as loquacious. Colin lived, alone, in a first floor converted flat with high ceilings. It had been his home for almost ten years. The living room walls were barely visible behind stacks of vinyl records and CDs on shelves; carefully arranged in alphabetical order for each. He had tried streaming, but preferred the physical feel of an artifact in his hands. His job, as a sound technician at a recording studio, was his vocation.

Colin’s face was not an expressive one. But if it was, it would have revealed that he was happy with life. He was engaged to Julia. They had met at a dismal New Year’s Eve party eighteen months ago. He had proposed during a Paul Weller gig in March. Just after Weller played Wildwood. They planned to get married next year. Julia was 34, petite, pretty, clever, generous and vivacious. And she loved music. Mostly old soul stuff in her case. But that was fine by him. Colin had never believed in the concept of the perfect partner. Still did not. But with much less certainty now.

Colin loved lazy Saturday mornings on his own though. Especially in summer. The loss of them was his only regret about impending marriage. And he did not welcome company on the precious Saturdays that remained to him. The four storey Regency building had an entry phone system. Knocks on the door were rare. Since his longstanding neighbours on the floor above had moved out, even rarer. The other flats were transitory resting points for the young, aspiring types who flooded the city. He scarcely knew any of the current occupants, which was fine by him

3.

Colin’s large right eye peered through the spy hole. The features of a man, leaning towards him, came into view. For a second Colin thought he recognised the unwanted visitor. But as the face and shoulders took shape this thought receded. Colin’s vision was confronted by a large bald head and gaunt face with prominent nose. The man wore small oblong-shaped glasses with thin frames. A long neck led down to a plain black shirt. Colin hesitantly opened the door. He moved his large frame into the narrow space that resulted. Without the distorting effects of the spy hole, Colin saw that the man’s bald head was not really that big. And that it was shaven rather than bald. A faint sheen of pale hairs at the sides. Presumably to disguise the onset of baldness thought Colin. But the man’s face was indeed gaunt, though tanned. He was shorter than Colin, medium height, slim. Dressed in black jeans that merged as one into the shirt. He could have been anywhere between 35 and 45.

“Hello?” Colin tried to keep his voice neutral. To disguise any sense of the annoyance he felt at having his idleness interrupted.

The shaven-headed man was silent. He seemed to be waiting for something. Then he smiled broadly. The teeth a little crooked but white.

“Hi! Sorry to trouble you. I’ve just moved into the flat above. I was wondering where the nearest shop is – milk, bread that sort of thing. Sorry, I’m Paul.” The shaven-headed man smiled and extended his hand. Colin accepted it.

“Oh, okay, good to meet you Paul. It’s about time someone moved into that flat. I’m Colin by the way. There’s a shop just round the corner. Out the front door, turn left then left again. About 200 yards. You can’t miss it.” Colin did his best to smile. He wanted to get back to his late breakfast. And his music.

Paul thanked him but didn’t move. Colin felt, rather wearily, that he ought to make an effort.

“So you’re not local then?”

“No, I’ve just moved down from London. Before that I was abroad. I hated London.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Colin lied.

“I heard the music before I knocked. Great sound system! The deep bass is very impressive. Wasn’t that ‘After the Goldrush’ you were playing?”

“Yeah - you like Neil Young?” Colin’s whole body suddenly relaxed.

“God yeah! Especially the Crazy Horse stuff. And with Crosby, Stills and Nash too. You got much of his stuff?”

“Pretty much everything!”

“Amazing! So what else do you like?”

“Do you want to come in and I’ll show you? I’ve got the kettle on.” Colin’s smile was genuine now.

“Yeah, I’d love to. Any excuse to avoid the decorating!”

Colin opened the door wide and motioned his new neighbour down the hallway. As he followed, Colin noticed that Paul had a C-shaped scar at the back of his head, long healed. And a very slight limp.

4.

“So what does he do? Work I mean.”

Julia Swan had been on the phone to her fiancé for twenty minutes and he’d talked incessantly about his new neighbour. But all she knew about the man was the kind of music he liked. Knowing Colin as well as she did, this didn’t surprise her. But what did surprise her was how Colin had hit it off with someone so quickly. He was normally very circumspect with new people. It had taken her months to get him to feel at ease with her friends. And they were all very easygoing. As she had told him many times.

“Oh, he’s a website designer, or something like that. He’s done quite a few record company sites apparently.”

“No wonder he can afford that flat then, at today’s prices. It’s a two bed isn’t it?”

“Yeah. He’s decorating the whole place at the moment.”

“I guess you’ll be seeing a lot more of him?”

“Yeah, I guess. And you’ll have to meet him too of course.”

“Yes, of course.”

Julia was sitting on the sofa in the large house she shared with two other teachers, across the city from Colin. She wore a blue cotton summer dress, her bare legs curled up beneath her. Her dark hair was cut in a neatly brushed bob. It emphasised her high cheekbones and deep brown eyes. Her face had the warm tone of time spent outdoors recently. She had spent the morning in the nearby park, preparing for the new school year. But she could no longer concentrate on that now. The phone call had made her curious. She wondered what type of man could have made the normally reticent Colin suddenly so effusive.

5.

It was two weeks later that Julia’s curiosity was satisfied. Two weeks in which it had been aroused further. Every time she had seen or spoken to Colin during that time he had talked about Paul. His new neighbour – his new friend – was a regular visitor it seemed. They had been to the pub together and – of course – had been to a gig. Now, on a balmy September evening, the three of them were meeting for dinner. A small Spanish restaurant in an unprepossessing side street just off the seafront. Paul’s choice. Julia had asked Colin whether Paul would like to bring ‘someone’. Colin said he had never mentioned anyone else so best not to ask.

The betrothed couple arrived slightly early but Paul was there already. He stood up to greet them. Julia immediately recognised him from Colin’s description. Paul kissed her on the cheek and complimented the colour of the dark green velvet dress that she had fretted over ever since leaving the house. And he took her small hand, admired the engagement ring. Silver and sapphire. Julia really wanted to get on well with Paul. She sensed this was important to Colin. The two men, meanwhile, greeted each other like old friends. Julia had never seen Colin have such an obvious bond with anyone. Not even his brother, who was to be his best man.

The restaurant was unpretentious and intimate, with white walls, dark wooden furniture and checked tablecloths. No background music. Julia loved it. She wondered why she had never noticed it herself. It was a typical packed Saturday night and the soft rhythm of a dozen different conversations filled the still air. They had a round table near the window. It was cooler there. Paul had booked it.

“So how do you know this place? Do you eat out a lot?” Julia was hoping to hide her inquisitiveness behind a casual enquiry.

“Ah, a very good question! Colin said that you were clever as well as beautiful.”

“Really? Well Colin didn’t tell me that you were such a charmer.” She winked at Colin. She knew that he would never have complimented her like that. He was never demonstrative about anything except music. Colin looked sheepishly back at her and gave a slight shrug.

“To be truthful I’ve never been here. I haven’t had a chance to check out any local restaurants yet. But I passed this place one day and thought the menu looked authentic. I love Spanish food.”

“Have you spent much time in Spain – Colin mentioned you’d lived abroad?”

“Yeah, I was there for several years and I go back now and again.”

“Lucky you! Whereabouts? I want us to go to Valencia for our honeymoon but Colin’s not convinced.” Julia smiled at Colin. She noticed he looked uncomfortable. She regretted mentioning it.

“Oh, Valencia’s a wonderful city, great contrast of old and new. Perfect for romance. I’ve been several times, though I lived in the south, Andalucia. You really should go.” Paul directed this last remark at Colin. Colin was looking at the menu. Julia saw this as opportune for a change of subject.

“So, what do you recommend then?” asked Julia

“Well, for the starter – gazpacho. Perfect for an evening like this.” We could almost be in Andalucia.

They both followed Paul’s recommendation, though neither would have chosen it. The main course was left to individual choice but there was instant agreement that two bottles of Rioja would accompany everything very well. Colin’s earlier apparent unease seemed to be soothed by the wine. He and Paul soon resumed their easy conversation. Julia found herself drawn into it without effort. Her concerns over whether she would get on with Paul proved groundless. When the bill came, Julia found herself wondering how the evening had gone so quickly. Paul wanted to pay but after much good-natured argument they split it three ways. It was just after midnight when they left the restaurant. Julia was between the two men, arms linked. They were singing.

The air was cooler now. The sky was clear. They walked to the taxi rank and shared a taxi home. Julia was spending the night at Colin’s flat. They invited Paul in for a coffee but he insisted he needed to be up early to continue decorating. He whistled softly as he sauntered up the stairs.

Now they were alone in the flat together, Julia could see that Colin was happy with the way the evening had gone. He sat on the edge of the bed, humming to himself. Then smiled at her.

“I knew you’d like him.”

Julia kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Well you were right! In fact I think we should invite him over to mine for dinner soon. I can introduce him to Zoë. What do you think?”

“Yeah, sounds great Jules. Maybe next weekend?”

“No, we’ll have to wait. Zoë and Lorraine are away next weekend. But you know, I’ve just been thinking.”

“What?”

Well . . .we talked all night but . . . I still don’t seem to know much about Paul really.”

Colin shrugged. He wasn’t sure what else there was to know. But he supposed there would be plenty of time to find out.

6.

Colin descended the two flights of wide, curving stairs to the communal entrance. His hand trailing along the smooth surface of the timber handrail. The tall window that lit the half-landing revealed a gloomy prospect. Rain was threatening. The last of summer appeared to have expired overnight. But Colin’s mood was immediately brightened by the sight of a small cardboard package awaiting him where the morning’s post was lying. He knew it must be the Stephen Stills album ordered some weeks ago. A collection of rarities. He had mentioned it to Paul. Climbing quickly, Colin paused at the first floor. Then continued up to the next.

It was Saturday morning, a week since the Spanish meal. He had seen Paul again a couple of times. But he had never as yet been into his flat. Too messy according to Paul. Colin knocked tentatively. There was no answer. He knocked again, louder. Still no answer. Bending his large frame, he lifted the letterbox flap and peered through. A perplexing sight greeted his half-awake eyes. There was nothing to see. It looked exactly like a vacant flat. There was no sign of occupation. And no sign of decoration. Just bare walls and dark carpet. Colin breathed in heavily. He waited a few seconds. But there was no smell, except a faint mustiness. No smell of paint or white spirit. He stood up again, feeling mildly anxious.

Colin returned to his flat. He opened the package. Turned the shiny plastic case over and over in his large hands. Opened it. Read the insert, every word. As if it might contain some vital information. He knew he couldn’t play it now. He picked up the phone, intending to call Julia. Then he remembered last Autumn when he had lost his door key; a plan formed itself. There were plenty of locksmiths. He chose an impersonal looking one that promised immediate call out. He paid in advance by credit card. Then, taking only his wallet and mobile phone, he waited by the front door. Surprisingly the locksmith was there within ten minutes. A small, taciturn man in his 50s. He seemed wholly uninterested in Colin’s fake tale of woe, the mislaid keys. Colin was relieved. He was not a good liar. It took only a couple of minutes to open the door. Then the locksmith was gone, carrying his indifference and his small toolkit with him.

Hesitantly, Colin pushed the door open. Called out Paul’s name, just in case. Took a few steps. He had been inside before, when the previous owners, a young couple, lived there. All the doors were wide open now. Dust stirred as he moved. The main bedroom was on his right. Colin peered in. A single mattress lay on the floor. Some crude curtains, too large for the windows. Nothing else. The second bedroom, very small, contained nothing. The bathroom was to his left. No window. He pulled the light cord. Nothing. He took tentative steps. His large eyes adjusting to the gloom. On the basin were a toothbrush and a half-used tube of toothpaste. A small bar of soap. A hand towel on the side of the bath. Still no sign of any decorating anywhere.

The dim hallway terminated in the living room/kitchen, a large space overlooking the street. Colin initially saw little. No curtains or blinds. A small folding table and metal chair in the centre of the room. A mug on the table. In the kitchen area to the left, a kettle on the worktop, not plugged in. A tap dripped remorselessly into the stainless-steel sink. To his right, just behind his shoulder, a shape on the wall caught his eye. A large cork pin-board covered in photographs. Colin moved closer. The air felt stale. He was sweating a little. His mouth dry. Breathing dust. There were photographs of him. And there were photographs of Julia. And photographs of them both together. Evidently taken over several months. Some in winter clothing. Colin recognised the scarf he had bought Julia last Christmas. He scanned over the photographs several times, searching for significance. Fearing he might find it.

Then, in the centre of the board, a photograph he had missed. Smaller than the others. Older, the colours slightly faded. A photograph of two young men with unruly hair, one blond and one darker, one taller than the other. Their arms on each others shoulders, squinting into the bright sunlight, smiling at the camera. Smiling at the person taking the photograph. Colin recognised them both. He was slimmer then but, remarkably, otherwise little different. But the second young man was very much changed now.

Colin felt his body heavy, blood rushing furiously around it but going nowhere, his muscles inert. He closed his eyes. Held them tightly shut. Opened them again. But nothing changed. He knew he had to move, had to act, had to act quickly. He dragged his legs from the floor. They felt numb. He held the doorframe to steady himself. Launched his body into the hallway. Out of the door. Running on instinct alone. Down the main stairs, two at a time.

7.

A solid red brick Victorian terraced house, its ground floor raised above the quiet street. Slate roof under slate grey sky. Light rain in the air. The paving stones darkening. A large elm tree partly obscuring the house, just past its verdant peak, a few yellowing leaves. Colin pushed the iron gate open, ran up the path, geometric tiles, then up the steps, past the magnolia bush, to the heavy panelled door. Painted blue. It was only twenty minutes later, not too late. Not too late he hoped. He had rung her twice from the car but no answer. Not a good sign he thought. Not a good sign. The blinds were down. Not a good sign. But she could just be feeling unwell. Hope swelled.

He rang the bell. Knocked on the door. Impatient for it to be answered. He took out the key. The key Julia had given him. For emergencies only. His large hand shaking as he hurriedly rattled it into the lock. The heavy door opened. His urgent feet on the varnished floorboards. Called out her name. The door on the right, closed. Not too late he hoped. A brief hesitation now. A smell of burnt toast and coffee. Then into the living room. A room that he had been in so many times before.

Julia was sitting on the sofa. Her legs tucked under her. Wearing jeans and a pale blue cardigan. Her short dark hair wasn’t in its usual neat bob. Hadn’t been recently brushed. Her face was looking down. Her small hands in her lap. Playing with the ring. She looked up at him. Pale and drawn in the half-light. Her brown eyes were screwed up. But not against the light. The light that came only in faint shafts through the blinds in the bay window. Just enough light to catch the trails of damp on her cheeks. Colin was about to speak. To call her name. To ask her if she was okay. Maybe not too late he thought. But the voice behind him told him that it almost certainly was too late.

“Hello Colin. I wasn’t expecting you yet. But I’m so glad you’re here now.”

Colin looked at Julia. But she looked back down at her hands. And the ring. Colin half turned. His shoulders slumped. His voice low. He spoke flatly to the shadow to his right. All in black.

“Hello Matt.”

“Well, I’m glad you recognise me at last Colin. Or do you think I’m a ghost perhaps?” A cold laugh as he spoke those last words.

“You’ve changed a lot.” Colin looked at Julia as he said this. Looking for clues in her eyes. But she was still looking at her hands.

“Yes, I’m afraid that’s what a ton of metal does to you. That and the six operations. The plate in my skull. The steel rod in my leg. The years in hospital beds. The hair loss triggered by the trauma.”

“What have you told Julia?”

“Oh, everything. The truth. Do you remember the truth, Colin?”

Colin looked at Julia. She looked up at him. Her brown eyes wide now. Wide with bewilderment. And just a faint trace of hope perhaps? She moved the ring round and around on her finger. Her voice very soft.

“Is it true, Col?”

He wanted to walk over to her. Sit down next to her. Put his arms tightly around her. Hug her. And tell her it was all a bad joke.

But he did not do that. He could not do that. Instead he looked at the varnished floorboards. His mouth barely moving as he spoke.

“I thought he was dead. I panicked. I’m sorry Jules. I never expected . . .”

“Isn’t it Matt you should be apologising to? Though it’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it? Twenty years too late in fact.” The hope extinguished. Bitterness in its place.

Colin wanted to explain more. Explain better. But there was nothing more to explain. Twenty years of suppressing all memories. They held no authenticity now. Twenty years of denial. Julia was right. It was too late now. She spoke again. She had found her voice now.

“So you left your best friend to die in a ditch at the roadside. In the middle of nowhere. In a foreign country. In the hot sun. To die alone and anonymous. Then lied to his family. Lied to everyone. Lied to me. Pretended it didn’t happen. Kept it secret. And all out of jealousy!.”

“No, Jules!”

“No you didn’t leave him to die?”

“No, I thought he was dead already. The speed of the car. The impact. I was sure he was dead. And I panicked! We’d been smoking a lot of dope, drinking a lot of beer. I was out of it, Jules, I really was. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was only young. And I was scared. Scared of the Spanish police. What they would do. I still had some dope in my rucksack in the hostel. I was a coward, I know. But not jealousy - no way!”

“Well that’s okay then.” More than bitterness now. Contempt in her voice now.

Colin looked at Julia and then at Matt. But Julia couldn’t look at him. The silver and sapphire ring still going round and around between her slim fingers. Matt was looking at him though.

“You left me to die because Isabel chose me over you. You couldn’t take that could you? Remember the rows we had? Before I crossed that road.” Matt’s voice was even, calm.

“That’s not true Matt! I was a bit pissed off about it yes. Maybe I over-reacted. But that was nothing to do with it. I was just scared Matt. Really I was. . .” His voice trailed away to a whisper.

Matt said nothing. Just stared at Colin, who looked away, at Julia. She was removing the ring. Placing it on the coffee table in front of her. She crossed her arms tightly. Held herself. She looked at Colin. Her eyes blank now. No light there. Far too late now.

Colin moved towards the door. Stopped. Turned to Matt.

“Why now?”

Matt walked slowly across the room. The old floorboards creaked. He stood next to the sofa, next to Julia. Stared hard at Colin. As did Julia. Defiantly.

“It was two hours before I was found. I was in a coma for two months. I had no memory at all for six months after I woke up. Could barely speak for most of that time. Then it took me three years to learn to walk again. And eighteen years for my memory of that day to fully come back to me. I needed six months to find you. And then six months to watch and wait. I bet now you wish I had died. Don’t you Colin?”

Colin couldn’t look at Julia again. He turned and walked out into the hall, across the varnished floorboards, through the blue-painted front door, down the steps, past the magnolia, across the worn geometric tiles of the path, between the red brick pillars, onto the grey pavement. It was raining hard now, large drops bouncing off the concrete slabs. A wind had stirred. The large elm tree was swaying. A withered yellow-brown leaf swirled down from the branches and was immediately pinned against the tarmac road by the force of the rain. An early casualty of autumn.