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Sirens. A woman shouting in the street: an argument with a boyfriend. (She’s drunk.) A slick night in London, black sky, wet street. Clap of cheap heels on the pavement, dull thump of a bass line from the bowels of a club. Sounds seem so much more prominent when I’m alone. Harder to ignore. Pressing in on me. No easy distraction at hand. Was John’s flesh absorbing the surplus data around me? (Ha!) In any case. Different. (How can one person, one, make the world seem so different to me? One man against the six billion nameless. It makes no sense.)
John: in Clapton with a change of clothes and a bottle of wine. He’s haunting Mary’s dingy little flat tonight; back to Baker St. tomorrow while she’s on the night shift. Possibly also the night after that, depending on Mary’s other various commitments. John: A shared asset, like a child shifting between not-entirely-amicably divorced parents. A toothbrush left with each. Appeasement. Half the week, every other weekend. A satisfactory truce.
Nights without John are dismal. Dark (no one there to switch on the lights), cold (no one to switch on the heating and complain loudly about the radiators, or to shove open the flue and build a fire in the grate, or drop a blanket on my lap with a concerned look or an exasperated sigh) and quiet (no terrible telly, no random conversation, no soft sounds of steady breathing; no throat-clearing or pages turning; no rumbling kettle or offer of tea; a complete absence of the unmistakable sound of denim rubbing against denim as he crosses one leg over the other). For the first time in years, I feel no desire whatsoever to pick up my violin. Not when he’s gone. The absence of an audience (other than me) used to be a gift. That is no longer the case.
My bottle of cocaine has vanished; not entirely certain who to thank for that, John or Mycroft. (At a guess, Mycroft; John probably unable to avoid admonishing me immediately had he found it, while Mycroft, clearly more capable of finding my most secret hiding places, unlikely to admit to breaking into the flat under any circumstances. Silent disappearance of an illegal substance: reads Mycroft.) Probably for the best. The high is far more short-lived than I remembered and the day after is extraordinarily unpleasant. I had forgotten. Pain is not something of which the human brain takes a lasting imprint. (I take some cold comfort in this fact.)
Could always get more (if required). Biding my time.
Taxi rides without John are familiar, but uncomfortable. Empty seat next to me makes the universe feel oddly canted to the right (the left is missing in action, awkwardly deleted): a constant reminder of loss. (Temporary. I get him back tomorrow. Tomorrow: he will sit next to me, the universe will right itself, he will listen to me, tell me I’m amazing and extraordinary and the dull but persistent ache in my gut will recede.)
Taxi is moving marginally faster than the top speed the accompanying traffic has mutually agreed upon (significantly over the posted speed limit, but we all know that’s merely a suggestion). Acceptable; arriving sooner is worth the increase in risk to my health and safety. All risks, both minor and major (leaping off rooftops, pursuing gun-wielding criminals down dark alleys, breaking and entering, injectables) feel significantly more acceptable when John is no longer next to me. Had not noticed the degree to which his mere presence was modulating my behaviour. (Do I take more risks now because I no longer feel responsible for his safety, or because I care less about my own? Or both? Will I develop a fear of danger on the days when he’s with me, and foster a dangerously risky lifestyle on the days he’s not? Russian Roulette.)
There is no strict schedule posted on the fridge. John appears sometimes out of the blue, a surprise (the very best). Mary works nights three days a week (true; verifiable); she has a book club (true, though infrequent) and a bridge night with her friends (also true; sporadic). There are book sales, charity events, taking shifts from peers, calls from struggling faculty members, a small amount of private tutoring (the ultimate in inaccessibility). She volunteers at a homeless shelter (Strictly true, but with no posted hours and very little direct oversight, difficult to confirm precisely in retrospect). Her life is full, (full of potential excuses, plausible alibis) and the complex mess of it leaves John ample time to return to Baker St. (to me) to satisfy his need for the battleground of London (his need for me). Mary lives the life of a serial philanderer, even when she isn’t unfaithful. She is a woman who would never lose track of her phone, and will never let John see her incoming texts without looking at them first. She cannot be pinned down, cannot be scheduled, cannot be (so she thinks) traced or questioned.
She is not cheating on him. Not yet. But her life will make it easy to hide once she starts. (Seems inevitable. Unstoppable. Compulsive behaviour.)
Tell John? How? How to broach the subject without him storming off, livid? If he asks. If he asks, I will tell him. Gently. In the abstract. No accusations (none currently to make). Perhaps suggest a therapist for her. Or suggest she have a bracing chat with me. Do I want to scare her into fidelity, or scare her away from John? (Examine: do I want her to cheat on him, break his heart, leave him twisted and broken, so that he will come back to me and I can put him back together for the second time? Answer seems obvious, but I remain honestly uncertain. The stakes are too high. John’s happiness. At least with Mary I have John part time. With someone else, I might lose him altogether.
Her schedule is random and unpredictable (deliberately); she can drag him back to her at a moment’s notice. Can I do the same? Tonight: perfect test. Check time: after eleven in the evening. If not already in bed (don’t think about it), close to it. Send a text.
Crime scene in your neighbourhood. Likely dangerous. SH
Will he come? It’s Mary’s night, a Clapton night. Cosy little evening in with his beloved, or a cosy night out with danger and bloodied bodies? (With me?) Will he be able to resist?
His answer comes almost impossibly fast.
I thought I heard sirens. Are you here already?
Smile. Is he bored, sitting there (lying there?) with his lady love on that third-hand sofa (on that old and too-soft bed)? This might be easier than I thought.
In a taxi. Lestrade is suspicious. Could use your help, if available. SH
Pause. He’s deciding, talking to Mary, making up for the fact that he keeps checking his phone. Rude, isn’t it? He’s trying to be subtle, but she’s sure to notice anyway. (She does the exact same thing.) Frowns at him. Feels put out. Stab of insecurity that plagues the chronically unfaithful. (Does she suspect the presence of a problematic tension between John and me? I think not. Surely she can’t imagine it, I don’t look like her usual competition.)
(I am not her competition. There is no competition, there never was any competition. She’s won, she’s won.)
Taxi driver signals; about to take a right turn.
”Straight through.” He looks startled, like he’s forgotten I’m here. “There’s a road closure. Straight through. Faster.” A buzz. Another text from John. Sends of jolt of pleasure through me. (At some point, will those stop? Will a text from John feel just like a text from anyone else? Presumably. Eventually. Hopefully sooner rather than later. Is it odd to feel conflicted about that inevitable loss? Hate it, treasure it. More paradoxes.)
Where?
A single word that shoots straight to the pleasure centres of my brain. Text him an address. He’ll be there before me, waiting for me, that look of anticipation on his face, buried in his professional expression (competence, calm, objectivity), a hint of excitement. He’ll be standing there, his flat-footed self, blending into the background, waiting for me.
London slips past. The superfluous sounds of it fade into the background hum. (John can moderate the world around me even from the other side of a text. Amazing what power my senses are willing to grant him over me.)
Seems like Anderson and Donovan have had a spat.
Smile. He’s already there. Took no time at all to decide, put on his coat and his shoes and ran. John is continuing our regular whispered conversations in any medium available to us. My John.
An excellent deduction! Anderson persists in not leave his wife. Sally does not approve. SH
Ah. She really could do so much better.
The taxi pulls up to a poorly-maintained terraced house; I look around with my heart seemingly in my throat.
A surprise; John is not alone. He’s brought Mary along with him. (Why?) She is looking around at the scene with mild curiosity. A tourist. Burst of anger: why is John contaminating crime scenes with his amorous affairs? I’ll never be able to remember this murder fondly, at this rate. Pay the cabbie; step out. Lestrade looks over; relieved.
“Sherlock!” he calls. He waves me over. Sally rolls her eyes at me. I have to force myself to turn and face John; Mary follows a step behind him.
“Good evening, John.” The formality chokes me, but Mary’s presence makes me feel uncertain, uncomfortable. “Mary.” I nod. I know how to be polite. “Are you interested in crime scenes as well?”
“Not particularly, no.” She wrinkles her nose. I find that I really dislike her. She links her arm through John’s, then rests her hand on his hip.
Jealousy is a common motive for any number of crimes, and thus I have long been aware of its potency and power, but to experience it like this, the hot poker of twisting emotion shooting up my body and wrapping around my throat, is truly indescribable. I will have to ponder this experience carefully in the future, and apply what I’ve learned in this searing moment to further deductive work. Jealousy must be an even more common motive than I surmised; I have likely failed to assign it in any number of cases where it belonged. (John: why are you doing this to me?)
The tiny Clapton house that makes up this crime scene is a tumult of smells; four different brands of air freshener (ghastly), fresh paint on the wall in the sitting room (painted less than two hours ago), carpet cleaner, gas, and the apple crumble in the oven. The Met are removing items in evidence bags (all useless). There is a pile of half-burnt leaves in the garden.
“He beat me and left me for dead,” the woman says. “You’ve got to find him, arrest him! How dare he!” Mary sits with her, pets her hair, coos to her gently. Sympathetic. John tends to her injuries; the fresh cut on her cheekbone, bloody nose, a broken finger. Nothing serious. She has two black eyes and a set of four perfect scratches on her upper arm. She displays a bruise across her stomach (proudly). Lestrade: right to be suspicious. That bruise is a perfect match for one of her kitchen chairs (self-inflicted). Black eyes: marks across her cheeks indicate they were created by repeatedly slamming a door on her face (self-inflicted). Her fingernails have been recently cut; the scratches are a perfect match for her right hand (self-inflicted). Examine the kitchen door; evidence of her blood. Open the oven; apple crisp. Oven sparklingly clean. Tin of paint in a cupboard, brush freshly washed. Peer into the basement; gas. Mildew. Won’t be able to smell a thing after leaving here; assault on the senses. Eyes water from the stench. Shut the door.
“That crumble is burning.” Mary, walking across the kitchen, a bloodied towel in her hand. “Aren’t they going to arrest her?”
“For burning a crumble?” I ask. Curious.
“For killing her husband, of course.” She rinses the towel in the sink, twists it to get the water out. “I presume his body is locked in the cellar or something. Did you check?”
A wry look. She’s surprised me. Would have thought this little domestic scene would fool her, her own desperate shame would hide the results of such obvious infidelity. But apparently not. (The woman has removed her wedding ring, thrown it at the wall. There is a condom under the couch, a pair of knickers stuffed in the bin. So obvious what happened.)
Mary raises an eyebrow. She’s waiting for a response from me, which I’m not giving her. Feels like a game of cat and mouse. Again: she takes it as a challenge. “Isn’t it obvious? She painted the walls. Who paints the walls after being beaten to a pulp? Surely she did it to hide the evidence of something. Blood splatter? Gun shots? Something.” Wrong, but not entirely. Not a bad hypothesis. Better than Anderson’s, surely.
So: Mary is not unintelligent. Not at all. Well, of course she isn’t. John admires intelligence. (Know that already.) She has had to use her intelligence in a number of circumstances; hiding her various infidelities (clearly); meriting a series of scholarships (three degrees; undergraduate, two graduate); manipulating her employer in order to maintain the flexible schedule she craves. In other circumstances, perhaps we might have been friends. (Too strong a word.) Colleagues? We might have been able to tolerate each other, then.
She’s in jeans and a t-shirt; not quite enough clothing for a cool, damp evening. She had to get dressed to come out, pulled on the clothes closest to the bed. (Her clothes were on the floor; Mary is not as fastidious with her clothing as I am with mine, nor is she as neat and tidy as John. Someone else he needs to clean up after: I sense a pattern.) John got her out of bed to come to the crime scene. Imagine: Mary, in bed, John curled around her, her brown hair tucked under his chin; had they just had sex? (Probably.) He leans over to check his phone for the text he just received. He was thinking of me. (Was he? Of course he was.) Did they argue? Did she resist? Is she here to stake her claim, remind me that it’s one of her nights, not mine? She’s staring at me, waiting for me to confirm or deny her hypothesis. There’s no ire in her face. (I am most certainly not her competition.) I give her a half-smile, almost genuine.
“Interesting.” That’s all I’ll say for now.
She folds her arms across her chest. “You think otherwise?”
Don’t answer. Walk back out to the drawing room, where John is cradling the woman, patting her head, soothing her. She is crying (pretending to; no actual tears, but with volume).
“So.” I kneel down in front of her, in front of John. His denim-clad knee in front of me. I lay my hand on it, as if for support. He glances at me, unperturbed. Curious. The heat of him rises up through my cool fingers. John. (I miss you.) He’s petting her hair. No tears on her face, which is half-hidden. “Tell me.” I try to say it as pleasantly as possible. “Where did you hide the bodies?”
She freezes, the false crying stops. She’s in shock. She’s been caught. Triumph.
“Bodies...plural?” Lestrade. Of course, plural. The husband and his lover, the ones our murderer interrupted in the middle of the act on the drawing room floor. (A friend of hers? Probably.) Both dead now. Gassed in the cellar and dragged back out of the house. (Where? The garden? A back alley somewhere? A skip?) Infidelity kills. I wonder if the lesson is made plain to Mary. Does she understand this as a warning? Perhaps. Can’t hide one smell with seventeen others. Evidence of the truth is always stronger than all the lies piled on top of it.
Mary fidgets as I list the evidence, point out the obvious conclusion. The woman screams as the Met handcuffs her and drags her into the patrol car. I barely hear it (car doors slam, radios bleep and fizz with static; sounds like lulling music, white noise). John’s flesh is muffling the sounds of the rest of the world until my attention crystallises around him. He is his own magnetic field (draws me in). The three of us: walking to the main road. Slap of rubber soles on the pavement.
“He was cheating on her,” John notes. Mary shifts uncomfortably. Fascinating. John’s face is clear; he feels empathy, but not (personal) concern. She hasn’t told him. Not yet. She means to, but she hasn’t. (What will he do? What will he say?) “With her best friend, no less.”
“Yes.” I manage to restrict myself to a single word. Three marriages already, John. You know about the three marriages. Do you imagine that the fourth will be any different? How could it possibly be?
“Doesn’t really justify murder though, does it.” Mary is the tiniest bit defensive; will John notice? Wraps her arms around herself, as if she’s cold. (She’s not.)
“No,” he says. (He doesn’t.) “But still. Looks like she went a bit mad. She redecorated in a hurry.”
“The paint was to mask the smell of the gas,” I explain. Isn’t that obvious? “And the burning leaves, the air fresheners, and the crumble.”
“Can’t hide anything with a crumble,” Mary says. John and I look at each other, then laugh. After a moment, so does Mary.
I suppose she’s not so bad.
They invite me over for a drink at Mary’s dingy little flat, but I decline. I don’t want to see them in their domesticity; it’s bad enough that I can imagine it so clearly. I will sit in an armchair; they will sit cuddled together on the sofa, wine glasses dangling from their fingers. No. Best not. I watch John walk home with her, his hand on the small of her back. He looks back, once, to see me watching them. Eyes in shadow. I walk through Clapton, lost in my own thoughts, until the rain begins in earnest. A buzz; text. Check: from John. That same physical thrill at the sight of his name.
Thank you.
What for? SH
Letting her come along. I appreciate it. She was pleased. You were kind to her.
Was I? SH
I think you’ll like her when you get to know her. I hope you will.
Pause. Can’t think of how to respond.
You’re both very important to me, you know that.
Start to compose a response, some thing like, of course, John or shouldn’t you be sleeping?, but before I can decide, another text from John.
I miss you.
It jabs me in the chest. Why? He’s just seen me. He’ll see me tomorrow; we’ll probably spend the evening watching a terrible film or some quiz show on the telly. He sees me every few days, every other weekend. But I know what he means. The piece that’s missing. Why does he tell me this now, why isn’t he afraid (he was afraid, on the roof, in his bed with my hand against his hip)? Her hair tickling his back, her steady breathing on the other side of the bed; his heterosexual future unquestioned, it makes him feel safe. He says these things to me, tears my heart in half (again). Press the keys, compose a response that is not what I mean to say, what I should say, if I let myself think about it. But the early morning sounds of Clapton are filling my ears, pounding against my brain; the rush of traffic, some drunk boys pissing against a wall and laughing, a bottle shattering. It hurts.
I miss you too. SH