Free Plastic by Christopher Fowler Page B

again. In an hour and ten minutes the electricity would be cut. The implications were worrying and a little exciting. Searching the rooms, anxious to make the most of the time, I found a flat-screen plasma television recessed into a beech-panelled bedroom wall, unclipped the remote and flicked through dozens of channels. Aircraft and dolphins performed silver somersaults through the phosphorescence reflected across the windows. I surfed for American sitcoms, which I enjoyed because you never learned anything real about the characters. My heart rate decelerated to the drifting pace of my dreams. I slept in a way I had not slept for months, years.
    When I awoke, I found myself in darkness.
    The television screen was inert. I tried the lights. Nothing. My wristwatch read 6:25pm. The lights from the street were reflected upwards by the river, rippling across the ceiling in languid arabesques, the apartment acting in balance to the entropy of the world below.
    I rose and pulled the robe tight. The air was coolbox fresh as I carefully made my way across the lounge. Six fat church candles stood on inchoate earthenware plates. Not realising that they were intended for display purposes, I lit each one in turn, illuminating my borrowed palace with wavering ellipses of light.
    The refrigerator bulb failed to come on when I opened the door, but a roll of trapped chill air still brushed my bare flesh. Someone had left the clingfilm-wrapped ingredients for a cold meal in the crisper. I made myself a sandwich, bitter rye bread stuffed with ham, lettuce and mayonnaise, something I would never have prepared at home. There I would grill cheese on Mother’s Pride and pour microwaved beans over it. To do so here would have been a sacrilegious act. I ate perched on a tall stool at the chromed breakfast bar, chewing oiled scraps of sun-dried tomato, savouring the flavours, then dipping into jars I had seen in food halls but never tried before.
    I carefully wiped my hands before examining the ceiling-high bookcases by candlelight, working my way along the co-ordinated spines. Medical encyclopediae, volumes on skin and eyes and ears, books about burns with colour plates I didn’t dare to examine. It made me wonder about the exact nature of Malcolm’s consultancy. Could he be some kind of medical practitioner? Julia had failed to divulge his role outside of the company. If he was a specialist with a private practice it might explain how he managed to afford such luxury. But I thought they worked in electronic communications. Surely such diverse careers had no overlap.
    I was standing in the hall, examining another excruciatingly ugly painting by the light of a candle when I heard a noise in the corridor beyond the apartment. It sounded like someone hitting the floor with the heel of a shoe.
    I’m not the kind of person to investigate strange noises in dark buildings, but this one was so odd that I did it without thinking.
    Of course, I shouldn’t have.

 
     
    CHAPTER TEN
    Pasiphae
     
     
    P EERING INTO THE dimness of the top floor corridor, I became aware of a tall man in a Nike T-shirt and flappy jogging shorts standing against the distant wall, and my heart-rhythm faltered. The figure remained still with his arm raised as I approached.
    ‘I thought I heard someone outside,’ I offered nervously. ‘Were you banging?’
    He lowered his shoe and flicked hair from his forehead. I couldn’t help noticing that the pupils of his protuberant eyes diverged disconcertingly. ‘I should hope so. We’ve got cockroaches. Bloody great brown things like they have in America. I just chased one the size of a small cat out into the hall. They must come up from the river at high tide. I thought I’d hit it, but if they’re strong enough to breed after a nuclear blast I suppose they can survive a rubberised heel.’
    He dropped the shoe and wriggled a bony foot back into it. ‘So I’m not the only one still here. I haven’t seen you before. Hang on a