Free Nocturne by Graham Hurley

No, ’ he said, ‘ I ’ ve got a problem. But I ’ ve talked about it and you were nice enough to listen. For which, many thanks. ’
    ‘ You mean that ’ s it? ’ I was staring at him. ‘ You ’ re better? You ’ re cured? ’
    ‘ Of course not, but it ’ s not hole-in-the-wall any more. I ’ m not creeping around trying to hide it, disguise it, pretend it never happened. ’
    ‘ You ’ re right, ’ I said dryly. ‘ But is that enough? ’
    ‘ For now, yes. ’
    ‘ What does that mean? ’
    ‘ It means I love you, and it means you ’ re guest researcher on the show. I suggest we give it a month, see how it goes. Christ, you might be terrible. Who knows? ’
    I studied him while he got to his feet, saying nothing. Then I reached down for the compact. It closed with a snap.
    ‘ No chance, ’ I smiled at him. ‘ Terrible is the last thing I ’ ll be. ’
    After Brendan had gone, I did a little dance around the kitchen and then demolished the last of the gin. Against the odds, a tacky evening had turned out OK. I ’ d resisted most of the obvious traps and might even have turned an obsession into the beginnings of a friendship. Best of all, I ’ d hung on to my new job on terms that were moderately honourable, and as long as I didn ’ t trip over the small print, I saw no reason why I shouldn ’ t go from strength to strength. Beyond guest researcher lay the jobs that really interested me - directing and producing - and I was still fantasizing about the series that would take me to the BAFTA awards when I took one last gulp of Gordons, reached for the bedside light switch and drifted off to sleep.
    I awoke to a noise. It was pitch black. I lay still, scarcely daring to breathe. I had a pounding headache and the moment I moved it got worse. After a second or two I could make out the shape of the door. The door was open. When I ’ d come to bed, and turned off the light, I thought the door had been closed. The noise again, the creak of a floorboard, someone moving, someone very close. Was I imagining this? Was it a nightmare? Too much Gordons?
    My mouth was dry. I tried to swallow but nothing happened. By now, just, I could make out another shape, something solid, standing absolutely still. I closed my eyes, trying to will the shape away. Definitely a dream, I told myself, making a mental note to go easy on the booze. I opened my eyes again. The shape was still there, anything but spectral. Very slowly, my hand found the light switch. I had no choice. I couldn ’ t just lie there. I had to find out.
    The light flicked on and I screamed. Gilbert was standing at the foot of the bed. He had a plaid blanket ar ound his shoulders and a pair of pyjama bottoms on underneath. He stared down at me, motionless. ‘ Are you al l right? ’ , he said. I nodded, terrified. ‘ I ’ m fine. ’
    ‘ He ’ s gone? ’
    ‘ Who? ’
    ‘ Your friend? ’
    ‘ Yes. ’ I swallowed hard. I wanted to throw up. ‘ Yes, he went hours ago. ’
    ‘ And he didn ’ t hurt you? ’
    ‘ Hurt me? I stared up at Gilbert, lost for words.
    A smile ghosted across his face. Then he nodded twice and began to shuffle backwards towards the door, disappearing into the little hall outside. I heard my front door open and close. Half a minute later there were footsteps overhead, then the lilt of the flute, a reedy jig, celebratory, and the footsteps again, much louder this time, thudding in time to the music, round and round the room, directly over my bed. Gilbert dancing, I thought numbly, crawling out of bed and making it to the bathroom in time to vomit.
    An hour later, I was still sitting in the front room, shrouded in the duvet, staring at the phone. I ’ d double bolted my front door, and wedged the sofa against the door that led to the hall, but no matter what I did the image of Gilbert hung before me. What had brought him downstairs like that? What right had he got to watch over my private life? To make assumptions about the