Free Nocturne by Graham Hurley Page B

problem.
    I took a cab home. In the hall, fumbling with the key, I looked up to see the message scrawled on my door. The message had been daubed in purple crayon. It read ‘ Sorry , sorry , sorry . Please change the locks .’ I stared at it a moment, relieved and angry at the same time. This wasn ’ t crazy at all. This made sense. I ran up the stairs to Gilbert ’ s flat. After knocking for the fourth time and calling his name, I gave up. Whether he was in there or not no longer bothered me. I knew exactly what I wanted to say and sooner or later I ’ d find the time and the place to say it.
    Inside my flat, I went straight to the front room. I kept the Yellow Pages beside the phone. I was still hunting for Locksmiths when it occurred to me for the second time in six hours that I wasn ’ t alone. I looked up. Gilbert was sitting in the armchair in the corner. He was wearing jeans and an old sweater and his thin frame was folded into the chair in a position your average psychiatrist might term ‘ defen sive ’ . His chin was down on his chest. His hands were clasped around his knees. He was watching me warily, like a child expecting the worst.
    When my pulse had returned to normal I asked him for the duplicate key he must have used to get in.
    ‘ It ’ s on the kitchen table. ’
    ‘ Get it then. ’
    Gilbert did what he was told. Back in the armchair he settled himself again, waiting for the next question.
    ‘ How do I know yo u haven ’ t taken another copy? ’
    ‘ I haven ’ t. I wouldn ’ t. Not without asking. ’
    I nodded. My copy of Yellow Pages was still open on the floor and I was determined to phone a locksmith, no matter what Gilbert said. I began to talk about last night, how frightened I ’ d been, but Gilbert inter rupted, one long finger pointing at the window.
    ‘ I called them, ’ he said. ‘ I called the people. ’
    ‘ What people? ’
    ‘ The taxi people. ’
    I stared at him, the first faint glimmer of logic beginning to appear. Gilbert had seen us in the mini-cab. He must indeed have been watching from his top window.
    ‘ And what did they say? The taxi people? ’
    ‘ Nothing. They wouldn ’ t tell me anything. ’
    ‘ What did you want to know? ’
    ‘ His name. ’
    ‘ Why? ’
    Gilbert shook his head, refusing to answer. After I ’ d repeated the question to no effect I came at it another way.
    ‘ Who do you think he was? ’ I asked him.
    ‘ I don ’ t know. Your boyfriend? ’ He shrugged. T don ’ t know. ’
    ‘ He ’ s my boss. ’
    ‘ Your boss? ’ He frowned.
    ‘ You don ’ t believe me? ’
    ‘ I don ’ t know. ’
    ‘ But why? Why does it matter who he is? And even if he is my boyfriend, what ’ s that got to do with you? ’
    Gilbert was staring out of the window. The word hurt was invented to describe the expression on his face.
    ‘ He ’ s my boss, ’ I repeated. ‘ And his name ’ s Brendan. ’
    ‘ Brendan. ’ He nodded, as if he liked the sound of the word. ‘ Brendan. ’
    The smile briefly warmed his face then it went away again. I still had the keys in my hand. I realised I was sweating.
    ‘ What would you have done if Brendan had stayed the night? ’
    Gilbert thought about the question for a while and looking at his face it was extraordinary to watch it change and then change again as he struggled to come up with an answer. ‘ Well? ’
    Gilbert thought a bit more and then got to his feet. He seemed to have lost weight. His jeans hung loosely around his hips. He looked down at me and I fought the temptation to take some of the sting from this conversation and make friends again. Gilbert owed me, at the very least, an explanation.
    ‘ I didn ’ t want to see you hurt, ’ he said.
    ‘ You were protecting me? ’
    ‘ Yes. ’
    ‘ By breaking in? In the middle of the night? ’
    ‘ Yes, I think so. ’
    ‘ You think so? ’
    I stared up at him. Dear God, if I wanted confirmation that Gilbert was out of his tree, then this