the end, it won’t be like the world before 1939. We must get used to that.’
Following directions Natalia had memorized, they passed the university and drove into a district of terraced houses, shabby front doors giving straight out onto the streets. As they continued east, though, the houses became bigger, with little gardens in the front. They neared a park, then found themselves among streets of big, detached Victorian villas, three or four storeys high. Lights were already on in the murky afternoon, the windows yellow squares in the mist. In one house David glimpsed a high-ceilinged lounge, mirrors and pictures on the walls, a man with a little girl on his knee. In the top flat of the next house he saw a middle-aged woman stirring a pan on a cooker. They drove slowly along, peering at the houses to try to make out their numbers. Then Geoff said, ‘Stop here. See, a first-floor window’s been boarded up.’
They got out and approached the house. Compared to its neighbours the building was shabby, streaks of moss on the red bricks. Mizzly rain dampened their faces. The ground and first floors were in darkness, though a light was visible at a second-floor window. They walked up the little path. David looked at the boarded-up window, then at the paved area below, where weeds sprouted between stone flags. ‘Frank’s brother was lucky he didn’t break his back.’
‘It would have been a murder charge then,’ Geoff agreed.
The front door was big and solid, three doorbells beside it. David took out the two keys Ben had given him, tied together with string. He inserted the larger one in the lock and the door opened smoothly. A damp, cold smell came from inside. Natalia was looking up and down the street, checking. Nobody was about on this unpleasant Sunday; it was getting dark, streetlights would be coming on soon. David stepped inside, pressed a light switch. A bare bulb revealed a dusty tiled floor, walls with blistered paint.
‘What a dump,’ Geoff said.
‘Keep your voice low,’ Natalia cautioned.
They climbed the stairs. There was a landing with a door, marked Flat 2. David unlocked the door. He switched on the light and they entered a little hall with a threadbare carpet. He noticed a musty, unwashed smell. There were several closed doors; they opened each tentatively. There was a small, rather dirty bathroom, mildew on the tiles, and a kitchen with a blackened old cooker. All the kitchen cupboards were open, cans and broken crockery strewn over the floor. The large bedroom with its single bed and ancient wardrobe seemed to have escaped destruction. The last room was a cavernous lounge, the big window boarded up. The room had been wrecked; pictures hung askew; chairs lay on their sides. Books and magazines, science fiction from what David could see, had been pulled from the big bookcase and left on the carpet. The television had a crack in the screen. The only undamaged piece of furniture was a large rolltop desk. A couple of photographs lay face down on the floor beside it.
Geoff said, ‘Good God, did Frank do this?’
‘He must have.’ David looked at the blocked-up window, heavy chipboard nailed to the frame. ‘I wonder who organized this; the landlord perhaps.’ He turned to the photographs. Like everything else they were dusty. One was their college photograph, from 1936. He picked it up; his younger self looked out at him, along with Geoff and Frank, with his strange grin. The other, smaller photograph was of a man in uniform, looking out with an apprehensive stare.
Geoff whistled. ‘It’s Frank’s spitting image. It must be his father.’
Natalia studied it. ‘I have a photograph of my brother, just before he was sent to fight in Russia.’ Her voice softened. ‘His expression was like that.’
‘Frank’s father was a doctor,’ David said. ‘What did your brother do?’
She smiled sadly. ‘He painted, much better than me. He had an exhibition in Prague once.’ She turned away and opened the desk, rolling up the wooden slats with a clatter. ‘We must search this flat. You two, please search the other rooms. Look for letters, any papers or notebooks.’ She began removing papers from the dockets inside the desk, riffling through them expertly. ‘Please, we should work quickly. Pull the curtains before switching on any lights.’
Geoff said bleakly, ‘She’s right. If there’s anything here the authorities shouldn’t see, Frank would thank us for taking it.’
David went into the kitchen. His feet crunched on broken plates; there were dents in the plasterboard wall where cans had been thrown. It was hard to reconcile the pale, shrunken figure in the hospital with this manic destruction. All the cupboards were empty, bar some battered cutlery in the drawers. Geoff appeared at his elbow. ‘Nothing in the bathroom,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d leave the bedroom to you.’
‘Okay.’
David went into the bedroom. He searched the bed – the sheets needed washing – riffled through the socks and underwear in the chest of drawers, then the pockets of the few jackets and trousers hanging in the wardrobe. He found nothing apart from a farthing and screwed-up bus tickets. He bent to look under the bed and saw a big brown suitcase there. He pulled it out and slipped the clasps. Inside was a packet of some sort, wrapped in brown paper. He lifted it. Papers. His heart quickened as he undid the parcel, but it was just a collection of pornographic magazines, naked women lying on beds or sitting astride chairs. There was a collection of film magazines from the early thirties too: Jean Harlow and Katherine Hepburn and Fay Wray in soulful romantic poses. He made himself look through the magazines in case anything was hidden inside them but there was nothing. He rewrapped the packet and shoved the suitcase back under the bed, stirring up a cloud of dust.
In the lounge Geoff had righted an armchair and was sitting riffling through the books and periodicals. Natalia was still poring over the papers at Frank’s desk. She looked up.
‘Anything in the bedroom?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I’m seeing if there are any papers hidden in these,’ Geoff said. ‘Nothing so far.’ He held up a copy of an American magazine,
David took up a magazine. ‘Better than the stuff my nephews read, war comics about the fighting in Russia.’
‘Nothing in the desk,’ Natalia said. ‘Just bills and some letters from a lawyer about his mother’s estate. Oh, and these.’ She handed David a bundle of envelopes, neatly tied in a rubber band. David was surprised to see his own handwriting. It was the letters he had sent Frank over the years. He opened one.
Natalia was looking at him curiously. ‘He kept your letters,’ she said. ‘Almost like a lover.’
‘There was never anything pansy about Frank,’ David answered sharply. He thought of the pornography, but he wasn’t going to tell her about that.
‘Did you keep his letters to you?’
‘No. But then I had other friends.’ David looked round the dismal room. ‘Exactly what happened here? What was it all about? Edgar came to visit. He was drunk; he said something that pushed Frank over the edge. After all these years of holding everything in.’
‘It could have been something personal,’ Geoff suggested. ‘Some family thing.’
‘Possibly,’ Natalia agreed. She replaced the papers in the desk.
David picked up the letters. ‘I think we should take these with us.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. That might be best.’ David stuffed the packet into his overcoat pocket. Natalia wiped her dusty fingers on a handkerchief. She smiled at David, her wry smile. ‘You English hold your feelings inside yourselves; it is not surprising sometimes you crack up.’
‘Sometimes there’s a lot to hold in.’
They all jumped and turned quickly at the sound of a key in the door. Natalia’s hand went to the pocket of her coat; now David knew she had a gun in there. She stood in front of the desk as the hall door opened, and a little old
