envelope on the table. Unopened. “It’s handy for the shops.”
He put his hands in his pockets and stood in the middle of my living room as if he were rehearsing being the owner. He looked like the squire of a very small estate indeed.
“You’re not from London,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“You don’t sound like it,” he said. “I’m trying to place you. With your name you should be Armenian. But you don’t sound Armenian. Not that I know what Armenians sound like. Maybe they all sound like you.”
I felt oddly sensitive when people looking around the flat turned personal as if we were all going to be good friends, but I couldn’t help smiling.
“I grew up in a village near Sheffield.”
“Different from London.”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause for mutual thought.
“I’d like to think about this,” Nick said with an earnest expression. “Would it be all right if I came back and had another look sometime?”
I was dubious about whether it was specifically the flat he was interested in, but it didn’t bother me too much. Even a crumb of enthusiasm was something.
“Fine,” I said.
“Can I ring you or do I need to go through the estate agent?”
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m at work quite a lot.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a teacher in a primary school.”
“That’s great,” he said. “All those holidays.”
I forced a smile.
“Your number,” he said. “Can you give it to me?”
I told him and he typed it into what looked like a chunky pocket calculator.
“Good to meet you, erm…?”
“Zoe.”
“Zoe.”
I heard him trip down the stairs two at a time and I was left alone with my letter. I pretended to myself to be casual about it for a bit. I made myself an instant coffee and lit a cigarette. Then I opened it and spread it out on the table before me:
It was stupid but I glanced up and around, as if I might catch someone next to me.
I put the paper back on the table. I walked across the room and out onto the landing. Sure enough the window that looked down on the garden I wasn’t allowed to go into was raised a couple of feet. I shivered. I almost felt that there was a chill in the flat, like in a cellar, though I knew it was a clammy hot evening. I went back into the living room and sat by the phone. I wanted to be sick. But was it an emergency? Was it anything?
I compromised. I looked up the nearest police station in the phone book and phoned it. I had a slightly complicated conversation with a woman at the desk, who seemed to be looking for excuses to put the phone down. I said there had been a break-in and she asked what had been stolen and what damage had been done. I said no damage and I wasn’t sure what had been stolen.
“Is this a police matter?” the voice asked wearily.
“I’ve been threatened,” I said. “Threatened with violence.”
The discussion went on for quite a few minutes more, and after a conversation with a third party, inadequately masked by a hand over the receiver, she said that somebody would call round “in due course,” whatever that meant. I went from window to window, locking them when I could, fastening bolts. As if somebody was going to climb into a first-floor window in full view of Holloway Road. I didn’t switch on the TV or play music. I wanted to be able to hear anything. I just smoked cigarette after cigarette and sipped a beer.
It was over an hour later that the doorbell rang. I walked down to the street door but didn’t open it.
“Who’s there?”
There was a muffled sound from behind the door.
“What?”
Another muffled sound. Awkwardly I pulled back the stiff-sprung opening of the letterbox and looked out. I saw dark blue cloth. I opened the door. There were two police officers. Their car was parked behind them.
“Do you want to come in?”
They didn’t reply but looked at each other and stepped forward. I led them up the stairs. Both of them took off their caps as they entered the house. I wondered if it was an ancient form of respect toward women. To make things worse, I get nervous around the police. I tried to remember if there was anything illegal in the flat, in the fridge or on the mantelpiece. I didn’t think so but my mind wasn’t working very efficiently, so I couldn’t be sure. I pointed to the letter on the table. Maybe I shouldn’t touch it. It might be evidence. One of the officers stepped forward and leaned over the table, reading it. It took him quite a long time. I saw he had a long Roman nose, with a lump where it met his head.
“You’ve had another letter from this person?” he asked finally.
“Yes, I got one a few days ago. On Wednesday, I think.”
“Where is it?”
I’d been waiting for this.
“I threw it away,” I said, a bit guiltily, and then quickly started speaking before he could get cross with me. “I’m sorry. I know it was a stupid thing to do. I just got upset by it.”
But the officer didn’t get cross. He didn’t seem worried at all. Or even especially interested.
“Did you check the window?”
“Yes. It was open.”
“Can you show us?”
I led them out of the room. They followed in rather a heavy sort of way, as if they were being asked to do too much for something so trivial.
“The pub garden’s down there,” the other officer murmured, peering through the window. Roman Nose nodded. “He could’ve seen the window from down there.”
They turned and walked back to the living room.
“Can you think of anybody who might have sent this? Old boyfriend, someone at work, that sort of thing?”
I took a deep breath and told them about the melon and the mail it had provoked. They both laughed.
“That was you?” said Roman Nose rather cheerily. He turned to the other officer. “Danny was first at the scene at that one.” He turned back to me. “Nice one. We’ve got your picture up in the station. Quite a heroine you are to us.” He chuckled. “Watermelon, eh? Better than a truncheon any day.” There was crackling in his radio. He pressed a button and a voice said something that was unintelligible to me. “That’s all right. We’ll be along in a minute. See you there.” He looked back at me. “That’s it, then.”
“What?”
“You get your face in the paper, this sort of thing happens.”
“But he’s broken in, he’s threatened me.”
