The Child Who

Leo glanced over his shoulder, at the guard still whispering into his phone. He looked at Cummins, at his fleshy grin about to vanish behind a sheen of metal. And then he sprung: between the doors and into the lift, in pursuit of his very last hope.

He had lied. The address was a fake. The name too, probably. Leo had half a mind to go back there. Not half a mind: he would. Right now. He would call the police if it came to it, or threaten to, or—

He stopped mid-step, squinted at Cummins’s scrawl on the scrap of paper. Unless… this was it. Was it? The address, after twenty minutes searching, seemed to match. Flat 2, 2b Plymouth New Road, which did not sound like a real address at all – but here, on a door that looked like a fire exit, was a 2 and a drunken b. There were no names on the buzzers so Leo pressed the middle one of the three. He held it, until the buzzing gave way to static.

‘Yeah? Who’s there?’

‘Mr, er…’ Leo checked the name again, then changed his mind and slipped the note into his pocket. ‘Er… Archie? Is that you?’

‘Yeah. S’right. Who’s that?’

‘This is, um, Tim Cummins. From the Post.’ Leo put on his deepest, fattest voice. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Tim? What’s up? Can it wait? I’m not exactly up yet.’

Leo looked incredulously at his watch. ‘No! It can’t! I mean…’ Deeper. Fatter. ‘Just let me in. Er, buddy. It’s important.’

There was a groan, followed by a rasping sound: an intercom receiver, perhaps, being dragged across sandpaper skin. And then a pause, which extended – until a siren-loud buzzing beckoned Leo in.

The hallway was windowless and unlit. Leo stood blind amid a stench like bins until a cleft of light broke the darkness on the landing.

‘Hit the lights,’ came a voice. ‘The switch right beside you.’

Leo reached for the wall, then pulled back. He headed instead for the hulking shadow of the staircase.

‘On the wall. Right beside you. Oh for God’s sake. Here.’ Movement: the silhouette of a shuffling dressing gown. And then the bulb in the hallway came on, casting a light as thick as the lingering odour. Leo was only halfway up the stairs.

‘Tim? Is that… You! What the hell are you doing here?’

Leo accelerated. He started bounding up the stairs two by two.

Archie, the photographer, took fright. He did not wait for Leo to explain but dived from the light switch on the landing back towards his apartment door. He tripped, on the cord of his dressing gown, and fell through the doorway. He landed with a yelp just as Leo scrambled to the threshold.

‘What do you want? What are you doing here?’ Archie rolled onto his heels and hands. He scrabbled backwards as Leo advanced.

‘The photographs. The ones you took of my family. I need to see them.’

‘But how did you…’ Archie collided crown-first with a wall. His hand slipped beneath him and he crumpled once again onto the grubby carpet. He reached for his head and screwed up his eyes. ‘Ow. Fucking ow.’

Leo hesitated. The man in front of him was a mess. Beneath his robe, which was hanging from one shoulder and gaping across his girlish frame, he had on boxers and a vest: the type Leo wore, and that made even Leo feel old. His eyes were slits and his skin pale. Symptoms of spending too much time in a darkroom, Leo would have said, had he not seen the man looking perfectly healthy the last time they had met.

‘What’s wrong with you? Are you okay?’

‘No. I’m fucking not.’ The man shuffled until he was sitting, shifting his weight onto his backside and hooking his arms over his knees. He hung his head. ‘I’m fucking dying. What the hell do you want?’

‘I told you, I… Look. Really. Can I get you something?’

Archie laughed, as though tickled by his impending wit. The laugh turned into a cough. ‘Some morphine, maybe. A replacement head. Even a Bloody Mary might do the trick.’

A Bloody Mary? Leo took another step. He leant and he sniffed. ‘You’re hungover?’

‘Actually, scratch that.’ Archie pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. ‘Just the thought of vodka makes me wanna…’

Leo dropped beside him, grabbed his dressing gown and shook the man straight. ‘The photographs! Where are they!’

‘Ow! For fuck’s sa—’

‘I don’t have time for this! I need the photographs now.’

‘Seriously! The decibels! I told you, I’m fucking dy—’

‘I DON’T CARE.’ Each word seemed to strike like a blow. Leo tried standing, meaning to drag the photographer upright. ‘STAND UP. STAND UP!’ He hauled but the man was like a ton of sleeping cat. ‘I’M NOT GOING TO ASK YOU AGAIN! STAND UP! I SAID, STAND—’

‘Okay!’ Archie reached a hand to the wall. He started to claw himself vertical. ‘Just stop shouting, will you?’ He found his feet and dragged a hand across his pallid face. He blinked.

‘The photo—’

‘The photographs. I heard you. Just give me a minute. Okay? Five fucking seconds.’

He looked left, right, then stumbled deeper into the apartment. Leo followed. At the doorway to the living room, he stopped short, marvelling at the scene beyond. It was carnage. A battlefield, with the casualties yet to be removed. There was a girl curled between ashtrays on a flammable-looking sofa, and a man strewn across an armchair. Beneath Jimi Hendrix posters sagging from the smoke-stained walls, record sleeves vied with beer bottles for floor space. There were patches, too, of visible carpet: person-shaped, suggesting not all of Archie’s guests had failed to make it home.

‘I told you I’d delete them. Didn’t I?’

Leo turned. Archie seemed to be searching for somewhere to slump. He settled for a spot furthest from the daylight that was seeping through the blinds, in the shade of a gargantuan rubber plant.

Archie was right. Leo had forgotten. Not forgotten: he had not believed what the photographer had told him in the first place. ‘Did you?’

Archie shrugged, shook his head. ‘Nope.’ He extended a foot, prodded a laptop beside the coffee table with a toe. ‘They’re on there. Help yourself. But hey! Mind the carpet!’

Leo, in his rush, had toppled a highball. The liquid inside merely merged into a pre-existing stain.

‘It’s not working.’ Leo was kneeling now, pressing, holding, prodding the computer’s on button. He looked at Archie, who had his eyes closed.

‘The battery’s buggered,’ the photographer said. ‘You need to plug it in. But seriously!’ At the sound of clinking beer bottles, Archie opened his eyes and raised his drooping head. ‘You’re making a mess!’

Leo knocked over another bottle as he lunged for a power socket. He ignored Archie’s remonstrations and beat the plug into the wall.

‘What’s the password?’ Leo said, when the screen on the laptop prompted him. ‘Archie! What’s the—’

‘Jimi!’ Archie snapped back. ‘That’s i, m, i, all lower case.’

Leo typed two-fingered. ‘And the folder. Which folder? Jesus, Archie, there’s hundreds of—’

‘The date! They’re sorted by date. You’re really not helping my headache, you know. I should call the fuzz or something.’

Archie grumbled on but Leo stopped listening. He was searching the photographer’s hard drive, which was mercifully better organised than the man’s living space. Kneeling over the screen and working his fingertip clumsily on the touchpad, Leo located a directory that was arranged by month. He found February, and then the week, and then the day of their trip to Dawlish. He clicked again, twice in succession, and the screen was filled with thumbnails of his daughter. On the village green carrying her ice cream. In the parlour choosing the flavour. Outside, on the pavement. Emerging, further up the street, from the clothes shop with Meg. In her seat, on the train, marvelling at the sea.

Leo dragged the computer to the top of his thighs and leant his head in close. His daughter. Image after image of his daughter and in not one of them, it struck Leo, was Ellie smiling. He reached a fingertip to touch his