He isn’t sure if Janssen will agree to see him. But he has to be curious, doesn’t he? The concierge makes a call, announces him; Mark is relieved when he receives a nod and is pointed towards the lifts. ‘I know where I’m going,’ says Mark, gruffly.
The lift doors glide open with a whisper. The air conditioning is brutal. Mark shivers which he regrets as he finds himself toe to toe with Daan Janssen, and he doesn’t want to look as though he is quaking in his shoes. To meet Janssen’s eye, Mark needs to look up and he hates that this man is looking down on him. Hates it. He wants to thump him. Feel the force of his fist smash into that chiselled jaw that she must have caressed, must have kissed. One swift punch wouldn’t satisfy him. Mark wants to bash away the handsomeness of his face. Ruin him. Punish him. Vent his fury and frustration. His instinct is to drop blow after blow on Janssen’s stomach, chest, head. He wants the man to drop to his knees and even that wouldn’t be enough; he wants him to collapse, crawl into a ball. Then Mark would stand over him and kick the shit out of him. Kick him in the shins, the back, the balls. Blood, spittle, cries to stop, stop would sputter all over the dark wooden floor. The violence creeps through his veins like a pervasive weed. Poisoning him. He clenches his fist. Janssen’s eyes flicker for less than a fraction of a second to the readied hand and then back to Mark’s face. Mark can see the dare in Janssen’s eyes, the desire for a punch to be thrown. Mark breathes out. Slowly. He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath.
He has to fight the fury. Keep it under lock and key. He’s not here to beat up Janssen.
Neither man offers a hand to shake. It would be ludicrous. Janssen does offer, ‘Drink?’
‘No.’
‘Sure? Water? Coffee? Vodka?’ Mark shakes his head. He could do with a water, his throat is dry and swollen, he could do with a stiff drink but he’s not going to accept a thing off this man, considering everything he’s already taken. Janssen shrugs.
‘Well, I want one.’
Mark follows Janssen through to the kitchen, where Janssen pours himself a vodka and drinks it back, a fast shot. That’s when Mark notices Janssen’s eyes are bloodshot, his skin has a filmy grey sheen to it, symptomatic of a lack of sleep. He’s not a well-looking man. How could he be? It’s only 10 a.m. and he’s drinking vodka. Mark doesn’t care if the man drinks himself to death, he just wishes he’d done so five years ago, before he met Leigh.
Disappointingly, inside the apartment there is none of the neglect Mark identified in the communal areas; obviously the cleaners are still letting themselves in here. It is so tidy and neat that Mark struggles to find something to rest his eyes on. He needs a photo – although that might break his heart – bookshelves, a print hung on the wall, something to distract. He forces himself to focus and notes that there are these things, not crammed, higgledy-piggledy in every nook and cranny like in their home, but artfully displayed on spacious shelves and walls. Restful, deliberate. He concentrates on a print of a black woman wearing enormous glasses and a green coat. It’s a hip, powerful picture, he is glad of it. He latches on to it and counts the model’s eyelashes.
‘So, you want to look around?’ asks Janssen. Mark nods. Ashamed that he wants anything at all from Janssen; he doesn’t want to be in his debt, but he craves to look around, see where they lived. How they lived. He can’t pretend otherwise. He needs it. ‘Go ahead.’ Janssen waves his hand that is holding his glass, expansively. A man with nothing to hide.
Mark wants to stride purposefully, show he is not daunted or uncomfortable, but he finds himself mooching, creeping because he is both. He moves from room to room, opening cupboards, looking behind doors. There are a lot of cupboards, Mark assumes it is the only way to keep the place looking so minimalist. Hide everything away. Janssen doesn’t ask him what he’s searching for, nor does he stop him opening cupboards, looking behind doors. It’s a big place. Mark tries to imagine Leigh sitting on the large cream leather corner sofa, no doubt it’s a designer brand that would mean something to people who care about brands. Mark doesn’t; he cares about herbaceous plants and soil drainage. He tries to imagine her in the industrial-looking kitchen, at the sleek dining-room table, perched on one of the bar stools. He can’t. He can only see her tied up in an empty room. That is the only way he sees her now.
Mark longs to see an overflowing basket of dirty washing, fridge magnets that clasp desperately to pizza delivery fliers and money-off coupons, stray debris such as hairbands, Sellotape, newspapers, Bic pens, junk mail, mugs of half-drunk tea. Something familiar. Anything. This place is sparsely furnished, impeccably clean. Nothing is out of place. They must have an army of cleaners, he thinks. There’s no way Leigh would have a house this gleaming. Then, momentarily, he feels hopeful; a random thought occurs to him. This place is neat to the point of absurdity. This is not Leigh’s place. She would never live in a place like this. There has been a mistake. His Leigh is not Kai after all, his wife is not a bigamist. It has all been a horrible, disturbing, disgusting, sickening mix-up. But he can fix it, it is not too late.
He blurts out his thought, hopeful and
