Emily Barr - The Sleeper

‘I was waiting for you to do it.’

‘And I was chivalrously going to leave it to you.’

‘Well, let’s just consider it said.’

I realised, as we walked around the gallery, that I knew almost nothing about Alex, and that I was, effectively, looking at paintings, speculating about school groups and gaggles of students, listening into parts of other people’s lectures, with a stranger. Until today, we had talked only of Lara.

‘What do you think of this jungle stuff?’ he said, as we stood in front of a painting called Surprised by Henri Rousseau. It was a jungle scene painted by someone who had never been to a jungle, with a tiger baring its teeth, and stylised greenery.

‘I like it, but I wouldn’t stand in front of it for hours,’ I decided. ‘Though it’s funny that in a room that also contains Van Gogh’s Sunflowers and a load of Cézannes, we both headed straight over here. It’s kind of compelling. It’s very much of its time, isn’t it? Wasn’t Rousseau a customs officer?’

‘ Le douanier – exactly.’

‘But it’s quite problematic these days, isn’t it? I mean, there are layers to that: he’s a customs officer, feted by the art world, treated as a darling little man accidentally producing these adorable primitive paintings. And his paintings are of jungle scenes, full of colonial undercurrents and steeped in orientalism and “the other”. It says here that he copied the leaves from the botanical gardens in Paris.’

Alex was looking at me, smiling his little smile. ‘Absolutely. It’s a historic relic of its time, rather than a timeless masterpiece. It’s fascinating, though, isn’t it? The social strata. The hierarchy. The way everyone condescends to the layer below them.’

‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘And you know this gallery as well as I do. I half thought I was going to be condescending myself, you know. Showing the Cornish policeman a bit of London culture. And yet that is not the case. I know nothing about you, Alex Zielowski. So you’ve lived in London?’

He looked down at me, amused. ‘The Zielowski should have been a clue. I’m not Cornish through and through, though I did grow up there. But yes, I came to university in London. I lived here for years, then went back to Cornwall for the whole “lifestyle” thing, the way people do. Also, because it felt like home and I suppose I got a bit old and boring and fancied running into old school mates in the pub and all of that. Going for a Sunday surf. Walking the coast path to a pub.’

‘Was there a girl involved? I bet there was.’

He laughed. ‘Is it that obvious? Yes. Juliet. It didn’t work out. Evidently. I thought about leaving Cornwall when we split up, but by then I found I didn’t want to. She’s still there. She’s married now, with a baby. And weirdly, we’re the best of friends. We get on far better now than we ever did when we were together.’

We were in the hall of the gallery now, walking towards the exit. I thought it was nice that he was friends with his ex. That said nothing but good things about him. Alex was lovely, and gentle; he was not fiery like Laurie. He was predictable, where Laurie was tempestuous.

I pushed the thought out of my head.

chapter twenty-two

The bar was indeed in an underground public toilet, the steps leading down to it on the corner of Aldwych, right in the middle of the West End.

‘You’re sure about this?’ asked Alex, as we stood at the top of the staircase. ‘We do seem, literally, to be heading down the pan.’

‘This was the last thing Lara and Guy did together. Well, nearly. I know things have moved on, but we have to check it out.’

‘We don’t have to. But we will. It’s a bit intriguing. I mean, why the hell, of all the places around here …’

The doorman was watching us from a couple of steps down.

‘We booked,’ I told him, realising that I had to take charge. ‘Iris Roebuck. Two people.’

‘Sure.’ He had dimples in his cheeks when he smiled. ‘You have a great evening, now.’

As soon as we reached the bottom of the staircase, I saw that it was going to be fine: this place was nowhere near as weird as I had expected it to be. It was a tiny bar, with mirrored walls disguising exactly how small it actually was. Six tables were crammed into the small space, three high ones with bar stools and three normal-sized ones. All of them were occupied by a clientele that looked like the least threatening crowd in the whole of central London. Two tables were taken up by a crowd of women with short skirts and heels and laughing red mouths. They were, I thought, in their thirties and forties, on a big night out. A couple in their fifties sat at the next table, resolutely dressed down and wearing the slightly baffled air of the new-to-London. There was a young Japanese couple; a couple who looked slightly awkward with each other as if this might be a first date; two women giggling and drinking Prosecco.

The bar itself was stocked with spirits.

‘Hi there,’ said a young man behind it. He was fair and relaxed, confident in his familiar role as dispenser of booze. ‘You get a free glass of bubbly. Would you like it now?’

‘We certainly would.’ Alex was at least as relieved as I was. As all the tables were taken, we stood at the bar, shifting around. I was uncomfortable in my new shoes, even though they were flat. The ten pound booking fee did not guarantee us a table, clearly. It did, however, get us our first drink.

I shrugged my coat off, awkwardly.

‘Oh my God,’ said Alex, suddenly, fervently. I was startled, even scared. He said it so loudly, sounded so incredibly surprised.

‘What?’

‘You. You look sensational.’

We both looked down at my dress, which was red and velvety. I had bought it on my first day in London.

‘And that is so incredibly astonishing?’

‘Take the compliment,’ the barman told me, to my mortification. ‘And you know what? He’s right.’

‘Um,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

He slid two glasses of pale bubbles across the counter. I took one.

‘Thanks. Look. You know, you’ll be sick of people asking you this, but a friend of mine was here a few weeks ago. I know you’ve had journalists and everything here, but I’m just wondering if you remember her. And her friend.’

I thought of Guy, suddenly ambushed by the fact that this man I had never met was dead. I wanted to meet him. I never would. He was gone: someone had stabbed him with a knife until he no longer existed. And the night before that happened, he had been right here, exactly where I was now.

He sighed heavily and started fiddling with something behind the bar.

‘Here.’ He passed it to me. It was, incongruously, a basket of popcorn. I gave it to Alex. ‘Yeah. Your friend? Terrible business.’

‘She didn’t kill him, you know. She can’t have done. It was someone else, and they’ve got away. With her.’

‘People do weird things when they’re obsessed with somebody.’

I tried a piece of popcorn and remembered that I didn’t like it. Alex was quiet; I sensed disapproval.

‘She can’t have done it. I know she didn’t. Do you remember them when they were here?’

‘The police say she did. That’s probably good enough for me.’ I looked at Alex, who frowned his reluctance to be introduced by his job title. ‘And yeah,’ the barman continued. ‘Actually. I do.’

‘What were they like?’

A waitress with artfully tousled long hair and a pair of children’s fairy wings on her back came to the bar and pushed a piece of paper at him.

‘And two Proseccos,’ she added.

‘I’m on it.’

I watched him making three cocktails, pouring two glasses of Prosecco and taking the top off a bottle of beer. At last it was all done and the waitress returned to load it on to her tray. Alex did not say a word as we waited, and I did not look at him.