Ross Armstrong - The Girls Beneath

I walk back towards the wardrobe and see her childish things crammed hastily into the bottom below her carefully ironed dresses and tops. A soft yellow pony with long pink hair. An etch-a-sketch. Annuals and books about wizards and vampires.

The woman above. The girl just below the surface.

If you close the cupboard and tidy the bed, then only a woman remains. I place the bear back inside and close the cupboard.

Something smells blue. If it were a musical note it would be an ‘F’. If it were a texture it would be mahogany. It arrives all at once. A blue mahogany ‘F’.

‘We should go. We do try to leave everything as untouched as possible. Both to maintain evidence in the last place we know her to have been… and “cos we don’t like to intrude…” Emre says, breaking off as he sees me climbing onto her bed.

I lie face down. They say nothing. Emre is forced to nod and give the impression that all this is pretty normal stuff.

I breathe in. It’s a man’s smell but I don’t think he’s been in this bed. I admit this must look unorthodox.

I reach down into the gap between bed and wall and pluck out a piece of paper. I act like that’s all I needed. I pull it out. Cream A5, full of colour on one side. Purples, greens, blues, reds. The picture started as a useful subterfuge, but now I look at it, it could be more than that.

My eyes scan it and see patterns. Triangles here. A grid. I map it in an instant. I understand the components, the smallest minutiae of shades within shades, but my mind can’t quite make out what it’s supposed to be.

‘What is this?’ I say.

‘It’s a picture,’ she says.

‘It’s a house next to a playground,’ Emre says.

‘Does she like drawing?’ I say, taking a slow step toward her.

‘Probably. I don’t –’

‘Know everything about her, do you?’ I say.

‘She’s a girl. She takes art. I’d say she likes drawing,’ she says. I’ve riled her a little.

‘Why draw this?’ I say. I have to focus to see what they see so easily. The house and playground coming into shape like a constellation.

‘Why draw anything?’ she says.

‘Exactly!’ I say.

Emre Bartu shuffles from side to side.

‘I don’t know, I don’t recognise it, it’s just a picture,’ she says.

‘It’s quite childish,’ I say.

‘She’s a child,’ she says.

‘Not really,’ I say.

‘She’s sixteen…’ says Bartu, taking no side.

‘Would you say she’s childish? Young for her age?’

‘Not really. She’s mature. We have adult conversations.’

‘Then why does she draw like this?’

‘It’s just a picture,’ she says.

‘Have you seen it before?’ I say.

‘No…’ she says.

‘No “definitely not”, or no “maybe”?’ I say.

‘It’s just a picture,’ Bartu says, as much of a reproach as he can muster without it seeming like a professional dressing down.

I toss the paper away and head for the chest at the foot of the bed. I open the uneven bottom drawer. I run my hand along the materials inside.

I smell blue again.

Winter garments. My hand rummages further, I feel something underneath a patterned scarf, I lift it up and underneath I feel cool, smooth, synthetic material. Then I take a look and step back again, vocalising my surprise with a level of drama I didn’t intend.

‘What is it?’ she says, as she goes over to look.

Emre looks at me. I was rooting around too much. I don’t want to intrude or offend, I only want to help, but my new brain makes delicacy difficult. And it’s too late for regrets, I’ve found something.

She pulls them out from under the scarf. She looks at me tersely, then back at them.

Did you know that photo paper is mostly made from gelatine? Our images are preserved forever, burned onto crushed animal matter. You need the thickening agent of the gelatine from cow’s bones to hold the glossy silver halide crystals together.

She holds them for Emre Bartu to see and then quickly draws them away. I don’t like surprises. I didn’t want to see a young girl’s naked body. There are twenty or thirty pictures.

‘Do you think she took these herself, Ms Fraser?’ Emre Bartu says.

‘I don’t know. I don’t think she has a Polaroid.’

‘Maybe a friend has one,’ Bartu says.

‘I wouldn’t know, I’m sorry.’

I could say, ‘I think there’s an awful lot you don’t know’ at this point, but I manage not to. She’s looking at me differently now. Grudgingly pleased we’ve shown a bit more fervour than the last two did. I don’t want to spoil this emerging good will.

‘Should I be worried about this?’ she says.

‘Depends what sort of friend took them,’ Emre says. Careful, Bartu.

‘Yeah, it does,’ she says, staring at them. She offers them back to me, unsure what the protocol dictates. Her hand shakes a little as she pushes them it towards me.

‘No! No. Put them back where we found them, I think,’ I say, glancing at Emre.

We can’t bring evidence back with us. We’ll have to do this without analysing anything, officially anyway. We need to leave everything as we found it, like night thieves covering their tracks. That way it will be longer until we’re found out.

‘Thanks for your time. We should go,’ he says again.

‘Please, take my number, in case you need anything,’ I say, handing her one of my pre-prepared cards. Emre tenses up again as I do so.

‘Thank you,’ she says. She’s grateful. A profound sensation of joy comes over me. We head downstairs, I think about the blue smell as we reach her door, the smell that would feel like mahogany, and sound like an ‘F’ note.

‘Who wears the aftershave?’ I say.

‘No one, we haven’t had a man in this house for five years.’

My olfactory sense is good but not that good.

‘Tanya’s dad?’

‘Is in Canada. They’ve never met. And they don’t need to.’

‘And five years ago?’ Emre says.

‘A boyfriend I was seeing, but I’m through with all that.’

We nod and I work through the possibilities. A man has been there and not so long ago. That’s what it smells like to me.

‘It’s probably my perfume you can smell. Is it important?’

I take in the oddness of the structure of this sentence. They both take in the oddness of me.

‘No, not important. Yes, it’s probably the perfume,’ I lie.

Then I notice a Siberian cat with canary-coloured eyes creep up to the front door and pry in. It looks up at me, I return the favour and we understand each other somehow.

‘Monkey,’ she says. ‘Come on in.’ She picks him up and gives me a look. Bartu is as amazed as he should be by this partial confirmation of my previous deduction. But I don’t even smile, I just revel in it. Then ponder…

Monkey? What sort of name is that for a cat? You can call it any stupid name you want, but don’t call it the name of another existing animal. Language is tough enough without that kind of nonsense. That really annoys me for a second. I resolve to remember to name my cat, but be a lot more careful than she’s been about it.

I nod to her and turn to leave abruptly. Emre follows, saying ‘Bye then’. By the time she says it in return I’m ten feet away and walking back to the station.

I notice it’s getting dark as Emre appears alongside me. I think about what sort of man would’ve worn that aftershave. I think about the colour blue. I think about why she’s lying to me.

9

‘My body is tired, tired, tired

But my brain is wired, wired, in the night

My liver is fired, like a fire alight in the cold

Think we’ll keep the thing alive before we get too old’