For Reasons Unknown. Michael Wood
room was his haven. Every night when he finished work he would have a bite to eat, usually a sandwich, then go into his reading room – closing the door behind him, locking himself away from the outside world – and absorb himself in fantasy.
Reading the exploits of detectives such as Wexford, Jordan, Thorne, Banks, Dalziel and Pascoe, Dalgliesh, Frost, Grace, Rebus, Stanhope, Cooper and Fry, Serrailler, and Morse he was able to leave behind his own life and troubles and be somebody else.
He would read until his eyes stung with fatigue before retiring to bed and falling asleep, hopefully dreaming of his favourite detectives and not of the horror that haunted his real life.
Jonathan was a Luddite. He did not own a television or a computer. He didn’t have a mobile phone and had no interest in the Internet. He didn’t own any CDs and the only music he listened to was whatever the radio station was playing when he was woken up in the morning. His life revolved around books.
By the time Jonathan arrived home it was pitch-black and the temperature was well below freezing. He was wrapped up in a knee-length black reefer coat, had a black scarf swathed around his neck several times, and black leather gloves. He held himself rigid, his body language closed and stiff, not all due to the cold; he was always tense.
He carried two plastic bags. One contained the bare essentials from the corner shop: butter, milk, coffee, cheese, bread, and the other three paperbacks from the bookshop. Even when he had the day off, he couldn’t stay away from the place.
He opened the main door leading into the well-lit communal hallway. His neighbour directly above him, Maun Barrington, was at her post box. Her eyes lit up when she saw him and she smiled.
‘Hello Jonathan, you’re home late,’ she said.
‘I’ve not worked today, had a few things to do.’ He pulled the scarf down from around his mouth. He didn’t make eye contact and kept his head bowed. He had learned to judge who was around him without looking up and actually seeing.
Her smile dropped. ‘It’s not like you to take time off work.’ She waited, expecting him to elaborate but he didn’t. ‘It’s a cold one today isn’t it?’ she asked, desperate to keep the conversation going.
‘It certainly is,’ he said, unlocking his post box and taking out the single item of junk mail. He looked at the envelope, saw it was a circular offering him cheap broadband, and immediately tore it in half; placing it in the bin under the table.
‘I bet we’re in for a long winter, don’t you?’ Maun said looking outside into the darkness. ‘So depressing.’
Jonathan was just opening the interior door taking him to the corridor where the two ground-floor apartments were when she stopped him.
‘Jonathan, I don’t mean to intrude but…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I know tomorrow is the day of the demolition. It can’t be an easy time for you.’
‘No it’s not. Not much I can do about it though. It’s not my house.’
‘Are you going?’
He thought about it even though his mind was already made up. ‘Yes, just for a while.’
‘Would you like me to come with you?’
He gave her a feeble smile. ‘That’s nice of you to offer but no thanks.’
‘I don’t mind.’
I bet you don’t. ‘No, honestly, it’s fine. I’m going into work straight afterwards. I just want to see it get started. I’ll only be there about ten minutes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive.’ He edged further into the corridor.
‘Well, you know where I am if you change your mind.’
He smiled at her once again and walked quickly away. Conversation over.
Maun Barrington was in her early sixties. She was a widow and had been for almost twenty years. She and Jonathan were very alike; neither had any family and no friends to speak of. The only difference was Maun wanted people around her whereas Jonathan didn’t. She liked Jonathan. She was happy to have him in her life. Nobody else in the building acknowledged her and she looked forward to her conversations with him. She wished he would stay for longer chats, or accept the many invitations to dinner in her flat that she offered.
As Jonathan left she went upstairs into her own home and closed the front door behind her. The layout to her flat was identical to Jonathan’s. She stood in the hallway in silence and listened intently. She heard footsteps coming from below. Jonathan was moving into the kitchen. She went into her kitchen. She heard the sound of running water; he was probably washing his hands. She washed her hands.
From the kitchen, Jonathan made his way into the living room and turned on the fire. He then went into every room and closed the curtains. Upstairs, Maun copied his movements.
It was a strange sensation arriving home to a cold, empty house but it was something Matilda would have to get used to.
She switched on the lights in the living room and kitchen and poured herself a large glass of vodka from the freezer. Next to the kettle were her tablets. She popped two antidepressants from their blister pack and swallowed them with a mouthful of alcohol. She followed that with two herbal mood lifters she’d bought. Neither seemed to be working. She went into the living room and flopped onto the sofa. She was living in a four-bedroom house all on her own. It was far too big, but her husband had bought this place for them to grow old in. He designed the interior, drew up the plans for the attic conversion and the conservatory. Everything had his mark, his personality on it. She couldn’t leave here.
Without putting the glass down she struggled to pull the files and photographs out of her bag and slapped them onto the coffee table. She would read through them and make notes until she couldn’t keep her eyes open, then force herself to go to bed. At least she wouldn’t be thinking of James and the heartache of losing him.
On the mantelpiece was a silver-framed photograph of her and James on their wedding day. He looked very handsome in his dark grey suit. His brilliant smile lit up his face and he had the warm blue eyes of a young Paul Newman. He had a few laughter lines but they added character. He was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. Next to him was the grinning Matilda in a floor-length white dress. It was a simple yet elegant design. She held onto her husband and beamed into the camera. She was happy. They were both happy.
Now the life had gone out of Matilda. Her skin was grey and her hair lifeless. She couldn’t remember the last time she had smiled like that. She looked up at the photograph and her whole body ached. She missed him so much.
Her body was lethargic but she had work to do. She lifted herself up The files and photographs she’d taken out of her bag were mingled together into a confused mess on the coffee table. How apt, she thought. The whole case was a mess, her head was a mess.
Pushing aside the files, she found Charlie Johnson’s book and opened it at random. She leaned back on the sofa and read aloud. As long as she couldn’t hear the sound of the ticking clock she wouldn’t feel quite so alone.
‘Chapter six: Brotherly Love?’ She looked at her wedding photo once again as if she was reading to her dead husband. ‘The age gap between Matthew and Jonathan was obviously problematic. According to neighbours, the brothers rarely interacted and were never seen together. The Harkness parents were busy with their successful careers, and, although they had a nanny when Matthew was growing up, there wasn’t one for Jonathan.
‘Jonathan was often left with neighbours after school if his parents were working late or was enrolled in several after-school clubs. During the school holidays he was