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Oh, fucking merde. My poor, beautiful summer lover. I banged my fist on the wall with frustration, my eyes flooded with tears. “It’s me, mon chéri, I promise you. We’re silver and green, remember? Can you remember that? The shadows—the creatures—they don’t know our colours. It was our special secret.”
“I’ve never told anyone your colour.”
Mon dieu, so childlike. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. A man passed by, head down, and hurrying. I wound my fingers through my hair, wondering whether I should call the police or ask a passer-by for help.
“Why don’t you text me the code for the door? Instead of saying it? And then they won’t hear.”
“Sshh! You must talk quietly. I’m worried they’re going to get you, too.”
“Then can I come and hide in the bathroom with you? So I can be safe too? We can be a team again? Please Charles? I’d really like that.” Please say yes, please say yes.
Pause. “I’d like that too.”
Oh putain. My heart clenched. “So can you text the code? Please, chéri? Just for me?”
Why were lifts never waiting at the level you wanted them to be? Why did smacking the button again and again never speed them up? And why did the doors take fucking forever to close?
Thank God, he sent me both codes, one to the outside security door and the other to his penthouse. Not that getting inside his home was straightforward, because a towel was wedged up against the other side of the heavy apartment door, sealing the crack underneath. And the handle covered in slippery soap. And then, once I’d located the light switch, I found the rest of the obstacle course to negotiate.
The penthouse opened straight into a vast sitting room, with floor-to-ceiling windows at one end leading out to a balcony, showcasing spectacular views over the London skyline. Not that I gave a shit. The smell hit me first—mon dieu—as if he’d hurled a few litres of neat bleach across the floor. I bunched my coat up over my nose, my eyes already stinging.
If it hadn’t been full of so much crap, the place would have been a sophisticated bachelor’s wet dream At some point over the last few days, Charles’s crazy warped mind had told him to build a barrier, I guessed, or a fort in which to crawl and hide. Either that or he’d been burgled. A sofa had been tilted on its side and a coffee table leaned up against it, then sheets and cushions piled up over both. Books and papers covered every available surface. Coffee cups, spilled or growing mould, were scattered across the polished wood floor. Pills in different shapes, sizes, and colours thrown like marbles around the room, abandoned empty blister packs carelessly discarded.
And the paintings. Mon dieu, the paintings. Graffitied straight onto the white walls. I couldn’t bear look at those.
The rooms beyond lay in darkness. I recognised the master bedroom from the photos he’d sent, although only just, given the state of it. Two doors led off—the first stood ajar, revealing a dressing room, the second shut tight. I crept up to it, and gave a gentle tap.
“Charles, c’est moi. Florian. Your silver.”
A beat went by. Nothing.
“Let me in, mon trésor. Please.”
Another beat. And then another. My heart stopped.
And then I heard the dull click of a lock drawing back. I was in.
My suave summer lover had vanished. Or rather, he was unrecognisable. Unkempt and gaunt, God knew how long it had been since he’d showered. Ten kilos thinner too; when had he last bothered to eat? Snot caked his nose, the skin around it dry and flaky. As soon as he opened up, he dragged me in before dropping into a crouch on the floor. He wedged a towel up against the door before shrinking into the farthest corner, hugging his knees to his chest.
But hey, he was still alive. So there was that.
I squatted next to him, almost scared to touch in case he suddenly lashed out, like a cornered wild animal. “Hey, my sweet,” I crooned. “It’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”
“Missed you too,” he whispered back. His voice trembled. “I haven’t been doing so good, Florian, I’m afraid. Sorry. I’ve… I seem to have lost myself.”
“That’s okay. Because I’ve found you.”
His fingers picked shakily at a thread on the seam of his trousers. Untrusting slate grey eyes flicked up at me before dropping back to his task. “Lost myself somewhere bad, I think. Can’t get back.”
Carefully, cautiously, I placed my hand on his bony shoulder. “You’re still in there, Charles. I can still see the real you.” Fractured, shattered, but still there. “And we’ll find a way back together. I promise.”
“I’m scared, Florian. I think they’re going to work out how to get in tonight. They want me to kill myself, Florian. And I don’t want to, but I can’t hold them back much longer.”
My breath stopped in my throat. “I know, mon chèri, but I’m here to help fight them. We’re going to face them together.”
Hesitating, I slid my hand down his arm and closed it over one of his. He flinched but didn’t pull away as I rubbed my thumb across his dry, cold skin. So fucking cold. He was only dressed in a pair of wrinkled suit trousers. How long had he been cowering on these ceramic floor tiles?
“Can I… can I give you a hug? It’s not very warm in here, Charles. I’m cold, too.”
