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‘Do you happen to know, if he … well, was he in a relationship with anyone that you knew about?’
Joe shakes his head, sadly. ‘Not that I know of. He never mentions anyone, at least. And I guess his lifestyle, out there in Africa, it’s probably a single guy’s existence, y’know?’
‘Yeah. I suppose it is. Could I – Would you mind? If I just took some photos of these?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Sure. Go ahead.’
I get out my phone and arrange the photos on the kitchen counter. ‘And you said that you had an email address for him? I don’t suppose you’d be able to give that to me?’
For the first time, Joe looks uncertain. ‘I mean’ – he strokes his chin – ‘I mean, I could. I guess. But I wonder if maybe he’s trying to lay low? On purpose? Would it be an infringement of his privacy?’
‘Oh, Joe. What a sweet thing to worry about. And you’re right to think about it. Absolutely. But no, he’s definitely not lying low on purpose. He was desperate for this reunion, desperate for us all to get together again, after everything we’ve been through, as a family. It was all he ever wanted.’
‘But you must have it, right? If you’ve been talking to him? You must already have it?’
He’s lost me. ‘Have what?’
‘Finn’s email address?’
‘Ah!’
Good question.
‘Good question,’ I say. ‘We, er, we always talked on WhatsApp, actually. Never on email. But his messages aren’t landing now. And he’s not answering his phone. And it’s all … a bit of a worry.’
Joe still looks uncertain, but I can see him wavering. ‘Sure,’ he says, picking up his phone. ‘Sure. Here. It’s[emailprotected]’
I want to ask him how Phin has spelled his name, but realise that that will sound alarm bells, so I write it as I’ve been told Phin now spells it and smile gratefully. ‘Fantastic,’ I say. ‘Really fantastic, thank you. And I don’t suppose you know if there’s anyone in the city who might have more of an idea about him? Or his whereabouts? I mean, does he use an agent to rent you this place? Or do you rent it through him directly?’
‘Yeah. Through him directly. Or at least, my parents do.’
I can tell that Joe is starting to tire of this. I’m asking too many questions and he’s not sure he should be answering them. Asking for his parents’ details now would be pushing him way outside his comfort zone so I clap my hands together and say, ‘Well, I think it’s time to leave you be. I’ve infringed on your time far too much as it is. But thank you. Thank you so much, Joe. If I find anything out, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
I smile and bow my head slightly, sling my bag across my chest and then I say, ‘Would you mind terribly’ – I never use the word ‘terribly’ in England, but I feel it has a certain power here – ‘if I used your bathroom before I hit the road?’
‘Sure. Yeah. It’s just off the hallway.’ He points me in the general direction. I ape his movements and he nods.
The toilet is opposite his bedroom. I can’t help but poke my head around the door, just to see – just to let my gaze come down upon Phin’s bed, where he once slept, with God knows who, maybe some of the people I now have images of on my phone, the ones he has his arm around, the ones he drank with, ate with, laughed with, loved. The bed is neatly made: grey sheets with Moroccan-style cushions and a cream throw with knotted edges. It sits in a bay window, overlooking the street. I close my eyes and picture myself there, in that bed, unfurling myself after a night spent curled into Phin’s solid back, running my fingertip over his solitary tattoo. I open my eyes again and see the empty bed. Joe is the only link I have to Phin, I realise. If I walk out of here, I’m back to square one.
I use the bathroom and then return to the living room, where Joe is putting my water glass in the dishwasher.
‘I’m in town’, I say, ‘for another couple of nights. I’m staying in Northalsted. If you wanted to meet up, maybe, for dinner? Or just drinks? You have my number, I suppose. In your phone. Just call. Or message.’
I read his face for his response. I see something flicker across it: a kind of dark dread. It makes me want to slap him.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Yes. Maybe. Though I’m kind of booked up. But if I think of anything else, about Finn, I’ll drop you a message.’
I smile grimly. No more of the Hugh Grant. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Well, anyway, thanks for your time.’
I leave Joe there loading his dishwasher in his bare feet and Ilet the door slam closed loudly. I picture him on his phone, calling Lyle, saying, ‘Whoa, that guy was intense. I think I’m gonna block him.’ I feel a throb of rage across my temples. I breathe it away and I order an Uber.
While I wait for it to arrive, I stand across the street and stare up at the bay window inside which, I now know, sits Phin’s double bed. A moment later I see Joe’s face appear at the bay. I raise a hand to him. Just for fun.
