Chapter Thirty-Three

Frankie loomed large over me. He was dressed in black, saggy jogging bottoms and a ragged T-shirt. The hallway was dark, and his hair stuck up at odd angles, as if he had just spent a few minutes rubbing his fingers through it. He was caught in silhouette by the light that crept in through the stained glass panels over the doors.

‘Go in there,’ he said, pointing towards the room at the front of the house that looked towards the Gilbert house. His voice was deep, too deep, so that it sounded distorted, like an old 45 played on 33.

As I entered the living room, the smell became stronger.

‘Bloody hell, Frankie, what the hell have you been doing in here?’ I said, before I could stop myself.

Although the windows were dirty, and the net curtains old and grey, there was enough light to illuminate the scene. Old newspapers and magazines were piled up against one wall, stacked into uneven towers reaching almost to the ceiling, like newsprint Jenga, and they looked like they could topple over at any moment. And then there was the kitchen rubbish—old cereal boxes and carrier bags overflowing with pieces of paper and rotting food. Against the other wall were black binbags, knotted together. I kicked one, just to gauge what might be inside. It was heavy, dense, and when I peered inside, I could see dirty rags.

‘I don’t have a washing machine,’ Frankie said.

I looked around, and then looked down at his clothes. There were sweat rings under his arms and food stains on his pants. I guessed he didn’t have a table either.

‘I just buy more clothes when I need them,’ he said, by way of explanation.

‘But this is a health hazard,’ I said.

Frankie’s shrug was his only reply.

I tried to work him out. Tony was right, there was something not quite right about him, although I couldn’t pin it down to something I could recognise. He looked alert, but his eyes seemed to stare, his brow permanently furrowed, and his movements seemed slow and deliberate.

‘Do you collect these things?’ I asked. ‘The newspapers, the boxes?’

‘I might need them someday,’ he said. ‘I keep them so I have them when I need them.’

‘But what about the rubbish?’

‘I don’t mind it,’ he said, nonplussed.

‘This is a big house, Frankie. Do you live here on your own?’ I left the living room and walked down the hall, curious to know what else was in the house.

‘Where are you going?’ I heard him say, as he followed me.

‘You went looking for me,’ I said, ‘which tells me that you want me to write about you. If I do that, I need to see what sort of person you are, whether I can believe anything you want to tell me.’

I went through a door at the end of the hall and found myself in the kitchen. I stepped back and exhaled. The air was sharp with the crisp smell of mould, dishes piled up in the large porcelain sink, the food on them dried-on and old. There were paper plates on the workspace, alongside a collection of crumbs and smeared butter.

‘Come out of there, please,’ he said.

I turned round to face him. ‘How can you live like this?’

‘This is my house,’ he said, his voice indignant.

I thought I saw some pain in his eyes, embarrassment, and I took the hint. ‘I’m sorry, Frankie,’ I said. ‘But if you’ve got information for my story, I need to see whether I can trust you.’

Frankie recoiled. ‘It’s not about me,’ he said, and he started to back away down the hall.

‘Hey, hey,’ I said, my hands outstretched, my voice filled with apology. ‘Just tell me why you were looking for me.’

He looked down and thought for a few seconds, and when he looked up, he said, ‘I want paying.’

‘For what?’

‘For what I know about Claude Gilbert.’

‘I know everything about Claude Gilbert,’ I said, watching him.

‘Not everything,’ he said.

‘I can’t give you a price if you don’t tell me,’ I said.

‘I want half.’

‘Half of what?’

‘Half of what you get.’

I frowned. ‘No can do, Frankie. It’s going to have to be good to get that, and the story is too old for there to be anything new.’

He turned away from me, and I could hear him muttering to himself as he thought about what to say. I said nothing. If people have a story they want to tell, patience is usually all that is needed to bring it out.

‘Come upstairs,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got lots of things about Claude Gilbert up there.’

‘Why don’t you bring it down?’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘I can’t.’

I sighed. He had gone quiet again, staring at me, his brow furrowed, waiting for me to decide.

‘What’s your surname, Frankie?’

‘Cass,’ he said.

‘Okay, Frankie Cass,’ I said eventually. ‘Show me.’

I followed him out of the kitchen, and it seemed as if night had fallen when I walked behind him on the stairs, with what little light there was on the landing blotted out by his frame. The steps creaked as we walked, the carpet covering just the central section. Looking down, I noticed that the wooden edges looked scuffed, in need of more varnish. I could sense that the house had hardly changed in years. The banister felt pitted and the dust made my nose itch.

As we walked along the landing, heading for the next flight of stairs, I asked, ‘Isn’t the house too big for you on your own?’

‘She loved this house.’

‘Your mother?’

Frankie didn’t answer, and so I said, ‘It doesn’t mean you have to be a prisoner here.’

He stepped onto the next set of stairs. ‘I’m not a prisoner,’ he said, and started to climb.

I thought about going back, we were going higher in the house, to the top floor, but instead I did what I always did: I let the story take me. As I followed, his breaths grew shallower with the effort of climbing.

We ended up on a small landing, with three doors leading from it. Frankie went towards the furthest door and opened it. It creaked loudly, and the sunlight that streamed in through the windows made me blink and squint.

Frankie turned to me and tilted his head, a sign that I should go through. I walked past him slowly but once I reached the doorway I stopped and gasped.

‘Jesus Christ, Frankie.’