10.6

 

After Paul’s footsteps faded down the hall, Roisin stayed where she was, sipping what was left of her coffee with the blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. The room felt too still. The silence wasn’t comforting; it was watchful, as though the walls were listening and a thousand angels were silently waiting for her attention. She wasn’t sure she wanted to talk about the paintings she’d seen. Naming her thoughts about them felt dangerous, as though it might solidify something that was better left fluid, but she needed to tell someone. And Paul—Paul was the only one who might understand. There was a line of light around her closed bedroom door, and in the light, where surely everything was safer than in the dark, was currently her only friend.

She pulled the door open and stood blinking in the light from the overhead bulb. Her stomach rumbled as she smelled the distinctive aroma of toast from the other end of the house and she could hear her flatmate rattling a pan in the kitchen. She followed her nose.

The hallway was warm, the air carrying the faint scent of unburned gas and something herbal -- chilli, perhaps, or just plain pepper. The sound from the kitchen was accompanied by the humming of a tune she didn’t recognise. Something from Paul’s eclectic collection of pirated MP3s, no doubt.

Paul was standing by the counter, pouring hot water into a mug. He looked up as she entered, his expression shifting from neutral to something like concern. “Did you change your mind about the food?”

“I hadn’t, until I smelled that toast/” She nodded toward the toaster. “Any chance of nabbing a couple of slices?”

“Sure. I said you could.” He opened the tag around the bread and pulled two more slices out. “Same as me, yet? Beans and sausages on toast?”

“Sure.” She frowned. “Where are the sausages?”

He tilted the ban forward. The sausages were included in the tin of baked beans, and each was almost as small as a bean on its own. She remembered thinking they were small two years ago when she could open her mouth and put a sausage in vertically. Not anymore. Now they were almost snortable.

Roisin sat at the tiny café table rather than the large one she’d mentally allocated as her drawing surface. The chair scraped inharmoniously against the faded linoleum. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“Nah. You’re all good. Do you want another drink?” He nodded toward the mug still clasped in her hands.

“No.” She took a sip of the coffee. It was barely lukewarm now, but it wasn’t as cold as her dread. “Thanks,” she amended. “Since the police closed off the museum, I went somewhere else.”

Paul studied her for a moment, the pan lifted slightly off the stove, and so the gas flame danced hungrily in the air with nothing to cling to. “You look… unsettled.”

“I am.”

He opened a cupboard and pulled out two mismatched plates. He deftly slathered margarine onto two pieces of bread, put one on each plate and divided the beans between them. He transferred them to the table, added cutlery from the drawer next to the sink, and two sheets of paper towel from the roll on the counter. He sat and used his knife to point at the second plate. “Eat. Tell me.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the flatware. Of the four pieces between them, not a single one came from the same set and the knife she held was a palette knife generally used for impasto painting. She wished she still had the set she’d bought as a student but she’d had to get rid of those after the police had found one embedded in a dead man’s liver. She cut off a corner of toast, dipped it into the bean sauce and ate. The warmth seeped into the roof of her mouth and down her throat, grounding her.

Paul sat opposite, leaning forward, elbows on the table. He’d already worked his way though half of his food, and she realised he’d probably intended to eat both pieces of toast and the whole tin of baked beans. He’d shared his own food without a murmur of complaint. She doubted she’d be as generous, were their positions reversed. She put her cutlery down and dabbed her lips free of bean juice. “I found a gallery.”

“I thought you said the police had closed it after the lady died?”

“Yes. Not that gallery. Another one. I met a man on the square and he told me about it.”

Paul raised his eyebrows. “Sounds a bit dodgy, if you ask me.”

“No. He was fine. He had a little dog.”

“Because all men with dogs are trustworthy?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “No. Never mind about him. Anyway, he told me there was another gallery I might like and directed me.”

“Where was this other gallery?”

“Cleveland Street.”

“There aren’t any galleries on Cleveland Street. I’ve lived here all my life and there never has been.” He raised his head and swallowed a forkful of beans. “Unless it was a market stall?”