Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz Buzz
I walk the usual route to Redchurch Street, passing the bearded hipsters with their beanies, rolled-up trousers and coffee obsessions.
I can see from the top of the street that Lace’s light is on, which means Woody was wrong.
I run to the door and press the buzzer five times and wait and wait.
I press it five times again and step back to check the window.
She’s ignoring me. Why is she ignoring me?
‘Stop pressing that buzzer! For the love of God.’ The door opens. It’s Frankie, kind of. He’s not his usual clean self. He has bed hair and dark eyes and is wearing not much more than black boxers and a thin blue dressing gown. He looks awful, but I’ve got bigger worries.
‘Where’s Lace?’ I ask.
‘Good morning to you too,’ he says with a waft of alcohol on his breath.
‘I need to see her.’
‘Good luck with that,’ he says, and then he goes to close the door, but I stop it with my hand.
‘Frankie, I know she’s up there, and if you don’t let me in, I’ll um, scream.’
‘You’re not a screamer,’ he says and sniggers at his own dirty joke. I open my mouth and let out a high-pitched squeak before he covers it with his clammy hand. ‘FUCK! Okay! Come on in, but she’s not here.’
The drawers are open and empty, and the French daybed would be bare if it weren’t for a blanket and an uncovered pillow.
I think this is where Frankie slept last night because there is also a half full bottle of whisky on the floor.
I walk around, my footsteps echoing. It feels so much smaller without her and her stuff in here.
‘See, gone,’ Frankie says. ‘Even that hippo cat has waddled off.’
‘She can’t have just gone. Where would she even go to?’ I say irritably, because Frankie doesn’t seem to be bothered that our friend has disappeared into thin air. He sits on the edge of the bed, inspects the whisky bottle and grimaces.
‘Home, I guess.’ He gets up with effort, wanders to the window and opens it, making the dust fly up like a fireball.
‘This is her home,’ I say like it’s an obvious fact.
‘This?’ Frankie laughs. ‘This is my storage space. What, you thought she lived here?’
‘This is London. People live anywhere,’ I say. He stares out of the window. ‘Where is she then?’ I ask. He shrugs with his back to me. ‘Frankie, please, I need to talk to her.’
‘She’s packed up and left, what more can I say?’ He looks at me, broken.
I drop down onto the French daybed. I can’t believe how self-centred I’ve been.
I’ve known something wasn’t right since I spied on her and the Woolly Hat Man, but I have been too wrapped up in my own problems that I didn’t make time for her.
And now she’s gone. How lonely she must have felt to pack up and leave without a word.
I wipe the tears off my cheeks with my palms.
‘Oh, where has granny’s ring gone?’ Frankie says, lighter.
I sniff. He comes over, sits beside me with a sigh, and then rummages in his dressing gown pocket for two envelopes.
‘Post arrived for her yesterday. I was going to send them to the original address, but the postal system can be dodgy. You can always hand-deliver them if you like?’
I inspect the white envelopes; they don’t look like they are of much importance.
The original address has been crossed out, and in wiggly handwriting, it says.
Please direct to No.8, Beanie Cafe, Redchurch Street, London.
The original address with the big cross-through is typed out and says 56 Primrose Street, Brighton.
‘Brighton?’ I scrunch my nose at Frankie.
He scrunches his nose back. ‘Unpleasant, I know.’
I then see the name Olivia O’Shea. ‘Olivia?’
‘You didn’t think her real name would be Lace, did you?’ he says. He bites his lip and takes another swig of whisky.