27. Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Seven

T he soft glow of a light shines through the windows of Art's apartment, signalling he's home. As I stare upwards through the rain-splattered taxi window, anxiety knots in my stomach. He's home. But will he want to talk? I've finished things with him.

I push open the doors and find Derek, as always, sitting behind the oak concierge desk, with a warm, ready smile for me. "Good evening, Miss Ward."

I force a smile and ask the question I already know the answer to. "Is he home?"

Derek's eyes flash with concern and I'm immediately on edge. "Yes, Mr Black is home." He pauses as if he's choosing his words carefully. "I've received a noise complaint from the neighbour below. I knocked on the door, but Mr Black didn't answer."

My eyes lift to the staircase. "What type of noise complaint?"

"Shouting, crashing, banging." Derek glances nervously at his computer as if he's revealed too much but wants to warn me.

"Is Mr Black—" The words stick in my throat because I don't really want to ask the next question. "Home alone?"

Derek's warm smile reappears. "Yes, Miss Ward. He's had no visitors."

A trickle of relief helps unravel the coil of nerves in my stomach a little. I wouldn't put it past Tara to try her luck now she's twisted the knife.

I thank Derek, take a deep breath, and start climbing the stairs. By the time I reach his front door, my nerves are shredded. I turn the key in the lock and push the door open.

Vera Blue's "Hold" hits me like a sledgehammer, the beat jack-hammering into my brain as it fills the apartment and my heart aches at the memory the song evokes in me. He's nowhere to be seen. The acrid stench of cigarette smoke hangs in the air as I tentatively carry on down the hallway. His shoes lie discarded on the floor next to a small empty bottle. I bend down and scoop it up, peering down at the Irish name on the label I've never heard of before. Whiskey. Anxiety churns in my stomach as I take a few more hesitant steps into the living area and stop in my tracks. The armchair has been upended and each one of the chairs around the dining table, kicked over. All the cushions from the blue velvet sofa have been flung around the room and the lamp has been knocked over.

I slam the empty whiskey bottle down on the kitchen counter and hurry over to the Bose sound system beside the fireplace, turning the volume down. Silence fills the apartment and my eyes dart around the room as panic slowly rises in my chest and I immediately fear the worst.

There's no sign of him. Suddenly, I hear a shuffling noise behind me and turn to see the voile curtain blowing gently in the breeze before it's angrily swatted out of the way with a large hand.

Art staggers into the room, clutching a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. His black shirt is hanging open, and he comes to a stop, swaying from side to side as he takes a drag from his cigarette. Unfamiliar, dark, hollow eyes narrow into slits and focus on me.

He blows out a long puff of smoke. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

His hostility spikes at my flesh. He's never looked at me with contempt before. He's never spoken to me like this before. I don't know this man who's staggering towards me. "Come to gloat, have we?"

I start to move backwards away from him. "Why would I gloat?"

He spreads his arms open wide. "To see what a sorry state I really am."

The confident, together Art I know and love is unrecognisable. A husk of a man is in his place and doing his best to navigate around the up-turned furniture strewn across the floor.

"I came to talk to you."

His laugh is sharp and mocking and cuts through me. "It's a bit late for that." He shakily draws the bottle to his lips and takes a swig from it.

I don't like the man I become when I drink.

His words filter into my mind and I eye the bottle in his hand nervously. "I thought you don't drink?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Helps block out the pain."

I mentally will him to put the bottle down, but know he's not going to. The drinking, the smoking. It's like a self-destruct switch has flipped inside of him. "I think you've had enough."

"Why the fuck do you care? You've finished with me."

The sharp words cut through me.

"Of course I care." Fresh tears well in my eyes and I take a step back as he staggers through the carnage scattered across the living room floor getting closer to me.

He narrows his eyes and jabs a finger in my direction. "You don't fucking care because you ran. We promised ? no more running."

"I ran because you lied to me," I say, dashing the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand .

He frowns, tripping over the corner of the coffee table and stumbling to regain his balance. "I knew this was too good to be true."

"What?"

"You and me. What we have. How I feel about you. What you do to me." His expression switches from hurt to remorseful. "Something was bound to fuck up and do you know why?" He pauses waiting for me to reply but I don't know what to say. "Because good things don't happen to me." Empty, soulless eyes harden as he stares at me. "Everyone I give a shit about fucks off and leaves me." He stops and sways from side to side, jabbing a finger in my direction. "Then I met you. Thought my luck had changed." He swings the bottle in his clenched hand and his voice breaks. "Now you've gone, too."

My throat tightens with emotion. "Do you think my heart's not breaking?"

His eyes swim with sadness, and he rubs a hand down his face. "Don't leave me, Sophie."

Tears stream down my cheeks as I shake my head and I step back into the hall.

He stumbles towards me. "Please… don't run."

The one thing we both promised we wouldn't do anymore.

The final piece of my heart breaks. I look at the nearly empty bottle of whiskey in his hand. I can't stay here. Not when he's in this state. Nothing good will come of it. I turn around and hurry down the hall in a blur of tears.

"Sophie," his voice echoes down the hall and I hear the sound of breaking glass from somewhere behind me.

I yank open the front door and hurry out onto the landing, slamming it behind me. He screams my name at the top of his lungs as I carry on down the staircase, tears streaming down my face, not looking back.

To be continued …