The Cupboard

The Cupboard

“I have plans,” he said.

He sat on our VIG leather chesterfield sofa, one of his rare visits from upstairs nowadays. He was an elegant man. When he first moved in to the flat two floors above us I said to Rosie that he reminded me of a middle-aged David Niven. She wasn’t so up with classic Hollywood movies, she preferred modern noir, so just grunted and later (when she’d had a chance to check pictures on the Internet Movie Database) agreed.

I should say, up front, I loved the flat we lived in then. I imagined we’d live there forever. It was on the ground floor, in one of those Westbourne Grove terrace conversions that had seen better times, but still had that special aura of high culture. A neighbour sold fine art and held regular shows in her house, where we bought odd disturbing watercolours and small dark sculptures at prices we could afford. On the other side lived a fairly successful violinist, and we’d hear anguished runs of Paganini or Liszt at times when coming back from Waitrose or from work. We even had a small garden which, if mostly decking and paving, still managed a wildly aggressive display of roses, nettles and blackberries from March to October. I’d sit out, reading scripts, even when it was cold, and imagine life couldn’t get better.

I first saw Frank one dark rain-swept afternoon. He was standing by the main door, surveying his removal men with a cool eye as they carried chairs, boxes of books, a coffee table, up the narrow stairs to the top flat. He introduced himself simply as Frank, and I didn’t think too much about him for a month. We'd pass in the hallway with little more than a comment on the weather, until he discovered I directed movies and mentioned he was a cameraman. He’d shot a few low-budget horror films and, I found, had done it with some distinction. He had a notable style of lighting scenes, and an ability to make each set-up count despite the fact that such movies offered few resources and even less time. But he was growing frustrated, wanting to break into larger, more interesting, work. I thought he had possibilities and so we socialised for a year or two. He enthused over his favourite artists, the way light fell for Caravaggio or Goya, and I used him as a sounding board for the two or three projects of mine, projects that were continually on the brink of being green-lit.

Frank had a sharp mind, although Rosie surprisingly never quite took to him. He sat on our sofa, many evenings, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other waving in support of some point or other he was making. He looked too dapper for a cameraman, his hair subtly gelled, moderately tall and slim, wearing his signature black fleeces that were never quite in-your-face expensive but never cheap either.

He was particularly keen on a script I was co-writing about a mentally disturbed stage magician. It turned out he’d dabbled with magic when he was younger, and he gave me a number of useful insights into the mind of the conjurer, as he always called him. In particular, he’d say, the magic was in the appearance, not the mechanics. Some of the most powerful effects came from tricks that were so simple that they worked themselves. He loved debunking spiritualists and black magic devotees, showing how they used just the same principles. But he was not averse to using black magic themes when he showed off his own illusions, making an ace of spades appear under a cushion or telling me which Tarot card I was thinking of.

He also saw precisely where our script was failing. He made a suggestion that revitalised the central character, the magician’s attractive yet brave assistant, who'd never recovered from the loss of her unborn child. And two or three useful notes about the dramatic flow.

But I began to feel more than a bit boxed in by him. He came round a few times too often. Rosie will tell you: I have this claustrophobia when it comes to people. I get very friendly at first, but then there comes a time when I feel stifled. Like I’m losing my freedom. Even when I was at school, I used to feel this way. I remember one good friend. We spent the most part of a term in each others’ company but then he invited me to his home one weekend at the end of October for tea with his family. I was excited. I woke up that Sunday morning, looking forward to seeing him outside of school. But I couldn’t do it. It felt like he was taking over my life. Of course, it was only tea, but I got my parents to phone and say I was sick.

Next day, I was fine, of course, not having actually been ill. He was touchingly pleased that I was better and told me how sad his parents were not to meet me. He detailed the sandwiches, scones, cakes that had been bought and/or baked. I felt guilty, but I knew that I’d had no choice. It was how I was.

So, with Frank. I slowly withdrew. I had to. He noticed immediately, of course, but I made some excuse about the pressure of work, need to rush around raising finance, all that. I doubt he believed me. Rosie was mildly relieved. She knew about my claustrophobia, of course, and we’d long ago reached an accommodation ourselves. She worked long hours at her PR firm and spent almost as long at home on her phone and checking social media accounts, while I worked through my collection of classic DVDs in another room.

I never had affairs, but being away from home on a shoot gave me the fresh air I needed. She seemed to accept how I was. She was attractive enough to find her own lover if she’d wanted to, still more than serviceable in her mid thirties. Sharply intelligent, an acute judge of character, good figure, good clothes, close-cropped dark hair, which seemed to get shorter after our marriage. We loved each other in our fashion.

#

Anyway, I was talking about Frank and his plans. When money finally came through for the magician film, it had become a three-way co-production with Canada and Poland. One of those strange liaisons of finance that make no sense outside of the film world. The producers wanted a Bulgarian Director of Photography, for obscure tax reasons, and to be honest I had doubts as to whether Frank could manage in the big time. I truly don’t believe it was my claustrophobia talking. And the Bulgarian DP had a brilliant track record. I intended to tell Frank the bad news in person, but the production company announced the film before I had a chance to invite him down for another glass of Beaujolais. When I finally did, he'd already heard. He was polite. No temper tantrums. Almost scarily quiet and understanding. He sipped his wine, asked Rosie about her latest client (a gas fracking company as it happened).

We didn’t see Frank for some months after that. I had to go straight into pre-production on the magic film, now called Wanda. The star, playing the title role of the magician’s assistant, was young and high-maintenance. She’d become successful as a singer, four anthemic numbers had sold millions, and this was to be her big break on screen. But that didn’t make it any easier during the shoot when she turned up on set late and hung-over - insisted on rewriting her lines, as the crew stood by at massive cost - or was openly rude to each of her fellow actors in turn.

In truth, after all that, the film wasn’t lit terribly well. I think the Bulgarian cameraman lost heart. I suspect Frank would have done a much better, dramatically moodier job of it and resolved to tell him so, when time allowed.

It was late in the year, growing colder and darker each night, and we passed a few times going in and out of the house but I was always in too much of a rush to stop and talk. I was surprised he was still around, as he’d dropped a few grumpy hints about moving, but there he still was. Though now there was something morose about him. A new darkness. He was still as dapper and well-dressed as ever, yet I had the feeling that work had not been good for him. Indeed, it was around that time that a friend saw him, to her surprise, at a Halloween party earning a few quid performing table magic, producing aces of spades and mind-reading Tarot cards.

#

On Christmas Eve, I persuaded Rosie to invite Frank down for a seasonal drink. I also wanted to tell him that Wanda was going to open in the New Year and invite him to a preview. After all, he’d helped make it happen. The word was good. Festival reviews had been positive and the film was up for a few awards, along with its star.

He took this news with his usual calm, sitting on our designer sofa sipping his glass of wine, but nevertheless something about him seemed even more sombre than before. I said I really did intend to put him forward for a new movie, something I couldn’t talk about just yet, and he nodded slowly. It was then that he said he had plans of his own. I don’t know why, but I felt there was a subtext to his words. I suspected he was just trying to keep his dignity. Although the way he spoke, there was almost a sense of threat.

We’d invited a small crowd that night, it was one of our traditions and people looked forward to our pre-Christmas parties. About two dozen friends and colleagues, no more. The flat was hardly big enough for more. The year had been good to us, though, and with the money from the movie and Rosie’s annual bonus we were seriously considering buying one or more of the flats above to expand into. Perhaps even Frank’s, if his plans allowed.

I briefly mentioned it to him in the kitchen, over the nibbles of marinated salmon sushi and mint-pea soup in shot glasses. He shrugged, which wasn’t his usual style, and said “We’ll see.”

I didn’t see him for the following hour and then we found ourselves back in the kitchen with most of the guests, as Rosie brought out a tiramisu she’d made, and suddenly Frank raised his glass and called for silence and offered a toast to me and to the film, due for release in the New Year, and its glamorous star. He dropped his voice to a chillingly hoarse whisper and wondered if we'd be using our magic tricks to engineer a strong box office on the opening weekend. We laughed, a little nervously, and he smiled thinly and wished us everything we wished for ourselves. That was all he said. Everything we wished for ourselves. He paused, as if he intended to say something else, then muttered something I didn't catch, put down his glass, opened the door to the kitchen cupboard and walked in, slamming the door behind him.

We laughed loudly. So, Frank had a sense of humour after all. Or perhaps he was just drunk. The laugher petered out. We waited a few seconds. Rosie called to him to come out. But he didn’t.

I went to the cupboard door and pulled at the handle. It was locked. This was strange as I didn’t think there was a lock inside, but after a few of us had tried, nobody could open the door. I called jokily through the door again but again there was no answer.

Someone suggested calling an ambulance. My agent pulled our kitchen fire extinguisher off the wall and used it as a battering ram, smashing it against the panels of the door, which weren’t very strong, and soon gave way.

I pulled at the splintered wood so we could see inside. There was no-one there. Plenty of shelves with bottles of olive oil, jars of French jam, tins of gherkins. But no Frank.

I said, “It’s one of his magic tricks.” And everyone laughed. I called again. And for a second, I thought I heard a groan. I told everyone to be quiet, which took some time, and called Frank’s name once more. Someone, I think it was the idiot actress-singer, giggled, high on something her latest boyfriend had brought. I told her to shut up, but there was no more sound from inside and I began to doubt that I’d heard anything, but I pulled everything off the shelves. Then I got the others to help me pull out the shelves and bang on the inside walls of the cupboard.

I then noticed that the left wall inside the cupboard didn’t match the others. The plaster looked a different colour and there was a small gap - not large enough for a man, but strange nonetheless. I started to pull at the plaster and created a larger hole that I could peer into, but I could see nothing but brickwork, pipes, mouse and rat droppings and filthy electric cables. It still didn’t seem large enough for a child, let alone a man as tall as Frank, but I told everyone to be quiet again and called. All I received in return was a fetid odour of mould.

We looked round the flat, but there was no sign of him in any of the rooms. After a short while, while the others were talking distractedly, some still chuckling and wondering how he did it, I slipped away. I went up the dark stairs and knocked on the door of his flat, in case in some impossible way he’d managed to get out of the cupboard without being seen and gone back up. But it was totally silent inside. I began to get a horrible chilled feeling about this, an unpleasant sensation in my gut that I tried and failed to dismiss. I rang his mobile but it went to voice mail. I left a brief and humorous message and went outside to look up from the front. The windows were black.

#

The next week it rained non-stop, a dark, oppressive rain that entirely washed away any Christmas spirit. Still there was no sign of Frank. His post piled up uncollected in the hall. Phone calls and emails went unanswered. I knew he had a brother and sister-in-law he didn’t much like and managed to contact them on Facebook. They’d been half expecting him for Christmas Day but weren’t particularly surprised or bothered when he didn’t turn up. Each evening, I’d go upstairs to knock on his door, without hope now, and when I put my ear to the door panels I could feel the deep chill of an unheated flat against the side of my face.

After seven days, early on New Years Eve, I called the police, feeling very foolish, saying we’d not seen him for a week. Two uniformed constables broke into his flat. There was no body. Nothing had been moved. His clothes were still on their hangers. His passport on the table by his front door.

It was then that I told them the kitchen cupboard story, feeling even more stupid than before. I even told them about his love of magic tricks. To my surprise, the older of the two policemen took this seriously and insisted on inspecting the scene. The younger PC bent down and found a trace of blood on the floor of the cupboard that I’m sure hadn’t been there before. This dramatically changed the mood. They called for back-up.