Gavin rapped on the door again, and this time he was certain he heard somebody breathing on the other side of the door.
‘Reynolds . . .’ he said, pressing to the door, ‘I can hear you.’
Nobody replied, but there was somebody in there, he was sure of it. Gavin slapped his palm on the door.
‘Come on, open up. Open up, you bastard.’
A short silence, then a muffled voice. ‘Go away.’
‘I want to speak to you.’
‘Go away, I told you, go away. I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘You owe me an explanation, for God’s sake. If you don’t open this fucking door I’ll fetch someone who will.’
An empty threat, but Reynolds responded: ‘No! Wait. Wait.’
There was the sound of a key in the lock, and the door was opened a few paltry inches. The flat was in darkness beyond the scabby face that peered out at Gavin. It was Reynolds sure enough, but unshaven and wretched. He smelt unwashed, even through the crack in the door, and he was wearing only a stained shirt and a pair of pants, hitched up with a knotted belt.
‘I can’t help you. Go away.’
‘If you’ll let me explain – ‘ Gavin pressed the door, and Reynolds was either too weak or too befuddled to stop him opening it. He stumbled back into the darkened hallway.
‘What the fuck’s going on in here?’
The place stank of rotten food. The air was evil with it. Reynolds let Gavin slam the door behind him before producing a knife from the pocket of his stained trousers.
‘You don’t fool me,’ Reynolds gleamed, ‘I know what you’ve done. Very fine. Very clever.’
‘You mean the murders? It wasn’t me.’
Reynolds poked the knife towards Gavin.
‘How many blood-baths did it take?’ he asked, tears in his eyes. ‘Six? Ten?’
‘I didn’t kill anybody.’
‘. . . monster.’
The knife in Reynolds’ hand was the paper knife Gavin himself
had wielded. He approached Gavin with it. There was no doubt: he had every intention of using it. Gavin flinched, and Reynolds seemed to take hope from his fear.
‘Had you forgotten what it was like, being flesh and blood?’
The man had lost his marbles.
‘Look … I just came here to talk.’
‘You came here to kill me. I could reveal you . . .so you came to kill me.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ Gavin said.
Reynolds sneered: ‘You’re not the queer boy. You look like him, but you’re not.’
‘For pity’s sake . . . I’m Gavin . . . Gavin – ‘
The words to explain, to prevent the knife pressing any closer, wouldn’t come.
‘Gavin, you remember?’ was all he could say.
Reynolds faltered a moment, staring at Gavin’s face.
‘You’re sweating,’ he said, the dangerous stare fading in his eyes.
Gavin’s mouth had gone so dry he could only nod.
‘I can see,’ said Reynolds, ‘you’re sweating.’
He dropped the point of the knife.
‘It could never sweat,’ he said, ‘Never had, never would have, the knack of it. You’re the boy . . . not it. The boy.’
His face slackened, its flesh a sack which was almost emptied.
‘I need help,’ said Gavin, his voice hoarse. ‘You’ve got to tell me what’s going on.’
‘You want an explanation?’ Reynolds replied, ‘you can have whatever you can find.’
He led the way into the main room. The curtains were drawn, but even in the gloom Gavin could see that every antiquity it had contained had been smashed beyond repair. The pottery shards had been reduced to smaller shards, and those shards to dust. The stone reliefs were destroyed, the tombstone of Flavinus the Standard-Bearer was rubble.
‘Who did this?’
‘I did,’ said Reynolds.
‘Why?’
Reynolds sluggishly picked his way through the destruction to the window, and peered through a slit in the velvet curtains.
‘It’ll come back, you see,’ he said, ignoring the question.
Gavin insisted: ‘Why destroy it all?’
‘It’s a sickness,’ Reynolds replied. ‘Needing to live in the past.’
He turned from the window.
‘I stole most of these pieces,’ he said, ‘over a period of many years. I was put in a position of trust, and I misused it.’