it open further with my foot and stepped inside. I called out Vernon’s name and went along the hallway to the living-room, but even before I got there I sensed that something was wrong. I braced myself as the room came into view, and started back in shock when I saw what a complete mess the place was in. Furniture had been turned over – the chairs, the bureau, the wine-rack. Pictures on the wall were askew. There were books and papers and other objects tossed everywhere, and for a moment it was extremely difficult to focus on any one thing.
As I stood there in a state of paralysis, holding up Vernon’s suit and the brown paper bag and the Boston Globe , two things happened. I suddenly locked on to the figure of Vernon sitting on the black leather couch, and then, almost simultaneously, I heard a sound behind me – footsteps or a shuffling of some kind. I spun around, dropping the suit and the bag and the newspaper. The hallway was dark, but I saw a shape moving very quickly from a door on the left over to the main door on the right, and then out into the corridor. I hesitated, my heart starting to beat like a jack-hammer. After amoment, I ran along the hallway and out through the door myself. I looked up and down the corridor but there was no one there. I rushed on as far as the end and just as I was turning the corner into the longer corridor I heard the elevator doors sliding closed.
Partly relieved that I wasn’t going to have to confront anyone, I turned and walked towards the apartment, but as I did so the figure of Vernon on the couch suddenly flashed back into my head. He was sitting there – what … pissed off at the state of his living-room? Wondering who the intruder was? Calculating the cost of having the bureau repaired?
Somehow none of these options sat easily with the image I had in my mind, and as I got closer to the door I felt a stabbing sensation in my stomach. I went in and made my way down to the living-room , pretty much knowing at this stage what I was about to see.
Vernon was there on the couch, all right, in exactly the same position as before. He was sitting back, his legs and arms splayed out, his eyes staring directly ahead of him – or rather, appearing to stare, because clearly Vernon wasn’t capable of staring at anything any more.
I stepped closer and saw the bullet-hole in his forehead. It was small and neat and red. Despite having always lived in New York City I’d never actually seen a bullet-hole before, and I paused over it in horrified fascination. I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I finally moved I found that I was shaking, and almost uncontrollably . I simply couldn’t think straight, either, as though some switch in my brain had been flipped, causing my mind to deactivate. I shifted on my feet a couple of times, but these were false starts, and led nowhere. Nothing was getting through to the control centre, and whatever it was that I should have been doing I wasn’t doing – which meant, therefore, that I was doing nothing. Then, like a meteor crashing to earth, it hit me: of course, call the fucking police, you idiot.
I looked around the room for the telephone and eventually saw it on the floor beside the upturned antique bureau. Drawers had been removed from the bureau and there were papers and documents everywhere. I went over to the phone, picked it up and dialled911. When I got through to someone I started babbling and was quickly told, Sir – please … calm down , and was then asked to give a location. I was immediately put through to someone else, someone in a local precinct presumably, and I babbled some more. When I finally put the phone down, I think I had given the address of the apartment I was in, as well as mentioning my own name and the fact that someone had been shot dead.
I kept my hand on the receiver of the phone, clenching it tightly, possibly in the mistaken belief that this was still actually doing something . The thing was, I
As I stood there in a state of paralysis, holding up Vernon’s suit and the brown paper bag and the Boston Globe , two things happened. I suddenly locked on to the figure of Vernon sitting on the black leather couch, and then, almost simultaneously, I heard a sound behind me – footsteps or a shuffling of some kind. I spun around, dropping the suit and the bag and the newspaper. The hallway was dark, but I saw a shape moving very quickly from a door on the left over to the main door on the right, and then out into the corridor. I hesitated, my heart starting to beat like a jack-hammer. After amoment, I ran along the hallway and out through the door myself. I looked up and down the corridor but there was no one there. I rushed on as far as the end and just as I was turning the corner into the longer corridor I heard the elevator doors sliding closed.
Partly relieved that I wasn’t going to have to confront anyone, I turned and walked towards the apartment, but as I did so the figure of Vernon on the couch suddenly flashed back into my head. He was sitting there – what … pissed off at the state of his living-room? Wondering who the intruder was? Calculating the cost of having the bureau repaired?
Somehow none of these options sat easily with the image I had in my mind, and as I got closer to the door I felt a stabbing sensation in my stomach. I went in and made my way down to the living-room , pretty much knowing at this stage what I was about to see.
Vernon was there on the couch, all right, in exactly the same position as before. He was sitting back, his legs and arms splayed out, his eyes staring directly ahead of him – or rather, appearing to stare, because clearly Vernon wasn’t capable of staring at anything any more.
I stepped closer and saw the bullet-hole in his forehead. It was small and neat and red. Despite having always lived in New York City I’d never actually seen a bullet-hole before, and I paused over it in horrified fascination. I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I finally moved I found that I was shaking, and almost uncontrollably . I simply couldn’t think straight, either, as though some switch in my brain had been flipped, causing my mind to deactivate. I shifted on my feet a couple of times, but these were false starts, and led nowhere. Nothing was getting through to the control centre, and whatever it was that I should have been doing I wasn’t doing – which meant, therefore, that I was doing nothing. Then, like a meteor crashing to earth, it hit me: of course, call the fucking police, you idiot.
I looked around the room for the telephone and eventually saw it on the floor beside the upturned antique bureau. Drawers had been removed from the bureau and there were papers and documents everywhere. I went over to the phone, picked it up and dialled911. When I got through to someone I started babbling and was quickly told, Sir – please … calm down , and was then asked to give a location. I was immediately put through to someone else, someone in a local precinct presumably, and I babbled some more. When I finally put the phone down, I think I had given the address of the apartment I was in, as well as mentioning my own name and the fact that someone had been shot dead.
I kept my hand on the receiver of the phone, clenching it tightly, possibly in the mistaken belief that this was still actually doing something . The thing was, I
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