She stopped to catch her breath by a window. Looking down onto the dingy concrete courtyard below she could make out five of them standing beneath one of the security lights. Always facing each other, never where she could see them clearly, their rough, practical clothes dirty and worn. She stood there, at a fifth-floor window, watching them for nearly twenty minutes. They didn’t move. Even from all the way up here she could hear them whispering. What were they standing around for? Didn’t they have jobs to do? Was it her? Were they whispering about her?
She could have stood there watching them for hours, but the trance was broken by the sound of a door opening behind her. Violet spun to see a young woman staring at her. It wasn’t until the woman actually started to ask her what she was doing that Violet realised she was looking at another resident of Banyan Court. She wanted to answer this woman, explain what was happening, beg her for help, but couldn’t make a sound. There was a moment of silence, each clearly waiting for the other to say something, then Violet’s attention was seized by the sudden shriek of metal, and the clanking rattle of an ancient mechanism.
She didn’t wait to see the other woman’s reaction and raced back down the corridor, around a corner, past two figures mumbling softly to each other, hunting that noise. With a lurch she realised what it was and turned back, heading towards the spiralling central stairwell.
There were three of them inside the old wrought-iron elevator, their hands blackened by dirt. These three almost spoke clearly, but their words were drowned by the clanking of the lift moving. Violet felt a swell of nausea to see those ancient metal bones in motion. She ran up the stairs, chasing the slowly rising platform, trying to catch just a word of what they were saying. On the twelfth floor she was forced to stop and watch as the lift continued up into the ceiling above her. Violet felt like screaming, but she could barely make a sound.
She staggered back towards her flat, hands clasped over her ears, desperate to block out the whispering as she passed more groups of indistinct figures. So many more. She wanted to ignore them all, to lock herself in and simply wait out the night, but the door had locked behind her, as it always did, and in her rush to leave she had neglected to take the keys. She reached instinctively for her phone, before remembering that was lost as well, and a deep panic began to rise in her, as the whispering began to get closer. There were dozens of figures. Hundreds. And though they stayed still their presence seemed to cover her like fog.
There was nothing she could do. Nowhere she could run. No one she could call. She felt herself begin to collapse, when she caught the whiff of stale smoke. She turned, expecting to see her neighbour standing there, but the hallway was empty. Without stopping to think, Violet staggered over and began to pound on the door of 116 Banyan Court. For several awful seconds she was sure it wouldn’t open, but then she heard the click of a lock, and there he was.
Violet couldn’t speak, couldn’t get the words out. Her throat tasted like diesel fumes and dust. He just watched her with a look of deep pity on his face. He smelled of old cigarettes.
‘Help .’ She almost choked on the word.
He shook his head slowly.
‘They are not real,’ he said, his voice filled with false resolve. ‘Don’t make them real.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Nothing,’ the stranger said. ‘The dead are dead. Justice is for the living.’
And the door to 116 shut, leaving her alone.
Violet stood in the corridor, her fear gradually shifting into numbness, and waited for something to happen. Sure enough the tinny chime of the lift sounded behind her. She watched as the doors parted to reveal more anonymous whisperers crammed inside it, so tightly there was barely room to breathe, their backs all turned towards her. She walked slowly towards it, but the lift doors did not close.
All at once, the mumbling cut off, and the world was quiet again. Violet’s ears rang painfully with the silence, and she felt the anger rise inside her. The words came to her lips, though she had no idea why.
‘Get back to work!’
She spat it like an exorcism, and the figures seemed to slump, as though whatever spirit propelled them had been torn away. Violet’s anger vanished as quickly as it came, and she was filled with the deepest shame she had ever felt.
‘What is it?’ Violet pleaded. ‘What do you want to tell me?’
As one, they turned to face her, pulling down their hoods and uncovering their heads. Their hair was matted with sweat and mineshaft dirt; their fingers were bruised, calloused from pickaxe and assembly line and sewing needle; they were stained with coffee and cacao. The bloody sewing thread that criss-crossed their mouths kept their lips tight together, but now the whispered words were clear. And Violet listened, learning how the story would end.
Marie was worried. If she’d really known anything at all about Violet’s family she would have called them, but as it was, she had to content herself with knocking on the locked bedroom door every few hours, asking if she was OK, if she needed anything. The answer was always the same.
‘I’m fine. Just thinking.’
She tried again. Violet had been ‘just thinking’ for almost two days now, and she should have been back at work yesterday. Something was definitely wrong, and if it went on much longer Marie was going to have to call a doctor or something. Though what that something might actually be she had no idea. The internet didn’t seem to have an easy answer for what to do when your best friend was having a weird breakdown. Marie had always said she worked too hard.
Whatever was going on with her, Marie was sure that Violet would still want to know about the invitation. She read it again to be sure, but the words were still there, still exactly the same. It didn’t make any sense, but the thick card and tasteful embossed lettering were impeccable. If this was a prank, someone had spent serious money on it.
TOBIAS FELL cordially invites VIOLET NG
to attend a dinner party at 1 Banyan Court
on the evening of 16th August 2014
Penthouse access will be available through the freight elevator
She knocked on Violet’s door again, and slipped it underneath.
In the pitch darkness of her room, Violet smiled. She didn’t need the light to know what it said. She had work to do.
2nd
The Knock
Jésus Candido
30 Banyan Court
Tap tap tap.
The silver head of the cane hit rhythmically against the well-shined leather of an expensive shoe, a soft but insistent sound that pervaded the near silence of the auction hall. Jésus Candido was bored.
‘Lot 14 is next,’ the auctioneer droned on. ‘An incised ceramic bowl, judged to originate from the Guaraní peoples, date unknown. Two hundred pounds, starting at two hundred pounds.’
Nothing worth his time. He continued his impatient tapping. From the other seats, eyes turned to stare at him with varying degrees of curiosity. He saw them take in his expertly tailored bottle-green suit, the necktie with its perfectly executed Eldredge knot, his cultivated air of disdain and disregard. Some recognised him, whispering to companions with quietly awed expressions. Others showed no recognition, but perhaps they would ask after him later, and then they would learn his name. And why they should know it. Jésus allowed himself a small smile. Between changing fashions, money-laundering and newly minted tech billionaires looking to invest, the art industry was a constantly changing place, and any small thing you could do to maintain your profile as a dealer was worth it. Even a legend such as him couldn’t afford to rest on his laurels.