The Dead Lie Down by Sophie Hannah Page A

three sides. Malcolm told me he’d had trouble finding a tenant after the last one left. ‘No privacy, you see.’ He pointed as we approached the park gates, keen to list Blantyre Lodge’s flaws before I crossed the threshold: there were bollards I’d have to lower and raise every time I drove my car into or out of the park. The lounge and bedroom weren’t perfect squares—each had a corner missing, as if a triangle had been cut out of the space. ‘I might as well be honest,’ Malcolm said. ‘It’s not as if you wouldn’t notice.’
    ‘Privacy’s the opposite of what I want,’ I told him. ‘If people can see me and I can see people, that suits me fine.’ I was surprised by my own words, unsure if this was the truth or the exact reverse of how I felt. I remember thinking, if I’m invisible, nobody will be able to help me if I need help.
    ‘Get yourself some good net curtains,’ Malcolm said, and I flinched, imagining faces obscured by densely-patterned white material: His face and Hers.
    ‘No,’ I made a point of saying, and making sure Malcolm heard me. I doubt he cared one way or the other, but I needed to assert myself. ‘I want to be able to see the park, if it’s going to be my garden.’ I was happy to share it with children, joggers, passers-by. A garden I wouldn’t have to touch but that would always be well maintained because it was a public resource; a beautiful green space that was neither secluded nor enclosed—it was ideal.
    ‘The last tenant had some big Japanese screens,’ said Malcolm, apparently oblivious to what I’d just said. ‘You know, the sort people use for dressing and undressing. He put one at each window.’
    ‘I won’t cover the windows with anything,’ I said, thinking that I might even take down the curtains, assuming there were some. I’d spotted two large square lights attached to the side of the house facing the wide path that cut the park in half. ‘Do those come on automatically when the natural light falls below a certain level?’ I asked. Malcolm nodded, and I thought, So they’ll show colour, even in the darkness . At night, each of the lodge’s windows would be a stunning still life of trees, plants and flowers: rich, deep greens, reds and purples, all bathed in a gold glow. Whoever was responsible for planting in the park knew what they were doing, I thought, looking at the blue hob-bits and astilbes that circled a large pink-edged phormium. ‘When can I move in?’ I asked.
    ‘You’re keen. Don’t you want to see inside first?’ Malcolm laughed.
    I shook my head. ‘That’s my house,’ I said, standing back to take a mental photograph of the small building in front of me with feathery red Virginia creeper leaves all over its roof. I could have gazed at it for hours. Its pleasing aspect was bound up, in my mind, with the idea of getting better. It was seeing a beautiful object—a painting—that had first tripped something inside me and made me realise I could rejoin the world if I wanted to. Blantyre Lodge wasn’t art; it was a place to live: something functional, something I needed. Yet to me it was also beautiful, and I felt at the time that each beautiful thing I saw and felt a connection with—made a part of my spirit, however pretentious that sounds—took me one step closer to recovery.
    That’s why I stood still and carried on staring, even when Malcolm started to walk on ahead without me: whenever I experienced that sensation of suddenly being one step closer, I felt, perversely, that there was no hurry. I could afford to take a few seconds to appreciate the moment.
    I haven’t felt that way since London. The pictures on my walls that took so long to collect, all the wire sculptures, the carved wood, the pottery, the abstract metal forms that I’ve stuffed my house full of—they don’t work any more. Until I know what’s wrong with Aidan, until I can make it right, nothing will work.
    I am bending to pick up the remote control