You, Me, We Are All Mistakes

4. NO ONE HERE OF THAT NAME

CHAPTER 4
NO ONE HERE OF THAT NAME

West Hampstead is a district that was well served by Luftwaffe efficiency during the early 1940s.

The war era led to numerous North London bombsites, reconstruction, and pockets of incongruous, often brutalist 1950s to '60s apartment blocks and public buildings, surrounded by row upon row of the original Edwardian four-storey houses. Each of these impressive single homes has long since been converted to multiple residential flats. Mozart's Piano Concerto 21 played through the opened sash window of a ground floor. Nelson recalled his father had played such pieces at rare times of ceasefire with Nelson's mother.

Dressed in Adidas monochrome trainers, slim jeans and a light Harrington jacket, he found himself standing outside one of these featureless blocks, Grimaldi's letter in-hand.

Nelson studied the address again at the top of the page.

Flat 2³, 22 Compayne Gardens

From his vantage point, it now appeared that number 22 was a large collection of flats.

What on Earth does 2³ mean? Two cubed? Level two, flat three?

He decided on the latter. A small outdoor lift beckoned. Nelson glanced left and right as he approached, but the figure in over-sized dark glasses was carefully concealed from his view. As Nelson stepped into the lift his every movement was being recorded in high definition.

Smelling the stale musk, cabbage and old steel, Nelson pressed the button for the second floor. The cage wobbled as he moved to its middle. The doors lumbered to a close and Nelson checked his appearance in a scratched chrome mirror fixed to the lift wall. He smirked at the scrawled graffiti:

Stare at the numbers, shuffle your feet >>> and DON'T TALK!

Then scoffing, as below this he read:

Thatcher Iron Lady? Rust In Peace.

Gears ground into motion and the machine ascended resentfully upwards. The gates opened unexpectedly one floor short. The small red button displaying 2 remained lit and Nelson pressed it again. Twice. With no movement he surrendered the argument, walked out and took the stairs, emerging to a balcony with a left side railed over a sunless concrete courtyard. To the right were six high-gloss navy blue doors, the first one having an elderly man buckled over terracotta plant pots clustered around his Welcome mat. The old man's door was slightly ajar and Nelson could hear Jimmy Young on Radio 2 being played softly inside.

Levelling his watering can the man straightened to observe Nelson as he squeezed past along the balcony in an awkward tight manouevre. Nelson reflexively smiled, yet the elder remained stone-faced. Nelson continued along to his target door, showing a number 3. This was catching a final blade of morning sunlight and he knocked firmly. There was no immediate answer.

Knocking again louder, he felt the bruising on his knuckles and could faintly hear running water. He tensed his arm back fully to try thumping with his fist.

"There's a bloody doorbell!" hollered the plant-pot elder.

"Oh, thank you."

Finding the low mounted bell, Nelson pressed it, creating a loud vibrating blast within.

The running water stopped immediately, and there were a few seconds of silence. Then came a sound of bare feet on carpet. The door opened warily a small fraction, remaining on the chain. An impressive young woman with deep brown eyes and wonderful dark brows peered out. Her wet brunette hair framed an olive-skinned face with a straight fringe and long bob that was cut to the nape of her neck. Droplets fell to her shoulders and Nelson observed she was wrapped in a bath towel.