Forget to Remember

quickly opened the front door before he changed his mind. Once inside, she realized this wasn’t quite as luxurious as it looked from the outside. For one thing, there was no elevator—or lift as they called it here. She had to walk up three flights of stairs. The flat in question was on the fourth floor. Actually the third floor in local terminology, since the first floor was the ground floor. Confusing.
    Noises assailed Carol’s ears from behind closed doors as she passed the first two landings, including a crying baby. She wasn’t puffing too badly when she reached the floor in question, whatever one called it, but she still paused several seconds before knocking on the door in front of her. The pause before she heard a noise inside was much longer. Had the guy decided he didn’t want to see her, after all? Finally she heard footsteps and latches being unlatched, and the door swung inward. The odor of fresh paint wafted through the doorway.
    The young man holding the door handle wasn’t scary looking at all. He was a tall beanpole with long, red hair that hadn’t seen a comb today, wearing a torn T-shirt and torn jeans, both spotted with paint. His emaciated look made Carol wonder whether he was starving. He spoke first.
    “Well, don’t just stand there like a bloomin’ idiot. Come on in.”
    “Thank you.” Carol repressed a stronger response and walked past him into what must be called a loft—a large open space with a wooden floor and slanted roof beams overhead. A skylight let in the sun’s rays and several windows also helped brighten the room, which was filled with artist’s paraphernalia: easels, canvasses, brushes, tubes of paint, cloths, and a cloth-covered table with a bowl of fruit sitting on it. A glance at the canvas on the easel in front of the table told her he was working on a painting of the fruit.
    He followed her look. “I’m doing that for a rich old lady. Gotta eat, you know. She’s wants a portrait of apples, that’s what she gets. Care for a spot of tea?”
    “Thank you.”
    He grabbed a kettle from a small stove against the wall, filled it with water from a nearby faucet attached to a sink, and lit a gas burner under it. Carol realized she had to say something besides thank you.
    “I’m Carol…Golden.”
    “Sean MacTavish. I’d shake your hand, but I’m a bit messy.”
    He showed her large palms that had paint on them, in spite of the fact that he carried a towel he kept wiping them with. He pointed toward a small wooden table with several rickety chairs around it.
    “Have a seat.”
    “I didn’t mean to take you away from your work.”
    “S’okay. I need a break. I can only paint so many apples at a time. Besides, it’s not often a pretty bird comes to call.”
    Carol perched on one of the chairs. Sean continued standing where he could keep an eye on the tea kettle. His accent was apparently Scottish, but she didn’t have any trouble understanding him.
    “I don’t want to take up much of your time. Two years ago a young woman named Cynthia Sakai came to London. Her folks got a letter from her with this return address, but then nothing more. She vanished into thin air.”
    “Two years.” Sean ran a hand through his mop of hair, probably leaving some paint in it. “That’s a long time. I’ve had this place about a year.” He turned as the tea kettle whistled and poured water into two cups. He placed one in front of Carol and offered her a choice of herbal tea bags.
    “Not quite the traditional way we’re supposed to do this, but my girlfriend got me hooked on the herbal stuff.”
    Carol selected a peppermint tea bag and dropped it into her cup. “I know it’s a long shot, but I told her grandmother I’d look for her. Her parents came over after she disappeared, but they didn’t find a trace of her.” Bringing up the question of why she would hope to succeed where they had failed.
    “I don’t know the bloke who had the place two years ago.”
    Sean placed a tea bag in his cup and then proceeded to pour liberal quantities of milk and sugar into it. How could he taste the tea? Carol drank hers straight. He sat in one of the chairs facing her and leaned back so it only had two legs on the floor. The chair creaked, and she was afraid it was going to collapse under his weight.
    Sean sipped his tea and stared at her from his slanted position, as if he needed to be farther away from her to see her clearly. It unnerved her. She knew men liked to