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JIM
The morning after Benedict Finch went missing I woke up early, like I always do. I’ve got a reliable
body clock. I never need to set an alarm, although I do, just in case. You don’t want to oversleep. I
started the day the way I always do: a cup of good black coffee, made properly in my Bialetti. I drank
it standing in my kitchen.
My flat is on the top floor of a tall Georgian building in Clifton. It’s the best area in Bristol, and the
flat’s got amazing views because it’s on the side of a steep hill. The front overlooks a big garden,
which is nice, but out the back it’s better because I can see a proper slice of the city. I’ve got Brandon
Hill opposite, dotted with trees, Cabot Tower on its summit, a couple of Georgian and Victorian
terraces below. Just out of sight are modern office buildings and shops, but you can see a bit of
Jacob’s Wells Road below, leading steeply downhill to the harbour, where you can go for a night out
or a weekend walk. I can’t see the water from my flat, but I can sense it, and gulls often circle and cry
out, diving past my windows.
Until I started going out with Emma I didn’t know that this city was built on sea trade that docked
there for hundreds of years: sugar, tobacco, paper, slaves. She told me how a lot of human suffering
made the wealth that built Bristol, and a lot of men gambled lives and fortunes on that. Emma was an
army brat, and the reason she was so well informed was that her dad made her learn a history of
every new place they moved her to, and they moved a lot, so she was in the habit of it.
Once she told me about the slavery, I couldn’t get it out of my mind and then I realised how much of
the city’s noisy, nervy history is in your face, especially where I live. You’ve got the Wills Memorial
Building, pride of the university, towering over the top of Park Street: built on tobacco profits. The
Georgian House, perfectly preserved, and a very nice bit of real estate: sugar and slaves. Both of
them are less than a quarter of a mile from my flat, and I could name more.
I think about it sometimes because I don’t think cities change their character too much; even after
hundreds of years it’s still there as an undercurrent. Now, when I look out of the window each
morning, and watch Bristol wake up beneath me, its messy, complicated past is right there as a little
bit of a jittery feeling in my bones.
I’d slept well the night before even though it was obvious that there’d been some serious weather
overnight. It was still dark when I finished my coffee, and the flat felt cold and draughty. Outside, rain
was pelting down and the tips of the trees were getting pushed and pulled in all sorts of directions. A
plastic shopping bag was blown up from the street below and went on a crazy dance over the treetops
before it got snagged.
Before I got out the board to iron my shirt, I brought Emma a cup of tea. She was still in bed. She
always got up a bit later than me.
She was lying in a mess of bedding and hair. She wasn’t a neat sleeper. It was a contrast to the
controlled and purposeful way she lived the rest of her life, and one of the rare occasions I was able
to glimpse her with her guard down. I felt privileged to be close enough to her to see it.
‘Hello,’ she said when I put the tea down.
‘Did you sleep well?’ I asked her.
‘Mmm. How about you?’ She blinked softly, sleepily. Then she stretched and rubbed her eyes, her
movements languid. Emma didn’t rush things. She was watchful and clever, and poised, a cocktail of
characteristics that I found addictive, especially when mixed with her beauty. Emma turned heads. I
was a lucky man.