Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  “Do you have anything?” he said.

  “No, as usual, all the emotional stuff afterwards, nothing before, but I wanted...”

  He cut across me, “I was waiting to hear from you. This time might have been different.”

  “Why?” I was pacing back and forth as far as the phone cord would let me; I was both distressed and frustrated that I was never able to do anything constructive when it came to attacks like this. Experience had shown those responsible for planting devices designed to kill and maim, were not much troubled by an excess of emotion, I didn’t hear them because there was nothing to hear.

  “It wasn’t a bomb,” he said.

  “But I thought…”

  “Well, it wasn’t.”

  “What was it?”

  “Butterflies.”

  “Butterflies?”

  “A lot of them.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “You know me better than that.”

  “But butterflies, that’s ridiculous - more Disney than disaster - why such panic?”

  “People are primed to react to each other, rather than to the cause itself.”

  “Well, where did they come from?”

  “No idea.”

  “There’s been nothing on the news,” I said.

  “No,” he paused, “it sounds laughable, but it turned lethal. Let me know if you hear anything?”

  There was something at the back of my mind which, even after the call was over, niggled and wriggled. Something Boris had said, not today, some time ago, about cause and effect; I just couldn’t remember what, or why it might be important and it kept slipping away before I could find a connection.

  And then one weekend, five or six weeks later, there was a whole hoo-ha when mice invaded the restaurant of a well-known five-star hotel, just reading the details made you want to stand on your chair and scream. It was one of those places where none of the menus had prices, implying if you needed to know the cost, you shouldn’t be there in the first place. It was always in the papers with a stream of film stars, royalty and other upper echelons going in or coming out, so there was definitely an element of schadenfreude about the mice infestation. There’d been another crowd exodus, this one however, more controlled, due to the number of security people already in attendance, and the only thing injured was the reputation of the hotel. All in all, it had a certain schoolboy prankish feel and, it was rumoured, had possibly been staged by a rival chef.

  Driving to work that Monday, the connection I’d been trying to remember suddenly came back to me clear as day. It clicked into place like one Lego brick into another, but made no sense. The incidents certainly matched Devlin’s idea of humour, but that couldn’t be the answer.

  When I met Devlin McCrae he was ten. Big blue eyes, a lip built for quivering and the face of cherub; he was the picture of innocence When I arrived to meet his mum prior to undertaking some errands for the family, Celine, the au pair was sobbing in the kitchen. Devlin had a forensic fascination in seeing just how hysterical he could get her and that day had slipped a large, realistically flexible, black rubber spider into her cup when her back was turned. Enjoying her coffee, she’d almost drained the cup before finding herself up close and personal with the realistically moving insect, legs drifting lazily in the liquid. She hadn’t stopped screaming for a full five minutes. Of course that could have no bearing on what had been going on. Nevertheless, when I got to the office, I dumped bag and dog and went out again.

  Jane Air was not the least bit pleased to see me. In fact, what went through her head was could she shut the door in my face and pretend she wasn’t in, which was a bit silly. She opted instead for the old, ‘gosh, so sorry, just on my way out,’ which I countered with the old ‘my fault for dropping by without calling first.’

  “Perhaps though,” I added, “a quick word, just while you change out of your slippers?” she looked down and had the grace to smile. She led me through to an immaculate pink and grey living room and indicated one of the chairs either side of a fireplace where a tall vase displayed a few tastefully chosen grasses.

  “Goodness, this looks interior designed,” I said and she laughed.

  “It was. I’m hopeless at this sort of thing; I gave her a budget and free rein.”

  “Well, it’s lovely.”

  “Thank you.” There was an awkward pause and in the absence of any more small-talk, good manners prevailed, “Can I offer you coffee, a cold drink?”

  “Just water would be lovely, if you’ve got time?” I followed her into the kitchen, which was far more lived in and a lot less store window display. She filled a glass silently and I saw it wasn’t me she disliked so much, as what had happened between us. Actually, she wasn’t at all sure what had happened but whatever it was, it did not fit her professionally perceived order of things. She’d come to me in desperation; not herself, not thinking straight and only on the vaguest of suggestions from Susan. After that, everything had settled down, complete coincidence. If she’d just held on a little longer, it would have all stopped anyway. She wanted to forget what had happened, didn’t want to think about our stroll in the park yet now here I was, in her kitchen.

  “How have you been?” I asked.

  “Fine thank you.” she smiled politely. She didn’t want to talk about the insect thing, then decided if she pre-empted, she’d get it out of the way quicker.

  “That other silly stuff – all sorted. It was simply stress and probably hormones too. And an overactive imagination. Whatever it was, worked its way though. Should have let you know but...” she gestured to indicate busy, busy life.

  “Great,” I said, while she fought a brief battle between wanting to know what it was I’d done and not wanting to know at all. I helped her out; “That’s not what I’ve come about. You remember we chatted a little about what you do?” she nodded, although she’d been so befuddled by panic and pills she didn’t really remember.

  “Well, I wondered,” I said, “if you’d see someone as a patient – wasn’t sure though whether they had to have a GP referral to you first?” she looked puzzled, as well she might, I wasn’t quite sure which way this was going either.

  “With a phobia you mean?”

  “Exactly,” I said, gratefully, “In fact, more than one, she’s barely able to leave the house.” Jane took a card from her handbag on the kitchen counter.

  “Certainly, if she gives me a call, I’d be happy to see her,” she paused, “but... can’t you help her?”

  I shook my head over the poor fictitious phobic, “Goodness no, far too close; she wouldn’t take me seriously. Jane, I’m so grateful, really,” and I pulled her into an enthusiastic hug. If you’re holding someone tightly enough, it’s tricky for them to shake you off, however reluctant and astonished they are. I had what I needed to know almost immediately, but for a good few seconds longer I held on, for my own comfort, because the confirmation of what I’d suspected, was devastating.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “You’re sure?” Boris’s even tone was consistent, whether a matter was momentous or mundane and together with the impenetrability of his mind, made him impossible to read, especially over the phone.

  “I am, but I don’t understand how it’s even possible. Is it? Possible I mean, and if it is, then it’s all my fault.”

  “If it is, then it wasn’t anything you did deliberately, right? Pointless to speculate.”

  “So, what do I do now?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “stay out of it.”

  “But…”

  “No buts.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “When I know,” and with typical lack of sign-off he was gone. I put the receiver down slowly. He was right, there was no point in wondering. If Boris knew, Boris would handle but that didn’t stop me feeling sick to my stomach, and this time I couldn’t blame the baby. The fleeting familiarity, the trace of something I’d felt in Jane’s mind when I first met her, but hadn’t stopped to ide
ntify, was Devlin McCrae. When I went back and held her, that was confirmed. It was completely impossible yet absolutely unmistakeable.

  My history with Devlin wasn’t great; I could still recall he and I locked together in his mind, shrieking in shock, horror and fear. Subsequently and not surprisingly, he hadn’t wanted anything to do with me and I didn’t blame him in the least. But what I was, what I could do wasn’t like the measles, it wasn’t the sort of thing someone could ‘catch’ but now, nearly three years down the line, I didn’t know what to think. But I’d been told to keep out, and for once I had no urge to ignore that.

  * * * *

  Boris turned up one afternoon a week or so later, mob handed. When he appeared at the door of my office, he was with Glory and Ed. Any one of them on their own would have attracted a sideways glance, as a group they were a little overpowering. Brenda had met all three on different occasions but Ruby and Trudie hadn’t and I could feel their astonishment reverberating.

  “What?” I said standing; the better to bear any bad news, “what’s happened? Something’s happened?” Glory moved fluidly into the room ahead of the two men, with Brenda thoughtfully holding her elbow to steer her to a chair. She needn’t have worried; Glory was using Ed’s eyes but Brenda wouldn’t know and Glory thanked her warmly as Brenda took the white stick to prop it carefully against the wall.

  “Calm down Stella.” Boris folded into a chair.

  Glory said, “You’re pregnant.” I wasn’t showing yet, but it wasn’t a question.

  “Yes, I know,” I said as I hit two blank grey walls in the heads of Boris and Glory and a third one in Ed’s, although in his as usual, there was some very pleasant easy listening music – could have been Dean Martin.

  Brenda brought in another chair for Ed who, still looming in the doorway, was cutting off much of the natural light. Six foot five, built like a fridge on steroids, he took up a lot of space. Taking the chair from Brenda, he nodded thanks. No smile, Moebius Syndrome rendered him expressionless, but he handled it effortlessly now, and recognising Brenda’s slight uneasiness sent through a warmth that made her relax. He only did that if he took to someone; everyone else just had to deal with it. He positioned the chair carefully a little way back and between those of Glory and Boris and sat gingerly. He always sat gingerly, because some chairs simply weren’t up to the job, luckily this one was pretty solid, a hand-me-down of Aunt Edna and Uncle Monty’s and they always bought quality.

  I was still standing, fists on the desk, leaning forward, torn as always between a certain amount of pleasure at seeing them and a far larger amount of anxiety as to why they were here.

  “The crowd panic thing - was it something to do with Devlin?” I asked with apprehension. Boris nodded.

  “How?”

  “We’re not sure yet.”

  “But it’s not…”

  He raised a hand in a stop signal, I could have throttled him, he quirked a lip at my thought and I felt anger rising to mix with guilt and worry. Glory, who knew me better than Boris intervened sharply,

  “Stop it Boris, you’re being deliberately cryptic and Stella, we haven’t time for you to fly off the handle.” I opened my mouth to protest, “Shush.” She said, “all you need to know is, yes you were right and yes Devlin has been taken care of.”

  I gasped, “You don’t mean?”

  She chuckled, “Don’t be so melodramatic; I mean he’s being taken care of and you don’t need to worry, but you also don’t need to know anything more at the moment. No,” she held up a halting hand too – must have caught it from Boris, “That’s not why we’re here.” As per usual, Glory hadn’t dressed to blend in; flared cobalt silk trousers were topped by a multi-coloured kaftan. I sighed; I knew if neither of them was prepared to say anything else on the subject then nothing else would be said. There was so much more I thought I should be told, but I wasn’t going to waste my breath. I sat down.

  “We’ve come about something else,” Boris said, then almost to himself, “didn’t know about the baby.”

  “Well, now you do, and actually the usual way to go is ‘congratulations’ or maybe, ‘what lovely news’ even perhaps ‘how exciting’. You pick.” I caught Ed’s eye, knew if he could, he’d be grinning. Glory shifted impatiently.

  “Don’t be so silly, you know everything we wish you. But I don’t think you should call and tell Ruth and Rachael, not yet.” I raised an eyebrow, but she wouldn’t be drawn. “Look, we’ll go into all that another time, for now, just do as I say.”

  Boris spoke before I’d had a chance to take issue, “We’re here to ask for your help.”

  Here we go again, I thought. “No,” I said, “I’ve made it absolutely clear; I will listen and report, I will not get involved further than that, especially now, I have different obligations.”

  He nodded, “You do, but perhaps to more than just your immediate family.”

  “In any case, you haven’t heard what we want.” Glory pointed out.

  “Don’t need to, not interested, not getting involved, nothing more to say.”

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” she snapped, and behind that I picked up something I didn’t want to. I don’t think she was aware of it, and it wasn’t because I was able to get through her shielding, I’d never been able to do that unless she let me. But Glory; self-contained, self-controlled, competent and composed for as long as I’d known her; now wasn’t. Her shielding was as strong as ever, but something was seeping out. It was an unpleasant shock. Glory was a rock, a constant; she’d sorted, supported and saved me from the consequences of my own foolish actions on so many occasions. I didn’t expect and certainly wasn’t ready for her to have a wobble and I also knew, if there was something scaring Glory, it sure as hell would scare me more.

  “Alright, tell me,” I said to Boris, “you’re here so I’ll listen. But only listen,” he nodded; he’d had few doubts. I’d spoken to him, but remained looking at Glory, not liking what I saw. Heavy, black hair was piled high, fastened and held in place with the usual two long gold pins and hooped gold earrings swung against cheekbones other women would kill for. The gold, the black, the vivid colours combined and fooled the eye, so you didn’t immediately note the paleness of her usually rich, coffee-coloured skin and the shadows below her eyes. Her breathing was swift and shallow and slim unadorned fingers, usually elegantly resting in her lap were clenched into fists. Ed was watching me watching her, read my concern and nodded fractionally - I wasn’t wrong, I was right to worry. With an effort, I tuned back in to Boris who apparently was waiting for me to answer a question I hadn’t heard.

  “Sorry I wasn’t listening properly.”

  “I said, have you heard of the National Front?” I nodded, who hadn’t? The group with the avowed intention of turning the Union Jack from patriotic symbol to danger signal had been hitting the headlines a fair bit recently. Any mention in the papers or on the radio provoked a curled lip from Aunt Kitty and ‘mamzars’ spat out under her breath and you didn’t have to understand Yiddish to catch the sentiment.

  My grandmother and her sisters had been in Cable Street back in 1936. They never spoke about it to me but as a child, I knew a firmly shut door meant something I wasn’t supposed to hear. Well naturally, that didn’t work! It was back when Mosley and his home-grown fascists were at their bullying, black-shirted busiest, forerunning what would shortly, in Germany, become efficiently industrialised on a grand scale. Ideology licensing violence: violence enabling ideology, and what better place for a mob to march than the East End of London with its high immigrant population.

  Grandma and her sisters, with their husbands, had moved out of the area, but along with so many others, they went back. There was a major police presence to prevent trouble but in Whitechapel, people had decided they ‘weren’t having it!’ and a surge of determination built effective barricades. Sharing my Grandmother’s memories, I knew she’d been scared witless at the time, but that wasn’t going to stop her yelling defiance along
with everyone else.

  Armed with brooms, mops, heavy iron saucepans, utilising anything and everything that could be thrown, dislodged or poured out of windows, the East End made its point clear. English, Jewish, Irish, West Indian, Socialist and Communist stood shoulder to determined shoulder and forced back the Police who were protecting Mosley’s right to free speech. He’d been determined that what he had to say and the triumphant march to go with it, would go down in history, and it did – although not the way he wanted.

  “Stella!” Boris was looking at me expectantly, “what do you think?”

  “About what?”

  Glory huffed impatiently and rather than wait for Boris to repeat, just pushed it into my head. I laughed, although it wasn’t funny, they’d got me involved in some pretty crazy things but this took the biscuit.

  “You want Glory and me to take on the National Front?” nobody else was smiling. Well, Ed couldn’t but the other two should have been.

  “Not take them on,” Boris, moved an aniseed ball from one cheek to the other, goodness but I did not like the smell of those sweets, “merely insert a spanner into the works.”

  “Us and who else’s army?”

  “Sarcasm,” said Boris, “and I believe, Stella, I’ve mentioned this on more than one occasion, is never helpful.”

  “For Pete’s bloody sake,” Glory didn’t do shilly-shallying, “either you’ll do it or you won’t but we have to get a move on.” she stood up.

  “What now?” I said, “you want me to do something now?” Boris stood too but I was looking at Glory again, the quality of stillness and focus that was such an integral element of who she was, was notably absent right now. Ed put out a hand and touched hers briefly, he knew as did I, if there’d been room in my small office, she’d have been pacing. She made an effort to compose herself.

  “You’re frightened,” I said. She didn’t answer; she was slipping on the cream coloured trench coat she’d folded over the back of her chair, tying the belt decisively.