None of this was doing my cotton-wool stuffed head any good and I knew I still wasn’t thinking properly. I shut my eyes briefly, just to give them a rest. The cab was still outside, hazard lights strobing through the window, highlighting the carpet which was the last thing it needed. This was a fool’s errand and the idiot was me. Time to call it a day.
“Ghastly, isn’t it? Not my taste.” He’d come silently into the room behind me, though I’d recognised what and who he was before I’d reached the front door. The incongruity of dull brown trousers and dark green buttoned cardigan topped by the white impassivity, rictus grin and gaping eyes of the mask should have looked ridiculous but didn’t, and when he chanted softly, it came as no surprise.
“I wish, I wish, I wish I knew, exactly what to do with you.” Hearing it now, aloud, I understood it was less a question than pleasurable review of possibilities. Still, I wasn’t going to fall down on the social front, I came right back with my old favourite of mine,
“I do not like thee Dr Fell, The reason why I cannot tell.” He chuckled, with genuine amusement – it didn’t make him any more likeable.
“Why the mask?” I said.
“Oh, you mustn’t mind that, bit of fun; theatrical self-indulgence you might say.” He took it off, not letting the elastic at the back mess with his hair carefully parted to the right. “Didn’t alarm you, did it?”
“No.” I said, but then he knew as well as I, real-life monsters don’t need to look frightening. Mid-sixties or thereabouts, he epitomised average; height, build, hair, green buttoned cardigan, he’d be hell to spot if he sat on the sofa. A single memorable feature was his mouth - exceptionally full and clearly defined lips pushed into a pink pout by slightly buck teeth, he’d hated those lips all his life. Every now and then his tongue flicked out to do a circuit, perhaps checking to see if they’d grown any less obvious. He looked me up and down, humming softly to himself and then smiled.
“Let’s get that wet coat off you.”
“I’m not staying. You conned me into coming and I have the cab outside waiting.”
“So, I believe,” he said, “good luck with that,” he glanced at the electric fire, “warm enough for you in here is it? It’s on full, but that wind gets through all the cracks; and we have snow I understand,” he shook his head, “they’re saying two to three inches tonight, country’ll grind to a halt as per; put money on it.” He straightened an embroidered cat cushion on the sofa and patted invitingly, “Sit yourself down,” then spotted Katerina, who’d remained firmly behind me, “ah, you’ve brought a friend.” He stretched out a hand for her to smell, but she’d taken his measure and growled long and low in her throat.
“Shy,” he said, “she’ll settle,” I didn’t think she would. He moved in a murky brown miasma, his scent the musty staleness of fabric left damp for too long, it was overlaid by the artificial sweetness of Brut Aftershave which he must have splashed on all over, it didn’t help. I could feel him probing, trying to get into my head but anger and distaste are great barrier enhancers. Despite the cotton-wool and shaky balance I knew my own strength and had assessed his. He wasn’t that strong; he could be handled but that was beside the point. I’d been suckered into whatever twisted little game he thought he was playing and I wasn’t pleased. Neither was I happy that he knew enough about me to use Devlin as bait. He picked up on that, slipped into a pitch perfect imitation of Susan McCrae, voice breaking on a sob.
“Please, oh please Stella, get here quickly!” then in normal tone, “I’m rather good at that sort of thing, even if I say so myself.”
My displeasure was growing in direct proportion to the pill wearing off; and I’d already set aside an extremely sharp piece of my mind for Laura on the morality of drugging pregnant daughters-in-law. Prior to that though, I needed to deal with Obnoxious; make it clear, however great he was at imitations and whatever fun he’d been having with putting the masks in my mind, it stopped here and now. I needed to get home; I knew for a fact, none of this would come under David’s definition of taking it easy.
“Tea?” he asked.
“Don’t be stupid. Why am I here?” he chuckled again, sat down in one of the armchairs, leaning back and undoing a couple of cardigan buttons to allow paunch room.
“I won’t be stupid,” he said, “if you’ll stop being grumpy.”
“Really? We’re going to play Mr Men? Say whatever it is you think you’ve got to say, but I honestly don’t think you know what you’re dealing with.” I glanced over at the mantelpiece where a chunky shepherdess, was shading her eyes and checking for sheep. I lifted her in a leisurely way, broke her into two pieces which I let go so they hit the carpet swiftly. He didn’t move. Watched her go up, watched her come down and smiled.
“Told you,” he said mildly “all this,” he waved an encompassing hand, “not my taste, not that bothered. Smash away, you’ll do us both a favour.”
I was running low on whatever patience I’d started with. “If you want to tell me why you went to the trouble of getting me here,” I said, “do it now, then I’m off.”
Obnoxious rose from the chair. I wasn’t prepared to take chances; I took action instead and pushed him firmly backwards,
He said, “Oof” and sat heavily.,
“I warned you,” I moved past, Kat hard on my heels, “you really don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
He licked his lips, “And neither,” he said, “do you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
He wasn’t that strong, certainly not a match for me, even with Laura’s pill on board. Turned out he didn’t have to be. My head was suddenly flooded with agony; not mine, but the pain of others - a tsunami of sensation which barrelled and smashed straight through my barriers and I understood instantly. It was a numbers game. I don’t know exactly how many were there; ten, twenty, more? It was impossible to tell, and when I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did. From the midst of those minds united with mine in unsought intimacy and anguish, the ultimate horror was in the one I knew almost as well as my own; rich lavender - Ruth. Fury rose in me, fuelled by outrage clean-cutting through the pain..
I must have hit the floor at some point because I was on all fours, hands either side of me. I got to my feet, letting the heavy wet coat slide off my shoulders, not an elegant rise, but it did the job. Inside, the baby had gone very still, what he’d done had affected her too. My baby and Ruth - there were no words to express the depth of what I felt but what was surging to the surface was far more powerful than words and way more dangerous. I’d spent my entire life learning control, but this level of malevolence demanded response and retribution. It was sparking lethally from my fingertips and I raised my hand. He smiled, he thought it was amusing.
“Oh, I wouldn’t,” he said, “that would be foolish indeed.” His tone was neutral, he knew what I could do to him but wasn’t in the least bit worried because then, shrill and discordant, above the cacophony of the others, Ruth screamed in shock and pain.
“There now,” he said placidly, “you see why you need to behave nicely. I can make life awfully uncomfortable for my friends – and yours. You hurt me, I hurt them - a little or a lot, it rather depends on how difficult you’re being.”
What was in me had to go somewhere, it had gathered too much momentum to pull back; I turned away from him as figurines flew, met in mid-air, smashed and crashed. A picture ripped from the wall taking a chunk of plaster with it; the piano lid slammed, an ornate side table was cleared of framed photos in a clean sweep, two of its legs snapped and it hunkered down wounded. The chandelier above the dining table was swinging and jerking, dusty crystal glass drops trembling – perhaps they knew what was coming next. I breathed in and took back some control but the chandelier was already on its way, it wrenched free of the ceiling and headed for the large vase below. The impact of one on the other was phenomenally ear-jarring and followed by a long-winded pitter-patter of glass and china flying up before raining down. I don’t kno
w whether I’d frightened him, I’d certainly scared the hell out of me.
“Better?” he tilted his head politely.
“It’ll do for now,” I said and utilised a cushion to brush broken china off the sofa then sat carefully, in case I’d missed a bit. Kat, who’d made the mistake of taking cover beneath the dining table, made her shaken way back, stepping delicately over assorted obstacles and leant heavily against my leg.
He did a mock turn-down of the mouth, which didn’t sit well with the pout, “You know, I only heated this room up for you, I never use it, please don’t worry about clearing up.”
“What do you want?” I said flatly.
He nodded towards my stomach, “That.”
I kept my expression neutral. My blinds were firmly back in place and I didn’t think there was any way he could get in, but I was aware with my habitual leap-first-look-later confidence in my own abilities, I’d put myself and imminent offspring in a situation we certainly hadn’t covered in NCT classes. There were a number of priorities right now; Ruth and the unknown others; the logistical issues of getting out of here; how I was going to be able to explain this to David, and how essential it was to keep my guard up because I certainly wasn’t prepared to join his pain club anytime soon. All in all, and whilst I hate looking on the black side, right now it would seem I wasn’t in a great place, in any sense of the word.
“Shall we just run through just a couple of things, then I’ll show you your room.” He interrupted my thought.
“My room?”
“You didn’t think I’d expect you to sleep on the sofa? I think you’ll be pleased with what I’ve laid on, but first - the phone?” I followed his glance. The receiver had come off and lay on its side, beneath a doily and next to an upended table. “Out of order, I’m afraid, I pulled out the wires, so 999’s off the menu, and if you’re thinking of getting in touch the other way,” he touched his head briefly, then shook it, “I wouldn’t, you’ve seen how painful that is for others. Now, are we clear?” when he smiled, he looked like Bugs Bunny turned feral.
“What’s to stop me just leaving?”
“Don’t be tiresome. I can’t stop you, but they can.” Pink lips pouted and for a few seconds voices shrieked in my head. He nodded as he saw me react, “There you go, you’ve got it! Good girl. I taught you know, for many years. Found students learnt better and quicker when shown not told, d’you see?” he took silence as assent and stood, neatly re-buttoning the cardigan. “Righty ho then, upward and onward.”
Either I’d misjudged the height of the sofa when I sat, or I was wearier than I thought, because when it came to get up again, I couldn’t. Rather than struggle on the slippery leather, I shifted my bottom sideways to reach and gain leverage from the high arm. I must have placed my hand where hers had so often rested, and she hit me like a ten-ton truck.
* * * *
Alison Olivia, that’s who she was, never just Alison because Mummy loved the rhythm of the two together. Addressed as Alison only, was a sure sign she was in trouble – as indeed she often was. She was a post-war baby who became an intelligent, opinionated child. There were no siblings, so included in and absorbing adult conversation, she was articulate and blessed with a decisiveness that defined her. School reports regularly spoke of her ‘knowing her own mind’, clear code for rarely doing as she was told. Mummy and Daddy made it clear from the beginning; this was not a Good Thing, but she was well aware they actually thought it wasn’t a Bad Thing either. The way they framed it was knowing your own mind at six could be problematical but later, making your way in the world it would never be less than an asset.
She knew they were proud of and impressed by the individual they’d produced and if they ever had a disagreement, not an argument, arguments never did anyone any good, but a difference of opinion; anything from choice of wallpaper to a day’s outing, they’d settle it with, ‘We’ll ask Alison Olivia, she won’t be dithery-dathery,’ and indeed, she never was. Daddy once, ruffling her hair affectionately said something about the sum of two parts being greater… and she knew how much she was loved; not so much from what he said, but from the soft warmth that filled his head when he said it.
They were a tight-knit unit of three and content with that; there was no extended family to speak of, neither parent having siblings and they didn’t have a wide circle of friends but she understood that was choice not circumstance.
When she was six and a half, they’d gone to Cliftonville for a holiday; a cab, a train and another cab to get there, all very posh and the sea right in front of the bedroom window. One day Mummy didn’t feel well, she had a bad tummy-ache. Alison Olivia got the milk of magnesia from the bag in which were packed all such remedies – you never knew when you went away whether you’d be able to lay hands on what you wanted – but when it turned out the tummy-ache was bad enough to call in a doctor, she put the blue tinted bottle neatly back in the bag.
By the time the doctor arrived and was on his way up to their room, it was actually supper time and Daddy said, ‘did she think she could go down to the hotel dining room herself?’ The nice waitress would take her to their usual table, and she could choose her own supper from the menu. He was awfully anxious, which was a bit silly because she knew exactly where to go and she took her book with her, so she’d have something to do while she was waiting. She had pineapple juice to start, then some roast chicken with potatoes and carrots, she knew all about rationing of course, but that had been when she was a baby, so she didn’t remember much; it was over now and she saw the pleasure her parents took in the hotel menu. For afters she had fruit jelly with a portion of vanilla ice-cream even though it was a choice of one or the other on the menu, but the waitress said Alison Olivia was the best behaved guest she’d ever served - probably a bit of an exaggeration, thought Alison Olivia, but no-one looks a gift horse, or in this case an ice cream scoop in the mouth.
When she got back upstairs the doctor had gone and Mummy was in bed looking pale and a bit weepy. She held out her arms to Alison Olivia, gave her a cuddle and said not to worry; everything was fine although it was clear it wasn’t. Alison Olivia understood Mummy had been upset by someone called Miss Carridge, but then Daddy said time for bed and in the morning Mummy might have a bit of a lie-in, but he and his best girl would go down to the beach anyway. She’d made a favourable impression with her solo supper and next evening, when coffee for the grown-ups was served after dinner, the Manager came over with some chocolate truffles, compliments of the kitchen, and several other guests stopped her parents to say how well brought up she was; so mature for her age; beautifully behaved. Alison Olivia didn’t know why it was so clever to go and have supper, but Mummy and Daddy who’d been a bit down in the mouth all day were pleased, so she was pleased too.
Daddy’s work was high up in the Home Office. She thought for years, and fairly logically, when he left for the station, he went to another house, where he worked upstairs, before returning promptly at 6.30 every evening. She liked to watch for him from the window, his gait unmistakeable, a propulsion from the heel, which drove him forward swiftly, his rolled-up umbrella deployed meticulously in time with each step. Mummy always told him off, well not really telling off, just fake cross, because his shoes had to be re-heeled so often. She once asked Mummy whether he had lots of friends at his home office, but she said not really, it wasn’t encouraged; colleagues yes, some of them nice chaps but because of the nature of the work, most kept themselves to themselves. From this conversation she took away the firm impression he worked with animals and plants, until one day she asked about it and the silly mistake came out - ‘nature of’ apparently not meaning what she’d thought, but after they’d all stopped laughing, Mummy said Alison Olivia really should know how important Daddy’s work was, and she could be very proud of him because he’d done a lot in the War and had to sign something called the Official Secrets Act, which showed how high up he was.
Alison Olivia knew from friends at school, not
everyone’s home life was as ordered or as comfortable as hers and the years blended and passed so smoothly, she didn’t ever want it to change; Alison Olivia wasn’t keen on anything new and untried.
Around the time she left secondary school, Father retired. He’d been saying for ages he couldn’t wait and Mother said she couldn’t either. Although the big day, when it came, came quietly with no fanfare, just one Friday night, instead of leaving his briefcase on top of the shoe cupboard in the hall, he put it in the cupboard under the stairs.
“Well,” he said, “that’s that then,” and over supper he opened a bottle of wine – unheard of except at Christmas – and Mother said it was a whole new life ahead. But it wasn’t, because two weeks later he had a heart attack, and although the ambulance came quickly and they were all so kind, it was too late. They said it would have been quick; he wouldn’t have known what was happening.
They’d never been a family who’d gone overboard on emotion, ‘stiff upper’ had been a favoured expression, and as Mother pointed out, nothing could be changed, so talking over and over was wasting good breath. They should instead be thankful he’d left them comfortable. House paid for, pension coming in, savings in the bank - they’d always been sensible, never stinted themselves but never been silly either - the sooner the two of them got back into a routine, the better it would be for both of them.
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