Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  Except they didn’t get back into a routine, because Mother started forgetting things, not the usual sort of things like keys or glasses, but how to boil an egg which, with nicely buttered soldiers had been a staple of Saturday morning breakfast for as far back as could be remembered.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said their doctor cheerfully after examining Mother, bereavement does this, only to be expected; it would pass; three good meals a day, no stress or over-excitement, maybe a day or two at the seaside and she’d be right as rain. Alison Olivia reflected as they left the surgery arm in arm; other than Father’s heart attack, stress hadn’t factored majorly in their lives to date, neither come to think had over-excitement, so steering clear of both shouldn’t be a problem. What she genuinely couldn’t understand was why Dr Akerton with so much experience in assessing people, couldn’t see that inside Mother’s head, things weren’t right at all, her thoughts were every which way and consequently getting caught up in each other, tangling and knotting dreadfully.

  When she’d pointed this out, during the consultation, he’d placed an avuncular hand, hot on her knee; said she’d always had too much imagination than was good for her. She should get out more, find herself a nice young man; and because she was distracted and tired, she forgot her manners and muttered as she helped Mother to her feet, “Like you have?” she suspected that she and Mother might have to find a new doctor.

  Whatever was going wrong in Mother’s head went wrong swiftly. Alison Olivia knew it was more than grief, and deferred her place at Teacher Training College for a year. In the event, Mother passed away the following March, a neat seven months after Father, and then it was nineteen-year-old Alison Olivia. Alone.

  * * * *

  “Well?” Obnoxious was tapping an impatient foot, “we haven’t got all night?” I was still on the sofa, still had my hand on the arm to pull myself up. I must have frozen as I absorbed everything; the essence, personality and memories of Alison Olivia who’d sat so often where I was sitting. As I got up, he pursed those lips;

  “You’ve tired yourself out haven’t you, all that showing off, I expect. Let’s get you down to your room, have to take good care of you?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I thought he’d made a mistake, slip of the tongue but he hadn’t, instead of heading up the hectically carpeted stairs, he went to a door at the far end of the hall under the stairs. Maye he was going to lock me in a cupboard, although he’d have a job cramming something of my size in with the usual Hoover, ironing board and other stuff. It turned out the far wall of the crowded cupboard wasn’t a wall at all; it was another door. Was I heading for Narnia? Had Laura’s pill not worn off? Was this all an unfortunate hallucination? But hallucinations don’t smell. As the door swung smoothly and silently outward onto a landing, strip lighting sprang to life, and there must have been some sort of fan because the under-stairs staleness was replaced with something else, the unmistakeable smell of every hospital or clinic I’d ever been in, and that’s when I really knew I was really in trouble.

  With Kat welded to my leg it was a dicey descent down a spiral staircase and she whined softly all the way. I felt much the same. The stairs took us to the centre of a wide, well-lit circular space with as many as half a dozen doors set at intervals, harsh lighting made brighter by being reflected back from large glassed panels, one adjacent to each of the doors. I knew an observation window when I saw one and my blood ran a little colder. A couple of the windows had blinds down.

  “I expect,” he said, waving a smug arm, “you’re wondering how I’ve achieved all this.” Actually, that was the last thing on my mind, but he told me anyway. Apparently there had always been a substantial wine cellar running beneath the house and this had been converted and extended. Looking around it was obvious this was no D.I.Y. job, this had been planned and built by people who knew what they were doing and the stark utilitarian contrast with upstairs’ outdated suburbia was disorientating. He picked up the thought.

  “Astonishing, isn’t it? And clever, nobody ever has, nor would ever suspect, what goes on down here.” I wasn’t really listening but tuned back in when my attention was caught by a phrase at the end of a sentence.

  “… fully equipped medical facility and laboratory.”

  “You’re a Doctor?”

  He grunted, “You don’t listen do you? I said before; Scientist,” he straightened his cardigan, raised his chin, “several extremely well-thought of papers to my name, way ahead in my field. He bent to pick up a piece of fluff which had settled on the grey, soft tiled flooring, but the swell of bile that scented his last statement indicated clearly, if he was ahead of anything, he was the only one who thought so. He wasn’t a multi-tasker either, so whilst he was directing my attention to various points of pride and interest, I learnt a lot more.

  Years earlier, as a student, he’d volunteered on a research project; he needed the money. The study was on Chance and Probability, and the whole thing was as boring as anticipated. It was only by chance – oh the irony – that one of the research assistants, strictly against protocol, told him his scores were interestingly high; shapes, numbers, colours he’d guessed correctly. put him into the tiny percentage of the population who could do that. He was delighted; nobody in his life to date had seen or mentioned evidence of extraordinary, although he’d always suspected that was an oversight on their part. Unfortunately, whilst a high score was gratifying, it offered no clear direction as to how it might be used to his own advantage.

  He went into teaching. The students he worked with bored him as much as he bored them. He didn’t like them, they didn’t like him; he did the minimum necessary to hold his post and every student he taught, knew and resented that. He wasn’t a man you’d call happy in his vocation, but hours and holidays enabled him to spend time doing his own research, and what had started as a reluctant interest, grew over time and slid into obsession.

  After all he reasoned, if exercise created muscle, wouldn’t the same principle apply to the brain? Logically there were then possibilities to be explored. For example, if this type of ability could be exercise-enhanced in an adult; how much more powerful might such a regime prove at earlier stages of brain development? Was an inherent ability genetic? If so, was it possible two people with ability would produce a third whose talent was doubled?

  He religiously exercised his own limited ability, researched, theorised and for years rose above numerous rejections from scientific and medical journals; ‘no thank you very much,’ they said to submitted papers, ‘not quite what we’re looking for,’ or ‘not science, science-fiction!’ and from one editor unafraid to speak his mind ‘too much of a whiff of eugenics, old chap, not touching with a bargepole!’ He despised them for their lack of vision, was furious that none of them saw what he did and livid he’d never received, and probably never would, the accolades which were his due. And in all that time he hadn’t stumbled on where his own brilliance really lay.

  It wasn’t always career-enhancing or expedient to be a bachelor – people made assumptions past a certain age, aside from which, by the time he hit 40 he decided he was entitled to his share of domestic comforts. He was bored with his own cooking and tired of paying a cleaner. He needed a wife; he met someone a suitable five years younger and because he’d learnt to mimic those emotions he didn’t feel, he wooed and won her.

  Even then he’d have been none the wiser if, six months into the marriage, a single event hadn’t piqued his interest the way she never had. They’d had a row, something trivial, she irritated him almost beyond bearing sometimes and looking at her white neck, he imagined his fingers squeezing, squeezing. Of course, he wouldn’t have done it, she wasn’t worth the risk; it was just a thought, a bit of pleasurable imagining, but she reacted. Both hands flew to her throat, her eyes widened and her breath caught. The scientist in him was riveted.

  The argument was smoothed over, and in the following weeks and months, experiments with or without her knowled
ge were conducted and irrefutable conclusions drawn. She became ever easier to manipulate and by the time she realised what was happening it was already too late, because by then she could be easily brought to heel, pain being a great influencer of behaviour. Following the logic of the methodologies he himself taught, he calculated and concluded that statistically, if he could do what he could do and she was what she was, there would be many others too, only undiscovered because nobody had bothered before to look. He now knew not only exactly who he was looking for, but how to control them. He began to hunt.

  * * * *

  “This is you,” he said now, calling back my attention by opening one of the doors, “I think you’ll find I’ve thought of most things you’ll need for now and… ” he smiled, “for later.” I stopped in the doorway of a larger than expected room and ran through my options, of which there weren’t many. I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I should, perhaps I was more unnerved than I wanted to admit. I’d been in sticky situations before, but then it had just been me, this was different, I had responsibilities. Surveying the room, not really taking anything in, I knew I could overpower him, deal with any locks and leave. He caught the thought, shook his head a little and in my head just a few people screamed. To hell with it, I turned towards him to lash back. I left it too late because by then he’d plunged a needle into my arm.

  “Just a little prick,” he said.

  I had just enough left in me to mutter bitterly, “…can say that again!” before things started to go black. The pink, Bugs Bunny pout was the last thing I saw before my eyelids came down.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  When I came round, I spent the first minute eyes still closed, patting David’s side of the bed to see if he was there. He wasn’t. Maybe – and a girl can only hope – he’d got up to make me a cup of tea. My mouth was impossibly dry and my tongue, just hanging around in the middle wasn’t doing anything constructive, I moved it experimentally but any hint of moisture seemed to have gone. Then I remembered where I was, why I’d come and how much bother I was in.

  I opened one eye cautiously, snapping it swiftly shut as it was assaulted by stark white fluorescent lighting bounced off stark white-tiled walls – this was a room that might have benefitted from a bit of interior design. Something cold touched my face and I pulled back briefly before I recognised the heavy breathing. Opening both eyes, I was shocked to find I could still only see out of the original and thought I’d gone blind in the other, before realising it was due to me being awkwardly draped across the bed, face-down on a soft pillow. I raised my head the necessary few inches to an elegantly elongated and worried face inches from mine; Kat was obviously waiting for someone responsible to take charge, which was a shame, because so was I.

  “Well, this isn’t going to get the baby bathed,” I muttered and as if to emphasise the point, got a sharp kick, although if the baby had any sense, right now she’d be looking up adoption options. Goodness only knows what he’d shot me full of. Whatever it was had packed a hell of a punch and I don’t suppose Laura’s pill beforehand had helped much. I ached all over, my arm was sore where I’d been jabbed and each limb weighed a ton. I wasn’t sure I’d ever want or be able to move again, then I spotted a jug of water and a glass and my priorities changed. I tried to sit up but that didn’t go well. Turned out I was wearing a thick metal chain round my wrist. The other end was anchored around the metal bed leg and secured with a padlock. I wasn’t pleased. I lifted the jug and poured water, and then floated the glass over so I could use my movable hand and drink which made me feel marginally better. There were a couple of sandwiches on a plate next to the jug, I got those too, then took stock.

  The room was spacious enough but without that much in it. As well as the bed and hospital-style bedside cabinet, there were a couple of pale blue plastic-covered easy chairs that looked anything but relaxing, and what was probably a drugs cabinet on the wall. The top of a hospital type trolley parked along the opposite wall had a cloth covering what might be medical instruments, nothing I was ready to deal with yet. There were two doors, one we’d come in by, the other I assumed to a bathroom, which brought up another issue; it wasn’t yet urgent but soon would be.

  There was a small fridge humming in the corner, fluorescent lighting humming in the ceiling, some kind of air vent humming on the wall and yes, I wasn’t mistaken, someone humming in my head, that was an awful lot of humming. I was still wearing what I’d left home in and could see my worse-for-wear slippers loitering beneath one of the chairs. There was no natural light in the room and no clock so I’d no idea how long I’d been unconscious, or indeed what time or even day it was, and I had pins and needles in the chained hand – a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs all round.

  Now I’m not daft - opinionated maybe, misguided from time to time certainly and possibly far too quick to leap before looking - but not daft. I needed to call in some heavy duty help and the sooner the better, but I couldn’t mentally yell without alerting Obnoxious and he’d made it clear how he’d demonstrate his displeasure. I couldn’t protect the many who’d be shrieking in agony, but did I have what it took to stand by while they did? There was something, something that might just be useful niggling at the back of my mind, I thought it may have been something Glory once told me, but it was on memory’s edge just out of reach, making me want to do a bit of shrieking on my own account. I wasn’t helping myself - breathing fast, tense from top to toe and the more desperate I was, the less likely it would drift back.

  I made a conscious effort to relax and think, Kat was resting her chin on the edge of the bed and I suddenly knew what might help. I reached for her collar and drew her closer, putting my arm round her neck and sensing her astonishment; we didn’t have that sort of relationship. She was loyal and fond of me in her way, she just wasn’t a demonstrative sort of a dog, but it only took a few seconds for her to understand what was needed and she laid the warmth of her fine boned head against mine. My breathing adjusted to hers, I buried my face in the silkiness of her hair and let her simpler energy move in, pushing the complicated tangle of mine back, clearing my head. In the space created and because I’d stopped trying, I remembered. I told her she was wonderful, which she knew anyway and she moved away with relief, staying close, just not that close.

  Glory spent her first years in a children’s home during the Blitz. The numbers of orphaned, injured and irreparably damaged children taken into care stretched the home’s facilities and staff to breaking point, and night-time when terrors ran wild, were the worst. It was discovered purely by chance when five-year-old Glory slept in a dormitory, even the most disturbed and distressed children settled, she was far more effective than the strongest sedatives. They had no idea why and would never in a million years have guessed a truth that Glory herself didn’t know. All she knew was the crying of the children hurt her ears and their nightmares ripped her mind, but if she placed soft blankets in troubled heads and smothered the horrors, everyone had a better night. She’d used it in self-defence, could I turn it around; protect others by smothering Obnoxious for a while? It wouldn’t be long-term, but might last long enough to get help without causing harm. I settled more comfortably on the bed, well as comfortable as is possible with a chained wrist, and focused on Obnoxious. He was upstairs in suburbia; in a room towards the back of the house.

  “Let me help.” For a few bewildered seconds I thought it was the baby. It wasn’t. It was Alison Olivia, previous resident of this house and apparently, still here.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I don’t know which of us was more startled; she that I knew her or me that she was locked in a room just doors away. And I did know her, not only her past but also her present; the sadness, the soft mourning at the back of my mind for so long. Why on earth though had I not been able to pinpoint who and where she was as I’d done with so many others? I should have been able to locate her, let Boris get her out. Nothing seemed to make sense and for a few moments our thoughts and que
stions clashed, criss-crossed and knotted. Usually I like to take control but maybe I was more shaken than I thought, because it was she who pulled back first.

  “Wait! No time. I’ll help, but then you have to stop me.”

  “Stop you?”

  “You have to,” she said, “I can’t do it myself; I’ve tried, he always knows, won’t let me.” I thought I’d misunderstood, so she laid it all out for me with a lightning swift information dump, a whirling blur of facts, comprehension, conclusions and choices. I put all of that in order as quickly as I could, infected by her urgency and pieces of the puzzle clicked dreadfully into place.

  * * * *

  It was Alison Olivia he’d met and married; it was her limited psychic ability that unleashed his. She’d never given much thought to it, no reason to think she was different from anyone else, assumed everyone had similar occasional mental intrusions and dealt with it in ways that best suited.

  And it was never all the time, just came and went, often with months or years between, no big deal. She could turn it down, tune it out more or less completely and the only time it intruded was under some kind of emotional overload. By the time she married, she barely remembered it was there, and by the time she realised the marriage had been a terrible mistake, if she thought about the ability at all, she thought it was the least of her problems. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  When Obnoxious, whose name turned out to be far more prosaically Phillip, accidentally stumbled across what she saw as a liability, he saw it as heaven-sent. He couldn’t believe his luck. He’d been researching for a long time and here was what he’d been looking for - right under his nose. He turned the full, cold focus of his resentment, frustration and thwarted ambition onto the woman he’d married.