Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  Her telepathic ability proved disappointingly limited, but that didn’t matter, because by then he’d found she was something else altogether.

  She was an amplifier, an energy source, an enabler; powerful in a way that had fate not thrown them together, would almost certainly never have come to light. Her uniqueness led him to his own; enabled him to grow into something he always knew he was destined to be. His talent was locating and latching on and into others.

  He could utilise their combined talents, his and hers, to worm into the mind of anyone, but normals weren’t in any way as rewarding as those with even the slightest psi abilities. And naturally it followed that the cream of the crop, the delicious and most fulfilling fruit at the top of the tree were those possessed of powerful extra sensory perceptions – rare, but oh so rewarding.

  His ability was to crawl in and infiltrate, put down roots. By the time a host became aware, and they didn’t always, he was in too deep to dislodge, embedded in such a way that causing his destruction would precipitate theirs.

  Sometimes he went in and stayed deliberately dormant, content to gently suck experience, emotion and energy. Other times he preferred to play puppet master, actively manipulating individual and events to create whatever he happened to be hungry for. It transpired that drugs, sex, and violence were none the less enjoyable if experienced vicariously; and all the better for there being no risk, no danger, only an ever-growing greediness for more.

  He was a natural parasite, she thought of him as a multi-tentacled octopus, each tentacle buried deep in an individual mind. No limit to tentacles, no limit to victims. Over the years he’d learnt and evolved as all successful creatures must. There’d been mistakes of course; some people weren’t able to tolerate the intrusion, it killed them. Others had their minds completely blown but could still be useful, like the unfortunate cab driver. He, Phillip, liked to say ‘Life is a learning curve’, apart from which there was always more prey and he relished the hunt as much as the infiltration.

  She was different, possibly unique, probably irreplaceable. He’d looked, naturally because it’s always sensible to have a back-up, but without success. So she was treasured, cherished, something so precious has to be kept safe. Safe and obedient.

  Everything that arrived full blown in my head rang horribly true and tallied with what I knew; I’d been an unwilling witness to the fall of Jamie and in the maelstrom of his mind, even as it was being sucked out of him, even as he’d died, I’d understood what was happening if not who was doing it, and I’d known that claws were in Ruth too. This was all somewhat of a tricky situation. A thought occurred.

  “Is there anybody else down here, the other rooms?

  There was a pause then, “Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “You don’t want to know.” She was right; there was only so much I felt up to, right now. I changed direction.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “A while.” What she wasn’t saying chilled me, she was a post-war baby like me, we were a similar age give or take.

  “Will you do what I’ve asked?” she interrupted. I hadn’t misunderstood what she was asking. She better than anyone knew what he was, knew he had to be stopped and saw her own death as the necessary first step.

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. I didn’t have time to argue, I’d explore options other than elimination later. “But I need you first.” I caught a sense of her absolute exhaustion, physical and emotional, together with the vast corrosive guilt she carried. Imparting so much information had drained her.

  “I’m assuming he can’t hear us?” I said, a little late to ask but I had no sense of him, so didn’t think he could. I picked up her assent then showed her what I had in mind. She understood instantly and, clumsily at first as we each adjusted to the rhythm of the other, then faster as we did, we constructed something thick and soft, heavy and smothering. Two of us had it ready far quicker than if I’d attempted it on my own, and it was stronger for the dual input. Then I took a deep breath; I was only going to ask because it was so important and I wasn’t feeling 100% but she was there before me.

  “Of course,” she opened up and feeling that strength unleashed, powering through me, made me understand more clearly than anything else how it had been possible for him to do what he was doing. It felt as if a searchlight had gone on in my head, I instinctively, if pointlessly, shut my eyes against the brightness. Then I took what she was lending me, added my own energy and threw it to where, pink lips pursed in concentration, he’d just put down his pen. This might be our only chance; failure wasn’t an option.

  We swiftly draped our blanket round his mind and then I knocked him out, although even as he went under, he tried to lash out, punish me with the pain of others. But we’d succeeded, he was too well wrapped - snug as a bug in a rug - and he slid off the chair and hit the ground.

  “Just one more thing, then you can rest,” I said to her. I heard nothing and froze, had I inadvertently done what she’d asked and finished her off? Then she surged back, and with her power behind mine I sent out a yell for help that I hoped would be heard. If it wasn’t, I’d have to try and get us both out on my own.

  “Sleep now,” I said to her.

  “Will you… ?”

  “When you’re asleep,” I told her and felt her drift away. ‘Not on my watch,’ I thought as I felt her let go and then belatedly realised while she was still with me, I should have used her help to cut the chain, but I didn’t have the heart to wake her. I’d do it myself. I twisted on the bed to better see the chain and as I did, felt a distinct tightening in the bump area.

  “Not to worry,” I muttered to the baby, who was obviously being squeezed, didn’t like it and had gone very still, “Braxton Hicks,” I said, and then after a moment or two, “or maybe not.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  As the pain faded, I tried to refocus, although not that clear what I was refocusing on. I was cross, this was extremely bad timing and perhaps earlier exertions had tired me more than I’d thought because the stark white-tiled walls of the brightly lit room seemed to be moving in, then backing off again. It wasn’t the way you want walls to behave.

  One arm was still behind my back, I’d got distracted before I could break the chain holding it there, so was still lying at an uncomfortable sideways angle. I’m not normally a whinger, I know life has its ups and downs, but it was hard not to think longingly of my meticulously packed labour bag back at home, packed to the gunnels with essentials such as natural sponges to cool my forehead and dampen my lips, eau de cologne for my wrists and a whale song cassette in whose calming qualities David had great faith.

  I’d realised when the pains kicked off, there was no alternative but to put out an additional yelp for help, more of a sustained mental shriek really and that was without input from my new friend. Having once taken the decision that I had to get assistance, the possibility of that not happening was a thought too alarming to contemplate.

  “You can stop shouting now,” Rachael was suddenly sharp in my head, peppermint green and snappy. I was tempted to sob with relief but time was of the essence, so I dealt with the pressing issue.

  “I’m having the baby,” I said, although still wasn’t sure whether or not she even knew there was a baby; if she didn’t, then this whole thing would be a double surprise.

  As usual she had an opinion. “Well, you can’t have it now.”

  “You think?”

  “We’re already on the way, won’t be too long. Stay exactly where you are.” I was going to say not having much choice, then it struck me, how could they already be on the way? But another contraction demanded my attention.

  “How far apart?” Glory in my head this time.

  “What?”

  “How long between pains?” she said, and I snorted a laugh, I knew if David had been around, he’d have had timings down to the second.

  “Close. Don’t know exactly.”

  “OK,�
�� she said, “I’m here now,” and she was, suddenly fully in my head with me. She’d never previously taken over quite so completely; I’d have expected to be horrified instead of which, as I found myself enveloped in the fizzy lemon-sherbet essence of her, I’d never been so relieved in my life.

  “Hmm, not sure how much time we’ve got.”

  “Can we move her?” Rachael asked. Glory didn’t answer, she was assessing and running her mind over the chain that was causing me so much discomfort and passing information back to Ed; he was much defter at that sort of thing than anybody else. I felt the blissful release of the strain on my arm as he neatly snapped it and metal chain slithered noisily over metal bed frame to coil on the floor.

  It was Ed driving the vehicle heading my way and I could feel his intense agitation, which put the wind up me more than anything else. Ed generally maintained a complete block on his emotions and I didn’t need his panic to fuel mine. Then I stopped thinking as I headed into another contraction. Naturally, David and I had attended NCT classes, and I did have a song ready to belt out as things intensified – we’d been told it would take our minds off any discomfort but;

  “Screw the song,” muttered Glory, “I’ve got you,” and sure enough, she had. Turns out, ‘a trouble shared is a trouble halved,’ applies particularly well to labour, who’d have thought? She’d more or less blocked off what I was feeling, leaving just the residual shadow of sensation, “Got to be able to feel something,” she said, “so you’ll know what’s going on.” I was impressed; she could save the NHS a fortune in epidurals, although right now I was prepared to swear the baby was working its way up, rather than down; maybe it shared my lousy sense of direction.

  “This isn’t funny,” Glory grumbled, “only you could find yourself in a situation like this; don’t know whether you’re daft or just plain nuts.” I was turning a little grumpy myself and was about to come back in self-defence but Rachael got in first,

  “No time to discuss. We’re not far. Ed?” I heard his silent agreement, and sighed with relief, I wasn’t on my own anymore and I had complete faith in the people coming to get me, but with the comfort of knowing and the easing of pain, panic returned fully fledged.

  “Listen,” I said urgently, “you need to know…”

  Rachael interrupted, “We know.”

  “But it’s Ruth.”

  “I said, we know.”

  Using elbows rather than a hand and wrist still painful from the chain, I eased myself farther up the bed and manoeuvred a couple of pillows to cushion my back against the rigid bedhead.

  “Where is he?” Rachael asked.

  “Upstairs.”

  “Can’t find him,” she said.

  “No, well, he’s out for the count, I used the blanket.”

  “Blanket?” said Glory, “oh right…” she broke off. She was looking through my eyes at the door to my room which was slowly opening, and then she was sharing my shock and horror at what was coming in.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  From the doorway she said quietly, “You didn’t do as I asked.”

  “I didn’t,” I agreed. I was trying to rationalise what I was seeing with what I knew, but it didn’t make any sense and there was no way of hiding my reaction. She was upright only with the aid of a wheeled walking frame, because matchstick legs below a mid-length, shapeless cotton dress, would never have supported her. Her arms, thin and scarred, were taut and shaking on the frame, they were taking what weight she had, although didn’t look as if they could do so for much longer. There was a sound and she glanced towards the stairs with apprehension,

  “Still out?” she asked.

  “Like a light,” I said.

  “Still in here though,” she raised one thin arm to her head, anticipating the pain.

  “Even if he comes round,” I said, “he won’t be able to hurt you, the blanket will hold.”

  She nodded, not reassured and I understood how much courage it had taken for her to leave her room. Pain and worse, the anticipation of pain, isn’t easy to shake off.

  She was almost completely bald with only a few thin white tufts clinging obstinately to a bone white scalp. Her eyes in the skull of a folded and hollowed face, were blue and bright with awareness; she knew what she looked like.

  “I don’t know how I can help,” she said as she moved forward slowly, but I can at least be with you until your friends arrive.”

  “Thank you,” I said and meant it. Glory, in my head was still and silent, I don’t think she knew what to say either and even the baby seemed to have temporarily stalled. Instinctively, I put my hand out and after a moment’s hesitation she moved to take it, lowering herself carefully into the bedside chair. She hadn’t felt human contact in a long time, had forgotten the warmth of another hand. She closed her eyes savouring that as she regained her breath, then she said,

  “You got the wrong war,” and for a moment I didn’t understand and then I did, but that wasn’t possible.

  “I’m afraid it is,” she said.

  “But I thought…”

  “I know what you thought. You were wrong.”

  I inadvertently squeezed the thin hand in mine and she flinched.

  “Sorry,” I loosened my grip, but knew she didn’t want me to let go.

  “You didn’t tell me,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t have believed it; sometimes you have to see something to know it’s true.”

  “Then you’re…” I was trying to calculate based on what I knew.

  “Coming up for 60. Born 1920, I was indeed a post-war baby, just a different war. She paused and coughed over a voice dry from disuse, I gestured at the glass of water on the cabinet, she used the hand not in mine, drank a little, went on “This is the house I was brought up in.”

  “I know.” I said. She nodded, registered no surprise, she’d already been in my head.

  “I was 35 when I met him, on the shelf but very comfortably so.” Regret and loathing seeped through our joined hands, “We both taught you see. He took a job at my school; 1955 that would have been. He was nice to me. We married quickly; we weren’t youngsters, a long engagement would have been foolish. Naturally he moved in, house all paid for, silly not to.” She took another drink, replaced the glass.

  “We were never love’s young dream, but we suited. I stopped work when we married and, as is said, you never know what goes on behind closed doors. Behind ours, the first months weren’t too bad and I’d never expected bliss anyway. Things changed when he found I wasn’t such a consolation prize after all. Actually, he felt he’d hit the jackpot and for a brief while I revelled in that. Whilst I was busy revelling, he crawled into my head; hooked into my mind; learnt the power of pain and how to calibrate it. Too little didn’t keep me in check as much as he wanted; too much and…” she paused, memory still raw, “Once he knocked me out for three whole days, by the time I came round, he was frantic and I could remember nothing, nothing at all! Oh, it came back slowly; everything came back, maybe it would have been better if it hadn’t. He realised he could kill me and obviously that was the last thing he wanted; you don’t kill a golden goose. By the time I’d fully come back to myself, I understood I wasn’t able to get away, but I had to try and stop him; I tried all sorts of things.”

  As a necessity, because of the time constraint, her story was a swift mix of speech, thought and emotion. She was optimistic, ingenious and imaginative in the ways she tried to eliminate him, but as time went on, optimism faded and died. She came to the inevitable conclusion the only way to stop him ‘gathering’ – that’s what he called it every time he added a new mind to his growing collection – was to take herself out of the equation, but it’s well-nigh impossible to go behind someone’s back when they’re in in your head and plotting, however devious proved no match for pain.

  “Brain-washed,” she said, “in a shockingly short time, you’re brain-washed, conditioned. You learn as a cow learns to fear the cattle prod, and the agony of anti
cipation is as bad as the reality because anticipation goes on for much longer.”

  “And you’ve been down here all the time?”

  “Goodness no, upstairs for many years, cooking cleaning, the usual sort of stuff.”

  “But when you went out, couldn’t you have just run?”

  “Didn’t go out. He shopped, told anyone who asked I was agoraphobic, unable to leave the house. Then,” she paused to think, “1969 or 1970, I think it was, he decided it might be better if I was out of the picture completely. Heart attack: very sudden, very sad, although by then there weren’t many people he needed to tell – the postman, the milkman, a teaching colleague I’d vaguely kept in touch with.

  He’d been converting the original wine cellar for years; kept getting different people in, so most of them never got the whole picture of what it was he was building.”

  “Must have cost a fortune.” I said.

  “It did,” she agreed, “mine! When it was finally finished and fully equipped, he decided I should stay down here.” She countered my gasp.

  “It hasn’t really felt as long as it’s been. I sleep a lot, he puts something in the supplies he brings me. I don’t really mind that.”

  Gravelly with disuse, her voice was going again and she drank. She’d kept her tone pragmatic, but I was holding her hand which told me so much more. I understood he was scrupulous in his care, ensured enough to eat, drink, occupy her mind. She was precious, but he’d long ago stopped thinking of her as a person; she was a power-source and like any piece of equipment needed to be kept in the best condition, because he used her often.

  “What’s happening with the baby?” she asked suddenly.

  I was startled. “Oh, well the contractions seem to have stopped.” I felt bad, I’d rather forgotten about the baby, that didn’t bode well for the future. “Glory?” I said.

  “It happens.” Glory had been taking everything in, but Alison Olivia jumped convulsively and I realised I hadn’t done any introductions – how rude. As she pulled back I realised for her, the addition of another mind meant only more fear more pain, more guilt.