by William Paul
Eight-five, eighty-six. Zena McElhose stood up as she brushed, moving abruptly to clear her head of unwelcome thoughts. The mirror images followed her movements. She would go to church tomorrow morning, she decided. The minister was new. He had a black beard and a burning desire to communicate his belief. She would flirt with him and see if she could manage to give him a red face. He would tolerate her because she made generous donations to the church. She didn’t believe there was a God though, never had, never would. Yet nobody suspected her of such heresy. She was an elderly Edinburgh widow, utterly respectable and entirely predictable in all matters. And she would go to church tomorrow and fool them all.
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight. There was a circular turret space adjoining the bedroom. It had tall narrow windows on four sides, a small table and a late Victorian lady’s sewing chair in it. With her free hand, Zena lifted the portable phone from its cradle on the bedside table and carried it through the narrow entrance to the turret. She sat in the chair, still brushing, and dialled Carole’s number as she looked out into the darkness blanketing her lawns and trees. Sometimes it felt absolutely right to be alone. This was one of those times.
She looked out and saw the sea in the distance. The house had been built by her great, great uncle, a sea captain in the previous century. Beside the bedroom tower was a widow’s walk balcony reached by french windows in the first-floor drawing-room. When he was at sea his wife would walk up and down scanning the horizon for his return. He had always come back, according to family legend, eventually dying as an old man after a horse kicked him accidentally during a race meeting on Leith Links.
Zena smiled and lowered her eyes and focused on the much nearer lodge house where little Lorna lay dying. The phone was answered and a faraway voice spoke anxiously in her ear, making her realise at the end of a brush stroke that she had lost count. It must have been one hundred and three, or one hundred and four. She couldn’t remember which.
‘Granny, is that you?’ said Carole. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you all day. Where have you been? Why didn’t you come down?’
‘Something came up,’ Zena lied unashamedly. ‘Sorry, but I have to stay here this weekend.’
The brush moved smoothly through her hair. She watched the lights in the house at the end of the drive. One, two . . .
Chapter Three
Saturday, 23.15
Sandy Ramensky was a huge bear of a man but surprisingly light on his feet. The army had taught him to be a boxer and he had won the inter-regimental title. He hadn’t kept up the boxing when he finished his time. It came too easily to him. He enjoyed it too much and it conflicted with his natural disinclination to hurt people. He didn’t like violence. He couldn’t stand pain. As a child he was always being accused of being too soft. Big certainly, but soft.
Ramensky walked with a purposeful stride. His arms moved back and forward, the hands balled into big fists. He walked with his head down, his coat flowing behind him like the cloak of a pantomime villain. The pavements were busy with Saturday night drinkers and party-goers but he carved a path through them, never looking up or to the side. He turned into the park, on to the walkway lined by avenues of trees. Globe-topped white lights hung among the branches like a daisy chain of miniature moons, scattering confetti shadows as leaves and branches tossed and twisted in the wind. Wrapped in his own private world, he was unaware of the noise of the other people on the streets fading into the distance behind him. The park after dark was a taboo place to most people on their own, its interweaved paths and swathes of grass the haunt of professional muggers and roaming gangs of youths. Ramensky didn’t think about it. He didn’t care.
It was the unfairness that bothered Ramensky; the inescapable inequity in what was happening to him and Marianne. There was no reason, no explanation, no discernible purpose behind it. Pent-up frustration fuelled his movements, making every step he took an angry stamp on the unyielding ground. His jaw was sore because he kept grinding his teeth. He gripped pools of sweat, like precious possessions, in his tightly clenched hands.
That evening, as he did almost every evening, he had sat in his claustrophobic security booth in the basement of the high-rise office block and tried to find some sense in the horror that had invaded his life. He must have missed something, some miserable fact, some evasive clue that might explain why. There must be something, some cause to the effect. Was he stupid? Why couldn’t he see it?
And all evening he watched the six grey squares of the closed-circuit television screens as they lazily flipped between the underground garage and the internal corridors leading towards his booth. Occasionally people appeared like underwater creatures scuttling for shelter. They flashed identity cards he looked right through and didn’t see. And every second hour he left the screens and did his rounds, slamming the key into the special terminals on the different floors, trying to rip the apparatus from the wall. It was a simple routine, giving him plenty of time to think before his shift ended and he handed over to Eddie with mutual monosyllabic grunts. All night the thoughts swirled inside his brain, never giving him a moment’s peace. One obsessive question demanded an answer he could not find. Why? Why his beautiful little daughter? Why his only child? Why was Lorna dying?
Ramensky stopped instinctively. There were four of them, two directly in front of him, two sliding sideways to get round him. He raised his head slowly, assimilating the situation in a single glance, feeling the rapid build-up of an adrenalin rush. He took a step backwards to keep the two fringers in view and balanced himself on the balls of his feet. His hands came up to waist level, fists relaxing. All tension left his body. He was able to forget everything but his immediate surroundings. A half-smile tickled the edges of his mouth.
‘Okay, big boy. Let’s see what you’ve got.’
Ramensky’s mind snapped into narrow focus. Everything else was shut out apart from the semicircle of fragile bodies converging on him. It had happened when he won the army boxing championship; total and absolute concentration. He seemed to be able to move at twice the speed of his lumbering opponent, his bloodied glove hammering again and again into the helpless face as his victim hung on the ropes. The referee couldn’t drag Ramensky off alone. It took his own seconds to jump into the ring and join in. He won but, once he had calmed down, the manner of his victory scared him.
Now it was happening again. A gust of wind set the trees in motion and the world slowed down around him. But this time his purpose wasn’t a garish silver trophy and the adulation of his friends. This time it was the chance to save Lorna. Here was his way out of frustration. Here was his purpose. Now he understood. He would kill these bad people. He would tear off their heads and steal the life-force within them. And then his dear, beautiful, innocent Lorna would be saved. Here was the explanation he had been seeking. Here was his reason. It all suddenly made sense. This was Lorna’s chance, maybe her only chance.
Ramensky saw the shape to his right crouch and lunge. He swung his arm and caught the onrushing attacker on the side of the head. It was more a slap than a punch; his hand covered the face from chin to crown, felt rough stubble on the jaw, the bony shape of an eye socket, the hair-line of the scalp. Ramensky lifted him off the ground and flung him full length, arms and legs spread wide. He rode a wave of moving shadows to land shoulder first on the ground ten feet away and began to scramble to his feet. Ramensky made a grab at the shape to his left but it was already gone, stepping through the row of trees and lampposts and into the darkness beyond. Ramensky turned back to the front but the other two were also running, disappearing. Only the one he had hit remained, falling as he tried to get up, whimpering with terror as he finally managed to stay upright. Ramensky grabbed the collar of his jacket but he wriggled free of it. Ramensky roared like an animal and chased him along the white-lit pathway. The boy gave one frantic, wild-eyed look back and dodged to the side, instantly swallowed by the darkness.
Ramensky stopped. The moment had passed. He had failed to seize
it. It vanished into the darkness. Lorna would die. Nothing made sense any more. A huge sadness overwhelmed him, making him feel cold as if he had stepped into a body of deep water. He looked round in bewilderment. The wind blew against his face like a blast of some monster’s fetid breath. Ramensky’s whole body seemed to contract and shrink. The tightness of his clenched fists was painful. He lowered his head and stared at the ground. He took one faltering step, then another, then another. Gradually he found a rhythm to the movement. It allowed him not to think.
Chapter Four
Saturday, 23.21
Hilary’s frothy mane of light brown curls framed a smiling face that looked up at David Fyfe with openly immodest curiosity. She was small and intensely sexy, with a jumble of gold chains in the hollow of her throat above a tight black dress that ended well above the knees and enhanced the rounded curves of breasts and hips. She was sitting straight-backed, her legs crossed at the ankle. The hemline rode high as she leaned forward from the waist and gently tapped the wineglass he had just handed her against the glass he held in his own hand. They teased each other with party-goers’ idle banter.
‘You’re taking very good care of me,’ she said.
‘My pleasure, I assure you,’ he replied. ‘If there’s anything else I can do for you just let me know.’
‘As a matter of fact there is something you can do.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Talk to me.’
‘Is that all?’
‘For the moment.’
Her smile widened to show even teeth. She ran her tongue ostentatiously over her lower lip and sat back. The gold chains rolled and shone. The black dress adjusted itself round her like a second skin, moving fractionally up her thigh. Fyfe lowered himself into the space beside her on the two-seater sofa. She half turned, putting one leg over the other and a hand palm-down on her knee. Fyfe glanced across the other side of the room but couldn’t see Sally. He looked back into Hilary’s pale blue eyes, smiled and tried to relax.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Talk to me.’
So he began talking, eyes drawn to the perfect blackness of Hilary’s dress where it was surrounded by the creamy whiteness of arms and throat, her darkly shining legs and the slender fingers which waved expressively in the air. He could feel himself already falling into the centre of that unknown but welcoming total blackness. Hilary was lovely and dangerous. Sexual tension crackled across the air between them. His instincts were raw-edged and receptive. He blinked slowly and she didn’t go away. He resigned himself to his fate.
Fyfe hadn’t wanted to go to the party. It was an Edinburgh New Town affair, full of Sally’s university friends and colleagues. He wouldn’t fit in. He had nothing in common with any of them. He wouldn’t know anybody. Sally insisted, wheedling at first, then disappointed, then threatening. He had complained continuously, but eventually he gave in and the upshot was they arrived late at the party. There was much kissing of cheeks, and shaking of hands, and introductions promptly forgotten. Sally guided him into the centre of the party crowd and drifted away on the social round. He swallowed his first glass of wine in a single gulp and decided he would just have to get drunk and bear it.
That was when he saw Hilary in her little black dress. Suddenly he was glad he had been persuaded to come after all. She caught him looking her up and down and their silent exchange of knowing smiles sparked an instant mutual attraction. She was standing on her own under a central archway which divided the large room into two sections. Unbroken eye contact established a momentary intimacy that excluded every other person present. He told her his name and she told him hers. They discovered both were partners who grudged being dragged along. Forming a natural alliance they moved away from the crowd through the arch to the quieter side of the room and the unoccupied sofa by one of the windows. A tall standard lamp cast subdued lighting in the corner. Fyfe collected drinks and settled down beside his new-found friend, knowing already that he was going to regret this night ending too soon.
They chatted amiably, not giving much away except superficial information about families and everyday life. Fyfe didn’t mention how his fondness for attractive women like her had caused him problems in the past. He pointed out his wife Sally but didn’t explain the awkward bit about them being divorced and reconciled without actually remarrying. Hilary pointed out her husband Brian, as tall as the standard lamp, and Fyfe wondered what she wasn’t telling about him and their marriage. She was a computer operator, keener on sport than work. Not a career woman, but somebody who liked to live well so she was obliged to work. If she had the money to begin with, she wouldn’t bother to work. It was a meeting of minds.
Fyfe resented it when Brian came over to interrupt their brief conversation. They shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and then Hilary was led away to be introduced to someone else. She glanced back wistfully over her shoulder as she went. He appreciated the rear view of her and thought maybe she was putting a little extra swing into her walk just for his benefit.
The party went on around him. It seemed to get more crowded. The music seemed to get louder. He helped himself to some food from the spread in the kitchen and got drawn into a group of strangers. He was relaxed, drinking steadily and beginning to enjoy himself. He annoyed a fat woman in a Paisley pattern kaftan by refusing to agree that most police forces were riddled with corruption. And once he had made a plea for a quick return to the death penalty offered to have any of her outstanding parking fines cancelled for a small fee. She didn’t have much of a sense of humour, but she laughed when his half quail egg fell off his bit of toasted bread and was tramped into the carpet.
He joined Sally and she introduced him to some more people. He managed to manoeuvre himself into a position beside Hilary but Brian was beside her with a proprietary arm linked to hers as he discussed internal university politics with an old man who stood out because he was wearing a dinner suit among all the open-necked shirts and jeans. ‘Dean of the faculty,’ Sally explained quietly. ‘Likes to keep certain standards.’
They circulated. A skinny guy with incongruously fat hands and a tweed jacket trapped Fyfe beside the bookcase. He was a philosopher, he said, working on a radical new theory to explain Zeno’s paradox. He was drunk. He kept touching Fyfe on the elbow as he invited him to create a mind picture of Achilles and a tortoise. Fyfe wasn’t really listening, but his frown must have made it seem as if he was concentrating hard on the mental problem. In fact he was trying as politely as he could to watch Hilary over the hound’s tooth check landscape of the philosopher’s shoulder.
‘All motion and change are illusions,’ the philosopher said. ‘I’ll show you. Think of the distance between this side of the room and that side.’
Fyfe estimated the distance between him and Hilary as maybe twenty feet. She was standing side on to him, slipping scraps of toast covered with quail’s eggs and red caviar into her mouth.
‘Now, to reach the other side you first have to travel half the distance. Am I correct?’
Fyfe thought about it and nodded, knowing there must be a catch.
‘And before you reach the half-way point you first have to travel half of the distance towards it.’
‘That’s right,’ Fyfe agreed.
‘And to get to that point you have to travel half-way towards it.’
‘So?’
‘There’s always another half-way.’
‘Is there?’
‘Don’t you see?’ the philosopher said earnestly. ‘Logically you can keep splitting the distance in half an infinite number of times.’
‘So?’
‘So, it means you never reach the other side of the room.’
‘But I can.’ He looked over at Hilary and saw the rippling movement of her cheekbones under her skin as her teeth bit down on a piece of toast. ‘I can walk over right now and touch it if I want to.’
‘That’s the point.’
‘Is it?’
‘That’s why it’s a
paradox. You can do it but the point is that you shouldn’t be able to.’
Fyfe thought about it and rapidly reached a philosophical dead end. It was true as far as he could see, but it was also untrue. A real paradox he could annoy the boys with next time there was a session in the pub. The philosopher grinned, banana-mouthed, and started to haver on about Immanuel Kant. At one stage he realised that Fyfe wasn’t paying attention and followed his line of sight to where Hilary was standing by the fireplace throwing the occasional bored glance in his direction.
‘Aha,’ said the philosopher, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Sometimes a boisterous passion hurries our thoughts, as a hurricane does our bodies, without leaving us the liberty of thinking on other things.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Fyfe said.
‘Locke. His essay concerning human understanding.’
‘Really?’
‘And did anybody?’
‘Did anybody what?’
‘Understand his essay?’
Hilary crossed the distance between them without apparent hold-up or difficulty and rescued Fyfe. She murmured an apology to the drunken philosopher and pulled Fyfe to one side so they could speak alone.
‘I have to go now.’
‘Do you really? It’s early yet.’ Fyfe looked at his watch. It was well after midnight. He hadn’t noticed the time passing.
‘Give me your arm,’ she said.
He did as he was told. She pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to the elbow and turned it to the smooth, relatively hairless underside. She held his wrist and wrote a number. The sharp tip of the pen pressed deeply into the soft skin. Its touch was cold, like teeth playfully nibbling. Hilary signed her name below the number with a flourish. Fyfe tilted his head to one side to be able to read it.
‘Just so you won’t forget me,’ she said, holding on to his wrist longer than was necessary.