Even Stranger

by Marilyn Messik

  “That’s the tube,” Professor Lowbell told me, “Runs right under us, pretty deep, but every now and then, we get the odd rumble and vibration.” I didn’t bother answering, I felt he and I had passed the casual chat stage. As Dorothy reached up carefully, to put perky bonnet and basket, back in place, I swept the rest of the shelf. Half a dozen or so small bodies promptly hurtled down, onto her unprotected head. I wasn’t sorry, in fact quite pleased, that a couple of the china ones looked heavy. She uttered a cross between a yell and a yelp, tottered to one side, and there was a loud crack, as she inadvertently stood on and broke someone’s face.

  “What the devil… ?” The Professor had risen to his feet.

  Perhaps, I should have stopped then. I should have quietly celebrated getting back to normal and just stopped. I should have contemplated all the consequences of taking it further, I should have listened to Rachael. But you know me!

  I was, in fact, somewhat surprised, at the depth of the pent up fury and frustration I was feeling. It was only a matter of a few days, since I’d been mortified at putting my good clients, the Lowbells, to any trouble and been pathetically grateful for their kind care and attention. It’s amazing how quickly attitudes can change, isn’t it? I sat up straighter in the bed, and even though my head was still spinning, swiftly cleared the top shelf of the second alcove and continued moving downwards, in an orderly fashion.

  Then I wound Adelaide up – I reckoned she had something to contribute, even if it might be a bit repetitive. Dorothy, silly woman, wasn’t moving out of the way, instead she was hot-footing it, back and forwards, trying to catch as many of the falling dolls as she could. Her arms were full. She lacked only a couple of cauliflowers, to be a successful Crackerjack contestant. She was making low, guttural sounds of distress. I probably should have felt bad about that. I didn’t. Neither did I feel particularly regretful about the several feather-stuffed dolls I’d destroyed, showering their fillings all over the place. By that stage, young Adelaide was in full flow, doing her thing. Smiley face; sigh; turn; crying face; head tilt; sigh; turn; horror face – and shriek! All in all, it was rather noisy, and getting messier by the minute, with doll bodies, piling up left right and centre.

  My arm was suddenly gripped painfully above the elbow, beautifully manicured nails – he always took great pride in his hands – digging viciously into my flesh. Lowbell’s contorted features, not so froggy-friendly now, were inches from mine.

  “What are you?” he hissed, spittle dampening my face. He was breathing heavily through his mouth, and in his excitement, licking his lips. For just a second or so, it seemed the tongue emerging might be endless and forked, I held my breath, waiting for it to flick, it didn’t, of course. He hadn’t released his hold, and the contact, though it was hurting me, gave greater access. I regretted that immediately. Unlike his wife, his mind was set out as logically and cogently as his notes and academic arguments. Compartmentalised, filed, memories available and accessible. I’d always known his speciality was the study of the fear factor, only now, in this minute, did I appreciate this was no dry academic interest – it was feverishly lustful, coldly cruel and very personal. And no, I wasn’t the first of their guests, not by a long chalk. The other women were all appallingly easy to see. Each of them appeared to have her own file in his head, neatly numbered, fully notated. Every twitch, every reaction, every step on the downward spiral of drug-induced fear. These memories never left him, why would they, they fed and swelled his obsession.

  His scent, damp and tainted, mushroomy and foetid, was magnified by his excitement. He was clever and, unlike so many other people I’d come up against, he was open not closed-minded. He didn’t try and rationalise what he was seeing, what I was doing. He’d always known, gut-deep, that in all the handed down tales, in their consistency, there had to be more than a grain of truth, otherwise they wouldn’t have survived, intact through the years. Seers, witches, label them what you will, there’d always been those who defied the norm, he’d just never expected to stumble across one. He didn’t know any more, than what he was seeing, but what he was seeing, was proof enough. He couldn’t believe, in all the time he’d known me, he hadn’t spotted something, and he couldn’t believe his luck now. He was going to keep me going, so much longer than all the others. He was going to do whatever he needed, to take me apart, like one of Dorothy’s dolls, so he could learn exactly what made me tick.

  It had taken only a few seconds for me to read him and him to assess me, but by this time, my arm was hurting badly. I didn’t touch him, but I loosened his grip and moved free, he looked down at his hand in delight, although I must have hurt him, I hadn’t been gentle. If a grin could be said to split a face, then that’s how his was looking, right now. He was beside himself, with anticipation of what the future held. At the same time, he understood he needed me incapacitated, needed to knock me out, at least until he’d thought through tactics.

  He raised his fist, I yanked his feet from under him. He hit the floor hard, his glasses skidding and ending up under the bedside table. He eased himself up on one elbow and winced. I think I may have broken something. He was winded, but still grinning happily. He was utterly fascinated, and thinking rapidly. He didn’t know the extent of what I could do, although he’d seen me anticipate the punch. I watched him run through the options open to him, at the same time as running through my own. If it was a Catch 22 situation for him, it was for me too. I had no idea how long it might be before help arrived and, idiot that I was, I’d shown my hand far too soon.

  “Dorothy.” He called. She was still over on the other side of the room, on her hands and knees, cooing softly to the dolls, trying to put together those which were broken, reinstate them on the shelves. She was so distraught and engrossed, she hadn’t really noticed what was going on down our end. “Dorothy,” he snapped, “Put down those damned toys and get over here. Now!” In the pause, Adelaide, sighed, turned and showed us her crying face, at the same time as Dorothy showed us hers.

  She made a cumbersome rise to her feet, regained her balance and advanced slowly across the room. A couple of feathers, caught in her iron-grey hair, added an incongruously festive feel. Her eyes were glittering feverishly and her mind was flickering and cutting in and out, like a TV with poor reception. She’d no idea quite what was going on, nor how it was being done, but she certainly knew who was behind it and she quickened her step.

  Distracted as I was, by the level of her rage, I didn’t notice the Professor get to his feet. As she approached, he abruptly shoved her hard, from one side and she fell heavily across me in the bed. Pinned down by a woman of Dorothy’s bulk, was pinned down indeed. He swung swiftly on his heel, making for the chest of drawers, in the far corner of the room. I understood, there was a box in there with a hypodermic and a vial of something – I didn’t think it would be a vitamin supplement.

  Meanwhile, the woman on top of me, had both hands round my throat and was throttling me with a surprising amount of strength and an intense expression of concentration, she was, it seemed, a woman with a mission.

  “Bitch,” she said. “Bloody little bitch.” Fumbling in the drawer, the Professor looked up briefly,

  “Stop that Dotty.” He said. “I want to keep her.” Unfortunately, Dorothy had moved way beyond the taking notice of anyone, stage. I’d attacked and hurt what she held most dear and, like the china faces of many of the dolls, she’d cracked, from side to side. As she methodically cut off my circulation, and everything began to acquire a strong black outline, I saw that any remnant of restraint had fled and the swirling, hideous images in her head, were what insanity looks like.

  I could feel myself falling, ever more rapidly, into the dark. Reluctantly, I ventured into the midst of the swirling, because there weren’t a lot of choices on the table. I searched, found, twisted and that dreadful, agonising pressure on my throat eased, as she collapsed across me, deeply unconsciou
s and breathing noisily through her nose.

  But not out of the woods yet. I was still completely anchored to the bed and the Prof was now trotting across with a loaded hypo. If there’s anything I hate, it’s needles – so I snapped this one off immediately. I’d have to remember to pick it up off the floor later, not the sort of thing to leave lying around. I don’t know which was worse, Dorothy’s swirling madness or Lowbell’s icy, clear logic which, despite the circumstances, was operating with greater clarity than ever. I reached out to him, before he reached me, found the right place inside his brain, knocked him out and he keeled over. I was relieved to see he was still breathing. Bad things happen to good people and not often enough, bad things happen to bad people, but I’d played judge, jury and executioner once before, I didn’t want to do it again.

  I think I might have passed out, round about then – there was no getting away from it, it had been an action, not to mention drug-packed, few hours.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  I don’t know how long I was out for, but when I did re-join the world of the living, I was relieved to find Dorothy had been removed – the woman weighed a ton. There was a chap, peering at me from close quarters, too close. I’d no idea who he was, but I wasn’t pleased. I didn’t think I was looking my best and my last close encounter, hadn’t exactly been a load of laughs.

  “She’s awake.” He said, over his shoulder, to someone I couldn’t see. I tried to sit up against the pillows, but he pushed me gently back down again, “Stay there for a moment, you’re bleeding.” He handed me a clean white hanky and directed my hand to my nose, which instantly turned the white cotton, an alarming shade of scarlet.

  “I think,” I said nasally, “Dorothy might have bashed her head against it. Hope it’s not broken.”

  “Out the way young man.” A familiar bossiness,

  “Rachael?” I reached out my other hand, with an indescribable sense of relief and possibly, a bit of a sob. She took it, held it for a moment, gave it a brief squeeze and passed it back.

  “Didn’t I,” she said repressively, “Tell you not to do anything until we got here? Why can’t you, for once in your life, listen?”

  “Steady on.” Said the hanky chap from behind her, sounding like something out of a 1950s film.

  “Well, you rather took your time turning up.” I said grumpily, “Things got a bit heated.” and then remembering, “Oh God, the Lowbells,” I gestured vaguely and flashed a thought, “I haven’t killed them have I?” She snorted,

  “No, just unconscious. But we don’t have much time.”

  “Time?” I still felt a bit woozy.

  “The police are on their way.” Said Boris, his unmistakeably elongated form, appearing behind her shoulder.

  “Police?” I said.

  “Stella,” Rachael said patiently, and aloud for emphasis. “You disappeared for eight days, you’ve headlined the news every night and you’re on the front page of every newspaper – of course, Police. Now, before they turn up, we need to get your story straight.”

  “Hang on, just one minute.” The chap, who now I came to think of it, did look a little familiar, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint, was there again, he was starting to compete with Rachael, in the interfering stakes.

  “We’ve got to call an ambulance, right away,” he said. “She’s in shock, I think she’s been drugged or something and she’s bleeding and look at her throat.” Actually, I thought, if my throat looked as rough on the outside as it felt on the inside, it was probably not a pretty sight. “Then there’s these two.” He gestured behind him, presumably at the recumbent Lowbells. As he moved, there was a crunching sound from some of the debris on the floor. “It’s a crime scene, isn’t it, we shouldn’t be touching anything.”

  “Who is he?” Rachael asked silently, with irritation. I made an effort to haul aside the mind fog, focused on him and suddenly it came to me.

  “David Gold. Son of a client.”

  “Well, what on earth’s he doing here?”

  “No idea. I thought he came in with you. And where are the others?”

  “Back at home. Not sensible to come in mob handed, too many people to explain away and Ed and Glory don’t exactly blend into the background, do they?” I chuckled weakly. It seemed, the end of the nightmare might be in sight. All I ached to do now, was get home. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it must all have been like for my family. I turned swiftly back to Rachael, but she was ahead of me,

  “Don’t be silly, don’t think we’d leave them hanging, do you? They know you’re OK.” Boris meanwhile, inclined his head towards David and summarised what he’d read, swiftly and silently.

  “He came round here to check on you, the day you went missing. Apparently, you were due to collect his mother that afternoon, and didn’t turn up. He called the office to find out where you were. They told him you were working at the Lowbells. He had to pass here on his way home. Saw your car parked down the road and stopped to make sure you were OK. But when he knocked on the door, they insisted you’d never arrived. He thought that was odd, so didn’t mention the car. When he drove past again, the following day, your car was gone and you were already hitting the headlines. He called the police to tell them about the car, but by then, they’d been all over the house and hadn’t found any trace. Apparently he’s a journalist, has a nose for a story, didn’t like what the Lowbells told him and he’s been keeping an eye on the house ever since – saw us turn up just now and tagged along.” I interrupted him,

  “How come you didn’t find me, if I was here all the time?” Boris, shook his head,

  “This whole corridor of rooms, is parallel to the main upstairs hall, but the door to it is cleverly concealed behind wood panelling. If you didn’t know it was there, you wouldn’t know it was there! We only got to you this time, because we could hear you so loudly.”

  “But how’re you going to explain all that?” I asked. Boris shrugged,

  “We were driving past, saw the front door open. I’d been here with the police, when the house was searched originally, was suspicious something was wrong. We just walked in, the place seemed deserted, we heard a noise, came upstairs, the door to these rooms was open and…”

  “Doesn’t that sound really odd?” I interrupted, Boris looked around wryly,

  “Stella, this whole situation is really odd.” David was looking from one to other of us expectantly, his head swivelling, like a less rusty Adelaide. None of us had said a word and he was waiting for someone, anyone, to respond to what he’d last said, although I really couldn’t remember what that was exactly. To be honest, I didn’t have anything left, I leaned back against the pillows, closed my eyes and left everyone else to sort themselves out.

  By the time I was ready to contribute intelligently again, I was in the back of an ambulance, on its way to the Royal Free, where I couldn’t help but feel, I was spending an inordinate amount of time. There was a jolly young WPC with me, who seemed to expect a descent into hysteria at any second. She didn’t let go of my hand the whole way, holding it in both of hers and murmuring,

  “There, there, my dear, you’re all right now. We’ve got you, we’ve got you.” All of which was a little disconcerting, but appreciated nevertheless. It was only a short journey, but long enough to let me reflect a little and worry a lot. I knew I was odd, but was I even odder than I should be? What kind of a person went through the experience I’d just had, and didn’t have hysterics? Maybe I needed to work on that. Mind you, when we reached the hospital, the family were there in force and it would be fair to say, there was no shortage in the hysteria department, even if it wasn’t mine.

  The hospital insisted on keeping me overnight, because they weren’t thrilled at what they found in my bloodstream. They were though, highly intrigued, and a whole host of students were brought in, to gather round the bed and have a look at me.<
br />
  “What she’s been given,” said one of the consultant haematologists, gesturing with his stethoscope and scant regard for my sensibilities, “Would have knocked out an elephant. Should have finished her off completely. We’ve found barbiturates and benzodiazepines. There’s also some LSD, and what the lab say is some kind of mushroom extract. One hell of a lot of heavy-duty stuff, if it’s all still showing up now. She’ll have spent this past week, alternating between spaced out and spark out. To be honest, at best, I’d have expected her to be dribbling in a corner by now, but she appears to be responding more or less normally. I think, oddly enough, she’s going to be OK.” And having scared the wits out of me, he beckoned his flock and they all white-coated it, out the door.

  I was reflecting on his bedside manner or lack of, when my jolly young WPC, whose name was Stephanie, pitched up again. This time with a Detective Sergeant Mousegood, as miserable as she was cheerful. DS Mousegood, and rarely was a name so apt, had a thatch of thinning, dull, fair hair, a stinking cold and a small pointed nose, red raw from a lot of handkerchief action. He needed, he said, to take a statement. He clearly wasn’t having a good day, and as he eyed me morosely over his notepad, he didn’t think it was getting any better. Apparently, he’d been there, when the house was originally searched and I hadn’t come to light. I gathered, my subsequent resurfacing, hadn’t gone down too well with his Inspector.

  During our hasty session, prior to the police piling in, Rachael and Boris had insisted the safest course of action was to stick to the truth as far as possible – it was always easiest to remember and where the truth wasn’t advisable, I should lean heavily, on drug-induced amnesia. Accordingly, as DS Mousegood sneezed, sniffed, wiped and noted, I recounted the whole sorry tale which, even to me, sounded far-fetched, featuring as it did, the rapid transformation of the Lowbells from esteemed clients to caring hosts to homicidal maniacs.