Even Stranger

by Marilyn Messik

  As I yanked myself violently back and away from the darkness I was being drawn down into, there was a sudden hot and heavy breathing, in my left ear. I shrieked in fright, lurched sideways, hit the car door painfully with my shoulder and Kat leapt backwards, quivering and whimpering. Honestly, the two of us were going to have to get our nerves a bit more in hand. I reached back, a little shakily, to pat her and hoped she wasn’t too traumatised. This was the first time she’d ever made any kind of move towards me and I suspected, it might be something she wouldn’t risk again. I felt rather sick, it hadn’t been a pleasant incursion by any means and I wished I’d just turned that key in the ignition and driven off, five minutes earlier. I decided I didn’t want to find out too much more about Jamie, in truth, I’d have preferred to have known a whole lot less.

  I don’t remember much about driving myself back home, but obviously I did, because that’s where I ended up. Whilst Jamie didn’t know yet what his next move might be, I was prepared to lay bets, it wasn’t going to be anything good. I thought he might be on a one-way and escalating path, but my conscience, or maybe it was my vanity, wouldn’t let me comfortably wash my hands of the whole thing. Surely, anyone who could produce art like he did, was worth trying to help, and to be honest, if I didn’t start getting some uninterrupted, dreamless sleep soon, he wasn’t going to be the only one going round the bend.

  I thought I’d go back one more time, see if there was any conceivable way I could sort him out. If I drew a blank, I’d pass it all straight along to Boris and the police, maybe they could keep him under observation and there must be some kind of protocol for cases like this.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  I went back, a couple of days later. This time in the morning. I parked where I had before, and hoped nobody would think I was casing the joint. In the back seat, Kat whined, maybe she recognised where we were and didn’t think it was a sensible move either. This time he was working upstairs, in what I guessed, from the god-awful mess, to be Isabelle’s room. He was creating, with swift, sure, broad strokes – nothing like the delicacy he’d used downstairs – a startling mural of a rock group, in full flow. It was nowhere near finished, but even so; colour, movement and energy leapt off the wall and hit you in the heart. You could feel the thumping of the amplifiers in your ears and chest. This time, he’d painted the eyes first. From down in the corner, at the left hand side of the wall, they were watching.

  The hamster wheel in his head was turning, ever faster now. Round and round, went his thinking. He was finally in the room he wanted to be in and breathing deeply as he worked, inhaling the underlying scent of shampoo, perfume and colouring crayons, the mixed messages of a girl her age. Even in the last two days, I could see his mind-set had changed alarmingly. In his head was a disturbing mix of detailed thinking and feverish imaginings, but what was fantasy and what was forward planning? He was still angry, backgrounded by the habitual feeling of being hard-done-by, always the victim. I could see what had caused this latest melt-down, he was compulsively playing and replaying the scene.

  Isabelle wasn’t in school, some kind of free day for some reason, he didn’t know what, didn’t care, the important thing was, she was sitting close to him, watching him work and they were chatting. She was asking all sorts of questions, how he did this, why he did that. She was at ease with him, liked him, wanted to know what he had to tell her, find out how he got started, because she thought he was brilliant and she wanted to study art too. All was well and good, until that cow interfered. She’d stuck her head round the door with a smile and chivvied Isabelle firmly away,

  “Darling, I’m sure Jamie can’t concentrate with you waffling on at him.” She’d said. He’d of course protested, said he was enjoying talking and this way, Isabelle could make sure he was doing the wall exactly as she wanted. But the cow wasn’t brooking any argument. He couldn’t see, but I could, a mother’s first instinct, wouldn’t be to leave a thirteen year old, with a man she hardly knew, however impeccable his manners and irreproachable his behaviour. No, Isabelle could pop up from time to time to watch progress, but she had homework to do, which could be just as easily done at the kitchen table. As he’d watched them leave the room, raising his hand in a friendly, mock salute to Mrs de Freyt, he’d been imagining, just how much less she might have to say, with his two hands tight round her throat and her eyes bulging out of her head.

  Of course we can all think things – there’s probably not one of us who hasn’t, on occasion, felt the urge to blip someone else over the head with a blunt instrument – we don’t though usually carry it through. However, for this young man it was so close, he could feel his fingers twitching in happy anticipation. If ever a woman needed teaching a lesson, he thought, getting to his feet, it was this one and now was as good a time as any.

  Well I couldn’t just sit there, in the car outside the house, while things went violently pear-shaped inside. So I upended one of his open paint pots. It turned out to be dark brown and instantly spread a thick chocolatey layer over the dustsheet, on which it had been sitting. That distracted him. He thought he’d kicked it himself and was cursing as he crouched to stop the flow, mop up and check nothing was seeping through to the carpet below. By the time he’d sorted out the mess and restored things to the rigidly ordered, which is how he liked to work, he was angrier with himself than with her, which was a relief. It could only be a temporary reprieve though, it was no resolution.

  And then something rather dreadful happened. He suddenly stopped what he was doing, because he heard and sensed me. He knew I was there, sitting outside. For a moment, things stood very still and then, in one instant, his whole world turned on its axis and I saw, what I’d been too blind or stupid to spot earlier. He was Strange.

  He was still all the unpleasant things he’d been before, but in that second, and oh, so belatedly, he and I both realised, the voices in his head weren’t, never had been, a part of all that was wrong with him, they’d just never been recognised for the reality they were.

  How could I not have seen it? Ruth’s words of a few years ago, came back to me with complete clarity. ‘There are those of us,’ she’d said, ‘And we’re in the minority, who understand ourselves, if not from the very beginning, soon after. The adjustments we put in place, to fit in with the rest of the world, make us the lucky ones. There are others who don’t or can’t understand what they are. Some end up in psychiatric wards. Others are diagnosed and treated for schizophrenia or the like and a lifetime is spent, struggling to medicate out the voices. Many more find their own way of blotting out, with drink or drugs, what they can’t take in.’ And as her words ran through my mind, they did through his too and shock, recognition and realisation, literally felled him. He sank slowly to his knees and I thought absently, his jeans wouldn’t recover from that brown paint. He caught my thought and smiled too. And then all the anger, blazing in intensity, came flooding back and he came after me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I took off like a bat out of hell, pulling away from the kerb outside the de Freyt house with a skidding of tyres, and Kat was unceremoniously hurled off the back seat, hitting the floor with a solid thump. She was thoroughly put out, Borzois tend to be on the sensitive side and have long memories, I knew she wouldn’t forget this in a hurry. She whuffled extreme displeasure and, probably wisely, decided to stay where she was in the well of the car, in anticipation of further irresponsible driving.

  She wasn’t the only one, put out. I was berating myself for not recognising him immediately for what he was. I was also acutely uneasy, because I didn’t know what it was, that had suddenly changed things for him, was it just my proximity? Was it something to do with the link between us, which now, more than ever, I needed gone. I had no idea of what he might do next, didn’t know how much he understood and what the shock might do to an already teetering mind. And on the tail of all those unpleasant thoughts came another, equally unsettling
. I had no idea what he could do in terms of other abilities he may have, although perhaps he didn’t either yet. Was that any comfort?

  It seemed like a good idea, to call in reinforcements, sooner rather than later. I didn’t even want to wait until I got back to the office. I found a phone box and luckily it was in full working order, something rarer than hen’s teeth these days. I had the number Boris had given me and mercifully, the right change, although I had to empty the contents of my bag to find it. Having overcome all those hurdles, to my huge frustration, the phone rang and rang at his end. I was unreasonably cross, I hate it when people aren’t there when you want them. I waited to see if he had an answerphone but the ringing continued, unattended to by man or machine. I pushed the button, got my coins back and looked at the other number I kept on the same piece of paper. It was Glory who answered. I didn’t waste time, I didn’t know how much more change I could dig up.

  “It’s me,” I said, “I seem to have got myself into a situation. Don’t know what’s best to do. I need help.”

  “That makes a change!”

  “Glory, I mean it.”

  “Out with it then.” She was physically too far away for me to flash everything over, so I had to talk, which was frustrating. I was aware, Rachael and Ruth were there with her and thus, would hear everything instantly. As I talked, I was fumbling for more coins to feed the phone, but that still wouldn’t give me all the time in the world, I concentrated on coherence.

  “Right,” she said as I wound down. “We know where he is now. Go home, there’s nothing more you can do for the moment.”

  “But, listen, I’m worried about that woman and the child, I tried to get hold of Boris, but he’s not there, should I just phone the police?” There was a brief pause at the other end then Rachael, who’d obviously lost patience with getting things second-hand, came on.

  “Absolutely not the police. Do you understand? Someone could get seriously hurt.”

  “I know that, Rachael, that’s what I’m worried about.”

  “We don’t know what this Jamie of yours might do next. He’s a dangerous loose cannon and the police aren’t equipped to deal with that. Leave it with us, we’ll handle it.”

  “But…” I started,

  “No buts, Stella. You’ve got yourself involved in this, you’ve come to us for help. Now do what I tell you. Understand?” I bit my lip, I couldn’t help thinking, with a certain amount of peeve, if I hadn’t had those damn conversations with Boris and Ruth, I might have not been listening out in the first place, might not have heard Jamie, might not be where I was now – so it wasn’t entirely my fault. But I knew my change would run out, long before I did, when it came to voicing my opinion and if I’m honest, the thought of passing all this unpleasantness over to someone who knew what they were doing, seemed a far more desirable solution. So I said, yes I understood and goodbye.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Solutions, which seem to be ideal at the time, as often as not, turn out to be anything but. At least this one let me drive back at a more sedate pace, with a mind temporarily eased, and any residual guilt feelings pushed firmly below the surface, often the best place for them. Despite all that had gone on and the fact I felt plumb tuckered out, it was only just coming up to midday and I honestly didn’t think I could justify skiving off and heading for home, when we were so busy, so I made tracks for the office.

  Hilary and Martin both had clients seated in front of their desks, and there were lots of glossy brochures being bandied about – I was glad they were busy, more bookings always alleviated Martin’s gloom, if only fractionally. They both raised an absent hand in greeting, as Kat and I passed by and headed on up the stairs, towards the satisfactory sound of more than one typewriter being bashed enthusiastically.

  As I opened our office door, Kitty and Brenda both hailed me cheerfully and brought me up to date with what I needed to know, although I was grateful they were both handling a great number of things, completely capably, on their own. I was also delighted, that despite the odd heated debate that still occurred now and then, over some disputed decision or other, they now got on well most of the time, with nothing uniting them quite so much, as keeping Ruby and Trudie in their place.

  Once in my office, Kat settled in her corner, with a martyred sigh – she did martyred, almost as well as the rest of my family. I got my head down, to deal with the weeks-worth of bits and pieces that always accumulate when you’re out of the office, for even half a day. I didn’t want to spend any more time at all, thinking about my morning. I’d finally done the sensible thing, I just couldn’t quite shift an underlying unease. Into my mind, there kept sliding, the eyes on the wall. So well-hidden, so realistic, so unnervingly watchful. I hoped the de Freyts hadn’t, and wouldn’t ever, spot what was peering out at them from their paintings.

  I spent the rest of the day doing that thing – you know, where you sit at your desk and shift papers from one place to another, without achieving a lot, answer the phone, then can’t remember what was said, and look at a number of things that need decisions, without deciding anything. At around 4.45 I’d had enough. There had to be some benefits of being the boss. I took myself and Kat out of there, for a long brisk walk. Unfortunately, she was as lazy as I was, and whilst the spirit was willing, the flesh was weak and we both decided, at a shamefully early stage, we’d had enough fresh air. We set off back to the car to head home.

  As we walked towards it, I could see there was something on the windscreen. Squinting, I thought it didn’t look like a parking ticket, several of which, to my annoyance, I’d accrued recently. As we got nearer, it became clear, it wasn’t anything like a parking ticket. It was a very plump, stone dead, blackbird, small, dulled black eyes, gazing vacantly skyward. Kat and I both recoiled, and I did what any self-respecting, emancipated young woman would. I shrieked loudly and ran into the travel agency, to get a man to deal with it.

  Martin, obviously feeling much the same as me, when it came to dead birds, faltered a moment, but felt he couldn’t show himself up in front of clients. Stopping only to collect a black rubbish sack and purloin Hilary’s Marigolds from the kitchen, he strode manfully outside, while I paced up and down the street, muttering ‘Eeugh, eugh’ to myself and looking the other way. Post removal, Hilary trotted out with a bucket of disinfectant, which she sloshed liberally over the car.

  “There you go sweetie,” she said. “Right as rain now. Just unlucky it landed on your car. Mind you, better there than on your head!” I was still ‘eughing’ a few more times at the thought of that when Martin, having disposed of black plastic bag and Marigolds in a rubbish bin along the street, commented, in the authoritative tones of a man who’s just coped with a crisis,

  “It’d wedged itself, right and tight, probably died trying to get away.”

  “Get away?”

  “Its wing was properly caught up, stuck right under your windscreen wiper.” He grimaced, “No idea how it did that, had a job getting it out. Maybe it died of fright, being trapped.” I thought about the dead black eyes, and then I thought about Jamie. But that wasn’t possible. He’d never even seen me, couldn’t possibly have the faintest idea who or where I was. And then I remembered, how easy it had been for me to track him down. Could he possibly have it in him, to do the same? Oh, that wouldn’t be good, that wouldn’t be good at all. I shivered,

  “Goose walk over your grave?” asked Hilary. I smiled at her,

  “No, take no notice of me. Thank you both so much, I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been there. Sorry to have made such a fuss, I have a bit of a thing about birds – dead or alive.”

  “No problem,” said Martin, “Lucky I was here. It wasn’t very pleasant.”

  “No,” I said, “Not very pleasant at all.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  What with one t
hing and another, I completely forgot I was supposed to be seeing David that night, so when he arrived, we were both surprised – me to find him on the doorstep and him to find me not ready. Luckily, our relationship had progressed far enough for recriminations to be exchanged freely, on the subject of some people’s unreliability and other people’s lack of a reminder phone-call. Once we’d got all that under our belts, I got changed quickly, and he took me to one of our favourite Italian restaurants.

  We were greeted extravagantly, the manager kissed my hand, solicitously ushered us to a table for two, in the corner, and presented the menu, which was one of those that can take you a couple of weeks to peruse. Our table was romantically lit by the stuttering flame of a candle in a Chianti bottle, white wax dripping onto the already encrusted glass. I’m not very good with candle flame, something about the way it makes your eye focus on the flicker, always makes me feel funny – I know, call me precious, but there you are, I moved it surreptitiously along to the corner of the table, out of my line of sight.