by Mark Edwards
‘You’ve never done that before? With anyone else?’
‘No. That’s why it got so out of control, I think, because I didn’t know how to cope with the feelings, with the . . .’
‘The what?’
She sank back into the bed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
‘But we have to,’ I said.
‘No. No we don’t. It won’t happen again. That’s all you have to know.’
This was so frustrating. But I was coming to see this was typical of her, clamming up, refusing to talk about things she didn’t want to face. ‘I want you to see someone, Charlie. Please. For me. Because morbid jealousy . . .’
‘Hang on,’ she interrupted. ‘Have you been Googling this? Trying to diagnose me?’
I didn’t reply.
‘Ha. You have. And you’re probably feeling pleased with yourself because Charlie has a problem and Andrew is going to fix it. Like I’m a leaky tap and the therapist is a plumber. You’re such a typical man.’ She pulled back the quilt and got out of bed, turning to face me, covering her breasts with a forearm. The scratches on her belly were red and livid.
‘Sometimes people act out of character. They get irrational. Do stupid things. That’s what this was. An aberration. But if you want me to see a therapist, fine. I’ll go. OK?’
She walked out of the room.
Twenty-six
I walked out of the hospital, thankful that for the second time in just a few months I had been discharged from medical care. My leg was all better, though still a little stiff and sore, and I made a solemn vow to myself: no more accidents. I was going to be more careful from now on.
I was supposed to be meeting Charlie for lunch near Moorfields, but she’d texted me to say there was some kind of crisis going on at work. I didn’t want to go straight home so decided I would have lunch out by myself, but would first drop by Victor’s office to see what was going on there.
A week had passed since he had been arrested and I hadn’t heard anything. I guessed I was very low priority. With every day that went by I became more convinced that my career as a senior designer had ended before it had begun. I’d sent a number of emails and enquiries to rival agencies and a few other contacts, but everyone came back with the same response: sorry, but they didn’t need any work at the moment, maybe after Easter . . .
Charlie assured me things would be OK, that I didn’t need to find a job, and last night we had talked again about her moving in, a topic that I’d avoided since her jealous meltdown.
‘So, do you still want to come and live with me?’ I asked.
‘Hmm, it depends . . . Do you promise not to take me for granted?’
‘I could never do that, Charlie.’
‘Not even in bed?’
‘I definitely won’t do that.’
She had smiled slyly. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Within a month, I’ll be in bed alone with an erotica novel and you’ll be staying up playing video games. Then you’ll get annoyed with me for rearranging the bookshelves and taking over the wardrobe. You’ll expect me to cook your dinner every night while you lounge around in a pair of stained underpants drinking beer.’
I laughed. ‘Hang on, I thought it was you who wanted to move in.’
‘I thought it was something we both wanted.’
‘Sorry. Yes. It is. I mean, I do want it.’
‘It’s settled then.’ She looked around the living room. ‘I can’t wait to completely redecorate this place.’
‘Hey!’
I smiled now at the memory. Charlie was going away on a training course in a few days’ time and we had agreed she would move in when she got back from that. I felt excited and a little nervous. I had considered bringing up her jealousy again, to say that if I had to promise not to take her for granted, she needed to promise not to have any more jealous outbursts. But she had made an appointment with a therapist and I had decided to leave it at that, to carry on as normal and deal with if it happened again.
The therapist was a woman called Dr Branson, whose practice was based in Islington, not too far from Moorfields.
‘It’s costing a fucking fortune,’ Charlie said when she told me about making the first appointment.
‘I’ll contribute.’
‘No. You haven’t got any money. And it’s my problem, isn’t it? I still think it’s unnecessary, but I love you so I’ll do it.’
I was buzzed into Victor’s building and took the lift up. The offices were quiet, most of the staff sitting with headphones on, gazing at their screens. Among them was Amber. I approached her desk.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said. ‘No crutch? ’
‘No, I’m all better. Do you know if Emma is around?’ I asked.
She sighed heavily. ‘I think she’s at a meeting, trying to persuade the client that just because the head honcho has been accused of being a paedophile, it doesn’t mean they should cancel their contract.’
‘Not Wowcom?’
‘I don’t think so. Though they’ve been in, going on about their brand image.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘They’re all bastards. What happened to innocent till proven guilty, eh?’
‘Do you know what’s going on with Victor?’
‘You haven’t heard anything from him? He’s been released on police bail but he’s hiding out at home. He said he can’t face seeing anyone at the moment. Plus his wife doesn’t want him to leave the house.’
‘You’ve spoken to him?’
‘Yeah. He swears blind that he’s innocent, that this web page is a total fabrication. He said no one ever contacted him making out they were a twelve-year-old girl, that he definitely wouldn’t have responded if they had, and he has no idea how the porn got onto his computer.’
‘Hang on – porn?’
She leaned forward. ‘They found loads of kiddie porn on his work machine, apparently. Really sickening stuff. That’s what they’re doing him for, because the people who set up the website are remaining anonymous and they haven’t provided any proof. Victor is arguing that loads of people could have got onto his computer. The cleaners, anyone who works here. He reckons it might even have been done remotely, though I don’t know if that’s possible.’
She looked at me hopefully.
‘I have no idea.’
‘Hmm. Well, anyway, I hope it all gets sorted out quickly because it feels like we’re living under a black cloud. The trial is months away though.’
I left the office feeling even more worried about money than before. I stood outside and tapped out an email to Emma on my phone, but it seemed to me that if they were so worried about losing business they would be reluctant to take anyone new on. The chances of starting my new job receded with every day that Victor was off work. If Emma didn’t reply with good news, I was heading towards deep financial trouble. Even with Charlie moving in, I still needed a regular income. I didn’t want to become dependent on her, to become a kept man. The thought was anathema to me.
Sure enough, Emma replied almost straight away.
Sorry Andrew. We have a freeze on new hires at the moment, while this mess is sorted out. But we’ll be in touch as soon as we know more . . .
If I’d still been carrying my crutch I would have chucked it at something.
My blood sugar was low and I needed to eat something. I walked down Old Street towards Hoxton, deep in thought. With the freelance situation looking gloomy, I was going to have to find a job. As I was mulling over what to do, I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket. It was Sasha.
The police have been to see Lance. He denies everything. X
I replied: He would. Do they have any way of tracing that text? X
No. Can’t trace blocked numbers. Also, he had an alibi so says he couldn’t have come to my flat that night. But his alibi is Mae! Police say nothing more they can do at mo esp as nothing has
happened since. X
I went into a cafe – a kind of ironic greasy spoon – and got my laptop out, connecting to the wifi. As the waitress brought me my all-day breakfast, I started working on my CV, using a template I found online. I had decided: I didn’t want to be a freelancer any more. I was tired of being on my own all day every day. I wanted to meet new people. As this thought entered my head, it was chased by another: Charlie wouldn’t like it. It almost made me change my mind back immediately, to stay working freelance. I didn’t want to upset her . . . But then I asked myself what the hell I was thinking? I couldn’t modify my behaviour, go against my own needs like that. I wanted a job and I was going to find one.
As I worked on the CV, I felt eyes on me. I looked up and a guy across the cafe looked away quickly. He was younger than me, with a little beard, and was wearing a black beanie hat. There was an iPad on the table in front of him which he now appeared absorbed in.
I returned to my CV and my online portfolio, trying to pick out my best pieces of work so I could link to them from the CV. After about ten minutes, I became aware that the guy in the beanie hat was looking over at me again. As I turned my face towards him he ducked his head so fast it must have hurt his neck.
I hesitated. Who was he? I tried to catch his eye but he swiftly packed up his stuff, almost knocking his chair over in his haste to get out, paying his bill at the counter on the way out.
I stood up, craning to see which way he had gone, but he crossed the road and vanished. I was tempted to go after him, but he’d be long gone by the time I’d paid and got outside. Besides, maybe he was simply interested in my computer.
By the time I’d finished messing around with my CV and was ready to leave, I’d put the incident from my mind.
Heading home, I realised I wasn’t too far from Karen’s place. She still hadn’t told me if she was happy with my work, which meant I still couldn’t invoice her. She wasn’t answering her phone either. I couldn’t afford to let it go, especially not now. I stood on the street for a moment before deciding I would go to see her. It would be embarrassing, but what the hell. I needed the money.
I jumped onto a bus and, fifteen minutes later, found myself standing outside Karen’s place. She lived in a beautiful Georgian conversion on a ludicrously expensive street. The first time I’d visited I’d told myself that, one day, I would live in a place like this. She could certainly afford to pay me my £500.
I rang the buzzer. There was no reply. I sighed. She was most likely out, seeing a client, shopping, lunching or whatever it was she did with her days. Five hundred pounds was nothing to her. Why was she taking so long to pay up? Most likely she couldn’t imagine why anyone would make such a fuss about what to her was a trivial amount. Well, I was going to set her straight. I’d wait here all day if I had to . . .
I pulled the brakes on my train of thought. What was wrong with me? This issue with the money was making me resentful and angry. But I had warm memories of my time with Karen, liked her and respected her. I didn’t need to be an arsehole about what was almost certainly an oversight. I’d call her when I got home, let her know that it would be extremely helpful if she could pay the invoice without any more delay.
As I turned to leave, an elderly man wearing a cravat came out of the front door. He had a small black and white terrier on a lead, and the dog nearly sent me flying as it jumped up at me.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the man, squinting at me like he recognised me. Maybe he did. I’d been a frequent visitor here once. ‘Were you looking for someone?’ he asked. The dog was sniffing my leg furiously and I wished he’d pull it away.
‘Yes. Karen in flat 3?’
His face creased with pain. ‘Oh dear. Are you a friend?’
I felt my blood drain. ‘Yes. I’ve been trying to get hold of her but she never answers her phone.’
He looked up and down the road, as if searching for help.
‘Perhaps you’d better come inside.’ To the dog, he said, ‘Come on, Dickens.’
He dragged the terrier back inside the building, with me following. My stomach fluttered, the kind of feeling you get when a doctor pauses before giving you the prognosis.
‘I’m Harold, by the way,’ he said, opening the door of the ground floor flat, which was stuffed full of antiques and objets d’art, statues and African masks, so many books crammed into the bookcases I was surprised the floorboards could hold them. He gestured for me to sit in an armchair that almost swallowed me.
‘I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this,’ he said. ‘Were you very close?’
‘We used to be,’ I replied.
He exhaled noisily. ‘Would you like a drink? Scotch? Malt whisky?’
Normally, I would have said no – I wasn’t a big drinker of spirits and it was only two o’clock – but I understood that he was telling me I might need one. He got up and poured Scotch into two large tumblers. I took a sip. It burned and I coughed.
Harold stared at me with his milky eyes while the dog sat at his feet.
‘So . . . Karen?’ I said.
He ignored me. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Andrew.’
I didn’t like the way he was suddenly looking at me.
‘There’s something following you, Andrew,’ he said in a hushed voice, leaning forward. I leant back. On the wall behind him was a canvas with a disturbing image: a woman with no eyes in her face, reaching out while flames danced around her. I looked at the nearest bookshelf: fat tomes with titles like English Magick: The Dark Art and The Life and Eternal Death of Aleister Crowley stood out.
‘Following me?’ I said.
His earlier smile had vanished. ‘Something has attached itself to you. A . . . a dark spirit. It’s hiding – or trying to hide.’ He peered closer, and I looked behind me to see what he was staring at, half-expecting to see a demon, crouched and giggling behind its wing, on the back of the chair.
‘You won’t be able to see it, Andrew. But it’s there.’ He gasped.
This was extremely unnerving.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Have you suffered a lot of . . . bad luck recently?’
I hesitated. ‘I’ve had some.’
‘I thought as much. It’s a mischief maker, this spirit. It likes to create chaos.’ He narrowed his eyes and his voice dropped to a whisper. ‘It’s dangerous, Andrew. But I could help you rid yourself of it. Perhaps.’
My flesh was coarse with goose bumps. ‘No offence, but you’re giving me the creeps.’
He smiled. ‘You’re a sceptic. Most people are, unfortunately. But when it’s too late, then you’ll believe.’
I stood up, setting the Scotch aside. I couldn’t wait to tell Charlie about this later. She would laugh at my description of the old man and his portentous warnings. ‘Can you tell me about Karen? Where is she?’
He frowned and said, ‘Oh dear’ again.
‘What?’
‘I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, Andrew. But she’s dead. She died some days ago.’
Twenty-seven
Trains clattered in and out of Victoria station, lovers kissed goodbye, mothers tilted buggies into carriages, commuters headed home, pigeons fluttered and crapped, cleaners cleaned, guards guarded, bodies streamed and jostled and shoved. And among it all, I stood as still as death, fixed in place while the entire world – or so it felt – jostled past me, and I half-listened to the eardrum-pounding announcements: I am sorry . . . Due to an accident . . . The 17:45 to Orpington is currently delayed . . . A person being killed on the tracks.
I had called Charlie, who told me she was going to have to work late, wouldn’t be back till after eight at the earliest. I tried Sasha. She wasn’t answering. But I needed to talk to someone. If I didn’t see a friendly face I might be driven crazy by the voices in my head. Tilly. I would go to see Tilly. It would get me out of
London too, if only for an evening. The news of Karen’s death had sent me spinning. In my head: a clamour of voices, swirling question marks, sparking connections. I couldn’t process it all, couldn’t think straight. I couldn’t even make sense of the displays and the announcements at the station, getting in everyone’s way as they tutted and pushed me. If you want to know what it would be like if civilisation broke down, go to a train station in London at rush hour, where it’s every man for himself, every woman too. The state I was in now, I would be one of the first to perish in a dog-eat-dog world. One of the first to die.
A dark spirit has attached itself to you.
Harold Franklin, Spiritualist – that was the job title on the business card he pressed into my palm when he saw me out – didn’t know how Karen had died.
‘It was all very mysterious,’ he said, trying to conceal how he relished the intrigue of it. ‘An ambulance turned up in the middle of the night. Next thing, they’re carrying her out . . . Two days later, her sister is here, cleaning out the fridge and no doubt helping herself to anything she fancied. All she told me was that Karen was dead. Such a pity. She was a beauty, wasn’t she?’
‘Can’t the spirits tell you what happened?’ I asked.
His face darkened. ‘There’s no need to take that attitude, young man.’ And with that, he ushered me out.
Somehow, I made it onto an Eastbourne-bound train, crammed in by the luggage racks. All the way to the coast, I kept picturing Karen the last time I’d seen her. She hadn’t looked well. Certainly not the vital, sexy woman I’d once known, the woman with a zest for life and a don’t-give-a-shit attitude. She had once told me that the most important lesson she’d learned in life was a simple one. ‘It’s short. Much too short. And I intend to make the most of every minute of it.’
She hadn’t realised how brief her own life would be. Karen was, what? Forty-one, I think. She should have been halfway through her time on this planet; not even that. What the hell had taken her away? How had it happened?