Now I’m back in the hallway, holding my gloves in one hand and my keys in the other. I have my coat on. I must be going somewhere. There must be something I need to do. Where could it be? Nick told me to be careful. Does this count as careful? Perhaps I’m going to see Jackie.
No. I’m not going to see Jackie. I’m not going to see Jackie ever again. Jackie is lost now. She’s been lost for long weeks, for months perhaps, perhaps even for years. How long does it take for a parent to wander off the rough, straight, difficult path of I will love and protect you no matter what, into the darkness of the woods where no one will see or know the things you do to them? When did she first begin to hate Ryan and to wish him dead? And when did John first begin to…
This is it, the thought I’ve been patiently stalking through all the rooms and doorways of my house. I leap forward as if it’s a physical thing, something I have to catch and hold and tear at. The movement is so huge that it takes me out through my front door, down the front path and into my car in a single seamless motion that feels like water flowing through a lock gate. Then it’s gone again, slipping through my fingers and melting back into the dark. There was something I had to do. Somewhere I had to go. I was going somewhere.
I’m going somewhere. Am I going to John? I’m sure John was in it somehow. I put the car in gear, pull carefully away from the kerb. My thin ancient neighbour, watching from his front window, raises his hand like a benediction. He sees everything that happens in this quiet stretch of street. He must have seen Nick come to me, seen him hurry up the path with the special eagerness of a man coming to the woman he craves. Does he judge me? I like to think that he does not.
John’s new house in its quiet suburban cul-de-sac is as discreet and secret as a lunatic asylum, tall and solid behind its high privet hedge and the prima-donna magnolia tree, dancing solo in the front garden. Two days before Midwinter, the tree should be a bare skeleton, but John and Nathalie have festooned it with cold white lights that blink and shimmer in the silence. They look elegant but unwelcoming. Christmas should be red and green, spilled blood and returning fertility, not this deathly celebration of the freezing sterile whiteness that’s swallowing the world. I park in the curve of the culde-sac, the back of my car half across next door’s drive (he won’t like it and if he sees me will come out to complain, but the driveway is long and I know that if I watch my rear-view mirror for the flicker of his front door opening, I’ll have time to start the engine and leave before he can reach me). I sit with my hands in my lap and make myself still and small, and I wait and I watch and I hope.
The front of the house sleeps in darkness. They must be in the cosy back sitting room, where a profusion of throws smother the sofas and their daughter can tumble and snuggle and suck her thumb in peace. Perhaps she’s asleep there. Perhaps John and Nathalie are smiling at each other over their daughter’s head. Perhaps their hands reach out to each other beneath the once-fashionable pelt of imitation wolfskin; perhaps they share a stealthy lingering kiss, a promise of further warmth to come when Emily’s curled like a snail beneath her sugar-pink duvet and the night is all theirs. Midwinter is the best time to conceive new human life. The thought comes to me again that there was something I had to…
Behind the brilliant glowing branches of the barren magnolia, the front room blooms into life. I can see Nathalie, her bobbed brown hair heavy around her rosy face as she takes a moment to gaze out at the lights. The curtains are flowery and chintzy and cheerful, an incongruous country-cottage choice in this stern faux-Victorian suburb; nothing I would have ever chosen. Did John marry Nathalie because she is so unlike me to look at? Did he breathe a sigh of relief when their first child was a daughter? And will he ever dare to roll that particular set of dice again, and risk the Fates presenting him, once more, with a son?
Does she know I’m watching her?
I could sit here for hours, gorging myself on secret knowledge, but I know I won’t be able to. When Nathalie comes to draw the curtains, she looks out for a few moments, perhaps thirty seconds at the most. She has a small child in the house. Her time is in demand. Remembering how that felt – to be needed so much and so endlessly – makes me ache with envy.
Dreaming in her window, Nathalie suddenly grows still, drawing up and into herself, peering suspiciously out into the dark. The bonnet of my car must be poking out. I hastily start the engine and reverse out of sight, trespassing onto her neighbour’s drive so I can turn the car around and drive around the vast clump of trees and make my escape in their shadow. Nathalie might suspect I’ve been here again, but she won’t know, not for sure, and as long as she’s not sure she won’t give me away. There will be no phone call from John tomorrow morning, heavy with casual enquiry, checking to see if I’m all right. The night is still mine. I’m still free. Where shall I go?
“Please. This isn’t appropriate. You can’t do this.”
“This is important to me.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“I’ve come here for your help, that’s all. I need you to help me. That’s all I want. Please, won’t you do that for me? I’ll pay. You know I’ll pay.”
James O’Brien’s black shirt is silky and smooth beneath the mulberry velvet jacket with the black lapels. Above the shirt, his face is a little pale, a little sweaty, his hair lank and slightly oily. I must have caught him at a bad time. Like me, he’s beginning to unravel a little. But that doesn’t matter. We don’t need to look good to do what we need to do. The tip of his tongue darts out, then disappears.
“Okay, so how about if we go into my drawing room and I make you a drink? Something to warm you up, it’s a cold night. Some coffee maybe? Or brandy, I have brandy. Would you like some brandy?” His long pale hand rests tentatively on my forearm for a moment. I try not to shiver as he touches me, but I can’t quite suppress it, and he lets his hand fall again.
“No. No, thank you. No brandy. I just want to go straight to the… to the… um… the reading.”
“Mrs Harper, I can see you really need help. It’s just I wasn’t expecting you. If you could come back to see me when I’ve had time to prepare? Shall I go and get my diary? And we can look through it together and find a good time?”
“I know this isn’t how you like to work, but if I can just make you understand how important this is—”
“I promise, I really do understand. I absolutely do. I know how difficult this time of year is for you.” He pauses for a moment in the way I’ve come to associate with an imminent revelation. “It was Midwinter, wasn’t it? The day you became a mother.”
“Yes. But it’s not that.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“My friend,” I whisper, hating myself for the way my lip trembles. Hating myself because I forgot and called her my friend. “Jackie. The one who was with me the last time. She was arrested this morning. I saw it on the news.”
“Oh my God.” His pale face becomes even whiter, a sickly green sheen washing over him as if he is a fainting Victorian lady. I wish I had some smelling-salts. He’s no good to me if he’s not awake.
“So you see, I have to talk to you. I have to be sure. You said, one by their mother and one by their father.”
“Susannah, please, I’m sorry for what I said. I should never have… I honestly don’t know why I… I’ll be honest, it frightened me, I don’t even know where those words came from. I can give you guidance, but what I see isn’t always reliable.”
“But it was true. It came true. Jackie was arrested. And that means my husband – my ex-husband, I mean – John… I have to know what he did, I have to—”
“All right.” He takes a deep breath, then gives me a brilliant, confident smile. “All right, I understand now. I do. I want to help you. Do you understand, Susannah? I want to help you. And I will.”
“Oh, thank you, thank you—”
“The only thing is… the thing is, I’ve already got someone booked in for this evening. Someone
in desperate need. She called me a few days ago. She’s very, very distressed, she urgently needs my help. And she’s not strong. Not like you. You’re so strong, that’s one of the first things I noticed about you, do you remember? Your strength. So maybe you could just find it in you to be strong once again. Come back tomorrow. We’ll meet tomorrow. And we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
He’s so convincing that I’m almost deceived. What it is that gives him away? The way his eyes hold mine for a fraction of a second too long, perhaps; the way his hair hangs a little limp and a little untidy, whereas I’ve only ever seen him immaculate and fresh. He’s lying, but it’s a polite lie. A butler lie. That’s what John used to call it. We’d love to, but we’ve already got something on with Susannah’s sister and her husband. Really sorry I can’t stay longer, I’ve got a meeting to get to. Mr O’Brien can’t make that appointment with you today, he has someone else with him. The correct thing to do is to accept what we’re told, to hand in our card and retreat politely down the steps, understanding that our business will have to wait for another day.
“There isn’t another client,” I say. “You’re lying to me. Aren’t you?”
“Of course I’m not—”
“No, you are. I know you are. Please don’t lie to me, please, I’ve always been honest with you.”
“You’re very perceptive.”
“Thank you.”
We stand, irresolute, in the hallway, and study each other carefully. I have no way of making him do what I want, no way at all. He doesn’t want my friendship. He doesn’t want my body. He doesn’t even seem to want my money. All I can do is hope that he’ll pity me enough to help me.
“Please,” I repeat. I inch closer towards him, and just as he did to me before, I lay my hand on his arm. It’s such a clumsy attempt to build rapport that I can’t see how it can work. But to my amazement, when he moves away from me, he takes me towards the door that leads to the bare little room with its schoolroom table and the single lightbulb that hangs over it like an omen.
“So what do we do? Do we hold hands again?”
James and I sit as close as lovers over the table. I can see the faint grey-black pinpricks of stubble creeping into the outlines of his neat goatee beard, the lines at the corners of his eyes. I try not to mind that he in return will be able to see every pore, every wrinkle, every patch of dryness burned into my skin by the unforgiving cold. I must look like what I am, a shrivelled up woman whose life has turned to dust.
“Before we start, do you mind if I just leave you in here? Just for a minute?”
“Why?”
“I’ve got something I need to see to in the kitchen, I just need a minute and then I can give you my full attention, all right? If you’ll just wait here, I’ll get everything put to rights and then I’ll be all yours. All right?”
The clock in the hallway said it’s almost half past seven. His explanation is perfectly reasonable. So why am I hesitating?
“Susannah? Do you mind if I go to the kitchen and turn off the gas under the saucepans? Just so I can make sure the house doesn’t burn down around us? And then I can help you. Just wait here and give me a couple of minutes and I’ll go and turn off everything in the kitchen and then I can help you. Does that sound okay?”
He’s very clever, very persuasive, but there’s something not quite right about this. He wants to get away from me. He doesn’t want me here. He’s lying about the kitchen. There’s nothing in danger of burning. He’s planning an escape of some sort. Like John, who left me and ran away to find someone else to live with, another house to share with her, another child to raise. Everyone in my life runs away from me, one way or another.
“I think you’re lying about the kitchen,” I say. “I’m sorry, I know this sounds rude, but I do. You’re lying, just like you were lying about the client. You’re trying to make an excuse to get away from me. So no, you can’t go to the kitchen, and you can’t go to the toilet, and you can’t get a glass of water for either of us. I need you to stay right here with me. Please,” I add, remembering that I have no real power here, that he’s younger than me and presumably stronger than me and I can’t actually compel him to stay here.
“No, I promise I’m not—” he shakes his head. “Oh God, all right, all right, I’m sorry. Yes, you’re right. I’m lying. Do you understand why?”
I look closely at his face.
“You’re afraid,” I say, wonderingly. “You’re afraid. But why?”
“Yes. You’re right. I’m afraid. I am very, very frightened, Susannah, and I don’t know if I can work effectively when I’m frightened. I’m so sorry, I really am. I want to help you, I want to give you what you need, but I just don’t think I can.”
“I’ve got faith.”
“To make the connection I have to open myself up, be completely ready for whatever might come. And I can’t do that when I’m afraid. Fear is like a barrier, do you understand? It’s a barrier in my mind and as long as it’s there I can’t let my guard down.”
“Then don’t try to make a connection. Don’t try. Just tell me what you saw last time. Talk to me about that. Start with Jackie. Tell me about what she did, why she did it, and then maybe I can start to understand about—”
“I can’t. I don’t know anything about why she did it. I can only tell you what I saw. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hurt me.”
“What? Of course I won’t hurt you, how could I? Just do your best.” I try to take his hands but he won’t have it. “Tell me what you saw about Joel. And… and John.”
“Susannah, please, I want to help you, but I don’t think I’m the right person. If you have suspicions about your husband—”
“Ex-husband.” The words sound sharper than I intended.
“Of course, I’m so sorry. Ex-husband. Your ex-husband. But if you have suspicions about him, you need to talk to the police. They can help you far more than I can.”
“They thought it was him. That’s what they thought when Joel disappeared. They questioned him for hours, over and over. They couldn’t find anything, he wouldn’t say anything, so in the end they had to let him go. But they were right, weren’t they? It was him all along.”
“Susannah, do you understand that nothing I can tell you will help you with the police? They won’t listen to evidence that comes from a psychic.”
“That’s a lie!” My hand slaps the table, so hard it makes us both jump. Why did I do that? I didn’t mean to do that. “Everyone says you’ve worked with the police, that’s what I heard, that’s why I first came to you. They must listen sometimes.” My hand stings and tingles. I have to stop myself from cradling it for comfort.
“Okay, sometimes I’ve worked with the police. Occasionally. And never officially. And only when they call me in. They have to come to me. I never go to them. Because ninety per cent of police officers – maybe even ninety-nine per cent – don’t want to listen to me, you see? They think I’m a con artist. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can’t really do it. I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder myself.”
“But you were right about Jackie, weren’t you? You said she’d killed Ryan and she did.”
“Please. I’m frightened. I’m frightened and I need you to let me go.”
“I’m not making you sit here. You could leave this room right now if you wanted to. You’re here because you want to help me. You’re a good person, I know you are. And I need you. I can’t find the truth on my own. I need you to help me. So help me. Talk to me about what you’ve seen.”
“That first time. When you came with your husband. I could see how bad things had been for you, all three of you, even before Joel disappeared. There were arguments, weren’t there? And drugs. Joel took drugs, didn’t he? That first time I made contact, when he was so foggy and lost… he was high on something.” His face is dreamy now, as if even the memory is enough to send him soaring. “It reminded him of his childhood and it was such a beautiful feeling. He was so serene. He wanted to stay
like that for ever…”
“Yes. Yes. That’s right. He was in trouble. He didn’t sell them or anything, but he took them.” Even now it hurts to admit this. I have to bite my lip hard to keep the tears inside. “I tried to stop him. I tried to help him.”
“I know you did.” His voice is very gentle. “You’re a kind person. You wouldn’t want him to be hurt. You wouldn’t want anyone to be hurt. ”
“Never mind about me. Keep going. Tell me what happened next. Tell me what else you saw.”
“Susannah, you already know the truth. You see it sometimes, don’t you? It hides in the shadows, but every now and then you see a glimpse.”
“Keep talking. You said… what did you say? A boat. Water. The smell of mud coming off the river.” Am I describing his visions or my own? It’s all merging into one. I’m forgetting where the boundaries are.
“You don’t need me to tell you! You know this! I can see it in your face. You’ve had visions… experiences…”
“How do you know about?” I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. “Yes. That’s what’s been happening.”
“You’ve been wondering if you’ve been imagining it all, haven’t you? But you’re not. This is a message. Something you need to know.”
My throat is too dry for me to swallow. I clutch at the edge of the table. His eyes are wide and frightened.
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