by Millie Vigor
‘I thought it would be useful for you to put your books on,’ he said.
When the meal was over, he handed Ginny a package saying, ‘I hope you like it.’
It must be another book, thought Ginny, one of the long-winded literary varieties that Curtis seemed to favour. But as the wrappings came off and a laptop was revealed, her heart leapt; if it had been made of gold it wouldn’t have been more welcome.
‘Oh, Curtis,’ she breathed, ‘you couldn’t have given me anything better, thank you so much.’
For a moment, she felt like throwing her arms round him and giving him a hug. But that would be a move too far.
‘I thought it would help you pass the time. You said you had a book to finish, is that what you’re going to do? Or had you something else in mind?’
‘At the moment I’ve no idea,’ said Ginny.
But that was a lie. Yes, she would work on her book, but what she really wanted to do was keep a journal of her day to day existence because one day she would be free and when she was she would have a story to tell.
‘The laptop’s not new, you understand, and I’m afraid you will find it rather slow,’ said Curtis. ‘Naturally it has no Wi-fi so you won’t be able to do any research on the net, but you only have to ask me and I will help you with that.’
What else had she expected? That Curtis would slip up and give her a chance to communicate with the outside world? She gave a rueful smile. No way, he was much too clever for that.
‘That’s fine, Curtis,’ she said. ‘Now I’m going to ask you another favour.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘I get so bored by being on my own all day. I wondered if you would let me come up to watch some television. Just for an hour or so … please.’
‘I will consider it.’
It wasn’t a refusal and neither was it a yes, but now wasn’t the time to push for an answer so Ginny smiled at him and said thank you. He was in a good mood so maybe this was the time to engage him in conversation, time to try to find out what made him tick.
‘You were telling me about your childhood and your parents,’ she said. ‘I’m interested, tell me more. What were they like; did you have marvellous times? Did they play games with you and have fun?’
The relaxed and friendly expression fell abruptly from Curtis’s face. He rolled his eyes, blinked rapidly and didn’t answer. He became agitated, cringed low on his chair, wrung his hands together and seemed to shrink. Eyes swimming in tears, he looked at her.
His voice that of a small child, he said, ‘Dirty boy, dirty boy.’
Shocked and wide-eyed at this sudden change, Ginny gasped then reached out to him. ‘But you …’
Curtis flinched and shrank away from her. ‘No, Daddy.’
‘What’s wrong? It’s me, Ginny.’
She stared at Curtis who hung his head and chewed his fingers. Once again he was being someone else. This acting had to stop.
‘Stop playing games with me, Curtis,’ she said. ‘What’s got into you? Who do you think you are now?’
‘I’m Peewee.’
Who on earth was Peewee? Was Curtis reverting to his childhood? This was something new. Ginny took a deep breath before speaking again, then in a very gentle voice she said, ‘Hello, Peewee.’
She smiled and held out her hand, but he shrank away. She watched as he curled himself tighter; saw his lips moving as though he were talking to someone. Filtering through Ginny’s mind was the thought that Curtis was the victim of some mental illness. A little smile played about his mouth, he relaxed, then began to change, to straighten and sit upright. Afraid of what or who might appear next, Ginny, her heart thumping, pressed herself against the back of her chair.
‘Do not be afraid,’ said a woman’s soft voice.
Oh God, thought Ginny, it’s another one. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered.
‘I am the peacekeeper and protector. My name is Angel. You have just met Peewee, a very unhappy little boy.’
‘I realized that,’ said Ginny. ‘Why is he so frightened?’
‘His parents were very cruel. They should not have had a child.’
‘Why, what did they do?’
Looking long and hard at Ginny, Angel paused before she spoke again. ‘The father sexually assaulted his son and when the boy protested he beat him. He refused to let him have a pet and when the boy did sneak a kitten into the house, he killed it in front of the child.’
‘Oh my God,’ cried Ginny. ‘Didn’t his mother protect him?’
Angel, a sardonic little smile tweaking her lips, shrugged her shoulders. ‘The mother had no idea what was going on. She was too bound up in her own affairs. Only interested in the boy having a good education, she relentlessly pushed him to study and fed him books rather than toys. Play was a waste of time. It was ironic because he loved her.’
Tears brimmed in Ginny’s eyes. No wonder Curtis did not want to talk about his childhood, it would seem that he had suffered abuse from the very people who should have cared for and protected him. Stunned at this revelation, Ginny was lost for words.
‘He should not have come out to you,’ Angel went on. ‘We, the others and I, look after and protect him. If he comes out to you again, please be kind to him.’
‘Others – what do you mean – others, how many of you are there?’ asked Ginny.
‘You’ve met Mikhail; he’s the angry one. Be very careful not to upset him. Now you have met Peewee. You will only meet the rest if they choose to let you, but do not be afraid, I will protect you.’
‘But I don’t understand … I mean …’
‘What’s to understand? Curtis is our host. He is not aware that we are here and if you tell him that we are, he will deny it. It is best that he does not know.’
‘Then why are you … I don’t know how to say this … why are you in him and why do you – as you put it – “come out” from time to time?’
‘Curtis is hiding from his past and we are here to help him do that, if we weren’t he would truly be in a sorry state.’
It was then that realization came to Ginny. It was not schizophrenia that affected Curtis, but multiple personality disorder where alter egos inhabited a person and took responsibility for their actions. She had read about it but hadn’t believed it and thought that it was just someone’s way to play cruel games to get attention, to get their own way or to avoid doing something they didn’t want to. After all, it was well-known that people, depending on who they were interacting with, showed differing sides of their personality. But now she was meeting this face to face, and now was the time when she would find out if it was for real or a fraud. She would find out who these personalities were who had taken over Curtis. And why he did not know they were there.
‘Tell me, then,’ said Ginny. ‘He’s very clever and is thought highly of at the library where he works, but how does he manage to keep a job if these others that are inside him come out, show themselves, and perhaps behave badly?’
‘That’s just it, isn’t it?’ said Angel. ‘He doesn’t. I have to go now.’
‘Wait,’ cried Ginny as she realized that Angel was leaving. ‘I want to know more, please don’t go.’ But it was too late, eyelids fluttered; the body relaxed. Curtis looked at her and smiled.
Ginny wanted to cry.
THIRTEEN
The plane banked steeply as it circled over London on its approach to Heathrow. Brett McIvor put away his book, looked out of the window and down at the city. It was raining. London, England, last stop on his journey home to Scotland. After the heat and humidity of Africa, rain could only be a benediction.
As the plane lost height and the city slid away behind it, houses, roads and traffic became more distinct. Gradually the scene that Brett looked at changed from the proportions of a child’s toy into reality. There was a thump as landing wheels were lowered and a hiss from the wing flaps as they slid into position. The closer the plane came to the ground the faster the scene outside the window
rushed by and Brett turned his head away. They were about to touch down, a controlled crash, he’d heard it called. The 737 made contact with the ground with a bump, then rushed and rattled along the runway, slackening speed till at last it was taxiing gently towards its designated parking area.
Brett stayed in his seat while seatbelts clicked as they were undone and thrown aside, overhead lockers opened and clothing and bags removed. The aisle filled with people anxious to be off and about their business.
Brett was in no hurry, he knew there would be no one waiting to meet him in London. His luggage was booked through and he had some time to wait before boarding a plane for Inverness. He had slept through most of the journey from Johannesburg and hadn’t eaten. Last off the plane, he followed his fellow passengers into the airport and went in search of food. All he wanted now was something to eat that was typically English with a pint of beer to wash it down.
At last, comfortably full and relaxed, he sat back to watch a mixed bunch of travellers. There were Jews with skull caps, colourfully clad South Africans, loudly spoken Americans, and Brits coming home from foreign holidays, dressed in shorts, crazily patterned shirts and the inevitable open sandals. He’d recognize them anywhere. A tall, auburn-haired girl caught his eye, reminded him of someone he knew, had lost touch with but wanted to see again. He reached for his wallet. Ginny Harvey had given him one of her cards which he had tucked away in it and hopefully was still there. It was.
Carefully he dialled her number on his mobile and waited for it to ring, then wondered what he was going to say. He and Ginny had grown up in the same village but their paths through life had led them different ways and it wasn’t until he was about to join a mining company in South Africa that he ran into her again. The skinny tomboy he remembered had grown into a handsome young woman. He had been captivated by her. They had dated. He told her he cared for her, but would not expect her to wait for him till he was home again. So now perhaps she had a boyfriend, might even be married.
The steady ringtone kept on … and on … and on. Perhaps she was out. Perhaps she’d moved away. He’d hang on a little longer. Still her phone kept ringing and still she didn’t answer. Oh well, he thought as he switched off, I’ll see her parents when I get home, maybe they’ll bring me up to date. As he turned away, he realized how disappointed he was not to have been able to contact her.
There were still several hours to fill before he could board the plane for Scotland and home and, while watching people was fine for a while, he needed something else to do. He walked. It was good to stretch his legs after sitting in a plane seat for such a long time.
Brett McIvor was a handsome man. His hair was thick and black, his face, tanned by the African sun, was framed with a neatly trimmed beard, also black. Standing 6 feet 3 inches, burly framed and broad shouldered, he carried himself well. He walked tall with a loose-limbed stride and exuded an air of confidence that made him stand out from the crowd. Heads turned as he passed.
He cast a casual glance at the airport shops as he passed by. They sold clothing, perfumes and wine and spirits, to coax money out of the pockets of people with time to kill. There were snack bars and the inevitable WH Smiths with books, newspapers and magazines. He walked into the stationers. When he came out he carried a newspaper. It was time to catch up with what was going on in Great Britain.
A wry smile crossed Brett’s face as he read of happenings in Parliament. It was the same old, same old bickering of politicians, each blaming the other for the ills of the country. That would never change. He turned the pages and read about crime rates, racism and the state of the economy. He folded the paper ready to drop it in a litter bin but gave a start, sat up and looked at it again. A small column at the bottom of a page had caught his eye. With it there was a picture of a young woman and her face was familiar.
STILL MISSING
Salisbury police are baffled by the mysterious disappearance of the author, Virginia Harvey. ‘Every effort has been made to locate her whereabouts,’ said DI Barker, the investigating officer, ‘but so far we have had no success.’ The search is ongoing. DI Barker maintains that he will not give up until she is found.
Shocked and momentarily dazed by what he read, Brett knew then why Ginny hadn’t answered her phone. She hadn’t been there to pick it up. How long had she been missing? There was nothing in the paper to tell him. But the headline seemed to indicate that it was quite a while. Well, what was it to him? They hadn’t kept in touch. She wasn’t his girlfriend. There was nothing for him to do but continue his journey. The police would do their job and one way or another, would find out what had happened to her. He stood up, began to walk again and dropped the newspaper into the next waste bin that he passed.
But what have I got to do when I get home other than lie about and waste time till I get the next contract? I could go down to Salisbury for a few days, I’ve nothing else planned, and I would like to be there when she is found. Abruptly he stopped walking and did an about turn, then apologized when he stepped in someone’s way.
In a comparatively quiet spot he took out his mobile and called his home number.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he said when his father answered. ‘Look, I’m at Heathrow but something’s come up and I’m going to spend some time here in the south. Could you collect my bags from the airport, they’re booked through. You’ll find them OK, they’re tagged.’ He sent love to his mother, said he was sorry that they’d have to wait a bit longer to see him, but that he’d phone and let them know what was happening. Then he rang off and went to book a seat on a train to Salisbury.
Booked into a B & B, Brett McIvor was eating a full English breakfast, English not Scottish, for there was no bowl of porridge. To be fair, his landlady had taken one look at the size of him and put generous helpings on his plate. He thanked her when she came to clear the dishes. She asked if there was anything else she could get him.
‘Nothing more to eat,’ he said. ‘But I’m going to be spending some time in the city, so what’s the gossip? I mean, what’s there to see, what’s there to do?’
‘You need to go to the tourist information office; it’s next to the library. What are you interested in?’
‘How the place ticks, architecture, crime. Does much crime go on here? I picked up a paper in the airport and saw a piece about a girl who’d gone missing. What do you know about that?’
‘You mean Ginny Harvey,’ said the landlady. ‘I know about her because she lives in Blackton and my sister lives there. It’s a village about seven miles from here. Her house is only a five minute walk from my Margaret. I didn’t know the girl, but I’d been to one of her book launches and she seemed very nice.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Well … there’s always gossip, isn’t there?’ Pulling out a chair, Brett’s landlady sat down. ‘Apparently she’d been going out with a chap who treated her badly. I heard that he threatened her with all sorts when she left him. He worked in one of the computer stores.’
It was amazing how much people were prepared to tell when lured into conversation, thought Brett, as, warming to her subject, his landlady went on to tell of book launches, signings and the number of people who crowded around the author.
‘What’s so special about writing a book? Anyway, that chap that was cruel to her, I can’t remember his name, but he was a wrong ’un. He and Miss Harvey had a massive row right there in the store. It was all the talk at the WI.’
‘Not a very savoury character then. What other friends did she have?’
‘Um – other friends, I don’t know, but you know all that book writing … can’t be good sitting down all day doing that. You aren’t going to make friends by sitting at home and you do need friends, don’t you? I suppose we could do without books, though.’
‘That depends on whether you’re a reader or not,’ said Brett.
He stood up and, towering above his landlady, a roly-poly, 5 foot 50-year-old, smiled at her and said he really should get off.
When he stepped out from a centrally heated house into a cold December day, Brett realized with a shock that England in winter could be as cold, if not colder, than Scotland. He had sent his luggage home, his clothes in it, and left himself dressed for a South African spring. First on the list was a warm jacket. Promising to buy a street map for himself, he had borrowed one from his landlady and with it in his pocket, set off for the town centre.
Shopping done, wearing the coat he had bought and with his other purchases in a bag, Brett headed for the bus depot. The village of Blackton was no more than a short bus ride away so he decided to spend an hour or two there and take a look around.
Deposited in the centre of the village and right next to the Wheatsheaf, Blackton’s pub-cum-restaurant-cum-entertainments centre, Brett took one look at it and headed for the entrance. He walked up to the bar, put his bag down, perched himself on a bar stool and waited for someone to come and serve him. It had been a long time since he had been in an English pub, but the smell had not changed. The stale odour of beer that had been spilled and which had soaked into the fabric of chairs and the wood of the floor competed with that of cooking; sausages, chips and a deep fat fryer. An air freshener on a shelf behind the bar failed utterly to make any impression.
The shuffle of footsteps on a stone floor preceded the appearance of a busty blonde. She carried half a dozen wine glasses, upside down, their stems slotted between her fingers. At the bar, she turned her hands to set the bottoms of the glasses down, then spread her fingers and slid them out, leaving the glasses standing. She looked up then and saw Brett. The gasp she gave was theatrical.
‘Oh my God, what a fright you gave me. I didn’t hear you come in. What can I get you, then? I hope you don’t want a cooked meal cos we don’t do them till night and then they have to be ordered.’
‘I’ll have a pint of your best ale,’ said Brett. ‘And could you perhaps do me a sandwich?’
‘Yeah, I can do that. What you want in it? There’s a nice piece of beef out in the kitchen.’