Shape-Shifter

by Pauline Melville

  The yellow porous rock crumbled a little under my touch. Rough walls were pitted with holes containing grains of sand. Light came from somewhere but I couldn’t discover the source. There was no trace of damp and the air was warm. To my left, in a hollowed-out cave, a man lay groaning on the ground, his shirt wrapped tightly round him. I approached. Over his head some letters were scratched in the wall. The letters were all constructed of straight lines. As I studied them they lit up as if someone had shone a torch from behind me. I read:

  H … E … R … A … K … L … The last letters were indecipherable.

  I did not go too close to the man because I knew his shirt was poisoned.

  I passed through the honeycombed passages and came to the bottom of a staircase. It was familiar. I recognised it as the staircase of a London house where I had lived some years earlier in a flat on the top floor. I climbed the stairs. The house appeared to be unoccupied. Where there had been carpeting on the stairs, the boards were bare and dusty. I held onto the wooden banister and went up to the top. The flat was empty, the windows dirty, and my shoes made tapping noises on the floorboards. I opened the door to what used to be the living room.

  To my surprise I found myself at the back of an evangelical church hall. A phalanx of wooden chairs waited for a congregation. The only occupants were two women seated some way apart, one in a drab maroon coat, the other in dull green. A flush of embarrassment came over me. What would my friends think if they discovered I had a functioning church in my front room? There was no altar, just a high pulpit set in front of the chairs. An Anglican vicar entered from the back and made his way down the left-hand able to the pulpit. His white surplice hung limply over the black gown. Steel grey streaked the hair on the back of his head. He mounted the pulpit:

  ‘Today’s sermon is taken from two readings of the Old Testament: the first from Exodus, Chapter 39, verses 24–26 and the second from Ecclesiastes, Chapter 3, verses 1–3.’

  The voice was weary:

  ‘“And they made upon the hems of the robe, pomegranates of blue and purple, and scarlet, and twined linen.

  And they made bells of pure gold and put the bells between the pomegranates upon the hem of the robe, round about between the pomegranates;

  A bell and a pomegranate, a bell and a pomegranate round about the hem of the robe.”’

  The church smelled musty. He continued with monotonous intonation:

  ‘“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

  A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

  A time to kill and a time to heal …”’

  I slipped out through the side door into the sunshine.

  The grass beneath my feet was dry and brown, the heat overpowering. Dolores was hanging out clothes on the line strung between the mango tree and Mr Elliot’s house. Water glistened on her brown hands. As she reached for the pegs her dress rode up round her strong thighs. I couldn’t believe that I had lived in my ground floor London flat for five years without ever realising that Jamaica was just on the other side of my back wall. Relief flooded me. Now I would be able to return whenever I wanted, by going through the hole in the wall:

  ‘Hi there, Dolores.’

  She turned, smiling:

  ‘Hi there to you too. ‘Ave you seen Mr Elliot? ‘Im say ‘im a soon come but ‘im don’ reach yet.’ She spoke in her slow, country accent.

  ‘I ain’ seen him.’

  Every day Dolores walked three miles across Kingston to look after Mr Elliot’s children while his wife was in America:

  ‘Thirta dollars ‘im say ‘im woudda give me today. Thirta dollars.’

  She sprinkled some Coldpower from a packet into a tin tub full of white washing. The clothes squeaked as she rubbed them. Another tub on the ground contained the clean water for rinsing. Heat prickled the back of my neck. A bird was cursing in the hedge.

  ‘How are the children?’ I knew that the father of her two children had deserted her for a rich man’s daughter.

  ‘They doin’ fine. Is me mudda raise dem now. She don’ barn dem but she do raise dem.’

  ‘Do you ever hear from Fat-Boy?’

  ‘Not one word. Not one dollar. But ah washin’ this for ‘im now.’ She held up a long, dazzling white robe. The brilliance of the white hurt my eyes. It reminded me of the garb worn for the pocomania ritual.

  ‘I’m surprised you’re doing anything for him,’ I said.

  She convulsed with laughter:

  ‘It’s the media,’ she said. I must have looked confused. She laughed again, this time astonished at my lack of comprehension.

  ‘You don’ hunnerstan’? It’s the MEEDEEA.’ She doubled up, clutching the robe to her chest, creased with laughter.

  I left her and went into the house. In Mr Elliot’s bedroom lay the jumble and clutter of a man whose wife is away. The room was stuffy. I turned the handle of a door to the right of the bed. It opened onto a room which I recognised immediately as the place where I was supposed to be.

  The ceiling was high. The walls were built of great, square, yellow stone slabs. The room was no bigger than a cell. I shut the door gently behind me. Everything was peaceful. The only furniture was a small wooden table with a wooden chair set by it. The wood was rough and white and reminded me of the wooden draining-board we had at home which my mother used to scrub with parazone. On the table stood a typewriter. Sunlight fell on it from a window that was no more than a slit in the enormously thick walls. Placed next to the typewriter was an opened packet of plain foolscap paper.

  I took out a sheet of paper and inserted it in the typewriter. I barely needed to touch the keys. The typewriter wrote of its own accord:

  THE TRUTH IS IN THE CLOTHES

  You Left the Door Open

  SOME EVENTS DEFY SCRUTINY. LIKE ELECTRONS IN a bubble-chamber, the act of looking at them disturbs them. All that can be seen are traces of recent passage, tracks left behind. The electron itself remains unseen, its form only to be guessed at, a ghost in the atom.

  The attack – and it was a violent one, a murderous one, at night, as I lay sleeping – was just such an event. Under close examination, the meaning of it began to dance. There were traces, both before and after, that served as clues; synchronicities, unaccountable coincidences, signs even, as well as solid facts and evidence. But, at the heart of the matter lay impenetrable ambiguity, like the infuriating Necker cube – a cube drawn in such a way that one minute it appears solid and facing in one direction and then, through an involuntary shift in the mechanism of the eye, it appears to be hollow and facing the other way.

  The paradigm, the lens through which something is viewed, determines what is seen. Psychologists, with their particular conceptual spectacles, saw the attack as the work of a paranoid schizophrenic. Sociologists would doubtless have some other explanation for the epidemic of stranglings and rapes that plagued London throughout the long, hot summer of that year. Theories that include the idea of a demon are, of course, out of the question in this day and age. Demons have lost their footing on the hierarchy of scientific disciplines. The police lay yet another template on events. Their gaze rests only on the physical, forensic evidence and facts:

  ‘Did you notice anyone suspicious hanging around the area before you were attacked?’ A buxom policewoman in a spotlessly white blouse and neat skirt was taking down my statement.

  ‘Yes, I did. A few days earlier I saw a man sitting on the low wall outside one of the houses a few doors down the street.’

  ‘What did this man look like?’ she asked.

  ‘He looked as though he had the soul of a wolf,’ I replied.

  The policewoman did not write this down. Her pen remained poised over the sheaf of statement papers. It was not the sort of fact the police wish to accumulate:

  ‘Did you notice what he was wearing?’ she asked.

  I tried to remember the physical details. It had be
en a warm day, yet he had been wearing a jacket, blue or grey, I think. I passed him, sitting on the wall, as I returned home from the shops; a man in his late thirties, with a broad forehead and fairish hair receding at the temples, lean in build. As I approached him, the hairs on the back of my hands prickled and rose. There seemed to be some sort of aura around him like an electro-magnetic force-field. He stared at me and through me and past me. What struck me was that he looked more utterly alone than anyone I have ever seen. Schoolchildren were tumbling out of the gates of the school across the road. For a moment I felt a brief, inexplicable concern for their safety, but I gave him no more than a glance as I returned home. A couple of hours later, I went out again. The man was still sitting there.

  I am a cabaret artist. I specialise in impersonations. Not for me the grand, plush venues of London, I work in the tiny clubs, the underground cellars hung with black drapes where the audiences are impecunious and raucous. On this circuit, there is usually one cramped room put aside as a dressing room. Jugglers, comics, fire-eaters and musicians vie for space amid dirty tables, empty beer cans and plastic cups sprouting cigarette ends hastily doused as some performer hears his name being announced by the compère on stage. A few months before the main events of this story took place – the attack occurred in the summer and I suppose the idea first came to me in February – I was becoming bored with my act and I conceived the idea of doing some male impersonation. One night, alone at home, I found myself in the bathroom looking in the cabinet mirror. I took a black eyebrow pencil from my make-up bag and drew a moustache on my upper lip. It was too thick. I made it thinner. Then I took some hair gel from the shelf and smarmed my hair back off my face. I spent an inordinate amount of time combing my hair. I thickened my eyebrows and looked at the face in the mirror. It grinned. It was the face of a small-time crook, a petty thief. I settled on a name for him – Charlie. The next day, I went to the market to find Charlie some clothes. A cold drizzle fell on the stalls of second-hand clothes and cheap jewellery. I selected the following items for him:

  A black nylon roll-neck sweater, the type worn by spivs.

  A calf-length camel-hair coat.

  Some flashy, fake gold rings and a neck-chain.

  A pork-pie hat, brown with a feather in it.

  Hush-puppy shoes, soft and noiseless.

  Second-hand grey trousers with a sharp crease.

  That evening, Charlie regarded me confidently from the full-length mirror in my bedroom. I decided to take him out in the street. The night was damp and freezing cold. I hate the cold. Charlie seemed to love it. He had not spoken much but when he had it was with a northern accent. One odd thing I noticed. Normally, I am short-sighted, but that evening I could see far, way down the street. Outside, standing on the pavement, I knew immediately that Charlie was vicious and predatory. All he wanted to do was to wait in shop doorways and pounce on passers-by. I didn’t let him, of course. But before I could stop him, he had taken my car keys and let himself into my car. He drove too fast, cursing and swearing at any delay, pushing the nose of the car right up against the bumpers of other, slower cars in front. He wanted to hurt people. There was a certain thrill to his viciousness. I took him home. I was exhausted. He wasn’t. I undressed and went to bed.

  A short while later, I took him on stage for the first time. It was a mistake. He had not the least intention of amusing the audience.

  He wanted to frighten them. He said horrible things. Quickly, I took Charlie home and put him away in the cupboard.

  ‘What happened to that character you were creating?’ a friend enquired of me, a week or so after his debut.

  ‘Oh, he was too violent and dangerous,’ I giggled. ‘He had to be locked up in a mental hospital.’

  Around the time I discovered Charlie, a man was, in fact, released from one of the big hospitals for the criminally insane in the north of England. Later, he was to weep, his head on the table in the police interview room, saying that the hospital was the only place where he had ever been happy. Outside, apparently, a voice kept getting into his head telling him to do certain things. He consistently denied the attack. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he repeated again and again. ‘It wasn’t me.’ In some ways, he may have been right.

  In May, I read in the local newspaper that a woman who lived nearby had been savagely attacked and raped by a man who was skilful and cunning enough to leave not a fingerprint or trace of himself behind. I soon forgot about it.

  A sizzling summer arrived. A Jamaican friend of mine came to stay while she finalised the last details of the publication of her book. On the day she was to leave, we were sitting with friends who had come to say good-bye. The flat was a welter of half-packed suitcases, pages of manuscript, scattered books and possible designs for her book cover.

  ‘I don’t like any of these designs for the book jacket,’ she grumbled. ‘I won’t have them on the front of my book.’ She shoved some clothes into a bag and turned to one of the other girls:

  ‘Mary, your designs are better than these. Go and do some sketches for me, quick. Take them down to the publishers on Monday and send me copies to Jamaica. I must have something with more of a Caribbean feel to it.’

  Mary was on her knees studying the front covers of several books laid out on the floor. She looked up at the bookshelf and saw, resting there, a painting I had brought back with me from Haiti. Still unframed, it leant against the wall. It is a smallish painting, executed in the most brilliant colours. A leopard, one of the sacred animals of Haiti, sits under a tree in the forest. From the branches of the tree hang large, round fruits, purple, brown and scarlet sliced with yellow. The great cat, black with no markings, gazes out from thick, green foliage. His eyes are bright, lucent and alert. They appear to follow you round the room as you move.

  ‘Let me borrow that painting,’ said Mary. ‘The colours have the right feel.’ I did not want her to borrow the painting. It is my favourite. She will spoil it, I thought, drop coffee on it, sit on it and tear the canvas. I tried to invent an excuse as to why she could not take it:

  ‘Don’t take that painting. It protects my house,’ I mumbled, feebly. But she took it anyway, promising to bring it back the next day. And that night, without its protection, I was attacked.

  In the afternoon, after I had driven my friend to the airport and tidied the flat a little, I sat at the table in the front room trying to complete some work. Once, I looked up and a figure darted behind some bushes that grow by the railings in the front garden. I did not sec the face. I thought no more of it. That evening, I visited friends. It must have been about one o’clock in the morning when I returned home. I remember hearing the sound of my heels clicking in the empty street as I ran from my car to the flat. It is always a disturbing sound, running footsteps at night, even if they are your own. The sound of a victim. Inside the flat, I felt safe. It was peaceful and warm. I put my bag and keys on the trunk by the front door and wandered into the large back bedroom. There, I undressed and hung my clothes in the walk-in wardrobe. Naked, I strolled into the bathroom, washed and cleaned my teeth. For some reason, I decided to sleep in the small bedroom that night. It is a tiny room. In the corner opposite the door is a single divan bed. Next to the bed is a small cupboard with a portable television set on it and a radio clock. Apart from that, there is room only for an upright bamboo chair. Two uncurtained windows are set deep in the thick, outside walls of the house. I got into bed and switched on the television. For a while, I read by the light of the television. No other lights in the flat were on. After a bit, I reached over, switched off the television and went to sleep.

  What woke me I do not know. I lifted my head from the pillow to see, dimly, a figure in the doorway about four feet away from me. The room was very dark. The figure recoiled for an instant. Then it attacked. I had the impression of something erupting violently from beneath the floorboards at the side of the bed. At the same time, a rough, gloved hand was pushing into and against my mouth, forcing my head down in t
he pillows. This is real, I thought, this is real. I struggled to breathe and I must have been trying to scream because the voice in my ear was saying:

  ‘Shut up! Shut up! I’ve got a knife. I’ve got a knife.’

  The voice was coarse and rough as goatskin. Scarcely able to breathe, I turned my head this way and that to get air. The whole weight of his body bore down on me. The rough, woollen-gloved hand clamped like a vice over my mouth was tearing the skin off my face as I twisted my head, trying to get away. I was suffocating. Sound that had its origin in my stomach was issuing out of my mouth, a roaring, black vomit of sound. He was still growling:

  ‘Shut up! Shut up! Don’t move! Don’t move!’

  The fight became a grim battle. Something was being pulled round my neck. Rope. As he tightened it, I put up my right hand and managed to insert my fingers under the rope and pull it away from my wind-pipe. I pulled and pulled. It came away in my hand and I held on to it tightly. Somehow, I contrived to swing my legs out of the bed. It was too dark to see anything clearly. He was standing over me. I lunged for his balls. We fought violently in the pitch-dark room. The television set crashed to the floor and then the radio clock went as well. The bamboo chair was smashed. I was pinioned back down on the bed, still struggling:

  ‘I want to put a pillow-case over your head,’ he grunted.

  I bellowed: ‘NOOOOOOOOOOOO!’

  The tidal wave of noise that came from me lifted me to my feet and him with me. He darted behind me and locked his left arm tightly round my neck. We were both out of breath. There we stood. I was captured. Naked and cunning as a wild animal, I trembled. I looked about, as far as the dim light would allow, for a weapon. Nothing in sight. I was filled with a sensation of extraordinary physical fitness and well-being. All I knew was that I had no intention of being quenched, snuffed out, extinguished, murdered and silenced. I had no intention of vacating my premises and leaving my empty body in the concrete gully beneath my window. Something diabolical had entered the flat. I would fight. But, he might be too strong in the end. Events seemed to have lifted themselves onto a plane where the struggle which took place felt like the ultimate, gargantuan struggle between good and evil. There was, as yet, no winner.