by Simon Brown
Henry smiled.
“Yeah, right.”
On the way home I felt closer to Henry. I enjoyed dinner and noticed that I had started touching his arm when I started to say something. Now I tugged at his arm as we walked between the red-bricked church and the dark green canal water.
“Slow down, Henry, I’m only little.”
Henry put his hand on my lower back and pushed me along faster. I gave him a mock slap across the chest. He pulled me towards him and gave me a squeeze.
I saw the shadow first and then a figure quickly rounded the end of the church walking fast towards us. It was the same person, dressed in black with a silver mask across his face. It was definitely a man. He barged between us throwing me to one side and simultaneously swinging his shoulder jolting Henry backwards. Henry half recovered his balance by throwing out a long arm and grabbing hold of the collar of the man’s black jacket. He pulled the man towards him. The man lashed out with a punch that just glanced Henry’s head. Henry caught his wrist with his free hand and shot his other hand up to grab the leather-covered elbow and started to twist him round. The man swung at Henry with his free fist but missed. He then kicked out, catching Henry on the shin. Henry jumped back to avoid another blow letting go of the man. They circled each other. It looked like a duel between a spider and a beetle.
I screamed out. My legs were shaking and my voice quavered.
“Help, someone help us, please.”
I heard the clicking steps of shoe leather against stone and an elderly man and woman walked into our street. The attacker turned and ran.
Henry had a trickle of blood running down the side of his face from a cut at the end of his eyebrow. The elderly couple spoke to us in Italian. We assured them we were alright and walked on. I did not want to spend the rest of the evening in a police station filling out forms. Henry limped slightly as we crossed the canal on a small arched stone bridge.
“Who was that?”
“It was the same man who followed me. I think it was the same person who attacked me in Covent Garden.”
“Could it be that guy we met in your house?”
“Edward? Possibly. Why would he want to harm me? A few weeks ago he was telling me he loved me.”
“Maybe he saw us together and assumed we were in a relationship and lost it.”
That thought did make sense to me. I wished I had managed to rip his mask off and end all this speculation and mystery. On impulse I turned and gave Henry a hug.
“Thank you so much for protecting me. I really appreciate it.”
Henry returned my hug and kissed my forehead.
“That’s why I’m here.”
I found a tissue and dabbed at the blood. There was a small open wound that was still weeping. I slipped my hand into his as we walked home. If it was Edward and if he was trying to separate us, he had miscalculated. I felt much closer to Henry. Then I thought about Claudia.
“I should also tell you that I think I was caught taking the surname of the woman looking after Veronica. She is kind of scary. Another possibility is that she arranged someone to attack us.”
“Wow, you are like a secret agent. Amanda Super Spy. What’s your next mission?”
Once we returned to our apartment I found a bandage for Henry’s wound. Henry pulled up his trouser leg to expose a large, dark blue bruise and mild grazing below his knee. Henry lay down on the sofa and I sat beside him. I rested my hand on his chest and head whilst we meditated. I felt his breathing slow and calm. Then when he felt peaceful I slowly removed my hands. Henry lay with his eyes closed. I got up slowly and had a shower. After I put on my blue flannel pyjamas and sat on my bed. My mind kept spinning back to Edward and the various attacks. I tried to focus on the mouth of our attacker and Edward’s. I could not be sure it was the same man.
I wandered back into the living room and found Henry listening to his iPod and reading. He looked round and took off his headphones.
“I think I’ll get an early night.”
“Sure.”
Henry stood up and gave me a hug. I turned my head slightly so that our lips touched. Henry moved a hand up to behind my head. We kissed each other’s lips a few times and then I felt Henry’s tongue on my upper lip. I parted my lips slightly and his tongue slipped past. Our tongues touched. I pulled Henry closer to me. Henry slid a hand down to my bottom. Then I pulled away.
“Henry, I am going to bed now. You’re welcome to join me if we can just snuggle up to each other. I am not sure I am ready for anything else tonight.”
“Sure.”
I lay in bed flitting between rerunning a film of the latest attack in my head and trying to be in the moment. Henry wandered in wearing black boxers. He sat heavily on the side of the bed and then swung his legs in. He reached up for the light switch and we lay next to each other in the dark. He felt cautious and aloof, lying stiffly on his back. I put an arm around him and he stroked my forearm few times. It felt weird being in bed with someone after all this time, and even stranger that it was not Mathew. I expected Henry to follow Mathew’s routine. I anticipated him rolling onto his side, kissing me goodnight, and then turning over, so I could cuddle up to his back and feel his hand on my thigh as I stroked his abdomen. Instead I felt each of Henry’s long breaths for a while and fell asleep.
The next days I lived in that watery, faded, majestic bubble of Venice. Henry and I held hands, kissed and hugged. Henry did not attempt to take our intimacy any further. I did not reassure him further advances would be welcome either. I wondered whether he still had open wounds from his relationship with Vanessa.
We walked and talked, ate together and saw a lot of art. The silver masked man did not materialise again or intrude upon our romantic journey. Although the threat of another appearance lurked in the shadows, keeping us in our roles of the protector and the vulnerable.
I braved the stern glare from Claudia and gave Veronica a further healing. I anticipated another attack if she thought I had taken her last name but nothing happened. At the end there were no warm goodbyes or feeling that we were becoming friends, just a terse acknowledgement that I was leaving. I left feeling unsettled and held Henry close as we walked away.
CHAPTER 19
I felt sad on the plane home. I had developed a happy rhythm to my days in Venice. It felt like an escape from solicitors, police interviews, bank managers, building society debt collectors and preservation. I felt myself deflate. I tried to focus on seeing Dorothy to lift my spirits.
Dorothy appeared ecstatic when she welcomed us. I felt a warm connection, coming home to the person who was now my new family. She wanted to hear all about Venice. She seemed particularly concerned as to whether the same cafés and restaurants she had visited were still there. She even enquired whether a large lady with dark, curly hair still sold vegetables in the market.
“I found out Claudia’s last name.”
I handed the napkin to Dorothy.
“‘Tagliabue.’ I think that would be ‘Butcher’ in English.”
We told her about the masked man and his fight with Henry.
“And was that the last time you saw him?”
We nodded. Dorothy looked perplexed.
“How very odd. At the same time you were attacked in Venice another letter came in the post. I hope you do not mind dear, but I opened it to be sure. The postmark was from London.”
“Could he have arranged for it to be sent once he was in Venice?”
Dorothy started clearing the teacups away ignoring Henry’s question.
“Well, what a mystery.”
I got up to help her.
“What did it say?”
“Another picture of you and a masked man saying, ‘I have the rest of my life to get my revenge.’ It was similar to before, with very poor grammar and spelling. You can see it for yourself if you like. On another subject, my dear, Martin would like to meet with you. He has had a response from the building society.”
That familiar f
riend, anxiety, flooded my heart as I considered that there must be two people trying to harm me. One followed me to Venice to physically attack me, whilst the other composed and sent threatening messages. Henry left for work.
My mood did not improve and out of it I started to complain to Dorothy that Veronica showed no positive reaction to my treatments.
“Oh, my dear, if you give a treatment fishing for compliments, it becomes about you, and that is the energy of your interaction. Healing means being in service to another human, to humble yourself and offer a connection where you lose yourself.”
I grunted, grumpily, annoyed that my aunt was being wise rather than indulging my self-pity.
That night I noticed in the mirror how much of the Venetian cuisine I had brought home with me. I examined myself from different angles. My tummy, bottom and thighs had all acquired new rounder shapes.
Henry escorted me to the solicitor’s office two days later. Since our return to London we gave each other greeting and parting hugs and kisses on the cheeks but all other physical contact had stopped. I wanted to ask Henry how he saw our relationship developing but could not bring myself to voice the words. We sat in the waiting room talking about everything except us.
Mr Ledbetter invited me into his office.
“Good morning, Mrs Blake. I have some news. Your building society would like to resolve this dispute and have offered to waive all debts. In return you would surrender the deeds to your home. This would still leave you disadvantaged as you will have forfeited the equity you enjoyed in your home up until Mr Blake started taking out fraudulent loans. After some negotiation we have agreed that the society and you will each accept half the debt incurred by your late husband. This would leave you with a surplus of just over ninety eight thousand pounds, if you agree to relinquish your home at its current value to the society.”
After a brief discussion I agreed to accept his proposal. I had known for some time that I would not live there again. This was a much better situation than a few weeks ago. I felt a wave of relief wash over me. When I returned to the waiting room, Henry stood up and I transferred my exuberance into a big kiss and hug. Henry stood stiffly looking surprised.
“I’m going to take you and Dorothy out for dinner.”
We went to a Japanese restaurant in Hampstead that Henry knew. Henry ordered a large range of dishes to share. We tried sushi, natto, grilled quail eggs, wakame salad, hiziki and carrots, grilled mackerel, vegetable tempura and miso soup.
I told Dorothy of my and Henry’s discussion in Venice about what is real. She picked up on a point.
“Yes, if we want to feel as one with the world sometimes, it might help to free ourselves of our labels and focus more on our interactions. What do you think, Henry?”
Henry had just loaded his mouth with fish, so he nodded and gave Dorothy a thumbs up. I experienced a flash of anger. He seemed uncouth and irreverent. Dorothy smiled.
“There, you see, we are closer together again, although I sense Amanda has now constructed a temporary barrier.”
Dorothy looked at me quizzically.
“It’s just that sometimes Henry makes these silly gestures when I would like him to be a bit deeper.”
Dorothy laughed.
“But Amanda, dear, judgements and expectations lead to separation. How can you understand Henry if you are disconnected from him?”
I felt my face flush as the anger returned. I tried to suppress it. Henry had moved onto gobbling a large piece of tempura.
“Surely part of being in the moment is being emotional and expressing those emotions,” I stated louder than intended.
“True, and we can also explore what is fuelling those emotions?”
I shrugged my shoulders. It was a sullen response I used as a child when I felt cornered by my mother. It became a familiar gesture during the later years with Mathew. Dorothy touched my hand.
“You know how much I love you and enjoy the times we feel connected. Sometimes it can be interesting to ask ourselves why we choose to disconnect.”
I looked at Henry. He popped a quail egg into his mouth. Henry seemed oblivious to my expectations of him. Perhaps he was the one in the moment, just enjoying the taste, smells and texture of his food. Perhaps our conversation was incidental.
Dorothy turned to Henry.
“Perhaps I can summarise it by saying: I am the universe and the universe is me. It is when I need to make distinctions that I become a separate observer.”
This time Henry was between mouthfuls.
“Wow, cool, Mrs H. You are kind of mind blowing. Five minutes with you and my horizons expand to infinity and beyond.”
“I think ‘and beyond’ might be redundant in that sentence, Henry.”
I caught Henry’s eye and we laughed.
“Amanda, when I woke this morning it occurred to me that you might enjoy writing some morning pages.”
“What are those?”
“Do you remember I suggested before that you try writing from your heart?”
“Oh, yes. I did write about a dream I had in Venice.”
Dorothy smiled.
“Before you go to sleep, play with different questions in your mind.”
“You mean like, ‘Why do I have so many expectations of men I feel close to?’”
“Yes, that is a very good example. Then whilst you sleep you will continue to explore that question. When you wake up, take a blank sheet of paper and just write freely. Simply express whatever comes to your mind. Write as though no one will ever read it.”
“So not on Facebook or Twitter,” Henry laughed at his own joke.
Dorothy looked perplexed.
“Ignore him, Aunty. They are places you can write to lots of virtual friends on your computer.”
“Oh, you mean like imaginary friends.”
Henry laughed again.
“Yes, exactly that.”
CHAPTER 20
Sergeant Smiley telephoned to arrange to meet me. He came round later in the day. Once he was settled, Dorothy came in with the tea. I smelt stale nicotine. Smiley rubbed his right eye wearily. It looked slightly bloodshot.
“I would like to apologise on behalf of the Hertfordshire Constabulary for the treatment you received from Inspector Pride. As you know, she has been suspended pending further investigation.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you got any further with the investigation?” asked Dorothy softly, whilst pouring the fresh bay leaf and lemon rind tea.
“We have interviewed Mr Edwards again but as yet do not have any evidence to convict him.”
“So you think it was Edward who attacked Amanda in Covent Garden?”
“He’s a suspect.”
“Did Amanda tell you that she was attacked in Venice?”
Smiley looked at me expectantly.
“Someone followed me and chased me through the back streets.”
“Did he harm you?”
“No, but my aunt sent Henry to look after me and this man punched and kicked him.”
“I see. Can you give me a description?”
“He wore a hat and mask. About five-ten with broad shoulders. After that I did not see him again.”
As Smiley made notes of the dates I was followed, and of the fight with Henry, Dorothy leant forward. Smiley stopped writing and held his pencil as though it was a cigarette.
“The strange thing is that on the same day this masked man attacked Henry, another letter was sent to this address.”
“May I see it?”
My aunt went through to her room and brought back a clear plastic bag with the letter and envelope inside. The sergeant examined it.
“You see, it is postmarked London.”
Smiley nodded.
“I think I will be having another chat with Mr Edwards. I will keep Detective Inspector Williams informed on these developments. He may wish to interview you as well. I would like to take a statement from you and the man you were with in Venice.�
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With Smiley’s help I dictated the statement. Smiley wrote it out on his form. He then painstakingly drew a line through every gap in the statement and asked me to initial each line. After I signed the statement I called Henry.
I wanted to tell Smiley about Claudia, but what could I say?
That night I lay in bed loosely thinking about what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I imagined being a healer, setting myself up as a private investigator with Dorothy, running a herb tea café or going back to teaching. I tried to just play with the images and resist the temptation to dismiss something like teaching immediately. I was serving customers with one of Dorothy’s cakes in my own café when I fell asleep.
In the morning I sat down with a blank piece of paper and ballpoint pen and tried to just write. Nothing seemed to come to me. I heard Dorothy in the hall. I shouted out.
“Dorothy, nothing is happening. I don’t know what to write!”
Dorothy opened the door gently.
“That is what you write.”
I looked back blankly.
“Write exactly what you said to me.”
I wrote, Nothing is happening. I don’t know what to write.
“There, now you have got started. How are you feeling?”
“I’m irritated about the writing.”
“Write it down. Why are you irritated?”
“Because I can’t think of anything to say.”
“And why would that irritate you?”
“I thought it would be easier.”
“Write it down.”
Dorothy sat on a chair whilst I wrote.
“Feel the pen, be aware of the texture of the paper, be sensitive of the muscles you are using.”
The sensations must have triggered a distant memory of writing a poem at primary school and I started to describe my school desk. Then I wrote about Amy who was sitting next to me. I tried to detail the image of Mrs Blenkinsopp standing next to the blackboard in her blue tartan skirt and cream cardigan. I remembered my desire to please her with my poem.
When I got to the bottom of the page I realised I had not written anything about the careers I thought about last night. I turned to Dorothy. She had her eyes closed.