The Midnight Side

by Natasha Mostert

  Isa rubbed her thumb against the page, as if by doing so she could fathom the questioning marginalia. But the words stared up at her: dead sentences only.

  She was finally beginning to feel sleepy. She took off her dress and underclothes and opened the closet to put them away. And there it was—as immediate as a favourite memory—the faded, elusive scent of rose and jasmine, which perfumed all of Alette’s drawers and closets. As Isa pushed the door even wider and reached for a cedar wood hanger, her hand brushed against a white, lacy nightdress. The fabric was filmy. It clung to her skin for a brief moment: a secret, hidden caress.

  She withdrew the nightdress from among the folds of the other garments. It was one of Alette’s vintage pieces. The embroidery was slightly frayed, and the collar had yellowed with age. Alette loved vintage clothes. She used to scour antique stores for just the right garments. How many times had she accompanied Alette on these shopping expeditions and watched her pick through crumpled velvet hats, lavishly embroidered blouses, and dresses in drop-shoulder style?

  And as she looked closer at the garment in her hand, she recognized it. She had a clear memory of the day Alette had bought this piece. Alette holding the Victorian negligee with its mauve ribbons against herself. ‘Think of the stories this can tell, Isabelle. Think of all the emotions: the desire, lust … the heartbreak.’ Alette touching the low-scooped neck, the tiny silk-covered buttons; a slow smile on her lips.

  The dress was long and wide. Alette must have drowned in it. But it would be a perfect fit for herself. Without thinking, without hesitating, Isa slid the cool folds of the nightgown over her head.

  The softness of the fabric felt pleasant against her skin. For a moment she stood looking at herself in the mirror. Clothes maketh man? No. One was born beautiful. The seductive power of a lovely face was a birthright, not something that could be acquired by simply wearing a pretty nightie. She remembered what Aunt Lettie used to say: ‘Women fall in love by listening. Men fall in love by looking.’ Isa placed her hands on both sides of her face, pulling the skin back so that her eyes lifted with an Oriental slant. Her face remained stubbornly unremarkable.

  She sighed and switched off the lamp next to the bed before pulling back the covers and sliding under the sheets. For a while she lay on her back, her eyes adjusting to the dark. She moved her leg, her foot exploring the cold expanse of bed stretching to the one side of her. She wondered what had gone through Alette’s mind every night before she closed her eyes to sleep. Did she also stretch out her hand towards the other side of the bed—like this? Did her hand also encounter only vacant space? Probably not. Alette, so truly solitary by nature, usually had someone in her life. And during the brief time Justin and Alette had tried to reconcile, he would have slept in this bed, his head might even have rested on this very pillow.

  Tomorrow afternoon she would be picking up the second envelope from Mr Darling’s office. The very thought made her tense.

  Revenge is an immensely empowering emotion.

  Alette would expect her to collect the envelope tomorrow and continue their partnership. Although the first envelope’s instructions hadn’t led to anything, who knows what the second might hold?

  Should she go through with it? She was starting to have a very bad feeling about this. And after meeting Justin tonight, Alette’s plan seemed truly insane.

  The evening had not turned out the way she had expected. Probably she had had an infantile wish to see a monster looking out of the eyes of the man sitting opposite her. A vampire whose cheek might crumble to dust at the first ray of sun touching his face. Instead she had spent the evening with an attractive and very charming man. It wasn’t that she didn’t sympathize with Alette. Of course, she did. Alette’s life had been a misery for years and Justin was to blame. But could anything warrant destroying a person’s life’s work? And what would Justin do when he found out?

  Justin can’t get to me. How do you punish a ghost?

  No. Isa closed her eyes tight. No more. She couldn’t do it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alette.’ She spoke out loud. Her voice did not carry. It was deadened by the weight of the heavy drapes; the many pillows.

  She turned over on her side. She was so tired now. The flesh felt heavy on her bones, she was so tired.

  Her legs were like lead and she would not be able to run away from the snake, which suddenly reared up from the grass in front of her. The black, round-pupilled eye. The flickering tongue. The smooth scales prettily patterned against the olive-brown body. She could hear Alette’s voice. She was speaking calmly but the words made no sense. And then Alette moved her feet decisively, deliberately: kicking straight at the coiled body, which reacted with a deceptively sluggish, ill-tempered sprawl, the head striking at Alette with astounding speed.

  Alette’s face so white and frightened. ‘Isabelle, I’m scared.’

  The sun spinning, and her breath fire inside her chest as she ran for help. Hurry, hurry. She had to get help fast, because if she didn’t Alette would die. And it would be her fault, she’d be to blame. Hurry, hurry. She stumbled, and a fierce pain shot through her ankle. Hurry, hurry …

  And then, suddenly it was dark as though the sun had been shut out by a tremendous fist and Isa knew she had stepped out of this dream into another. From the corner of her eye, she saw a shape moving slightly behind her. And the shape became a shadowy outline, a figure. And the figure held out her hand.

  Take my hand.

  Isa stared at the hand. If she took it, she would be instantly transported into the magical reality of a lucid dream. She could sense this parallel reality pulsing softly—insistently—like an undulating web of light just underneath the fabric of her present dream. It’s been so long, too long …

  She slowly lifted her hand, reaching out, her fingers stiff and outstretched. Her fingertips were almost there … almost touching … She stretched out her entire arm and felt the muscles pull in her shoulder … almost there … almost. And then, with no effort at all, she placed the palm of her hand against Alette’s.

  The fear that slammed into her was immediate—like a giant rush of wind. The surface under her feet was whipped away and she was hurtling forward, forward—out of control. Vaguely she realized she was inside the close confines of a car: the glowing green needle on the speedometer was rising steadily. A jumble of impressions battered her mind. The headlights burning into the fog. Trees spinning blackly past the window. The sound of a distressed engine.

  She threw her head back and screamed and her lips drew tightly across her teeth. She turned to the shadowy figure beside her, expecting at any moment to hear Alette say, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll stop this. We’ll go back.’ But the words did not come and she looked down at her hand still clasped in Alette’s and she jerked it away, and with a sickening, almost physical thud, she tumbled out of sleep.

  Her eyes flew open.

  She was lying on her side and the pillow underneath her chin was wet with saliva. It was dark, but the room was filled with noise.

  The phone was ringing. The ringing sounded odd, flat, strangely off-key. The sound seemed to trigger in her a sense of fluttering nausea.

  As if in slow motion she reached for the receiver.

  ‘Is that you, Isabelle?’ The voice was low and whispery, almost drowned out by a noise that sounded like the wind blowing through a million leaves.

  ‘Isabelle? Isabelle is that you …?’ Again the voice faded and she heard only the sound of those restless trees.

  ‘Isabelle … don’t let go of my hand. Send … the letter. Isabelle …’

  Isa tried to speak, but her voice failed her. And then the phone crackled violently and the next moment all she heard was the long, dull tone of a disengaged line.

  Isa slammed down the receiver. Groping behind the bedside table, she gripped the telephone extension cord and ripped it out of the telephone jack.

  Somehow she had found her way to the bathroom and was now standing with her hands clamped to th
e sides of the washbasin, her stomach heaving dryly, eyes straining in her head.

  When she finally straightened—the back of her hand pressing against her lips and the inside of her mouth tasting rancid—her eyes locked onto the image in the bathroom mirror opposite her.

  For just a moment, for just a splinter of time, the surface of the mirror rippled like wind writing on water. And the face in the mirror blinked her green eyes and shrugged away the heavy fall of red hair from her forehead.

  SECOND ENVELOPE

  NINE

  Darkness and Death lyes in my weeping eyes.

  The Change

  Abraham Cowley (1618–1667)

  ‘WHO THE HELL’S SMOKING IN HERE?’

  The voice was strident and a fist banged on the outside of the lavatory cubicle’s door. Daphne Campbell almost swallowed her cigarette. She quickly stubbed it out in the toilet-roll dispenser and flushed the butt down the drain. Smoothing her hair, she opened the door.

  The woman on the other side of the door was glaring at her. Not that this was unusual. Brenda Munion always glared. She had feverish eyes and a permanently pugnacious expression. In the newsroom she was known as ‘Gotcha’. Right now she seemed especially irked.

  ‘You know I get fucking asthma from cigarette smoke. Why aren’t you having your fags outside?’

  ‘Have a heart, Brenda. It’s minus two below.’

  Brenda Munion snorted and ripped open her handbag. Brenda’s movements were always frighteningly abrupt: as though she was having difficulty clamping down on some inner well-spring of violence. Daphne watched as she took out a lipstick and a powder compact and smashed them down on the side of the washbasin.

  ‘I see Martin gave you the Temple Sullivan story.’

  Daphne nodded listlessly. A totally bogus story as far as she was concerned. And boring. And not the kind of thing she wanted dropped in her lap a week before Christmas.

  ‘So what’s happening there?’ Brenda was rubbing the lipstick onto her mouth as though trying to erase her already thin lips. And the colour. The woman should stay away from cola-colour lipsticks. It made her complexion look even more muddy than it was.

  ‘Not much. It’s a load of BS if you ask me. I called this guy—Fromm, I think his name is. A former employee. Very sorry for himself. He told me he has some documentation, which can back up the whole story, but when I asked him to scan it through, he suddenly became coy.’

  ‘I interviewed Justin Temple last year.’ Brenda had taken a pair of tiny tongs from her bag and was now trying to curl her eyelashes. Daphne looked away. This was too much. She had had a disturbing glimpse of the underside of Brenda’s eyelid.

  ‘Temple. You remember,’ Brenda was saying impatiently. ‘That profile I did on him.’

  ‘Oh yes. What’s he like?’

  ‘I thought he was really glam.’

  Glam? Daphne grimaced. ‘You liked him, then.’

  ‘I always have a soft spot for a man who’s rich and looks like Heathcliff.’ Brenda dropped her lipstick into her bag. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. He runs a tight ship. So what did this Fromm character have to say?’

  ‘Oh, just that there’s this one species of plant, which is a vital ingredient in Taumex, and that they’ve had some problems trying to grow it in a greenhouse environment. And he said something about the authorities in Madagascar threatening to put the plant on the endangered-species list.’ Daphne shrugged. ‘So they’ll just harvest it somewhere else, right? Somewhere not third world. It doesn’t sound like that much of a problem to me.’

  Brenda Munion turned around slowly. ‘Are you stupid, or just ignorant?’

  ‘What’s with you?’

  ‘Madagascar has a unique ecosystem. They have plant and animal species you don’t find anywhere else in the world. You may have a real story on your hands. You need to do some digging. It’s called investigative journalism.’ Brenda spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of it.’

  Daphne stared at her resentfully. But before she could respond, Brenda said, ‘I’ll take this story. Let me speak to Martin.’

  ‘No.’ Like hell was she going to give this bitch anything. ‘I’m on it.’

  ‘If you change your mind, let me know.’ Brenda walked to the door. Just before exiting she said spitefully, ‘You may have to give up your weekend in Ibiza. Pack away the bikini, darling’.

  Daphne stared at her reflection in the mirror. She noticed the tiny red veins in her eyes. Too many end-of-the-year parties will do that to you. And now she’d probably have to get in her car and drive out into the wilds of Gloucestershire to talk to this man Fromm. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  • • •

  THE WHITE MARBLED FLESH of the lovers gleamed with a cool pallor. His hand, large and beautiful, rested on her hip. She was leaning forward, straining to press her mouth against his. Their lips met in an endless kiss; a kiss that was eternal.

  ‘She’s more eager than he is.’

  Isa turned around. Behind her stood Michael Chapman. His hair was as untidy as the first time they had met and he was wearing another hand-knitted sweater: this one blue with a green mistletoe pattern. He wasn’t looking at her: he was gazing intently at Rodin’s two lovers. Then he dropped his gaze to meet her indignant eyes.

  He smiled. ‘It’s true. Look carefully and you’ll see. She’s the ardent one. He’s much more removed from the moment.’

  Isa looked at the fleshy marble figures once again. Michael was right. There was total supplication in the S-curve of the woman’s lovely back: a complete abandonment to the moment of passion. The man was turning his head from the neck and there was a hint of rigidity in the spine.

  She sighed. ‘Well. So nice of you to point that out. Thanks for sharing. Of course you’ve now pretty well spoiled the experience for me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was contrite but there was a gleam in his eye. ‘Let’s go look at some ships. That should be safer.’

  They silently threaded their way through a group of bored teenagers and a busload of neatly dressed Japanese tourists. In the Clore Gallery for the Turner Collection, they moved solemnly from canvas to canvas, not speaking, but after a while Isa had had her fill of pink-and-golden light, sails, masts and hulls. She turned away from the pictures and walked towards the long windows that gave a glimpse of the Thames and framed the delicate bones of the outside trees.

  ‘You don’t look so hot if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Michael had joined her at the window.

  She noticed the sketch pad clenched underneath his arm. Now she remembered. He spent Mondays in the Tate, copying the artwork.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No real reason.’

  He didn’t push. Later, though, when they were sipping some lukewarm coffee in the cafeteria, he said: ‘It must be a little spooky living in that house all on your own. Are you okay with it?’

  She watched his hands. The fingers were long and supple. He was turning a paper napkin into an intricate doily: folding and tearing the tissue paper with a skill and delicacy that was surprising in someone who gave the impression of being clumsy.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Do you believe in ghosts?’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t tell me Alette’s been floating up and down the staircase. I’d have expected her to come up with something a little classier.’

  ‘Well, then you won’t be disappointed. She’s been calling me.’ Isa paused. ‘On the phone,’ she added defiantly.

  There was an awful silence. She looked up. She had expected to see embarrassed amusement in his eyes, but his face was stiff with shock.

  ‘Oh, God.’ Isa dropped her face into her hands. ‘You think I’m crazy.’

  ‘Explain this to me,’ he said at long last. ‘You mean the two of you actually have a conversation?’

  ‘Well, we did the first time.’ Just saying the words out loud made her feel deranged.

&n
bsp; ‘The first time? You mean this is a regular thing?’

  ‘Twice. Only twice it’s happened. The first time I didn’t know she was dead. Last night’s call lasted only a few moments and afterwards I was scared witless and pulled the phone from the wall.’

  Silence again. ‘So what do you think?’ Isa said. ‘Time for a padded cell?’

  ‘Isa. This is insane. No, not you.’ He stopped, took a breath. His eyes still showed shock but not, she realized with faint surprise, complete astonishment.

  ‘Okay,’ he was saying. ‘Okay. First things first. Tell me everything.’

  While she spoke, he placed his hand on hers, his fingers gripping strongly. She didn’t mind. The pressure of his hand was comforting: sane, real.

  ‘So there’s a definite link between the dream and the phone call,’ he said after she had finished. ‘The one leads into the other. From sleeping to waking. From death to life.’

  She looked at him gratefully. ‘You believe me. You don’t think I’m demented.’

  ‘I believe you. Absolutely I believe you. Let’s forget about the phone call for a minute. Let’s start with the dream. At least lucid dreaming has been scientifically verified. And it is familiar terrain to you.’

  She grimaced. ‘Although the idea that I might be sharing a dream with someone who’s dead is not exactly reassuring. And there’s something else. Last night’s dream was very different from the lucid dreams I shared with Alette as a child. Those dreams were wonderful dreams: joyous, magical things. Even encounters with monsters did not feel perilous. I always knew we had the power to think them away—or at least Alette had. And I always woke up refreshed, feeling on top of the world. Last night’s dream …’ She shivered, remembering the panic which had clamped itself around her like a vice. ‘Last night’s dream was frightening.’