Possession

by Peter James

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  Who had said that, she wondered, suddenly. Him? Her? She spoke mechanically, positively, tried to be courteous; tried not to make the man feel like an idiot, in spite of her mounting anger. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘There has been a mistake; a very terrible mistake. My son is at home, asleep in bed; he arrived back safely this morning.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Constable Harper departed in a flurry of staccato apologies and twitches. Alex sat down, staring at the spats of rain on the window, and dialled her home phone number.

  She heard the click as it answered, and a dull roar. Over the roar, she heard the voice of her cleaning lady. ‘Hold on, you don’t go no away please.’ There was a clunk, the roar stopped and her voice came on again, clearer. ‘Very sorry; go turn off ’oover. Missy Eyetoya ’ouse.’

  ‘Mimsa, it’s Mrs Hightower speaking.’

  ‘Missy Eyetoya no here; you telephone please at office.’

  Alex waited patiently, and then repeated herself, slowly, louder.

  ‘Allo Missy Eyetoya.’ There was a pause as if Mimsa was looking something up in a phrase book. ‘How you you?’ she said positively, slowly, triumphantly.

  ‘Fine, may I speak to Fabian please.’

  ‘Misser Fibbian? He no here.’

  ‘He’s asleep in bed.’

  ‘No, he no sleeping. I just clean his room. You say he come back tonight; I just clean room for him.’

  Alex hung up, grabbed her coat and went out into the corridor. She put her head through Julie’s office door. ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’

  Julie looked at her anxiously. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, it’s fine,’ she snapped.

  She double parked in the street, ran to the house and up the steps. There was a drowning roar from the vacuum cleaner and a strong smell of polish. She walked through and saw Mimsa, arched like a chicken, hoovering the drawing room. She ran up the stairs and along the corridor to Fabian’s bedroom, paused outside and knocked gently. She opened the door. The bed was neatly made and there were no suitcases, nor any clobber lying on the floor. It smelt clean, freshly aired, unused.

  She looked around the room, up at the strange gaunt portrait of her son. He stared back down, sternly, arrogantly, hand slipped inside his jacket like Napoleon. The eyes were all wrong; they looked cold, cruel, not those warm eyes that were full of life that was the real him. Fabian had given it to her last year as a birthday present, but it had unsettled her; she had tried it on a few different walls, and eventually hung it in his own room. She felt a shiver as she looked at it now.

  She went up and looked in the spare room, then the bathroom; but there was no sign of Fabian having returned. She went to her bedroom, picked up the phone and dialled her husband.

  ‘Can I call you back?’ he said. ‘I’m right in the middle of something urgent.’

  ‘So am I,’ she said, conscious of sounding more hysterical than she had intended. ‘Is Fabian with you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, impatiently. ‘He was going to that twenty-first at the Arboisses’ last night. He wouldn’t be back in England yet.’

  ‘David, something very strange is happening.’

  ‘Look – I’ll call you back in half an hour. Are you at the office?’

  ‘No. I’m at home.’

  Alex was conscious of the sound of hooting outside. It was getting increasingly impatient. She hung up and ran down the stairs. Mimsa jumped in shock as she saw her. ‘Missy Eyetoya, oh you give me fright!’ Alex dashed outside. ‘Sorry,’ she shouted at a small, thin-lipped man in a large BMW who glared and shook his head. She jumped into her Mercedes, moved down the road, then reversed into the space the BMW had left. She went back into the house.

  ‘You did not see Fabian, Mimsa?’

  Mimsa shook her head; the whole top half of her stooped body shook as though it were attached to her legs by a fulcrum. ‘Don’t see no Misser Fibbian. Don’t been back yet.’

  Alex went through into the drawing room and sat down on a sofa, looking around at the apricot walls, thinking, suddenly, how pretty the room looked, and then, suddenly, how strange it felt being at home on a weekday morning. She stared at the bowl of red roses on the table by the door, and smiled. They had arrived by Interflora on her birthday, three days ago. The card from Fabian was still tucked in with them. Red roses; his favourite flowers. He always gave her red roses. She closed her eyes and heard the vacuum rev up again to a crescendo and then undulate, as Mimsa pushed the machine backwards and forwards over the carpet, relentlessly.

  He had come into her room this morning; she had seen him; surely to God she had seen him?

  She heard the front door and ignored it; probably the milkman; Mimsa could deal with it.

  ‘Missy Eyetoya.’ She opened her eyes and saw Mimsa looking agitated. ‘Policeman here.’ Mimsa’s eyes were wide open, bulging; she jerked over her shoulder with her thumb.

  ‘That’s all right, Mimsa, show him in.’

  Mimsa stared at her, and Alex smiled reassuringly, nodding.

  A moment later, Constable Harper was standing awkwardly in the doorway, cap in hand, and mouth twitching like a rabbit. ‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said.

  Alex swept some hair from her face and pointed to a chair. He sat down and placed his cap on his knees. ‘Nice house.’

  Alex nodded and smiled. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We seem to have a problem.’ He turned the cap over a couple of times. ‘I don’t know quite how to say this. There is a young man in hospital in Mâcon, who was in the – er – the accident, Mr Otto – ’ he pulled out his notebook and looked at it. ‘Mr Otto von Essenberg. He says that the other three in the car were a Mr Charles Heathfield, a Mr Henry Heathfield and Mr Fabian Hightower. Obviously he’s still in a state of shock.’

  ‘Charles and Henry Heathfield?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Yes, their parents live in Hong Kong. Charles is at Cambridge with Fabian. Henry’s his younger brother. Are they all right?’

  Harper paled, looked at the ground, and shook his head. ‘I understand that –’ he shook his head ‘– that they were killed.’ He looked back at Alex, and turned the hat over again. ‘You said you saw your son this morning.’

  Alex nodded bleakly.

  ‘I’m sorry, this is very difficult.’ He looked away from her again. ‘Where exactly did you see him?’

  ‘He came into my bedroom.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘About six. I think I looked at the clock, I’m not sure.’

  He wrote carefully in his notebook, his hand shaking. ‘About six?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he’s not here now?’

  ‘No.’ She sensed an inevitability dawning on her and she bit her lip.

  ‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

  She shook her head. It was getting harder to speak.

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  Alex nodded. ‘He said “Hi, Mum”. I told him I was surprised to see him back so soon; he said he was tired and was going to get some sleep. He was in his room this morning when I left.’

  ‘You saw him again?’

  Alex stared directly into the policeman’s eyes. ‘No, I didn’t see him; the door was shut, and I didn’t want to wake him.’

  ‘Then you went to the office?’

  She nodded.

  He made another note. ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘About quarter to nine.’

  ‘And what time does your cleaning lady come?’

  ‘About nine-fifteen.’

  ‘Was she on time this morning?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’ Alex went out of the room. ‘Mimsa!’ she called. Mimsa, intent on her hoovering, did not hear. Alex tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Mimsa!’

  The cleanin
g woman jumped. ‘The second fright you give me today. We don’t got no Vim. You forgot?’

  Alex nodded. ‘Sorry, I’ll try to remember.’

  ‘The winnow cleaner no come. He lazy bassard.’

  ‘Mimsa – what time did you get here this morning? It’s very important.’

  ‘This morning, I early. Five to nine. I catch earlier bus – I don’ normally catch it, ’cos have to make husban’ breakfast; he no have breakfast this morning – got to go to the doctor for the tests, so I catch early; I go early too if O.K.?’

  ‘Fine.’ Alex nodded and went back into the drawing room. ‘She was here at five to nine.’

  ‘Only ten minutes after you left?’

  Alex nodded.

  ‘Forgive me, this may sound a little rude – do you think you might have imagined your son coming home – dreamt it perhaps?’

  The phone rang; she listened for a second to the shrill echoing of the bell, the very normality of it calming her down. She picked up the receiver. ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Hi, darling, sorry about that.’

  She wished her husband would stop calling her darling; she wasn’t his darling any more; why did he keep having to pretend that everything was all right between them?

  ‘I was right in the middle of a crucial experiment – I’ve got a catalyst that I think is going to enable me to produce a Chardonnay to rival Chablis; and it’ll be cheaper. Can you imagine a really good British Chablis?’

  ‘Sounds very exciting,’ she said, flatly.

  ‘I’m talking about Premier Cru Chablis, at least! Did you sleep O.K. last night?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, surprised. ‘Fine. Did you get down all right?’

  ‘Yes, no problems – can you hold on a second?’

  Alex heard voices shouting in the background.

  ‘Listen, darling, I’ve got to get back to the lab – there’s a slight problem – it’s turning brown. Actually I had a weird dream – well I didn’t think it was a dream but it must have been. I was woken up by it, about six this morning; I could have sworn that Fabian came into my bedroom. He said “Hi, Dad”, then disappeared. I looked all over the house for him when I woke up, I was so convinced I’d seen him. This country life can’t be doing me much good after all – I must be cracking up!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  She stared at the light oak coffin, with its brass handles, and the red roses that lay on top of it; at the shafts of sunlight playing through the stained glass window; at the kindly face of the clergyman at the lectern. ‘Now we see through a glass darkly,’ he read, calmly, serenely.

  They were picking up the coffin now, they picked it up easily. Her son was in that; she wondered what he looked like. They hadn’t let David see him when he’d gone to France. Too badly burned to identify, they had said. She felt David’s hand tugging now. Do I have to stand, she thought, panicking suddenly. Do I have to walk down that aisle, in front of those staring faces? Then she remembered they were friends, all friends, and she followed her husband, lamely, through the haze of tears she was trying to hold back, outside and into the black Daimler.

  The cortège stopped in front of the neat red-brick crematorium; they got out into the sunlight and stood silently watching the pall-bearers unload the coffin. Two men took the roses off around the corner, and the others carried the coffin into the building and set it down in front of the dark blue curtains. Alex walked up to the coffin and laid a single red rose on the lid. She spoke quietly, with her head bowed. ‘Goodbye, darling.’

  She walked back and sat in the front pew beside David. She knelt and closed her eyes, trying to find some prayers, but could think of nothing; she heard the building filling with people and the soft organ music. She tried to listen to the words of the committal service, but could hear nothing, nothing but the sudden click and hum of the blue curtains sliding apart and the coffin starting to move slowly through them.

  She felt uncomfortable at the wake, standing in the crush of people in her house, and drained a glass of champagne straight down. A bottle popped loudly, near her ear, frothing and spraying, and she was swept backwards helplessly in the retreating surge of people, like being carried on a huge wave, she thought.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex,’ said a woman in a black veil whom she did not recognize.

  ‘He was a nice chap,’ said Alex. ‘They never take the shits, do they?’ She fumbled for her cigarettes. Through the crowd she saw Sandy making towards her, her hair a mad cauldron of tangled jet-black strands held vaguely together with what looked like knitting needles. Instinctively she turned away; Sandy’s theatrical emotions were more than she could cope with right now. She saw Otto’s sharp bird-of-prey face staring down at her, hideously lacerated, a mass of weals and sticking plasters. ‘Thank you for coming, Otto,’ she said.

  He nodded, gave a half-smile that turned into a cruel grin. ‘Fabian asked me to,’ he said.

  Alex stared at him, but he turned away from her, back to his conversation.

  She closed the door on the last of the guests, took another drag on her cigarette and another long pull on the glass. She was feeling better, from the buzz of the drink, from the cheer of the friends and family who had been around. Only David still lingered, lurking in the entrance to the kitchen, leaning against the wall, glass in his hand. ‘Would you like me to stay?’ he said.

  ‘No, David.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be alone tonight.’

  ‘I really would prefer to be on my own. Please; I have to get over this my way.’

  ‘Why don’t you come down to Lewes?’

  ‘I’ll be O.K. here.’

  David shrugged. ‘I suppose you blame me.’

  ‘Blame you?’

  ‘For buying him the car.’

  ‘No. Accidents happen; I don’t think it would have made any difference, whatever the car.’

  ‘If he had been going a bit slower?’

  Alex smiled and shook her head.

  David picked up a bottle and poured into his glass; only a dribble came out. He looked at the label. ‘Veuve Clicquot.’

  ‘Fabian’s favourite; he always thought it was a smart champagne.’

  ‘The widow Clicquot.’ He paused, looked awkwardly at Alex, and blushed. He sniffed the wine. ‘Could have done with a bit more bottle age.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alex. ‘Perhaps if you’d asked him he might have waited a couple of years before he died.’ She walked past him into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. David followed her and put his arm gently around her.

  ‘You know,’ he said, ‘it’s incredible we should have both had the same dream about him, at the same time. I’ve been thinking about that.’

  ‘It must have been about the time he died,’ said Alex.

  ‘Most extraordinary coincidence.’

  Alex opened the jar of Nescafé and spooned some into two cups. ‘Still taking sugar?’

  ‘One spoon.’

  ‘You think it was coincidence?’ she said, testily.

  David held the glass up to the light and examined the colour carefully. ‘You know I’m sure this used to be a deeper yellow. I wonder if they’ve cut the ageing time down – or perhaps I’m mistaken. The bouquet’s fine.’

  Alex glared at him. ‘You think it was coincidence?’

  ‘Coincidence?’ he said blankly. ‘Ah, yes, well of course.’ He caught the look in her eyes. ‘Oh, come on now, Alex, you think it was something else?’

  She shrugged. ‘It was very strange; it was just so real.’

  ‘We’ll have to let Cambridge know,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I’ll call them tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d better write to Charles and Henry’s parents too.’

  ‘Yes.’

  They sat opposite each other and drank their coffee. ‘How’s your Chardonnay?’ said Alex.

  David smiled. ‘One step forward, two steps back; can’t get it to stabilize. How’s
the agency?’

  ‘Busy.’

  ‘Got any blockbusters on the stocks?’

  ‘An anthology of Urdu war chants.’

  ‘Is that what the world’s been waiting for?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m thinking of writing a book on wine.’

  ‘Good subject,’ she said. ‘I’ve only had sixty-four manuscripts on wine land on my desk this year.’

  David stood up. ‘You know what they say, sixty-fifth time lucky.’

  Alex smiled. ‘Give me a call when you get home.’

  ‘You want me to?’

  ‘I want to know you’ve arrived safely.’ She kissed him and closed the door, and suddenly felt very alone.

  The hallway was dark, with its sombre black and white tiles and high ceiling, and she switched on the light. She walked into the drawing room, with its thick pallor of smoke and perfume and the vinous acidity of the champagne, parted the net curtains and looked through the bay window at the street; the colour had drained out of the clear sky and it was now a darkening wash. She thought again of Otto’s strange words, ‘Fabian asked me to’. Something moved behind her, suddenly. She sensed it, and felt fear, stronger than any fear she had ever felt before; she was cold and her skin was prickling, bristling with cold needles. She felt the room closing in on her and she wanted to tap on the window, shout for help, but she was paralysed. She saw a shadow moving out of the corner of her eye, rising from a chair behind her.

  ‘Oh darling, excuse me, I must have dozed off,’ said the shadow.

  She stared, transfixed, as she suddenly realized it was Sandy.

  ‘Quite overcome by the emotion of it all – I’m on these tranquillizers, you see, and they just don’t go with booze.’ She yawned, and stretched. ‘Has everyone gone?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alex said, weakly. She switched on a table lamp, and felt comforted by the warm glow as the colour came back to the room. ‘You gave me a fright.’