Possession

by Peter James

  She sucked her finger again, which was still painful, and felt the wet damp stem; some of the petals had fallen off. She went through into the drawing room and placed it in the bowl among the roses Fabian had given her for her birthday. It stood out, fresh and vibrant among the others which had now wilted and were dying or dead; but she couldn’t throw them out, not yet.

  There was a loud bang as the wind blew the front door against the wall; there was another bang and then it slammed shut, as if an unseen hand had hurled it in a rage.

  The trunk would have to stay in the car until Monday when she could get Mimsa to help her lift it out, she thought, walking through into the kitchen to turn the heating on, and was surprised to see that it was on, had been on all day, according to the time switch. She suddenly noticed that she could see the vapour of her breath and breathed out again, puzzled, then rubbed her hands together against the cold.

  Something moved upstairs, a creak of a spring or a floorboard. She stood and listened. The cold permeated through her, made her tingle; she curled her toes, silently, listening. There was another clunk, and then the sound of water in pipes; the boiler made two loud clanks and switched itself off. She breathed out; stupid, she knew, the house always made strange noises when the heating was on.

  She filled the kettle, then walked into the drawing room, glanced nervously at the rose again and switched on the television. There was a roar of applause from a studio audience and the camera panned along a row of beaming antiseptic faces: second division showbiz celebrities playing a panel game, trying a little too hard to be jolly; there was a cut to a slick quiz-master holding his microphone up close to a brunette who rolled her tongue round the inside of her mouth. Alex continued to watch for a few moments, cringing. The series had been devised by one of her clients; the critics had called it tasteless, banal and degrading, and they were right. But it had paid the rent for the past four years.

  It was too cold to relax. She jumped to her feet, walked across to the roses, sniffed the new one and gave it a light caress with her finger.

  She thought of Fabian’s trunk lying out there on the front seat of the Mercedes, wondering why she had bothered to bring the clothes back and worried for a moment that someone might steal it. Then she shrugged; perhaps that would be the best thing.

  If David had been around, he could have got the trunk; she wished she had been able to swallow her pride and ask him to. She rubbed her hands together again and shivered and felt sad, wanted to be with Fabian, wanted to hold him, hug him, wanted him to walk in the door and unpack the trunk himself.

  She went up to his bedroom; the temperature seemed even lower in here; had Mimsa turned off the radiator? She put her hand on it, then lifted it away smartly, feeling the heat burning her skin. She looked at the brass telescope, the posters on the wall, and then up at the painting, almost expecting a reaction, a slight movement, but there was nothing, just the cold arrogant stare. She knelt down under it and buried her head in her hands. ‘I love you, darling; I hope you’re all right wherever you are; I hope you’re happy; happier than you were here. I miss you; I wonder if you miss me; take care, darling, wherever you are. Please God, take care of Fabian.’ She stayed kneeling, then slowly rose to her feet, and felt more peaceful.

  She slipped out, gently shutting the door behind her, stood in the corridor and closed her eyes tightly. ‘Goodnight, darling,’ she said, and opened her eyes again; they were brimming with tears. She stopped at the top of the stairs, sat down and sobbed.

  She thought of Otto’s lacerated face; thought of him being catapulted from the car; what had happened, she wondered, at that moment of impact? How had Fabian reacted? What had he thought? Who was the driver of the other car? How could he have done this? The questions seemed to appear in her mind in bright green letters printed on a black void. How did Otto feel about surviving? Why was he so damned weird? He’d given her the creeps; what did he know? Some secret about Fabian? Was the whole thing a hoax, some sick joke; were he and Fabian about to come waltzing in through the door, laughing, brushing past her and going straight to his room and locking the door, and do what? Watch the stars? Make love?

  She heard a roar of laughter from downstairs, and then applause and a voice saying something she could not make out; she felt peaceful, sad and a sudden overwhelming desire to be kind. She thought of David alone in the farmhouse with the dog and the sheep, tired, lonely, baffled and she went into her bedroom and dialled his number.

  ‘David?’ she said, when he answered.

  ‘How are you?’ He sounded pleased; she knew, sadly, that he always sounded pleased when she rang, and she wished sometimes that he would sound angry, or disturbed from something, or distracted, anything to stop her feeling guilty about what she had done to him.

  ‘I just thought I’d say hi.’

  ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘I went to Cambridge today – to clear out Fabian’s room.’

  ‘Thanks for doing that; must have been a bit of an ordeal.’

  ‘It was O.K.; except I have a bit of a problem.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I can’t get his trunk out of my car.’

  She heard him laugh.

  ‘Want me to come up and help you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I don’t mind – I’ll come now – or –’ his voice became quieter, testing. ‘Do you have a date?’

  ‘No, I haven’t got a date.’

  ‘Well I’ll come now; take you to dinner.’

  ‘I don’t want to drag you all the way up.’

  ‘I’ll be there in an hour – hour and a half. Better than talking to the sheep.’

  Alex hung up feeling angry with herself, angry at her weakness; giving David hope, allowing the wound to continue festering. She was startled by the vapour of her breath, and stared at it, thinking for a moment it must be cigarette smoke that she had exhaled. But she wasn’t smoking. She watched the cloud, thick and heavy, so heavy she could almost see ice crystals form as it drifted up in front of her; she was cold again, suddenly, almost unbearably cold. She felt as if something had come into the room, something unpleasant, malevolent; something very angry.

  She got up, went out into the corridor and into the kitchen, but it stayed with her. Her hands were shaking with the cold, shaking so hard she dropped the tea bag on the floor; she heard the clunk upstairs again, a different clunk this time, not like the boiler. She walked out of the kitchen in long positive strides, down the corridor and out of the front door, into the orange glow of the streetlighting.

  The rain had stopped and the wind was still strong, but felt warm and enveloped her like an eiderdown. She walked down the street, slowly, hugging it around her shoulders.

  She heard the toot of a horn and the rattle of an engine and was engulfed by the stench of pigs, a strange, unfamiliar smell in the middle of Chelsea. She looked around and saw David’s mud-caked Land Rover. He was leaning over, sliding open the window. ‘Alex!’

  She waved, surprised. ‘You were quick! I didn’t think you’d be here till well after eight.’

  ‘It’s half past eight.’

  ‘Half past eight?’ She frowned, and looked at her watch. No, it wasn’t possible. Surely it had only been a few minutes? She shivered. What was happening?

  ‘What are you doing out without a coat?’

  ‘Just came out to get some air.’

  ‘Jump in.’

  ‘There’s a space just there – you’d better take it, you won’t get any closer.’

  He nodded. ‘Saturday night, I was forgetting.’

  She watched him reverse into the space, then jump out. ‘Aren’t you going to lock it?’

  ‘I’m out of the habit of locking cars.’ He gave her a kiss, and they walked down the road to the house.

  How long had she spent walking around outside? An hour and a half could not have gone by. Surely not?

  ‘You look frozen,’ he said.

  ‘I
– er – was a bit hot in the house – had the heating up too much. Let’s get the trunk – I’m parked just there.’

  She staggered backwards into the house, sagging under the weight, and heard a crunch as the trunk swung into the wall. ‘Careful,’ she said, testily.

  ‘Sorry.’

  They laid the trunk down and David closed the front door; she saw a flat piece of dried mud on the carpet. ‘For Chrissake, David, you’re bringing bloody mud in!’ she shouted, livid suddenly.

  He blushed apologetically, as if in the house of a complete stranger, bent down and untied his brogues. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, sheepishly. ‘Bit muddy down there at the moment.’

  She instantly regretted her outburst, and guiltily watched him stooping over, removing his shoes. She stared at his faded roll-neck sweater, battered tweed jacket with its haphazard patches and his shapeless brown corduroy trousers. His beard was tinged with white strands and his face had a ruddy weatherbeaten complexion. It was hard to imagine, she thought, watching him standing there in his grey woollen socks, with his big toes poking through, that he had once been so fastidious about his appearance; that he had once worn nothing but sharp designer suits, silk shirts, Gucci loafers; that he used to gad about in a Ferrari, that he had loved to strut into Tramp in the early hours of the morning, greeting Johnny Gold and every waiter by name.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘it is hot in here. Incredibly hot. How are you?’ He leaned forward to kiss her, staggered and nearly fell. ‘Ooops.’

  She felt the bristles of his moustache, smelled the alcohol, felt his tongue poke through and push in between her lips. She recoiled. ‘David,’ she said, reproachfully.

  ‘Just giving my wife a kiss.’

  ‘Do you have to get drunk before you can come and see me?’

  He shifted his weight, uncomfortably.

  ‘If you got breathalysed, you’d be really stuck. Want some coffee?’

  ‘I’d prefer some whisky.’

  ‘I think you’ve had enough.’

  God, why had she asked him up, she thought, riddled with guilt; she just wanted him to go away; she did not need him, did not need anyone. It had all been a mistake, tricks of her imagination; or was it? Somehow, she had to be sure. At least it was comforting, having another human here; at least she felt safe.

  She made him a coffee and took it through to the drawing room. Angrily, she snatched the glass of whisky out of his hand. ‘Drink this; I want you sober; I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I can stay the night here,’ he said.

  ‘No you can’t.’

  ‘It is my house.’

  ‘David; we have an agreement.’

  He stared at the coffee and wrinkled his nose. God, he really looked like one of those ruddy bucolic picture-book farmers, she thought. How could anyone change so much, so quickly? Just a couple of years; or had he been changing for much longer without her noticing? He was an alien here, hopelessly uncomfortable in the surroundings; she had to concentrate hard to remember that it was he who had decorated this house, his taste, his furniture, his colours. And yet, she felt strangely safe with him here; it was like being in the presence of a great cuddly bear. She sat down on the arm of the chair beside him, trying to sort out the confusion of her thoughts, the violent swings of her emotions, and listened to the noisy slurp as he tested the coffee. She twisted the whisky glass guiltily around in her hands, then put it down gently beside him.

  ‘This may sound strange, David, but I think Fabian’s still around.’

  He looked up at her, frowning. ‘Still around?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mean you don’t think he’s dead?’

  Alex took out a cigarette and offered him the pack. He shook his head and pulled a tin of tobacco out of his pocket. ‘I went to the morgue. I spent six bloody days in France with the body of my son – our son.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him?’

  ‘No, thank God, I didn’t have to; anyway, they wouldn’t let me – they said he was too badly –’

  Alex shuddered. ‘I know he’s dead, David. But I can – I don’t know – sort of feel his presence still around.’

  ‘You’re always going to remember him – we both will, that’s natural.’

  ‘Don’t you think that dream you had when you saw him, the morning he was killed – that we both had – don’t you think that was strange?’

  He prised open the lid of the tin and pulled out a cigarette paper; she looked at his grubby hands, the yellow-stained fingers, his filthy nails.

  ‘Coincidence. Maybe telepathy; my mother had a similar experience during the war, the day my father was killed; she swore she saw him sitting under a hedge at the end of their lane. She went to mediums, had séances in the house and claimed she spoke to him regularly.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing; used to tell her it was very blue out there. That’s the problem, the dead never seem to have anything very interesting to say.’ He licked the gum on the paper and closed up his cigarette.

  The door suddenly moved, several inches; Alex jumped, her heart racing, and it moved again; she felt a cold chill down her neck and spun round; the curtain was billowing out. ‘Did you open the window?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  She felt the relief seep through her, like warmth from a bath.

  ‘You’re very edgy,’ he said. ‘You should have a holiday – go away somewhere.’

  ‘I can’t spare the time at the moment; I’ve got two very important deals I have to close.’

  ‘Come down to Château Hightower – you can have your own room, come and go as you like. It’s peaceful – you can do your deals over the phone.’

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘If you want to come down at any time just turn up, you’ll be very welcome.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe.’ She hesitated, leaned over, and stroked the side of the whisky glass. ‘I want to show you something.’

  She led him down into her darkroom and picked the contact sheet off the table, then stared at it in disbelief; it had completely fogged into a haze of white and grey tones. She shook her head, picked up the negatives and dropped them on to the cracked light box. There was nothing there; nothing on them. Nothing at all. It was as if they had never been exposed.

  ‘You didn’t fix them properly,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I did.’

  ‘You must have had the solution too long – got too weak – these have all carried on developing. What were they of?’

  ‘That’s the whole point; they were pictures a client sent me – a roll of film – he’s a bit eccentric – they were pictures of some animal’s genitals.’

  She saw David’s probing stare and blushed.

  ‘He knew of my interest in photography. Anyhow, I developed them, made a contact sheet and they were fine; I put it on the drying rack, and when I came down to check it, I could see Fabian’s face on every frame – it had just appeared there.’

  David looked at her, and shrugged. ‘Double exposure.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. No way.’

  ‘Did he know Fabian, this client of yours?’

  ‘No; he had no reason to take pictures of Fabian. Anyhow, it wasn’t on the neg.’

  ‘You mean you hadn’t noticed it on the neg.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t on the neg.’

  ‘You sure you didn’t imagine it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Alex, you know you are very tense at the moment –’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ she snapped. ‘Jesus, what do you want to do? Commit me to a loony bin?’

  ‘Perhaps you should see the doctor.’

  ‘David, I am perfectly O.K.; I’m coping with everything; it’s just there is something very strange going on. I feel that Fabian is still around, that’s why his face appeared.’

  ‘And Fabian fogged the film?’

  She shrugged. ‘Ma
ybe.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Silly things.’ She shook her head. ‘Probably nothing. I just wonder – maybe I should go and see a medium. If I did, would you come?’

  He shook his head. ‘Forget it, darling; you’ll make it worse for yourself. If you went to a medium and you got in touch with Fabian – what would you say to him?’

  She stared at her husband, and then had to look away, red in the face; I know what I’d say, she thought.

  ‘And what would you expect him to say to you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve always been as cynical as you about that sort of thing, David, it’s just –’ she paused. ‘Maybe you’re right, maybe I should have a break. Help me get the trunk upstairs.’

  ‘And afterwards I’ll buy you dinner; we’ll go out somewhere nice, O.K.?’

  She looked at him and nodded.

  ‘Christ it’s cold in here,’ he said, as they carried the trunk into Fabian’s room. ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘On the floor.’

  ‘Let’s put it on the bed,’ he said. ‘Be easier for you. You ought to have the heating on in here, otherwise you’ll get damp in.’

  ‘It is on. I think the floor would be –’ But David had propelled them over to the bed, and they laid the trunk down on to it, with a loud clank from the springs.

  Alex watched David look around the room, lost, like a visitor trying to find his bearings in a museum. ‘There’s his telescope; God, I remember giving him that.’

  ‘He loved it.’

  David stared up at the portrait, and Alex noticed the look of discomfort on his face. He looked away. ‘Still got that Brooklands poster – worth a few bob now.’

  Alex looked at the old racing car, hurtling around the banking. David walked over to it. ‘I remember hanging this for him – he can’t have been more than seven or eight. I made a real botch up of it – couldn’t get it to the right height – had to take the bloody nail out half a dozen times.’ He lifted the picture off the wall. ‘Look, there they all are!’ He pointed to the chipped plaster and the haphazard holes.

  ‘It’s funny what one remembers,’ said Alex, watching him carefully re-hanging it. For whom?

  She walked out into the corridor, suddenly wanting to be away from the room, wanting David away from it as well; his presence there was annoying her, poking about, moving things. Let him rest, she wanted to say, let him rest you fool!