It became a pattern. Bella would ring him, sometimes a week apart, but once after almost three months, and ask if she could spend the night. Sometimes she would go straight to sleep, jammed between Jameson and the teddy bear. Their contact was never sexual.
Some nights they would talk. Bella never talked about the past. It was all about the here and now. Jameson, who had always enjoyed determining what made people tick, listened with a third ear, attuning himself to her inner world.
It became evident to Jameson that Bella spent much of her life in a cavern of edgy emptiness, unable to settle on any path or goal that had any true meaning or any enduring quality. On the surface, she wore a mask that allowed her to function at quite high levels. One of certainty and assurance, but fragile as, despite her intelligence, she had not settled on any career path for long. Behind that mask she viewed others – men and women – in quite fragmented black-and-white ways. Those who got close to her were polarised and split as either all good or all bad. When viewed as good, generally early in relationships, she idealised them and often responded with apologetic subservience. Later in relationships, her idealisation would turn to condemnation and hatred. As Jameson listened to her over time, he clarified some of their drivers. Her brittle sense of identity progressively caused her to feel engulfed in a relationship. And being oversensitive to abandonment and rejection – as it confirmed her self-perceived worthlessness – she would strike out. Acting to a self-fulfilling prophecy. She would test others again and again, magnifying their innocent revelations, or provoke them until they did reject and abandon her, and so confirm her deepest fears. And the break point would foreshadow both retributive aggressive as well as self-harming behaviours, which Jameson described as ‘emotional incontinence’.
Jameson also listened carefully to her stories about other people, as he suspected that many were thinly veiled personal stories. One struck him as particularly poignant. Bella had detailed how a female friend had, on leaving school, gone to Asia to work voluntarily for a charity, and, in the third week, been raped while heading back one night to the compound. Again he thought of the stories he had heard in the Family Court. Of how some people never seem to escape from a sinkhole of abuse and degradation. Of how the sins of the fathers are visited on their children.
Jameson was also aware that Bella was testing him to determine if his care was genuine or exploitative. To him, the answer was easy. While aware of her beauty, he felt asexual towards her, more paternal, if anything. But he was aware of the risks to her viewing him in any such role. And so he tried to behave as an avuncular friend and, when she was distressed, as a human teddy bear.
It was not entirely altruistic on his part. Since they had first met, he had felt less alone. Her emptiness gave him a reference point for true loneliness. It was as if each of them did not truly exist, and he reflected on Sartre’s phase – that existence precedes essence. And so, he listened attentively to Bella and her views of the world, offering only the occasional observation and seeking to validate rather than challenge her feelings. In sharing her empty space he affirmed the saying that to exist is to co-exist. And when they slept together he would sleep deeply, comforted by lying in contact with her warm body. In turn, Bella would thank him for his kindness and for the way he calmed her.
Yet, her presence in his life did not entirely address his loneliness. One night, and when he had not seen nor heard from Bella for a month, he woke in great pain, a forerunner to the final stage of his cancer. It lasted an hour but, when it eased, he felt as lonely as he had ever been. He had no desire to live. He started again to contemplate ways in which he could bring his life to an end. But, as he lay there he heard a tap on the bedroom window. The clock indicated it was just after two. He slowly got out of bed, aware of the pain worsening as he walked to the window. He opened it slowly to see Bella standing outside. She climbed through and hugged him. ‘Are you OK, Jameson?’
‘Not entirely.’
Bella hugged him more closely. ‘I had just gone to bed when I got a mental flash. That you were in some sort of trouble. I came straight away but didn’t want to knock on the door in case…’
Jameson leant back to look her closely in the face. ‘That is truly amazing.’ His eyes misted with tears.
She took him back to bed, positioning him on his side and climbed into bed with him, embracing him gently and reassuringly, leaving the teddy bear on the chair, and whispering that she would stay until the morning. As he drifted off to sleep Jameson wondered at her prescience. No, perhaps it was more than that. Telepathy? Despite being a rational man Jameson wondered whether such a phenomenon was possessed by those who need an intuitive sense to survive in a world of great psychological threat.
Jameson continued to ruminate. Bella had called out for help, admittedly in her own opaque and entangled way, seeking help from those she judged might care for her still. The others in the group clearly had no wish to assist. Worse, they appeared unconcerned, as if she were dead. It was up to him to assist her.
Tonight he would see if he had any telepathic capacity. Doubting any such skill he had a plan B. He would contact Bella’s most recent lover, the one she had described so fondly, and the other person who should have been on her sheet. If that failed, he would hire a detective. He wanted Bella to be alive. He needed her to be alive. And when he found where she was, he would tap on her window or door at some bewitched hour, and then gently hug and calm her. She had to be alive.
ENDING ON A HIGH NOTE
The next Monday Martin felt sunny with appreciation, gladdened by the restoration of his relationship with Sarah. It was spring and there was a spring in his step. And his mood persisted, if not improved further, over the week.
He was confident that his mental health was under control, which pleased him but also intrigued him as he had forgotten to take his medication for a couple of days.
He was particularly pleased as to how well he had handled one potentially disquieting incident when he had been rung at work.
‘Dr Homer?’
‘Speaking.’
‘My name is Jameson Britton. I am a friend of Bella –’
Martin interrupted him lightly. ‘Excuse me a second.’ He asked his patient to step outside for a minute. Martin recognised the name. The barrister who had been with Bella during her police interview. And whose name was on the list she had mailed to him.
‘I know of you. How can I help?’
Jameson spoke slowly. ‘Bella has gone missing. I’m worried about her and hoped that you wouldn’t mind if I checked with you. I’m sure that she’s OK and that she’s just hiding out somewhere. You haven’t seen or heard from her recently have you?’
Martin responded cautiously. ‘No. Not for a while.’
Jameson responded slowly. ‘I’m disappointed of course but I’ll keep trying elsewhere. If you do hear anything would you contact me immediately?’
‘Of course. And like you, I’m sure she will be all right.’
Martin thought he had signed off but Jameson quietly added, ‘I do care about her. So thank you.’
Martin put the phone down and mused. Bella was hiding out. He remembered her mentioning she had a hideaway on Scotland Island. A place where she hung out and would dance repetitively to music. He thought about ringing Jameson back – the list with his phone number was filed in his office – but rejected that option. He remembered Bella being slightly evasive about the place. It was privileged information and therefore not appropriate to pass on to Jameson. He felt a frisson of intrigue and again wondered if this reflected being freed of the irritating tether of his medication. This struck him as worthy of close consideration.
The next Sunday Martin woke earlier than usual. The sun was sending a wave of light into the bedroom. He jumped out of bed and pulled the curtain back. It was going to be one of those magical Sydney spring days. Cloudless blue skies. He moved quickly to the living room from where he could scan the district. He was keenly aware of the texture
of the floorboards as he padded across to the window. He opened the doors to stand on the balcony, and to admire the jacaranda trees flowering across the street, blowing slightly in the wind. He became absorbed by their scent. The trees emanated a sharp honey smell which increased in intensity as he simply stood and watched them. At the centre of his vision the tree colours amplified. And he was piqued to observe that the periphery of his vision was also expanding, making the sky colour increasingly vivid. Martin felt expansively one with nature. He had judged right. He no longer needed the irritating harness of medication that put a perspex wall around everything.
He had to wake Sarah. She could not afford to waste time by sleeping. There were so many things they could do, including him teaching her to skate. This was going to be one hell of a day. He went back to their bedroom. Sarah lay sleeping, breathing quietly. Martin looked down at her, feeling sublimely tender towards her. And his sense of tenderness expanded to bring to mind all the great kindnesses that he had experienced from so many other people over the years. But it was too late to declare his gratitude to many of them. Especially those whom he had never properly thanked. The words of Whittier entered his head: For all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been! They revolved and evolved into memories of acts of omission and commission, with tears welling in his eyes prompted by a free-floating sense of empathy.
As he looked down at Sarah he thought of how she had offered him redemption and what it had meant to him. Yes, she truly was a saintly wife. He decided not to wake her. It was now his time to atone. To Bella. He had been self-indulgent. His behaviour on their last day together had been particularly reprehensible. She’d cut herself but it was he who had blood on his hands. He now recognised many of Bella’s accusations as valid. He had hurt her cruelly. And now she was hiding out. Presumably even more distressed about being abandoned by him. He needed to acknowledge the distress he had caused her. A simple and sincere apology was all that was needed. Delivered in person, not via a letter, for that would be cowardly. Now he held no fear of Bella, or fear of what she might do, and he would do what was right. He would drive to her apartment. If she was not there he would go to Scotland Island. There she would be easy to find. He had a sense that once he stepped off the ferry some force would guide him right to the house where she had hidden. He would knock on the door and apologise.
There would be no physical contact. He would simply smile and offer a thoughtful and meaningful apology before leaving. He was totally in control. It would all be a piece of cake. A cakewalk, indeed. And, as he picked up the car keys, he looked at the vanity mirror. A handsome enough man, he concluded.
AFTERWORD
The writing of this novel was assisted by many people who responded to my requests for technical information and I would specifically like to thank Adam Bayes, John Cobby, Guy Dunstan, Vered Gordon, Petrea King, Duncan Loasby, René de Monchy, Wendy Orum, Dave Straton and the inimitable ‘Clarissa’. As ever, I am indebted to my wife Heather for her ongoing support and for allowing me the luxury of time to write.
Editorial assistance was provided by several early readers with keen eyes for text and tone. I especially thank Kerrie Eyers who has deftly and expertly edited much of my writings for over three decades, Andrew Bliss, Jayne Newling and Aura Parker for their astute observations (and Aura as well for the evocative cover design) as well as Alex Craig who brought her superb professional skills to assess and assist reshaping of two early drafts so thoughtfully and incisively.
Finally, I offer my sincere appreciation to the publishing team of Jane Curry, Jasmine Standfield, Zoë Hale and Eleanor Reader in taking this book to market so efficiently and smoothly, and blessing me with a superbly astute and skilled text editor – Catherine McCredie – who sought to separate the wheat from the chaff and, against professional instinct, allowed me to retain some of the chaff and not to kill off all my darlings (including my hello darlings).
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