by Peter James
A drop of water struck her cheek, then another. She reached the bank, heard the lap of a wave, saw the lake black and sloppy under the rising wind. She stared down at the knife, frightened it might cut her again, a deeper cut than her finger.
She made sure there were no anglers, then threw it as hard as she could out into the lake. Far enough and deep enough so she could not wade out in her sleep and get it back. It rolled over in the air, barely visible, then fell into the water with a plop like a rising trout. Gone. It no longer existed.
It had never existed.
She went towards the house, squeezing her finger through her handkerchief, thinking, hoping, trying to convince herself that maybe she’d cut it on a thorn; not a knife. You didn’t find knives under bushes. No one ever left a knife under a bush.
She took her handbag out of the Citroën and stared at the barn wall where the mastiff had been chained in her regression. She walked over, her feet dragging through the gravel, and scanned the wall. In the falling darkness it blended in with the bricks and she took a moment to spot it. She went closer, put out her hand and touched the hoop. It had almost rusted away; a chunk flaked off and crumbled into dust in her fingers.
Mad. Going mad. I have lived previous lives.
I killed a dog.
It was raining harder, but she hardly noticed as she stood gazing at the barn; the barn with its bats and spiders and the old car which it had held, like a secret. And which in turn had held its own secret. The chewing gum.
She looked down, just in case, although she knew she would never find it because it was not there, had never been there; it had been her imagination, like everything else. That was all.
She unlocked the door of the house and stepped into the tiny dark hallway, switched on the light and closed the door behind her.
The wind had stopped howling, the mill race was silent. It felt as if time had stopped.
‘Ben! Hello, boy!’ she called out. ‘Ben?’ She walked down the passageway, into the kitchen. Silence. ‘Ben?’ The red light of the answering machine winked frenetically out of the gloom. Rain spattered against the windows.
She jerked open the boiler room door, saw the dim blue flame of the boiler ‘Ben?’ She switched on the light.
He was cowering against the far wall, whimpering, his hair standing up along his back as if it had been brushed the wrong way.
She ran over, knelt beside him and put her arm around him. ‘Boy? What’s the matter?’ He was shaking and a puddle of urine lay beside him. ‘It’s OK, boy, it’s OK.’ She stroked his head and rubbed his chest.
The boiler sparked into life and she jumped. The flame roared, the air hissed, the sound of metal vibrated. ‘What is it? Aren’t you well? Why are you shut in here? Was it one of the workmen? Let’s get you supper.’
She went into the kitchen, took his meat out of the fridge and put it with some biscuits in his bowl by the basket. He stayed cowering in the boiler room, watching her, then slowly, warily, came out. The answering machine continued its winking. The windows shook, a volley of rain struck the glass. The drying-rack swayed in the wind, its pulleys creaking, its rails casting shadows like prison bars.
She cleaned up Ben’s puddle and patted him again. He began to eat. She pressed the message play button on the answering machine, heard it rewind and went over to the sink and washed her hands carefully. She rinsed her finger under the cold tap, worried about the rust on the knife, trying to remember when she’d last had a tetanus jab. Her hands looked awful, felt awful; every time she moved a finger the skin parted on a wound, layers of it pulling apart.
The answering machine finished its rewind and began to play. There was a bleep, then a hiss, then a message-end bleep, and another hiss. She frowned. The bleep again. Another hiss. Silence. Hiss. The shuffle of the tape in the machine. Another bleep. Wind shook the house, shook the shadowy bars of the drying rack across the table. Ben looked up at her, then down at his food. He was still trembling.
Bleep. Hiss. The tape shuffled. The wind hosed the rain against the house. Bleep. Hiss. Again, as if someone demented was phoning, someone who refused to speak, who just listened, listened.
Tom. Was it Tom, phoning then hanging up, not having the courage to speak? She turned the volume up, listened to see if she could hear any background sounds, an office, other people talking, to see if she could tell where the caller was.
Ben’s ears pricked and he let out a deep rumbling growl. All she could see in the window was her own reflection against the blackness. There was a final long bleep, the messages-end one. A cold draught of air blew through the old tired glass. The house was vulnerable, easy to break into, easy if someone wanted to —
She picked up the phone, listened to the hum of the dial tone and felt reassured, but she wished they had curtains, blinds, anything. Someone could be out there, looking in, watching. Ben half-heartedly chewed a chunk of meat.
She took the cassettes of today’s session, which Ernest Gibbon had given her, out of her handbag and put them on the kitchen table. At least Tom wouldn’t see them, wouldn’t be able to get angry about her spending money.
There was antiseptic and dressings under the sink; she anointed the knife cut and bound it with Elastoplast. Ben shot into the hallway and started barking. The doorknocker rapped, flat dull thuds. She hurried down the passageway. Through the stained glass panel in the front door she could see a short figure in yellow. ‘Yes?’ she called out. ‘Who is it?’
‘Viola Letters,’ shouted a muffled voice.
Charley opened the door, holding Ben’s collar. The plump diminutive figure of her neighbour was parcelled in sopping yellow oilskins, sou’wester, red Wellington boots and held a large rubber torch. She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a lifeboat.
‘I say, frightfully sorry to bother you on a night like this,’ she barked in her foghorn voice. ‘You haven’t by any chance seen Nelson, have you?’
There was a spray of rain, and Charley smelled the alcohol fumes on the old woman’s breath. ‘Nelson? Your cat? No, I haven’t I’m afraid.’ She stepped back. ‘Please, come in.’
‘Don’t want to make your hallway wet.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘Well, if you —’ She strode forwards. ‘Rage, roar, spout — always reminds me of King Lear this sort of a night,’ she barked. ‘Damned bloody cat. Been gone over a day now, not back for his food. Never usually wanders very far — can’t see much having the one eye.’ Ben trotted up to her with his chewed rubber Neil Kinnock head in his mouth. She patted him. ‘Thank you, chappie. Dreadful bloody man, Kinnock, but very kind of you.’
‘What can I get you?’
‘Rather feel I’m barging in.’ Viola Letters squinted at her and began tugging the knot of her sou’wester.
‘No, not at all. I’m not doing anything. Whisky? Gin? We’ve got most things.’
‘Went to Evensong on Sunday,’ the old woman said, following Charley into the kitchen. ‘Have you met that vicar chap? Damned good mind to write to the bishop about him. He’s off his trolley. Either that or he was sloshed. Gin and tonic, dear, no ice.’ She tugged off her wet overclothes and Charley hung them on the rail on the Aga.
‘He was rabbiting on about organic farming; said that if Christ came back today he wouldn’t be a priest, he’d be an organic farmer. Said it was better to have the odd maggot you could see, and pluck it out, than to eat a ton of invisible chemicals. Some analogy to casting out the moneylenders. Beyond me.’
Charley poured a large dollop of gin. ‘I’m afraid we don’t go to church.’ She unscrewed the tonic cap; there was a hiss.
‘Can’t blame you, the way it’s going. Quite mad. Barmy.’ She took the glass. ‘Cheers!’
Charley poured herself a glass of white wine. ‘Cheers,’ she replied and sat down.
Viola Letters looked around. ‘You’ve done a lot of work here,’ she commented.
‘It needs a lot more.’
The old woman
sipped her gin and tonic. ‘I gave my poor boy his breakfast yesterday morning, and I haven’t seen him —’ She stopped in mid-sentence as her eye caught the perspex photograph holder on the window-sill. There was a montage inside which Charley had made up from various holiday snaps: Tom in a suede coat and herself in a camel coat, looking very early seventies, in front of the Berlin Wall. Tom at an outdoor café in dark glasses, the two of them in the cockpit of a yacht in Poole harbour. A shot of herself having a go (her one and only go) at hang-gliding. Tom on a beach in scuba gear. The two of them amid a drunken gaggle of friends around a restaurant table.
Viola Letters blinked and leaned closer, then pointed a finger at the picture of Charley and Tom in front of the Berlin Wall. ‘That’s you?’
Charley nodded. ‘Yes. I’ve changed a bit since then.’
She gazed at Charley, then dug her pudgy fingers inside the neck of her jumper and pulled out an eyeglass, closed one eye and studied the photograph.
She looked back at Charley. A strange wariness appeared in her crab eyes. ‘It’s uncanny, dear. Most uncanny.’
Charley felt edgy.
Viola Letters dabbed her forehead. ‘I — if you don’t mind dear, I’m really not — don’t think I’m feeling very well.’ She put her half-full glass on the table and glanced at the ceiling, as if she had heard something.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Charley said. ‘Would you like me to call a doctor?’
‘No. No, I’ll be all right.’
‘I’ll walk you home.’
‘No — I’ll —’ She stood up. ‘I think it’s just — bit of a chill.’ She looked at the photograph again.
It had been taken by another tourist, an American. He’d had difficulty with the camera, kept pushing the wrong button and Tom had got exasperated. Strange the details one could remember over the years. That was taken before they married, when she was about nineteen. She could remember the American. He looked like Jack Lemmon with a beer belly.
‘What is it that’s uncanny?’ she asked.
The old woman put on her wet oilskins and pushed her stockinged feet into her Wellingtons. ‘The resemblance,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. It’s really given me a bit of a shock. I’ll be better tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean, resemblance?’
Ben growled, his head tilted upwards, and the old woman’s eyes slid up to the ceiling again, then at Charley, and she managed a weak smile. ‘Nothing really, dear. Me being silly. The brain’s not so clear as it was. It’s just that you —’ She paused. ‘Perhaps another time, dear. Pop round and we’ll have a chat about it.’
‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ Charley said. ‘See how you’re feeling. I could get you something from the chemist.’
‘It’s only a stupid chill,’ Viola Letters said, knotting the sou’wester strap under her chin. ‘It’s this damned change in the weather. Boiling hot one day, then this!’
‘Is it someone who you know who I look like in the photograph? A resemblance to someone you know?’
They stopped by the front door and the old woman shook her head. ‘No, I — I’d prefer to talk about it — another time.’ She leaned forward, dropping her voice almost to a whisper. Her mouth became a small, tight circle. The eyes slid down out of sight, then peeped warily at her again. ‘The first time we met, when you came with that message from my late husband. Did I tell you I’d had that same message before? On the day he died?’
‘Yes,’ Charley said. ‘You did.’
‘That photograph of you — there’s a most extraordinary resemblance to the girl who brought me the message. I thought for a moment it was her.’ She opened the door. ‘Another time, dear. We’ll talk about it another time.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
That photograph of you — there’s a most extraordinary resemblance to the girl who brought me the message. I thought for a moment it was her.
Viola Letters’s voice sounded crystal clear. As if she were in the room. Sunlight streamed in. Her finger hurt and her head ached. She climbed out of bed and walked to the window.
The storm had died sometime around dawn. Birds were out in force, thrushes and sparrows and blackbirds and robins prospecting for worms. Water dripped from the trees. The weir and mill race seemed louder this morning.
That photograph of you —
It was half past seven. The workmen would be here soon. She put on her towelling dressing gown and moccasin slippers and went downstairs.
As she bent to pick up the newspapers she heard a rustling sound coming from the kitchen, a crackling like shorting electricity. There was a smell of burning plastic. She ran down the passageway.
‘Ben!’ she yelled in fury.
But it was too late. Ernest Gibbon’s two cassettes were lying on the floor, their casings split, the thin tapes unspooled, crumpled, twisted around the table, around the chair legs. Ben was having a great time, rolling in the stuff, burrowing, rustling, scrunching it up, tangling it further all the time.
‘Ben!’ her voice stormed out, deeper and louder still. ‘Wicked!’
The dog stopped and looked at her. He stood up, brown tape draped around his head like a wig, and shook himself. The tape fell free and he slunk out.
She stared at the mess. How the hell had Ben knocked the cassettes off the table? She knelt and began to scoop the tape up into bundles, wondering whether it was still usable. But it was twisted, creased, knotted. Hopeless. She stuffed it into a garbage bag and tied the neck, ready for it to go to the large bins at the end of the lane. Then she noticed the smell of burning plastic again, getting stronger. It was coming from the Aga.
The lid of the hot plate was up and the picture frame of their holiday snaps, or what was left of it, was lying on the flat top, soggy, melting. The photographs inside were frosted globules of washed-out colour.
As she snatched out her hand to rescue it the frame burst into flames and she jumped back as filthy black smoke rose, twisting savagely upwards. She grabbed a dish cloth and whacked it. Bits of molten plastic and burning photographs scattered around the kitchen. One tiny piece landed on her hand, clung to it, burning, and she shook it and rubbed it against her dressing gown. Patches of lino were melting. She ran the tap into the washing up bowl, lifted the bowl out and poured it over the burning plastic on the Aga, then dowsed the rest of the tiny fires.
She opened the windows, coughing, her throat full of the filthy cloying smoke. The remains of the frame hissed and sizzled on the oven. She scraped it off with a metal spatula, dropped it into the sink and ran the cold tap. More steam rose and the blackened perspex curled as if it had a life of its own. The charred photographs inside it curled too.
* * *
The new application form for her birth certificate had arrived in the post. She read through it as she ate her muesli, chewing with no appetite, leaving the newspapers untouched beside her on the kitchen table.
The stench of the burned plastic and wet charred paper hung thickly in the room, and the floor was damp from where she had washed it down. The new wound on her hand ached along with the others. She finished her cereal and was having another go at scraping the remains of the perspex off the top of the Aga when the phone rang. She answered it mechanically, almost absently.
‘Yes, hello?’
‘Charley?’
It was Tom.
She slammed the receiver straight back down and sat, quivering, as it rang again. Three rings, then the answering machine clicked and Tom spoke as the tape revolved.
‘Charley? Darling? I want to speak to you, please pick up the phone.’ There was a pause. ‘At least call me back. I’m in the office all day.’ Another pause ‘Darling? … Charley?’ Then the sound of the receiver being replaced.
‘Go to hell,’ she said.
She made the workmen their morning tea and walked with Ben up the lane to see whether Viola Letters was better. To see if the old woman would explain why a photograph had freaked her out so much.
Charley was please
d she had hung up on Tom, pleased she had been strong. She wondered how long she could stay strong.
The curtains of Rose Cottage were still drawn, which surprised her; it was after eleven. There was a mournful miaow and Nelson, the one-eyed cat, was rubbing itself against the front door.
‘You’re supposed to be missing,’ she told it.
There were two bottles of milk on the step and the Daily Telegraph stuck out of the letter box. Charley closed the front gate behind her, tied Ben to the fence and ordered him to sit. She rang the brass ship’s bell. There seemed something idiotic about it, she thought, as the clang rang out. Nothing happened. She rang it several more times, then rapped on the door as well.
She looked at the cosy yellow Neighbourhood Watch sticker in the frosted glass pane beside the door, then pushed open the letter box and peered through. She could see the carpet, the stairs and a picture on the wall. Everything looked very still.
She walked around the side of the house. There was a fine view from the rear beyond the fence at the end of the neatly tended lawn, over the valley and woods. The cat followed her, miaowing insistently.
A fan vent in the kitchen window was spinning. She could see a tray, laid with a crystal glass and an unopened bottle of wine, a napkin in a silver ring, Country Life magazine, a peach and a knife on a small plate. She rapped on the glass pane of the back door, gently at first, then louder. ‘Hello? Mrs Letters!’ She called, then hesitated. Maybe she was asleep and did not want to be disturbed?
She walked to the front again and stared at the grey stone wall and the crenellations along the roof. Wrong. Something was wrong. A high-pitched whine cut through the still of the morning. Hugh working on one of his cars, probably. She untied Ben and went up the lane.
Hugh’s Jaguar was parked in his yard and the doors of his corrugated iron workshop were open. He was bent over the engine of the Triumph, which was sitting, minus its wheels, on metal jacks. A bright light hung down from the ceiling above him, its bulb inside a wire mesh cage. The place smelled of oil and old leather, and there were acrid fumes of burnt electricity.