Nine Lives

by Bernice Rubens

  He went back to his office, and he was glad to find it unoccupied, that his deputy had not already moved in and assumed his status. When he heard the knock on the door, he knew it was Evans. ‘Come in,’ he called, suddenly pleased with company.

  ‘What can I say?’ Evans asked. ‘Except that I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’ Wilkins laughed. ‘Sorry for my removal, or for the buck that passes to you?’

  ‘Both,’ Evans said. ‘I can’t do any better than you have. That I know. And I don’t look forward to it. But I’ll miss you. Won’t be seeing you in the canteen any more. You’ll be dining posh with the bigwigs.’

  ‘And I’ll be sitting at my desk in my posh office all day, writing out reports.’

  Both men laughed. Each would no doubt miss the other. Evans sat down. There was clearly something he wanted to say. He leaned forward. ‘Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘You can call me James now,’ Wilkins said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Evans said. ‘I just want you to know that if anything happens of interest, any evidence of any kind in the shrink killings, I want you to know that I’ll inform you immediately, and you’ll be back on the case. Even if on the quiet.’

  ‘I’m grateful to you,’ Wilkins said, ‘and I hope for all our sakes that you will call on me soon.’

  When he reached home, he broke the news to his wife. He sensed her feelings would be as mixed as his own. So he was surprised when she expressed her delight. She would no longer have to share his false hopes and disappointments.

  ‘But I have failed,’ he protested.

  ‘Rubbish,’ she said. ‘You’ve done everything you could. You’ve had no leads to follow. Not in all these years. He’ll never be caught, that killer. He’s one step ahead and always will be. You’re well rid of him. We’re going to celebrate.’ She took a bottle of champagne from the cabinet. ‘I’ve been saving this for a special occasion, and I can’t think of anything more special.’

  Her delight cheered him. ‘I’ve got a few days’ leave,’ he said. ‘Shall we go away?’

  ‘Let’s go back to that Manor House,’ Mary suggested. ‘It’s so cosy there. D’you remember that nice couple we met and had dinner with? Dorricks or something. I wish I’d taken their address. Then I could have kept in touch with them.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll be there again,’ Wilkins said. ‘But in any case, we’ll have some leisure time together.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ Mary said. ‘And to many more weekends. It’s a new life for us, James.’

  ‘We’ll have to invest in evening dress. Both of us. There’ll be lots of official dinners.’ He counted his blessings, and toasted them. But privately he drank to his erstwhile deputy, and his promise to include him in the kill.

  Me again …

  Me again. Ver-ine. I’m off to my punctuation. To my prison visit. I shall see Mrs Cox again. I shall not mention her last visit or the fact that I know about the late drunken call to the prison. She might volunteer it herself, and hopefully laugh about it. For no reason that I could fathom, I was feeling cheerful myself. I looked forward to another view of the mural, if that were allowed, and to sharing invented gossip with Donald if time were to hang heavily on our hands.

  Mrs Cox was already seated in the train. And to my relief she was sober. And she looked contrite.

  ‘I’m going to be a good girl today,’ she said as I took my seat opposite her.

  Such a pity, I thought. Mrs Cox was far more interesting as a bad girl, but that was a mean thought and I suppressed it.

  ‘He’s been in solitary again,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why.’

  But I did, and was certainly not going to tell her.

  ‘Fighting, I suppose,’ she said. ‘It’ll be the death of him, that violence.’ She said it with a smile, a wishful-thinking smile, and I could not help but join her.

  ‘I haven’t brought him anything,’ she said.

  ‘Neither have I,’ I told her. It’s hard to bring gifts for people who have everything, which in a sense they do, though both men, in truth, have nothing, a nothing which no amount of presents could augment.

  Her axeman was seated as we entered, and he was already looking at the ceiling and would probably continue to do so for the length of the visit. Donald was at his table too. He was not looking at the ceiling, but staring at nothing, as if in a trance. He did not look well, and my heart rushed out to him.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I said as I sat down.

  He didn’t even look at me. I took his hand. ‘Are you not well?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m a bit low today,’ he said. And then he looked at me, as if I were a stranger.

  ‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Verry. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘It’s a bad day,’ he said. ‘I get them sometimes.’

  ‘Anything in particular?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Is the mural finished?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said tonelessly. ‘And they want me to continue it on to the ceiling.’

  ‘But that’s wonderful, Donald,’ I said. ‘They must be very happy with it. It’ll be like the Sistine Chapel.’ I’ve never been to Rome, but I’ve read about that ceiling. Seen a film of it too. ‘Have you started it?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t want to,’ he said.

  ‘But why? It’s a great opportunity.’

  ‘For what?’ he asked. His voice was raised. ‘An opportunity to paint a ceiling. And maybe another ceiling. And maybe another wall. What kind of life is that? What kind of future?’

  I had no answer to that one.

  ‘I might as well be dead,’ he said.

  I squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t talk like that, Donald,’ I said. ‘What will I do without you?’

  ‘I’ll never get out of this place,’ he said.

  ‘You will. I promise. After a few years, you’ll get parole. They’ll take your paintings into acount. You’ve done them a service.’ I listened to the rubbish I was talking. Donald was right. He was unlikely to get parole. Ever. And he knew it.

  I wondered what had brought on this sudden depression.

  ‘Are you especially worried about anything?’ I asked.

  ‘I think of you a lot,’ he said. ‘I wonder what you do at home. All by yourself.’

  ‘I keep busy,’ I said.

  ‘Has the house changed? Have you moved furniture? Changed the rooms?’

  I sensed that he was leading up to some question that he was afraid to ask.

  ‘I’ve changed nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s exactly the same as it was when you were there.’

  ‘Are you going to stay there?’ he asked. ‘Or d’you think of moving? Packing everything up.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m staying where I am. And I’ll be there when you come out.’

  I was still waiting for the question that I knew he wanted to ask. And then it came.

  ‘Are my clothes still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Where else should they be?’

  ‘Verry,’ he said, ‘I want you to promise me something.’

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘I know it sounds stupid. I just don’t want you to give my clothes away. To Oxfam or something. Those shops are for dead people’s clothes.’

  But I knew he was asking for more than that. He was not asking me to keep his clothes. He was asking me to keep out of his wardrobe. And I wish he hadn’t. I hadn’t opened his wardrobe door since he had left. That cupboard was his and private. But now he had suggested that it contained more than mere clothes. That it might house an answer to the ‘why’ that I sought. I would have to restrain myself. But I knew that it was a temptation that was irresistible.

  ‘Promise me,’ he said again.

  I squeezed his hand and hoped that that would satisfy him.

  He cheered up a little then. ‘Promise me in return that you’ll do the ceiling,’ I said. ‘It will take your mind off things.’

  He n
odded.

  I wished the bell would ring. God forgive me, but I was anxious to get home to open that wardrobe door. I looked across at the Cox table and was not surprised to find her looking into her lap, and her axeman staring at the ceiling. It seemed an awfully long way to come to exchange a sullen silence. And I hoped for her sake, as well as for my own, that the bell would quickly send us both away.

  But somehow I had to fill the time that was left to us. ‘Have you decided on a design for the ceiling?’ I asked.

  ‘It has to be the horizon,’ he said, ‘limiting the sea on the wall. And birds,’ he said. ‘And clouds, I think. The rollers in the sky.’

  ‘I can’t wait to see it,’ I said. Then the bell rang.

  It seemed that Donald was as relieved as I was, for he rose from his seat as the bell was still tolling.

  ‘I’ll take you to the door,’ he said.

  Mrs Cox still sat there, as if reluctant to break the silence. When she saw me, she rose, took my arm, and we left the room together.

  ‘Good God,’ she said once outside, ‘it’s a relief to open my mouth. I couldn’t find a single word to say to him. Nor he to me. This is positively my very last visit.’

  I’d heard it before and I let it pass.

  ‘Whatever do you find to talk about?’ she asked me.

  ‘It’s hard,’ I said. ‘But I make most of it up. Street gossip. Stories of where I go and what I do. It passes the time.’ I touched her arm. ‘They need us there,’ I said. ‘To prove they’ve not been forgotten. You deserve a drink. We’ll get one on the ferry.’

  Once boarded, I bought her a stiff whisky, and one for myself. We had earned it, both of us. She for her silence, and me for the promise I would not fulfil. Once home, I went straight to our bedroom. I had been tempted before, but only vaguely for I knew that to examine Donald’s clothes was an invasion.

  We have two wardrobes in our bedroom, one on each side of the fireplace. I knew someone who worked in a charity shop where there were rails of men’s suits. She told me they called them the morgue. The boys had urged me to give his clothes away, but that would have been as good as burying him and my Donald was going to get parole and we would be going to the sea together. He was going to need his clothes. All of them. This thought facilitated my opening. I could check what items I needed to take to the dry-cleaner’s or the laundry.

  The wardrobe released a musty smell and underlined the need for its airing. I felt a little better. He did not have many clothes, my Donald, but those he had were carefully looked after. Each of his three suits was overhung with a plastic wrapper, already shrouded. I had in mind to go through the pockets. After all, if I was sending them to the cleaners, I needed to make sure that the pockets were empty. So I went through all of them, the jackets, the trousers, the waistcoats, and I found nothing. His shoes, scarves and gloves were on the top shelf. I had little hope of finding anything helpful among them. Nevertheless, I included them in my search. I stood on a chair to reach them comfortably, and suddenly I was overcome by a feeling of such despair and unhappiness. I think it was the sight of the empty shoes that sparked it off. Especially the empty sandals that he had worn on Margate beach. I started to cry, wail almost, so profound was my misery. I got down from the chair and sat on my bed and tried to calm myself. I can’t go on like this, I thought. I have to believe that he is innocent. Truly, truly believe, or else I must bury him for good and all. But first I had to complete my search.

  Once more I stood on the chair and examined the contents of the shelf. And found nothing. As I was tidying up the items I had disturbed, my fingers touched something solid. Whatever it was, was at the back of the shelf and covered with a cap and straw hat. Another Margate memory. I drew it out from beneath its camouflage. I knew it was evidence of a kind. I simply felt it in my bones. It was a box. Brown and of light weight. I held it carefully and laid it on my bed. There was no label on it of any kind, and I felt intuitively that it was just one more ‘unmentionable’ that I had to take to Parkhurst along with Emma, the boys, Devon, the wooden leg and the strange receipt for ashes. The box was not sealed and was easily opened. I was fearful of looking inside, so I turned my face away and felt its contents. It was a china vase of sorts, and it felt benign. It was possibly a present that Donald had bought for me and was putting aside until my birthday, along with a bunch of flowers that he would buy on the day. So I had no trouble in drawing it out of the box and turning my face to view it. I was disappointed. It was indeed a vase, but of a dull brown colour, worthy only of a bunch of weeds. The vase itself was covered, so I still had hopes that there was a birthday present inside. I took off the cover and on its inside I found its only label. ‘Derek’ it said – that was all. I dared to look inside the vase, and at least one of my ‘unmentionables’ was solved. The container was full of ashes. Presumably Derek’s ashes, whoever Derek was. The plot thickens, I thought, and I don’t know why, because I never knew the plot when it was thin. In fact, I didn’t know anything about anything. On my next visit, I would have to ask Donald about Derek. I would spare him Emma; I would spare him the boys. And the wooden leg. But not Derek. But how could I know about Derek without letting on that I had looked in his wardrobe? Donald would take a poor view of that. He would deduce that I was giving away his clothes and that I thought he was guilty and that he would never come out of prison. So Derek had to join the unmentionables. I put the cover back on to the vase, and the vase into its box and back in the wardrobe where I had found it. I must never open that wardrobe again. I must put Derek out of my mind.

  I was hungry, and I decided to take myself out for supper. Since Donald’s arrest, I had never been to a restaurant alone. I would test myself. But I was wary of self-assertion, recalling the trouble it had landed me in in Turkey. And again I felt myself blushing. I prayed that Donald would be free. And soon. I so needed someone to take care of me.

  I found a newly opened restaurant not far from our house. It was small, with few tables, and only one was occupied. By a lone woman like myself, and that comforted me. It called itself a French restaurant, but I was indifferent to its cuisine. I was simply hungry. I ordered a steak and french fries, together with a side salad. I enjoyed my meal, and as my hunger abated ‘Derek’ slipped from my mind. I knew he would be my waking thought, but I would deal with that in the morning. Or not deal with it, just as I didn’t deal with anything else. Closing one’s eyes, turning one’s back, stuffing one’s ears, all these manoeuvres are in themselves a method of dealing. It was the method that I had chosen. In that way, I could survive Donald’s incarceration. In that way, I might even find a life of my own.

  The Diary

  Nine Down. None to Go.

  That’s right. None to go. It’s over.

  It’s early evening. Verry and the boys have gone to the pictures. And I have reached that state of elation that the crusade promised me. I am at peace at last. I am avenged, at peace. And, above all, innocent. Later on, I shall take his ashes to the common and scatter them there. On the rise where we used to fly our kites. Then it will all be over.

  It was easy, this last one. Because I knew where I was going and what I was going to say. I would be free of gloves or any disguise. And I cared not about witnesses. I was excited. I was in sight of the mountain top, and all scruples had melted on my way. A strong sense of righteousness fuelled my every step to her door. My hands were clean, as was my conscience. I was high on innocence.

  She only lives around the corner. When I bought our house, its location was a deliberate choice. I wanted to keep an eye on her. And I did, over the years. I watched her comings and goings. I viewed her frequent change of partners. She is a fickle woman. I know the inside of her house as well as I know my own. At least the ground floor. The hall, the kitchen and the consulting room. I learned it well from one who had been there, and who sadly knew it intimately.

  I put on my best suit. The last station of my crusade I regarded as a ceremony and I dressed accordingly. Fr
om my constant observations I knew that she was at home at five o’clock. And alone. So that was the time, the killing-time of five in the afternoon, that I chose to make my call.

  It took me only a few minutes to reach her house. I was calm. I rang the bell and, as I expected, Miss Robinson herself answered the door.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  A well of burning hatred overcame me, and I put my foot in the door. She could not escape me and she paled.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ I said. By now I was inside the house, and I shut the door behind me. She reached for the phone on the hall table. But I slapped her hand and pulled the instrument out of its socket. Terror creased her face, and I knew that her bowels were melting.

  ‘We need to talk,’ I said. I pushed her into her consulting room that was off the hall. ‘Sit down,’ I ordered. ‘This may take a little while.’

  She sat in the chair and her hand darted once again to the desk phone. I wrenched it from her. I was angry. I pulled the instrument off the desk, and flung it with all my force to the floor.

  ‘You have no escape,’ I told her. ‘You just sit there like a good woman and listen to what I have to say.’

  She was trembling. I took my last guitar string out of my pocket, and laid it on the desk. And then she realised who I was, and what I had come to do. She started to cry, but I was unmoved.

  ‘My name is Dorricks,’ I told her. ‘Does that ring a bell?’ She shook her head. Words had fled from her in fear.

  ‘How about Derek Dorricks?’ The name broke in my throat.

  Again she shook her head.

  ‘He was your patient,’ I said. ‘For nine solid years. Three times a week. I’m surprised you don’t remember him.’

  Another shake of the head.

  ‘You killed him,’ I said. Then I had to pause. I felt hot tears burning my cheeks. I have not cried for many years. Except inside myself. And that often enough. It was a relief of sorts, and I made no move to stem them. ‘Derek was a manic-depressive,’ I said. ‘His GP recommended you. He suggested a preliminary investigation. As it turned out, it was not preliminary at all. It lasted for all of one thousand, four hundred and four hours. It took you all that time to discover or, rather, admit, that you could not help him. You kept him by you for nine years since you needed him as much as he needed you. Let me tell you about Derek,’ I said. That too would be a relief, I thought. Since his death, I’d spoken about him to nobody. Except myself, and that, endlessly over the years. ‘He was a musician,’ I said. ‘A guitarist, and a very talented one. The instrument was his passion. That and the kites we flew together on the common. He was a classical guitarist and he practised every day. He studied at the Academy, and his teachers envisaged a fine future for him. Then, when he was about eighteen, he sank into a deep depression. And that was when he was sent to you. But despite his condition, he never gave up on his practising. Every day he played as if the devil possessed him. But he was playing badly. He was simply out of control. It was then that you suggested, in your infinite wisdom, that he put the guitar away. He trusted you. He loved you almost. He talked about you all the time. And he listened to you. On your orders, the guitar went back into its case. And a major breakdown began. He was now in his fourth year of your so-called therapy, and there was no sign of improvement. And still he trusted you, with a pathetic three-times-a-week trust that could not be shaken. I forced him to go back to his doctor, who prescribed anti-depressants. But Derek would have none of it. You had told him that you viewed pills with contempt, and he was not going to let you down. Those pills might have saved him. I have known others whom they have saved. But you needed Derek by you. You would not let him go. Until the last year of your treatment. I found out that after many years of lonely living, you had at last found yourself a partner. Your need for Derek slowly evaporated. You yourself began to suggest pills. And you had the gall to claim that he had needed nine years of your counselling to prepare him for medication. For Derek it was the end of all his trust. He came home broken. That night, I couldn’t find him in the house. I knew he hadn’t gone out. Apart from your counselling, he rarely went out of doors. I looked for him all over. But I couldn’t find him. Then I heard a noise that I traced to the attic. I rushed up the stairs and opened the door.’