(2013) Four Widows

by Helen MacArthur

  Our unflappable mother was rocked. Her hands gripped the tablecloth. I leaned towards her. “You okay?”

  “Did you know about this?”

  “NO! All news to me.”

  “It doesn’t feel right. She loves her work.”

  “Mum, I stopped trying to figure Gee out a long time ago. She does what she does.”

  “It is depressive behaviour–probably postnatal.”

  “I’ll get Harrison to talk to her.”

  “Doesn’t he have enough on his plate?” Mother made it obvious that the scales had fallen from her eyes since the hospital incident.

  “Do you want him to help her or not?” I snapped, fed up having to fight my husband’s corner each time his name came up in conversation.

  She nodded and when Gee returned, we told her we’d settled the bill and wanted to leave.

  Chapter Eight

  The Watcher, Old Town

  Dinner at Ribbons was a success. I started to trust the girls; think less that they were eccentric strangers who had snatched me off the street. We talked until 1am. Kate was the first to call it quits, prompting us to wind up the night, leaving Cece to finish up in the restaurant. She insisted.

  Kate and Suzanne scattered across town in separate black cabs while I set off on foot towards the spacious tenement flat that was starting to feel more like mine. Walking home late at night didn’t bother me. Taking off at a stride, I marched purposefully as I once did from Kings Cross Station or Angel towards Barnsbury after work.

  The clock tower on the Balmoral Hotel was now a perfect cut-out on the skyline. I had never experienced a Scottish summer and the ever-present persistent light continued to surprise me. It could stay bright until past 11pm and then the sun would make a return just after 4am, even earlier on occasion.

  Keeping my eye on the skyline, I marched onward, feeling welcome traces of tiredness instead of the usual wired insomniac buzz. Perhaps I would sleep tonight. Indulging this idea, I relaxed my shoulders and attempted to empty my head of questions and thoughts.

  I sensed I was being followed seconds later; it started as a sliding sensation in the pit of my stomach. It was a feeling–one that forced an irrepressible violent shudder.

  I turned in time to see the flicker of someone crossing the street and slipping too quickly into the shadows.

  Maybe only a minute passed but fear slalomed to my stomach; not enough to prompt a hysterical reaction but I was aware it could be a potentially serious situation. Not a trick of the mind. I slipped phone from bag to pocket in one fluid movement while powering on. I told myself not to put up a fight over a Mulberry even though it would, no doubt, get tossed. Don’t put up a fight.

  These stealth-like actions triggered a release of stress hormones into the blood stream. Adrenaline had me on high alert and I continued to speed on, not so much scared but fired up. Another furtive glance confirmed the glow from a cigarette lighter, head bowed with hand cupped over the face even though the night was breathless.

  I have never been more aware of my surroundings and could almost believe I had extra-sensory vision that could see through brick walls; stare into houses and glimpse people asleep in their beds. I listened but there was a rush in my head; blood vessels constricting. I could feel increased levels of adrenaline and noradrenaline pump round my veins and wondered if a roaring heart could echo down a deserted street and give the game away.

  Run for your life or fight for your life: two options but I only considered one. I was at once bold and reckless.

  What do you want? The words soaked into my tongue but I couldn’t make a sound.

  Danger. I could feel a physical instinctual push to run; direct orders from above. Hear the klaxon horn screaming evacuation: head to the nearest exit. Get out of here now. I ground to a halt, heels smoking, and stood rooted to the spot.

  Statue-like on the street, I seemed to trigger a spell, throwing a hush about the place for several seconds. In these moments it seemed to me that late-night buses glided without violent hiss or roar, cab doors didn’t slam and pub-goers either drew on cigarettes or downed drinks because the rabble of conversation ceased momentarily.

  I can describe it best as one great inhalation; the calm before the storm.

  I wait for someone to move in the purple light but no one ever does. I’m not fooled. Shop-door shadows are thick, impenetrable and not giving up their fugitive without a fight. I don’t know how to explain it but I knew I was being watched. The hidden stare raked over me, leaving me stripped down and exposed. Vulnerable.

  There was a presence of someone, electrical pulse waves: charged and emotional. Dangerous and threatening; yet, somehow, I was connecting to this anger and desperation. Someone was trying to reach me.

  I swear, I felt tuned in and emotionally wired. Defiant, I stood my ground, shaking and almost hyperventilating at this point. Nothing stirred except my ribcage surging and deflating, my breathing laboured. It felt as though I was suffering the effects of high altitude.

  “Harrison?” I whispered. Fearful, hopeful.

  Stillness was suddenly broken as a late-night bus turned onto the top of the street and roared towards me, lights blazing. It forced a reaction, shook me alert and I abruptly turned on my heel in the direction of home. I walked fast, didn’t run. My hands were shaking so much it took several attempts activate the main door locking system.

  I bolted to the stairs, grabbing the banister to haul myself faster to the top, thankful I just needed a thumbprint to throw myself through the door. Once inside, I slid down the wall to the floor and sat in shadows and orange laser beams thrown in from street lighting.

  This marked the start of the watching or haunting, although I didn’t know who or what it was. It was a surreal, tense time. However, whenever I look back and tap into that feeling of fear, I realise that dying didn’t faze me. It was the waiting that was killing me.

  Chapter Nine

  Faithful & True

  The morning sun took the edge off last night’s fears, fractionally. I’d even managed some sleep, a record two hours and 40 minutes. Washing down four paracetamol with coffee, I went over and over what happened on the walk home from Ribbons; an exhausting process retracing each step in my head—trying to figure out who was watching me and why. No answers, but I did concede I had to drink less and sleep more, considerably more, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hold down my job, the one thing that focused me. Correction, work saved me.

  People walked to work without guile, and I decided to lock down the incident. I didn’t want to get familiar with this feeling of fear; waltzing with agoraphobia. No wonder one spins out of control. Had to pull back. I thought about Elvis James and made a note to call him.

  Meanwhile, the freak heatwave sucked the life out of the Old Town. Road surfaces blistered, shade was short lived, forcing stray dogs to lie flattened on pavements panting while the rest of the world trundled about its business, people’s lifeblood batteries drained.

  God help me, I thought, walking down the street towards the office, wading through 8am sunshine as thick as volcanic lava. I could feel my ankles puff up and my pulse pump harder to increase blood flow.

  Surely, the sheer weight of heat would have people crawling on pavements, demented from exhaustion. I thought about global melting and sea levels rising, feeling a sudden irrational fear of being washed down Holyrood Road, surrendering to a current stronger than me.

  There was a shimmer in the distance as buses chugged down the street leaving behind a maroon plume of pollution. I stopped at the coffee shop to collect my flat white.

  “Aye, it’s a right scorcher,” said the young barista, grabbing a cup without needing to ask what I wanted.

  This was all he ever said during the six-week heatwave, this warm meteorological welcome, but it became part of our routine and I appreciated it. I was visible and did still exist even when, at times, I felt as though I could evaporate in a quick shimmer and no one would have a clue where I had gone
. That I had been.

  Silence hit the streets in the heat. This is when loneliness hit me hard. At times like this, I found that the city itself with its great architecture became a solid, reliable companion. I had an imposing castle always in sight and had read up on its secrets; battles, pirates and prisoners trapped in dungeons. Bloody wars. The castle was one of the first places we visited when we moved here and I remember standing with Harrison under the glinting colours from a magnificent stained-glass window in the War Memorial; the horseman, Faithful and True, from the Bible’s book of Revelation.

  As we stood, Harrison took my hand. In a second, I could feel our reconnection in the serene surroundings. It was a sign, I said. Yes, I’m still someone who believes in signs. We were going to be okay.

  Jim was first at his desk, pouring over proofs and cromalins, black indelible marker in hand.

  He handed me a coffee without looking up. We had a routine going on which didn’t involve conversation for the first 15 minutes. This morning, however, I surprised him by stopping at his desk. “I went out last night.”

  He stopped scribbling, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head. A low whistle followed. “You went out? After dark? The vampires didn’t get you?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Good for you. Dead-husbands convention?”

  “That will be the one.”

  He knew more than anyone that I had turned down every invitation, press launch and public appearance since the accident. He stepped up to the mark; covered for me discreetly without pushing me out. I owed my job to him. There was ambition in him but, fortunately for me, not in journalism but music.

  “I met the girls who… well, one of them is the designer I told you about. She will replace the Elvis spread.”

  “Seriously?”

  “New-labels-to-watch piece. Get two other names.”

  “Done.”

  He turned back to his work and I hesitated.

  Jim raised his head, not missing a beat. I had a sudden urge to tell him about being followed home last night but stopped short. There followed a quick-fire neurological debate back and forth in the brain: talk about it, keep it a secret, talk about it. I could see the scenario: revelations, explanation and consequences.

  “What’s up, Boss?”

  “I think I was followed home last night.”

  “For real?”

  “Maybe not so much followed as watched, if that makes sense.” Instead of looking directly at him I focused on his T-shirt emblazoned with the image of a beef burger in bun, cheese melting.

  “What happened?”

  “I went home, nothing happened.”

  “You okay?” First flicker of concern.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  Jim quickly made light of it, sensing I didn’t want to make a fuss. “Edinburgh’s underworld strikes again.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “The Watcher–wouldn’t worry; harmless ghost who just, well, watches, people.”

  The name stuck–seemed wholly appropriate. Harmless? We’d soon see about that.

  Jim relished Edinburgh’s rich history of hauntings and poltergeists; liked to tease me. I’ve heard it all: Mary King’s Close, where its plague victims were walled up and left to die. “Otherwise known as the street of sorrows,” Jim whispered. He also regaled me with stories about witches and malicious poltergeists who could leave you with bruises and burns. Perversely, I liked this about him. He didn’t treat me differently from anyone else in the office. Dead people weren’t off limits when I was around.

  Yeah, Jim was much smarter than he looked. He knew I didn’t want death to define me.

  Chapter Ten

  Dr Harrison Warner (deceased)

  Two months ago I received a hand-written envelope addressed to Harrison but redirected to me. It wasn’t unusual to have mail forwarded from London to Edinburgh. On one occasion, a letter was even addressed to Dr Harrison Warner (deceased). The word in brackets, typed on the envelope like a curious footnote to the recipient. We’re not quite sure what happened to this man.

  Personal paperwork doesn’t cease to exist when we do. Harrison’s hadn’t lost momentum, even though we’d gone through the channels to take him off mailing lists.

  I opened these letters with desperate comfort or absolute rage. Fleetingly, I’d think–and hope–dear God, he still exists. Like dialling his mobile and listening to his phone message after he’d gone. Let’s pretend.

  More often than not I’d phone those guilty of administrative error and scream, “My husband’s dead. He won’t be taking out a new credit card with you. Ever. Stop writing to him.”

  “Yes, Mrs Warner,” was the usual droned response. “Please accept our apologies. We’ll put a note on his file for future reference.”

  I’d grip the handset, harder, more demented. “Delete the goddamn file. He won’t be calling you. Trust me.”

  There was never much reaction, unless I was informed that it was not possible to just delete files because it wasn’t my file to delete. For data protection security it was necessary to speak to the account holder in person.

  Good luck, I thought, hopelessly, putting down the phone without bothering to disconnect the call.

  The envelope stood out from the usual mailshots and junk because it was handwritten, which threw me. Personal correspondence had all but ceased after the condolences dried up. Who the hell still didn’t know? I wondered.

  Unfinished sympathies, my mother said, which I’m sure is a section from a self-help book. I definitely could have written such a book. People would surface from the past, bob up and want to know what happened. “Oh my gosh, I heard the news. How. Are. You?”

  I would go through the motions and string together a credible answer using select key words: car crash, truly terrible, it’s okay, desperate shock, I’m fine.

  On this occasion, though, I ripped into the envelope with wearisome frustration and was caught short when six photographs slithered onto Ralph’s marble kitchen counter, instant collage on a backdrop of brilliant white.

  Thrown, I checked the front of the envelope to confirm it was Harrison’s mail. It was clearly addressed to him at our home address in London. Royal-Mail redirected to Edinburgh. Here in this apartment.

  Looking down at the worktop I see colours: autumn brown hair highlighted with changing-leaves, red and gold. There is a peachiness to the skin that could easily be digital work of Adobe Photoshop but I suspect is the real deal, as are the deep-sea navy eyes that could lure a man to an underwater kingdom before he realises too late that it is oxygen he needs to survive, not love.

  I see a beautiful woman.

  Paperwork was also included: a bachelor’s degree in computer science from London South Bank University, hospital-headed paper on which someone had scribbled lyrics of a song. It was treasured stuff; a time capsule of memories belonging to someone called Vivienne Roberts. This is how it began, seemingly benign.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gracie Gold Collection

  Corset Magazine threw me a lifeline. Demanding work ruled out free time to fret about The Watcher and hauntingly beautiful women. Jim was there with his cattle prod whenever I faltered, administering low-voltage reminders to get my head back to business. Hard work put distance between me and some kind of melancholic madness.

  I had further incentive to keep my head down. I was still on probation even though I had good feedback from Archie Shaw, thanks to a significant boost in circulation figures. Workaholism works wonders. Talking of which, Suzanne called me later in the week, sounding impossibly excited, soon after our first dinner at Ribbons.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m being too keen,” she rushed, “but I’d love to see what you think about…you know… the dresses. Please, please don’t feel you have to.”

  It was obvious how much her work meant to her. I thought I was obsessed with work until I met Suzanne. We had ample time to discuss fashion over our first dinner at Ri
bbons because I was dodging Harrison talk.

  I knew this much: she studied at the Chelsea College of Art & Design in London and had clocked up an impressive portfolio of jobs over 10 years, including personal shopper at Topshop, runner at fashion shows, freelance stints at costume design on television productions and, ultimately, pattern cutter.

  As far as I gathered, she was sticking to pattern cutting for now because it provided regular income while she worked on her own designs. Her blog, shoereview.me, her bit on the side, she said, was starting to generate cash. More importantly, free shoes.

  I could tell it took her a big push of courage to phone me at the office. I think the confidence came from a shock reaction that it was make-or-break time. She wanted the dream to work. The fire under her heels was also due to the fact she had taken out a huge loan to fund the business.

  It was hard to believe I had only known Cece, Suzanne and Kate for such a short time. One sun-smudged afternoon at the Art Bar followed by dinner at Ribbons seemed to shoehorn an equivalent of 10 years’ friendship into 10 hours. We cut to the chase, straight in there: my husband is dead. So is mine. Mine. Ah, mine too.

  I had a quick chat with Suzanne over the phone and arranged to meet at her apartment to go through her Gracie Gold collection. The interview would conclude at Hotel Missoni.

  Truthfully, I thought she had been burgled when I visited her at home. I walked across a small pretty courtyard and stepped through the front door into chaos. Clothes and calico were strewn about the place, some half-stitched, ripped, rolls of ribbon streamed across polished floorboards and a box of buttons littered the table top as though dropped from a great height. Someone had shaken her home vigorously and set it down again.

  As I ventured further in, I saw true-to-size photographs of her favourite famous wedding dresses lacquered onto doors, top to bottom. All at once I was in the presence of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy dressed in Narciso Rodriguez, Audrey Hepburn in Givenchy for Funny Face, Gwen Stefani in a magnificent Galliano gown and Grace Kelly standing next to Prince Rainier in an exquisite lace creation, while Mary Crown Princess of Denmark commandeered the bathroom door.