Others

by James Herbert

  ‘What kind of questions? I thought you were a friend of Hildegarde’s.’

  She frowned at my silence.

  ‘You’d better come along with me,’ she said abruptly, like a schoolteacher at the end of her tether with a disruptive pupil. She turned back to the stairs and began to descend. Meekly I followed.

  Yet even though contrite and not a little embarrassed, my natural inclination as an investigator soon edged discomfort aside as we clumped our way down the broad staircase. I had remembered something the care-supervisor had mentioned earlier. ‘Er, Ms Bell, you said that you already knew Hildegarde Vogel’s nickname was Sparrow before she even came to PERFECT REST. Can I ask you how you knew?’

  We had reached the small landing at the turn of the stairway and the care-supervisor wheeled round to face me.

  ‘Just who are you, Mr Dismas?’ she said, suspicion now causing her to frown. ‘What is it that you want here?’

  ‘You also implied that she had connections. Is someone paying for Hildegarde’s stay here? She doesn’t have any relations in this country, does she? And even if she gets a state pension, it could never cover the cost of care in this place.’

  Constance stared back at me and in her silence I thought I could sense . . . well, it felt like fear. But why should she be afraid of my questions? Why should she be afraid of me? My God, that was the last thing I wanted.

  She didn’t answer. She turned away and resumed the descent. Again, I meekly followed.

  Only when we reached the ground floor hall did she address me.

  ‘I want you to leave immediately,’ she said, and I noticed that her hands were trembling.

  A conversation further down the hall between the receptionist and the young Irish nurse who had joked with us earlier came to a halt mid-flow as they both turned in our direction.

  ‘Look, I really am sorry,’ I said to Constance and it came out more like a plea than an apology. ‘I want to be honest with you if you’ll take a moment to listen.’

  ‘So you admit you’ve been dishonest?’ she came back.

  ‘Well, yes. But only because I didn’t know how you’d react if I played it straight.’ I could tell by her expression that this hadn’t helped my case much. ‘Look, I’m a private investigator and I thought Hildegarde Vogel might be able to help me with some information.’

  It was as if I had slapped her face.

  ‘I thought it would make things easier for me, you see,’ I added hurriedly. ‘I thought I wouldn’t be allowed to talk to her if I wasn’t a relative or at least an acquaintance.’

  ‘What kind of place do you think this is? Our residents have visitors all the time.’

  I didn’t think it was worth mentioning that the visitors’ book at reception only had one other name on it that day. ‘Hildegarde is old and unwell,’ I said, ‘and private investigators don’t always have the best of reputations . . .’

  ‘And you wonder why?’

  ‘. . . so I thought you might be reluctant to grant me access.’

  ‘I’ve already asked you to leave, Mr Dismas, so please do so before I call Security.’

  Security, in an old folks’ home? Well, I supposed it was necessary these days in most establishments. ‘Look, if I could just see her once more, maybe when she’s feeling better?’

  ‘Please, Mr Dismas . . .’ Her face was set and she had half-turned towards the desk as if about to issue instructions to the receptionist.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I knew when to give up. ‘Let me give you my card though, in case you change your mind. I’m just trying to trace a missing person for a client, that’s all.’ I reached inside my top pocket and presented my card.

  It was with some reluctance that she took the card, and she did not even give it a glance before tucking it away in a pocket.

  I half-raised both hands as if in mock surrender. ‘Right. I’m leaving now.’ Then I felt abashed once more – no, I felt low, I felt miserable, and I wished the ground would swallow me up. I’d played it all wrong and I was never going to forgive myself. I really didn’t want this person to despise me.

  ‘I, uh, I really am sorry,’ I said in a quiet voice and walked towards the main entrance. I’d almost reached the reception desk when she called out.

  ‘What has this missing person got to do with Hildegarde?’

  I stopped, shuffled around. ‘She was midwife to my client. It’s the child that’s missing.’ Even as I spoke, I realized how ridiculous it sounded. But Constance Bell neither scoffed nor frowned. She merely said:

  ‘You don’t seriously believe Hildegarde can help you?’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe not. It’s kind of complicated anyway. But the midwife is all I’ve got.’

  ‘Then I really am sorry, Mr Dismas,’ Constance said, and I had the feeling she honestly meant it. ‘But you must have seen for yourself that Hildegarde is in no condition to offer any information.’

  I knew she was right. ‘Good-day, Mr Dismas.’

  At least some of her anger seemed to have dissipated. ‘Ms Bell . . . ?’ I began.

  ‘Good-day.’ It was a firm farewell this time.

  ‘Yeah . . .’ I said, and left.

  16

  With early evening rush hour traffic already stacking up on the motorways it took almost two hours to get back to the office, and I was in a low mood by the time I arrived. The thing that was bugging me even more than the pointless exercise of tracking down Hildegarde Vogel was my altercation with Constance Bell. I’d had plenty of time to mull it over during the long drive back to Brighton and I kept asking myself why I was so bothered. She was a stranger to me, yet I felt I knew her. Yes, I felt I knew her intimately. Crazy? Of course. But I thought I understood why. We were the same, Constance and I, two people saddened by our own Calvaries, the lifetime’s purgatory to which we had been born. I had caught the loneliness in her lovely eyes, the disquiet that shadowed their gaze; and I had sensed the yearning that lay hidden in that same shadow, a constant longing which, on another occasion, in different circumstances, might have bonded us, for it was something else we both shared. Was I fooling myself, was it merely wishful thinking on my part, or had something intangible – a mutual reaching out, a fusion of emotions – passed between us as we had faced each other in the grand hallway at PERFECT REST?

  But even if I were right, it no longer mattered anyway. I had blown it, my deceit had ruined whatever might have been.

  The self-torture continued. Might have been? What might have been? Did I honestly think I stood a chance with the beautiful girl? Just because she had a crippled body like mine, did that make me a contender? I was kidding myself. She, at least, had a wonderful face and fine, delicate hands while I had no redeeming features at all. I was a freak: she was stunning. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Yes – I was stupid!

  By the time I’d climbed the creaky stairs to the agency and lumbered through the door, my mood had changed from anger – anger at myself – to almost lachrymal self-pity.

  Ida and Philo had left for the day, but Henry was still there, going over his precious books, looking as prim and self-satisfied as he always did. He peered over his bifocals at me as I slunk into my office.

  ‘Any luck?’ he enquired.

  ‘Nothing useful,’ I replied distractedly.

  ‘Mrs Ripstone called while you were out. Wanted to know if there were any developments. You only saw her this morning, so I don’t know what she was expecting.’

  I groaned. ‘I’ve got to tell her again, haven’t I?’

  ‘That it’s still a no-go? Dis, we did our best for her. Some cases just don’t work out, and we’ve plenty more to be cracking on with.’

  How could I explain to him that this one was special, that something inside me – something deep inside me – was telling me not to let go, that something extraordinary was happening and I was part of it? How did you explain such a ‘sensing’ to someone like Henry who, despite his occasional flamboyance, was an accountant, a facts and figures man who r
elied on profit margins and balance sheets to steer him through life’s little minefields? How the hell did I explain it to myself?

  ‘Yeah, you’re right, Henry. We’re not exactly starved for work right now. I’d better call her back and tell her the bad news.’

  ‘At least she’s getting used to it.’ He gave me a grin, still peering over his spectacles. Abruptly – and this was typical of Henry – he changed the subject. Maybe he could tell I was a little bit down and wanted to cheer me up. ‘Why don’t you come over tonight, Dis, watch a film with mother and me?’

  Henry’s mother was the archetypal Jewish widow who doted on her ‘boy’, often sending him to work with chicken sandwiches and flasks of soup when the agency was on overload, aware that he would skip lunch altogether rather than leave his books for an hour. Evie Solomon had been a feisty little woman in her time – she looked as if she were made from three obese globes of unequal sizes, all balanced one on top of the other, a fat little head, a fatter little torso, and a very fat stomach and butt, these component parts balanced on two short legs and tiny feet – until failing health (which apparently no doctor had ever been able to diagnose, but which became extreme every time Henry made plans to leave home) had rendered her a little more temperate. Henry’s father had walked out when Henry was a small boy and the stepfather who had taken his place had suffered a fatal heart attack years ago and that, I suspected, was when Evie’s emotional blackmail had truly begun, her various maladies increasing in number and severity as the years progressed and her son’s natural instinct for independence had come to the fore. We’d never discussed it, Henry and I, but we both knew he was irrevocably stuck with his situation – until, of course, Evie passed on (which, truth be told, would have a devastating effect on him).

  ‘I don’t think so, Henry,’ I said in reply to his invitation. ‘Hey, I’ve got a good vid. You’ll like it. Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse. Such legs! Cyd’s, I mean. Up to her neck, those legs, the longest in showbiz in the Fifties. It’s a musical.’

  ‘I didn’t think it’d be a Tarantino. What is it – Brigadoon?’

  ‘Hah, gotcha! It’s Always Fair Weather, actually.’

  I turned away from his gloating: it could just as easily have been Singin’ in the Rain, although the Charisse role was minor in that one. ‘Yeah, you got me, Henry. But I’ll pass on it tonight, if you don’t mind.’

  He must have caught the dejection in my voice. ‘Are you okay, Dis?’ he asked. ‘This case got you down? You know, it’s hardly make or break.’

  I gave a huffing kind of sigh. He was right, of course. But then Henry wasn’t aware of all the peculiar things that had happened since Shelly Ripstone had visited my office three days ago, nightmarish incidents that seemed to give the search for our client’s allegedly missing son some special, although for the moment obscure, significance. I was tempted to confide in Henry right there and then, but I was sure he would only scoff at the idea of strange ‘forces’ at work and the ragging I’d take over the next week or two would be unbearable.

  ‘I’m all right,’ was all I said. ‘Maybe I’m just tired of telling Shelly Ripstone that all bets are off again.’

  I went into my office, slumped into the chair behind the desk, and reached for the phone.

  The call from Constance Bell came through on my other line while I was talking on the phone to Louise Broomfield. I had already spoken to Shelly Ripstone and was now explaining to the clairvoyant just why there was little point in continuing with the case, that this time we really had reached a deadend. Henry had lifted the receiver in the outer office and he had come to my door to let me know the call was for me.

  ‘Someone by the name of Bell?’ he said as I raised my eyebrows at him while covering the mouthpiece of the phone I was using. ‘A lady. Sounds very nice. Needs to speak with you.’

  I waved an okay and said to Louise: ‘I’ve got to take another call and it might just be relevant to our discussion. Can I phone you later?’

  The clairvoyant agreed and I replaced the receiver, immediately grabbing at the other phone on my desk.

  ‘Ms Bell?’ I said.

  That sweet voice again. ‘Mr Dismas? I hope you don’t mind my calling you.’

  Mind? My foolish heart was thumping. ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Our proprietor at PERFECT REST heard of your interest in Hildegarde Vogel today and he would like to see you. He thinks that perhaps he might be of some help.’

  ‘Your proprietor . . . ?’

  ‘Proprietor, director, senior doctor – he goes under all those titles. Dr Wisbeech.’

  Ah. I remembered the name from the board outside the gates of the old people’s home. Dr Leonard K. Wisbeech. ‘Did he mention how he could help me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Mr Dismas. He just asked me to get in touch with you.’

  ‘Could I come over tomorrow?’

  ‘Dr Wisbeech said some time in the morning.’

  ‘Around 10.30? Would that be all right?’

  ‘I’m sure it would.’

  ‘And, er, will I see you again?’

  There was a pause at the other end. You can read so much into a short pause, and probably all wrong.

  ‘I’ll be here,’ she said.

  ‘Um . . .’ For some reason I needed to clear my throat. ‘Uh, fine. Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ She said goodbye and I held the receiver to my ear even after I heard the distant click.

  A night of dreams and constant awakenings.

  Images of wings, white-feathered wings.

  Which did not belong to birds; they belonged to angels.

  Eyes snapping open, instant wakefulness, body in a sweat.

  Sleep again. Disturbed, troubled sleep.

  Dream: Cyd Charisse dancing with me, both of us naked, the top of my head only reaching the top of her legs, so that I looked at thick black pubic hair sprinkled with sequins. Those lovely long beautiful legs, leading me in the dance, the scent of her womanness strong in my nostrils. I weave with her rumba rhythm, but I’m not so happy: I know I’m taller than that, that my head should at least reach her shoulders. I begin to weep at the unfairness. And then she changes and I’m dancing with Constance, our bodies perfectly – imperfectly – matched, her arm over my crooked shoulder, my eye looking down into hers, her face upturned, her lips lifted towards mine, and the music is changed, it’s slower, more dreamy, and we glide and we twirl and our lips draw even closer . . . And Gene Kelly is tapping me on the shoulder, on my crooked shoulder, and as I turn at the interruption the great dancer shimmers and he fades and he morphs into someone else, someone whose face I recognize, because it’s so familiar, so well-known, so famous . . . A tall and elegantly handsome man whose name I can’t recall . . . his smile is a leer and I hate him, I fucking hate him . . . But there’s nothing I can do as he takes her away from me and although I protest, although I try to hold on to her, they are gliding away from me, so light on their feet, so heavenly graceful . . . And he is holding Constance aloft like a beautiful prize and he winks at me . . . so handsome, so diabolically handsome . . . and they are fading into the night while the melody . . . and his fucking laughter . . . lingers on . . .

  Again I wake.

  But I resist the drugs that I know will alter my mind-state, will help me slip back into a more happy slumber. I resist and already I regret the resistance . . .

  Because now the dream is truly horrible . . .

  I am in darkness, but I am not alone. I cannot see the others, but I can hear their tortured cries. Clumsy hands snatch at me, voices whisper pleas in my ears. I reach out and I touch someone . . . something . . . and I feel a form that is as twisted as mine. It pulls away, but another takes its place and this time I feel its face, as a blind man might feel the contours of a companion, fingertips substituting for eyes. But there is no face. Only a deep, glutinous hole where there should have been features, a great yawning, toothless mouth that seeps liquids and expel
s foul fumes. As I recoil, other, stronger hands grab at me and arms snake around my neck and my waist and squeeze and crush, so that I scream . . .

  And my own scream wakes me for the third time.

  I am already sitting up in bed, my neck stretched, my mouth open wide.

  This time I am weak: I have to take something, anything that might soothe my nerves, something that would help me drift into sweet oblivion. But instead I think of Constance and it’s her image, her voice, the precious touch of her hand in mine, that soothes me.

  I wipe my brow with the bedsheet and sink back against the pillows, and my mind is calmer, my trembling beginning to settle. I am more tired than I know, for I am immediately sliding into troubled sleep again.

  I find myself drawn into a phantasmagoria of shapes, sounds, and impressions, a soft-focus variegation of shifting images, all distantly calling to me, invocations that I cannot understand. Even he is there, so charming, so sublimely perfect, yet still imperceptible, ill-defined . . . until . . . until he begins to come towards me, freeing himself of the chaos around him, advancing and raising a hand . . . and I can see it’s a well-manicured hand, for his shape is becoming sharp, focused . . . and I can see his face, discern his features, and I begin to recognize him, recognize him because I know him so well . . . and, like the others who have almost faded to invisibility, he is pleading with me. He tells me we are the same, he and I, and I can only return a bitter laugh as I look into his deep brown eyes . . . but he is adamant . . . asks me to find it in my heart – in my soul – to save him – to save us both, for we really are the same – from eternal misery . . . and as he begs his face crumples and his spiritual tears flow . . . and he is drawn away from me, paling into the oblivion . . .

  And yet again I am conscious, this time awakened by the dawn light stealing through the breach in the curtains.

  I push myself up and look around me as if to make sure I really am here in my gloomy bedroom, here where I should be, and I’m relieved that morning has finally come. And in that very instant, I forget all the dreams of the night.