Daniel checked his watch with the electric clock. “Yes, I’ll get him to the pub.”
“I wish you’d get them to take their stuff upstairs. I wait on them hand and foot.”
“I’ve told you. You’ve devalued a mother’s best weapon. No television.”
“Threats are no good. I—”
“Of course they’re no good,” he shouted. “You never carry them out. Just take the plug out.” He ate a tomato and looked at the collection Connie had put by the door. “The sight of Dolly Deirdre in the dustbin now…”
In the twitching strip-lighting, Connie’s face was flawless, serene. Its only signs of age were small lines at the corners of her eyes—upward, optimistic lines. Her eyes, beautiful in shape and colour, had a rare combination of elusiveness and good humour. Her eyes were all you really noticed, some people said; and that was lucky, they added, because her looks were so ordinary.
“It would really be one up, you know, if I could get Mark to do it.”
Upstairs the battle of the television channels raged, and the losers gave the action a last twist by screeching. It brought Daniel up there in a flash and the plug was pulled out.
Connie cut the meat.
“Adam’s getting smug,” said Daniel coming back. “The answer is two television sets, Dad,” he mimicked. “Why should I watch crap?”
She smiled and shifted the cut-off fat to one side.
“What’s it going to be?” he asked, looking over her shoulder.
“Steak and kidney pie.”
“Plenty of crust.”
“Jane says you’re getting horribly fat.” She went on cutting.
“Has he done his homework, by the way?” he asked, and rushed out.
The meat was tough suddenly.
Upstairs, her eldest son discovered that his father’s idea of hard work did not match his.
The meat became fleshy, knotty. It seeped bloodily. She cut again, and blood spurted out, ran over her hands, spread blackly over the chopping board. She put the knife down carefully and backed away, trying to wipe her hands on the slippery apron. Then the meat looked all right again. She stared at it. The blood seemed less. She turned and walked slowly across the kitchen. The red polished floor was blinding.
Daniel was in the living room putting papers in his briefcase.
“Darling, would you cut the meat for me?”
He looked up, surprised. “But I’m just off. Use a sharper knife. You all right?”
She nodded.
“You look quite pale.” He kissed her quickly and hurried to the front door. “Ring Jane, will you, and go on to her about exotic holidays. Three weeks in India. No, that’s too cheap. Safari. That’s it. She’d enjoy that. Back about midnight—if Jenkins doesn’t stir the idiots up too much.”
When he’d gone, she crept back into the kitchen. Upstairs, children splashed in the bath. Timidly, she approached the meat. It looked like stewing steak. She started cutting again.
It was curious, that change in the meat, she thought. For a moment it had looked alive.
5
It was almost dark as Jane and Connie, both carrying Sainsbury bags piled high with food, stood on the corner of Willoughby Road near the heath.
“I’m fed up with Mark,” said Jane, putting down her carrier. “He shuts himself up in his room and works every evening. What life do I get? I’m sure he doesn’t have to work so much. The kid and me are important as well. You must get fed up with Daniel being out so much.”
“Well, I’d rather he was home, but there’s a lot happening on the council at the moment. Have you talked to Mark about it?”
“Of course. He just retreats even further. And now Daniel’s waving this new project under his nose. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know whether we should do it or not. I’d like the money.” She hopped from foot to foot and banged her big fur mittens together. “Anyway, I’m off with you-know-who tonight. I’ll say I’m with you, so please back me up.”
Connie hesitated, and then said reluctantly: “Well, all right. What if he rings?”
“He won’t. Haven’t you ever wanted a change?”
“Well, I suppose there’ve been men I’ve thought attractive, yes, but it’s never gone further than that. I suppose its because I’m O.K. with Daniel.”
“You still feel the same about each other sexually after ten years? I don’t believe it.”
“No, it’s not the same. It’s better, if anything. But it goes in cycles. Sometimes for days we hardly notice each other.”
“You’re lucky.” Jane was envious but open about it. “Still, Daniel’s put on weight. I told him so. Doesn’t he do any sports? I thought he said he was good at athletics.”
“He doesn’t have time.”
“His eyes really look at you, don’t they? That’s what makes him attractive. Mark goes round as though he’s blanketed in thick fog. Still, I must be off, if I’m going to—you know.”
“Jane, have you ever had something happen to you where things you’re looking at change shape…texture…just for a moment?”
Jane laughed. “Frequently—if I’ve drunk a bit too much.”
“I’m serious.”
“Then, no.”
“I can’t tell if it’s the things or my perceptions. It’s happened the past few days.”
“Tiredness. Eyestrain. Anyway, I must go.”
Connie walked home. The dark streets seemed too empty. There were people about—a long way off. The wind blew the trees and she heard footsteps behind her, a man’s footsteps, getting nearer. Nervously she walked faster, but the other person was catching up. When he was almost up to her she gasped, and swiftly crossed the road. The man gave her a quick, surprised look and carried on walking. At the end of the road he went into his house, and Connie, her heart still thumping, felt rather silly.
—
The next day Connie was sprawled in the huge padded chair, watching television. Her eyes were half-closed and she looked fluffy and full of curves like a big cat. A book lay open at her feet, and beside her the electric fire, full on, sent its never-dying flames leaping up the tin grate; the coals twinkled rhythmically. The curtains weren’t drawn. Outside, the trees, taller than anything around them, stretched up into the clear night sky. A breeze flapped around them. They creaked and the smaller branches jabbed against the roof.
The programme faded, and on came the adverts, blaring and bold, tumbling over each other like bad clowns. Connie stretched luxuriously, and then lay back again. She’d endure the adverts—anything rather than move.
The programme began again, but her eyes suddenly flicked over to the window. Seeing only trees they returned, rather carefully, to the television. Then she jerked up and listened. There should be a sound. She looked at the round polished table, at the hi-fi, at all the familiar things in her living room, but they didn’t seem familiar anymore. The trees stiffened, alert, waiting, and high up a stronger breeze prowled through their branches. What was the sound she expected to hear? The television audience laughed. She sprang out of the chair and turned round. The front door, she could see, was closed. She switched off the set and, after the loud audience laughter, the house was too quiet. She didn’t like the trees, the way their hard silent trunks filled the window, so she drew the curtains and stood still, scarcely breathing. There was a sharp noise in the kitchen—but it was just the fridge getting ready for its next dance. Things around her only looked recognisable when she examined each one and murmured its name. Sweating slightly and out of breath, her heart tumbling inside her, she forced herself back into the plump black chair. She turned down the fire, and the flames were obliged to twitch over coals reduced to a mere glow. She picked up the book and opened it, and put her slippers on. Her mouth was dry. She looked at the page. She looked at the clock, then at her watch. She looked into space. She looked at the clock again.
From the window, the garden seemed too long. She couldn’t see the road, she realised, because the shrubs
were too high. The swing didn’t look harmless. The little stubbly plants she liked had disappeared. She let go the curtain. She sighed: breathing wasn’t easy.
She’d go to the kitchen and make some tea. Purposefully she crossed the living room but stopped at the edge of the hallway. The staircase looked menacing. For the first time, her own house frightened her. The front door, bristling with old locks and bolts, disused and rusty, gave no security. The panels of frosted glass seemed particularly frail. She put the chain on quickly, and then remembered the back door and sped down to the kitchen to make sure it was locked.
Everything was too bright here. Alone on the dazzling floor she was exposed. She hurried back to the shadows and the dubious security of the hallway, and for some time she stood, her back pressed to the wall, alert, listening for the sound she wanted. She could almost hear it now. Then she remembered Daniel. Weak with relief, she reached across for the phone and dialled his number.
“Hello, darling.” Her voice sounded too loud. “I wondered how you’re getting on.”
“All right, Catkin. Is it anything special?”
“I wondered when you were coming back.”
“I told you. I’m not sure. Are you all right?”
“I’m feeling a bit shaky.”
“Maybe you’re getting flu.”
“I’m worried about that chain.”
“What chain?”
“The chain on the bloody door.”
“Connie!”
“It’s all right. It’s all right. But the kitchen locks aren’t any good. They’re rusty. Any—”
“Connie. I’ve got to go back to the meeting. I’m holding everyone up. Look, you sound as though you’re getting a touch of something. Have a scotch, a strong one, and go to bed.” He hung up.
She poured (she was not an accustomed drinker) what she considered a strong one. It tasted vile. She went upstairs and looked at her sleeping children. Listening to them breathe made her feel better.
Coming down the stairs she saw something—something on the wall, on the curving wall of the stairway. It was a huge shadow of a man. Terrified, she turned round. There was only the stairs and the boxes on the landing. She looked at the shadow. It looked like a man and his arm was raised high above his head. She’d never seen the shadow before.
She walked down to the phone, her legs tingling and stiff, and as her shadow passed into the other it looked as though the arm was about to strike her.
She called Jane.
“So you’ve heard the news?” Jane said immediately.
“No, Jane. Look, I’m—”
“Daniel’s proposed him for the scheme, and—”
“Look, Jane. I’m feeling a bit wobbly. I don’t know what it is. I’ve got a feeling that—”
“Yes?”
“—that someone’s trying to get in.”
Jane gave an animal shriek. “Let’s hope it’s someone nice.”
“Jane,” she said hesitantly. “Could you come round?”
“Oh, Connie. I can’t. There’s no one with the kid. Mark’s out. Go to a neighbour.”
“They’re a long way away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Well, they seem a long way. I’ve got to go down that long garden and through the gate—”
“Hop over a wall.”
Connie, hurt, didn’t say anything. Jane said, “No, really. Go over the wall. It doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’ve been feeling a bit odd for days.”
“Pregnant. You’re pregnant again. You know that awful early stage.”
Connie sat down, dazed with relief. “That’s it. That’s why the meat looked funny.”
“Get yourself a big drink and watch television. Get your mind off it. We’ll see you Thursday. So long, kid.”
Then she heard the sound she had been expecting. It seemed to come from a long long way away. It was the sound of heavy, wooden wheels and a child’s squeaky voice shouting, “Watercresses!”
—
Something woke her. She lay, not breathing, wondering what the noise had been. Without turning in the bed, she knew she was alone. A muffled noise downstairs coming from the hallway, the noise of someone trying to get in. She jolted up. “Cor.” The expression lingered in her mind, even after she heard Daniel’s voice call, “Connie, open the door.”
She was so relieved, she half fell on the stairs in the rush to get to him. The door jammed; she’d forgotten the chain. Dithering, she took it off and clung to him and “Cor!” clung to her mind and she couldn’t get rid of it.
“All right, Catkin.” He comforted her. “What’s happened?”
She shook her head.
He sat her gently on the stairs. “Why did you have the chain on?”
She looked at him, at his dark eyes, at his black sleek hair, at his pallor, at his firm mouth, at all those things she loved. Then she remembered the shadow.
Without looking, she pointed above her head, upwards at the curving landing.
He stiffened.
“The shadow,” she whispered.
He frowned at her, and then darting up the stairs, “Shadow? Shadow? What shadow?” He was tired, on edge. She came up behind him.
“There,” and she pointed at the thick, looming shape.
He looked at it as though he was in an art gallery viewing pictures way beyond his comprehension. He frowned, blinked, bent sideways. “It’s always been there, Connie,” was all he could find to say about it.
“It hasn’t.”
“For Godsake!”
“I haven’t seen it.” She was nearly crying.
“Anyway, what about it?”
“Ssh!” indicating the children. “Can’t you see?” she whispered.
He turned and looked at her.
“It’s—it’s a man, isn’t it?” she said.
“No, Connie, it isn’t a man. It’s a meaningless shape caused by the landing.” He turned and looked upwards, searching.
“But he’s holding his arm up. Can’t you see that?”
“That’s a box. That long box up there. Jutting out.” He ran up four stairs, pushed the box up so it rested against the wall and the menacing arm disappeared. “It must have fallen down.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “I am sorry.” The shadow was now nothing more than a big blob.
“It must have fallen yesterday when I was getting my old case notes out,” he explained patiently. “It stuck out and caused that shape. It’s five to one. Now let’s get some sleep. Please.”
—
The next night she sat in the kitchen sewing her daughter’s dress. The electric clock thumped out the minutes and a chicken soup bubbled on the stove. It was full of homegrown herbs and smelt delicious. Connie bit through the thread, put the dress gently on the table and went up to the curving stairway. She looked at the shadow. It was exactly as it had been before he moved the box. A man loomed up, his arm raised and somehow she knew, before she even turned, that the long box would be up against the wall and not jutting out.
6
On Thursday evening they sat at the oval table in Connie’s small dining room. There were long white candles, white roses, a crisp white table cloth. They’d just enjoyed, or said they had, Connie’s first attempt at home-made cannellonis in Neapolitan sauce. The frozen beans had been excellent. The dinner was to celebrate Mark getting the Camden Town flat project and there were three bottles of claret on the sideboard.
Connie was wearing the scarlet velvet dress Daniel had bought for her birthday, and her shoulder-length hair was pinned up in a chignon. She didn’t wear the diamond brooch and nobody mentioned it. Jane, who again wore her prim black frock, said she was impressed with the way Connie looked and she kept nudging Mark. “Doesn’t she look old-fashioned?”
Exhaustion had already got a foothold on his evening and he sighed “Yes. Yes.” His wife was getting loud again, but at least it wasn’t in public.
“Everyone should have a deep free
ze,” said Jane.
“Nonsense,” Mark replied, his voice high and cracking. “They’re just a fad. You’ve survived all this time without one.”
“That’s no reason for not having one. I want one. Why shouldn’t I have one?” Her eyes gleamed maliciously. “You have what you want. What about that twelve-function calculator you got last month? You can work perfectly well without it but I didn’t stop you having it.”
“It seems amazing people ever got by without refrigerators,” said Daniel and scooped up the last beans.
“Think,” said Jane, looking at his fleshy chin and the suggestion of others under it.
He grinned and cut a huge lump of bread.
She poked her tongue out and then turned to Connie. “I’m saving up for a deep freeze. I don’t know whether to get a really big one, like you’ve got, or an upright one.”
Mark gave her a baleful glance. “There’s no room.”
“There will be, Mark. There will be,” and her staccato laugh made him fear for his twelve-function calculator and all his other luxuries.
“I’m thinking of placing the flats round a central space area,” Mark said, rather awkwardly.
“How will you fill the space?” asked Daniel.
“I wasn’t thinking of filling it.”
“Christine across the road from me has just got a washing-up machine,” said Jane. “It’s the only thing for that job.”
“Only for large families,” said Daniel.
“Rubbish! For any family. Why not? Though why she needs one, when she’s got an au pair, I don’t know.”
“I was thinking of having just grass,” said Mark.
Daniel shrugged and looked at the sideboard. “You’ll have trouble getting grass past Jenkins. He wants a shopping precinct included in the scheme.”
“But there’s shops all round—”
“A modern shopping precinct, split-level. Where’s the chocolate, Connie?”
“You know Christine. Her husband’s in advertising. She wears loads of make-up even first thing in the morning. Mark’s seen her before seven with eyelashes on.”
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 148