“She never has had. I mean—”
“They’re deep-rooted. Is her father alive?”
“Why yes. What’s that got to do with it?”
“A transference—uh—state is difficult to…It could be a transference state.”
Daniel urgently tried to think of an equally illuminating possibility. Mark definitely had the grip on all the good ones. He was deciding between nervous breakdown and premenstrual blues when Mark said, his voice croaking with pleasure, “Guilt.”
“Sounds more like transference to me.”
Mark looked at him out of the corner of his eye. “Actually, I’m not that sure what transference is.”
“No. Well, I’m not absolutely certain about that one.”
“I mean, I know it’s what a lot of people go to an analyst for. But guilt is quite common. It causes all sorts of—traumas.”
“Yep. Yep.”
“I’ve got a suggestion, a tentative one. It could be suppressed nymphomania.”
“Repressed nymphomania, you mean. The trouble is it could be anything. There’s so many damn things they get. Care for a short?”
Meanwhile, Connie, her hair pinned up, sat in the hot scented bathwater shaving her armpits.
—
They came back from the pub, slightly drunk, and Mark came in for a last scotch and another look at the patient. Whatever they’d been expecting, Connie morbidly gazing at the shadow or overchecking the window locks, they were not prepared for what they did see. Connie stood in the hallway, by the telephone. She was naked, wet, and blood oozed down her left breast and spilt onto the carpet—the patch by her feet was already scarlet. For a moment it seemed to Daniel there was blood everywhere.
“Doctor,” said Mark, and leaving him to tend to the blood he rang the GP.
“The blood wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. There was lots of blood.” She was getting hysterical.
“What were you doing?” Daniel was frantic.
“Shaving. The water’s all pink. I couldn’t stop the blood.”
He put a cold flannel under her arm, wrapped her in his coat while Mark located the brandy and three glasses. By the time the GP arrived the blood had stopped, but she was shaking violently and unable to speak.
The GP was puzzled. Although the cut was fairly deep, it wasn’t serious enough to cause such shock. He gave her two injections, one for tetanus, helped her to swallow a glucose drink, disinfected the cut and covered it with gauze. Then he took Daniel to one side. “She’s overshocked.”
“There was a lot of blood.”
“Well, there’s bound to be if you cut yourself in the bath. The hot water makes the tiniest cut bleed like the devil.” He turned and looked at her, yawning and pale on the sofa, and said: “The cut’s nothing, but I think a night in hospital might be the thing, just to get her over this—shock.”
—
There was a dark blue light overhead and Connie, wearing a white hospital nightgown, lay on her bed in the general ward. It was night, but women, some of them dressed, were wandering about or sitting on each other’s beds talking quietly. Among their words were others and Connie heard a voice distinctly say, “She’s in the casual ward off Thrawl Street.”
Another voice said, “You’ve got to stay the forty-eight hours. It’s the law. She’s gone to her sister.”
“Which one?”
“You know. Across the river. They’ve been hop-picking.”
“Where’s the money, then?”
“Drunk it, haven’t they? She was drunk as a lord.”
“Here’s tuppence, but not for rum. You look real poorly, Liz.”
A patient came up to Connie’s bed and asked, “What are you here for?”
“My kids were drowned when the pleasure steamer went down. I lost my old man.”
“You don’t sound English.”
“I’m Swedish.”
“You’re the worse for drink,” said another voice.
9
The next morning was dark and sodden. The windows and frosted-glass partition in the roof rattled with uneven bickering rain which, discovering the occasional hesitant slates, worried at them, nagged at them, until finally it dribbled between them. A patch in the corner of the ceiling started to darken and bulge.
They kept the hot white lights on and everybody, sick and well, turned a disturbing greenish colour. All around there was a powerful smell of wet rubber raincoats. Connie woke up feeling quite different. She felt all right. A young house doctor, his drenched hair sticking up in spikes, took her pulse and ordered commonplace drugs. She wanted to go. The depression was gone.
When Jane came to take her home at midday she was so full of energy, she said, “Let’s go and have a marvellous lunch. Let’s go shopping. Let’s walk across the heath.”
“Are you mad?” Jane’s hand flew to her mouth. “I mean, it’s pouring with rain.”
“Oh, rain’s lovely. It’s soothing.”
Discomfited, Jane shifted from foot to foot. Then the old, how-to-handle-the-insane adage came to her rescue. Humour them.
“Well, all right. Let’s.” Her enthusiasm seemed false even to someone accustomed to her noise.
Connie took Jane’s arm affectionately. “It’s really nice of you to come and get me.”
“Well, I needed a day off.” Her voice was gruff.
“Is David O.K.?”
“Fine. My mother’s there—will be there for some time. Much to Mark’s dismay.”
“That cut was an exorcism. All the horrors leaked out of it.” She laughed.
Jane’s expression was far from humourous. “Well, don’t rush things.” Mark had thrown another derangement into the ring—manic depression—and Jane felt he might have a point.
The summer leaves, swollen with rain, hung motionless like huge furry tongues. They made Jane feel quite disturbed and she was glad to get off the heath. They turned into the narrow streets leading to the top of Hampstead. Jane was talking about hi-fis and washing-up machines. She’d just got a deep freeze, and a washing-up machine was the new idol and new excuse for battle with Mark. “Happened to call in at his bank on the way to get you and what do you think I find? There’s two thousand quid in there. I’m not letting it rot while I spend half the day standing at the sink.”
Connie looked down. “That’s funny. The street’s cobbled.”
“A lot are.” Jane eyed her suspiciously.
For a moment Connie felt badly shaken. Then she looked up—up into the grim sky—and said, “Yes, a washing-up machine sounds a good thing but you still have to spend time loading it.” She took a noisy breath. “Perhaps they should invent a machine for that.”
Obsessive, Jane decided.
The next street-corner was high up on a slope and there was a conspicuous shop, oddly shaped, painted black, that sold pottery. Connie could see a big floral jug in the window. Then it wasn’t there. The shop wasn’t there. It was nighttime. Nearby, men were singing drunkenly. She could hear a horse and cart coming along behind her. She screamed. “There’s a horse and cart behind me.”
Jane’s voice cut in. “Of course there’s a horse and cart.”
Connie whirled round and the nighttime was gone. Coming up the splashy slope was a rag and bone man with his horse.
“I hope you’ve not come out too soon,” said Jane. “You’ve gone a horrible colour.”
“It’s probably the blood I lost. I’m all right.” She started talking quickly. “We’ll go to the new French place. We’ll have lots of wine and garlic bread. I’d love onion soup, a steak—”
By the time she got to Heath Street her heart had stopped jumping and her colour was back. She walked effortlessly, enjoying the rain, and feeling good. People passing looked as though they thought her pretty, but she didn’t feel quite as good as she had felt earlier. There was a shadow on her.
—
Connie and Jane sat on the sofa, and Daniel, undecided, paced between the armchair and piano stool on t
he other side of the room. He passed two floor cushions, almost sat on the straight-backed chair in the corner but ended up for the third time at the drinks cabinet where he poured another large soothing whisky. Jane’s hair was tied in a ponytail. Two racquets waited by the door. The bourgeois ordinariness of the room emphasised the barred windows, and Daniel, looking miserable, drew the curtains. It was a cold evening, the fire was on and Connie, watching the twinkling, twitching, flitting flames, said: “I know it can’t go on, Daniel. But don’t you see, I say things I can’t possibly have heard.”
“What do the voices sound like? Are they talking to you?” asked Jane.
Daniel left the room.
“No. They’re just going on around me.” She spoke steadily. “They sound normal until I realise what they’re saying. No one I know speaks like that.”
“Is it like hearing them on a telephone?”
“More like a radio. They suddenly tune in, and then they’re gone. Sometimes they’re faint, but mostly they’re just like you and me talking now. Do you know anything about possession, Jane?”
“I do,” said Daniel, back in the room. “It doesn’t exist.” He stared at Jane’s thick white socks and went out again.
“That song I sang the night you came to dinner. How could I have known it?”
Jane, thinking back over that evening, said, “Do you know Flower and Dean Street?”
Connie shook her head. She looked pale again.
“You said something about Flower and Dean Street. I remember the name.”
Connie, not aware she’d said anything, looked even paler.
“I’ve never heard of it,” said Jane.
They sat in silence.
“It was about the time of my birthday,” Connie said slowly. “It all began then. It was something about that magician.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” said Jane rudely. “I admit he got my watch strap being tight but—well, he also got lovers departing and approaching, didn’t he?” She jigged her knees up and down. “I suppose if you start tampering with all that magic stuff things could—get out of control, mixed up, all those vibrations flying about. Still I don’t really believe it, any of it. You probably knew a Flower and Dean Street when you were a kid.”
“Probably,” Connie lied.
“It’s a nice name.” She crossed to the bookcase, picked out the A–Z and turned to the index. “It’s here.” She crouched on the floor and her brown finger traced a squared map for some moments before she found it. “It’s a little street. It’s in Whitechapel in the East End.”
“I’ve never been to the East End.”
“Perhaps when you were a kid…”
“Living in Brighton? Unlikely.”
Jane shivered. “It seems extraordinary. It’s probably a coincidence. Still…”
“Do you believe me, Jane?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know,” said Daniel, hurrying back to the whisky bottle. “People say extraordinary things, do extraordinary things, clairvoyance, E.S.P., what you will. Yet when they’re put to the test, the result is very ordinary. Nothing. It’s not possible, so it doesn’t exist.”
“Its not existing doesn’t mean it isn’t possible,” said Jane hotly. “Fucking rationalist!” she said, as he went out.
“I’m going to find out what’s happening to me and why,” said Connie bluntly.
“You’d better keep it from him. Balding, fat go-getter.”
—
They sat close together in Jivanjee Natraj’s waiting room. It was very plush, and Jane whispered: “The supernatural’s on his side.” He appeared stealthily in the doorway, an exceptionally tall, thin brown man, dressed in a well-cut grey suit. He bowed slightly but didn’t speak, and Jane burst out laughing. Connie, giggly, embarrassed, followed him into his consulting room, where, still without speaking, he took her hands, covered the palms with blue marking-ink and pressed them flat onto some paper. He touched her shoulder lightly and she followed him into a colourful cloakroom where he indicated a sink and she washed her hands. Back in his room he sat behind his enormous imitation Regency desk and pointed to a chair opposite. She sat down, which made her lower than him by about a foot. He put a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles on, and studied the imprints of her palms. “Date of birth?” His voice, though soft, seemed to echo, and what he said stayed in the room.
She told him.
“You have an exceptionally good life with your husband. I see you are a good wife. Your life is tranquil, but you have an appetite for adventure.”
She looked surprised.
“In books.” He laughed. “I see you like reading. The distinguished wife of a famous politician came to me yesterday. Like you, she is a good wife. Her eminent husband has many problems, but I am able to solve them. I help the Prime Minister of India. I help many people.” He pushed across a huge leather-bound book of press cuttings. “Look. There is what the Prime Minister says about me. And here, the famous actor, celebrated all over the world—see what he says. I advise him on the roles he should accept.” He looked at the cutting hungrily. “And here—see what they say about me in California.”
“Quite fantastic,” she said and snapped the book shut. “Will I have any children?”
He laughed uproariously. “You are participating in a trick, dear lady. You know you have four.” He looked back at the print. “Your husband is very kind to you, most kind. He is well-suited to you.”
“Will I have any more children?”
Slightly uneasy, he looked out the window. “That is up to you, my dear lady. You have a decision to make soon. Please do not look so alarmed. It’s about education. You have boy child, no?”
She nodded.
“You have your way about education, but you have to fight. Remember my advice and it will give you strength. You have a rosy future.” He smiled and his yellow teeth were stained and crooked. The smile gave his dignified face the crafty aspect of a jackal. “That will be seven pounds.”
She paid him and turned to go. His expression changed. He stared very hard and thoughtfully at her as she went to the door.
—
“What crap!” She imitated his voice. “You have rosy future. You have boy child, no?” She laughed. “What shall I do now?”
“Try another one.”
And they felt quite safe about trying another one.
10
Connie’s bedroom was spacious and calm and reflected her serenity, her need for order. Daniel’s personality didn’t exist there at all. Rich blue curtains tumbled luxuriously onto the white wall-to-wall carpet. There was a full-length gilt-edged looking-glass. The lights were low except the one above the dressing table, where she sat, making up her face.
She mascaraed her lashes quickly, and then without thinking picked up an eyebrow pencil and emphasised her eyebrows. She unscrewed an unused rouge-pot and flooded her cheeks with colour. She painted her mouth. Dissatisfied, she searched for a darker lipstick. She picked up the pencil again and gave the eyebrows sensational arches. On impulse she enlarged her beauty spot. She packed her face with white powder, combed her hair so that it hung over one eye and gave Daniel the fright of his life. She seemed hardly aware of what she was doing.
“Cab, Connie.”
He managed not to say anything but silently repeated over and over the GP’s number as though it was some mind-saving mantra. They walked to the gate, and he opened the door of the cab.
“Give my best to Jane.”
She got in and he shut the door. Loudly, she told the driver the name of a local cinema. Before they reached the corner she turned to wave, but Daniel had already disappeared.
As the cab turned left by the heath, she leaned forward and said, “Take me instead to Flower and Dean Street, E.1.”
—
The cab throbbed at the corner of Fashion Street, while she walked up and down Flower and Dean Street. It was dark and cold and she had no feeling of recognition or anything el
se. Half the buildings had been pulled down. There was no one about. It was depressing.
She got back in the cab, and the driver said: “Looking for anything special?”
“No.”
“It’s all changed round here. All been torn down.”
“What was here before?”
“Houses.”
“Are any of the old parts still left?”
“I should think so. You ought to ask at the library.”
—
On Saturday evenings Connie and Daniel usually went to the home of Baxter, one of Daniel’s colleagues on the council, and the routine was to have a drink and play mahjong. The following Saturday was Baxter’s birthday and there were more people and more to drink. Daniel, his heart sinking, kept close to Connie; but she stayed sober, her make-up muted—she even seemed to enjoy herself. It gave him confidence to attend, as he’d hoped to, a meeting to try to pry the Lisson Grove derelict area out of the hands of the mad composition footballers.
At a quarter to twelve, Baxter came out with Connie to find her a taxi. He was older than Daniel, officious, hearty, with a loud voice and a clipped moustache.
“Dannyboy’s a bit of a bounder with this Lisson Grove thing. He’ll get his way. Wants half London torn down and his new hygienic—hey, cabbie!” He waved both arms.
“He likes getting things done,” she said loyally. “Thanks for a lovely evening. Come to us next week.”
“Thanks, love, I will.”
The cab stopped, and he gave her address. He was just about to open the door when she said, “Give us some money.”
Taken aback, he fumbled in his pocket. “Will a pound do?” Then he laughed. She was having a joke.
“No, it will not do.”
His smile died. If it was a joke, he didn’t find it funny. “Now come on, Connie—”
“Come on, you bugger. Give us some more.” She leaned sensually against the taxi and in the street light her face was coarse. “Give us all you’ve got, big boy.” She prodded him. “All of it.” She hiccoughed and giggled.
He pushed the pound into her hand, forced her into the cab, slammed the door and walked away fast.
The Big Book of Jack the Ripper Page 150