Relatively Strange

by Marilyn Messik

  Tea and biscuits and a surreal gathering. Glory and I, either end of the sofa and Ed on his chair nursing one of my mother’s delicate, good-china cups.

  “How did you find me?” I asked. I had ghastly visions of my Brackman-inspired guilt, broadcasting far and wide. She ignored my question and followed her own agenda,

  “We need your help.”

  “Help, how?”

  “You owe me a favour.”

  “A favour?”

  “Dear Lord,” she tutted in exasperation and carefully but accurately centred her cup in its saucer on the coffee table in front of her, “Why is it not possible to have a conversation, without you repeating every single damn thing I say?”

  “Sorry.”

  “We have …” She paused, “… A bit of a situation.”

  “Situation?” I couldn’t seem to help it.

  “I’d like you to come and meet a couple of people – easier for them to explain than me. You know,” she continued without pausing, “You really shouldn’t feel quite so dreadful, you had very little choice.” For one moment, with the lemon sherbert flooding, I was thrown completely. But of course she’d know about my fatal brush with the law, it was, after all, always at the forefront of my mind. I didn’t say anything, I thought it wisest, but an icy lump I’d been carrying around in my chest since it happened, now seemed to be rising unpleasantly. It lodged, uncomfortable and thick in my throat.

  “There was something wrong with him wasn’t there?” she asked. I thought of what I’d seen in his head, opened my mouth to try and explain but didn’t have the words, so flashed what I’d sensed. She nodded briefly in acknowledgement.

  “Like I said, no real choice, not at that moment. You come across people like him sometimes, not often, thank God – there’s just a gap inside them, a blank where there shouldn’t be. After a while that blank fills up with obsession and lots of other rubbish and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, a lot of violence too.”

  The icy lump had reached my head and was, to my mortification starting to come out. Large, fat, sour-tasting tears seeped from my eyes and down my nose and throat, it felt like there were a lot more on the way. A large, spotlessly clean, white handkerchief found it’s way into my clenched fists and the chair creaked as Ed re-settled himself. I cried and they waited quietly.

  “You know,” Glory said reflectively, after a bit, “Some people are born wicked. No conscience, get a huge kick out of wrongdoing. They do know, nevertheless, the difference – between right and wrong I mean. Others, don’t seem to recognise the difference at all. I don’t know which category your policeman fell into but he had totally come off the normality track.” She sighed, “Anyway, what the hell, end result’s the same, they all muck up the world dreadfully, not to mention other people’s lives.” She turned her face towards me, met my eyes with hers, sightless yet seeing. “You made a snap decision, you thought lives were at risk, they probably were. You did the best you could at the time. You probably learnt more in those few seconds about how vital control is for someone like you, than you have in the previous sixteen years. What’s done is done. Move on.”

  I blew my nose, I felt lighter than I had for weeks. I put this new feeling away to analyse later and was just re-filling Ed’s cup when my parents arrived home from the hospital. If they were surprised to find an exceptionally large man and a blind lady taking tea and biscuits in their living room, they were too well-mannered to show it other than the slight start neither of them could hide as they came through the door. Ed immediately stood up, silent but polite and they watched him unfold to his full six foot five or so with more than a little apprehension for my mother’s crystal chandelier. I made the introductions, although I knew my mother had already instantly and correctly identified Glory.

  Glory got straight down to business.

  “We’d like your daughter to meet a couple of friends of ours.”

  “Couple of friends?” said my mother tightly. Glory suppressed a sigh – the echo thing again. I noted with surprise that my mother had always thought this would happen, that ‘they’ would come. She wasn’t sure who ‘they’ were or what they’d want but she’d anticipated something like this moment. She sat down now heavily on the sofa,

  “You’re the one she … ?

  “We met in Oxford, yes.” Glory put out her hand, my mother reached automatically to take it and Glory drew her nearer, my mother staring intently, as if in her inability to read the woman’s mind, she could make sense of that lovely impassive face instead.

  “I’m here because we need her help.” Glory said.

  “Why?”

  “She’s strong. There aren’t many like that and we need someone young.”

  “To do?”

  “Whatever’s necessary.”

  “That’s no answer.”

  “It’s all I can give you.” I scanned her and for a moment there was just the smooth-surfaced wall then, realising perhaps she wasn’t going to get what she wanted unless she gave me more, she opened up.

  There was a child, dark, sweat-curled hair. Young, five or six I thought. We were looking through the eyes of someone taking a blood sample from his arm. He was deeply asleep, didn’t stir as the needle slipped in, sucked, slipped out. There were wires terminating in electrodes attached to his head, snaking out from various bits of machinery. A monitor by the bedside, green electronic peaking lines pulsing across a black screen. As our angle of vision changed, I saw leather straps round thin wrists, could even see the angrily red chafe marks where they’d shifted, moved and abraded the flesh. The straps were at the end of short metal chains attached to the frame of the bed. A hospital room? Not like one I’d ever seen. An iron framework barred the window and the door had a large, circular, wheel-like handle set halfway down. There was someone else there, other than the blood-taker, male or female I couldn’t tell, because they were dressed in protective clothing, a sort of all-in-one silvery grey outfit with a white mask obscuring mouth and nose.

  “Who is he?”

  “Sam. He’s six. He’s in isolation, in a room with reinforced steel walls and a door similar to those used in bank vaults. He’s being kept heavily sedated.”

  “Why?”

  “I expect you can guess.”

  “He’s like us?” she nodded.

  “They’re scared of him?”

  “Extremely.”

  “With cause?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Hang on a minute.” my parents had followed this exchange, aware they’d missed a lot and hugely uncomfortable I think watching Glory and I interact. I told them what I’d seen and turned impatiently back to the blind woman. My mother had withdrawn her hand but was still staring at her, white-faced, tight-lipped and hostile.

  “What’s he to do with me?” I said

  “We want … need, your help to get him out.”

  “From?” but I knew – The Newcombe Foundation. “Why me?”

  “He’s beyond frightened already, if we send you in we think he’ll be less scared. You look even younger than your age, surprise at seeing you might just reassure him, earn us a precious few minutes. Look,” Glory’s insubstantial stock of patience was running out, “Could you just stop asking questions and take my word. There’s a lot to tell you but there are others who can tell it better. We think you can do this. Actually, we think, at this precise moment, you’re probably the only one who can. Will you trust me? Come and hear us out before you make up your mind?”

  “No.” said my parents in unison.

  “Yes.” I said and turned to them, “I think I have to, I want … “ I paused, what was it I wanted?

  “To find out more?” suggested my father heavily.

  “Is this risky?” my mother turned back to Glory.

  “Yes.” At least she was honest.

  “Don’t go.” said my mother.

  “Go carefully.” said my father.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  My parents watched as
I left with Glory and the still silent Ed. I didn’t look back. Selfishly, I didn’t even want to know what they were thinking. Glory had covered her rather vivid ensemble with the neutral coloured mac again, although I couldn’t help thinking, if she was aiming for unobtrusive, she’d have done better to have stuck with the colourful outfit and dropped Ed.

  Parked in the road, at the front of our house was a white Morris Marina. Ed courteously opened the front door for Glory, the back for me and managed, by some miracle of manoeuvring, to wedge himself into the limited space behind the wheel. Glory had closed her mind to visitors and there was what sounded like a Dean Martin medley running relaxingly through Ed’s. I sat back in my seat with a certain feeling of unreality. Generally, I feel it’s good to plan ahead, to have a strategy in mind. Sometimes however, and this seemed to be such an instance, you’re catapulted into a situation so bizarrely beyond your ken, so surreally out of keeping with a quiet Saturday afternoon in Hendon Central, that anything other than acceptance of the moment is an impossibility.

  We drove for around half an hour, although I couldn’t be sure – one of the things I’d forgotten in the general exodus was my watch. It was a silent drive. I tried a couple of conversational openers but Ed wasn’t having any and Glory seemed to be dozing. When we drew to a halt, it was in a quiet residential street of detached, well-kept white-stuccoed, black-shuttered houses. Ed, Glory’s hand on his arm, matching his pace to hers, led us up a flight of half a dozen white-washed stone steps, bordered by luxuriantly flowering planted pots. We paused in front of a glossy black, gilt-knockered door which he opened with a key.

  Inside, Glory walked wordlessly down the narrow hall towards a door at the far end. I followed her, not without some apprehension. When I looked back for Ed, he’d vanished – I wasn’t sure when or where to but for someone built on such a large scale he moved surprisingly soundlessly. Glory opened the white panelled door at the end of the hall, locating the door-knob without hesitation and the dark corridor flooded instantly with warmth and light from the brightness beyond. It was a lovely room that I followed her into, stretching out onto a sweeping lawn, bordered by riotously lush rose bushes. It looked as if the original living area had been doubled by the glass walled and ceilinged, conservatory-style extension which ran along the whole width of the back of the house bringing light, lawn and flowers into the room. There was a large modern-looking kitchen to my right with a wooden table and lots of stainless steel. The living room was given up to two squashily over-stuffed sofas and another couple of armchairs on which the weekend newspapers were liberally strewn. There was a low coffee table serving both sofas, the surface of which was almost totally obscured by a teetering pile of books and publications. More books crowded floor to ceiling shelves along the opposite wall. Gaudily coloured children’s classics rubbing spines with chunky, darkly bound academic-looking tomes. An additional slightly unstable tower of homeless volumes was stacked nearby on the floor.

  Something was bubbling quietly on the hob, it smelt chicken soupy to me and my mouth watered. Plants were everywhere – someone had a green thumb – several chained pots hung from ceiling hooks by the window swinging slightly in the breeze and arranged along the sills were cut flowers in vases and jugs. Their scent mingled comfortably with whatever was cooking.

  I was, I suppose, rather surprised – don’t know what I’d expected, maybe something out of the Adams Family, certainly nothing as domesticated as this. I was just relaxing a little when there was some very heavy breathing behind me and something shoved me hard in the bottom. Caught completely off balance, I lurched forward into Glory who was still just in front of me. She in turn clutched desperately at me to avoid falling. I shrieked as something wet hit my face and grabbed Glory tighter. She slapped my hand hard.

  “Stop that, you stupid child, stop it. He won’t hurt you. Sit Hamlet.” Hamlet sat, which actually didn’t make him look any less tall, even sitting his head came nearly up to my shoulder. Glory detached herself impatiently from my clinging fingers.

  “He’s just always pleased to see anyone, won’t hurt you. He’s a dyed in the wool coward, more scared of you than the other way round, we use him a lot with the children.”

  “Children?” I echoed weakly, she snorted and didn’t deign to answer.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” she indicated the sofas with a sweep of her hand. “You’re OK with dogs aren’t you?” And before I could answer she’d left through the door we’d come in by.

  Hamlet and I contemplated each other thoughtfully. He was an enormous animal, he looked like a bit of great dane and a lot of something else, no idea what. I thought he might be going to head over for further investigation, but he settled where he was, lowering himself carefully to the ground with a ridiculously human sigh and resting his head on both paws so he could keep an eye – I’d have to take Glory’s word it was friendly – on me. I gingerly moved a pile of magazines on which I was partially sitting, Hamlet twitched an ear but otherwise took no notice. I was extremely apprehensive of meeting the people I’d been brought here to meet but that rather paled into insignificance compared with continuing my téte a téte with Hamlet. He yawned massively, revealing an impressive array of teeth. I put my hands in my lap where he could see them and sat very still indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I knew who she was, moments before she entered the room, no mistaking that sharp, cool peppermint and somehow, in the general unreality of that whole afternoon, the fact that she and Glory Isaacs should be connected, seemed no odder than everything else. Miss Peacock strode in briskly, Hamlet rose in welcome but she pointed to the floor and he sank down again. I rose too, but she pointed to the sofa and I obeyed as instantly and unquestioningly.

  “Hello again.” she said. I hadn’t thought about her in a long time but her voice was unmistakable, sharp, authoritative and now I heard it again, faintly accented. Someone accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. She was as thin as I remembered, although seeing her now, face to face I realized she was younger than I’d thought, early forties maybe. Her knee-length pleated grey skirt was topped with a crisply white blouse, a slightly chipped black and white cameo on the revere. A lighter grey cardigan, slung over narrow shoulders matched grey hair, cut in no particular style to just below her ears and brushed back from a widow-peaked, pale-skinned finely lined high forehead.

  Behind tortoiseshell-framed glasses, on an aquiline nose her eyes were the only other colour in that angular face, a bright, deep hazel. Anger wasn’t what I’d expected, but it surfaced immediately I saw her. I remembered all too clearly our encounter on the bus nearly five years before, my bewilderment and sense of loss when she snubbed me so firmly. The first person I’d ever met who could have answered some of my questions – and wouldn’t.

  She swept through my defences, swiftly peppermint and impatient, as naturally and as easily as before, a knife through butter. That made me even angrier. My carefully nurtured blocks obviously counted for nothing and she made no attempt to hide the fact, although at the same time I wanted fiercely for her to know exactly how I felt.

  “Control.” she remarked coolly “Is something you need to cultivate.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “You need to sort your shielding.”

  “I manage.”

  “Not very well.”

  “Shame then you didn’t have any tips, when we last met.” Fury was rising.

  “Careful.” she said softly and into my head shot Chief Inspector Brackman’s dead blue gaze. “Never forget how easy that was to do.” She moved to the coffee table and decisively halved the pile of books that was threatening to topple.

  “Point taken. But you haven’t answered my question.” I was deliberately insolent.

  “You surprised me – on the bus. It was unexpected.”

  “All the more reason to have stopped and listened?” At my raised voice Hamlet lifted his head.

  “I’m not good with sur
prises.” She said, “Or post-mortems!”

  “Ah Rachael, on a charm offensive as usual, I see.”

  Another woman had come in quietly and was pausing now to scratch Hamlet under the chin. Miss Peacock inclined her head,

  “My sister Ruth.” ‘My sister Ruth’ was a couple of years younger, several inches shorter and a great deal rounder than her sibling. She was wearing bright red stirrup trousers and a psychedelically colourful jumper that appeared made for a taller person altogether, stretching as it did down to her knees and overlapping plump be-ringed hands almost down to pearlised pink nails. Brown hair was liberally silver stranded and untidy, held away from her face by a pink velvet alice band. While I was still taking her in, she was moving toward me, smiling, both hands outstretched, I rose automatically to take them.

  “My dear, welcome. Take no notice whatsoever of my sister, she didn’t handle things well when she met you – oh yes we heard all about it – and that makes her snappy and rude, well snappier than usual! I’m delighted though to finally make your acquaintance. Now, can I get you a cup of tea? Are you hungry? Supper won’t be too long, we eat early here.”