The Fallen Curtain

by Ruth Rendell

  “I’ve explained what I mean. We’re not the same kind of people.”

  “I’ll go on Saturday. I’ll go to my mother—it won’t be any worse, God knows—and then maybe Chris and I…”

  “You’d better go to bed now,” Della said coldly, but she couldn’t get any sleep herself. She was wondering how she had been such a bad judge of character, and wondering too what she was going to do about the rent. Find someone else, of course. An older woman perhaps, a widow or a middle-aged spinster….

  What she was determined not to do was reveal to Rosamund, at this late stage, her anxiety about the side gate. If anything remained to comfort her, it was the knowledge that Rosamund thought her strong, mature, and sensible. But not revealing it brought her an almost unbearable agony. For Rosamund seemed to think the very sight of her would be an embarrassment to Della. Each evening she was gone from the flat before Della got home, and each time she had gone out leaving the side gate unbolted and the back door locked. Della had no way of knowing whether she would come in on the last bus or get a taxi or be seen home in the small hours by Chris. She didn’t know whether Chris lived near or far away, and now she wished she had listened more closely to Rosamund’s confidences and asked a few questions of her own. Instead, she had only thought with a shudder how nasty it must be to have to sleep with a man, and had wondered if she would ever bring herself to face the prospect.

  Each night she took the breadknife to bed with her, confirmed in her conviction that she wasn’t being unreasonable when one of the mouselike people whom she met in the hall told her the house next door had been broken into and its old woman occupant knocked on the head. Rosamund came in once at one, once at half past two, and once she didn’t come in at all. Della got great bags under her eyes and her skin looked grey. She fell asleep over her desk at work, while a brighteyed, vivacious Rosamund regaled her friends in the cloakroom about the joys of her relationship with Chris.

  But now there was only one more night to go….

  Rosamund had left a note to say she wouldn’t be home. She’d see Della on the following evening when she collected her cases to take them to her mother. But she’d left the side gate unbolted. Della seriously considered bolting it and then climbing back over it into the side entrance, but it was too high and smooth for her to climb and there wasn’t a ladder. Nothing for it but to begin her vigil with the cigarettes, the glass of water, the phone, and the breadknife. It ought to have been easier, this last night, just because it was the last. Instead, it was worse than any of the others. She lay in the dark, thinking of the old woman next door, of the house that was precisely the same as the one next door, and of the intruder who now knew the best and simplest way in. She tried to think of something else, anything else, but the strongest instinct of all over-rode all her feeble attempts to concentrate on tomorrow, on work, on ambition, on the freedom and peace of tomorrow when that gate would be fastened for good, never again to be opened.

  Rosamund had said she wouldn’t be in. But you couldn’t rely on a word she said. Della wasn’t, therefore, surprised (though she was overwhelmingly relieved) to hear the gate click just before two. Sighing with a kind of ecstasy—for tomorrow had come—she listened for the sound of the bolts being drawn across. The sound didn’t come. Well, that was a small thing. She’d fasten the bolts herself when Rosamund was in bed. She heard footsteps moving very softly, and then the back door was unlocked. Rosamund took a longer time than usual about unlocking it, but maybe she was tired or drunk or heaven knew what.

  Silence.

  Then the back door creaked and made rattling sounds as if Rosamund hadn’t bothered to relock it. Wearily, Della hoisted herself out of bed and slipped her dressing gown round her. As she did so, the kitchen light came on. The light showed round the edges of the old door in a brilliant phosphorescent rectangle. That wasn’t like Rosamund, who never went into the kitchen, who fell immediately into bed without even bothering to wash her face. A long shiver ran through Della. Her body taut but trembling, she listened. Footsteps were crossing the kitchen floor and the fridge door was opened. She heard the sounds of fumbling in cupboards, a drawer was opened, and silver rattled. She wanted to call out, “Rosamund, Rosamund, is that you?” but she had no voice. Her mouth was dry and her voice had gone. Something occurred to her that had never struck her before. It struck her with a great thrust of terror. How would she know, how had she ever known, whether it was Rosamund or another who entered the flat by the side gate and the frail back door?

  Then there came a cough.

  It was a slight cough, the sound of someone clearing his throat, but it was unmistakably his throat. There was a man in the kitchen.

  Della forgot the phone. She remembered—though she scarcely for a moment forgotten her—the old woman next door. Blind terror thrust her to her feet, plunged her hand under the pillow for the knife. She opened the kitchen door, and he was there, a tall man, young and strong, standing right there on the threshold with Mrs Swanson’s silver in one hand and Mrs Swanson’s heavy iron pan in the other. Della didn’t hesitate. She struck hard with the knife, struck again and again until the bright blood flew across the white walls and the clean ironing and the table neatly laid for breakfast.

  The policeman was very nice to Rosamund Vine. He called her by her christian name and gave her a cup of coffee. She drank the coffee, though she didn’t really want it as she had had a cup at the hospital when they told her Chris was dead.

  “Tell me about last night, will you, Rosamund?”

  “I’d been out with my boy friend—Chris—Chris Maitland. He’d forgotten his key and he hadn’t anywhere to sleep, so I said to come back with me. He was going to leave early in the morning before she—before Della was up. We were going to be very careful about that. And we were terribly quiet. We crept in at about two.”

  “You didn’t call out?”

  “No, we thought she was asleep. That’s why we didn’t speak to each other, not even in whispers. But she must have heard us.” Her voice broke a little. “I went straight to bed. Chris was hungry. I said if he was as quiet as a mouse he could get himself something from the fridge, and I told him where the knives and forks and plates were. The next thing I heard this ghastly scream and I ran out and—and Chris was…. There was blood everywhere….”

  The policeman waited until she was calmer.

  “Why do you think she attacked him with a knife?” he asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do, Rosamund.”

  “Perhaps I do.” Rosamund looked down. “She didn’t like me going out.”

  “Because she was afraid of being there alone?”

  “Della Galway,” said Rosamund, “wasn’t afraid of anything. Mrs Swanson was nervous about burglars, but Della wasn’t. Everyone in the house knew about the woman next door getting coshed, and they were all nervous. Except Della. She didn’t even mention it to me, and she must have known.”

  “So she didn’t think Chris was a burglar?”

  “Of course she didn’t.” Rosamund started to cry. “She saw a man—my man. She couldn’t get one of her own. Every time I tried to talk about him she went all cold and standoffish. She heard us come in last night and she understood and—and it sent her over the edge. It drove her crazy. I’d heard they wanted her to see a psychiatrist at work, and now I know why.”

  The policeman shivered a little, in spite of his long experience. Fear of burglars he could understand, but this…. “She’ll see one now,” he said, and then he sent the weeping girl home to her mother.

  The Double

  Strange dishevelled women who had the air of witches sat round the table in Mrs Cleasant’s drawing room. One of them, a notable medium, seemed to be making some sort of divination with a pack of Tarot cards. Later on, when it got dark, they would go on to table-turning. The aim was to raise up the spirit of Mr Cleasant, one year dead, and also perhaps, Peter thought with anger and disgust, to frighten Lisa out of her wits
.

  “Where are you going?” said Mrs Cleasant when Lisa came back with her coat on.

  Peter answered for her. “I’m taking her for a walk in Holland Park, and then we’ll have a meal somewhere.”

  “Holland Park?” said the medium. If a corpse could have spoken it would have had a voice like hers. “Take care, be watchful. That place has a reputation.”

  The witch women looked at her expectantly, but the medium had returned to her Tarot and was eyeing the Empress, which she had brought within an inch or two of her long nose. Peter was sickened by the lot of them. Six months to go, he thought, and he’d take her out of this—this coven.

  It was a Sunday afternoon in spring, and the air in the park was fresh and clean, almost like country air. Peter drew in great gulps of it, cleansing himself of the atmosphere of that drawing room. He wished Lisa would unwind, be less nervous and strung-up. The hand he wasn’t holding kept going up to the charm she wore on a chain round her neck or straying out to knock on wood as they passed a fence.

  Suddenly she said, “What did that woman mean about the park’s reputation?”

  “Some occult rubbish. How should I know? I hate that sort of thing.”

  “So do I,” she said, “but I’m afraid of it.”

  “When we’re married you’ll never have to have any more to do with it. I’ll see to that. God, I wish we could get married now or you’d come and live with me till we can.”

  “I can’t marry you till I’m eighteen without Mummy’s permission, and if I go and live with you they’ll make me a ward of court.”

  “Surely not, Lisa.”

  “Anyway, there’s only six months to wait. It’s hard for me too. Don’t you think I’d rather live with you than with Mummy?”

  The childish rejoinder made him smile. “Come on, try and look a bit more cheerful. I want to take your photograph. If I can’t have you, I’ll have your picture.” They had reached a sunny open space where he sat her on a log and told her to smile. He got the camera out of its case. “Don’t look at those people, darling. Look at me.”

  It was a pity the man and the girl had chosen that moment to sit down on the wooden seat.

  “Lisa!” he said sharply, and then he wished he hadn’t, for her face crumpled with distress. He went up to her. “What’s the matter now, Lisa?”

  “Look at that girl,” she said.

  “All right. What about her?”

  “She’s exactly like me. She’s my double.”

  “Nonsense. What makes you say that? Her hair’s the same colour and you’re about the same build, but apart from that, there’s no resemblance. She’s years older than you and she’s…”

  “Peter, you must see it! She might be my twin. Look, the man with her has noticed. He looked at me and said something to her and then they both looked.”

  He couldn’t see more than a superficial similarity. “Well, supposing she were your double, which I don’t for a moment admit, so what? Why get in such a state about it?”

  “Don’t you know about doubles? Don’t you know that if you see your double, you’re seeing your own death, you die within the year?”

  “Oh, Lisa, come on. I never heard anything so stupid. This is more rubbish you’ve picked up from those crazy old witches. It’s just sick superstition.” But nothing he could say calmed her. Her face had grown white and her eyes troubled. Worried for her rather than angry, he put out his hand and helped her to her feet. She leant against him, trembling, and he saw she was clutching her amulet. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll find another place to take your picture. Don’t look at her if it upsets you. Forget her.”

  When they had gone off along the path, the man on the seat said to his companion, “Couldn’t you really see that girl was the image of you?”

  “I’ve already told you, no.”

  “Of course you look a good deal older and harder, I’ll give you that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you’re almost her double. Take away a dozen years and a dozen love affairs, and you’d be her double.”

  “Stephen, if you’re trying to start another row, just say so and I’ll go home.”

  “I’m not starting anything. I’m fascinated by an extraordinary phenomenon. Holland Park’s known to be a strange place. There’s a legend you can see your own double there.”

  “I never heard that.”

  “Nevertheless, my dear Zoe, it is so.

  “‘The Magus, Zoroaster, my dear child, Saw his own image walking in the garden.’”

  “Who said that?”

  “Shelley. Superstition has it that if you see your own image you die within the year.”

  She turned slowly to look at him. “Do you want me to die within the year, Stephen?”

  He laughed. “Oh, you won’t die. You didn’t see her, she saw you. And it frightened her. He was taking her photograph, did you see? I wish I’d asked him to take one of you two together. Why don’t we see if we can catch them up?”

  “You know, you have a sick imagination.”

  “No, only a healthy curiosity. Come along now, if we walk fast we’ll catch them up by the gate.”

  “If it amuses you,” said Zoe.

  Peter and Lisa didn’t see the other couple approaching. They were walking with their arms round each other, and Peter had managed to distract her from the subject of her double by talking of their wedding plans. At the northern gate someone behind him called out, “Excuse me!” and he turned to see the man who had been sitting on the seat.

  “Yes?” he said rather stiffly.

  “I expect you’ll think this is frightful cheek, but I saw you back there and I was absolutely—well, struck by the likeness between my girl friend and the young lady with you. There is a terrific likeness, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t see it,” said Peter, not daring to look at Lisa. What a beastly thing to happen! He felt dismay. “Frankly, I don’t see any resemblance at all.”

  “Oh, but you must. Look, what I want is for you to do me an enormous favour and take a picture of them together. Will you? Do say you will.”

  Peter was about to refuse, and not politely, when Lisa said, “Why not? Of course he will. It’s such a funny coincidence, we ought to have a record of it.”

  “Good girl! We’d better introduce ourselves then, hadn’t we? I’m Stephen Davidson and this is Zoe Conti.”

  “Lisa Cleasant and Peter Milton,” said Peter, still half stunned by Lisa’s warm response.

  “Hallo, Lisa and Peter. Lovely to know you. Now you two girls go and stand over there in that spot of sunshine….”

  So Peter took the photograph and said he’d send Stephen and Zoe a copy when the film was developed. She gave him the address of the flat she and Stephen shared and he noted it was in the next street but one to his. They might have walked there together, which was what Stephen, remarking on this second coincidence, seemed to want. But seeing the tense, strained look in Lisa’s eyes, Peter refused, and they separated in Holland Park Avenue.

  “You didn’t mind about not going with them, did you?” said Lisa.

  “Of course not. I’d rather be alone with you.”

  “I’m glad,” she said, and then, “I did it for you.”

  He understood. She had done it for him, to prove to him she could conquer those superstitious terrors. For his sake, because he wanted it, she would try. He took her in his arms and kissed her.

  She leant against him. He could feel her heart beating. “I shan’t tell anyone else about it,” she said, and he knew she meant her mother and the witch women.

  When the film was developed he didn’t show it to her. Zoe and Stephen should have their copy and that would be an end of the whole incident. But when he was putting it into an envelope, he realised he would have to write a covering note, which was a bore as he didn’t like writing letters. Besides, if he was going to take it to the post, he might as well take it to their home. This, one evening, he did.

  H
e had no intention of going in. But as he was slipping the envelope into the letter box, Zoe appeared behind him on the steps.

  “Come in and have a drink.”

  He couldn’t think of an excuse, so he accepted. She led him up two flights of stairs, looking at the photograph as she went.

  “So much for this fantastic likeness,” she said. “Could you ever see it?”

  Peter said he couldn’t, wondering how Lisa could have been so silly as to fancy she had seen her double in this woman of thirty, who tonight had a drawn and haggard look. “It was mostly in your friend’s imagination,” he said as they entered the flat. “We’ll see what he says about it now.”

  For a moment she didn’t answer. When her reply came, it was brusque. “He’s left me.”

  Peter was embarrassed. “I’m sorry.” He looked into her face, at the eyes whose dark sockets were like bruises. “Are you very unhappy?”

  “I shan’t take an overdose, if that’s what you mean. We’d been together for four years. It’s hard to take. But I won’t bore you with it. Let’s talk about something else.”

  Peter had only meant to stay half an hour, but the half-hour grew into an hour, and when Zoe said she was going to cook her dinner and would he stay and have it with her, he agreed. She was interesting to talk to. She was a music therapist, and she talked about her work and played records. When they had finished their meal, a simple but excellent one, she reverted to her own private life and told him something of her long and fraught relationship with Stephen. But she spoke without self-pity. And she could listen as well as talk. It meant something to him to be able to confide in a mature, well-balanced woman who heard him out without interruption while he spoke of himself and Lisa, how they were going to be married when she was eighteen and when she would inherit half her dead father’s fortune. Not, he said, that the money had anything to do with it. He’d have preferred her to be penniless. All he wanted was to get her away from that unhealthy atmosphere of dabbling with the occult, from that cloistral home where she was sheltered yet corrupted.