• • •
SHE WOKE TO the sound of the door handle being turned ever so gently. Finding it locked, he went away. Marion lay there, ice crystals slowly forming in her blood as she waited for him to return. Then there was a clicking and tapping as he methodically went about his work. She heard each rattle as the separate parts of the lock fell onto the floor. When she opened her eyes, a shape was standing by the bed.
How foolish I was to think he could be kept out by that pathetic little lock, she said to herself. It seemed the giant figure that loomed over her in the dark could have lifted off the roof of the house, then reached in and grabbed her right out of her bed if it wanted to.
The hands that reached around her throat smelled of coal tar soap. Had he washed them before deciding to choke her? It hurt very badly, worse than anything had ever hurt before. As she wondered if it would take a very long time, memories came back of tooth extractions and having stitches on her foot after treading on broken glass while paddling in the sea. “It won’t hurt for much longer,” they always said. But it always did. And the pain around her neck was hurting for a very long time.
The squirming, purplish-black, glistening thing was biting into her throat with sharp little teeth, trying to chew right through the bone and sinew. The burn of death spread from her neck to the rest of her body. She almost wanted to laugh at herself for being such a fool in thinking she could escape all the horror. Would he put her body in bags, then burn her out in the garden like he had done with the others? The smell floating in through Judith’s window, causing her to wrinkle her nose in disgust? This will end for me like it did for them. I am getting what I deserve. That thought came with a soothing dose of calm, like a shot of anesthetic given by a kindhearted doctor.
But it would not be over. When she came to, John was sitting on the side of the bed weeping.
“I can’t do it,” he wailed, as if her death were an arithmetic problem that couldn’t be solved. “Why can’t I do it, Mar?”
“To think once I believed you were capable of anything,” she said, despising him then, not for what he had done to the women in the cellar, but for his weakness. “But you’re nothing but a pathetic old fool, John.”
Dec 18th
Alla, darling daughter, why don’t you call, what has happened to you? We have not had phone call or skype message or letter for over three weeks now. Vava is always asking for you. I saw her the other day trying to prize open laptop with her little baby hands. Because she has seen you on the skype she must have thought her mama is trapped inside there and she can help you to escape. And then she cries when I take it away, I cannot allow her to break it, how would we ever buy new one?
All I care about is that you are safe, and I do not mean to complain but at the same time I must inform you times have been difficult because Vava and I depend so much on the money you send us.
Your mama is not complaining of course. If necessary can try to get my job back at the factory—the trouble is they do not like so much when I take the baby with me because she sometimes gets into mischief. We do not want to be any trouble to you but you must remember Vava is growing very fast and needs new clothes and shoes all the time. Your mama does not need anything for herself, apart from one packet of cigarettes per week that she smokes while standing on the small balcony and looking down at the park where the old men go to walk their dogs, plus one small bottle of English gin per week if there is a little bit of money to spare.
Of course I would give up these luxuries just to see your beautiful round apple cheeks and pinch them between our fingers! By the way Mr. Zhenshavic keeps asking about the rent he gets very angry with me sometimes and is threatening to take away television set. I say please wait one week until I see season finale of Never is not Enough to find out if Magda is released from jail—she has been wrongly accused of killing Mara’s husband.
Please do not concern yourself about money just call soon, I am so worried about you!
Dearest Alla
I spoke to Det. Insp. Constantin Dimtayin yesterday. I had to wait three hours for my appointment and the baby was crying the whole time. There were some very inferior types in the waiting room, a mother with a whole group of boys whose ears stuck out like batwings and a man with no teeth who said his accordion had been stolen. He spat when he talked and it was really quite disgusting.
Finally when I got to speak to the Det. Insp. he was far from helpful. In fact many of the things he said made me angry and very hurt indeed. I do not even want to tell you I have to put my hands over the tender ears of the baby he was so unpleasant. He said your girl Alla has gone abroad to become a whore we see thousands like her every year. Then he said, “Go home and forget her, old woman.” Which is very rude as he was a maximum of two years above me at school.
Then he said, “She has left you with baby, and she is now in London wearing fur coat bought by pimp and drinking champagne. She has gone because she does not want the child and she is sick of having to send you money.” Oh please Alla call soon—tell me these things that the Det Insp. says are untrue. Call soon, I fear that next week the landlord will take away mobile telephone because of rent and then how will you contact me?
I don’t care if you are a whore wearing fur coats who no longer cares about her mama and baby, please just let me know that you are alive and safe!
Oh my darling I am practically dying from a breaking heart. Your cousin Oleg made long journey last week to the city and the Kitty Kat Klub where you were working. He would not tell me many details of this place, but I can imagine what it is like. He says the people there have seen no sign of you for over a year. What has happened to you my darling? I do not know if you will ever read this but still it comforts me to write you. The baby is getting so big now; she can walk and talk and likes to watch ballet DVD. Nutcracker is her favourite, she spins around like a little prima ballerina along with the dancers.
We have so little money that I have taken job cleaning at the sulphuric acid factory. It is not so bad, while I am at work I leave the baby with old Natalya who lives in our building. The baby does not seem to mind and she is getting fat on all the cakes Natalya feeds her.
Every Sunday I go to church and pray for you and for the baby and for me. I hope if you did run away from us you have happy life.
Dearest, darling daughter
I am so desperate to hear any news of you after all this time that I agreed with old Natalya to arrange a session with a psychic woman she knows.
I know you are saying, Mama you are an old fool and this woman is just trying to take your money. But Natalya swears by her “special powers.” And I feel a desperate need for what the Americans call closure.
I went to old Natalya’s apartment last night. It was all very strange, she had turned off the lights and lit many candles, Mrs. Livchenka was there, a big fat lady wearing a strange fur hat that looked like a black rat sitting on her head! At first I was a little afraid of her. I gave her the money, nearly a whole week’s wages, I know this is a lot but I am so desperate to hear news of you my darling what else can I do? The politzia are no help of course and I have no money to hire a detective.
Then we sat around the table, old Natalya’s cats were staring at us from the shadows, I gave her your picture and a medal that you were given as a child when you won the ballet competition and one of the leather gloves that I gave you for Christmas when you were sixteen (remember you lost the other when you went skiing in the mountains with Oleg). Mrs. Livchenka touched all of the things and looked at them very carefully. Then she closed her eyes and begins to make these strange noises. I was worried she had become unwell, but old Natalya informed me that this was perfectly normal and part of the process.
Then she took hold of a pencil and piece of paper and wrote down a single word. It said MANATEE. What can this mean?
Afterwards when I asked her about you she just shook her head and this made me very afraid. She said that you and the baby are both with God. At this I
panic and rush back home to check on Varvara but she is safe, fast asleep in her bed, thank God, so I know none of it can be true. I am a silly old woman to listen to these mystics!
I pray I will hear from you soon.
Mama
• • •
“I’M NOT READY yet,” said Marion, then added proudly, “I’m waiting for a friend.” The waitress’s smile showed no trace of irritation, and she went away to serve another table.
She was sitting by the window in Stowe’s Tea Rooms. A year ago she would have rather bitten off her own tongue than send the girl away without giving her order. She hated even the idea of inconveniencing people in any way at all. And occupying a table that could have been used by another customer, or even group of customers, perhaps some of them elderly or infirm, would make her feel awful with anxiety. In fact, she wouldn’t have had the courage to come into Stowe’s by herself at all.
But the Marion that sat in the table by the window no longer cared so much about making people wait for her. She had other things on her mind. Edward, the man with the little dog she had first met outside Ocean Vista Court, was joining her for tea.
Since the move to Ocean Vista Court, nearly a year ago, Edward had been such a good friend, helping with all sorts of paperwork and bills, advising her on insurance policies and how to get her phone line and cable television connected. She did not know what she would have done without him.
Sometimes she joined him on his walks along the front with Treacle, and they often went for tea afterwards. Edward said Stowe’s coffee was the finest in Northport and couldn’t resist their homemade vanilla slices. He hated those nasty modern places like Starbucks and Costa Coffee. Also the waitresses didn’t mind Edward bringing Treacle into the café; they even gave him pieces of broken shortbread to eat.
Since becoming friends with Edward, Marion learned that his wife, Celia, had passed away from leukemia several years earlier. He had moved to Ocean Vista Court because his previous home was too filled with difficult memories. At seventy-one, Edward was quite a lot older than Marion, but he was very physically fit for his age, and in some ways he seemed much younger: he liked to listen to modern music, he still went skiing twice a year, and he even talked of her accompanying him.
Marion took a compact out of her handbag to check her lipstick. The color was called “Sunberry” and was supposed to “intensely moisturize” the skin of the lips. She thought the pinkish-gold shade looked attractive with the highlights in her hair. The beige suit she was wearing had been purchased from Pennington’s department store a few days earlier. She had also stopped at the makeup counter and acquired the lipstick along with mascara and a powder compact. She hadn’t yet used the mascara—it was the first bottle she owned in her life—and wanted to practice more before wearing it in public.
Buying clothes had become something of a pleasure for Marion since she had slimmed down. In the weeks and months preceding her move to Ocean Vista Court the pounds had simply dropped away, but she had to be careful not to put the weight back on again. When Edward arrived, she would order only one small chocolate éclair, and they would have a very long walk afterwards.
Marion saw a haggard-looking woman pass the window. It shocked her to realize it was Judith. Her former neighbor had changed so much, Marion hardly recognized her. A shabby brown cardigan was wrapped around her stooped form, the gray roots of her hair were showing, and she wore no makeup. Poor Judith.
Her art gallery had now closed and there was a big Under New Management sign in the window. There was a For Sale sign up outside her house too. Marion wondered if she would move in with Greg or even if they were still together. She had not spoken to Judith for a long time. Perhaps she never would again. And she doubted she would ever know how Lydia’s life turned out either.
Of course since moving to Ocean Vista Court, Marion had lost all contact with her brother. She doubted if he even knew or cared where she was living now. At times she did miss the old John, but not that scruffy, bearded tramp she sometimes glimpsed walking around town with stains on his trousers and dirty white trainers on his feet.
The day she left Grange Road she didn’t even tell her brother she was going; instead, she waited until he was down the cellar and then walked out the front door, taking almost nothing with her, except her coat and handbag. The first night in her flat she had slept on the bare mattress in Aunt Agnes’s bedroom.
Like a bride she had started from scratch, buying everything: underwear, clothes, bedding, furniture, pots and pans. How strange to have lived so much of her life without appreciating the pleasure of money. Before it frightened her. Now she had learned that having money was like wearing well-made shoes or lying on a soft bed. It was simply something that made life easier.
Of course they were always with her. Sometimes she felt them, like a lump beneath the skin that your fingers accidentally brush against in the shower. Yet Marion endured this as she had endured many unpleasant things over the years. Grief for the baby settled in her bones, and she still felt a twinge, from time to time, but if the poor thing had lived, then who would have looked after it? She now realized that the demands of a small child would have been far beyond her own capabilities. Certainly they wouldn’t allow a baby at Ocean Vista Court. And imagine having to change all those nappies and prepare special food, all those sleepless nights. Why, I can hardly look after myself, she would remind herself, never mind an infant.
“I just couldn’t live with myself.” Wasn’t that what people said when they had done something dreadful and found themselves forced to confess all to the world? Marion had come to believe this was a lie and that it was, in fact, perfectly possible to carry on with the knowledge of one’s horrible deeds and never tell a soul. Perhaps others had discovered this too and went about their lives filled with unseen rottenness, like jars of half-used jam that have been sitting at the back of the cupboard for so long, you are afraid to unscrew the lid.
At that moment, Edward came into the café with Treacle. The little dog saw Marion even before his master and began pulling his lead urgently towards her table. He always seemed pleased to see her. Didn’t that mean perhaps that she wasn’t entirely bad? Weren’t animals supposed to sense things about people? Or was she just fooling herself; did the dog just run towards anyone he recognized?
“Marion, you look well. Is that a new suit?” said Edward. He was such a gentleman, always knowing exactly the right thing to say. When she looked at him, Marion felt a fierce happiness that was tinged with terror, as if she were crossing some deep chasm on a high wire, and a single breath of wind might send her tumbling thousands of feet to her death. And then she allowed herself to be kissed on the cheek.
To @kdubrovna
From @ametcalf2
July 1st
Hi Kristina
Thanks for adding me! Love your profile and great pictures. You say that you want to improve your English so perhaps we can chat from time to time. A few things about me . . . I am twenty-one and grew up in a pretty seaside town in the UK. I like skiing, playing the guitar and sailing. When I finish uni I hope to become a teacher. I’m quite shy around girls and sometimes feel awkward when I meet them at parties. That’s why I prefer getting to know people online first. I hope we can be good friends!
Adrian
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to Nicholas Thompson for his encouragement right from the beginning, willingness to read drafts, and unswervingly honest criticism; to Jen Barclay, my wonderful agent, who made everything happen; to the amazing Alison Callahan, Nina Cordes, and all the team at Scout Press; to the excellent Lauren Parsons and everyone at Legend Press, Hachette Australia, and of course David Forrer at InkWell Management. Also thanks to my friends Louise Curtis, Sue Chaplin, Chris and Peter Padley, Mark Frith, Ken and Anne Morrison, and Fiona Bleloch for their love and support.
A Gallery Books Reading Group Guide
The Visitors
Catherine Burns
This re
aders group guide for The Visitors includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Introduction
Marion Zetland, a timid, middle-aged spinster, lives with her authoritarian older brother in the decaying mansion of their childhood on the edge of a northern seaside resort. Marion tries to live by her brother’s rules: doing the shopping and the laundry, preparing their quotidian meals, and staying out of his business. With only her teddy bears and imaginary friends for comfort, Marion does her best to shut out the shocking secret that John keeps in the cellar.
But when John becomes suddenly ill, Marion must open the door to the other side and come face-to-face with the gruesome truth—and her own darkness.
Topics and Questions for Discussion
1. Consider Marion’s warning to herself about the noises from the cellar on the novel’s opening page: “Don’t think about it, she warned herself, or you’ll go mad, just like Great-aunt Phyllis” (p. 1). Is this a self-fulfilling prophecy? Does Marion go mad?
2. How does Marion’s childhood, particularly her parents’ old-fashioned and aloof parenting styles, affect her later in life? How do Marion and John take after their parents?
3. Is John a good brother to Marion? How would you characterize their relationship? Are there any redemptive qualities in John’s actions toward Marion?
4. What was your first impression of Marion? What was your first impression of John? How are they similar and different from each other?
5. Is Marion as unlovable and unintelligent as her mother, John, and the other school children seem to think? How do you know?
The Visitors Page 25