Writ in Water

by Natasha Mostert

  The place looked exactly the way she would have expected a British library to look: old—authentic old—with mullioned windows and desks with deeply carved initials in the wood. It was tiny: only one room with a mezzanine section, and it didn’t take her long to realize that this was by no means your ordinary, garden-variety library.

  The signs marking the various sections were handwritten in a beautiful, flowing script: GNOSTICISM, THE CATHARS; CABALISM; SHEKINAH; HERMETIC ORDER OF THE GOLDEN DAWN; CLAIRSENTIENCE; ORDER OF THE ROSY CROSS; MARIAN APPARITIONS; TAOISM; THEOSOPHY; NUMEROLOGY, I CHING, RAPA NUI.

  The only other occupant of the library, apart from the motherly-looking librarian, was a man dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. He looked like a banker and was making notes with a Montblanc fountain pen. As she passed by the desk, Isa read the titles of the two books in front of him: Malleus Maleficarum and The Book of the Dead.

  She followed Michael as he led her down an aisle marked by the signs BLACK MAGIC, WHITE MAGIC, and—Isa started—SEXUAL MAGIC.

  Michael noticed her stare and grinned faintly. ‘Some people believe you can reach a higher level of consciousness by having sex with archangels, saints and historical figures. Sounds like fun. Anyway, that’s not it. What I want to show you is this.’

  He stopped in front of a glass-fronted book case and took out a thick encyclopaedia-sized volume. The spine was broken, and when he carried it over to the study table, a few loose pages fluttered to the ground.

  He moistened the tip of his forefinger and paged rapidly through the book.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Read this.’

  Isa looked at the entry to which his finger was pointing. The heading stated baldly and without apology: Telephone Calls from the Dead.

  The text was equally sober and unsensationalized:

  ‘Most phone calls from the dead take place within days of the death of the caller. The person called is usually someone with whom the caller shared an emotionally close relationship.

  The call may terminate suddenly and often the connection is poor. When the phone rings it may sound abnormally flat. The reason for the call is either to impart some information that is necessary for the well-being of the recipient such as a warning of imminent peril—or a request for assistance.

  Thomas Edison was working on designing a telephonic link between the living and the dead shortly before his death.

  In the 1940s further experiments were conducted in England and the United States to reach the deceased by making use of a ‘psychic’ telephone. Interest in the phenomenon peaked in the 1960s when Konstantin Raudive managed to capture voices of the dead on electromagnetic tape. Experiments in the area are still being conducted by a number of modern-day parapsychologists.

  Some psychiatrists and parapsychologists suggest that the phenomenon can be explained by hallucinations, which are in part the product of Psychokinesis (PK) done subconsciously by the recipient.’

  Isa pointed to the last sentence: ‘“Done subconsciously by the recipient.” So this is all my fault? My imagination?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what it means and maybe a shrink will tell you it’s all fantasy and some kind of subconscious wish-fulfilment on your part—you miss Alette, you’re traumatized by her death—so you start hearing voices. I just find it mind-blowing that Alette had been extremely interested in this subject. Passionate about it, in fact. She was the one who introduced me to this place.’ Michael gestured at the leather-bound books around them. ‘The very passage you just read, she read to me once. And she’s read everything else written on the subject, I can assure you. She told me her interest in afterlife communication started in her childhood. She had this friend; a black woman …’

  ‘Siena.’

  ‘Yes. As I understand it, she was the one who introduced Alette to the idea of communication between the quick and the dead.’

  Isa said slowly, ‘Regeneration and reincarnation are central concepts in traditional African religion. Siena taught us that death does not liberate you. The newly dead especially are still required to play a role in the lives of the people they care about who are still alive. They help to right wrongs; are instrumental in settling scores.’

  ‘Of course,’ Michael nodded. ‘I keep forgetting. You were there, too.’

  ‘Yes, probably lurking somewhere in the background.’

  She leaned back in her chair. She was feeling slightly nauseous again. ‘Which reminds me,’ she said. ‘Did Alette ever show you carvings of two wooden dolls—about twenty inches high—very darkly polished?’

  He frowned. ‘I don’t think so. Why, what are they?’

  ‘They’re marriage dolls. They symbolize spirit marriage partners and perfect unity between two souls. Perfect love. Alette had requested they be cremated along with her.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ He sounded surprised. ‘I knew, of course, that she preferred cremation to burial. Fire, to Alette, was a symbol of spiritual energy and a link between successive lives. She was interested in alchemy, you know, and believed, as the alchemists did, that fire is a medium of transmutation: first destroying and then regenerating.’ He checked himself. ‘But she never told me about the marriage dolls. Why do you ask? Do they have something to do with the phone calls?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just something else that’s been troubling me. I don’t know why but there’s something about it that’s not right.’

  It was quiet between them. Then he said quietly, ‘Why is she calling you, Isa?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her steadily. The green-shaded reading lamp was throwing a pool of light over the book; over his large hands resting on the rice-paper-thin pages. The yellow light illuminated the soft, fair hairs on the back of his fingers.

  ‘She wants me to do something for her.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. But I think last night’s call was because I was thinking of not doing it: of walking away from it all.’

  The silence dragged on between them.

  ‘And I think she’s trying to warn me.’

  ‘Warn you?’

  Isa nodded. ‘In the first phone call she mentioned danger. Fear. Last night’s dream was pure terror. Alette could have stopped it—she has that kind of power over dreams. But she didn’t. It’s as if she wants to show me something.’

  His face was set and his voice sounded almost stern. ‘When Alette first introduced me to all of this—lucid dreaming, after-life communication—I was fascinated. It’s completely beyond my ken, but I saw it as something positive.’

  He paused. ‘I’ve changed my mind since then.’

  ‘Why? Alette believed that if you’re able to control your dreams, you’re on the road to fully taking charge of your waking life as well.’

  ‘Yes? Well, think about this for a minute. If dreaming is indeed functioning as an outlet for the pressure cooker that is our deepest, basest emotions and desires, what’s going to happen if you’re able to simply bypass all those symbolic, archetypical demons? Dreaming is supposed to help you gain insight into what’s troubling the unconscious, right? If you have the power to edit out anything you find threatening and uncomfortable—or, for that matter, add anything you feel like—how will you ever reach any insight? The mind is already such a cunning, cunning thing. It is programmed to be dishonest, to lie to us. Throughout our lives we train it to become even more deceitful. It is only in our dreams where the mind can’t lie. Where we can’t escape.’

  ‘Last night’s dream certainly did not feel like an escape.’

  ‘Fine. So maybe this is a demon that needs to be confronted. But take care. This is still not an ordinary dream—it’s a lucid dream. And you’re linked to it through Alette. Some of the research on alert dreaming suggests it can be dangerous in the extreme. To exercise that kind of power may place on the mind an unbearable burden.’

  ‘I take it you’re talking about insanity
.’

  ‘Many of the experiences of the lucid dreamer and the schizophrenic are alike. There have been reports of lucid dreamers getting lost in their dreams and unable to find their way back; unable to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. Lucid dreamers may find their dreams taking possession of them and they end up literally unable to find their own self again.’

  ‘Why don’t you just come right out and tell me what it is you’re trying to say to me?’

  ‘I’m saying you should beware. And that you should think very carefully before encouraging this.’

  ‘It’s not up to me, Michael. Alette is the one accessing my dreams. And she’s the one calling. Not me.’

  He shook his head. ‘She needs a willing partner. Don’t take her hand. It is up to you.’

  ‘Michael, this is Alette we’re talking about.’

  ‘I know. And she was a good friend. But I’m worried about you now. I don’t think this is stuff one should mess with.’

  She looked away. She was suddenly immensely tired and had an urgent need to get out of the silent, murky atmosphere of this library; to breathe in fresh air.

  ‘What time is it?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I still need to stop by Alette’s solicitor.’

  ‘He’ll be gone by now.’

  Isa pushed back her chair. ‘No. He said he’ll be working late tonight. I only need to pick up an envelope.’

  Outside a cold wind was blowing and the lowering sky was black-blue. The rustle of dried leaves in the garden square sounded like secretive, conspiratorial whispering.

  Michael was looking at her with concern. ‘Why don’t you call me when you get back and we’ll get something to eat? We can talk.’

  ‘Thank you. But what I need now is to allow all of this to sink in.’

  She paused, and when she spoke again, she kept her voice deliberately light. ‘Actually, I was thinking about trying to find a place to work out tonight.’ She gestured at the large, floppy gym bag she had been carrying around with her all day. I found Alette’s gym card. Do you think they’ll let me in?’

  ‘Oh, certainly. It’s the council gym. They’re pretty lax; they’ll let in just about anyone if you put down your two pounds. But I have to warn you, it’s not swish: rather Victorian. But there’s a swimming pool if you’re interested. And it’s convenient: only five minutes from Alette’s house.’

  As he turned to go, she put her hand out and touched his sleeve. ‘Michael.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For listening. And for believing me.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ His eyes crinkled into a smile. For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then the smile faded and he said almost abruptly, ‘Alette was fascinated by death. Even when she was a little girl.’

  Isa didn’t answer.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Death didn’t fascinate her.’ Isa shrugged. ‘Cheating death did.’

  • • •

  ISA GLANCED OVER HER SHOULDER through the smudged rear window of the cab. Something did not feel right. It was impossible to say exactly when she had first noticed the prickling, claustrophobic feeling of unease that was nudging at her. She had been aware of it ever since she had left Michael at the library. A sense of being observed. It was as though something—someone—was warning her to pay attention, to watch out. As though an invisible finger was tapping her on the shoulder. Tap. Tap.

  The corridor leading to Mr Darling’s office was empty and with a sinking heart she saw that no light shone through the fan-shaped window above his door. She looked at her watch. It was later than she had thought. But just as she was about to try the door, she heard something behind her and spun around. A man dressed in black clothing, a helmet under his arm was standing to one side, quietly watching her.

  ‘Miss de Witt—I had given up on you.’

  Isa blinked. Lionel Darling seemed quite different today. Gone were the brogues and expensive suit. His attire was almost a parody of the bad-boy biker look. The leather jacket actually had a skull-and-crossbones patch on one arm and his boots were studded with metal. His fair hair was slicked back.

  As he fitted his key to the lock, he looked at her with amusement. ‘Don’t let the clothes rattle you.’

  She coloured. ‘Sorry, it’s just …’

  ‘I know. But solicitors don’t only play golf.’ He smiled again and held the door wide for her. ‘It’s a good thing I had to come back to the office. I thought you weren’t coming anymore and left for home a while ago. But I forgot my wallet.’

  Inside the office he unlocked a steel cabinet. ‘If you’ll just sign here.’

  Isa took the envelope from him gingerly.

  ‘Our office is closed from tomorrow until well into the New Year,’ he said. ‘But I’ll make arrangements to have the third letter couriered to you next week.’

  ‘You don’t have to go to so much trouble. I don’t mind waiting. When do you open again?’

  He looked at her sternly and wagged his finger in mock disapproval. ‘No, that won’t do. Our office is very particular.’

  Outside in the corridor he held out his hand. ‘A merry Christmas to you.’

  ‘And to you.’ She nodded at him and started walking away. At the end of the passage she turned and looked back. He was still standing where she had left him, watching her. He smiled charmingly and lifted his hand in an elegant farewell salute.

  She stepped through a pair of wide doors into yet another long, empty corridor. She was very conscious of the manila envelope clutched in her one hand. It was identical to the first envelope she had received, but in the upper right-hand corner were the words: Second Envelope.

  When she finally reached the stone steps outside the building, Isa stopped. For a moment she looked at the envelope irresolutely, her finger lightly rubbing against the sealing label bearing Alette’s signature. Then, with an abrupt gesture, she tore through both the label and blue waxed seal and took a quick peek inside. As before: two smaller envelopes addressed to the FT and the Post. And Alette’s letter. She withdrew it halfway out of the envelope:

  Dear Isabelle,

  If you’re reading this letter, you have decided to help me.

  Thank you. Thank you so much. I knew I could count on you …

  Here’s what we’ll do next …

  Isa slid the letter back into its sleeve. This was not the place to read it. Zipping open her gym bag, she tucked the envelope underneath her sweats.

  She turned right, thinking there would be a shortcut to the main street where she might hail a taxi. But she miscalculated and found herself in a maze of tiny alleys. This was clearly not a residential area. The buildings were dark and the streets so narrow that when she looked up it seemed to her as though the rooftops on both sides of the road would touch. Despite some tall, modern glass-and-steel buildings, it was an old part of London this: some of the walls on both sides of her were impregnated with the grime and sweat of centuries. A vaguely urinal smell clung to the pavements. Large black rubbish bags, streaked with a diamond glitter of raindrops, lay piled up on every corner. Apart from two other pedestrians and a silent figure crouching in a doorway, clutching at a tangle of dirty blankets, she saw no one. It was quiet here. And again she had that feeling of being watched, of being followed. Tap. Tap.

  She was walking faster and faster. The echo of her footsteps bounced off the walls. It sounded jerky, irregular. Now she was slowing down; now she was speeding up; now she was stopping as she stood still to listen. The wind tugged loudly at a sheet of tarpaulin covering the steel skeleton of a piece of scaffolding and her heart jumped. The loose piece of grey canvas billowed and flapped.

  She turned the corner. At the far end of the narrow street she could see a stream of cars passing by as a traffic light flashed green. She had found the high street. The relief was so great; she tasted salt in her mouth.

  She tried to flag down a taxi, but every cab had passe
ngers in the back or its yellow roof light switched off. The fog had suddenly thickened, turning bright beads of light into misty halos. She wondered if she was ever going to find a free cab.

  On the other side of the road she spotted the brightly lit blue-and-red circle marking the entrance to the Tube. After a moment’s hesitation, she crossed the street and walked down the shallow steps. After buying her ticket, she stepped onto an enormously tall escalator packed with commuters and found herself squeezed in between a burly man and a teenager with a long ponytail.

  Tap. Tap.

  She peered over her shoulder at the long line of passengers stacked up behind her. Her eyes met the uninterested gaze of the teenager. He was listening to his iPod, his lips making breathless ‘mpa mpa’ noises along with the beat.

  As she stepped off the escalator, she did not follow the flow of passengers. She pressed herself against the dirty margarine-coloured wall tiles, watching and waiting as the stream of commuters passed her by. No one looked at her. No one seemed interested in her.

  She continued down the echoing corridors. The walls were shuddering, the ground underneath her feet was vibrating, and as she rounded the corner leading to the platform, she was just in time to see the train disappearing noisily into the black tunnel.

  The platform was now almost empty. At the far end stood a turbaned Sikh and a young woman wearing a navy jacket and trainers with reflector strips on the heels. Each time she moved her feet they glinted with the gaiety of ballroom shoes. Silently the yellow letters on the electronic billboard spelled out that the next train would be arriving in three minutes.

  On the other side of the tracks, on the wall facing her, were giant posters advertising an exhibition of Russian icons and medieval art. Isa looked intently at the figures on the poster, strangely mesmerized by their soot-black faces and golden halos. One martyr, eyes turned up inside his head, was grasping a jewel-encrusted cross: from his garrotted throat spewed forth a silently petrified, motionless arc of red blood.