by Jodi Taylor
‘What did he do?’
‘He saw the monkey’s paw, lying on the ground where the old lady had thrown it. He picked it up, and just as she dragged open the door, he made the third and final wish.’
I couldn’t speak.
‘And when she finally got the door open, there was no one there.’
‘He wished their son to go away?’
‘No, lass, he wished they’d never had the monkey’s paw in the first place. Now, let’s go and see if your mum’s got the tea ready, shall we?’
I tried not to think about it, but I couldn’t leave it alone, so the next day I went to the library and read the story for myself. It frightened me so much I could hardly move. I had a vivid flash of my daddy, lurching through the front door with his limbs hanging off and his innards ripped out and his ribs so shattered that I could see his still beating heart. He was looking at me with a mixture of hatred and despair and love, even as he reached out for me. I slammed the book shut and ran from the library. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards.
And I became very, very careful about what I did and said.
My mum died first. I was about twelve. She went into hospital and never came out. Dad was quiet and sad for a long time afterwards. His colour was almost all brown. Especially around his heart.
Life went on, though, and we learned to do without her. I studied cookery at school, and we always had a special Sunday lunch, followed by watching football in front of the telly. Then I had chess classes after school on Thursday, and on Friday nights Dad went to his working man’s club. On Saturdays, we had fish and chips, and got a DVD in.
It wasn’t a bad life. Dad was a retired council worker who was now able to indulge his passion for joinery. He was sweet and plump and grey-haired and I loved him very much.
And then, two days before my twentieth birthday, he died too. Quietly, in his sleep, at home. I was devastated, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Everyone was very kind to me. I thanked everyone politely and just carried on. I would have been lonely if I’d known how.
I had a job in the council records office where they’d known my dad. After a few months, they’d sent me down to the basement to begin digitising the records stored there. It was a lonely little room, miles from the toilets and with no windows. No one else wanted to do it, but it suited me down to the ground. It became my own little kingdom down there. I set myself a daily target, had little races with myself, listened to music and was as happy as I knew how. I honestly thought that would be my life. That I was all set for the uneventful existence of an unmarried woman in a dead-end job in one of the most sedate market towns in the country. But the universe had other plans for me.
One day, about eighteen months after my dad died, I met Ted. Not straight away – I met the flasher and his puppy first, but Ted came along shortly afterwards.
I’d taken my lunch to Archdeacon’s Park, because it’s pretty there. The gardens slope down to the river and there’s a small lake with ducks and a few swans. I chose my usual bench, laid out my lunch beside me, and sat back to enjoy the sunshine. People were strolling around, throwing sticks for their dogs or feeding the ducks. It was all very pleasant and quiet. There were people around, but not too close. Close enough for me to feel as if I belonged, but not close enough to impact on me, which was just the way I liked it.
I ate my egg sandwiches, drank half my drink, nibbled my apple and cheese, and finished the rest of my drink. Just as I always did. I liked the unvarying routine of my life. It made me feel safe. Today was Friday and after lunch, I would return to my basement office, tot up the number of completed records for the week, enter the figures into the file management system, and send them off. I have no idea whatever happened to them after that, but that’s local government. You just keep doing something until someone tells you to stop.
The rest of my afternoon would be spent shelving the old files, pulling out the new ones ready for next week and tidying my desk. Once that was done, I was all set for the weekend. Clean the house on Saturday morning, go shopping in the afternoon, read the papers in the garden on Sunday morning, have a bit of lunch and then watch a film on TV. I like routine. It makes me feel safe. That afternoon, however, my life was about to change for ever.
I was just packing up my lunch box when a man plonked himself on the other end of the bench. I hardly noticed him because my attention was all on his puppy – which was exactly as cute as all puppies are. He snuffled around my ankles, not just his tail but his whole bottom wagging with excitement.
I smiled at them both. The man’s colour was a yellowy-brown – almost the same colour as his puppy. There was nothing to show he had any hostile intentions of any kind. He smiled back and said, ‘Would you like to stroke my puppy?’
I nodded. He stood up and it was suddenly very clear to me that it wasn’t his puppy he wanted me to stroke.
I remember, I felt no fear. More puzzlement as to what he thought he was playing at. I could see he meant me no harm. I put him down as a bit of an exhibitionist – no more than that, but there were children in the park, so I walloped him around the head with my plastic lunch box and walked briskly away. I didn’t look behind me, so I’ve no idea what he did next, but I called in at the police station to report him. I spoke to a very kind policeman whose colour was almost the same blue as his uniform, signed a statement and went back to work. I was a little late, but no one seemed to notice.
Because of my lateness, I had to bustle about to get everything done, which served to take my mind off what had happened. I did occasionally wonder whether I should be more upset than I actually was, but he’d never meant me any harm, I was sure of it. Mostly, I think, I just felt sorry for the puppy.
Anyway, that evening, there was a knock at the door and there stood Ted, although obviously, I didn’t know that at the time.
I saw a sturdy man of medium height, with a thick head of brown hair, eyes that were almost exactly the same colour, and the world’s most unflattering moustache. His colour was brown too, fitting neatly and tightly around him.
‘Miss Ford?’
‘Yes?’
‘Good evening. My name is Cage.’ He held up some ID. ‘I’ve come about the incident in the park this afternoon. May I come in?’
‘Yes, of course.’
I led him into the kitchen and offered him a seat at the table. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Very much,’ he said, looking around. ‘It’s been a long day.’
It was only a very long time afterwards that I realised he never once claimed to be a policeman. I just assumed …
‘Well,’ he said, stirring in two neat spoonfuls of sugar, ‘I have some good news for you. We’ve got him.’
‘Really? So soon?’
‘Yes, the silly ass tried something similar about an hour later. In exactly the same place, would you believe? We had a presence in the park at the time – more as a precaution than anything because we never thought he’d be stupid enough to come back again, but he did, complete with his puppy, and we arrested the pair of them. They both came quietly.’
His brown eyes twinkled at me over his cup and I couldn’t help smiling back.
‘The even better news is that you won’t have to testify in court. He’s confessed. Quite willingly. We’re not even sure he knows what’s going on around him most of the time. Quite harmless, but he should be in secure accommodation and from today he will be.’ He twinkled at me again. ‘We’ve even found a home for the puppy.’
‘So it’s true – our policemen are wonderful.’
‘Well, I certainly like to think so. Anyway, the important thing is that you’re quite safe, Miss Ford, and you can consider the incident closed.’
‘Well, that’s amazing. Thank you so much. And thank you for taking the trouble to call this evening to tell me.’
‘My pleasure. I have to say, it is nice to be the bearer of good news occasionally.’
‘I don’t suppose that happens very o
ften.’
‘Not as often as I would like, no.’
There was an awkward pause. I watched his colour suddenly stream towards me, as brown and shiny as a new conker.
He cleared his throat.
‘Would you like another cup of tea,’ I asked, almost certain I knew the answer to that one.
He accepted the offer.
An hour later he offered to take me to dinner.
Six months later he offered me his hand in marriage.
Seven months later we were married.
Chapter Two
My life changed. Everything changed.
Ted had his own house and so, after a lot of discussion, we sold mine and put the money away.
‘For a rainy day,’ said Ted, which was typical of him. I sometimes think he was born in the wrong century. He would have fitted so neatly into the time between the wars. The 1930s were made for him. Or vice versa. He was a kind, gentle, paternal, family man. He loved to come home to his wife, so I gave up my job and became a housewife. I’m certain they laughed at me at work, but I didn’t care. I loved being a housewife. I loved being Ted’s wife. I would see him off in the morning and welcome him home at night. His house was small and easily kept clean – it wasn’t all vacuuming and dusting. I had time to sit with a coffee in the afternoons and read for a few hours.
In his spare time, he would work in his garden. There was a small lawn outside the back door with flower borders running around three sides. He grew roses and geraniums and dahlias and chrysanthemums – which he would tease me about because I can’t say the word. Behind the lawn, he grew his precious fruit and vegetables. Onions, peas, beans, marrows and raspberry canes. I would take him out a beer on hot afternoons, sitting on the garden roller and watching him work. He would cut the grass with an old-fashioned push mower because he liked the stripes. Every weekend he brought me in a big bunch of cut flowers for the house. He went out occasionally with his friends from work, but most of his spare time was spent quietly at home with me.
I was happy. Not the glorious, head-bursting happiness of a romantic heroine, but deeply, richly, quietly happy. I loved Ted very much and I think – I know – that he loved me.
A little while later, he came home one night to tell me he’d been offered a new job. In the private sector.
‘There’s a place the other side of Rushford,’ he said. ‘The Sorensen Clinic. They have some pretty important people staying there sometimes and they’ve offered me a position as head of security. The money’s good. What do you think?’
‘I think it sounds very exciting. Will I see more or less of you?’
‘Hard to say,’ he said, grinning. ‘Which would you prefer?’
He took the job, of course, and as far as I could see, nothing changed at all. His working hours remained the same. He still had the occasional call-out in the middle of the night, and he still didn’t talk about his work.
‘I have two worlds,’ he said once. ‘I like to keep them separate. I leave my work behind me when I drive out the gates.’ He smiled down at me. ‘This is my home.’
I snuggled against him on the sofa as he sipped the one beer he allowed himself on weekday nights.
‘Steady on there, lass, I nearly spilled me beer.’
I blew gently down his ear and he suddenly decided he had other things to think about than his beer.
Yes, we were happy. I often wondered if his colleagues sneered at him behind his back. Whether they called him ‘Steady Teddy’ out of contempt or affection, but I wouldn’t have changed a single part of my life.
That summer, the clinic held an Open Day.
‘We’ve never done this before,’ said Ted, pushing a shiny leaflet across the kitchen table.
I picked it up. ‘Why are you doing it now? You surely don’t need the publicity?’
‘It’s more of a PR thing. There are always all sorts of rumours flying around about us.’
‘What sort of “rumours”?’
‘Well, everything really. From brainwashing to baby sacrificing. Apparently, we experiment on human brains. When we’re not eating them, of course, and turning our patients into zombies. Or dancing naked around an old stone altar to raise the devil.’
I poured another cup of tea. ‘So what exactly do you do up there?’
‘Believe it or not, it’s actually quite dull. We’re a small, very discreet private hospital with a high-security clearance. We take in people who, for the good of the country, daren’t let it be known they’re a little …’ he paused.
‘Unstable?’ I suggested.
‘Well, madder than a fish, actually,’ he said. ‘We glue them back together and send them out to rule the world again.’
‘Surely these world rulers won’t want the public peering at them through the bars of their cages.’
He sighed, ‘Bars are very passé these days, Elizabeth. Do try and keep up with current developments in modern mind-management.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Anyway, the main building will be closed to the public. Only the gardens are open and there are tents and marquees with examples of staff and patients’ work. We have a great arts and crafts facility. So, do you want to come? It’ll be worth it just for the gardens and cream teas.’
‘And you’ll have to be there anyway.’
‘In my capacity as head of security, yes. I’ll be the one alternately glaring at people or trying to think of a good reason to frisk the pretty girls.’
‘I think I had definitely better come. It strikes me you’re not safe alone.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Dr Sorensen says he’s looking forward to meeting you.’
I smiled. ‘It will be fun. I just hope the weather holds.’
It did. We had a glorious June day and it was an excellent excuse to wear a pretty summer frock. Out of respect to the lawns, I put on a pair of ballet flats. I don’t like to carry handbags, so I handed Ted my lipstick to put in his pocket. As I always did. He grumbled, but tucked it away. As he always did.
The Open Day was already in full swing when we arrived.
We pulled in at the main gate and the scanner read the security badge on his windscreen. The barrier came up automatically. The two guards didn’t quite salute but they came very close.
The clinic was housed in a lovely Georgian building, built of cream-coloured stone, complete with ancient lead gutters and pipes. An unreadable crest, weathered by time, was carved over the front door.
The front gardens were very formal, with flower beds in geometric shapes bordered by neat little box hedges. Hanging baskets on stands lined the gravel drive. To the sides and rear, the style was more informal. A beautiful grass walk led down to the river, with terraced beds on either side, backed by tall yew hedges. On either side of that, grass stretched away to almost as far as I could see, with groves of silver birch, oak and beech at nicely picturesque intervals.
There were quite a few people here already, strolling around the gardens pointing at plants, or wandering in and out of various large tents scattered around the lawns. They even had a small brass band on the terrace, playing hits from various musicals.
‘What do you think?’ said Ted.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, gazing around. ‘You’re so lucky to work here.’
His colour wavered for a moment, flickering almost to nothingness at the edges.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘What? Nothing. Nothing at all. It’s just that I don’t get to see very much of it, that’s all. I’m usually inside.’
‘Down in the dungeons,’ I said.
I knew at once I’d said the wrong thing. Ted’s face never changed, but his colour curdled slightly. Something cold touched my skin. There was the smell of snow. And then it was all gone. Ted was himself and the sun was shining.
I really didn’t like Dr Philip Sorensen.
We found him outside the refreshment tent, talking to a bunch of local dignitaries, who seemed to have turned out in force.
‘Back in a minute,’ said Ted, and went to join them.
I drew back under the shade of a tree and watched.
For all that Sorensen’s head was attentively bent as he listened to what was being said around him, I could see that all his attention was on me. Even as I watched, his colour, a weak and weedy thing of insipid blue-white, suddenly flared up – like one of those geysers in a national park – and roared out towards me. Like a tidal wave of dirty milk.
I stepped back in alarm, seeking shelter behind the tree. Every instinct warned me to keep my distance because I really didn’t want that thing touching me.
In a flash, he had himself back under control again. His colour reeled itself in and settled about him. I watched him greet Ted, introduce him to those present, and then politely excuse them both. The two of them trod across the grass towards me. I made myself step out from the tree as if I’d just been enjoying the shade, and smile politely.
He didn’t wait for introductions. ‘Mrs Cage. This is such a pleasure. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time now.’
Yes, he had. I could see he was telling the truth. He had wanted to meet me for some time now. His colour flickered around the edges and, despite his outward polite calm, occasionally a tendril would reach hungrily towards me. I made sure to keep Ted between him and me.
‘Good afternoon, Dr Sorensen. I’ve been enjoying your beautiful gardens.’
‘How kind of you to say so. They are lovely, aren’t they? Now that you’ve finally met us, Mrs Cage, we’d be delighted if you’d visit us more often. Ted can easily arrange a pass for you, and you can enjoy our gardens any time you like.’
‘That’s very kind, thank you,’ I said, deciding never to take him up on his offer.
Pleasantries over, I hoped he would make his excuses – it was his Open Day after all and there had to be loads of people to meet and greet – but he showed no intention of moving away. Ted had stepped back a little and was watching something going on elsewhere. Even as I moved towards him, intending to put a little much needed distance between me and Dr Sorensen, he said suddenly, ‘Would you excuse me a moment please, Elizabeth?’ and strode away, leaving me alone with a man I really didn’t like, and who was showing far too much interest in me. And not in the usual way.