‘I’m using a very light form of hypnosis,’ he told Tom after one session about two weeks in. ‘That sounds more dramatic than it is. Children are good subjects for hypnosis because of their imagination. I use it simply to help focus and concentration.’
‘Do you mean she’s in a trance?’
‘No, no. You wouldn’t even know she was hypnotized. She moves around quite normally, eyes open. Why don’t you sit in next time and see for yourself?’
It was Clare, not Tom, who did as Hunt suggested. All that happened, she told Tom afterwards, was that he told Julia to imagine she was on a magic carpet that would carry her anywhere she wanted to go. Then there was a magic hat, a magic ring, and even a magic toy dog that told her secrets only she could hear.
There was no doubt that Julia was enjoying herself enormously in these sessions. Her parents also got the impression, not just from the reports Hunt gave them as the weeks went by, but also from the way Julia behaved at home, that things were going well. One thing Hunt had told them at the outset was that they should never, under any circumstances, ask Julia any questions about her imaginary family.
‘Inviting her to talk about them only validates them for her. And if she does talk about them, the best way to respond is by changing the subject. I think you’ll very soon find that they disappear entirely from her conversation. What I’m getting her to do is, quite literally, pack them up in her drawer and leave them there. When she starts a session by unpacking only those things that represent her life with you and nothing else, then we’ll have achieved pretty much what we hope to.’
It took three months to reach that point. When therapy is successful, Hunt said, it ends not with a bang but a whimper. There’s no dramatic overnight change; you just realize one day that a problem you used to have isn’t around any more. Like the memory of physical pain, mental pain too is hard to recall. Her parents could not know for sure whether Julia had been in pain or suffered mental anguish of any kind, but Brendan Hunt thought not, and advised them against asking her about it because that risked reopening a can of worms that had now been successfully closed. Certainly, she had never appeared to be overly disturbed by her fantasies about a second or alternative family except of course for that one time in the hospital when she had called out for her mommy and, however briefly, refused to accept Clare in the role. The pain then, and for the most part since, had been Clare’s and Tom’s.
But now it was in the past, and that was all they needed to know. They were grateful to Brendan Hunt; grateful to each other for having weathered the storm; grateful to have their adored daughter to themselves again.
Over the next five years, Julia Freeman grew into an extremely pretty, bright young girl. The blonde curls of childhood became long, soft tresses that she kept in place with an Alice band – the kind of ribbon seen in early illustrations of Alice in Wonderland. Her parents always felt she had something of an Alice in Wonderland quality about her: a natural sweetness of nature combined with a quick mind and endless curiosity.
She did well at school, where she was popular with pupils and staff alike. She didn’t care much for sport, except for swimming, which she was good at. Also, she liked horses and was learning to ride. Not being short of friends, she was never lonely, though there were times when she chose to be alone. She would read, curled up in her room, for hours on end if something caught her imagination. Tom and Clare were both quietly pleased when they realized that watching television had become for her more of a social thing than a solitary occupation. Her friends would come over, or she would visit them, and they would watch their favourite programmes or play some computer game together. Alone, she preferred books.
Tom and Clare didn’t so much decide against having another child; what they said was if it happened, it happened. The fact that it didn’t happen upset neither of them greatly. If they had been younger it might have been different. But by the time Julia turned eight, Tom had turned forty and Clare was about to. Tom’s career had continued to thrive, and Clare had resumed hers full time, also with success. They had remained in the same house because they loved it, but they had acquired a pied-à-terre in Manhattan which made business meetings easier and was useful for weekends when they felt like seeing a show.
Sometimes, in quiet moments, or on those thankfully rare occasions when he found himself sleepless at four in the morning, Tom would still wonder how long it could all go on. A nagging voice at the back of his head reminded him that no life goes unscarred, no happiness unblemished. We know all the worst things that can happen to us and those we love – disease, pain, premature death – yet we hope, irrationally, to escape them.
But how can we? The only answer is to live now, he would tell himself at the end of these pessimistic interludes, because now is the only time we ever live. Do not brood on what might have been or what might come. Celebrate what is. And in what is, he knew, he was a truly fortunate man.
13
He knew where he was, even though he had closed his eyes and dared not open them. So long as the shadows of the cellar were replaced by total darkness, he need not acknowledge the horror he had seen, and which he now struggled to forget. Even the worst freak show conjured by his blind imagination was no match for the awful reality that he knew would assault him if he opened his eyes again.
The first thing he had to do was get out of this place. That shouldn’t be impossible, even with his eyes closed. He knew where he was well enough: he had been here before, though he wasn’t sure exactly why or when.
He took a step, then another – and brushed against the rough brick surface of a wall. He turned, this time holding his hands out tentatively in front of him, and moved in what he felt sure now must be the right direction. He counted his steps silently . . . one . . . two . . . three . . .four . . .
Suddenly he faltered and gave a gasp of pain as he almost turned his ankle. Before he knew it, his eyes had opened on a reflex stronger than his will to keep them shut. He saw now the familiar floor, just as he remembered it, made of hardened earth with stones embedded in it, some round and smooth, some with sharper jagged edges. It was one of these that he had stumbled on.
But now, as he raised his eyes to peer through the frozen shadow-play of semi-darkness, he saw again the thing, that awful shape, that he had been trying so hard to pretend was not there.
Even now, as he watched her lying there, he tried to tell himself she was asleep. But he knew otherwise. He knew she was not sleeping. He knew that she was dead. He knew that there was no escape from this, no going back. A fatal line had been crossed.
How did it happen? The shock had emptied his brain. He was too stunned to think.
Had he been drunk? On drugs? If so, he was sober now – horribly sober.
He knew that it was no excuse, but he desperately wanted to believe he couldn’t help it. Did he go mad? Was he temporarily insane?
Who was she, anyway? He forced himself to go closer, looking down at her, short skirt riding up above her waist. Without thinking, he dropped to his knees. He was about to pull the skirt down, impose some kind of modesty, when he stopped himself. What was the point? What difference did it make now?
He felt the panic rise up through his body, impossible to fight. He thought he was going to vomit, but the feeling passed, leaving him with a single thought of dreadful clarity: that everything he had ever been or done was, from this moment, worthless. This mad and senseless act was now the definition of his life, the only thing that mattered. It would never leave his thoughts, awake or sleeping – if he ever slept again.
His one desire was to get out of there. He told himself that if he ran far and fast enough, he might yet escape this unbearable reality. But where could he hide?
He became aware of a faint light filtering in from somewhere above and to one side. Still kneeling, he turned in its direction, rising once more to his feet as he did so. He did not take his eyes off that tiny skylight, too high and grimy to see out of until he stood beneath it, in
the place he recognized.
Only then did he look back into the deepest shadows. He could see nothing, but he knew now what was hidden there.
He started to run. As he stumbled down the passage towards the light beyond the broken door, a voice was screaming in his head: ‘You’re dreaming! It’s only a dream! You’re having a nightmare!’
It made no difference. Because this time he was living it. This time, there would be no escape.
The terrified wailing sound went on for some time before he realized it was the sound of his own voice. It felt like an age before he was able to convince himself that he was awake now, and it had only been a nightmare. He had not killed anyone. How could he have imagined such a thing, even in his wildest dreams?
Wildest dreams. This had been the wildest of them all. But he was awake now, back home with Clare at his side.
Except, he saw as he turned, she wasn’t there . . .
Of course, he told himself, she had gone to check on the baby . . . But their daughter was no baby now. She would be nine next birthday. What was wrong with him . . . ?
Something else struck him as he looked around. This was not his own bed. It was not even his own house. He was in a strange place he did not recognize . . . The panic took a grip on him again, reaching up from somewhere in his gut to tighten around his throat. He took a deep breath, forcing calmness on himself.
He remembered now, finally. He was in New Orleans, the Hotel Richelieu on Chartres Street. He had come down two days ago to talk to some jazz musicians about a film.
Thank God.
That awful dream. Where did it come from? Hell – or himself? Or some hell in himself? He jumped as the phone rang at the side of his bed. He reached for it and hit a switch to glance at his watch. It was just after 6 a.m.
‘Tom?’ It was Clare’s voice. ‘I’m sorry to wake you. I know it’s early.’
‘Darling? What’s happened? Is something wrong?’ He didn’t need to ask: he could hear the tension in her voice.
‘It’s Julia. Don’t worry, she’s not hurt or sick. It’s nothing physical.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘It’s that Melanie thing again. I think you’d better get up here.’
14
It was coming up to Easter when the father of one of Julia’s friends called up with a proposition. He and his wife were taking their daughter, Charlotte, to Niagara Falls for the long weekend, and wanted to know whether the Freemans might care to join them on the trip. Julia, it transpired, had already told them she was keen to go, though oddly enough she had said nothing about it to her parents. Anyway, Clare and Tom thought it sounded like a good idea, so they agreed.
Then a problem came up with Tom’s schedule. He was planning a documentary about jazz piano, and one of the key people he had to talk with down in New Orleans could only see him over that Easter weekend. He felt bad about cancelling, but Clare encouraged him to go. He knew that she and Julia would be in good company and well looked after.
Tom had a sound man and cameraman with him, and they had pretty much shot everything they needed the night before he got Clare’s call. He got a flight out at nine thirty. Clare met him off the plane and as she drove him back to the hotel they went over in more detail some of the things she’d told him on the phone.
‘It’s that quiet obsessiveness that’s so scary – just insisting that her real name is Melanie, and that her “real family” live somewhere around here.’
‘Around here?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Did she say where?’
Clare shook her head.
‘Did you ask her?’
‘I was going to. Then I thought about what Brendan Hunt said about not encouraging her in the fantasy.’
‘You’re right.’ He thought a moment. ‘I guess the first thing we need to do is get hold of Brendan Hunt.’
‘I should have done that already.’ She looked over at him with an anguish in her face that he had not seen before. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her voice breaking. ‘I’ve not been much use.’
‘You’ve done fine. Don’t worry – we’ll get through this.’
Her eyes were back on the road. She wiped a hand across them to clear the mist that had come over them. Tom saw that she was biting her lip on the inside. He reached out, touching her face lightly with his fingers. ‘I mean it. We’ll be fine.’
They were silent a while, then he said, ‘It started last night? Just out of the blue?’
She nodded. ‘We were ordering dinner, the five of us. Julia said she wanted meatloaf. You know Julia and meatloaf, or steak or ribs. I thought she’d made a mistake and said maybe she’d like chicken or pasta. But she insisted she wanted meatloaf. I said, “But you don’t usually eat meatloaf. You hate it.” She looked at me in a strange way as if she was challenging me to accuse her of lying, and said, “I’m Melanie now”’
‘And her friend Charlotte – you said she was in on the whole thing?’
‘It turns out Julia had told her that was why she wanted to come here – because she had this secret family close by. Charlotte was sworn to secrecy – you know how kids are.’
Tom thought about this. He wasn’t sure he knew anything about kids. Maybe he’d started too late in life. Maybe he and Clare were both out of their depth. It certainly felt that way right now.
‘The incredible thing,’ Clare was saying, ‘is the way she just carries on playing with Charlotte, or doing whatever we’re doing, as though nothing had happened. Except that if anybody calls her Julia, she just says her name is Melanie.’
‘It sounds almost like a game.’
‘It’s more than a game.’
When they got to the hotel they found Julia, Charlotte and her parents in the heated indoor swimming pool. It was obvious that the parents realized something was quite badly wrong, but they didn’t really understand the situation and were a little embarrassed by it.
The moment Julia saw Tom, she started running towards him with her arms flung open, calling out, ‘Daddy, Daddy!’
He held her tight, not caring about the damp stains spreading over his coat. He didn’t know why he said what he said next. It just came out, forced from him by the emotion that was threatening to choke him, and the sting behind his eyelids.
‘Am I really your daddy?’ he said.
She looked at him with a kind of playacting surprise, as though he was teasing her.
‘Of course, you’re my daddy!’ she said, and gave him another hug around the neck and pressed her cheek against his. ‘I love you, Daddy.’
‘What about your other daddy?’ he said.
She didn’t say anything, so he prompted her.
‘Do you love your other daddy?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s not like you.’
Tom caught Clare’s anxious gaze, then asked: ‘And what about your other mommy?’
Julia pulled away a little so she could look Tom in the eyes. There was a smile on her face.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘I love my other mommy.’
15
The evening was strained but, oddly, not difficult. Clare had spoken with Charlotte’s parents. They had understood as much as anyone could, and had agreed to go along with whatever Tom and Clare suggested.
Tom had managed to talk with Brendan Hunt on the phone. Over the years since Hunt had treated Julia they had run into him pretty regularly. Saracen Springs was a community in which their social circles tended to overlap. Hunt had always been anxious to hear how Julia was getting along and was pleased to know that she’d had no further problems. But he had never seemed worried about her, certainly never suggested that it might be useful for him to see her again. As far as he was concerned, the episode was over and she was fully recovered. Whenever he and Julia met, whether in the street or in a restaurant or at the house of some mutual friend, she had always greeted him like a favourite uncle, obviously happy to see him again.
Hunt listened in sile
nce as Tom explained what had been happening over the phone. ‘I can’t offer much of an opinion without talking to her,’ he said when the story was finished. ‘When will you be back?’
‘I’m going to get the first flight we can. It’s a little tricky being the holiday period.’
‘It’s probably a good thing to get back here if you can. In the meantime, don’t challenge her, don’t accuse her of talking nonsense. At the same time, don’t play along with her.’
‘What about her friend Charlotte?’
‘What about her?’
‘She seems to be part of the whole thing. Should we separate them?’
Hunt was silent a moment. ‘I don’t think so, not at this stage. Just do your best to keep things on an even keel till you get back here.’
Tom got seats on a plane late the following morning. On Hunt’s advice they didn’t tell Julia they were going home early, which made them both feel a little awkward and dishonest. But that was better than getting her upset and having to deal with the problem all night, which Hunt said was a risk they ran. Far better, he had said, to cook up some story about an emergency in the morning just before they left for the airport.
Clare had kept the double room which she and Tom had originally booked, along with an adjoining room for Julia. They all three gathered on the big bed after supper and watched television. When Julia began to fall asleep, Clare suggested she turn in. The child slipped off the bed without objection, kissing both her parents before heading for her own room, rubbing her eyes. In the door she stopped.
‘Daddy,’ she said, turning back, ‘will you take me to my mommy’s house tomorrow?’
Tom felt Clare’s eyes on him but avoided meeting them. ‘We’ll see,’ he said evasively. ‘Let’s see what happens in the morning.’
A Memory of Demons Page 5