by Gary Fry
——
Large lettering, as tall as people, had appeared in his Maidstone home. These ran across the carpets, crisscrossing the ground floor and advancing up the staircase. Jim followed them, trying to deduce their meaning, but the words they formed were nonsense, with no spaces between to provide context…until he reached the master bedroom, where the letters led directly to the bed and abruptly ceased. Jim lifted his head. Although he saw the erratic, meaningless words continue on the other side of the room, it wasn’t these that claimed his attention.
It was the two figures in the bed: his wife and Brendan lying side-by-side, like a double space between two sentences, and one Jim was now desperate to delete…
——
He awoke, sweating profusely. He’d rarely suffered nightmares in the past, but this last year had been burdened by nebulous concerns he was unable to define. He got up and entered the en suite bathroom, washing his face and examining himself in the mirror. His eyes were wrinkling, his hair greying. Then he recalled how his good friend Brendan had aged more gracefully, not unlike the ever-fair Meg.
Jim returned to his laptop, booted up its hard drive, and examined that insidious email again.
Now he knew what troubled him about it—the use of a double space between its two statements:
…that new French movie. Perhaps we can speak…
Meg would never do that. Under his instruction, she’d become a rigorous stylist down the years. Even in a casual missive issued via a medium of communication she was unused to, Jim knew she’d adhere to this inviolable rule. It was a good habit. His wife would no sooner hit the space key twice between lines than she would misplace an apostrophe.
But Jim knew someone who would do this.
All Brendan’s manuscripts were characterised by this annoying trait. Ever since university, he and Jim had exchanged works-in-progress, making comments on developing projects in a mutually beneficial way. More recently, Jim had been unable to commit to this process, but that was because of tight deadlines imposed by his mass market publisher. Surely Brendan realised he was still supported in spirit…
After dressing while processing these dangerous thoughts, Jim made his way out of the hotel, skipped breakfast, and then began pacing along the village’s high street to make his early appointment. His mobile phone weighed heavily in one pocket, but he focused instead on this part of Suffolk, its sweeping fields and rich vegetation. He’d always loved the county, second only to his native Kent. He had further trips planned in East Anglia over the next month.
This would be more time away from home, of course…further opportunities for Meg and Brendan to…
As Jim reached the premises of the printing company he’d come to research—james monty, its sign read, and then: EST. 1786—he removed his mobile phone and quickly dialled his home number.
His wife answered on the third or fourth ring. She sounded sleepy, as if the shrilling phone had just woken her. This at least implied that she’d slept in her own bed last night, but…had she done so alone?
“Hi, ” he said, as brightly as he could manage. He didn’t want her to suspect anything out of the norm. After all, he could easily be wrong about this, couldn’t he?
“Oh…hi, ” she replied, and if she sounded guarded, that might only be as she came round from deep sleep. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. ” He hesitated, but was then unable to resist pursuing his concerns. “I got your email. Did you have a good evening last night—at the cinema?”
“Er, yeah, it was fine. I…I saw that new French movie, directed by Michel Paret. It was a…searing indictment of institutional bureaucracy. Some great performances, too, particularly from the leads. ”
She sounded like a film review, and Jim pictured her memorising these details while reading a newspaper yesterday. But he must give her the benefit of the doubt; the only alternative was confrontation and that simply wasn’t his style. Despite his profession and the role she’d always played in that, theirs had been a marriage of few words, with much held firmly under the surface.
“Great, ” he replied, but then imagined his wife dictating that message to Brendan from bed last night. The man was seated at the desktop PC they kept in the master bedroom, half-undressed, smiling as he typed and perhaps putting in that double space deliberately, as a subliminal clue to rebuke Jim for his independent success and to heighten the risk factor as he clicked Send, closed down the machine and finally turned to Meg…
The bastards, thought Jim, realising that his suspicions had to be true. He knew this in the same way he understood many things: with subconscious certainty, a hunch confirmed by subtle mind-games. Meg hadn’t visited the cinema last night and Brendan had written that email at her dictation. That would also account for so many small perceptions Jim had suffered in the last year, things that had squirmed at the back of his mind, but which had taken no tangible form…until now.
His wife was having an affair and Brendan was the offender. Jim would bet his professional reputation on it.
After more small talk, during which he gave nothing away, Jim hung up and then did the only thing he knew how to do well: went back to work.
The proprietor of James Monty was an aged man with an infectiously dark smile and playful sense of humour. The business was a family affair, handed down across generations since its inauguration in the eighteenth century. The owner had many sterling stories and much information to relate, including intimate knowledge about old-fashioned printing devices. He even demonstrated a few devices in a display room reserved for visitors, presumably intended to impress upon clients James Monty’s heritage and quality.
When Jim noticed a plaque mounted on the wall, he thought about his wife’s final words over the phone. She’d asked what time he’d be home tomorrow. And if that hadn’t confirmed her guilt—presumably she’d intended to ask Brendan to leave long before Jim’s return— nothing else had. Jim had told her that, with a “strong following wind” (a favourite phrase of theirs), he hoped to be back by dinnertime, but in truth planned to reach Kent by lunch. That was surely the only way he’d catch his wife and her duplicitous beau in flagrante. And just what he’d do about it, he was unable to fathom right now.
The owner of James Monty was telling Jim about the words inscribed on the wall-mounted plaque, a little of that dark humour heavy in his voice.
“It’s supposed to be a curse. The idea was that if you added this phrase at the foot of any printed missive, its recipient would come to an unpleasant end. ”
Jim leaned forwards, looking more carefully at the words, which appeared to be written in Latin. Before he could assess the wisdom of the act, he produced the notepad and pen he’d been using to jot down key quotations from his interview today. Again he pictured Meg and Brendan in the throes of subversive passion…and then said to his companion, “Is it OK if I make a note of this alleged curse?”
“Provided you don’t intend to use it for nefarious purposes. ”
The man was joking of course, his sinister humour failing to relent. But Jim ignored that and went about recording this fascinating piece of hokum. It would make a good entry in the book he’d been commissioned to write.
Later, after bidding goodbye to his host and straying back through the village for his hotel, Jim realised how unhappy he’d been made to feel today. He’d tried to combat the truth by working hard, the way he’d always done. He was a professional, whose inherited wealth and modest income had provided well for Meg, allowing them both to live to a decent standard. Okay, so there’d been few fireworks in their marriage, but that was the kind of people they were. Similarly, they’d chosen not to have children, focusing instead on aspects of life that bringing up a family would compromise: fine films, the opera, literary festivals and more. Their sex life had faded years ago, but there was more to a happy existence than that…
Wasn’t there?
After hurrying to his hotel room, he opened his email server and readdressed t
hat insidious message.
…take myself out…this evening…speak on the phone tomorrow evening…
These phrases burned in his mind, but not as much as that one item of punctuation, the treacherous double space.
His brain reeling, Jim stooped to the laptop and then deleted one of the two spaces. He recalled his dream overnight, the way his wife and Brendan, together in bed, had interrupted a meaningless string of letters scattered around his home. Removing one of the spaces—the one on the right—seemed to correspond with eliminating half of this illicit pair: the man laid in Jim’s place, his loathsome face awash with post-coital pleasure.
Then, after responding to the email with hurriedly typed words— “Tired today; think I may be coming down with something. Will soldier on and return as planned tomorrow…Jim”—he added the cursed Latin phrase he’d learned about earlier: discreetly, huddled in one corner, almost unseen.
——
The following morning, after a reassuringly dreamless sleep, Jim regretted his behaviour of the night before. This wasn’t because he felt foolish about dabbling in such nonsense as curses, but because he’d tried to alleviate his anxieties in an irrational way. He knew he must confront his problem head on. He’d never been that kind of person, ever fearful of physical friction, but on this occasion, the moral right was surely on his side.
After a solid breakfast, he packed his goods and headed for the railway station. East Anglian countryside drifted by, laden with age-old secrets. He considered the distant past and how even relatively modern towns like Ipswich, Chelmsford and Brentwood had attracted a fair amount of apocryphal, outré material…Upon reaching London, however, with its hissing underbelly of hurtling technology, such fanciful ideas fled Jim’s mind, and he soon found himself dwelling not on curses but the very real evil of extramarital affairs. He was determined to catch his wife and oldest friend “at it”, as coarse folk phrased the act these days.
His Maidstone home was in a secluded, leafy borough which rarely attracted trouble…well, not from outside personal relationships, anyway. Nevertheless, Jim had often wondered what furtive truths lurked behind closed doors in this neighbourhood. Once the taxi had stopped, he paid the driver and climbed out, about five doors down from his house. Then he marched swiftly for the property, pacing inside as if he was just another happily married man, back from a long day in an office.
But his life had never been anything like ordinary. His career often took him away from home, driven by a preoccupation with—if he was honest—interests hardly appealing to a sexually mature woman. Jim had sometimes wondered whether he’d concealed his interpersonal difficulties behind marketable obsessions, but it wasn’t the right time to ponder this now. He had his wife to confront.
He found Meg in the lounge, her eyes glistening with tears she immediately tried to shield. Was this because she was upset or because of truths she wished to keep from her husband? Either way, he kept his distance, wary of forgiving her if she placed her slender warmth in his arms, something that always reminded him of what he simultaneously desired and had always been quietly afraid of.
“What…is it?” he asked, dropping his luggage to one side, hearing his treacherous laptop thump on the carpet.
“The p-police have visited, ” Meg replied, with a directness that made Jim feel as if the news was something she’d be unable to conceal even if she’d wanted to. “It’s…it’s Brendan. He’s…he’s…”
“Dead, ” said Jim, and felt his legs give a little at the knees, a weakness arising more from incipient middle-age than shock.
Five minutes later, cradling his wife on their couch, Jim heard the whole story. Apparently, an associate of their friend had found the man in his bedroom, tied up with cables and wires extracted from his home PC. The material onscreen had revealed deviant preoccupations, perhaps accounting for the way he’d died—in a shameful act of erotic asphyxiation.
“Were any other websites open on the computer?” Jim asked, once Meg had revealed all she clearly intended to.
“Others? What do you mean, Jim?”
His wife sounded defensive. Perhaps the police had asked similar questions, perhaps even ones about her whereabouts the last few evenings. If Brendan had accessed Meg’s email account from his own computer the other evening, she must have been at his house at the time. Indeed, a woman didn’t need to stay the whole night to enjoy whatever sordid fantasies she’d long been suppressing, and which had become problematic only after hitting forty recently.
Jim didn’t think cross-examining his wife further would help; it might even make her as suspicious as the police surely were. If officers had found Brendan’s PC logged into Meg’s email server, this would explain their arrival here earlier. And if they’d also read Jim’s intercepted message, they’d certainly want to speak to him next.
But what could he tell them? That he’d sent his friend of many decades an ancient curse from Suffolk? They’d laugh at him. It was absurd. And although he couldn’t help associating his deletion of that double space with Brendan’s death later the same evening, Jim could hardly take it seriously himself…Whatever had happened, he must remember that he was the aggrieved person here, and that this would offer him courage as the police made their enquiries.
That night when he tried talking to Meg, she grew uncommunicative. Each of his questions, well-meaning on the surface, had been underscored by a humiliated sentiment. Later, as she slept with her back to him, Jim thought: What did Brendan have that I don’t? I’m the successful one, the one with book deals. Are you so shallow as to prioritise his surface charms over professional success? Did he do something for you I’ve never been aware of? Do I even know you at all?
These and other thoughts haunted him like demons, like a slow-developing cancer. He didn’t sleep well that night. He kept imagining Brendan, alone in his house and seated at his computer. The man had just used Meg’s password to monitor her online communications. Jim supposed even illicit lovers got jealous. Then, to alleviate tension induced by solitude, he’d accessed websites too lurid to contemplate. Jim had seen similar images before, but some maternal voice of disapproval had dismissed them as puerile, corrosive, unwholesome…And then his fantasy endorsed this view: the modern device had rebelled against its user, cables and wires performing acts on him he’d previously relied on Meg to fulfil. But it had gone too far this time; the sexual frisson engendered by risk had turned to stark horror. Jim’s friend had died in his bedroom, the victim of an ancient curse woven into a new form of communication. The computer’s cables and wires had squeezed all the life out of him.
——
The day after, Jim felt perky. He brought Meg breakfast in bed, despite realising she’d lack an appetite. It was nonetheless enjoyable watching her force down the food; this removed some of the hurt he felt. His wife was also unable to ask why he looked so pleased after his closest friend had died in tragic circumstances.
Jim knew that Meg couldn’t have been at her lover’s house the day Brendan had received that cursed email. She was cunning, an unexpectedly convincing actress, but he nonetheless thought it unlikely that she’d be able to feign ignorance after witnessing the terrible magic Jim had set in motion. Meg shuffled around the house for days, pretending that it was her husband who ought to be grieving, while surely fearing the police’s next arrival. When detectives finally visited, they took Jim aside and asked a number of pertinent questions, after which Jim realised they had no record of the email he’d sent from East Anglia. This was, after all, in his wife’s inbox, and not Brendan’s; the dead man had simply had the misfortune to intercept it, as Jim had known he would.
And so the deed was over: neat, clean and without sequel. The funeral was a solemn affair, with more unknown women in attendance than Jim or Meg could account for. The husband smiled acerbically while his wife’s face ran an irrepressible puce. Later, after getting home, Jim tried something he hadn’t been keen to pursue for years. In their sullied bed, he attem
pted to make love to Meg…and this proved an unqualified success. He was even a little more forceful than usual, and his wife, it seemed, liked this.
And so their lives continued. Meg grew more dutiful in a number of ways, both professionally and domestically. She typed up manuscripts with dogged determination and carried out housework with subservient haste. A few weeks later, when Jim announced his departure on another research trip to East Anglia, his wife appeared bereft, as if she’d greatly suffer from a break in their newfound love and exciting nocturnal activities.
“With a strong following wind, ” he told her, enjoying every moment of his renaissance self, “I’ll be back very soon. ”
Meg smiled, defeated deep down, yet compellingly addicted to him.
——
At least there’d be no interference on this trip from cursed email. Since the death of their close friend, Meg had sworn off operating a PC. Jim had said nothing about this, supporting her use of an electronic typewriter to prepare submissions for his publisher. He scoured every page she produced for double spaces, but never found one. All that had happened was unfortunate, but it nonetheless bore a poetic symmetry which appealed greatly to Jim’s need for ordered chaos, for manipulative control.
Norfolk was magnificent, a rich tapestry of golden fields and turning windmills. He observed tractors cutting straight furrows through sheaves of upright corn. In Norwich, he admired the grand cathedral, the views from its elaborate windows resembling medieval paintings. He visited the Broads, skirting great lakes and fine rivers, each littered with yachts and boats. He was staying in an area between Wroxham and Horning, in a smart country cottage he’d rented for half-a-week. He’d interviewed many local people about the way printing had reached such isolated communities, acquiring much strong material for his forthcoming book.